It’s for a case, John

‘It’s for a case, John.’

John had heard those words before. A lot of times. He had seen the best and the absolute worst of Sherlock’s disguises. A vicar. A clown. And on one memorable occasion, Sherlock had to pose as an underwear model, with John acting as his agent – John never dared to image that that world was filled with so much envy.

He had seen in Sherlock in various state of dress and undress. Especially that last one after the underwear model case.

But this. The sight that greeted him now, accompanied by Sherlock’s words, left him breathless.  

Sherlock was… not Sherlock.

His hair was long and sleek for one, getting close to his waist. A wig. A very professional looking wig, black as night. Sherlock’s eyebrows were gone – had he shaven those off?! – giving him an eternal look, that seemed otherworldly. The freckles that adorned his neck were gone. Make-up. Sherlock had shown his skill with it before and this time was no different. His face was paler, smoother, his fine facial lines gone from John’s sight.

And those eyes!

Sherlock’s lashes were accentuated just a little. Just enough.

But that wasn’t everything.

Sherlock was wearing heels and John had dated enough women to know that those, were absolute killer on the ankles. His chest was bare – and shaven – and the only thing covering his nipples, was his hair. And one ridiculous looking necklace. Although Sherlock was handling a fur top before he pulled it on quickly, expertly adjusting his hair so it would fall over the fur. And was that black nail polish?!

John blinked, swallowing down his giggles and he eyed his partner again.

But to top it all off, the leather trousers had made a re-appearance.

John still hadn’t forgotten how that arse felt in those trousers.

‘Have you been listening?’

Sherlock’s voice interrupted John’s stunned silence and he shook his head. ‘Sorry, what? I was…’ 

‘Case, John! Fashion show. Killed runway model. I need to infiltrate.’

‘Like that?’

God, where was his phone? Lestrade needed to see this. 

‘Yes, like this. It’s alternative. Stop gaping and get dressed.’ 

John glanced down at himself. ‘I am…’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Your clothes are on our bed. Hurry up. The cab will be here in fifteen minutes.’ 

‘Clothes… Sherlock, you can’t be serious!’

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

John snorted. ‘Honestly?’

‘Shut up, John. It’s for a case.’

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spicedscribbles asked:

Ladynoir midnight patrol?

a/n: … You speak to my soul, my friend. Hope you enjoy!

“Chat, come on. These streets aren’t going to patrol themselves, you know!”

When she was given nothing but a dismissive wave of Chat Noir’s hand, Ladybug huffed in defeat. She stalked over to the edge of the rooftop, and sat herself beside him.

It was only routine night patrol. They had decided to meet up a few times per week in order to check the streets of Paris, and alternating between the rest. Yet, for some reason that Ladybug couldn’t fathom, Chat Noir had perched himself behind the railings of one of the taller buildings, and she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were focused. Intensely set on one spot. 

“What are you looking for, anyway? Did you spot an Akuma or something?”

He shook his head, before he pointed toward a spot below, and Ladybug followed his eyeline. As soon as it registered where they were, she froze.

Her house.

“Marinette joined me on that last mission whilst you were out doing… well, whatever it was.” He explained, oblivious to how much she was sweating. “I want to make sure she isn’t being targeted again. And… her room is currently dark, and it’s only 9:30. Seems suspicious.”

“Maybe she’s just tired and turned out the lights early?”

Chat Noir looked round at her, narrowing his eyes. “You aren’t worried about her?”

Ladybug simply tapped him on the nose, and chuckled. “If I know Marinette, she’s probably trying to process everything that happened to her, or she’s just catching up with some sleep. I don’t think she’d appreciate someone spying on her, though.”

Despite the dark, she could see the slight flush prickle at his cheeks. “I-I wasn’t trying to–” A sharp clear of the throat saved him, and he continued. “I suppose you’re right. You still don’t think we should pay her a visit?”


“I’m sure. Besides, we’ve still got the rest of tonight to patrol. If you want to pay her a solo-visit later when we split up, be my guest. I’m not going to have any part in it, though.” 

She didn’t expect him to mull over the idea, but all the surprise washed away with that familiar quirky grin she had come to adore.

“Wait–my Lady! Is it possible that… you were jealous?”

She tossed her head back and laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “You wish, silly kitty. Now, come on! Those streets aren’t going to patrol themselves!”

The bakery stood, forgotten by one, as two figures danced in the midnight air of Paris.

openheart-wickedmind asked:

#5 - Hannigram - Will's POV

things you didn’t say at all


“Bone marrow?” Will looked up curiously.

“An ancient and traditional dish, hearkening back to the days when food was so scarce we were forced to use every piece of it. Even the bones,” Hannibal set the two servings down at the table.

Private dinner. Just for two. What could be more cozy.

This was a necessary step, Will had told himself, how could he refuse?

“However, when rendered properly, bone marrow is extremely flavorful and nourishing. I hope to afford you a respectable sampling and that you will forgive me for widening your palate,” Hannibal finished, sitting down himself.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Will muttered, reaching for his wine.

Hannibal smirked, but said nothing. They had become quite adept at saying nothing to each other, even in private. Will told himself it was easier this way. Nothing in his life had been harder.

He took a fortifying swallow of the wine and pulled his plate of bones and toast closer.

“Are we so starved for food that we need to resort to bones?” Will asked, lifting his knife and preparing the scrape some of the sweet-salty fat onto a slice of toast.

Hannibal paused, considering his wine, “I thought the realness of it would be comforting. It is good to remember where our meat comes from.”

Will did not dare hesitate as he finished scraping the fat onto his toast and lifted the slice to his mouth. He crunched and chewed quietly. At a stretch, this could be mistaken for butter, except the hint of iron at the very back of the palate. His throat did not close as he swallowed, his mouth did not dry.

“It’s creamier than I expected,” he remarked, steadfastly meeting Hannibal’s gaze, only when he chose to.

Hannibal’s lips stretched in his well-worn smile, “I’m glad to hear it.” Hannibal fastidiously spread the marrow over his own toast and savored it in his wide, full mouth.

Will dropped his eyes before his staring became as obscene as the action. He took up another slice and began spreading again. This time his knife hit the bottom of the shallow interior and scraped against the chalky shell, the brittle log that once held a living organism together. The texture was fascinating, the smooth, richness of the life-giving fat and underneath, ivory.

“It’s morbid,” he commented, breaking the silence as one would break a neck, “digging your food out of the remains of death like this.”

“It is impossible to eat anything while it is still alive,” Hannibal murmured, “even the plants and fungi, plucked out of the earth, they die instantly with no knowledge of what they’ve lost. It’s… more honest to eat out of the shell of something that knew what it was losing, just as you know what you are gaining.”

Bones. Will stared at them. Their message was plain: These are my bones. They are my fruit, I give them to you freely. Eat them, suck them dry, take strength from them. Take strength from me.

Hannibal could not have been more obvious if he’d cut off his own leg and served it. Will didn’t let himself wonder what that would taste like.


content: Ben helps Dean to prepare for a date and there is some miscommunication regarding the person Dean intends to go out with.

word count: 1646

“Dude, you’re so nervous – it’s hilarious!”

Shut up, Ben!”

“Aw, c'mon, Dean, don’t be pissed.”

Ben laughs loudly while watching Dean changing his outfit for the seventh time. His friend-slash-surrogate-Dad throws him a sharp glance and grits his teeth.

“Shouldn’t you be at home with your mother? And, you know, not be here!”

“Mom doesn’t expect me back for a few hours. I told her we would watch a movie together, like we always do. How could I’ve known you’d have a date tonight?”

It’s true, normally they hang out together, spend some “quality man time” like Dean always uses to call it (and Ben rolls his eyes at the term every single time) and at the end of the day they watch a movie with a lot of explosions and car chases.

Ben always enjoys those days immensely. When Dean and his Mom broke up all these years ago Ben had been devastated, convinced he would never see Dean again. At least it happened with the guys before, so why should it be different with Dean? But Winchester-men “don’t leave family behind” and Dean proved to be persistent. It’s not some stupid obligation, he really loves to have Ben around, teach him valuable stuff (especially about cars and pies – Dean’s favorite topics) and call him his “son” any other day.

And Ben appreciates this more than anything. Dean is more of a father to him than any other guy who ever claimed trying to take the job.

“So, who is this mystery-date of yours?” Ben asks, grinning. He can’t help finding this whole situation entertaining. It’s been a while since Dean went on a serious date, so this woman clearly must be something special.

Something very special because Dean is fidgety and nervous like a teenager before his first prom.

“Um … it’s Cas,” Dean says and yeah, he is freaking blushing!


“Cas, huh?” Ben frowns, trying to remember the name since Dean sounded like Ben should know it.

Maybe he’s talking about Cassie, his ex-girlfriend? Besides Lisa obviously the only serious relationship he ever had. Dean talked about her once or twice (and Ben saw a picture of her a few years back) and although he never seemed to feel an urge to go back to her, obviously something changed his mind about that.

Well, good for him.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Jemma/anybody. "Why do you call Fitz's mom 'mum'?"

Jemma jumps when she notices the time. She grabs her tablet off of the counter and starts pushing buttons. “Oh! I’m going to be late!” 

“For what?” Hunter asks. “We’re all supposed to be taking it easy for the next couple of days. Director’s orders, remember?” 

“Yes well, I promised Mum we’d have a video chat,” Jemma explains. “Do I look alright?” 

Hunter shrugs. “Not my type, but sure.” 

She rolls her eyes. “She worries. I don’t want her to think I’m unwell.” 

Hunter snorts. “Don’t let her see Fitz then. He looks like a dead man walking.” 

The smile slips from Jemma’s face and she sighs heavily. “He really does, doesn’t he? That’s why I’m talking to Mum today instead. She’ll drag him home by his ear if she sees him like this.” 

Hunter furrows his brow. “Wait, what? You and Fitz aren’t…ugh, Simmons, please tell me that you and Fitz are not, in any way, related.” 

Jemma smacks his shoulder. “No! Why would you even say that?” 

“Apparently you two have got the same mum.” 

“Oh no, that’s just what I call Fitz’s mum,” Jemma shrugs. Hunter blinks. 

“Jemma, why do you call Fitz’s mother Mum?” 

Jemma freezes, head tilted to the side in thought. “You know, I’m actually not quite sure. At some point I started calling her that, back at the Academy. And Fitz calls my parents Mum and Dad as well.” 

Hunter starts laughing and Jemma crosses her arms. 

“What exactly is so funny?” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he breathes, not looking the least bit sorry. “It’s just that you two have been dating for like, ten minutes but you’ve been married for years.” 

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not true. Loads of people refer to each other’s parents that way.” 

“Oh yeah, Bob and I do that,” Hunter agrees. She doesn’t see the trap and walks right into it.  

“Exactly! See, you know what I’m talking about.” 

Because we were married,” Hunter tells her, carefully enunciating each word. She blushes pink and snatches up her tablet as it begins ringing. Hunter raises his hands up in surrender and takes his leave, smiling as Jemma answers the call. 

“Hi Mum!” she says brightly. “Your hair looks lovely!” 

songs of jonathan

for @thankyoumerlin, about two years late


David dreams of Michelle sometimes, but they’re never happy. He dreams of seeing her, belly swollen with child and face gaunt, her eyes burning with a feverish light. 

You failed me, she says to him, and there’s blood dripping from her nose and down her mouth. He shoots up when he wakes and rubs a shaking hand down his face.

He doesn’t know if his dreams are premonition or just manifestations of guilt, of horror. He finds he doesn’t much care, as he shoulders his small pack and moves on again, finding a new place to hide in his exile.

He has faith in God, of course, but none in himself.


He watches the news when he can, craning for any glimpse of the princess and prince. Instead, he just hears of a neverending war, sees the face of a rapidly aging king. 

There is no mention of an old war king that has escaped. 


He begins to dream of Jack. Prickly, dangerous Jack, liable to bite the hand that feeds him. 

Jack looks tired, sitting alone in an ornate room. There are metal bars on the windows and a silk robe thrown carelessly on a plush chair, the only sign of a woman once there.

Oh king of kings, Jack says to him wryly, glancing up. Welcome to my castle. Afraid it’s just me.

David watches him like one would a feral dog and Jack’s smile turns a little mean.

Afraid I’m gonna bite? Then he sighs, shoulders slumping, like the fight’s gone out of him. He rolls his shoulders and settles back in his chair, picking up a knife and an apple. It’s like David isn’t even there, and he watches as Jack slices down the red skin and nicks his finger, a small well of blood starting to drip down his thumb.

He sucks it into his mouth and David takes a breath, then wakes up.


Sometimes, David feels like all he does is walk. He lets his hair grow out, doesn’t shave, and so far no one has recognized him, though at this point he’s unsure if that has to do with being on God’s favor or of his disguise. He doesn’t question it. 

He doesn’t question most things, these days. 


It’s on the third week of his exile that he finds others. Those who look at him and just know who he is, who take him in.

We’re part of the rebellion, they say to him. We want you to lead us.

They already look at him like he’s a king, and he remembers the bright heat of the sunlight and the gentle touch of the butterflies as they landed on his head.


The first night with the rebels, he dreams again.

Jack is in the same room, and he’s drinking wine, and David is drawn to the way his throat moves as he swallows. Jack glances at him and licks his lips, already stained pink.

You shaved, he says, eyes lingering on the curve of his jaw. 

Uh, David flushes and Jack smirks.

Just as eloquent as always, king of kings. 

Why do you call me that? David manages.

Jack looks tired, face gaunt and hollowed out. Seems stupid to keep denying it, isn’t it? The rightful king. He takes a long sip of wine, a drop of red sliding down his jaw and staining his collar pink.  We will exult and rejoice in you; we will extol your love more than wine; rightly do they love you.

What does that mean?

Jack just smiles again, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. I dreamt it. Like I dreamt you.


David doesn’t wake up rested. He doesn’t know if he ever has. The rebels look to him and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he thinks he’s flying apart at the seams, that his skin is going to start to peel off and reveal the human muscle, the tissue, the bone. 

Maybe it’ll be the only way to convince them that he’s just as human as them. 

Eli comes to him sometimes, during the day. David sees him out of the corner of his eyes. He’s never whole. Has a big hole in his stomach and blood that drips down his mouth, slides down his fingers and onto the ground. David can see the puddles he leaves. He never talks, just stares at him with those too-large eyes still wide in death. 

David feels like all he leaves behind is death, that it will follow him forever.


Jack looks startled when David appears in his room that night. I didn’t think I was going to dream you tonight.

David shivers, the room cold and Jack sighs and takes off his robe. Take it. I’m used to it. 

Their fingers brush as Jack hands it off, and David shivers again. Something in this, the soft satin of the bathrobe on his skin, it feels like fate. Jack gazes at him, quiet, then sneers but there’s no heat. David can’t stop staring at his mouth, lush like the fruit that grew on his farm.

Jack quirks an eyebrow at him and David flushes. Again. Something about Jack throws him off balance, even when he isn’t real, even when he’s just a dream.

I guess since we’re here right now, I can ask you for forgiveness. He looks as if he’s swallowed a lime.

David frowns as Jack tilts his head back to look up at him, pale throat vulnerable and exposed. For what? he asks.

For trying to kill you. Betraying you. Take your pick.

You saved me, in the end. 

Jack laughs, so soft, so tired. You are unreal, O king of kings. He looks up and catches his eyes and David holds them, swallowing hard. Jack finally looks away.

It’s not fair for you to come here like this, when I can’t fight. I can’t fight you, David. Maybe I never have been able to. 


Go! He sneers, lips curled up and eyes flashing. 

David wakes up.


He doesn’t dream for days. Throws himself into training the new volunteers that come in every week. He looks at them, their soft eyes and softer hands, and aches, not wanting to lead them into battle, not wanting to lead them into death. 

The first time Eli moves through a person, David flinches and Eli just stares, stares, daring him to do something else, to not fight as they have for generations. 

But David doesn’t know anything else. The only language Silas understands is battle, the only language David can speak is violence. He stares at his hands and hardly remembers the time when they could create music instead of bloodshed.

And there was war again, a voice whispers in his ear. 


Michelle appears to him again. He has dozed off in the middle of the day, and she appears and never says a word. She isn’t pregnant in this one, but her teeth are stained red and her eyes look yellow and jaundiced. 

David is afraid of her, of her bold, disappointed eyes and her sickly pallor. She reaches out as if to touch him and he jerks back, away from her fingers. Her teeth bare into a mocking grin.

Michelle was never his, and God is making sure he knows.


Jack eats a pomegranate. He’s shirtless, smooth pale skin, lean like a runner. 

He’s also making a mess. Eyes flick up and he smirks, there’s heat there, and mischievousness. David is thrown, used to the tired, hollowed man he’d grown to know.

They’re in season, Jack says, and offers him a scoop. His fingers are stained purple and for a wild moment, David thinks of curling his fingers around his slim wrist and sucking the juice off his skin. He gets as far as his hand around that bone before he stops himself.

It’s quiet. The only sound is their breathing, Jack’s low and even, his eyes lidded, David’s more ragged. 

Your cheeks are like two halves of a pomegranate behind your veil, he murmurs, his eyes glowing, almost feverish. David can feel his pulse, thready and fast. Jack takes a step forward and David’s lips part, over his teeth.  Your teeth are like a flock of shorn ewes that have come up from the washing.

Jack, David murmurs and Jack jerks back as if shocked, breath rattling in his lungs. The pomegranate rolls onto the floor, spilling seeds at their feet. David notes Jack’s bare, vulnerable toes, digging into the soft carpet. 

Jack looks at him with wild eyes, cheeks burnt with color. Don’t… He chokes out, shoulders hunching in on himself. 

David touches his shoulders and Jack sucks in another breath before flinching away.


David thinks about Jack too much, he knows. It’s distracting, for himself and others. When he should be focusing on this war. He thinks about his mouth, generous and soft, hiding teeth like knives and a tongue like a snake. He thinks about his hands, long and slender, made to play piano when in reality they’ve only dealt destruction. 

But it’s a destruction that David craves now. A destruction of the body. What he wants is to lay Jack down like an offering, pour water over his skin like a baptism, watch as it slides down his ribs and lingers on the divots of his hips. David craves Jack like the taste of honeysuckle on a warm day, stuck between your teeth, dripping nectar and milk under his tongue. He wants to tilt that chin up, to press a hand to the curve of his throat, to feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, to feel that movement with his teeth.

He wants to make Jack his, knit soul to soul. He thinks of Jack, and he thinks, he wants, Until the day breathes, until the shadow flees, my beloved is mine and I am his. 


David decides his first mission is to find Jack. Eli stares at him with those dead, forgotten eyes, the hole in his stomach still oozing blood, and David argues that it’s a good tactic. If there’s anyone who has better knowledge of Silas than Jack, they have not presented themselves. If there’s anyone who wants Jack gone as strongly, they have yet to present themselves as well.

It works. He picks three men, sharp-eyed and cunning but loyal to the bone, whether that is to God or David. (They are one and the same, are they not? he can hear Jack’s taunting reply in his ear.)


The first night on the three day trek back to Shiloh, Michelle appears again. She is pale, ghostly. She speaks to him for the first time. 

When you find Jack, she says, eyes soft, quiet. Tell him I’m sorry.

David reaches out to touch her hand, and this time she is the one who moves away. 

Maybe in another lifetime, you were mine, she murmurs. But not this one.


The day before they arrive in Shiloh, David watches Jack pace his room. He has never dreamt of Jack in any other place, just this room.

Jack, David says and Jack stops, back to him, his shoulders tense. They haven’t talked about what happened before.

Yes, O King of Kings? His voice is a quiet snarl and David narrows his eyes, decides to push his luck.

Aren’t you supposed to kneel for the king, Jack? David asks, meant to be playful, but instead it comes out slow, solemn and velvety.

Come over here and make me.

It’s quiet, Jack’s words hanging in the air, the ones before burning hotter because of it. His gaze dark and dangerous on David. Intent.

David takes a step forward and Jack’s lips part, and David thinks, your lips, like scarlet thread. Out loud, he murmurs, I’m starting to think you want me to.

Jack says nothing, but his pupils dilate at the spread of David’s fingers and the way he settles on his feet, posture confident. Kingly. Commanding.

So that’s how it is, David thinks, and his lips curve up.

Jack’s breath catches in his throat and he closes his eyes. David, he starts. Make haste, David. 

When he wakes up, Jack’s voice lingers in his mind. Like a gazelle, David. Be quick, like a young stag on a mountain of spices.


This is not the story that tells of the dangerous mission inside the palace to the room where Jack is imprisoned. This is not a story where one hears of the way the guards looked the other way in the face of David’s glory, of his godliness. It is not the story where one hears the last rattling breath of one of the men, the way David pressed his his hands to his throat and Thomasina disappeared into the night, dagger still in hand. The way David used the blood from his wound to draw a cross on the dead boy’s forehead.

This is not that story.

This is the story of David breaking into Jack’s room, the same room from his dreams. This is the story of Jack, thin and haggard, who reached up to David with a fierce kind of intent, passion.

The story of he who whispered against another’s lips, Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. For your love is better than wine; your anointing oils are fragrant; your name is oil poured out; therefore virgins love you. Draw me after you; let us run. The king has brought me into his chambers.

The story of David swallowing Jack’s words, God’s words, the story of David and Jonathon, whose souls knit together, Jack who made a covenant of his body with David, the story of the two who never part again.

We will make for you ornaments of gold, studded with silver.

Regina stood in the kitchen, the clear, early morning light making everything fresh and crisp. She was making breakfast. Her family was yet to wake, her son and her love still buried in warmth upstairs

Yes, it was early, the birds were still contemplating singing and she could see little winged bodies darting through the garden, swooping from her tree to bush to the little bird house Emma erected last summer. Emma had been tellingly quiet, yet eager about that one. Regina had not even tried to stop herself from making some comment about singing to the birds, given her bloodline and Emma had just nudged her arm with her own. Later at night, i never had a family with one she’d whispered, lips inches from Regina’s ear as she curled into her.

Regina never said anything else, but dutifully she replenished bird seed and on occasion, only when no soul could bare witness, she thanked the little birds for visiting.

She smiled as warm hands slid around her waist, fingers sneaking under her top to press into her skin gently. Emma pressed into her from behind, no words, just a moan of appreciation and a kiss pressed to Regina’s neck. Regina dropped her utensils, reaching behind her and burying one hand in Emma’s hair, the other going to lay on top of Emma’s hands.

They didn’t need to escalate it,content in soaking in each other and the early morning quiet. Breakfast forgotten for the moment, they only broke apart when Henry padded into the kitchen with a casual gross, before he nudged them aside and took over breakfast.

That Was Beautiful (Spencer Reid)

Based off a Criminal Minds Imagine by vividimagines

That Was Beautiful
Criminal Minds | Spencer Reid + Penelope Garcia | SFW + FLUFF & ROMANCE | Female Reader

“Garcia let me just-”

“Hello beautiful,” you were greeted as the door opened and a smiling boyfriend bundle named Spencer Reid came through and closed it quietly behind him.

You had the decency to blush for the moment before smiling back and opened your mouth. “Hi, love. I actually got-”

“I know, I just came back from Hotch’s office. Debrief is in ten minutes counting,” he glanced at the clock quickly to check,“… now. Just wanted to take this time to say how much I love you like everyday.”

It was sweet, this tradition he’d started by taking you off to the side and saying these romantic things that made your heart flutter before every new case. He just wanted to remind you how he cared, that’d he’d miss you the moments you were separated from his side and that even in the cruelest most crucial seconds of the case you were in his thoughts.

He wrapped you in a hug, pressing a kiss on your head. “Is that new shampoo? You always smell so good.” Spencer took a big sniff, inhaling your scent like he was trying to catalog it away in his memory cabinet. “How do you always smell so good?”

You laughed lightly, hugging him back while smoothing a hand down his neck. “By showering every day and picking good hygiene products?”

Spencer pressed another kiss to your nose as he pulled back, opening his mouth to say something but Garcia’s voice over the computer speaker cut off any further romantic and teasing words. “Oh my god, that was super cute you two. I could just bottle you two up and keep you on my dresser draw. Do the other know of these little stolen moments? Because I think I have all the evidence I need to show off to them that Spencer Reid is a die hard romantic over here!”

“Garcia?” Reid asked in rhetorical surprise.

“Yes, sweetie. And I’m sorry, call it blackmail or whatever but the team is so going to hear about this. Sending the recording now. I’ll talk to you both later!”

The call ended and Reid was let gaping at you in mild shock. You shrugged,“ I tried to warn you.”

The moment you two walked into the plane, the whole team turned their heads with beaming grins. Morgan was the first to speak,“ Hey Romeo. Always knew you had it in you.” You both may have been blushing up to your hairlines but the smile you both shared showed no regrets.

anonymous asked:

#57 "Teach me to fight." with Skimmons (do they have a new name because it's Daisy now or???)

I think people are calling them Bio Quake now! I’ve seen that floating around a bit. I hope you’re okay with me writing this as a BroTP, since I love this friendship and I can’t find it in me to romantically ship Jemma or Fitz with anyone else 

Several weeks after the fallout from Maveth, Jemma finds Daisy in the gym. Jemma’s injuries have finally healed, given the clean bill of health from Bobbi, and she decides once and for all that she’s going to see this plan through. 

“Teach me to fight,” Jemma says. She’d meant to ask, politely, but all of her refined edges have been worn down from the last several months of struggles. 

Daisy spins around. “What?” 

“I want to learn how to fight,” Jemma repeats. “If I had been stronger, or faster, or–” 

“Jemma, there’s nothing you could have done,” Daisy starts. Jemma raises a hand to cut her off. 

“There was. I could have prevented Fitz from going through that portal. I could have done something, anything else, instead of releasing Lash.” 

Daisy considers her carefully. “May is a better teacher.” 

“I don’t want to learn from May,” Jemma says. Daisy’s eyes widen. “Not that May isn’t amazing. But…I want to learn from you.” 

Daisy smiles softly. “It wasn’t that long ago that I was Rookie, huh?” 

Jemma shoots her a wistful grin of her own. “It really wasn’t. And I know you understand what it’s like to have no experience with this, to feel so helpless to protect the people you care about.” 

“I still remember that vividly,” Daisy snorts. “But you have to know going into this that it’s not going to fix all of your problems. There’s always going to be things you can’t protect him from.” 

Jemma appreciates that Daisy doesn’t beat around the bush but doesn’t come straight out with it, either. This is about Fitz and they both know it. She’s almost lost him too many times. She’s spent too many hours and days of her life feeling completely helpless, completely unable to protect him.

It’s been a long time since Jemma worried for her own safety. Not a second goes by that she’s not concerned with his. 

“Not if I can help it.” 

Daisy shakes her head. “You couldn’t protect him from Hydra this time, Jemma. They have an Inhuman who can move objects with his mind. Unless you suddenly developed a super power of your own that you haven’t told me about, there was no way for you to keep them from getting both of you.” 

“Still,” Jemma presses. “Once they had us, I could have gotten us out.” 

Daisy gives up, relenting with her hands thrown in the air. “God, you’re just as stubborn as he is.” 


“Fitz was here thirty minutes ago,” Daisy smiles wryly. “Asking me the same thing.”  

Jemma’s heart pounds painfully in her chest. “Really? I haven’t…well, I haven’t seen much of him lately, and…” 

Daisy steps forward to squeeze Jemma’s arm. “He’s still processing, I think. And he seems to want to give you space to get over what happened to Will. I told him that’s stupid, but since when do either of you listen to me?” 

Jemma huffs but doesn’t deny it. “He wanted to learn how to fight too?” 

“Yep,” Daisy confirms, popping the “p” at the end of the word. “But then Hunter showed up and stole him out from under me. They’re going to start training together tomorrow morning.” 

“Could we do that too, then?” Jemma suggests. “Mornings.” 

Daisy barks out a laugh. “Damn, Simmons. You really wanna see Fitz gettin’ all sweaty, don’t you?” 

Jemma glares. “And what’s your reason for insisting on spotting for Lincoln?” 

“Fair play,” Daisy laughs. “Alright, tomorrow morning at 6:00. Don’t be late.” 

Unsurprisingly, Jemma is waiting for her outside of her bunk when she emerges at 5:53 a.m., offering her an unappealing green smoothie. 

“It’s got kale in it,” Jemma supplies hopefully. ‘It’s very good for you. I did some research last night, and–” 

“Of course you did,” Daisy sighs in defeat. She takes a sip of the smoothie and crinkles her face. “Alright, now I’m really looking forward to kicking your ass for making me drink this.” 

anonymous asked:

stormpilot cuddles???? :3

“You know,” Finn murmured, tracing a line up Poe’s exposed torso, “I never got to do this in the Order.”

Poe looked up to face him. “Well, obviously. That’d be some pretty bad propaganda- ‘come join the First Order, we’ve got cupcakes, cuddles, and cats too!” 

Finn huffed a laugh. “Don’t joke, General Hux has a cat.”

Poe once again jerked his head up to look at Finn. “You’re shitting me.”

“No!” Finn laughed, squeezing the pilot tighter to his body, “If I had a credit for every time I saw cat hair on that guy’s hat…”

“Did you ever want to say anything about it?” Poe grinned. 

“That’s like asking if I want to get executed,” Finn shot back, and Poe nuzzled into his side, his body shaking with residual laughter. 

“You’re adorable,” Poe muttered, planting a kiss on Finn’s chest. Finn stroked Poe’s arm, kissing the other man’s neck. 

“You’re amazing.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Poe blushed a little, and smiled. “You know how to flatter a guy.”

Finn smiled back. “I learned from you.” 

Poe leaned up, crawling on top of Finn and pressing his lips down onto the other man’s, a sweet, gentle action that the two had grown fond of exchanging frequently. 

“You know something else I’ve never heard in the Order?” Finn asked quietly. 

“What?” Poe mumbled, eyes dropping down to stare at Finn’s lips, their noses touching. 

“I’ve never heard anyone say I love you. So… I love you.”

This made Poe hesitate. “And… that means, this is your first time saying it?”


“Well,” the pilot said, slipping back into their cuddling position with his head on Finn’s chest, “I love you too, Finn.”

Then the two fell asleep, listening to each other’s beating hearts. 


Send me prompts

rainbowish-unicorn asked:

14. things you said after you kissed me (because i'm corny as hell and it's sunny outside and i feel like everything will be okay ^^)

“Brush your teeth.”

Will could have smacked Hannibal, if he didn’t love him so much. As it was, this didn’t even breach the top 5 Most Offensive Things Hannibal had said after a kiss.

There was “Never kiss the dogs before me.” and “Did you eat fast food? Before dinner?!” and “I appreciate fresh fish for breakfast, just not on your breath.” And that wasn’t even the best one, “Do you kiss your dogs with that mouth?” which had to be Will’s all-time favorite kissing related insult Hannibal ever bestowed on him.

Of course, he wasn’t like that all the time. Most of the time he was a whimpering, gushing mess that tried to lavish him with praise in several languages at once. From “bel éphèbe” to “cara mia” to “mano meile”, Hannibal couldn’t seem to stop babbling to him.

To be honest, Will found both forms of affection perfectly delightful. It pleased him to be the subject of both Hannibal’s rancor and adoration. Hannibal was, after all, the subject of both for him.

But the first time, the very first time, had been very different. Blood-drenched and shivering on a forlorn beach half a world away, there had been no words at all.

(Send more)

anonymous asked:

1. “See, I was right about the waiting time,” Henry says, bouncing up and down on his toes. He half expects his mother to chastise him about the fact that he had dragged them to the venue two hours in advance, but instead she merely smirks and leans against the wall. “I’ll admit I’m glad to be wearing flats,” she responds grudgingly. Without her heels, she is now several inches shorter than Henry. He’s definitely had another growth spurt.

2. “I’m also rather glad that we bought these passes instead of the general admittance…look how far back that other queue goes!” she continues with a wave of her hand. Henry peers over his shoulder and nods. “I want to get in as soon as it opens,” he explains for the twentieth time. “There’s so much to do and see! No time to be late.” He’s waving his hands around energetically, whilst his mom watches on with an affectionate look on her face.

3. At last the main doors are pulled open by harassed-looking volunteers. “Pass please,” a girl says, and Henry waves his VIP laminated pass under her scanner before dashing ahead. Regina is only a step behind him. They both pause once fully inside the large hall, and take a moment to stare around, wide-eyed. “Look, there’s Captain America!” Henry points gleefully at a cosplayer. “Iron Man too,” she indicates. “I’m sure by the end of the day we’ll have seen the full set, and in every gender.”

4. They spend the entire morning split between inspecting the stalls for the “coolest” merchandise (and Henry’s arms now have several bags attached) and going to queue for autographs and photoshoots. Henry meets his favourite comic book writers and artists, and even an actor or two from his favourite TV series. After each photoshoot, Regina is waiting there at the exit, holding his bags and smiling joyfully. Henry’s own grin seems permanently etched on his face.

5. At last they pause for food, and Henry is overjoyed when his mom allows the purchasing of hot dogs and donuts. “It’s not as if they’re selling anything healthy in here,” she explains casually. But she finishes eating before him, and sneakily buys them another donut each. Full at last, Henry pulls out his schedule again. “I think I’m done with all the autographs and photos now. Ahh, my picture with Patrick Stewart is so AWESOME.”

6. His mom seems to find all the photographs just as awesome, but Henry suspects it’s more because of him than the famous people standing beside him. “I want a copy of this one in my office,” she points, and Henry laughs in agreement. “What do you want to do for the next couple of hours?” he asks, scanning the schedule. “There’s a talk at four that I’d like to listen to, and then…” He can see his mom biting her lip, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks.

7. “There’s a talk I would very much like to listen to,” she admits. “Sigourney Weaver will be on in an hour.” Henry checks the hall number, and nods. “I didn’t know you were a fan?” he questions, and is surprised at the way his mother’s face lights up. “Ellen Ripley is one of the most iconic female characters in cinematic history, I’ll have you know,” she practically gushes.  They push through the crowds and a while later, Henry watches as Ms Weaver steps on stage.

8. His mom listens to the entire talk with absolute concentration. Henry is sure he sees her nod enthusiastically at every point Ms Weaver makes, and she even joins in the vigorous clapping at every opportunity. He stifles his laughter. Regina Mills: Mother, Mayor, Queen and…Fangirl? He wonders if he’d had the same expression on his face earlier in the day.

9. “You know,” he begins a while later, when Sigourney “Ripley” Weaver has left the stage (and he swears he hears his mom ‘woop’ amongst all the cheering). “I haven’t seen Alien. Or Aliens. You’ve deprived me of seeing one of the most iconic female characters in cinematic history.” Regina snorts, and links her arm with his so they aren’t separated in the pushing crowd. “That is because Alien is too high a rating,” she shoots back, failing to fall for his innocent look.

10. “I’m sixteen,” he argues. “And the film is from the 70s. I bet it isn’t as bad as some films I’ve already seen.” He sees his mom ponder this, and swoops in for the kill. “Besides, it probably pales in comparison to the strangeness of our lives.” He has won his point, although he’s not sure she’s fighting it very much. In fact, she looks rather excited now at the prospect. “Alright,” she concedes with a smile. “When we get home, it’ll be movie night. With popcorn.”

11. As they finally elbow their way into the next hall for talks, Henry tilts his head at a nearby Dr Who. “Next year, I’m going to cosplay!” he announces. “We don’t have to wait until next year,” his mom responds with fake casualness. “There’s another convention in five months from now.” Henry beams. “Awesome!” he says enthusiastically. Then, another thought hits him.

12. “Sooo…Which guest are you dying to meet at the next one?” he smirks. His mother hesitates for a moment, and then responds in a rush. “Gillian Anderson!  Hmm…I bet we’d have time to watch all ten seasons and both films in five months, if you wanted to catch up?” As the next guest walks on to the stage, and the crowd starts to cheer, Henry leans towards his mother. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he whispers.   /end

(Also, Ms Weaver is a very beautiful, eloquent woman, who is very gracious when meeting fans. As is Gillian Anderson. Regina has excellent taste heh.)

ASKBOX FIC! I smiled all the way through this! ngl nothing makes me happier than nerd Regina/Henry.

This is so cute and adorable and I love it! Thank you!

(And I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting either but I totally trust Regina has some excellent taste in media heroes ;))

Calming Him Down (Paul Lahote)

Based off a Twilight Imagine by vividimagines

Calming Him Down
Twilight | Paul Lahote | SFW + Kissing | Female Reader

It was almost becoming a game between the two of you. With how fast Paul could lose his temper it may have well have been considering the amount of times you’d tried to intervene. Sam had advised you against such involvements but you couldn’t see any improvement happening on its own. Paul had waved you off in the beginning as well fearing he could hurt you accidentally while phasing; something Sam and Emily’s past had taught you both was a high possibility if given the chance. You, however, weren’t afraid of him, well maybe a little in this context at least, and overall wanted to help.

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Quark/Brainstorm ficlet

Quark has to leave for a brief trip in order to check up on the region’s defense systems. When he tells Brainstorm, the following response is honestly expected: pouting and irritation. 

The argument lasts mere minutes due to the fact that Quark refused to budge on the subject. His assistance is required, therefore, he will go wherever he is needed. Brainstorm is stubborn, but he knows when to quit, especially when he notices that all the bickering had made Quark a bit tense. 

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“How about something super fluffy like Harry coming home and Draco just jumping in him and being like “don’t you ever leave for that long ever again” and then the fluff” - @hvlf-blood-bitch

The night fell silent and heavy over the streets of wizarding London. Not a soul could be seen but for a lone figure in Aurora robes, who was all but skipping down the cobblestone street. A shock of jet black hair, a sparkle of green eyes like emeralds and a flash of teeth under lips pulled back in an exited smile is all anybody who would have been looking would’ve been able to properly make out under the faded orange streetlights lining the road. The man, however, looked as if he would know exactly where he was going if he was blindfolded halfway across the city. He marched right up the front steps to number 16 and knocked three confident knocks, feeling certain that whoever was inside would be opening the door, no matter the time of night. The garishly red door did swing open though, after less than fifteen seconds, to reveal another man, this one with platinum blonde hair atop a handsomely pale face, with all of its sharp angles and hard edges. To the surprise of anybody who would’ve been watching, the first man leant in to kiss the second like he was rain in the desert. Luckily no one had been watching. •*•*•*•*• At the sight of Draco standing in the doorway looking slightly disheveled, Harry realised just how much his job took from him. Sure, it paid well, very well and he loved it, but he loved Draco more and to be perfectly honest, Harry was almost kind of sick of saving people. But none of that mattered because on this night. He was home and he was with the man he loved. So he couldn’t stop himself from leaning in to press his body to Draco’s and kissing him right there In the doorway. Their hands run up each other’s backs and tangled in each other’s hair as their tongues moved in an elaborate dance, running over teeth and sliding over each other. At one point Draco bit Harry’s lip and tugged gently on it before kissing it again. It wasn’t a particularly special kiss but it was the greatest thing in the world for them. For they hadn’t seen each other in months and all the fireworks and symphonies on the planet could not have made it better. “You are never allowed to leave me for that long ever again, Potter” Draco said as he pulled away panting. “Aw, back to Potter again is it? And here I was beginning to think that you might actually like me now” Harry teased, feigning hurt. “Oh believe me I do. Too much for my own good I suppose” Malfoy responded quickly with a smirk, “but I wasn’t kidding, don’t you ever leave me for that long again” “I wouldn’t dream of it sweetpea” Harry said with a wink, earning himself a halfhearted glare. Generally, it would have called for a 10/10, freeze-the-blood-in-your-veins kind of glare but as much as he wouldn’t admit it, Draco was way too happy that Harry was home to really even pretend to be mad at him. “Come on, I’ll make hot cocoa” Harry walked down the hallway to the bedroom he shared with Draco and stripped off his robes to change into a pair of black boxers and a slytherin number-seven quidditch jersey from years before, soft with age. When he emerged into the living room, Draco was already there sitting on the lounge wearing Harry’s old quidditch gear with two cups of hot chocolate, one in each hand, made just the way he knew Harry liked it. Harry took a mug and settled into the couch next to him, taking a sip of the wonderful liquid. And resting his head on the other boy’s shoulder. Draco started to stroke his hair and place kisses in it in between sips making Harry nuzzle further into his neck. He turned on the television that Harry had thought him how to use the year before, and now that the wizarding world had, in someways, caught up to the muggle one, the Hogwarts quidditch cup grand final was on. With Harry wearing Draco’s jumper and Draco wearing Harry’s, it was hard for them to actually pick teams, but house loyalty won out and the two of them ended up cheering for their respective teams. As the young Griffindor seeker closed his hand around the snitch, three and a half hours later, they had already fallen asleep, Harry’s head resting on Draco’s chest and their hands intertwined, a grey blanket draped over the two of them.

anonymous asked:

Things you said when I begged and begged

things you said when I begged and begged

You’ve both been alone together for an eternity, though it’s only four hours by reality’s clock, left behind to hear the echo of your familiar and most favorite mechanical growl fade away. His knee is a hot brand against yours where you both are letting the old couch swallow you down and you can feel a loose spring digging into your back. You shift and feel it catch on your shirt, scrape sharply against your skin, this jagged broken end. Can’t help but wonder if you did this over and over, would you be able to make a hole big enough to reach in and pull your heart out? Would he even take it if you offered it to him (though it’s always been his)?

You may not be able to give him your heart in this moment - there’s only so much you can carve out for him at one time (for now, anyways, you’re slowly teaching yourself how to half your halves so you can give him your whole) - but perhaps he’ll let you kneel at the altar of his bones and hear your prayers to touch his skin.

You’re moving before you can stop and remember what the word consequence means, your thighs encasing his with your hands on his shoulders, and all you can hope is that he can’t feel the way your fingers are trembling as you trace the collar of his shirt.


One word, pathetic and desperate and beseeching as it leaves your lips and rims his eyes with fluttering black lashes. Shock, panic, fear. You wait to see disgust. It doesn’t come.

sammy, don’t.

dean, please.

The line of his neck is the art in the gallery that you’ve never been able to touch, only admire from afar with a tilted head and too many feelings in your chest. You touch it now, encouraged by the fit of his palms over your waist, and watch how it arches, God’s greatest sculpture come to life.

we can’t do this.

His fingers slotting into the spaces between your ribs, where your body was made to fit his, and you can feel his heat, his breaths, his want. You know that he wants. Bent forehead to forehead, you let your mouth shape those six letters into the corner of his.


Won’t touch, can’t touch, not mouths but yes, right there, hips gliding, rolling, pushing up, pushing back into you and you can’t remember anymore, can’t even think if it isn’t about the way he feels beneath you.

‘S not right, i shouldn’t–god, not with you, sammy.

But he is, he is with you, driven on by the gasps you paint into his skin. You answer him by twisting his shirt into your fists as you rut and whine your mantra into his cheek, deanpleasepleasepleaseplease.

When he throws his head back and floods warmth into the space where you’re all but connected if not for two layers of denim, you follow, just like you always have, never to be left behind by your big brother. And when he kisses you for the first time, you realize that you never had any halves to half at all. How could you when you already had someone making you whole?

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Waited Up For You (Dean Winchester)

Based off of a Supernatural Imagine by vividimagines

Waited Up For You
Supernatural | Dean Winchester | SFW + Fluff | Gender Neutral Reader

You woke up and the first thing you noticed was how your head hurt. Gritting past the pain, you managed to sit up and catch a glimpse of a water bottle and some aspirin on the beside table. Not hesitating, you gulped down the much needed medication and waited a few moments for the effects to kick in before standing up. You checked yourself over for injuries but other than your head feeling the need to implode overall you were fine.

Stepping out of the bedroom to find it eerily quiet, you were tempted to go back under the covers and hide from the living room light. Instead steps were taken forward to find Dean laid out on the couch, mouth opened slightly and sleeping with no Sam in sight. The smile couldn’t be stopped as you realized he’d been waiting up for you, guarding most likely until his eyes had fallen shut. You took the opportunity to watch him for a moment, noting how peaceful he looked despite having fought a gang of demons not too long ago.

You found a cotton blanket in one of the nearby closets and laid it over him, wanting him to be warm and comfortable. “Oh Dean,” you huffed and took care in tucking him in. “What would I do without you?”