for a brief five minutes he really thought he was going to take over the world or something

Don’t Stop Us Now

@softkent ‘s 14 Days of Love fic-a-thon, day 6: ruined surprises!

It all started because Katya decided to have mercy on Eric and let him take morning classes this semester. WGSS120 was an amazing class, Professor Atley had the coolest stories about how postwar industrialization led to compulsive female domesticity, and his seatmate wasn’t the worst thing to see at 9:30 AM every Tuesday and Thursday. He would have almost been dreamy if he had the slightest knack for small talk. As it was, Eric didn’t even have a name to go on, just intent blue eyes and an ass that even the baggiest of shorts couldn’t mask.

One day, Eric decided to drop a hospitality bomb on the guy and see if he could coax a response out of him. They were both consistently early to class, so Eric budgeted ten minutes for a brief chat before class started and turned to Cute Guy with a winning smile on his face.

“So how about that reading, huh? I thought it was fascinating how cake mix became a prestige thing- everyone in my family bakes, and I don’t think we’ve used a box mix in forty years.”

“Yeah,” the guy said, “I think it had something to do with the scientific advancements they made in food preservation for the troops. Shelf stabilization wouldn’t have been nearly as achievable in earlier years.”

Miraculously, once you got onto a clear subject, Cute Guy was actually a decent conversationalist. Eric found himself losing track of time as they dissected last night’s chapters of Marling.

“And the American National Exhibition anecdote!” he giggled. “Who can even tell the difference between Russian and American Coke?”

“I bet it’s easier with all of the Soviet Union breathing down your back. ‘Da, cola of Mother Russia is vkusno!’”

“Nice accent,” Eric told Cute Guy.

“Really? Thanks, I’ll have to tell Geno. He’s always knocking my Russian. He’s, uh, a friend of my dad’s, and we both play hockey.”

“So that’s what your weird doodles are? Hockey plays?”

“Yeah, I’m captain of the hockey team here. We’re not half bad, if I say so myself.”

“Wow,” Eric enthused, “you must be a pretty good skater, then.”

“Yeah, I guess. I could teach you sometime, if you want. I’m Jack, by the way,’ Cute Guy said.

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SovietWomble Prompts!

(Because his videos are the funniest and most uplifting thing I know)

“Me and my flip-flops are ready to go.”

“I am now poor.”

*Alone in the woods* A: *weirdly calm* “There’s something walking towards us from behind you guys.” *B and C freak out*

“How can someone be so cute?”


“I thought you were watching?” “Yeah, I was, I stopped paying attention.”

“My scuba suit protects me from your bullshit.”

“God, fucking damn it A, you piece of…good job.” “What was that?” “I’m rebranding myself as the nice guy.” … “You lasted all but 7 seconds.”

“Surprise!” *explosion*

“English is not my first language, okay?” “You’re American.”

“A, what’s wrong with him?” “Many things.”

“I have got a plan!” “Which is?” “A terrible plan.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to you when you’re not eating.”

“A, I think you should take one for the team and run off as bait as the rest of us survive.”

“I’m under attack by a bucket!”

“I haven’t heard a word of the briefing, I was too amazed by the hand gestures.”

“We have a small technical issue.” “Which is?” “I seem to have run out of bullets.” “…it’s been five minutes.”

“You need your medication, come back here!”

“Why do you have a gun, A?” “’Cause it’s Thursday.”

“You lied to me!” “It’s not my fault you’re an idiot.”

“I really like dolphins, I wanna see one!”

“You can’t have a secret dance club, we have a job to do!”

“I’m a funky janitor.”

“If A starts saying something odd, just ignore him/her/them.”

“There are civilians in the village.” “I think the way you pronounce that is acceptible casualities.” “NO.”

“So you’re now just gonna kill people for just being tempted for deserting?” 

“I’d like for you to know you are a piece of human shit.”


“Turns out these are just the noises A makes when he/she/them is alone in his/hers/their room.”

“Clearly we lead different lifestyles.”

“Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

“SHUT UP, I’m trying to impose Zen you dumb bitch!”

*inhales helium* “Fuck you A.”

“Do NOT search that on Google!”

“I don’t know whether to eat Pringles, breathe or laugh!”

“He’s never gonna shut up about that now.”

“No more button pressing, okay?!”

“Everything is black, is this heaven?”

“Really? You’re gonna hide under the building like a house cat?”

“A? Can you stop touching my knee?”

“Um, my vision has gone green.” “You have green sunglasses on.” “Ah, that might be the reason.”

“If you’re not on a no-fly list somewhere in the world, someone is not doing their job.”

“Don’t open that.” “Wha-” *explosion* “…You could have told me you put a freaking bomb in there!”



“Did you see the way my hips were moving?”

“Are you in the habit of tattooing everyone unconcious?”

“My echolocation was not very effective.”

“My tummy hurts.”

“Is he going to go sulk in the corner?”

“That’s um… staggeringly unhelpful actually.”

“No, I’m having a snack, leave me alone.”

“Do those things and then jump off a bridge.”

“Look, think of it as science.”

“A,” “Yes?” “I want you-” “I want you too!” “-to…” “Oh we were talking about something else, my bad.”


“I didn’t appreciate your insults to my mother yesterday.”

“I have an auto-sniper and exactly zero shame.”

“Ahahahahaha, you’re so- fuck you.”

“Whenever you do something awesome it’s ‘Oh look at me’ but whenever you screw up it’s ‘Oh we’re a team’.”

“You are actually hiding in a hedge.”

“Don’t worry boys, pappas’ got this.”

“I know Psychology, I use it on you.” “What do you you mean you use it on m-” “Nevermind.”

“I’ll hit you.” “Sorry.”

“A continues to amaze me.”

“We only had about three hundred bullets, and you’ve just wasted all of our ammunition in case we get attacked?”

“Dude, something’s happening.”

“I literally have no control over myself.”

“I just wanted you to know that I genuinely despise your existence you piece of shit.”

“In my eyes A, you are a beautiful caterpillar.” “What?!”

Oh no, what appears to have happened?”

“I will not leave you A.” C: ”I will.”

“I do not trust you, turn around!”

“Where were you guys when they were trying to BLOW UP THE FRICKING BUILDING?!”

“Sorry, is this supposed to be spooky?”

“I technically landed.”

“Make it interesting…nOT THAT INTERESTING!”

“I thought there was a guy in front of me but it was my own shadow.”

“Well we can tick ‘genocide’ off our to do list.”

“That’s a lot of dead people.”

“You ran in front of a machine gun?!”

“I don’t have Medi’stuff’, I didn’t expect the two of you to be this incompetent.”

“Stop parkouring and come get this jewelry.”

“Gayness?” “Gayness.”

“I don’t want to look because I’m scared.”

“Something just went ‘boom’.”

“Okay, that wasn’t where I left it!”

“We’re gonna go around the tornado.”

“No, no, no, don’t you dare say you can’t fly! FLY!”

“You’re so useless it’s not even funny.”

“Hey guys, I have an idea, why don’t you fuck off?

“I’m going to hide and if that fails…surrender.”

“Dipshit?” “Hmm?” “….the fact that you responded to ‘Dipshit’…”

“I have been trapped in my bathroom for the last 3 hours.”

Beware the Ides of March

this isn’t the fic i intended to write today (or ever really) but it’s the fic that happened so

read on ao3

Bellamy doesn’t believe in any higher power, not really. He also doesn’t believe in fate, or coincidence, or any of those other things that people like to blame random happenings on.

But he will admit that if he did actually believe in any of those things, he would be fully convinced that they were laughing at his misfortune at this very minute which. Honestly, he would be too if not for the stab wound in his side. Stab wounds apparently make the whole laughing thing kind of difficult. Who’d’ve known.

“Would you just hold still?” Clarke huffs as she tries to clean the wound.


“You’re incorrigible.”

“And your bedside manner sucks, princess.”

She pinches the soft skin on the inside of his bicep and he yelps, glaring at her balefully.

It’s not like he wants to be here, sitting on the uncomfortable examination table in the ER, shirt off, and paper crinkling noisily beneath him each time he so much as breathes. No one ever wants to be in the ER, leaking blood all over the place because they were fucking stabbed in a mugging gone wrong, not even if the opportunity lends itself to a bout of truly morbid humour.

Just this morning he was telling his sophomores about the Ides of March and now here he is, living his own version of it. Again, he would be laughing except- stab wound.

Clarke is bent over his side, wisps of blonde hair escaping her braid and looking platinum in the harsh fluorescent hospital lighting. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she goes over the cut with antiseptic, and he hisses once more.

“That hurts,” he grunts, and then flinches again when she goes back in with another piece of gauze. Most of the bleeding has stopped, but there’s still a lazy trickle that she has to keep wiping up intermittently.

“Stab wounds tend to do that,” she deadpans.

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anonymous asked:

"I'll never unsee that" Nessian please!!! :)

@squaddreamcourt , you asked me to tag you when the fic was done, and here it is! I hope you’ll like it! @feyre-cursebreaker  I am so incredibly sorry for making you wait for so much darling, and I hope you’ll like the fic even if it’s not what you asked for. @ the anons, I am sorry for the wait lovelies, but I hope you will like this💗

There’s nothing worse than being dead, one would think.

But a ghost would say otherwise.

There’s this thing with ghosts- or rather, with a very strange and particular kind of ghosts, that actually wins the prize for the most unfortunate supernatural entity worldwide; they don’t know who they are, they don’t know where they come from or how they got in whatever place they end up in, but there’s a couple of things they know for sure: they don’t have a body, they can’t be seen or heard and it takes a bunch of creepy tricks to get a message through, and they are most likely dead.

Or getting there.

And of course, the most important thing:

the first person they see in this strange existence of theirs is their soulmate.

It all started with Nesta’s cigarette disappearing; she started smoking when she was fifteen, after her Father said how much he hated the smell of it, and never stopped since.

So it annoyed her to no end when her apartment seemed to be hell bent on hiding her own cigarettes every time she bought a new pack of them.

Nesta groaned in frustration while throwing the pillows of her sofa in the air and she couldn’t help but mutter, her voice booming in the empty room, “Why do you keep hiding my cigarettes?

She knows that she may sound mad and that it’s impossible for her own house to hide anything from her, but she just-just needs to be alone on her balcony with a cigarette between her fingers to calm down the roaring in her head.

She sighs, trying to readjust the pillows before she loses her patience completely but the sharp sound of glass breaking makes her turn, her heart thumping in her throat-

Nesta’s eyes widen and the breath stops in her lungs as she reads the words upon her wall, written in a deep shade of red with jagged letters:

Because it’s bad for your health.

He doesn’t know many things.

He doesn’t know who he is, what he is or how he ended here, but he knows that the most beautiful woman that he has ever seen is in front of him- and, well, he didn’t see many people but does it even matter when she’s there, just in front of him and she-

She ignores him completely.

And it drives him mad.

At first he thought she didn’t see him, which would make sense because he can’t even see himself, which is something that he really doesn’t want to think about, but he tried to talk, to scream and shout.

She didn’t even turn to him.

He looks at her- not that he can do much else, though he is not complaining- always on that couch reading book after book- and he knows some of those books, knows the titles, knows the words by heart even if he doesn’t know how that is possible- not even flinching and for some reason that he doesn’t know, it drives him completely out of his mind.

And then there’s the smoking.

She smokes so much she creates little grey clouds above her head in every room she goes and he can’t help but think of how much that must be unhealthy since she’s so tiny and he cares, even if he doesn’t know why, but it must be reasonable to care for the first person you ever saw in your entire life, if one can call this strange, invisible, unnerving thing life.

Bonus points for the fact that she is so beautiful she can make his breath stop in his lungs, but luckily for him, he doesn’t fucking breathe.

And then there are those times, when she goes out on the balcony to smoke before she goes to bed and her blue eyes reflect the color of the stars and he just- just wants to touch her, because she’s beautiful, but she looks so lost and he wants to take her hand, wants it with an intensity that frightens him but he can’t reach her, he can’t move, he can’t do anything but watch.

But, for being something that he can’t even explain, he is smart.

After glaring at her pack of cigarettes for three hours straight when she wasn’t home- and while asking himself relentlessly where the hell she was- he saw the damned thing move, and move, and move again until he finally managed to throw it out of the window.

He has never been more proud of himself.

And he did it again and again with various objects and in various occasions, like bringing her the hairbrush in the morning when she left it in her bedroom the night before or keeping her stash of books from falling over, or trying to give some sense to the utter mess that is her house and of course, his personal favorite: raising the temperature - that, well, that happened as an accident: one day he saw her having a discussion on the phone with someone and there was something, the look of complete delusion on her face but the complete lack of emotion in her voice, it made him want to scream at the person who was talking to her.

And suddenly the room was a oven- the first time was an accident, yes, but then it became a wonderful way to mess with her and it didn’t take him long to decide that sweaty and bothered was one of his favorite looks on her.

She never noticed, mostly because there wasn’t a logical explanation for the sudden change of degrees or to the never falling books, and maybe it was better like this.

He doesn’t know what happened or what was told to her during that phone call, but something did happen because she is smoking twice as much now and she’s so nervous her hands shake and what was a five minutes smoke on the balcony turned to her sitting in the cold for hours, staring at nothing.

And he honestly doesn’t care what he can or what he can’t do, he won’t stay here without trying to understand, without trying to help her.

So when she is trying to dismantle the sofa in her desperate chase after her damned cigarettes and wondering to herself why they always disappear, he takes a bottle of wine and smashes it against the wall, the soothing sound of glass against bricks, and tries to write with the dark liquid and even if the result is complete shit, the message is loud and clear.

Because it’s bad for your health.”

He sees her beautiful eyes go wide, but she doesn’t scream.

She falls back on the sofa, gripping the armrest like a lifeline and he- he moves as if he wants to catch her, which is stupid because he can’t, but he tries.

He looks at her and at the wall and wills the wine to move again “Are you alright?”, he asks, and thinks of how dumb he is only when it’s already done.

How can he ask if she’s alright when an invisible something is writing on the wall of her house?

He hopes at least that the wine was of shitty quality.

She shakes her head and he feels a pang of guilt; the room warms slowly, without him even noticing but she- she looks less scared but it lasts a second and then she does it, the thing he hates the most in this house that means the world to him: she straightens her back, her chin high and hides herself behind that icy façade, the one he watched her use in countless phone calls and in the brief encounters with other people, looking in front of herself like whatever is happening is nothing of importance.

The wine moves on the wall creating an angry splash of red.

“What are you and what are you doing in my house.” she says, her voice cold and steady like she’s talking about the weather with a stranger.

I-” he tries to write, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know a thing, he knows absolutely nothingand you? Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asks, sounding childish even to himself, and maybe he shouldn’t but he wants to know her name and the fact that he didn’t get to hear it in all this time bothers him endlessly.

She opens her mouth and closes it like the question surprised her and it breaks her mask for a second and if he could smile, he would.

“I am Nesta Archeron, and I happen to live here.” she says while her eyes scan the room.

Nesta Archeron, he repeats the name in his mind, savoring word for word and it sounds like music.

Nice to meet you, sweetheart.” he replies and there’s this adorable outraged expression on her face before she runs to the kitchen and comes back with a bag of salt, tearing it open and spraying it everywhere in the room, trying to do fuck knows what.

The pavement of the room becomes a white mess and she looks satisfied, as if she’s thinking she drove him away.

He starts to doodle in the salt.

She jumps in surprise “The salt- doesn’t it, doesn’t it banish things like you?” she asks and he wants to laugh, or chuckle, or make any kind of sound.

I think that you watch too much of that thing over there, sweetheart.” he writes, drawing an arrow toward her television.

She recoils and he notices how her hands shake “This- this isn’t possible. It isn’t happening. You’re not real.” she whispers, like she’s scared someone will hear the fear in her voice.

This is actually happening, sweetheart, and I happen to be very, very real.” he looks at the words, and then adds “More or less.

She looks lost in disbelief and he doodles a smile in the salt, hoping it would help, but judging by the expression on her face, it only makes it worst.

“Are-are you a ghost?” she asks, and the word resonates in him.


Maybe?” he writes, and that’s the best answer he can give her.

Nesta-ah, how he loves her name- inclines her head, making some strands of golden brown hair fall on her face and he aches, suddenly, with the need to tuck it behind her ear.

“I have a doubtful ghost in my house.” she says, like she is trying to make peace with the fact that, in fact, she does have a doubtful ghost in her house. Or maybe she’s just trying to find some logic in this situation.

It’s not like I can go somewhere else.” he writes, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to make her understand all of this or if he’s desperately trying to understand it himself.

He tried, he really, really did, but he couldn’t walk out the door- not that he can walk, but, you know- and finding himself splattered against her bedroom window is not an experience he is dying to make again.

And Nesta manages to land her icy blue eyes right on him, and the fact that she’s looking right through him it’s not only words: he feels real, in the few seconds in which she looks in his direction before turning away, he feels real.

Please look at me again.

She climbs on the sofa, slowly, as if she’s scared he’s going to attack her, but then she stands up again, muttering “I am going to bed, I am going to bed and tomorrow I will realize this was all a dream.”

He watches her go, looking at every inch of her, and slowly writes

Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

The next day, he is still in Nesta’s house, waiting for her to wake up.

He knows the exact moment her feet touch the floor, and even if he thinks that it is kind of creepy, the moment she enters the living room with her hair a mess and sporting a striped violet pajama he does it again; he burns up, without being able to stop it, trying to keep the burning to himself without making the room seem like a chimney, but the vulnerability in her eyes the moment she wakes up is something that makes him feel, and he feels this, whatever it is, so strongly every part of him burns with it.

She looks around, trying to find some proof of what happened last night, but he cleaned everything up, because it seemed like an incredibly shitty thing to do, to leave her house a mess with salt and wine and broken glass.

“Are-are you still here?” she asks quietly, and he can’t help but love the look on her face, like she can’t believe she is seriously doing this.

She notices the notepad on the table the moment he takes the pen to write on it.

He finds out with a strange sort of satisfaction that he very much likes the color red.

Good morning, Nesta.” he writes and cringes when he notices that, no matter his attempt at being suave, his calligraphy is utter shit.

She walks to the table, her eyes narrowed and probably trying to decipher what he wrote.

He wants- he wants to shout, wants to scream that it’s just a good morning note, that his calligraphy is shit because he is probably dead and didn’t got the opportunity to check his writing skills and honestly he doesn’t know why he feels so flustered and he is stupid, fucking stupid because for some reason the fact that she maybe won’t be able to read his good morning note since he is the most idiotic ghost ever makes him feel- makes him feel wrong.

She passes a hand through her hair and whispers “Good morning, ghost.” and- this, this is strange, because he honestly doesn’t know how he ended up on the ceiling, but he is, he’s like floating, soaring or maybe flying and it takes him a few seconds to realize that he is simply happy- but then she exhales, her hands on her hips “I understand that you can’t go out of this house, but this is my house and you’ll do as I say. No more tricks like last night and no more wine on the walls, Casper.”

Casper?” he writes, because damn it, he doesn’t know what his name but he sure as hell isn’t named Casper.

“Yes. So you’ll act nicely from now own, because I can and will find a way to kick you out if it comes to it.” her voice is like steel against ice and even if her words should maybe get a different reaction out of him, he still can’t get down from the ceiling.

Got it.”, he writes and he should really, really practice writing because a five years old would totally do a better job at it than him.

She just nods and heads for the kitchen and he knows she wants a cigarette because she is grinding her index and middle finger together, but he also knows she isn’t going to ask him.

He watches as she prepares her breakfast, looks as she opens the cabinet of the kitchen, every movement quick and efficient but almost angry.

As she sits on the chair she looks for him, he can feel it, so he moves the cereal box toward her, as slowly as he can.

Her eyes go wide like she isn’t used to the simple kindness.

“Thank you.” she whispers, her eyes behind the cereal box, exactly where he is, and he aches.

She eats quickly, her morning going with the flow f the routine and when she moves to the bathroom and her bedroom, he stays planted in the kitchen, trying to remember that privacy is an actual thing that should be respected and stares at the wall, finding interesting patterns in the crack of the paint.

Luckily he hears her entering the living room before he sets everything on fire and it’s strange, how every time he looks at her, with her fresh clean clothes and her perfect face and the posture of a queen ready for battle he feels concrete; it lasts a bunch of seconds, a short span of her heartbeats, but it’s enough for him.

He takes the notepad again.

Where are you going?”  he asks, and the letters are incredibly tiny, because he doesn’t want to pry but he absolutely wants to know.

She looks at the sheet of paper, her eyebrow raised.

“I am going out.” she answers, and with that, she walks out of the house, not even looking back.

The edges of the notepad burn.

The thing with being a ghost, he thinks, is that it is a very, very boring business.

He doodles-a mockery of Nesta and her damned eyebrows and her damned hair and her damned perfect everything- he tries to read some of her books-she studies law but has a love for romantic books, which he keeps well in mind for future teasing material.

He readjusts her ever growing pile of biscuits, all of them in different flavors of dark chocolate, but he doesn’t go near her bedroom because he perfectly remembers how just seeing her underwear on the ground led to thoughts and thoughts led to him nearly setting the sofa on fire.

But he’s no good with waiting and ends passing most of his time near the window, waiting for her to come back like a complete fool, moving as much as he can until he ends plastered to the window, again.

When he hears the sharp sound of heels- click,click- he moves away from the window as fast as he can, as if she could see him and the big idiot that he is.

She’s holding a brown grocery bag and the usual whirlwind of questions barrels through him

Is it heavy?

What did you buy?

Is that soy milk?

What do you like?

Are those instant noodles again Nesta Archeron I swear to god-

She places the bag on the kitchen table with a huff, strands of hair falling on her face as she stretches a bit, her face open and vulnerable and he doesn’t know if she’s being so human because she forgot he is there or because she doesn’t care, and he honestly doesn’t know what hurts the most.

And it’s a funny thing, being hurt when you’re dead.

Just his luck.

But she turns, her eyes and their ability to land right over him.

Hello”, he writes.

She smiles.

He flies.

And from his advantaged view from the ceiling he looks at her as she prepares her tea, slamming cupboards as if the last moments never happened, angry with the world again.

She takes a bright pink bag, not the black tea person he suspected, Nesta, but a fruity tea lover.

He snorts, and is for once happy that he makes no sounds, just a quite rattling only in his head.

What starts the discussion is the incredible amount of sugar she drops in her tea.

What are you doing?” he asks after the third sugar-cube drowns in the dark pink liquid.

“Sweetening my tea.” she says, her pale hand moving the teaspoon slowly and he’s mesmerized by the action before he replies “What you are doing is wetting sugar with some tea.”

She reads his answer but doesn’t reply right away, as if she’s looking for the perfect answer and when she does, her smile lights up with cruel delight “And how would you know?”, she asks, doesn’t need to add another word for the point to come across and he is silent, fuming with rage only he can feel and that he can’t express and trying to keep it inside him, to not let her see how deep her words went but he sees a bead of sweat above her upper lip and even as the temperature goes higher, she smirks.

He tries to write something and the pen melts into the invisible grasp, and Nesta drinks her tea, her knees drawn to her chest.

He could tell her, tell her that all the sugar in the world won’t make her any sweet but he sees as she searches into the pocket of her jeans for her cigarettes, so he writes “I might not know, but that’s not really my choice.” he sees as she brings a cigarette to her lips, soft and red and so- “Do you do something that isn’t smoking, sweetheart?

She doesn’t stop, just looks right through him as she lights her cigarette but he can see it, see it in her eyes how annoyed she is.

“I don’t see why I should explain myself to you, since you don’t even exist.” she answers, taking a long drag of smoke, like time doesn’t matter to her as long as she can hide behind the smoke of the cigarette.

He can only think of how her mouth would taste.

I do exist, as you well know. I am just not visible.”

“What do you remember? Don’t you know your name? Something?” she asks, her innocent curiosity so at odds with the smirk of just a few heartbeats ago.

I remember you.” he writes “This house. It’s like I’ve always been here.”

Her eyebrows knit together and just when her mouth opens to say something else, her phone rings.

“Elain? Oh, yes. Oh,no, I-” she looks at him, for a moment and there’ so much in her eyes he feels full “Come here,” she says, “with Feyre. Yes. It’s been too long.”

Nesta looks nostalgic, almost happy, like she’s seeing something, another opportunity, a new beginning that she always wanted.

He imagines fingers-his fingers-on her cheek, tries to imagine Nesta leaning into the touch, vulnerable and open and trusting.

Are we having guests?” he writes. Nesta didn’t let go of her phone and is still looking at the screen.

“My sisters.” she says, but the tone of her voice is full of doubt, like the relationship with her sister is flawed, or crooked and she already thinks it beyond repairing.

“I need to call a restaurant, to get the orders in-”

You are not getting take-out, Nesta Archeron.” he writes.

There’s something that disturbs him about the idea of getting food prepared by someone else for your own family, for someone you love.

“And what do you suggest that we do, then? I can’t cook.” she asks, her phone on the table.

He tries to form a reply while his nonexisting body tries to get over the fact that she said we.

We cook, that’s what we do.”

She raises her eyebrow, disbelief showing plain on her face.

Show me your worst, Archeron.”

It turns out that Nesta Archeron really, truly can’t cook to save her life.

But he can.

How much salt are you throwing over there, sweetheart?” he writes for the third time and Nesta looks at him like she is going to kick his ass even if she can’t see it.

They prepared the table, did the dishes and tried to create a soothing atmosphere with Nesta’s incessant fidgeting.

She takes the salad to the table, her eyes scanning everything as if she’ll find some imperfection that she could use as an excuse to postpone the whole thing.

“I should have never said that. I should have kept my mouth shut.” she murmurs, but the doorbell rings, and she goes quickly to the door and he can hear her counting her breaths.

1, 2, 3

When her sisters arrive there are no big hugs, not shouting and loud kisses, just a sort of understanding of how things are, and things are not very good, in his opinion.

One of the sisters, Elain, brought flowers, and Nesta rushes to the kitchen for a vase, which he lets her find ready near the sink alongside a note that says “You are so lucky to have me.”

She doesn’t sneer at the note, just searches for him before getting out of the room.

The dinner is quiet, aside from the how are you and the what you have been doing and while Elain looks over the moon with joy he can’t seem to understand the tension between Nesta and Feyre, but he sees as the younger reaches out between the passing of the salad which dressing Nesta fucked up more times than he can count, doubt on her features, gripping her older sister wrist like a death grip or a call full of hope.

She says something about starting over which he doesn’t listen as carefully as he probably should, which he feels a bit ashamed of, but he is too busy looking at Nesta, at the crease between her brows, at the way she looks at her sisters fingers around her arm and he knows, he knows exactly what hides behind her eyes, the battle within her heart and pride, the need to hide and sneer and belittle as an armor, second nature, or to let something new and tender grow.

“Fine.” it’s all that she says and he tries to remind himself that this has nothing to do with him and he has no reason to be happy or to be floating toward the ceiling like the most idiotic ghost-balloon ever, but he is, he’s happy for her, for the way the tension quietly shifts to content, for the quiet laughs and for the little clinking of glasses to the new beginnings, courtesy of Elain.

When they leave he can’t help but notice how the house feels warmer-and for once for a reason that isn’t his inability to control himself- and can’t help but love the soft pink on Nesta’s cheeks and how happy she looks in this four walls of theirs.

He can see that she’s tired, so he turns off the lights, makes the house just a bit warmer and when Nesta is already in her bed he hears it.

“Thank you.”

And in the end, he thinks that the view from the ceiling is not so bad.

The day after he discovers that when he laughs, he rolls around, which makes him wonder if he will ever do something even remotely graceful, but when Nesta comes out of the bedroom in a red pyjama full of pink polka dots and little panda bears and a green mask on her face, that’s when he loses it.

He starts to roll around, like he’s a little ball, like he’s trying to roll the head he doesn’t have back toward the ceiling, creating a never ending motion.

I’ll never unsee that.” he writes, but he’s writing is just a mess of overlapping letters that look like a roller coaster, like he’s having too much fun to see where his pen lands.

“There’s nothing to laugh about.” she says, going straight to the kitchen for breakfast, happier than he ever saw her this early in the morning.

You are always a sight to behold, sweetheart.” he writes and she smiles while taking down her biscuits and it all speaks of routine, of being used to each other in the best way possible, of companionship, of being equals of some sort and he can’t help but think that if this is his life, he is grateful for it.

He also discovers he doesn’t like the cold.

It latches at him, goes through him, leaves him restless to right a past that never was.

But within all the things he doesn’t like there’s one he truly hates, and that thing is seeing Nesta cry.

She’s out on the balcony, an unlit cigarette between her fingers, the rain wetting the paper, making the tobacco fall, her mascara pooling under her eyes.

She doesn’t talk and makes no sound, her tears mix with the rain and he doesn’t know what he can do so he gets closer, rustling the leaves of long dead plants to let her know he’s there.

“My mother died ten years ago. My mother died.” she says, like she wants it to sink in, to let it be real because she still can’t believe it.

“And he didn’t care. My father didn’t care and I want to go- I want to go to the cemetery to see if he brought her flowers, a note, something. Did he even love her?” she asks, and she’s looking at him and he aches, wants to comfort her, so he just tries to touch her and by the look she gives him she feels it, feels him and as happy as he is he forces himself to stay on the ground, with her.

“He let her die,” she whispers, her lower lip trembling “he let her die and he didn’t care, didn’t care to call the doctors even when I begged him to, didn’t care for her, didn’t care for me, for my sisters, he hid behind Feyre like a spineless, useless, heartless coward and-”

She hides her face behind her hand, little sobs escaping her lips.

Don’t hide from me, he wants to say, but he tries to soothe her, to make her feel calm and loved and warm and he hates that for all the things he can do he can’t dry her tears or stop the rain from falling.

“It wasn’t right,” she says, finally “it isn’t right.”

He nudges to her a bit, drawing soothing circles in the palm of her hand and thinks of things to write along the lines of if I could make you tea, I would.

And he is surprised beyond belief to hear her snort and answer “You would never get the sugar right.”

He sees Feyre and Elain more frequently since that night.

Feyre brings some paintings, saying that the apartment lacks colors and when Nesta asks her to paint something red, his emotions and heart and everything he is goes a bit all over the place.

He still swears that the book that went into flames is in no way his fault.

Nesta buys a book of names, all blue and pink, designed to help young parents chose the name of their children, and reads it to him to help him remember his name.

Nothing came out of it, other than a strange call to names that start with c, a nostalgic wave for a certain Reece and a strange affinity for Jewish mystics.

In the end, he asks her to read it two times, but it’s all because he loves the sound of her voice; it’s low, but not cold or empty, the kind of voice that sings to lure sailors off their ships, but loving enough to be as sweet as spring.

When summer comes, he feels like he’s been in her house for a lifetime.

They pass evenings on the balcony, Nesta’s skin covered under layers and layers of sunscreen and he can’t forget the smile on her face when she splashed him with ice cold water, like a child, laughing like crystal bells.

Well, he did take his revenge with switching sugar with salt, and the face she made while drinking her tea after was priceless, and this- this are all the moments he will never be able to forget.

Until that night.

They are on the couch, the same couch she tried to climb in fear of him all those months ago, watching one of her tv series, but neither of them is giving the show much attention.

Him, on his behalf, is too busy looking at the freckles on her face, gently visible thanks to the summer sun, and she is looking at him.

Or rather, at the space he would occupy if had a solid body.

She looks away, but her eyes land on him every now and then and he feels a strange sort of anticipation, like waiting for fireworks to light up the night sky.

That’s when she moves, faster than a blink and stops just an inch away from where he is and he knows, he knows-

He knows that Nesta wants to touch him, to see if he’s really there, if he’s real and he wants to beg her, he would kneel before her, just to feel her skin on him, just once, but when she tries, her fingers moving toward him, she goes right through him and he can’t feel her, can’t feel her fingers or her skin or her touch and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t- can’t look at the sadness on her face, can’t deal and live with the fact that they will never touch, that he will never tuck her hair behind her ear, will never touch her, will never-

But he will, he will see her smile and tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her until they are drunk on one another, he will hold her because she is the reason he wants to be alive and real and concrete,  he just needs to-

He just needs to wake up.


It’s been three months without her ghost.

She doesn’t smoke anymore.

Nesta still doesn’t know what happened: a moment the ghost was there, on the couch with her, its warmth all around her and then it was gone and her house has never been so cold.

When she took her degree, she wanted to rush home, to tell to her ghost that she made it and when she came back home she realized that no amount of blankets in the middle of August would ever replicate that warmth.

Nesta didn’t think that she could miss so much someone who was never really there in the first place.

She sits on the balcony, the place full of memories of her ghost like the rest of the house when she hears a knock on the door.

She debates on answering, but the knocking becomes more insistent and she gets up, opening the door with an annoyed look on her face, but then-

There’s a man in front of her, long black hair flowing around his incredibly handsome face, hazel eyes that look right through her and trembling hands.

“Do you still like all that sugar in your tea, sweetheart?”

Good Morning, Sunshine

Wade Wilson (Deadpool) x Reader

Request:  “wade wilson/reader fluffy morning sex ?”

A/N: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand that’s five fics. Sorry for blowing up your dash.

You hated mornings.

As a somewhat functioning adult living in the daily grind, you knew early mornings were a requirement to have some kind of income. Before you met Wade, that’s all there really was: the daily grind. Since he walked into your life over a year ago, there’s certainly been some excitement added. He’s made so many of the things you hated, fun. You were convinced that it was impossible for him to make mornings anything better than average.

Wade, being the devious shit he was, decided he could do a lot better than average. So, naturally, he woke you up over an hour before your alarm was set to go off. Needless to say, you were less than pleased.

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Don’t let go

Fandom: Marvel
Pairings: Steve Rogers x (mutant)reader; Wanda Maximoff x (sister)reader x Pietro Maximoff
Genres: angst, mild fluff
Words: 1.890
Summary: based on an imagine: “Imagine falling for Steve and your siblings, the twins, disapproving” - requested by Anonymous
A/N: To avoid any misunderstandings, all characters are of age. Gif’s not mine.

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AU where your soulmate’s first words to you are written on your skin (bc every fandom should have one and this is my favourite fic trope ever)

Jack gets his words when he’s five years old. At first, he’s kind of confused.

“Maman,” he says, tugging at his mother’s shirt where she sits at the dining room table. He holds his arm up for her to see. “Je ne comprends pas!”

Alicia Zimmermann starts when she sees the words now permanently inked on her son’s forearm. They’re written in a loopy, pretty script down the middle of his arm, stark against his pale skin. She smiles when she reads the words – English, which he hasn’t yet learnt to read – and pulls him up into her lap. She holds his arm gently in her hands, and he pokes at the words suspiciously.

“Qu-est ce que c’est, Maman?”

“It’s your words,” she explains. “They’re the words that will tell you who your soulmate is.”


“Jack,” he looks away from his arm to meet her gaze, his confusion evident. Alicia pulls her jumper to expose her collarbone and the words written there. The handwriting is one Jack knows, recognizes pretty quickly as his father’s, but he’d never really considered the fact that the messy scrawl on his mother’s skin was actually written by his papa. “Everyone gets them at some point or other. Most people get them when their soulmate is born, but not always. Sometimes it’s a little later, or a little earlier, but the point is, there’s someone out there waiting for you.” She lets her jumper sit back in place and runs a gentle hand through her son’s messy black hair. “One day you’ll meet someone who says those words to you. You’ll know they’re your soulmate because it’ll be the first thing they say. Somewhere on their body will be the first words you’ll say to them.” Jack looks thoughtful.

“What do my words say, Maman?”

“Are you sure you can’t work it out?” Jack looks at his arm again, brow furrowed in concentration. His English reading ability is poorer than his French, and the handwriting is a bit too cursive for someone as young as him, but he’s always been determined. Alicia waits patiently as Jack mouths the words slowly, working them out in his head, trying to sound the letters into something he understands.

It’s five minutes before he smiles again, clearly pleased with himself. Whatever he’s worked out is evidently a sentence he understands from the way he bounces excitedly.

“Maman, I know what they’re saying!”

“You know what your soulmate is saying?”

“Oui. I know what they will say.” He takes a deep breath as he looks back down at his arm, running a small finger underneath the words as he reads them carefully out loud. His mother praises his reading, and after a few more minutes of questions about soulmarks the day returns to normal.

It’s only later, when he’s curled up in bed with his stuffed whale toy tucked against his body that he remembers the words again. He pulls back the sleeve of his pajamas to see the words still stark and clear on his skin, even in the low glow from his night light. He whispers them into the air wondrously. For all his excitement now, over the coming years his faith that the words will be spoken with good intention fade and fade as he learns more about the world.

By the time he’s fifteen he covers the words in a long arm sleeve specially designed to hide soulmarks. He only takes it off to shower, and never lets Kent see what’s beneath it. His mother tries to broach the topic once, suggests carefully that soulmarks are rarely ever said in the way one thinks, but his anger makes her sigh and leave it alone. She does encourage him to see a new therapist though, increasingly aware of his unimpeded anxiety over soulmarks and everything else. He feels guilty at his reaction to her concern so he reluctantly agrees to talk to someone about it. They’re better than the last one, and though they specialize in soulmate-related anxiety they quickly latch on to the fact that there are a lot more pressing things endangering Jack’s mental health. His visits are upped to thrice a week, and his prescription is swapped for something less intensive. It doesn’t rid him of anxiety, but it does help. He ends up making some changes to his life that help to lift some of the weight off his shoulders, and everything begins to feel more manageable.

When he’s drafted first pick to the Providence Falconers he’s in a tentatively good place. He’s happy about his team, pleased for Kent as he heads to Las Vegas with the Aces, and feels surprisingly positive despite the pressure the draft had put on him. The future looks brighter, clearer, and as he settles in during his first night in his new Providence apartment, he feels the urge to look at his words for the first time in years.

They still sting when he sees them, an old wound reopened, but he takes deep breaths. The writing is prettier than he remembers, and he almost chuckles at the thought that there’s someone out there with his god-awful handwriting on their body. He sobers up almost instantly, though, running a finger across the words like he did so many years ago. He knows what they mean: that his soulmate doesn’t want him, that he’s a disappointment, that he’s never going to have a relationship like his mother and father do with his soulmate. As he stares at the words he thinks that at least now he can probably deal with it. He’s got a great team and a promising future; a best friend; a much less strained relationship with his father. He knows, now, that he’s not a disappointment to his parents, even if he is to himself or his soulmate. He lives in a nice apartment in a nice area. He thinks he might get a dog.

Despite the hurt they cause, Jack finds himself pressing a soft kiss to the skin of his words, closing his eyes for a brief moment, desperately trying and failing to imagine a way someone could say these words and still want him.

Oh no, he recites in his head, those words that have been impossible to forget, it can’t be you.

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Sentinel Wars(3/?)

Thanks to all the lovely people who left comments and asked me about this little plot bunny…  I have written more.

On AO3 | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3:


Rex sticks close to Kenobi for the rest of that first duty shift. (And the following shift as well, because apparently Kenobi is a crazy person who works through his down-time and probably never sleeps. Now Rex knows where Commander Skywalker gets his bad habits from.)

Those twelve hours are the worst control Rex has ever had over his senses since he first manifested as a Sentinel. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to get lost in his head. All of his senses are clamoring for his attention, constantly focusing in on Kenobi’s scent, his voice and his breathing and the blood rushing in his veins, the shine of his eyes and the pale-on-pale tracery of scars on his hands. Barely an hour since he synced to Kenobi and Rex finds himself fighting the urge to tuck his nose under the fall of copper hair at the back of the Jedi’s neck and lick-

(mobile users, there’s a cut here…)

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Cause you have my heart

Cause you have my heart

Pairing: Steve rogers x reader

Plot: the reader is apart of the popular girl group little mix and Steve feels insecure because very attractive men constantly flirt with her and feels like she even though she wouldn’t she could cheat on him while she’s on tour. Because of this she brings Steve up on stage and proceeds to cover big time rushes song worldwide.

A/n I honestly don’t know where this angsty side of me came from. Also the reader is Peggy’s great granddaughter and for the fuck of it I made the reader the fifth member of little mix because I’m obsessed with little mix.

Originally posted by dailyteamcap

Originally posted by fierceaskatniss

Being in a famous pop group isn’t as fabulous as you’d might think. Yes you get to travel the world and have thousands of people screaming your name while you sing your heart. But not a lot of people understand that while you’re on the road you start to miss your loved ones. That’s why you wanted to soak up as much alone time with your boyfriend Steve before you started your tour.

“Mmmmm Steve that tickles” you had a smile on your face when you felt Steve’s lips on the crook of your neck. He knew that was one of your most ticklish areas so you rolled over so you were face to face with him.

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Something banged hard on the other side of the door, shifting it slightly in its frame, causing the shelf stood against the wall to rattle and the pictures hanging there to swing. Something else made noise on the other side of the door, on the outside of the darkened room; the clattering of metal on metal. There was a pause, then the door swung open inwards at speed, and right behind it came two forms, though to look at them it would be easy to confuse them for one.

Deeks held Kensi close to him, their chests pressed as close as it was possible to be as he carried her across the threshold and into the cabin. Her legs were up, wrapped tight around his waist, her hands desperately in his shaggy golden curls. Their mouths were crushed hungrily together, and frantic heavy breaths tried hard to force themselves around the corner of the pair’s lips.  They tracked thick layers of loose snow onto the heavy carpet as they stepped further into the dark cabin.

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For emeraldwit who prompted “Colour”


Graves does not see the world around the way other people do. Other people will take in the world with its brightness, its vibrancy and colours. For Graves, however, the world is black and white and those shades of grey in between. Instead of blue, the sky will be a broad plain of grey, with misty puffs of white making up the clouds. Occasionally, though, there will be rare splashes of vibrancy like the gold of his mother’s wedding ring, the faint streak of colours made by a rainbow in the sky or the rich red of a rose. They contrast the grey surrounding Graves beautifully, like the beam of a lighthouse breaking through a foggy mist. But it doesn’t last long. It’ll last a minute or two before it fades back into that dull black and white image. Graves cherishes these brief flashes of colours as much as he can, trying to commit each colour to memory.

Monochromatia, the mediwitches and wizards say. It’s a rare magical condition found in the people in the Graves family. There’s no cure for it. It’s a harmless condition that deprives whoever is suffering it of colour. It shouldn’t be too much of a hindrance to Graves. He’ll just need labels and the sort to help him out.

Through his life, Graves find himself cursing his monochromatism and others who take for granted the colours they can see. It’s part of the reason he’s so stern and bossy most of the time. This little mistake of genetics singling him out from others.

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Amelia Shepherd’s Five Beautiful Babies

A/N~ Happy Mother’s Day Amelia! And Happy Mother’s Day to any moms I have reading tonight 😌  this is a part of my family verse, you can read more with my lovely family verse children in my omelia family tag. All my kids’ face claims and information and stuff is all on this page here. Enjoy or something!


It could only be described as one word– heartbreaking.

She was so very fortunate all the times to follow came with much less sorrow and pain, because she could not have done this five times. She could not have felt all the immense and terrible feelings she felt with the birth of her unicorn baby five times over, she wouldn’t have lived. She wasn’t even sure how she’d survived it once.

Her amazing friends had to be responsible for most of it, they had rallied around her when she needed it the most. Her Seaside Wellness friends, they’d always be close to her heart, and a big part of that was because they had shared this experience with her, one of the most life-changing ones she would ever have; the experience of her first, beautiful baby.

Jake had helped more than he realized, throughout her whole pregnancy, acting as her baby’s father and her comrade when she didn’t have one. Then when it came to the labour, putting his hands on her back in that spot that felt so good; no one else knew how to do that just the way he did. She still smiled when she thought of his caring hands, and his caring words and actions too. He was very special. And Addison, despite how much Amelia pushed her away, was always waiting just an arm’s length away, in case she could do anything. And she was there to meet her nephew, in the brief, brief window that she could. Of course, Charlotte and Cooper and all her other great friends were standing by as well, to welcome the new life into the world, and mourn his loss all at once. She could never have done it without them.

Her body healed quickly, despite being a hormonal, and baby-less, mess. She’d always heard that the best way to convince a woman to tear her body apart, is to promise her a child at the end of it. The labour pain would be worth it, because she would get a baby. Amelia didn’t get to see that light at the end of the tunnel the way most new moms did. She got her baby, yes, but for only forty-three minutes, not even. Despite being such a short time, it was such a magical time. It was even more magical considering he touched more lives in his short, forty-three minutes than some did in forty-three years. He was a hero. He was a unicorn baby.

The tragedy did not take away from his beauty. She’d said at the time that he was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen, and it was still true. He shared that title with his four younger siblings now, the children he watched over still, the way all older brothers do. He watched over his mom, too, she could feel it; he watched over the life that he’d completely changed.

She loved him, and she would never forget him. Her first, beautiful baby.


It could only be described as one word– miraculous.

It was very emotion filled, that was what she remembered the most. She spent her whole pregnancy walking on eggshells, afraid of what was around every corner, afraid things would go the same way they did the first time; horribly, horribly wrong. She couldn’t lose a second baby, and Owen couldn’t lose a first.

Especially not so soon after he’d lost his best friend to the horrors of war. He was struggling, though he often didn’t talk about it. One day, not too long after they’d discovered they were expecting a little girl, Owen quietly asked if she’d be okay to honour his fallen friend through the naming of their baby. He’d wanted to honour his lost sister too, she would have been the greatest aunt, so that’s when they decided, her name would be Thea Megan Hunt. Her second, beautiful baby.

She was almost a week late; Amelia likes to say that’s the only time her daughter’s ever been late for something, she’s always dreadfully early as an adult. Everyone her parents knew were waiting for her, waiting to welcome the new life into the world with open and loving arms, and wanting to comfort the new mom; who, even when they assured her her baby was just fine, perfect, even, would not stop crying. Little did they know she was crying with amazement, actually. Amazement that it had gone perfectly, and everyone was fine. Her baby was breathtaking; and she’d done it, she’d made a healthy baby. And she’d finally given Owen what he’d always wanted.

He was over the moon, he really was. When the people were gone and the spotlight was shining away from him, he was really just as emotional as she was. Again, mostly amazement and awe. This little infant, nestled in his arms inside her pink cocoon, this was who he’d been waiting for as long as he could remember, and she did not disappoint. Late into the night, when he wrongfully thought his wife was asleep, he sat there with his baby girl in his arms, he looked at her little face and her little hands, he remembered the two, beautiful women she was named after, and thought of the strength and bravery she carried with just her name. He saw them both in her, his best friend a great deal actually, and he weeped. She may have been the baby in that moment, but he was the one shamelessly crying like one. Amelia watched and listened to the new, proud dad, and she’d never been more in awe of the man she married.

But of course he was so smitten with his new daughter, everyone was. Everyone that came to visit, and she got lots of visitors, smiled and told the new, proud parents how happy they were for them. How happy they were that things had gone so well.

She didn’t think it got any better than her second, beautiful baby.


It could only be described as one word– relief.

When that baby finally left her body, it was relief. She could name all the reasons that July 18th, 2018 was a less than pleasant day– It was hot as an oven, she was sweaty as hell, she’d been in labour for almost twenty-two hours by now, but… her son was born that day. Her third, beautiful baby.

It truly was the hottest day of the year the day her water broke; it was actually the hottest day in a few years, according to the town records. No amount of ice chips could fix that. Amelia was hot, uncomfortable, and mad that Owen wasn’t there when she went into labour. He’d promise he would be. Just like the last time, she was afraid. Especially because this time, she was having another boy.

What if it was just her sons that had problems? What if her daughter had been a graceful miracle, but her son would again fail her? The ultrasounds proved that nothing was abnormal about her growing, blossoming boy, but that wasn’t nearly enough to put her at ease, considering an ultrasound couldn’t catch everything. Everyone labelled her paranoid, while she preferred the word protective. There was one, missing voice in that chorus of people trying to ease her mind, though. The one person who had always been the most protective of her. Her brother.

His death had left a noticeable hole in her life. She knew that Derek would now miss a lot of things that were yet to happen, but she’d never thought about him missing the birth of his nephew. He would’ve loved him, because he was his little sister’s baby, and because the little boy was named after him. Actually, Derek was his middle name, Amelia didn’t think she could handle saying the name out loud a hundred times a day, having it surround her at all times. Her boy’s first name was after her best friend instead; Charles, for Charlotte, who had always been there to help her climb whatever mountain she had to. She was the first one, besides the new parents of course, to hold the new, big boy. He was big, born at almost nine pounds. That was another reason it was so alleviating when Amelia could finally hold him in her arms, instead of in her body.

But when Amelia thought back to thinking he was big then, she laughs. Now, her son stands at six foot four, a giant bear of a man, just like her husband. He is loving and gentle, all the love that’s been given to him, he reciprocates boundlessly and infinitely. She could never have imagined what her little, big boy would grow up to be, but he continued to amaze her everyday now. And whenever she saw him, she thought of that day, one of the hottest, but best, days of her life.

She didn’t think it got any better than her third, beautiful baby.


It could only be described as one word– curative.

She’d always heard that babies weren’t supposed to fix relationships, that wasn’t healthy. But it would work; better than the therapy they never went to, the sex they never seemed to have, the words that were never spoken nor heard. This baby would fix things. She would be the glue that held their piecing marriage together.

She had made some mistakes in the past few years, notably, and so had Owen. Mistakes they didn’t ever think they could forgive each other for, if they were being honest. Owen had sought out solace in another woman, Amelia had sought out solace in a bottle, before running away from their family and her life completely. They had both made mistakes, but they’d both vowed to be better because of them, which had been easier said than done. A midsummer’s night about two years after everything had happened, Amelia suggested having another baby, as if that was what they needed. Maybe, by some miracle, it was though. Her fourth, beautiful baby.

She remembers telling Owen she was sorry, somewhere amidst contractions. Sorry for everything she’d done, squeezing his hands and closing her eyes, she meant it, she truly did. He ran his fingers in her sweaty hair and told it was okay, he forgave her, and he was sorry too. He could never imagine his life without her and without their family, and he couldn’t wait to meet the newest member.

Of course, Amelia was nervous, pregnancy would always continue to be nerve-wracking for her, but her birth experience was actually more sweet than bitter this time. She released the reins of her fear and actually got to enjoy the experience for what is was– painful, but so worth it. Holding her little, strawberry blonde baby in her arms at the end of it all was so very worth it.

Amelia promised herself she would be better for that baby. She would never stray from what mattered again, she would finally stop running away from struggling. How could she now, with this beautiful, small infant in her arms that she needed to protect, and two more beautiful children waiting outside? How she not change her ways, for them? She looked down at her new baby and she couldn’t imagine not changing for her.

Michelle looked just like her dad, and still does. No matter how much trouble she got into, and she got into loads of it just like Amelia had as a young adult, Amelia would always remember how she felt that very first, spring day; holding her baby close and feeling her world slowly come together, the strings being tightened and everything feeling perfect, after all this time. This girl could, and would, move mountains in her life. She was already starting to from such a young age. God only knew what amazing things the future would hold for her.

She didn’t think it got any better than her fourth, beautiful baby.


It could only be described as one word– easy.

It was like poetry in motion. Her body had been through the hard work of childbirth four times now, and it didn’t feel quite as hard anymore. It was the last time she would do this, she knew, so she treasured the experience differently this time.

Her body wasn’t the same as it was when she had done this the first time, now thirteen years in her past. It hadn’t been easy to even get pregnant, it took longer than she would have liked, and made her uncomfortable. Owen had just assured her that it was natural, and that getting older didn’t have to be a negative thing. At the time, they’d said their family could still be complete with the three beautiful children they had, they didn’t need another. But now, they couldn’t imagine their family without her. Her fifth, beautiful baby.

They had laughed when the ultrasound showing another girl.  They already had two little girls running around, making messes and terrorizing their poor, middle brother– what was one more? One more girl for Owen to play fairy princesses with, and have tea parties for, and also to teach how to be strong and have her voice heard in this world. Of course, a part of him hoped he could do that while wiping dirt off her face and teaching her to play soccer, but either way, he was up for the challenge. It would be worth it.

She would be the last page of this chapter in their lives, the last addition to their gallery of newborn pictures on the mantel, coats hanging in the hallway, shoes lined up by the front door, one last setting at the dinner table. The empty room at the end of the hallway, now painted pink in anticipation for its new occupant, would be hers. One last little body to occupy the little white crib. One last little person to raise up right.

Evie had been their easy one, and she would continue to be their easy one for years to come. Their family peacemaker, their good girl, eventually the one to follow in the footsteps of her dad and her aunt, fulfill her duty to serve her country. Her open heart would open doors for her. Amelia thought she had known what to expect from their youngest child, being one herself, but her little girl had defied all the expectations her mother had. As she grew older, as everyone did, Amelia felt a little more sadness than she had watching her other children grow. Her youngest wasn’t young anymore, and neither was she, neither was her husband. Time was moving so fast, and she just always saw it so much clearer when watching her baby.

She could never have guessed at all that the first day she held her, but she wasn’t trying to. She was just trying to hold onto her first memory of her last, her fifth, beautiful baby.

Prove It (II)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You/Jinyoung

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2,736

Summary:  Songfic about Jinyoung – Prove it (by request). Park Jinyoung has been your rival, both in school and out for many years now. But what if you’ve been wrong about him and there’s more than meets the eye?

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7x21 Fix-it Coda

Written by Praemonitus_Praemunitus


Summary:  7x21 gave us awesome BAMF Steve scenes and chillingly good interactions with the deliciously villainous Michelle Shioma.  But it also robbed us of some beautiful McDanno scenes that should have been there but were cut (and yes, I blame the wholly unnecessary distraction of the Chicago side plot for that) and, while it gave us worried Danny, it didn’t quite satisfy.  Because when Danny’s worried about Steve he rants, yes.  But he’s also tactile.  He’s very, very tactile.  Especially when Steve gets hurt.  And that physical connection - it was missing from this episode, and it was sorely, sorely needed.  I promised a few of you that I will do my best to fix this.  The muse, for whatever reason, was exceptionally stubborn in getting this story out.  Painfully slow, and I apologize for the delay.  But I’m hoping the results are worth the wait.

“Good thing HPD knows we’re here.  Oh, that’s right, they don’t.”


Danny knew the moment he said those words that he was gonna regret them.  Because guilt-tripping Steve?  Mr. I’m-Responsible-For-Everyone’s-Problems McGarrett? What the hell was he thinking?

Steve didn’t say anything at the time, didn’t rise to the bait, but the words got to him, Danny knew. Saw it in the way Steve’s shoulders tensed when he stood there with his back toward them; in the shadow that settled behind the blue eyes.  And he should have said something right then.  Should have fixed it somehow before Steve got it into his head that this mess was solely his fault and that he and he alone was responsible for getting them out of it.

Only he hesitated – his mind too wracked with worry over their current predicament, too focused on Chin and Kono’s nervous chatter as they desperately tried to come up with a solution.  Took a second too long to approach his best friend.  Took a second too long to find the right words to say.  And by then it was already too late.

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{PART 20} Who Are You? // Im Jaebum

Originally posted by sugaglos

Pairing: Jaebum x Reader (ft. Jackson & Jinyoung)

Genre: Sad, Angst, Fluff

Summary; It’s been 10 years since your accident and the night you made the decision to give Jaebum the chance to show he can be trusted again. Where are GOT7 now? More importantly, what has happened to you?


I update this series every Sunday between 9pm-10pm (U.K Time) 

{Part 1} // {Part 19} {Part 20} {Part 21: Final Chapter}

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Druken Stupor - Part Two (SMUT).

Anon Request: Erika Matsuda (KBTBB) x MC

‘YOOOOO, how about an Erika fic? Can be a ficlet if you like *wiggles eyebrows*’

Author’s note: This was much harder than I expected to write. And I would just like the thank @hifftn @smile-smile-ichthys and @whatdoyouexpectthistime for the help in writing this. Without them I may not have completed it. Apologies it took so long. Anyway, I hope your enjoy nonnie. 

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Blue: Pt.6

Originally posted by wonhobe

Previous part: [Pt.5

Warnings for this part: mentions of violence and blood

You woke up to a weird feeling. Something was definitely wrong. You held your breath and opened your eyes very slightly, just enough to see. Then you screamed.

“Jesus!” you pushed him away quite roughly and sat up. You ignored your sore throat and head ache and focused on glaring at him. “Freak.”

“I’m almost hurt by that insult,” he said expressionlessly.

“What the hell are you doing here? I know your kind is all about rebellion and stuff but could you at least try to respect my privacy?” you asked, covering yourself with your blanket.

“Don’t bother, it’s not like there’s anything I’d want to see,” he said, referring to you trying to cover yourself. “I came to get you. We need to go somewhere. Now.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t bother explaining himself and just remained quiet.

“I finally managed to go back to sleep after having a nightmare and you just appear out of god knows where and tell me to go somewhere with you. I think I’m going to have to decline your rude offer.”

“Resisting won’t get you anywhere,” he calmly stated.

“Exactly,” you said and covered yourself completely with the blanket.

“Fine. I don’t mind. We’ll just have to do this my way then,” he said and you were confused until you felt him grab your ankles. Before you could react, you were already sitting up in a place you had never seen or been to before. You looked around the room, feeling a little scared. You were alone, he was nowhere to be seen and that just added to the creepiness of the place.

Is this a nightmare?

You pinched yourself. It hurt. Furrowing your eyebrows, you got up from the stiff bed you had been sitting on.

“Did he teleport me here or something?” you thought out loud subconsciously.

You looked at the four walls surrounding you. They were all empty and poorly painted with white paint. The wood of the walls could be seen thanks to the transparency of the paint. The door on one of the walls and the bed - though stiff and therefore uncomfortable - were the only things in the room that made it seem like a normal bedroom.

You stiffened, hearing something like footsteps. Could it be him? You wondered and slowly walked over to the door. It didn’t match the room itself at all. It looked fancy and was well-painted. It almost looked like there would be another world on the other side.

Without notice, the door opened quickly and you flinched out of surprise. In the doorway stood Hoseok who just stared at you expressionlessly.

“Hoseok?” you called his name just to be sure it was him.

He suddenly let out a scream that made you jump in surprise. He stumbled and fell on the floor with a terrified look.

“A-are you okay?” you asked and took a step toward him.

“Why are you here?!” he asked. “How did you get in?!”

“I-“ you stopped when you realized you didn’t even know it yourself. “I think I was teleported here by him…”

He frowned, looking confused. “Teleported? What are you talking about?”

“It’s not in your abilities to teleport?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I’m not a freaking wizard or something. Besides, those don’t even exist.”


“Yeah,” he nodded. “Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” you said and looked past him. On the other side of the door seemed to be a hallway and opposite the door was another door.

“You think he brought you here?”

“I don’t know. I was home like five minutes ago and then I woke up here. He was there too.”

Hoseok let out a short sigh of disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he said and turned around before walking away. You followed him, still confused. After getting out of the room and entering the hallway you looked around. The walls were painted with a dark gray paint that was opaque enough to cover the wooden walls properly. There were four doors on the hallway including the one that led in to the room you had just exited. They were all quite similar with only a few differences, the doorknobs for example.

I wonder what’s behind those doors…

You stopped at the end of the narrow hallway and held your breath. Three pairs of icy eyes were staring at you from the second you entered the new space.

“What is that?” one of them asked Hoseok who was now standing in front of the three threatening creatures.

“A freaking human,” Hoseok said with frustration. “Minhyuk brought her here. She doesn’t even know how it all happened.”


You stiffened when the three looked at you again with their icy eyes. They looked at you from head to toe and looked like they didn’t enjoy your company.

You opened your mouth to introduce yourself - thinking it would be a good idea to say something instead of standing there and looking scared - but nothing came out. You couldn’t get your voice out.

Hoseok turned to look at you. “Where is he?”

You shook your head. “I d-don’t know.”

He looked even more frustrated now and turned around to look at the three others who were still staring at you. “We can’t just have a human hanging around here. We all know it’s not a good idea.”

“Why?” you managed to ask, loud enough for them to hear.

“You don’t need to know,” one of the three said and you almost flinched at his harsh tone.

You let your head drop and figured it would be for the best to just stare at your feet quietly. You know, just to keep yourself alive.

“Have you seen him?” Hoseok asked the others.

“Not since Saturday,” one of them answered and left you confused.

Isn’t today Saturday?

“If he doesn’t show up today, I’ll make sure to get rid of her,” one of the three said.

“Minhyuk probably brought her here for a reason,” another one said.

So his name is Minhyuk…

“Why would he bring a human here? It’s ridiculous.”

“Hyungwon is right Kihyun, there most likely is a reason,” Hoseok said and there was a brief silence before he continued. “She’s that one.”

Another silence followed, this time a lot longer. You could feel their gazes on you and felt even more uncomfortable than you already were. You were terrified enough to think that there was a possibility that they’d kill you. That thought didn’t really help you calm down.

Isn’t there any way to escape?

You were too scared to lift your gaze from the floor and to look around. It just happened so that there was a sound of a door being opened right when you were planning escaping through a window.

“Is it Minhyuk?” one of the three asked when Hoseok walked to where the sound came from.

You subconsciously lifted your head, interested in seeing who it was. It didn’t take long before you could see a familiar face enter the room, Hoseok following him.

“It’s him all right,” Hoseok said.

He - Minhyuk - walked in and his hands immediately grabbed your attention. They were covered in very dark red blood. When you looked at him chills ran down your spine. You were starting to feel like you would not get out of there alive.

Next part: [Pt.7]
Other parts: [Masterlist]

Tension at the Office

Character: Jessica (SNSD)
Word count: 2519
Summary: CEO Jessica Jung always took her work seriously. Even if she had to work with an infuriating, tardy woman in tight dresses and high heels | #(slight)smut #fluff #office!au
Warnings: slightly smutty themes (business woman Jess got me feeling things …), slight bad language

Originally posted by heyjessica

She couldn’t help the way her eyes rolled when you walked into her office, twenty minutes late and beaming to the brim with a smile.

“Good morning, Jessica! Sorry I’m late!”

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Snowball Fight

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Word Count: 1,219

A/N: This is a part of mine and @marvelingatthewonder‘s Christmas Drabble Party. The request was Tony + Snowball Fight. I hope you enjoy it, beautiful @angel34jolly-blog .

@avengerstories - thank you for editing this, my love

Originally posted by downeysarmy-blog

If someone had told you a year and a half ago that you’d be strolling through Central Park on a snowy night, hand-in-hand with Tony Stark, you would’ve laughed. In fact, you probably would’ve laughed so hard that you would have cried, because in what world would your path ever cross with Tony Stark? He was a genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist. And you? Well you were none of those things, and yet, he still chose you. 

“Am I really that boring?”

You tear your gaze away from the snow-covered trees and find an even more beautiful sight waiting for you – sparkling brown eyes and a bemused smile. “Huh?”

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Miles Behind Us//A Bo Burnham Imagine

Anonymous said: “Can you do a one-shot where you are Bo’s best friend and his girlfriend dumps him in like the middle of the night so naturally he ends up at your house and platonic cuddles turn into something more? ;)))))”

Of course I can. With this one, I think I am going to do like vague smut kind of like I did with the George Weasley one. I am terrible at doing outright smut to be honest.

This is actually my favorite Bo imagine I’ve done so far.


Title: Miles Behind Us

Character/Celebrity: Bo Burnham

Word Count: 1058

Rating: T-M

Warnings: brief sexual content/language/I may have made this very very dramatic tbh


It was around two in the morning when Bo texted you.

Of course you were still awake, watching Daredevil on Netflix and eating Poptarts. This was what you were normally doing on a Thursday night now that you’d dropped out of college and gotten your own place.

When your text tone went off (the punchline of one of Bo’s jokes; he’d convinced you to be the first to download it when it had been released), you groggily reached for your phone, yawning as you paused your show to read it.

text from ‘bo’

received: 2:06am

subject: none

hey i’m coming over don’t ask any questions

be there in five


You groaned and dragged a hand down your face. Bo was always coming over at ungodly hours of the night to complain about his latest girlfriend who had quite the habit of being a bitch.

You didn’t even bother to respond since he had told you to not ask any questions, instead settling on raiding your fridge for alcohol. You pulled out your bottle of raspberry vodka and found Bo’s favorite whiskey in the cabinet next to you. These were the drinks you two had a tendency to down irresponsibly whenever either of you had a problem.


Bo was right. The doorbell rang at exactly 2:11am and you answered it, inviting him in. He was really upset this time; a different kind of upset than the kind he normally was.

Still, you waited your normal ten minutes before asking what was wrong.


“What did she do this time?” you asked. He shrugged and you knew it was something pretty bad. He held out his now-empty glass and you poured him more whiskey. He downed it in one gulp and you knew it was time to put the alcohol away.

It was another twelve minutes before Bo said anything to indicate what was wrong.


“(y/n), do you think I’m enough?” he asked. The two of you had migrated to your bedroom. He was laying back against your pillows, an arm over his face and you were watching the TV; it was turned on, but there wasn’t anything actually playing. You scooted back so that you were closer to him, and lay down next to him on your side.


“Am I enough?” he asked. “Funny enough, smart enough, good enough?” You furrowed your eyebrows for a moment, debating how to answer this question. You knew for a fact that Bo was good enough, but you wanted to know why he’d asked.

“Does this have to do with Lexi?” you asked. He shrugged.

“Just answer the question.”

“Just answer mine.”

“I asked you first.” You groaned because your best friend was an absolute child.

“Of course you’re good enough, Bo.” you said, “In all of the categories that exist. You’re funny, smart, attractive, caring… You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

“Attractive?” he asked peeking at you from behind his arm. You rolled your eyes.

“That’s the one that resonated with you?” you asked, because he could not be serious right now. Bo turned over as well, looking at you.

“I’m only joking.” He said. You smiled because of course you already knew that. Then his arms were open and you were in them, your head on his chest.


“What happened, Bo?”


In the two minutes since you’d last spoken, it appeared Bo had begun to fall asleep. His chest was rising and falling slowly now, lazily.

“Lexi.” you explained, “What did she do?” His sigh vibrated in every cell of your body.

“She cheated on me, (y/n).” He told you. He didn’t sound upset, he just sounded calm. You closed your eyes and let out a breath. You’d kind of suspected this when he’d asked if he was good enough.

“Oh, Bo.” you said because you didn’t think there was anything you could say to make this better.

He never responded, only held you tighter to him. You turned away from him and allowed him to pull you against his body. You felt his chest expand into your back as his breathing slowed once more.


It was about twenty minutes later when you felt his lips on your shoulder. You tried to keep your eyes shut, pretend you were asleep. But both of you knew you were not.

Still, you didn’t stop him.

Of course you had always been attracted to him. The fact that you had known him for years didn’t change the way your eyes worked.

“(y/n) look at me.” You did as you were told, turning over to face him once more. His eyes weren’t dark, they weren’t harsh, they weren’t foreign. This was your Bo. The one you loved. The one who needed you.

When his lips met yours, the world disappeared.

You forgot that you hadn’t had sleep in almost two days now. You forgot that he had just been dumped and this was probably desperation to be close to someone. You forgot all of that because the way his lips moved against yours felt too real to be faked.

His hands roamed your sides, the bare skin at your hip set on fire from his touch. He reached behind your head to undo the claw hair clip from your long hair.

“I always liked your hair better down.” He answered your unasked question.

You put a hand on his arm. No words passed your lips, but you knew he knew.

There was a line and you two were getting close to it. If you crossed it, there was no going back; no taking this back.

“All you have to do is say no.” he whispered, knowing the thoughts in your head better than you did.

But you couldn’t say no, wouldn’t say no. Not with his mouth on your jaw and his fingers in your hair.

And you gave in.

You allowed yourself to become lost in him.

Your bodies were fires you were helpless to put out. You gave him everything, more than willingly, until you had nothing left to give. There was something magical in the way that you felt no remorse, no guilt, as he took it all from you.

The line hadn’t just been crossed, it was miles behind you.


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