but as her head goes up his head goes down. because she might never come home

We Got Married (M)

Originally posted by kthmyg

8.8k words. Arranged Marriage AU. Min Yoongi.

Warning: Fingering. Phone sex. ft Kim Namjoon.


It’s hilarious, laughable, pathetic even, how love could either build you or ruin you and yet knowing this, people still chase after it like the rise of golden light beyond the horizon, or the last drop of dew in twilight, or the flutter of that one coral blue butterflies in buttercup paved meadow.

It’s frightening, daunting, startling even, how love makes your hands clammy like you’re being interviewed by the very man who founded the big shot company you’ve applied to.

And it’s utterly, impossibly, unbelievable how love comes in many ways like a bump and a spill of coffee on crisp white shirt, or a brush of hands upon a dusty leather brown book spine or an envelope obtained from a mailbox on one’s way back from grocery shopping.

Well, that’s exactly what’s happening to Min Yoongi, second son to one of the well-known elite families in Seoul. Most of the time, he couldn’t care less about family matters; business deals, dinner with alien faces and empty conversations─ those things he’s entitled to attend with mildly bored eyes and champagne he’ll never finish in one hand. But this particular matter, he can’t just not care. One, because it directly concerns him (as if the cursive letter of his name engraved in bold black against crisp white isn’t enough indication). Two, because it’s from a certain someone in his family who he’s fond of.

Dear Yoongi,

Is written on the top of the not so neat written paper.

Son,

I know you might hate me for this.

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THE HOT GUY AT THE CLUB (Bellamy Blake x Reader)

Request: Bellamy x reader where reader is friends with Octavia and one night the reader goes to a club and has sex with a really hot guy. The next day she goes to Octavia’s house and Octavia is thrilled because her older brother, whom you have never met, is finally back from college. You realize bellamy is the guy you hooked up with. Smut pls

PART TWO


The music was loud and his body was close. As you danced to the track blaring through the speakers, you felt the stranger’s fingers pressing into your hips from behind. And you loved it. 

You turned around, coming face to face with the boy who said hi at the bar a few minutes ago. He looked down at you and the smile he gave you nearly made you collapse. He was beautiful and the way he started a conversation so easily felt comfortable and natural. 
The hot sweaty bodies dancing around pushed you into his arms and the two of you danced closer under the flickering of the club lights. After getting to his house, everything was a blur of bare bodies and daring touches. 

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Just A Little Bit More: A Feysand Mini Fic

A light weight on his shoulder and a short motion out of the corner of his eye is what silences the table.

The wine glass Mor holds pauses en route to her lips. Cassian’s booming laugh cuts off. And Azriel sets his utensils down from where he’d been picking apart the meat with a faint clinking on his plate. Amren alone remains quiet, smirking over her glass of Rhys doesn’t want to know what, the only one who seemed to anticipate this moment.

Rhys looks to his left and finds Feyre with her head on his shoulder and she’s…

Asleep.

His entire body goes still in that moment, his heart the only thing bursting with life inside of him. Feyre’s only been in the Night Court for maybe a month and sleep has been hard to come by. But she’s sleeping now. Next to him. On him. And she seems oddly peaceful about it in a way he’s never seen her before.

He remembers the nightmares. He remembers all of them. But none of the terrors that flashed through him in a flurry of panic and sweat for three months after he came home from that mountain compared to the one he had to wake her up from himself. How Feyre had thrashed on the bed, talons ripping the sheets, the anxiety on her face when she’d finally gotten a hold of herself and had to fly to the bathroom before it all came screaming up her throat.

The blood. The tears. The pain. Miles and miles of pain choking the life out of her and all Rhys could do was sit and watch it unfold, hoping she wouldn’t stop him from rubbing circles on her back until it was over. He’d tucked her in that night, stayed a while. Didn’t leave her side until he was sure she was okay again.

He wonders if this will be one of those times, except…

Keeping his entire body rigidly still, Rhys moves only his eyes and catches Morrigan staring at Feyre. She glances at Rhys and a soft reassuring smile blooms on her face. “You were saying? About Cassian’s last trip to Adriata?”

And that’s that. That’s all she says. And Rhys goes on telling the story that only moments ago had Cassian in stitches about his own antics and Azriel quietly shaking his head.

And the entire time, Rhys sees Morrigan, the cousin who knows every secret he has carried for weeks now, staring at him. Staring at Feyre. Staring and smiling. Because they both know that Feyre can barely fall asleep in her own bed, much less in front of their inner circle. Because they know this means something. Because they know this is the beginning.

Because they know that maybe Feyre had been about to smile too before she felt comfortable enough to fall asleep on her mate without knowing it.

And Rhys feels this little seed of hope inside him crack, a tiny sprout peaking out to see some sunlight.

The rest of dinner is pleasant. Feyre doesn’t move once. When Rhys scoops her up to lay her on the sofa so he can go over updated plans for the mortal realms with Azriel on the balcony, she remains ever tranquil. Cassian begins piecing out dessert on the table and Mor digs in before she has even finished plating it in front of her. Amren shakes her head but doesn’t say anything.

Dessert is nearly finished when Cassian cuts off telling his version of visiting Adriata, the table going eerily quiet again. Rhys freezes because he just knows. He felt Feyre even before Morrigan put her hand on him and whispered, “Rhys.”

Feyre twitches on the sofa uncomfortably. Rhys can see her eyes rolling back and forth rapidly beneath her closed lids. Her hands curl into fists and constrict around her chest. Sweat begins to pull across her brow.

He’s up in a heartbeat.

“Feyre,” he says kneeling next to her and his voice is more a sob than a plea. “Feyre, wake up.”

Rhys shakes her. Shakes her until she groans and wakes up, sitting bolt upright, the hands just on the verge of letting those razor sharp talons inch out of her digging into his shoulders as she grabs him. He doesn’t even feel the pain.

“A dream,” he tells her. “It was just a dream.”

She’s breathing deeply. Her eyes flit to the table where Rhys’s friends - her friends now - are watching and quickly flit back to find Rhys’s eyes. They’ve never seen her in such a state of panic. And it terrifies Rhys how she’ll feel about that.

Suddenly, Feyre sucks her lips in and he knows she’s holding it all in. He starts breathing with her, deeply and loud enough for Feyre to hear. She mimics him.

“In,” Rhys says. “Out. In. Out.”

She shakes her head, more at herself than him, and he hears the words past her broken mental barriers.

I’m not going to throw up. I’m not going to throw up. I’m fine. I’m okay. This is okay. It was just a dream. It wasn’t real. This is real.

When she murmurs ‘this,’ her talons release on Rhys’s shoulder, but her fingers left in their place give a little tug on his tunic and Rhys instinctively leans forward. He doesn’t move nor stop his labored breathing for her until she slows down, until her lips release, and her grip slackens.

But she’s tired. He can see how utterly exhausted she is despite sleeping all through dinner. A thousand years of sleep might not be enough to erase the kind of fatigue he and Feyre both suffer from.

Feyre looks at him, the blue-grey of her eyes more grey tonight than blue.

She had been so peaceful, he thinks.

Can you take me back? She asks him through the bond. She doesn’t even have to ask him to lower his shields for her to come through. Pl-

Rhys has her in his arms before the word is even finished in their heads. He will never make her beg him for anything. And then without another word or so much as a look at anyone else, they’re soaring off the balcony into a smooth flight through the night wind.

Rhys tells Feyre to look up at the stars, but it makes no difference. She’s asleep again long before they reach the townhouse.

xx

Usually, I lie. At a party, someone asks the question. It’s someone who hasn’t smelled the rancid decay of week-dead flesh or heard the rattle of fluid flooding lungs. I shake the ice in my glass, smile, and lie. When they say, “I bet you always get that question,” I roll my eyes and agree.

There are plenty of in-between stories to delve into; icky, miraculous ones and reams of the hilarious and stupid. I did, after all, become a paramedic knowing it would stack my inner shelves with a library of human tragicomedy. I am a writer, and we are nothing if not tourists gawking at our own and other people’s misery. No?

The dead don’t bother me. Even the near-dead, I’ve made my peace with. When we meet, there’s a very simple arrangement: Either they’re provably past their expiration date and I go about my business, RIP, or they’re not and I stay. A convenient set of criteria delineates the provable part: if they have begun to decay; if rigor mortis has set in; if the sedentary blood has begun to pool at their lowest point, discoloring the skin like a slowly gathering bruise. The vaguest criterion is called obvious death, and we use it in those bizarre special occasions that people are often sniffing for when they ask questions at parties: decapitations, dismemberments, incinera- tions, brains splattered across the sidewalk. Obvious death.

One of my first obvious deaths was a portly Mexican man who had been bicycling along the highway that links Brooklyn to Queens. He’d been hit by three cars and a dump truck, which was the only one that stopped. The man wasn’t torn apart or flattened, but his body had twisted into a pretzel; arms wrapped around legs. Somewhere in there was a shoulder. Obvious death. His bike lay a few feet away, gnarled like its owner. Packs and packs of Mexican cigarettes scattered across the highway. It was three a.m. and a light rain sprinkled the dead man, the bicycle, the cigarette packs, and me, made us all glow in the sparkle of police flares. I was brand new; cars kept rushing past, slowing down, rushing past.

Obvious death. Which means there’s nothing we can do, which means I keep moving with my day, with my life, with whatever I’ve been pondering until this once-alive-now-inanimate object fell into my path.If I can’t check off any of the boxes—if I can’t prove the person’s dead—I get to work and the resuscitation flowchart erupts into a tree of brand-new and complex options. Start CPR, intubate, find a vein, put an IV in it. If there’s no vein and you’ve tried twice, drill an even bigger needle into the flat part of the bone just below the knee. Twist till you feel a pop, attach the IV line. If the heart is jiggling, shock it; if it’s flatlined, fill it with drugs. If the family lingers, escort them out; if they look too hopeful, ease them toward despair. If time slips past and the dead stay dead, call it. Signs of life? Scoop ’em up and go.

You see? Simple.

Except then one day you find one that has a quiet smile on her face, her arms laying softly at her sides, her body relaxed. She is ancient, a crinkled flower, and was dying for weeks, years. The fam- ily cries foul: She had wanted to go in peace. A doctor, a social worker, a nurse—at some point all opted not to bother having that difficult conversation, perhaps because the family is Dominican and the Spanish translator wasn’t easily reachable and anyway, someone else would have it, surely, but no one did. And now she’s laid herself down, made all her quiet preparations and slipped gently away. Without that single piece of paper though, none of the lamentations matter, the peaceful smile doesn’t matter. You set to work, the tree of options fans out, your blade sweeps her tongue aside and you battle in an endotracheal tube; needles find their mark. Bumps emerge on the flat line, a slow march of tiny hills that resolve into tighter scribbles. Her pulse bounds against your fingers; she is alive.

But not awake, perhaps never to be again. You have brought not life but living death, and fuck what I’ve seen, because that, my friends at the party, my random interlocutor who doesn’t know the reek of decay, that is surely one of the craziest things I have ever done.

But that’s not what I say. I lie.

Which is odd because I did, after all, become a medic to fill the library stacks, yes? An endless collection of human frailty vignettes: disasters and the expanding ripple of trauma. No, that’s not quite true. There was something else, I’m sure of it.

And anyway, here at this party, surrounded by eager listeners with drinks in hand, mouths slightly open, ready to laugh or gasp, I, the storyteller, pause. In that pause, read my discomfort.

On the job, we literally laugh in the face of death. In our crass humor and easy flow between tragedy and lunch break, outsiders see callousness: We have built walls, ceased to feel. As one who laughs, I assure you that this is not the case. When you greet death on the daily, it shows you new sides of itself, it brings you into the fold. Gradually, or maybe quickly, depending on who you are, you make friends with it. It’s a wary kind of friendship at first, with the kind of stilted conversation you might have with a man who picked you up hitch- hiking and turns out to have a pet boa constrictor around his neck. Death smiles because death always wins, so you can relax. When you know you won’t win, it lets you focus on doing everything you can to try to win anyway, and really, that’s all there is: The Effort.

The Effort cleanses. It wards off the gathering demons of doubt. When people wonder how we go home and sleep easy after bearing witness to so much pain, so much death, the answer is that we’re not bearing witness. We’re working. Not in the paycheck sense, but in the sense of The Effort. When it’s real, not one of the endless parade of chronic runny noses and vague hip discomforts, but a true, soon- to-be-dead emergency? Everything falls away. There is the patient, the family, the door. Out the door is the ambulance and then farther down the road, the hospital. That’s it. That’s all there is.

Awkward text messages from exes, career uncertainties, generalized aches and pains: They all disintegrate beneath the hugeness that is someone else’s life in your hands. The guy’s heart is failing; fluid backs up in those feebly pumping chambers, erupts into his lungs, climbs higher and higher, and now all you hear is the raspy clatter every time he breathes. Is his blood pressure too high or too low? You wrap the cuff on him as your partner finds an IV. The monitor goes on. A thousand possibilities open up before you: He might start getting better, he might code right there, the ambulance might stall, the medicine might not work, the elevator could never come. You cast off the ones you can’t do anything about, see about another IV because the one your partner got already blew. You’re sweating when you step back and realize nothing you’ve done has helped, and then everything becomes even simpler, because all you can do is take him to the hospital as fast as you can move without totaling the rig.

He doesn’t make it. You sweated and struggled and calculated and he doesn’t make it, and dammit if that ain’t the way shit goes, but also, you’re hungry. And you’re alive, and you’ve wracked your body and mind for the past hour trying to make this guy live. Death won, but death always wins, the ultimate spoiler alert. You can only be that humbled so many times and then you know: Death always wins. It’s a warm Thursday evening and grayish orange streaks the horizon. There’s a pizza place around the corner; their slices are just the right amount of doughy. You check inside yourself to see if anything’s shattered and it’s not, it’s not. You are alive. You have not shattered.

You have not shattered because of The Effort. The Effort cleanses because you have become a part of the story, you are not passive, the very opposite of passive, in fact. Having been humbled, you feel amazing. Every moment is precise and the sky ripples with delight as you head off to the pizza place, having hurled headlong into the game and given every inch of yourself, if only for a moment, to a losing struggle.

It’s not adrenaline, although they’ll say that it is, again and again. It is the grim, heartbroken joy of having taken part. It is the difference between shaking your head at the nightly news and taking to the streets. It’s when you finally tell her how you really feel, the moment you craft all your useless repetitive thoughts into a prayer.

At the party, as they look on expectantly, I draft one of the lesser moments of horror as a stand-in. The evisceration, that will do. That single strand of intestine just sitting on the man’s belly like a lost worm. He was dying too, but he lived. It was a good story, a terrible night.

I was new and I didn’t know if I’d done anything right. He lived, but only by a hair. I magnified each tiny decision to see if I’d erred and came up empty. There was no way to know. Eventually I stopped taking jobs home with me. I released the ghosts of what I’d done or hadn’t done, let The Effort do what it does and cleanse me in the very moment of crisis. And then one night I met a tiny three-year old girl in overalls, all smiles and high-fives and curly hair. We were there because a neighbor had called it in as a burn, but the burns were old. Called out on his abuse, the father had fled the scene. The emergency, which had been going on for years, had ended and only just begun.

The story unraveled as we drove to the hospital; I heard it from the front seat. The mother knew all along, explained it in jittery, sobbing replies as the police filled out their forms. It wasn’t just the burns; the abuse was sexual too. There’d been other hospital visits, which means that people who should’ve seen it didn’t, or didn’t bother setting the gears in motion to stop it. I parked, gave the kid another high five, watched her walk into the ER holding a cop’s hand.

Then we had our own forms to fill out. Bureaucracy’s response to unspeakable tragedy is more paperwork. Squeeze the horror into easy-to-fathom boxes, cull the rising tide of rage inside and check and recheck the data, complete the forms, sign, date, stamp, insert into a metal box and then begin the difficult task of forgetting.

The job followed me down Gun Hill Road; it laughed when I pretended I was okay. I stopped on a corner and felt it rise in me like it was my own heart failing this time, backing fluids into my lungs, breaking my breath. I texted a friend, walked another block. A sob came out of somewhere, just one. It was summer. The breeze felt nice and nice felt shitty.

My phone buzzed. Do you want to talk about it?

I did. I wanted to talk about it and more than that I wanted to never have seen it and even more than that I wanted to have done something about it and most of all, I wanted it never to have hap- pened, never to happen again. The body remembers. We carry each trauma and ecstasy with us and they mark our stride and posture, contort our rhythm until we release them into the summer night over Gun Hill Road. I knew it wasn’t time to release just yet; you can’t force these things. I tapped the word no into my phone and got on the train.

I don’t tell that one either. Stories with trigger warnings don’t go over well at parties. But when the question is asked, the little girl’s smile and her small, bruised arms appear in my mind.

The worst tragedies don’t usually get 911 calls, because they are patient, unravel over centuries. While we obsess over the hyperviolent mayhem, they seep into our subconscious, poison our sense of self, upend communities, and gnaw away at family trees with intergenerational trauma.I didn’t pick up my pen just to bear witness. None of us did. And I didn’t become a medic to get a front-row seat to other people’s tragedies. I did it because I knew the world was bleeding and so was I, and somewhere inside I knew the only way to stop my own bleeding was to learn how to stop someone else’s. Another call crackles over the radio, we pick up the mic and push the button and drive off. Death always wins, but there is power in our tiniest moments, humanity in shedding petty concerns to make room for compassion. We witness, take part, heal. The work of healing in turn heals us and we begin again, laughing mournfully, and put pen to paper.

Daniel José Older

7 Years

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: It’s been 7 years since you walked away from the love of your life.

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating, bullying


You watched the little girl with brown hair and blue eyes play with the children around her. 7 years old was her age. 7 years ago was the last time you saw the love of your life. 7 years ago you caught your fiance cheating on you. 7 years ago you were about to tell him he was going to be a father.

But all of that is in the past now. You were happy and so was your baby girl Isabelle Rebecca L/N-Barnes.

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Vacation

Written for @spnpolybingo​. This fills the “vacation” square.

Summary:  Jess finds out about Sam and Dean and has a surprising reaction.

Word Count: 3650

Warnings: smut, Wincest, threesome, anal sex

A/N: Hope y’all enjoy this one! I’m only gonna tag @justanothersaltandburn because I don’t know who all is into the poly stuff, lol. XOXO


Jessica Moore is a goddamn gift.

Sam knows that from the second he’s introduced to her at that party. She rolls her eyes at Brady’s failed attempt at subtlety when they’re introduced, and smiles at Sam, sweet and sexy. Sam thinks he’s already a little in love.

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Before It’s Too Late (part 2)

Summary: Bucky starts dating a girl from his History of Art class. The only problem: you’re in love with him. College AU.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: feelings and stuff, Nat, Pepper, Peggy and Wanda being assholes

A/N: here’s your part 2! hope you like :) I wanna know who you guys picture Kristen to be (based off the small lil description I wrote about her in this). I really wanna know!!

The date went well. Like really well. Bucky didn’t come home and say how weird she was or how annoying she was - no. He came home saying how perfect she was. How she knew how to keep a conversation going. They went on another date. And then another… and another until he asked her out.

She said yes.

So now it’s been a month and him and Kristen are very happy and you can’t do anything but pretend to be happy because on the inside you want to scream and ugly cry every time you see - even think - of them.

But unfortunately, you still have hope. It’s only been a month, right? Bucky’s not the type to be tied down in a relationship. It won’t last. Right? Sometimes you agree but whenever you see the genuine smile Kristen brings to Bucky’s face, you rethink.

When he told you about him and Kristen dating, you wanted to yell no; say that he was making a mistake because you were right there, in love with him and would give anything in the world to be with him. But you saw the sparkle in his eyes when he said her name and you couldn’t brush off the big smile he had on when he talked about her, so you kept your mouth shut and told him how happy you were for him.

All of your friends immediately asked if you were okay or how you felt about it all but you just smiled and told them you were happy because he was happy. And all you’ve ever wanted was for Bucky to be happy. They didn’t buy it.

You wanted to hate Kristen - you really did. You wanted to hate her because she stole Bucky’s heart. Because that was supposed to be you that he looked at with loving eyes, not her. But you couldn’t hate her, no matter how hard you tried because damn it she was just so perfect.

Kristen was beautiful - she was a goddess. She had thick light brown hair that stopped in the middle of her back and her smile could literally light up the darkest room and her laugh - oh god you hate to admit it but her laugh was pleasant to hear. She was funny as well but kind and had a big heart. Oh, how you wanted to hate her.

And because things are serious between the two, Bucky wants you and Kristen to spend the day together. Ever since they started dating, you refrained yourself from spending time with her for too long. You couldn’t do it. But Bucky wants his best friend and girlfriend - the two most important girls in his life - to get along and you’ve just realized that you can’t say no to Bucky.

So here you are in Peggy’s dorm with Wanda and Natasha, talking about everything.

“You don’t have to do it, Y/N.” Natasha says from her spot on Peggy’s bed where she was cuddling Wanda.

“Yeah, just say you have something important to do.” Wanda adds.

“Or just tell Bucky to fuck off with his ‘I want the two most important girls in my life to get along’ shit.” Peggy mocks Bucky’s voice and you all laugh.

You lick your lips. “No, no, I’m not gonna do that. It’ll crush him. I’m just gonna do it. Hopefully the day will go by fast. I just want Bucky to be happy.” you sigh out.

“And what about your happiness?” Pepper - the girl Tony’s been pining after - spoke up. “I know we’ve only know each other for three years now but Y/N your happiness means just as much as Bucky’s and it’s not fair that you have to suffer in order for him to be happy.”

“Ooo, she’s got a point.” Wanda nods.

“Fuck it up, Potts!” Nat hoots.

You shake your head at your friends.

“But in all seriousness, Y/N, if you want I can knock some sense into Bucky for you.” Peggy says and you smile.

“For an art major who should have a sharp eye when it comes to art certainly can’t see the real masterpiece in front of him.” Pepper adds.

Your smile grows.

“You’re the masterpiece, if you didn’t know.” Natasha spoke with a grin.

“Thanks Nat, I think I got that.”

It went silent for a good minute, you just staring down at your shoes as your smile slowly dissipated. You were thinking too hard again. If Bucky were there he would scold you for it. You could hear him now. “Stop thinking so hard! Your brain is gonna bust outta that pretty little head of yours!”

“Y/N?” Nat’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. When you look up, seeing all their eyes on you, you know that the mood shifted to down right seriousness. “You need to tell him before it’s too late. It’s not good for you to keep it in.”

“I’m fine, Nat. Plus we all know Bucky doesn’t do relationships. This one won’t last.” you respond, trying to convince them but mostly trying to convince yourself.

“Okay but let’s say this one does last. You’re his best friend which means you’ll be spending a lot of time with them. You can’t keep your feelings all bottled up Y/N. It’s not good. You’ll end up hurting yourself.” when you don’t respond she speaks again. “Stop hurting yourself like this.”

You hadn’t noticed the tear that rolled down your face but when you did, you immediately wiped it away and you let out a pained chuckle. “It’s too late anyways. Nothing good will come out of me telling him that I’m in love with him. If I told him, it’s very well possible that I’d lose him as my friend and I’m not risking that.”

“We just don’t like seeing you hurt.” Peggy spoke softly as she placed a comforting hand on your thigh. You smile, putting your hand on top of hers and squeezing it lightly.

“I love you guys, you know that?”

Wanda smiled. “We love you too.”

You push your hair back and let out a sigh before checking the time on your phone. “Oh shit I gotta go, Bucky texted me three times.”

You start gathering your things and head towards the door just as Peggy shouts your name. “Don’t push yourself with this, okay?”

You nod.

“And for the love of cupcakes and all things sweet, please tell Bucky how you feel, before it’s too late.” Natasha adds.

You give her a thin smile. “It’s already too late, remember?”

She doesn’t respond and you pull open the door, being met with Bucky who had his fist in the air, about to knock. Panic sets in. How long was he there for? Did he hear what you said? How much of it did he hear?

“Bucky,” you breathed, slapping a hand against your chest as your heart continued to beat rapidly. “What’re you doing here?”

He puts his fist down. “I texted you like three times and you didn’t answer so I went down to your apartment and no one was there then I figured if you weren’t at home that you must be at Peggy’s so I came here.”

“Jeez Barnes, let the girl live.” Peggy says and the girls snicker.

Bucky ignores her remark and continues. “I thought you were bailing on me and then I was like ‘wait, Y/N would never do that, she’d give me a reason for not being able to show up’ which brings me to my next question; Are you sure you want to do this? Because I know how you are around new people and if you don’t want to do this today we could always reschedule.”

You bite your lip and turn to face your friends who each gave you looks that said ‘stay and let us prevent the heartbreak that is bound to happen’. But you couldn’t do that to Bucky. So, you turn back to him and smile.

“No, sorry, I just lost track of time. Let’s go.”


“So how’s the relationship?” you ask Kristen as the two of you walked around the mall together.

“It’s amazing.” she beamed. “It’s so nice to spend time with you. Bucky never shuts up about you. He always goes on about how amazing you are and how funny you are - that you’re just a joy to be around and now that I’m spending time with you, I can see why he thinks that. You’re truly an amazing person.”

You smile.

Why the fuck does she have to be so nice. She’s making it difficult to hate her.

“Thank you.” you take the compliment like a champ. “And it’s nice to hang out with you too. It’s fun.”

Kristen gives you a warm smile as the two of you continue your journey throughout the mall, stopping now and then to go into some stores.

“You know,” she hummed. “I was hesitant about giving Bucky a chance.”

You snap your head towards her. “Why?”

“Well I had asked around about him and most girls said he was an asshole. That he’d go on dates and not call them the next day - or ever. Some even said he cut all contact after they had sex and I didn’t want to be in that place. So when he first asked me out, I said no. Then he started complimenting me, giving me flowers and all that and I was like ‘maybe they were wrong, maybe I should give him a chance’ and so I did. Best decision of my life.” you smile and she continues. “He’s a sweetheart. I’ve never felt this way with anyone before. Bucky makes me feel completed. It might be a bit too early in our relationship to say this but… I think he’s the one.”

Your eyes widen and she chuckles when she noticed. “I know it sounds super crazy but I truly believe he’s it for me.”

You can feel your eyes water. They really like each other. They’re probably meant to be together and honestly, what did you think was going to happen? That it would be like one of those cliché fanfictions you read in high school where the best friends realize they’ve been in love with each other for a long time and end up together, happily ever after? No. This was real life, not fanfiction. Bucky has never seen you like that and he never will. All you can do is suck it up and hope that that this crush goes away and fast.

“Bucky really does like you.” you say softly. “I can assure you that you have made a good decision, dating him. He’s a good person and a good friend. You’re one lucky girl.”

Kristen smiles bright. “Does this mean you accept me? Because Bucky said he didn’t want to continue our relationship if you didn’t.. like me. Your opinion means a lot to him and I wouldn’t want to continue to date him if you didn’t like me.”

“Frankly, it doesn’t matter what I think.” you respond. “But to kill the suspense, yes I accept you. Welcome to the family.”

Kristen squeals and hugs you tightly, saying ‘thank you’ over and over again. You pat her back until she pulls away. “This means so much to me, honestly! We can go shopping together and you can help me - ooo you can help me get a gift for him, his birthday is coming up and oh! You can-”

She was cut off by your phone ringing. You murmur a ‘sorry’ before pulling it out, eyebrows furrowing when you read Pepper’s name. “I have to take this.”

Kristen nods and you answer the phone, bringing it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“Y/N! Oh thank god you answered. Listen, Wanda decided to take the stairs down instead of the elevator and she fell down them and now she’s in the hospital and I-I - just come, quick!” she spoke quickly, panic laced in her voice.

Your eyes widen. “Pepper, calm down okay? I’ll be there right now. What hospital is she at?”

Kristen gives you a worried look but you don’t notice. Pepper names the hospital and you tell her that you’re on your way before hanging up. “I’m sorry Kristen, my friend is in the hospital and she needs me.”

“Don’t worry! Go! I hope she’s okay.”

You nod and slip your phone into your pocket.

“Do you want a ride to the hospital?”

You remember that you arrived at the mall in Kristen’s car and curse.

“No, that’s alright, I can take the bus. The hospital isn’t far from here anyways.”

“Are you sure? I can-”

“Kristen, I promise it’s okay. I’ve got to go but it was nice hanging out with you.” you give her a smile and she flashes one in return. You say your goodbyes before leaving the mall. As you’re about to walk to the bus station, a car pulls up next to you. Peggy’s car.

“Peggy, what the-” you start but you immediately frown when you see Natasha, Pepper and Wanda - who looked perfectly fine - sitting inside.

“Get in loser.” Peggy says and Wanda opens the back door for you.

“What’s going on? Wanda looks fine.” you say as you got in the car.

“We lied. We came to save you.” Natasha replied.

Peggy drove away from the mall and you shake your head. Your friends were a bunch of assholes.


A/N: Tell me what ya thiinnnkkkkkkk. I know it’s pretty slow rn but stay tuned my friends :) I’ll edit l8ter.

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12.17 coda

suspicious gap between dean abducting kelly and nightfall during which talking definitely happened. also maybe some minor blasphemies. 

Kelly doesn’t say a word for a solid twenty minutes. She crosses her arms tight across her chest and huffs, glaring fidgety burning holes into the rearview. When she starts to hiss and groan and her eyes start to water, Dean breaks the silence.

“Hey, you doing ok?”

Kelly clenches her teeth and slides back in the seat, tilting up her hips to relieve some of the pressure. “What do you care,” she spits. She whimpers once, a small and sad sound that wasn’t meant to escape her.

Dean’s hands flutter on the wheel. “Just let me know if you need something,” he says.

Her knee knocks into the back of the passenger’s seat. She takes a breath and starts to sit up, her eyes narrowed. “I need you to stay out of my business.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that either. He just slams his foot on the gas and keeps moving steadily along, towards safety. 

“Dagon’s not going to be happy when she finds you,” Kelly mutters.

Even if Dagon found them on this nearly empty city highway, she would never be able to get inside the Impala. The old girl’s sigiled to shit. Plus, Sam’s got the Colt. Dean doesn’t tell Kelly any of that, but he does assure her, “We can handle it” with a cold smirk.

His phone beeps on the passenger seat beside him and he all but lunges for the thing, heart racing. It’s amazing how quickly his mind can shift his priorities around.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

can you write a trimberly fic where they're already dating and during an argument one of them says something hurtful, but doesn't realize it cause of how mad she is and the other just gets kind of quiet because she's actually really hurt? super angsty with a happy ending?

Thanks for the prompt!


Kimberly is well aware that her walking personification of an angry cat girlfriend is actually the softest softy to ever soft, and while the other girl mostly keeps to herself, there are various moments when she just drives Kimberly up the wall. She hates when the other woman leaves her dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor, hates when she doesn’t pick up after herself and she ends up tripping over gadgets the Latina steals from Billy’s lab without his knowing, hates that she’s always leaving empty water bottles on the kitchen counter or on the coffee table, and she hates when Trini blasts music while she paints in their apartment on the nights before Kimberly has a big exam. It makes her groan in frustration as she glares down at her notes, reading the same line at least three times before understanding the first half of the sentence.

Keep reading

Something New Is Going to Happen

Summary: Stiles accidentally discovers that their school mascot is super cute.

Notes: Written for the @sterekreversebang! Inspired by adorable art by @mysticmystery! (Fic on AO3) (Link to art)


Stiles sighs as he glances around the empty locker room. It’s completely trashed. And it’s his job to clean it up, because Coach dubbed him “worst player of the game.” Usually Greenberg held that dubious honor, but he’d tripped Stiles three times tonight just to avoid it.

Everyone else has already left, most of them wearing their Lacrosse jerseys so they can get a free slice of pizza at Vic’s. Scott had apologetically offered to bring him one, but Stiles had waved him off. He just wants to get this done and go home.

Keep reading

A Voltron fic for @taylor-tut who requested some self-sacrificing Lance! This got really intense at some point and I don’t know if this is what you were hoping for but it has 2,5K words and it’s half past three in the morning.

Warnings for general Langst, illness and me attempting to write dialogue.

Enjoy!

Lance’s shoulder is burning. It’s burning because he got shot with some weird space gun on the last planet and he hasn’t tended to it, but he really doesn’t have time for it right now. He has better things to do than look at some stupid graze that was his own fault, because Shiro, Pidge and Hunk are all down with some sort of a virus or an infection or something and for all his battle skills Keith is useless in taking care of people.  

It shouldn’t matter - Lance is, after all, quite used to taking care of several people at the same time on his own. He remembers that one time visiting home and finding his whole family down with the flu because vaccines cost money they don’t have, but the Garrison gives them out to keep outbreaks from happening. What he’s not used to, however, is looking after people when he himself is feeling like crap.

Keep reading

Uninspired

Jughead x Reader

Jughead finds himself having no motivation to write and has trouble finding inspiration even when he changes up his surroundings. Until… 

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,830

A/N: Funny thing is I came across this song by searching “Uninspired” on youtube, because that’s what I am now. Wooooo. That ‘woo’ was sarcasm btw. This song inspired something, but I’m tired of writing things that don’t mean anything. So here’s this. Don’t ask me if it means anything to me cause tbh idk.

The Song

Masterlist


Label you then leave you,

No they won’t stay for the fight,

It’s the closest thing to empty,

And the furthest from the light.

Jughead walks towards the ticket station in the darkness of the night. He buys a one way ticket to Toledo, hoping to never look back.

Keep reading

What Goes Around, Comes Around

Summary: Adult Henry and Regina have a talk the first time his adoptive daughter tells him that he’s not her father.

——————-

At thirty four years old Henry Mills knew that he’d never fallen in love with anything quicker and harder than he had for his daughter.

He’d never planned to adopt. It hadn’t been a goal or even a thought in his head at the time but the minute he’d laid eyes on her he knew. She would be his and he would be hers forever.

He’d only been twenty-three when he first met her mother. Barely out of college when they’d ran into each other but he easily became enraptured with her warm, honey-colored eyes and melodious laughter. Luisa had been her name and it was only on their third date that she’d first told him about her daughter. Naturally he’d been shocked and a little apprehensive but still undeterred. A few months later she’d finally let him meet her, her little Olivia. Dark chocolate eyes and chubby red cheeks, she’d wrapped her tiny finger around his and he knew there was no going back.

A week being a part of their lives taught him more about love than an entire lifetime of reading and writing about fairy tales.

Twelve years and a wedding later they’d still been blissful. He truly thought that he’d found his happily ever after. But of course he’d forgotten the most cardinal rule of life.

It’s often more tragic than you expect.

A car crash stole Luisa away from them. One irreversible moment and suddenly he found himself standing over her casket, surrounded by family, his hand holding onto his daughter’s.

It would only be the two of them from now on.

A fact that Olivia appeared to struggle with.

She missed her mother, that much was clear. And Henry tried as hard as he could to give her a safe place to grieve, a place with him but she’d pushed him away. They used to be so close but she wasn’t talking to him anymore, she wasn’t talking to anyone. Isolating herself from her friends and family. He made excuses for her and tried to give her space, but things came to a head one afternoon when he’d gotten a call from the school saying she’d never shown up. After hours of searching for her only for her to come home and walk past him as if nothing had ever happened he couldn’t help it. He lost it.

Within seconds they’d enter a screaming match and before he’d even seen it coming she’d yelled the words he knew he’d never forget.

“WHAT DO YOU CARE?! YOU’RE NOT EVEN MY FATHER!!”

Keep reading

Dark Percy - Evolution

Percy, after Gaea, still has nightmares every nights about tartarus, and wakes up in cold sweat every night. He could talk to Annabeth about it, or to Jason, or to- to anyone, really. He would, if it wasn’t for this tiny, treacherous voice that somehow is always there in his mind, whispering that no one can help. No one is willing to. No one cares.

Jason told him ‘I think I get it.’ and said no more. Leo - well, Leo isn’t there, is he, but he wouldn’t be right for that conversation. Frank wouldn’t be the right person to talk about it with, either, and nor would any others. And Nico avoids him like the plague since his declaration, and truthfully Percy knows he will have to talk to him about it, but like always that voice tells him it will be useless. No one listens to him, not really.

Annabeth, the only one he could talk to, doesn’t want to talk about this. The last time he tried to broach the subject, she said “Don’t.” and that was the last of it. She has nightmares too, but when he wakes her up, and lets her cry in his arms, shuddering, trembling, he can’t help but wonder if she’s remembering the monsters - or him.

Sometimes, he wonders if he is one of the monsters in her nightmares.

Of course, once she stops breathing too hard, once she stops being that lost girl that has seen too much, once she stops confusing nightmare and reality - once she stops flinching when she sees his faces cast in shadows… Once she stops, and regains some of her bearing, she doesn’t talk about it.

“I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to relive…” she trails off, eyes distant, then she smiles, a thin, forced little smile. “It’ll get better.”

And she starts talking about their plans, about graduation, and college in Camp Jupiter. She talks about the future, about her dreams, about architecture, and Percy listens and smiles, and nods. And inside of him, deep down, that treacherous voice wonders how she can talk about the future - how she can even think about it, when he’s still trapped in the past. When his own future seems blurry and dark and poisonous.

No, Annabeth doesn’t want to talk about her nightmares, and tartarus. At least with him. They think he’s unobservant. They all have always underestimated him, thought him oblivious - but he knows. He sees the way Hazel, and Piper, look at him sometimes. He has heard the hushed whispers, one evening when he went to see Annabeth and found her with the others. She talks to them.

She’s scared of him.

To be fair, he scares himself too, but the realization that no one is willing to help him like he tries to help them so often, leaves a sour taste in his mouth, like poison, like firewater. It makes the glass pieces inside him sharper, and nothing Annabeth can say or do seems to soften them again.

He starts to get headaches. Migraines.

At first, he thinks it’s the lack of sleep. Too many nightmares. Too many things he’d like to say. Too many thoughts in his head. Too much that doesn’t go away and that he doesn’t know how to control.

So after some time spent with a killer headache and the feeling he will never sleep again, he decides to go where he always felt best - in the water. One night, he simply has had enough, and jumps into the sea, goes underwater, and lets the waves comfort him, soothe him.

That’s when he realizes that he’s hyper-aware. He can feel the water around him more astutely than ever. He can feel the ground, too, in a different, more muted manner. He always could, but for some reason, now he is more sensitive. He feels like a sonar that no one thought to disconnect. But the water is soothing, and it overloads him in a good way.

He always feared drowning, but as he falls asleep at the bottom of the ocean, he wonders if it wouldn’t be the most peaceful way to go. The best option, really.

The next morning, when he gets out of the water, he hasn’t drowned. He also is still hyper-aware, but now he gets why. He can sense every water drop, every fluid everywhere. The moisture in the air, the water in the plants, his own blood thrumming in his veins. In a daze, he wanders into camp - and there he stops dead the first time he crosses path with someone, because he can feel their own blood thrumming in their veins too. And not only that, but every fluid in their body.

It’s terrible, and wrong and- and yet, he can’t help but feel fascinated. So much power, just as the tip of his fingers. He could just extend his will, the way he never dares to, and he could control everything. He could bend the grass. He could bend people… The glass shards inside of him rattle, and something twists in his gut. He looks down, horrified with himself for even thinking about it.

It will pass, he thinks as he sits down and takes a soda. It will go away.

But it doesn’t. It doesn’t - it actually becomes worse. Every water molecule, every fluid, he can sense. He can control. After a week of restraining himself, he waves a hand over a patch of grass, and watches in amazement as the grass follows. Then he doesn’t move at all, and still the grass twists like he wants it to. It bends, and twists, and with just a twitch of his finger, grass strands are ripped off the earth, turned to shreds, controlled by the water inside them.

Percy wonders if he could do the same to a monster - rip their limbs off, rip their heads. Make them last. Make them suffer.

The thought is so strong, so surprisingly exhilarating and exciting that it shocks Percy out of it. Whatever it was. He vows to himself to never stray down that path - Annabeth’s voice comes to him, telling him that some things aren’t meant to be controlled.

It’s easier said than done. Now that he knows, he has to make the conscious effort to take his soda by hand every morning, instead of just summoning it to him using the fluids. He has to make sure that some of his most violent urges stay that way - urges, that he doesn’t act upon. It’s hard, though. It could be so easy to make Clarisse shut up, simply make those little veins, and the moisture in her skin, go that way, and her mouth would be shut. Hell, with a little pressure there, she would choke on her own saliva.

That night, just like every night that week, Percy goes to sleep in the sea. Being surrounded by water calms his nerves, calms his senses, mutes down everything. 

For the next week, again, Percy tries his best, but it becomes unbearable. He has to try. And he’s terrified that he will give in to that urge - that he will hurt someone. He’s terrified that one day he will act by accident, a reflex that will send his friends against the wall like flies against a windshield. He’s terrified that he will hurt someone, but at the same time there is still this urge, primal and feral, to use his powers to their fullest extent. To slaughter monsters.

Two days later, Sally Jackson opens her door to find her son there. Of course, the first thing she does is telling him off for disappearing, for risking his life again, for not coming to visit sooner - then she notices the bags under his eyes, the twitch in his fingers, the way his sea-green eyes dart around, focusing on things she cannot see. She bites her lip.

“You look terrible,” she says. “Will you ever stop fighting ?”

Percy wants to laugh at that, but refrains - it would come out bitter, jagged, too sharp and dark, and she might look at him like Annabeth looks at him those days. He will never stop fighting, he knows. There is fire in his blood, destruction in his name, disasters in his inheritance. The sea can never be tamed, can never settle down. He doesn’t tell her this, because he doesn’t want her disapointed - and maybe, she knows after all. Instead, he smiles, something not quite warm and not quite large enough, and a bit crooked but still. He smiles, and says.

“For now,” he says. He hesitates, then. “Can I stay here for some time ? I need-” space, time, isolation, love, an anchor, “-some holidays.”

“Oh,” Sally looks surprised for a moment, then very pleased. She smiles softly at him. “Of course you can stay, Percy. This is your home too.”

Home. Percy lets her draw him into a hug, and tentatively hugs her back - though his fingers still twitch, and he can feel her heart, and her blood so near. He can sense the humidity of the air, can sense the plants growing on the balcony, two rooms away. Can sense people, in the appartement bellow them, and next to them, and something small - maybe a dog. He senses the canalisations, like veins in a rock body that is this building. His head is still aching. His blood is calling for fights to come. 

He wonders if it’s fair of him to expose his mother to the monster he is slowly becoming. He wonders if she’ll let him sleep in the bathtub, if she’ll let him lock the door just in case. He wonders if, maybe, with a bit of luck, he’d drown one night, in his bathtub. He wonders if the fact that the idea is oh so tempting makes him selfish.

“Yeah,” he finally rasps out, and it sounds distant to him. “Home.”

And he wonders if one day he will truly have one of those.

anonymous asked:

(this is my first time sending an ask on tumblr so this is a huge win for my anxious self) about your body guard AU- does Steve find out that its Obie selling under the table, not Tony? what would Steve do to him? also do the events of IM1 still happen in this AU?

UH I MISSED THIS ASK I’M SO SORRY AND LIKE. I WAS LOWKEY FINISHED WITH THIS AU BUT I WANTED TO ANSWER BECAUSE! I’M PROUD AND DIDN’T WANT U TO BE IGNORED ON UR FIRST GO AT ANON. 


So I like,,, planned out this whole fic just in case someone decided to bid for me  and yes. I decided that this would indeed include the events of IM1. With a few changes, of course.


Firstly, at the point where Tony gets taken, he’s already found out about Steve’s other life. It all came out after Steve apparently got ‘confirmation’ that the tipoff about Tony dealing under the table was true.

He’d stared at the text Natasha had sent him for a very long time, because he basically couldn’t believe it. He had been… he’d been so sure Tony was innocent. He’d have staked his life on it. Hell; he’d already decided to give up his assassin lifestyle in favour of Bodyguarding Tony.

And of course- there was the whole ‘I’m mad in love with you’ thing that Steve had going on. After deciding to let Tony in just a little bit, it really hadn’t taken much to fall hopelessly for the man. 

Because he was good. Steve had been positive of that. He’d been completely and utterly convinced. He’d been…


An idiot.


He’d let Tony worm his way in, lie to him, manipulate him so that he’d trust him. Love him. God- it was every trick in the book that Steve had written, and he’d fallen for it all, hook line and sinker.


And really, it should have been his job. To just take Tony out, there and then. He was closest, he was easiest. He could just put a bullet in the back of his head and walk right out, because at that point everyone trusted him. 

But he hadn’t been able to. Because despite the realisation, despite every lie and false pretence Tony had kept up around him- he knew that at the end of the day, he would never be able to hurt him. Not ever- God, the thought alone made him feel sick to his stomach. 


He tells Clint to deal with it, and hates how much it takes him to just get the words out, to tell him to do the job that Steve had gone in there for in the first place. It takes him an hour and a half just to dial, and even then, he just finishes with a short “I can’t” before slamming down on the end call button. Clint would know what it meant.


After a huge fight, where he lets every bit of raw emotion out on Tony, he slams the door and leaves for good. Tony- completely bewildered and an expression like he’d just been stabbed- had barely even gotten a word in edgeways before Steve had taken his duffel and walked out of his life- no more bodyguarding for the mass-murderer, no more cooking him breakfast and hiding a laugh behind his hand when Tony made a joke while on the job-

No more. He was done. It was over, and he’d learnt his lesson.


Except he can’t let it slide.


He can’t… Tony was so good. And it was near impossible to keep something like that up unless you were a complete sociopath, which he knew how to spot anyway. 

It didn’t make sense, and it was eating at Steve.

So he trawls. He scrapes meticulously, carefully, through every single byte of data Natasha sent him. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, just searches and searches and looks at the clock, counting down the moments until Clint takes the shot.


There’s thirty minutes left when Steve finally finds it.


The hidden data, buried and encrypted and completely invisible unless you were looking as hard as Steve had been- but there. Real. Proof.

Tony was innocent.

And clint was about to kill him.


Steve calls him 18 times in 3 minutes whilst driving very illegally to Stark Towers, leaving messages, voicemails, all of them the same.


We made a mistake don’t kill him he’s innocent don’t kill him he’s innocent Clint please answer please we made a mistake I was wrong we were all wrong I’m begging you don’t kill him he’s innocent-


Clint calls back, 7 minutes and 54 seconds later, saying he’s got the message, calm down Steve- but he couldn’t have done it anyway. Because Tony hadn’t been seen since Steve left, and although Clint had been looking for three days, there was still no sign of him.

Steve remembers every threat, every creepy admirer and downright scary assholes he had had to protect Tony from during his time as a bodyguard at that moment, in vivid detail.

His legs don’t give out, but it’s a near thing.


And for the next 34 hours, 18 minutes, him and his team search every corner of New York until they locate Tony.


He’s at a nightclub in Queens, and when Steve slams in, he can barely see for the cigarette smoke and flashing lights around him. In fact, it’s Peggy who spots him first- she grabs Steve’s attention across the room as she yells at the man sat next to Tony, telling him to let go of Tony’s waist before she slams his head into the table.

When Steve notices the man leer and shake his head, turning until he’s facing Tony’s face and licking up his face, it takes him two and a half seconds to cross the room and do Peggy’s job for her. His head goes right through the table, and he doesn’t even think twice about it.

Tony’s looking at him, his face empty and blank. His eyes are glassy, and he’s either high or wasted, or maybe a mixture of the two.


It’s Steve’s fault. 


They take him back home, and Steve puts him in their beat up truck while Bucky gets in the front and starts driving, face like thunder.

All the way through the ride home, Tony just leans against Steve’s shoulder and stays absolutely silent, no matter what Steve says, no matter what they do.
It’s like he doesn’t even believe they’re there at all. 

At one point, he slowly pushes himself up and looks at Steve- blank and numb and nothing like Steve had ever seen before- and then presses his mouth into Steve’s, grabbing him by the collar and draping himself over his lap. It’s messy and laced with the taste of alcohol, and when Steve gently pushes him off, Tony just goes right back to leaning against his shoulder. Like a robot. Like…

Steve doesn’t want to think about what it’s like. 

He just holds Tony against him and presses his mouth against Tony’s hair, quietly apologising into the dark strands, desperate and spiked with horrible, horrible guilt.

The others try and tell him it’s not his fault that they got false information.
Steve doesn’t believe any of them. 

Tony barely even registers him, even when he’s right there. And it’s because of what he did, what he said- he dug into whichever spot he could find that hurt, because he knew Tony, he knew him so well that it was almost too easy to hit at the most painful places. And at that moment, when he’d felt hurt and betrayed and like he’d been played a fool by a man who was nothing more than a money-hungry murderer, he hadn’t given a damn about what sort of vitriol had fallen out of his mouth.

He’s never wanted to turn back time more in his entire life. 


They put Tony to bed, and the others leave, but Steve remains. He sits on the couch in the living room, trying to nap and failing.

He knows he has to come clean to Tony. It’s the only way he’ll be able to get Tony to understand why he said what he did. Why he walked out.


He knows that once he tells Tony why they crossed paths in the first place, he’ll never see Tony again. And the thought alone feels like being shot in the heart, it feels like an icy burn across his chest, but he knows it’s what he deserves. 

He’s an assassin. Sent to kill Tony. Even if now, the thought made him want to gather Tony up and make sure no-one hurts him ever, ever again, that didn’t change the fact that that was what he had been out to do at the start. And it makes him hate himself more than he has ever done before in his life- knowing how badly he must have breached Tony’s trust, which was a sacred gift to receive in the first place.


The next time he snaps out of his own self-destructive thoughts, it’s because Tony is stood in front of him, looking like shit and staring at Steve as if he’s not sure he exists.


Steve tells him. Everything. 


Somewhere along the line, Tony starts crying, and it feels like the bottom just dropped out of Steve’s world. It feels like every ounce of self-loathing, every scrap of guilt and remorse and horrible feeling just got rolled into one concentrated ball and shoved like a blunt object straight through Steve’s soul, but he can’t stop. Tony deserves to know.

He begs Tony to forgive him, tries to convince him that it might have been a game at the start, but Steve had been fully willing to give up his job as an assassin to be with Tony, because he loved him, and Tony had to know that, even if he didn’t believe it. 

When Steve has finished, Tony doesn’t say anything for a very long time. Just looks at him. 

He says some things, after that. Words intended to hurt, to dig and bury themselves in Steve’s already battered heart in the same way they must have done for Tony, when it was Steve saying them.

Tony tells Steve to go. Says if he ever sees Steve again, he’ll call the cops and use every ounce of sway he has to put Steve and his team in jail for the rest of their lives.
Says he hates Steve, and that whatever Steve felt for him, it certainly wasn’t returned.

‘You were just a bodyguard to me, Steve. A hot bodyguard, yeah, but that’s it. And hey- turns out you weren’t even that, in the end, didn’t it?’

Steve tries, one last time. This time it’s him crying, but Tony is just glaring at him, face devoid aside from the sharp lines of his gritted teeth.


Before Steve goes, he tells Tony to hire someone new. A real bodyguard, because someone sent Steve in the first place, and they’re still out there. And the thought of anyone putting their hands on Tony again, when he’s not there to stop them because Tony won’t let anyone near him again…

Tony tells him to fuck off.

Steve leaves.




Months pass.




He and the team keep guard of Tony. Because while Steve had been lying to protecting him, the others had actually gotten to like the guy.

Of course they would. Tony was like sunlight. 

Tony does hire someone new, in the end. Guy called Happy Hogan. Steve doesn’t think he’ll be good enough.

Then again- he wouldn’t be happy unless it was him with Tony.

And that isn’t ever going to happen. Ever.




It’s 9 months later when Tony gets kidnapped.



And Steve can’t describe the feeling of it, really. Maybe an apt description was like someone had just taken his body and stretched, until everything felt like it was tearing apart, agonising and burning inside him.


He punches the wall five times, and breaks his hand in seven places. Bucky, Clint and Natasha have to all team up to wrestle him to the floor, in the end.


A few days later, Steve goes to the only person he knows will want to find Tony as much as he himself does.


Rhodey’s first port of call is to punch him in the face and tell him to fuck off.

Steve comes back the next day.

Rhodey punches him again.

Steve comes back.

Another punch in the face.

Again. Again. Again.

And his face is black and blue, the rest of his team are cracking their knuckles and telling him to let go, but he won’t, he won’t sit and twiddle his damn thumbs when Tony needs him.

It takes 9 punches to the face and a broken nose before Rhodey finally talks to him.

It’s two black eyes and a fractured rib before Rhodey finally lets up and allows Steve to join the search.


They look for three months. By that time, the rescue funds have been cut and they’re down to the bare minimum.

Everyone thinks Tony Stark is dead.

But not Steve. Steve knows, he knows Tony, he knows that the bastard is out there, and he’s going to wander back to them any day now, asking for coffee or a burger because he is an asshole and-


This time it’s only Rhodey who can wrestle him away from the wall. The rest of his team are hundreds of miles away.


It’s a few days later when then they finally see someone.



It’s Tony.



He’s real and alive and sunburnt as fuck, stumbling in the desert with a shirt on his head as he waves desperately to the helicopter, and Steve immediately makes to leave, to fetch him, to do whatever the fuck needs to be done- but Rhodey pushes him back, growling and hissing under his breath about not wanting Tony to think he’s hallucinating.

Rhodey goes out for him instead. Steve waits in the chopper, and his feet are burning. He wants to go out there, he wants to check Tony for all his injuries, kiss them all reverently and hold his hand, feeling him there, real and alive and sunburnt as fuck.

He knows it’s not his place. That he shouldn’t even be there in the first place, but he’s selfish, what can he say- he needs to see Tony. needs to know that he’s okay, like the way he needs air to breathe or food to survive.


Tony finds his eyes first.


“I died, didn’t I?” He asks, a little sadly, and then “Sure, you were an assassin, but somehow I don’t doubt for a second that you’d turn out to be a fucking angel too.”


“I… what?” Steve chokes on his words, unable to believe that he’s actually speaking to Tony for the first time in nine months.

Tony shrugs, and then winces as it hurts him. “You. You impossible man- the assassin sent to kill me, who I was dumb enough to fall in love with- would not be here if I were alive.”

Steve’s heart is doing the dropping thing again as he looks at Tonys chest, at his sad eyes and bloody hands and-

he’s crossed the room and gently, oh so very gently pulled Tony into his arms before anyone can argue with him. And Tony just sighs and wraps his hands around Steve’s back, still unbelieving, but Steve won’t let him think that, he can’t, so he curls his fingers around Tony’s jaw and tilts his head, until Tony is looking directly into his eyes.

“Your favourite colour is purple, but you say it’s red. You tap out curse words in binary when you’re bored. You have tennis balls stored in your workshop so that I could play fetch with Dum-E. You hate peanut butter. I am very real, Tony, and I swear to you, you are not dead.”


Tony blacks out in his arms.


After the initial panic, Tony is pulled into medical,and continues to sleep until they’re an hour off their destination. Steve steadily refuses to leave his side through it all- even when Rhodey punches him again.

Apparently that one had just been for fun- but it didn’t do much, Steve just got another black eye and got on with it. 


When Tony wakes up, Steve’s there.


And once he finally comes around to the idea that yes, he is actually alive, Steve is actually corporeal, and he actually escaped, he turns to watch Steve for a long time again; the same intense stare he’d used on him the day that he’d told Steve to leave his life forever.

Steve is convinced they’re about to have a repeat performance.

But Tony just… finds his hand. And holds it.

Steve doesn’t say anything- but he grasps on Tony’s hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the rest of the world.

In the end, Steve breaks the silence first- telling Tony he quit, as did the rest of the team, and they decided to open up a coffee shop instead. In turn, Tony tells him it was Obie who dealt the weapons, and that after shutting down the weapons productions, he made sure Stane was thrown in jail for a very long time.

Steve says he already knows. Tony raises an eyebrow. Steve tells him that he kept up with what happened with Tony, after he left. Tony looks a little surprised, but doesn’t say anything.

They hold hands until they have to land, and then Rhodey shoves him aside to help him off. 


Pepper and the rest of Steve’s team are waiting for him at the landing pad. They have coffee and burgers for him, and they give them to Pepper before backing away a little. 

Except Tony calls out to them, and they turn around to see Rhodey steering Tony toward them, a stubborn tilt to his chin as he faces them all.

“Does Steve love me?” He asks them bluntly, when they get within range.

Bucky just laughs, and rolls his eyes as Steve’s jaw drops and he makes bug eyes at Tony’s back.

“Is the sky blue?” He replies, before stepping forward and opening his arms a little, asking permission. His face is worried and a little sheepish, but when Tony nods, Bucky breaks out into a happy little beam and steps forward; pulling him in with the same gentle touch Steve had used.

“Right,” Tony swallows, patting Bucky’s shoulder before stepping away and turning around again, facing Steve. “Uh. Well. That’s certainly news.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Steve says bluntly. “Tony, I loved you from the first month of knowing you. For the past year, it’s pretty much consumed me. I know you don’t want anything to do with me, and I do not blame you for that at all, but I just needed you to know-”

He’s cut off when Tony leans forward and wraps his uninjured hand around Steve’s neck, pulling him in and silencing his fast-moving mouth with a kiss.

“Good,” he says against Steve’s mouth, and Steve can feel the smile against his lips, “because I had a bit of a wakeup call while I was in those caves, and I realised that I can’t just let good things slip through my fingers because I’m too stubborn to 


The team whoops, and Rhodey is giving him a glare that promises the shovel-talk of his life, but Steve doesn’t even care, he just pulls Tony in as close as he’ll reach and buries his head into the other man’s shoulder, stifling his sudden wave of tears against the warm skin. “Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re safe, I love you, I’m so glad, I’m so-”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay Steve. Just breathe. I’m here. And I’m not leaving,” Tony says, hand stroking through Steve’s short hair as Steve holds him up.

“I love you,” Steve says again, just for good measure.

Tony smiles, and again, Steve is hit with just how bright Tony really is. Like sunlight.


“It took us long enough, didn’t it?” He says quietly, kissing the tip of Steve’s nose.




Steve does end up finding Obadiah.


After hiring the Ten Rings to take Tony out, he used the remaining cash to buy his way out of prison, fleeing to Cuba where Steve ended up tracking him.

Since leaving his old life behind to work the coffeeshop, he hadn’t touched a gun, let alone fire one.

Luckily, old habits die hard.


There was only one bullet left in the pistol Steve had picked up, but one was enough. He intended to do most of it in a more… hands-on fashion, anyway.

Honestly, considering Steve had prepared for resistance from any guards or traps set in place, it all felt remarkably anti-climatic. Stane barely had time to fumble at the gun holstered to his side before Steve had grabbed him by the throat and thrown him across the room, sending him smashing into the wall at speed. 

A kick down, dislocating the jaw and preventing any cries for help. Twist of the wrist, and out came the bone from its joint, along with the gun from his hand. Punch to the face, just for good measure more than anything. Drive and drive and drive, a constant downpour of punches and snaps until the scum who had sold Tony out to the terrorists was nothing more than a bloody mess of a man, looking at Steve with pleading eyes.

Steve shot him in the head, because he was kind. Any semblance of life left Stane’s eyes immediately, and he slumped against the floor.


Peggy and Clint were coming in to deal with the body (Stane was on vacation- small aircraft, such poor safety record. A tragic accident), and Steve was done here. His last target accounted for.


He pulls out his phone and dials, a smile already on his face. 


“Hey babe, sorry, I just got out of a meeting- how was your day-”




*If any of you want to see more from this au (that sounds rlly weird and threatening whoops sorry), or just fancy prompting me for a fic of your choice, you can bid for me > here < on Stony Trumps Hate and donate the money to an awesome charity!

Short ficlet based on this gorgeous fanart (x)


Angels do not go down on earth.


Through war, through famine, through disease—

Angels do not go down on earth.


That, at least, is what Castiel was told.


But then he was called, to leave Heaven, to take a vessel; and for a trifle of a thing. To ensure the safety of one Luke Ramirez.

It was explained to Castiel, and he listened dutifully, that occasionally these sort of acts were required. Not miracles, per se, but little pushes, little nudges, all to ensure the correct path. The grand plan.

(He does not know this speech has been given to him many times.)

Accidents barely avoided, a heavy thing falling just a little short, a bullet that grazes your cheek.

Such is the work of angels.

Castiel goes immediately. There is no need to wait, the orders came, and it is happening now. Jimmy Novak is young, perhaps too young, but Castiel takes him anyway. He has no other options.

He follows Ramirez to the city center, his angel eyes sharp, his senses attuned to any possible danger. He receives some strange looks, perhaps because he has no coat, only a thin jacket to fight against the winter chill, or perhaps because such a young boy should not be travelling alone. Castiel does not notice, or care. No one approaches him.

The city is brightly lit, decorated to celebrate the upcoming holiday, the celebration of the birth of Christ. Obviously, things got a little lost over the years. The infant known as Joshua, and later Jesus, was not born in December as the stories said, but July. And there had been only two men in attendance, both of whom were certainly not wise. 

The matter is simple. A couple dropped books, a redirection of a bicycle—and Ramirez’s path is blocked, for 30 crucial seconds, and the taxi that would have hit him drives safely by.

Castiel watches from a nearby storefront, a quiet pride in completing his orders.

He stays for a while, just watching, even though his charge has long since disappeared from view. Humanity is endlessly fascinating, and Castiel has never had the chance to see it this close. 

He takes a deep breath into his borrowed lungs, turning his face up to meet the snow, falling from the sky. He should return to Heaven. He should return home.

“Dean Winchester, stop trying to grab the nice boy!”

Castiel turns.

Behind him stands a group of three people, taking brief shelter under the same awning. They are laden with their Christmas shopping, bundled up warmly for the Kansas weather, and Castiel knows them.

John and Mary Winchester. He recognizes their faces immediately. They are very important in his Father’s plan; and their names are etched into every angel’s brain. The man is holding what Castiel knows to be his son, the firstborn. And he also knows the great tragedy that will soon tear this family apart. 

He peers at the infant struggling in his father’s arms. A small boy, eyes bright and green, hands grasping in Castiel’s direction. His mother brushes a hand through her son’s hair, smiling warmly at Castiel.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “He’s not usually like this.”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Quite alright,” he murmurs.

The boy continues to reach for him. His cheeks are pink with the cold, and he’s babbling happily, carefree and joyous. Castiel does not know his exact age; it is so hard to tell with human children. He could look into his soul and know—but that would be rude, Castiel thinks.

“Hello,” he says instead. “And who might you be?”

His father smiles, bouncing him slightly.

“This here’s Dean.”

Castiel smiles.

“Hello, Dean.”

He nods to the Winchesters, thinking now he definitely should be going. Coming down to Earth was one thing, but talking to humans? It was not mentioned in his orders. He should not disobey. 

He inclines his head, and turns to take his leave.

Then Dean touches him.

His tiny hand catches his ear, sliding down his cheek—and Castiel is suddenly overwhelmed, with a flood of images that nearly leaves him staggering.

A barn, lights sparking before his eyes. A rain-filled room and an archangel with murder in his eyes. A ring of holy fire, a painful glance, hands pulling a sodden trenchcoat from the water. And longing, longing, longing, a bone-deep clamoring ache, only getting stronger as the images strengthen. Blood on his hands, not his own—and a hand on his face, begged words, his name said, over and over. Then not in pain, or hurt, or fear—but in heat. Passion.

Love.

He touches him, and Castiel knows instantly.

Dean Winchester is 22 months, 19 days, and 5 hours old. And in roughly 28 years, Castiel will meet him again. In the fiery pits of Hell.

He does not move. Castiel watches this small child, innocent, unknowing, still grasping at Castiel’s hair. He has no idea.

Castiel decides it makes him…sad.

He quickly backs away, ignoring the odd look Dean’s parents give him. They will not remember this. They will not remember an encounter with a strange boy, one cold December day, too long ago.

He ducks into an alley and disappears.

He safely returns Jimmy Novak to his bed, and for his benefit as much as his own, wipes the encounter from the boy’s mind. He is not so sure Jimmy would be so easily convinced a second time.

He returns quietly to Heaven, and his superiors radiate pride and happiness at his success. Castiel goes back to what he had always done before, working beside his brothers and sisters, and tries not to think of the human, with green eyes and the sun in his smile.

Yes, angels do not go down on earth.

But Castiel does. And he will go again.

the progression (and regression) of first names

hurt/comfort, mini casefile, msr ust

first in a series of fics accompanying my x files rewatch this summer. (technically this is cheating since i’m already on season 2, but whatever, i wanted to do this.) spoilers for beyond the sea, lazarus, young at heart, darkness falls, and tooms. some of these sequences are partially borrowed from chapters 4 and 5 of half-light, but i liked them so i kept them. (it is not necessary to read half-light to understand this fic.) also dedicated to my recent trip to dc; you haven’t lived til you’ve hobbled around museums and memorials on aching feet from walking too much.

warning for passing mentions of murders/death

Scully spends New Year’s Eve in a hospital room: “Because my life isn’t depressing enough,” she laments to Melissa on the phone, and Missy tries to laugh like it’s funny but it’s not. They are in mourning; their father is dead, their mother is all to pieces, and Charlie didn’t come to the funeral. Bill and Melissa are staying with their mother in Baltimore. They wanted Dana to come too, but Dana has never been one to show emotions around other people. “I need to work,” she’d told Mulder, and it was the truth. The sad thing is that Mulder getting shot has given her the perfect excuse to hide, here in North Carolina where she thought everything would matter less. 

(It doesn’t. Boggs yanked her out of hiding by her ankle, wouldn’t let her rest. She doesn’t go to Boggs’ execution because she’s afraid to believe. She’s afraid of what he’ll tell her. She hides in Mulder’s hospital room because it’s easier, but he won’t let her hide, either. He calls her Dana and touches her shoulder and she shrinks into herself like a crumpled piece of paper. He knows her too well; she is the pathologist, but he would be just as good with a scalpel. He has a way of bringing hidden things to the surface.)

There’s a pathetic TV in Mulder’s room and they watch the ball drop in Times Square on it. Mulder’s on pain medications, which make him goofier; he counts along with the spectators in Times Square with a glazed-over look in his eyes. Scully watches in silence, hands knotting in her lap. She’s had plenty of good New Year’s Eve memories to stock up over the year - she spent the last one with Ethan, tipsy from champagne and giggling hysterically when he kissed her, teeth bumping together - but the only one she can think of now is the first year she was allowed to stay up til midnight, at nine. (She and Missy had snuck out on the back porch minutes away from midnight and sat on the step, watching the stars. She’d tipped her head up to the sky, mittened hands pressing into her knees when she felt the pressure of her father’s hand on her head and turned to look at him. “It’s a new year now, Starbuck,” he’d told her seriously. “It’s your chance to start over, to make your life whatever you want it to be.”) Scully blinks hard to stop the onslaught of tears and reaches for the tissues she’d crumpled in her pocket. 

“Hey, Scully,” Mulder says, touching her wrist. “Scully. Are you okay? Are you sad again?”

He’s high as a kite, Scully thinks wryly. “I’m fine,” she says, scraping her fingertips under her eyes. Maybe she should take some time off with Mulder after this case, give herself some time to recover so she won’t be crying all over the place every case. “I just… memories. You know how it is.” And with his sister, he must know. 

Mulder rests his head against her shoulder. “It’s 1994,” he slurs into her jacket. “Anything can happen now, Scully; make a wish.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong holiday,” she tells him. 

He points to the TV where a couple is kissing, confetti falling down on them like rain. “We should do that,” he says, raising his head to look at her. “In honor of the New Year.” 

For a half-second, she considers it. He’s been more affectionate with her over time; something shifted with them, in Alaska. Something had made them stronger. He’s called her Dana three times now. He tried to comfort her. She remembers him kissing that ex-girlfriend, Phoebe. She’s wondered how he kisses before. 

Then she reconsiders. Considers the consequences. She’s broken enough Bureau policy this year, she thinks. She is grieving, not in her right mind, and he’s on pain meds, he might not remember a thing tomorrow. She rolls her eyes and says, “Go find a nurse, Mulder.”

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Title: Don’t Run Away
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Summary: Just after his father convinced him to stay, Jughead goes back inside to look for his girlfriend. It’s going to be a long night for those broken lovers.
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A/N: Okay. This is my theory of what happened in between the party and their meeting at Pop’s. It was so unfair of them not to show it, therefore, I felt the need to write down the vision I have in my mind. This one goes as far as the time they leave Archie’s house, so tell me if you think I should continue! Hope you enjoy, and please, send me some feedback!
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The party was already a mess, but shit hit the fan only after his knuckles crashed against Chuck’s cheekbones after those stupid words came out from his lips. The former player- football player- decided to tag along with Cheryl in her stupid revenge plan, and much to their delight, chaos was created in what was supposed to be a small, unwanted birthday party. People ended up hurt, physically and emotionally, and even if his face hurt like hell, his heart had never been any tighter than at that very moment.

Jughead was a train wreck, with blood coming out from his bruised face, and all he wanted to do was to go home, wherever the hell that might be at that very moment. He left the Andrew’s residence as a soldier who returns from war- broken and troubled- and he didn’t want to look back on his decision to leave. He didn’t belong there, he knew. Yet, he could feel a strange force pulling him back inside.

It was pulling him towards her.

But his feelings had already caused too much trouble for one troublesome night.

He had to leave. And that was exactly what he was going to do before his father decided to  interfere.

“ Where the hell are you going?” FP bumped on his shoulder, taking him off the flow of people leaving the house.

“What!?” Jughead screamed, anger filling every letter of his statement. His troubled expression shocked his father, for never before had he seen his concealed son so troubled because of a stupid party. “ You gonna give me some advice on my right hook?”

The South Serpent let out a sigh, feeling somewhat annoyed to see that his son’s sarcasm was still present at such a crucial time. That boy really has no cure, and he would make sure to put some sense into his stubborn head. “ I want you to go back inside and talk to your girl.”

“ I don’t think it’s gonna work out. We have irreconcilable differences.”

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Oneshot: Absence

A kind of sad oneshot.

TW for references to marital abuse.

Set some time in the future. Emma leaves town with Hook, and over the course of a year she and Regina come to some realisations. Mentions of CS but definitely an SQ story. I don’t own Once or any of its characters. Apologies for any mistakes. Hope you all enjoy :)

“Nothing will change,” Emma assures her, that heartbreakingly sad smile on her lips, as she holds both of Regina’s hands in her own.

The words ring hollow, and Regina barely hears them, still reeling from the ‘Hook and I are moving to Boston’ revelation. Boston. Henry will go there every other weekend. Her parents will not be able to follow. She will have no reason to follow aside from Henry and he’s off to college in a year.

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