bullet in the head

Dating Peter Parker Headcannons

these are really long and i didnt even write down every thing that i wanted to so i might do a part two just bc i love my son :’)

  • it all started when y’all got paired up for chem to do a lab
  • because practically the whole school knows of his crush on Liz Allen, you didn’t think you had a chance with him
  • but you could NOT have been more wrong
  • he was so nervous to go to the next class because he knew that he would actually have to communicate with you… for more than three seconds  
  • as soon as he walks in and sees you staring to set everything up he kind of like *dies*
  • hE iS So NeRvoUs
  • hands shaking
  • uneven breathing
  • and u just kind of look @ him like wtf dude calm down
  • he would try and talk but it was mainly him stuttering
  • but you found him sosossoosos cute (bc he’s my son obvi he’s a qt)
  • after ( to him ) being put through the most stressful time of his life, more stressful than fighting criminals as spiderman
  • he asks you if you want to go and get a sandwich with him after school
  • and thats kind of how everything started
  • studydatesstudaydatesstudydates
  • ned either being annoyed with you two bc third wheeling or having the time of his life bc you guys are #besties
  • michelle always having something to say about u and peter
  • like; gross, ew, y/n how do u hold your breath the whole time u and peter are making out
  • “peter, baby, can you please take it down five notches”
  • (“y/n), BaBY, cAn YOU tAkE IT dOwN FiVe notCHes”
  • aLwAYs tOuChiNg YoU
  • holding hands
  • arm around your shoulders
  • standing behind u and head on your head & arms around your waist
  • never ending amount of little kisses
  • peter finding u the legit cutest thing on this planet
  • his ‘creative’ way of telling you he is spiderman was picking you up for a date by swinging into your open window and then swinging you across new york
  • you almost passed out because heights but u knew that he would never let go of you
  • YOU WOULD GET TO MEND HIM AFTER FIGHTS AND STUFF
  • AND HES ALL WEAK AND SMILELY BC FEWYUBSIHJVV
  • and you’re the luckiest girl ever bc you’re the reason that he’s smiling all the time
  • u can bet your bottom dollar he would write love letters to u - ok maybe he wouldn’t like give them to u but he would defffinetly write them ok
  • may can always tell when peters talking to on the phone or y’all just hung out bc he’s skipping around the house with the widest smile & his eyes are sparkling
  • you beg for 4 weeks strait for him to let you try on the suit but “mr. stark said its not for anyone else baby.”
  • omg the amount of pet names for u; baby, babe, angel, darling, the first letter of your name, my love, and when he’s clingy;;babbbbyyyyyyyy
  • when you’re giving him the silent treatment he will give u puppy dog eyes, sit on you, and be super clingy
  • when he’s upset you’re the big spoon
  • GOD HES SO CLINGY THO LIKE IN GENERAL
  • but he’s not that big on pda
  • but he wants to be the big spoon 9/10 times bc he’s spiderMAN
  • asking u to homecoming
  • heart thumping so loud when y’all are slow dancing you can feel it so u put your head against his chest
  • HE ALMOST DIES WHEN YOU FALL ASLEEP ON HIM FOR THE FIRST TIME
  • bc you’re so angelic and look so peaceful and he cannot deal w it
  • he’s in constant awe of u if u weren’t already expecting that
  • telling happy about u all. the. time.
  • so when tony meets you, he has a proud dad attitude going on
  • ugh god peter wanted u to say the three words first
  • but one day when you were having a pillow fight or doing something else childish (idk) and it just kind of comes out when you’re laying on the sheets and your hair is all poofy and his is a little messy and you have the biggest smile and he had to close his eyes when he said it because he didn’t know what your reaction would be
  • and when he felt your hand on his cheek, he swore that he 1. never let out a bigger sigh of relief before 2. and never seen u smile so wide
  • and when u said it, he almost asked to leave the room because he was so elated
  • may absolutely adores u probs more than peter does
  • because she’s never had a daughter and she thinks you and peter should get married early ( she’s like 50/50 kidding&being dead serious ) bc she is CONVINCED that you are the best that he will eeveerrrrrrr do
  • probs the type of bf to act all tough and protective but will just stare the shit out of the asshole who steps a little to close for comfort
  • but lordy he just loves u and will protect u with his life
  • because you are his world and he is yours

Originally posted by tomshollandss

After the Parade

“Hush,” he says.

Above them, Cabal ships drag thick black smoke across the flickering twilight, and flames rise from the Tower. Legionnaires scour the streets, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid.

“Hush,” he says again, as the child starts to sniffle, and he pulls her into the shadows cast by an apartment block as a patrol makes its laborious way past. He was made to protect, made to serve, but he feels clumsy now; the hand on her shoulder is almost larger than her head and she has no armor to protect her bruised and burned skin from his rough gauntlets. When he tries to wipe the tears from her face he worries that he will be the one to break her.

He followed her screams, just as the Cabal did. He had no rifle to kill the Legionnaires that would have silenced her; dispatched the first one with his boot-knife but was not quick enough to catch the second unaware. It is dead, but his chest-plate is cracked and burned and the thing that eats the Traveler has also eaten his Light.

She is wearing yellow. A summer dress, for a celebration. When he offered her his gore-spattered hand she took it at once, and did not look back at the splayed and broken limbs visible beneath the rubble around her as though she knew there was no one left to wait for. He brushed dust and chips of concrete from the tight black curls on her head, and when she tried to smile her gap-toothed smile at him despite it all he knew that he would die the second death to save her.

They pick their way through dust-covered streets and alleys, one grimy hand holding his armored fingers, the other wrapped around the silent shell of his Ghost. He told her to keep it safe, and she clutches it to her chest with an intensity that would do any Titan proud.

To those behind the Wall, love and service. To those outside it, fury and fire. He is young: the Order’s maxim has never meant much to him, but here at the end of an Age he feels each word burning in his chest and he wraps his Mark around her shoulders like a cloak, like a little Hunter, to keep the nearness of the night from her as best he can.

When they hear the distant bursts of gunfire he waits until the chatter fades, then leads them in a different direction even though it gives him hope to know the City is still fighting. Perhaps if he ran to the violence he would find weapons or more Guardians, but he will not risk it. And so hours pass as they slink across the city, and as slowly as his wounds force him to move she still takes ten strides for every one of his. She has only one sandal, silver leather wrapped around a tiny leg, but he thinks that a single piece of armor is better than no armor at all.

He finds a battered pulse rifle in a street that leads to a square, tries not to wonder where its owner went. The magazine is full, but it is all he has and there is no Ghost at his shoulder to synthesize ammo. He bends to pick it up, never letting go of the hand that holds his own, just as a troop of Legionnaires turn the corner in front of them.

He pulls the child behind a crumbled wall. Waits one heartbeat, two; no slug throwers roar in response. Even so, they are between him and the direction he has lead, and he doubts he has the strength to cross the City again.

Love and service to those within. Fire and fury to those without.

The Legionnaires do not notice, but neither do they move on. More join them, and they begin to spiral out in all directions, continuing their search. It will not be long before they find him and the child. A narrow street, once hung with banners but now collapsing from the rooftops down, will lead her west, to the walls, away from Cabal patrols - as long as there is a distraction.

He lifts her chin as gently as he can.

“You have to run,” he whispers. He is bad at whispering. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“That way,” he says when she stares at him in silence, pointing with his outsized hand down the shadowed street.

He gives her a delicate push, points again. She blinks, once, then toddles into the dark, Ghost held close as though it will protect her. Perhaps, if there is a way to undo this disaster, it someday will.

He props the rifle atop the ledge, lifts his visor and sights with naked eye. There are so many, he thinks, and then bites back a laugh - there are only eight.

Love within. Fury without.

The rifle barks. One Legionnaire dies and the others spin in confusion, firing in the direction of his cover. He ignores them, squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again.

Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within -

Something tugs his arm. He looks down into the eyes of the little girl, and pure terror finds him.

“I said run,” he growls, but she does not, her face set in a scowl. He shakes his arm and she does not let go.

A micro-rocket bursts against the barricade and he ducks, throws his body over her, sprays the rest of his bullets in response. The child buries her head in his cracked armor, her frail body shaking.

Never has he been so afraid to die.

He feels a fool. He tosses the rifle down, wraps one arm around the child and pulls her close. With the other he slams his visor shut. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and when at last there is a break in the constant fire he lurches to his feet, lifts the child to his chest, and runs.

It is hard, so hard, to move full Titan-plate without his Light to drive it. His body aches. Something inside is probably broken, and he does not know how long it takes a body to heal without a Ghost.

A slug hits him in the back and he stumbles but his armor holds, and he sprints down the street where he tried to send the child, the sound of jump-packs following behind. He ducks his head and cups himself around his charge, makes himself as big as he can, plows across the debris-choked pavement. The girl begins to cry again, though to his ears it is not the sound of fear but of fury, and before long he is roaring with it, and the two of them roar together down the long, narrow street as explosions scatter bits of ruins that once were homes. He does not know where he is going, knows only that he must go somewhere, that he will not stop until the child is safe or his legs no longer work; that when he has nothing left he will throw her from him and tear the Cabal apart with fists alone, Light or no.

He has stopped counting the impacts. Every step is a knife in his chest. The Legionnaires must be close but he does not turn, lest the shield that is his body fail. He can feel himself slowing, a sensation that fills him both with wonder and despair, but he cannot force himself to let her go despite his promise. Something cracks against the back of his leg, and he is too tired and too hurt to correct. He lands heavily on one shoulder, slides ten grinding yards, arms still wrapped around the child. At the very least, they will have to rip him apart to get to her. Maybe, if he dies quickly, they will not notice her at all.

Gunfire interrupts his thoughts, along with the sound of footsteps and the roar of Cabal. Hands grab him, drag him out of the street, but still he does not uncurl. He sees Hunter cloaks, Warlock robes, a Titan mark.

“Hush,” he tells the child, head still tucked close, while they cower in a doorway and around them Guardians fight.

“Hush,” he tells her, over their surprised cries of pain.

“Hush,” he tells her, over and over, until at last all is silent and he dares to lift his head and stand.

He helps the child to her feet, and though he leans against the doorway it is her tiny hand in his that keeps him upright. He looks around at their saviors: most are near as bruised as he is. They nod their heads, pat him on the back, and he opens his mouth to ask for forgiveness, for leading the Legionnaires here, but a Hunter shakes her head as though she knows what he will say.

Two Guardians lie dead. Truly dead. One Hunter, one Titan wearing the Mark of the Gatewatch. He waits the half-second for their Ghosts to revive them, feels sick when they do not rise. He swears that he will learn their names and add them to the Order of the Pilgrim Guard.

Someone makes cooing sounds and tries to take the child, tries to give her water, but she refuses to let go of his hand, refuses to surrender his Ghost. For a moment they stand there, all seven of them in a circle around her, and it is as though a different light has risen to bond them all.

They need ships. Weapons. Food, maybe. The child, at least, must eat. The Hunter offers water again, and he wonders how many new scraps of fabric she has taken for her cloak. A different Titan, this one wearing the Mark of the Six Fronts, hands him the dead Hunter’s rifle - then looks down at the child, still clinging to his hand, and passes him a sidearm instead.

They turn their backs to the Tower, and continue their slow march to the western wall. Perhaps they will find supplies along the way. If not, so be it - they are still Guardians, and they will save what light they can.

Love within. Fury without.

The Cabal have no word for ‘retreat.’ Soon, they will learn that the Guardians have none for ‘mercy.’


Words: @themothyards

Art: @artdailybykitty

4

Kenny Omega vs Candice LeRae BOOK IT

Downstream - ~1k, post 12.23 / pre s13, angst

The ocean is a flat plane of glass, and the boat doesn’t cause a single ripple as it glides along the surface. Dean has no idea how they managed to drift out so far, but somehow they’ve completely lost sight of the shoreline. The only indication of the horizon is the thinnest, faintest line; a stray hair caught in a watercolour canvas.

It’s light out, the air around him a diffusion of pink and gold and reflected back in the water’s mirror surface, but he can’t find the sun. Perhaps it’s nearing dawn.

Dean’s leaning back against the bow, hands behind his head. The gunwales are kind of digging into his shoulders, but he’s smiling.

His companion is silent and placid where he sits near the stern. The light is catching the tips of his hair, setting off the dark with glints of gold. Clasped hands hang between splayed knees.

Dean inhales thick, salt air and lets his eyes drift closed. “This was a good idea. We needed a vacation.”

“You deserve it.”

Dean hums, contented. “You too. Hell, we’ve all been through the ringer lately.”

Cas nods. “I suppose we have.”

Their voices float easily through the air, but in the space all around them it’s perfectly quiet, save the occasional soft, gentle slap of water against the boat.

“Seriously, we shoulda done this years ago.”

“When?” Cas asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “After the apocalypse, but before the leviathan? Maybe between the Mark of Cain and Amara?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re kind of a downer, Cas?” Dean replies peaceably.

“Once or twice.”

Another long and companionable silence stretches out between them. They’ve been out here a while now and the sun probably should’ve risen, but it’s hardly a concern: the glow of light around them is warm enough. In fact, Dean could probably afford to take off his jacket, were he not far too comfortable to move.

“Dean. How long do you plan to stay out here?”

Dean cracks one eye. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

Cas’ answering smile is fond, and only slightly tinged with sadness. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.” Dean drops his eyelid.

“It’s just, there are things you need to do.”

Both Dean’s eyes open now, and he leans all the way up to sit on the hard, wooden seat. The boat rocks and sways. “Yeah, Cas, there’s always something. But you are cutting into our hard-earned relaxation time, man. You keep this up, you can kiss that second date goodbye.”

“This is a date?”

Dean gives him a look. “You take a lot of platonic pre-dawn rowboat rides?”

“I suppose not,” Cas says, and he casts his eyes out to the water. “I’m just a little surprised.”

“But not disappointed.”

There’s a faint blush dusting Cas’ cheeks. Maybe it’s just the light. “No.”

“Because you love me.” Cas’ eyebrows rocket up to his hairline, and Dean shrugs defensively. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

“Well, that’s certainly true.”

Dean’s gotta give him that one. “Touché.”

Cas is looking at him patiently, waiting.

Feeling rather like a third-grader forced to answer a question he wasn’t listening to in the first place, Dean casts his eyes down, suddenly intensely interested in the rough woodgrain below his feet. The fact that the boat has no oars is a mild curiosity.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs. “Probably shoulda said it then. Guess I just figured you knew.”

“Because you’re always so open and honest with your feelings.”

That’s two points to Cas.

Dean plays for time a while longer, scraping his boots through the coarse, black sand he tracked in from the beach. “Alright, well, there it is. Better late than never, right?”

This time Cas doesn’t bother trying to hide the heartache in his smile.

They sit in silence again, for minutes or maybe hours. Eventually Cas looks left to the non-existent sun. “It’s probably time to go back,” he says quietly.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Little longer.”

“You have responsibilities, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “What, you mean Rosemary’s baby?”

“He didn’t ask to be what he is.”

“He’s the literal antichrist, Cas.”

Whatever he is,” Cas says firmly, “good or evil, he needs someone. He needs guidance.”

“He needs a bullet in the neck.”

Cas shakes his head. “You don’t mean that. He’s an innocent, Dean. And he needs you and Sam, now that I can’t be there for him anymore.”

Something flickers in Dean’s chest, like a moth beating against his heart. He frowns, confused, and finds Cas’ eyes.

The intent expression on Cas’ face gradually shifts to one of resignation. He sighs softly. “You forgot again, didn’t you?”

Dean jolts awake to a blaring car horn.

Sam is driving, the hideous sodium streetlights casting harsh lines of shadow across his face when he turns to the passenger seat. “You were talking again.”

Dean doesn’t answer as he reacquaints himself with the deep, aching chasm in his chest.

Sam swallows visibly, shadows of raindrops on the windshield like pockmarks on his skin. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Dean grits his teeth. “Yeah, Sam. There were these clowns. Like thirty of ‘em, and they all kept piling out of this Volkswagon.” The lie slides easy off his tongue.

Sam throws up a hand in surrender. “Okay.”

Anger is easier. Anger is always easier.

Dean closes his eyes tight and tries to chase the soft, pink-gold light of the ocean. He inhales Baby’s familiar leather scent, desperate for a whiff of salt air.

He tries to forget.


(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5)

3

‘That fucking dog. George, as he’s known, is very pretty and very cute, but he is not obedient. I’ve suffered urine, I’ve suffered anarchy and all manners of craziness with that bloody dog. They say don’t work with animals and children, and I’m sure children are tolerable, but don’t ever work with a pug.’ – Aberystwyth Tab (2015)

‘The adult dog… (sighs) George… was one dog. And then there were two little pugs, and I was very, very fond of the little pugs. They were lovely. Really sweet. But George is… George is hard work.’ – Apple’s Meet the Actor Event (2015)

‘I feel like if I say yes to shooting J.B, I’d lose you all immediately. Even if I am a secret hater of dogs, I’d still be like, “No! Of course not!” So, no, (sarcastically) I would never shoot a dog. Not even one as charming as George, who plays J.B. I am more of a cat man myself. Just because I don’t like dogs, doesn’t mean I could put a bullet in the head of one.’ – Kingsman: the Secret Service Post-Screening Q&A in San Francisco, CA (2015)

Inexorable (3-FINAL)

Plot: How does is feel to be arranged to be married to a cocky, arrogant Mafia leader? Once you look at his face, you think you’re lucky, but then he opens his mouth.

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut, Mafia au!

Warnings: dom!Jungkook, steamy hot tub sex yes

Notes: Last part, ya’ll. I hope you like it. I changed the gif because tumblr is being a meanie and it’s not letting me put in my own shit. This brings us to the end of this mini-series! I hope you enjoyed it. 3,430 Words

Part 2 | Part 3 (FINAL) | masterlist

Originally posted by minyoongislaysme

It was safe to say that there wasn’t as much tension between you and your husband anymore. Everything seemed so much more calm than before. Maybe it was because you guys barely talked; or maybe it was because he locked himself in his office all day, working.

An empty cabin was always nice, but you wanted to talk to him. You actually liked arguing with him; teasing him, and he would tease you back. His touch – it was gentle, even though he was being cocky. You hated to admit it, but you were slowly getting used to him.

Now it seemed like the both of you were more like frenemies rather than complete enemies. There was a sort of understanding, considering you were now aware that you were both forced into this marriage when you would rather stay single, and he would rather marry someone else.

“Princess,” Jungkook called you from behind the black kitchen island, his whiskey glass in his hand as he leaned against the countertop – you had no idea when he started calling you that, but it stuck. “I need some beer and and ice.”

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