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?”

“UNCLEAN!”

“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.”

“OH MY GOD ALMIGHTY, JESUS CHRIST, MARY AND JOSEPH!”

“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!”

*runs by* “EVERYTHING IS OKAY!”

“I HAVE ACHIEVED ULTIMATE POWER!”

“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.”

“SOMEONE SHUT HIM UP.”

“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.”

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.”

“Je-“

“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.

Keep reading

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.

Keep reading

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.

“No.”

“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.

Keep reading

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.

Ghost.

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?”

Stilinski & (Y/L/N)

Originally posted by girlmeetssterek

Originally posted by heroofretribution

Stiles x Reader


You sat in the middle, row of seats alone, hoping no one would talk to you or ask you to many questions. You felt out of place. You even thought your clothes were out of place despite being exactly the same as everyone else’s.

Just when you were ready to sink down into your chair and wallow in the anxious feeling that spiralled through your stomach a flail of limbs and squeaking shoes burst into the room. “Sorry i’m late.” He muttered.

Keep reading

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.

Keep reading

Cold Wash

*Pynch Laundry Mat AU (notes at the end)

Ronan Lynch – mysterious boy, obnoxious owner of brilliantly colored briefs – was not an easy a person to forget and yet, Adam forgot about him. Not completely, but enough that Ronan’s number got lost in his papers, his vicious smile shuffled to the recesses of Adam’s thoughts.

Between working and studying Adam’s summer is full. He occasionally texts some college friends and actively avoids anyone from high school. Except for one person, his ex, Blue Sargent. She’s been pestering him to hang out since he returned near the beginning of May but Adam keeps putting it off. As much as he likes Blue he’s not ready to hear about how her life is changing, what with dating two rich boys from Aglionby and traveling the world with them. He admires her open-mindedness but listening to her adventures only makes him feel more lonely. He’s been shit out of luck in the romance department because he’s been too focused on academics to go to the mixers and parties on campus; he would rather have a study buddy than a fuck buddy.

Adam clocks out of work and walks around the building to retrieve his bike. It’s after seven but still baking. He can feel the heat rising up from the asphalt, radiating off the side of the shop; it’s like being in an oven. The seat of his bike is scalding because he keeps forgetting to put it in the shade. Tomorrow, he’ll do that tomorrow.

Adam is so preoccupied that it takes him several seconds to realize that someone is yelling his name.

“Adam Parrish! Boy, you better not be ignoring me after I came all the way down here to see you!” Adam winces at the harsh tone but when he turns he sees that Blue is smiling, her dark hair pulled back, her skin tanned almost as dark as his. She looks good.

“Hey, Blue,” Adam replies, clutching the handlebars of his bike to keep from going in for a hug.

“Hay is for horses,” Blue teases. “Are you just going to stand there? It’s been over a year, Adam. I deserve a hug or a high five or something.”

Adam ducks his head. “Yeah, you do. But I’m all sweaty and gross.” He holds out his palm, up high, making Blue jump for it.

“Asshole,” Blue mutters as her feet touch down. “Come on, we’re getting dinner. And don’t even start with the ‘I need a shower.’ This is Nino’s, no one will be able to smell you over the oregano.”

Adam wants to argue but he’s avoided Blue for long enough and he’s hungry. Plus, he really is happy to see Blue again. And it’ll be nice to eat with someone else for a change.

“Fine, you win,” Adam relents. “Climb up on the handle bars.”

Adam holds the bike steady while Blue positions herself on the bars. It’s precarious but they’re not going too far, just far enough that riding is preferable to walking. Staring at Blue’s back and the strong lines of her arms and legs brings back a lot of good memories. Adam feels a bit wistful as he pedals them towards downtown. Blue cheerfully laughs and hollers as they bump over the cracked sidewalks, picking up speed as they zoom down hills. One of the last times they did this they crashed and Adam still has the scars on his elbows to prove it.

They get to Nino’s in one piece and Adam’s sides hurt from laughing so much. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard. Blue chats up the hostess, one of her former coworkers, and gets them seated in a prime booth by the window. Since it’s summer the pizzeria is less full than usual and the majority of the customers are townies: couples out on dates, families with small children scribbling on coloring pages, and a few summering Aglionby boys who look stoned. Blue orders the pizza (mushroom lovers) and Adam adds a side of garlic knots.

“Fancy,” Blue jokes when the appetizer arrives along with their waters.

“Hungry,” Adam replies, tearing into the food. Blue copies him and within minutes the garlic knots are gone. Blue sucks melted butter off her fingers while Adam fastidiously wipes his off on a napkin; he’s keenly aware that up until half an hour ago his fingers were coated with grime and grease.

“So…” Blue starts, her voice pitched inquisitively. Adam’s stomach clenches. He knows what she’s about to ask, can hear it in the teasing lilt. “Got a girlfriend yet?”

Adam shakes his head and stares out the window. He thought he saw someone duck around the side of a car…

“Boyfriend?”

“No, Blue,” Adam sighs, turning to look at her. “I’m in college to learn, not date.”

“Hmm.” Blue traces patterns in the condensation on the side of her glass.

“What about your boyfriends? Are y’all still a thing?”

Blue perks up and then she won’t shut up. Not that Adam minds, as long as she’s not asking about his love life he can be content listening to hers. Gansey and Henry both sound like great guys and they certainly make Blue happy. Their pizza arrives and that puts the conversation on hold for a bit. Adam wolfs down the first two pieces before slowing and savoring the last two. Blue asks about college and then he’s the one who won’t shut up. He worked so hard to get there – saving money from three jobs, taking classes at the local college, studying above and beyond what he was learning in the classroom, volunteering (which is how he managed to get in the good graces of St. Agnes), interning – it’s like his entire life has been about getting into college.

Blue nods along, asks good questions. They talk about her plans now that her year of traveling is done. They talk about old classmates, Henrietta, Blue’s family; Blue doesn’t ask after Adam’s folks and he’s grateful.

“Gelato?” Blue asks. “My treat.”

Adam doesn’t think he can eat another bite but gelato does sound good so he follows her out of Nino’s and down the street. It’s gotten dark, the streetlights casting a soft golden glow. They get to the shop near closing time but the kid working behind the counter welcomes them in before casting a harried look at the tall guy looming over the counter; he’s there with a smudgy looking boy in an Aglionby uniform.

The tall guy turns and Adam instantly recognizes him and blushes, taking a step back.

“Fuck You?” Ronan asks, his voice sounding both surprised and angry. “And, god damn me, Sargent?” The gelato guy makes a strangled sound each time that Ronan swears and Adam feels the irrational need to apologize for Ronan’s behavior.

“Ronan! Noah!” Blue rushes forward and playfully jabs at Ronan’s face before yanking him into the world’s most awkward side hug. The other boy laughs happily when Blue gives him a full hug and a kiss on the cheek. “What’s going on?”

“Noah wanted gelato and I had nothing else to do so here we are,” Ronan explains. He’s ignoring Adam and shoveling spoonfuls of mint chocolate chip gelato into his mouth.

Blue orders dark chocolate gelato and Adam gets peaches and cream, sneaking glances at Ronan’s handsome and haughty face.

“How do y’all know each other?” Adam asks the group but only Blue answers.

“Ronan and Noah lived with Gansey. They’re all raven boys. Oh, don’t make that face, Ronan.”

Adam thinks about that as they leave the shop and wander over to one of the sidewalk benches. He had guessed that Ronan was rich, and finding out that Ronan is Aglionby is the only confirmation he needs. It makes him wonder why Ronan was hanging out at the laundry mat in the first place, and why he had given Adam his number.

“So,” Ronan says, after Blue has updated him on the current whereabouts of Gansey and Henry, “who’s your pal? Boyfriend number three?”

Adam glowers at Ronan, determined to not say a word to him if he can help it.

“This is Adam Parrish,” Blue says, “and no, he’s not my boyfriend. But we did date for a little while in high school. About a month, right Adam?” Adam nods, staring into his gelato bowl.

Ronan snorts and steals a spoonful of Adam’s gelato. “Adam Parrish.” Ronan says his name like it’s a challenge. “Better than Fuck You, I guess.”

“Huh?” Blue gives Adam a bemused look.

“Private joke,” Adam mutters, glaring at Ronan.

The other guy, Noah, watches everything with an all-knowing look, his mouth set in a perpetual grin, his eyes sparkling like he knows all of their secrets, like he thinks they’re all hilarious.

“Dude, Noah, you look creepy as fuck,” Ronan growls, scuffing his hand through Noah’s messy hair. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Oh, just thinking that it’s wonderful how you and Blue have the same taste in men.”

Ronan and Blue choke at the same time. Adam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“I don’t like Henry!” Ronan protests.

“Oh, please,” Blue huffs. “You pick on him mercilessly. Which is basically the asshole equivalent of pulling on pigtails.”

“What—no. No. I do that because… because… he’s just so annoying!” Ronan flounders for words. Adam’s getting very curious about these mysterious boys, Henry and Gansey, especially if they managed to captivate Blue and Ronan. “And we’ve already discussed Gansey!”

“Uh-huh. ‘He’s like my brother!’ Well, you never look at your actual brothers like that, thank God.” Noah howls with laughter and Ronan throws his gelato bowl at Blue but she neatly dodges it. Ronan goes in for a tackle and Blue takes off down the street, Ronan hot on her heels. Noah and Adam stand together and watch the chase unfold.

“You didn’t call him,” Noah says, so quiet that Adam almost misses it.

“I forgot,” Adam admits. Noah looks skeptical so Adam continues, “Look, I’ve been busy. I didn’t forget about Ronan—how could I? I just kept forgetting to call or text and… anyways what would be the point? I’m going back to school in a couple months.”

Noah shrugs. “You should tell him that. He really thought you would call.”

Adam feels weirdly guilty; it’s like hot coals in his stomach. “Just because a guy gives me his number doesn’t mean I’m obligated to contact him.”

Ronan stalks towards them with Blue draped over one shoulder like a sack. She kicks and flails and laughs and threatens to call Gansey. Adam feels wonderstruck by the sight of them, Blue looking so uninhibited and boisterous, Ronan looking like… like the type of guy he should call. Ronan sets Blue down and gives Adam an indecipherable look.

“You okay?” he asks.

“What?” Adam’s voice sounds weird in his own ears, almost breathless. He swallows around the tight feeling in his throat. “Oh, yeah, I’m good.”

Ronan shrugs and starts talking to Noah about something but Adam can’t get past the flush on Ronan’s pale skin, the way his chest is still rising and falling hard with his labored breaths from running around. The scars on his arms stand out even more, white against faint pink. And Ronan’s arms… Adam had noticed at the laundry mat that Ronan had amazing arms but standing this close to him, able to observe all the little details of him, is bringing it home in a big way that Ronan Lynch is undeniably gorgeous.

Adam looks away and catches Noah smirking at him. Noah makes the “call me” gesture, wriggling his pale eyebrows dramatically. Adam rolls his eyes in response. Blue and Ronan continue to carry on like rowdy siblings until Adam announces that he has to go home. He offers to walk Blue home but Ronan insists on driving her. He also extends the offer to Adam but Adam declines; he has his bike and he’s not quite ready to trust his life to Ronan’s driving.

Back at St. Agnes Adam digs through his papers until he finds the flyer with Ronan’s number. He carefully adds the ten digits to his list of contacts. Hitting save has never felt like this before. He feels like he’s making a promise, like he’s making a Big Decision. He gazes at Ronan’s name until his screen goes black. Adam hugs his pillow to his chest, smelling the soft scent of detergent, and dreams of a beautiful boy with a killer smile and a laugh as warm and wild as a summer night.

…to be continued…

First | Next

[I think some people may have been expecting a date or at least a phone call but I don’t think that’s Adam’s style. Anyways, I hope y’all don’t mind waiting for the date, for the relationship to build from physical attraction to something more substantial.]

Harry Styles - “Living the Dream” Part Three

Part One and Part Two

This is one of my favorite series’ that I’ve written. Enjoy part three! And thank you!


Your flight had come too soon. You’d packed up your suitcase after five wonderful days in France, watching Harry film everyday and then returning to the hotel for a wonderful evening together. The two of you had ventured out once for dinner but were basically mobbed and agreed that until the heat of your new relationship died down it was probably best to keep in private in much as possible. 

“Don’ leave.” Harry muttered, pulling you back over to the bed. His call time was later in the day so he was still in nothing but his boxers but you had gotten fully dressed, ready to meet the car that was surely going to pull up any minute now and take you to the airport. 

“Harry, I have to.” You tell him but allow yourself to be tugged under the blankets and held tightly against his tattooed and warm chest. You snuggle into his soft skin, breathing in deeply, taking in his so familiar scent. Harry’s cologne and shampoo was a smell you had grown to know and love over the last five or so years and it had always felt like home but it did even more so now. 

“Jus’ a couple more days.” And as his lips found yours, you knew you were about to cancel that car and plane ticket. 

You did eventually have to leave though. You had meetings and things to get to back in Los Angeles so it was finally time to bid him goodbye. The goodbye was drug out, slow kisses, whispered I love you’s, sensual touches along the others body. 

Eventually though he carried your bags down to the lobby and loaded up the car for you before right there in full view of the fans, who still crowded the hotel’s front door everyday but were thankfully being held back by security and hotel staff well enough, he pulled you against his chest and pressed his lips to yours. The screams intensified but you ignored them and kissed him deeply. 

“Meet you in LA.” You pull back to say, giving him a smile. Harry was finishing up filming soon so the two of you wouldn’t be separated for too long. 

“Let me know when you land.” He kisses you one last time before you finally climb into the car and it heads off for the airport. 

After Harry finished up with the movie and joined you back in LA, the two of you took to spending the night together at either his house or yours almost every night. The two of you had been extremely close and attached to one another while in the band but something had changed and it was a whole new need for the other. You knew it was being in the honeymoon phase and eventually wouldn’t be as strong but for the time being you made sure he was around you as much as possible and he didn’t mind one bit. 

“I’ll miss you.” You pout over at Harry as the two of you laid in your bed together early one morning. Harry was going to catch a flight later that afternoon, his manager and a few musician friends in tow, ready to seclude themselves in none other than Jamaica and get to work on his first solo album. 

“Well, if you didn’ have to go off bein’ your own solo rockstar you could have come with us.” You had just dropped your first solo song two days earlier and were in the midst of a whirlwind of interviews and promo. It was so exciting and different, being the only face to a song now - all attention was on you. 

“I’m gonna come visit in a few weeks, just don’t know when yet.” Harry catches your lips with his for a brief kiss before he pulls back with a sigh, pulling you tightly against his chest. 

“Bit strange, isn’ it?” You give him a puzzled look so he continues. “This solo thing. All of us doin’ our own thing. Louis has Freddie, Niall released his song, you got yours out there now too, Liam is workin on his and I’m about to go write an album - by myself.” You sigh, resting your head on his chest. He tangles his fingers with yours, absentmindedly playing with your fingers. 

“We’re just all doing what’s best for us. We were amazing together but just think with all five of us out there individually spreading our creativity.. the world isn’t ready for it.” He gives a low chuckle, his chest rumbling under your ear. 

“’m just glad I got to experience all tha’ with the band with you at my side and now even though we’ll be apart fo’ a few weeks, really you’re still with me again. Couldn’ do any of this without ya, really.” You lift your head up and smile down at him. 

“Well lucky for you, you’re stuck with me and will never have to do it without me.” He grins, his dimples making an appearance as he rests a hand on your cheek. 

“Good.” His fingers slide into your hair and his lips find yours. 

The time apart from Harry was hard but you facetimed with him daily, he played you bits of songs or sang you lyrics, even asking your advice for some kinks he was working through. You visited him for a week midway through his seclusion and he said it was exactly what he needed to relax and get back into a good head writing space. “Goin’ through withdrawals, I was.” He stated when you asked why he was having trouble writing there for a bit. “From what?” As soon as you’d asked him that the smirk on his face answered that. He didn’t even have to answer as he just pulls you down onto the bed, that was answer enough. 

“What are you going to do when the two of you are off busy touring? Before a tour meant the two of you were stuck together on a tour bus every single day but now… a tour for the two of you is two separate tours…” Anne had spoken these words to her son around the same time he’d come to visit, playing her and Robin his now finished album. You hadn’t accompanied him as you’d meetings, preparing for your album release in a few days, which Harry would be back in time for, of course. “You won’t be able to see each other much.” 

“We know that, mum,” Harry of course had thought about this, and often, especially as him and his management really got down to working on his tour. You had already worked out yours, having just announced it and it looked like none of your time off or dates corresponded with the other, yet. So far it would look like months between seeing one another. “We’ll make it work, we’ve waited this long to be together, we aren’ goin’ to let not seein each other every day ruin us. We’re jus’ making the most of what time we do have at home together until she leaves.” 

Once you did leave for tour though, it was hard. Harry was lonely, waiting for promo of his own album to begin, he spent his time in meetings or at home. He just really missed your presence. Sometimes, he really hated that the both of you were in the same career path. Of course, if you weren’t you never would have met, but being musicians meant your time at home was very limited. He’d gotten used to not seeing his loved ones often but not seeing you.. even while on tour you were a constant, always there beside him. And now you weren’t. It was a strange and foreign feeling to Harry and he hated it. 

You had purposefully made a few months break between legs of tour so that you could be home for Harry’s new song release and then the following promo up until the actual album drop. And having you back in his arms every night overshadowed any happiness he was feeling for the album. 

“I think one of us should quit our jobs.” He mumbles into your neck one night. Tomorrow was the day of his album release and you had yet to hear all of it, wanting to hear it along with the rest of his fans, anxiously awaiting the coming of solo Harry. 

“What?” You answer with a laugh. You’d thought Harry had fallen asleep. His head was buried in your neck, his breathing warming your skin, his arm was draped across your hips and his body basically consumed yours, his legs tangled with yours. You didn’t mind one bit. Your fingers brushed through his still short hair, though it was a bit longer now than it was when he was filming Dunkirk. He was talking about getting a trim soon though. 

“We’re apart too much.” He sighs, lifting his head to look down at you. It was dark in your room but you could still see, and basically feel, the sadness radiating from him. “I miss you so much.” 

“Harry, I’m right here though. I know I leave for tour again soon, and you leave for promo and then more promo for Dunkirk, but we’ve been making this work, haven’t we? We still always find our way back together, and we always will.” You seal this promise with a heated kiss to his lips and all conversation ends there. You feel his sadness wash out of his body as he consumes you, replaced with pure bliss and happiness. 

You went with Harry to Radio 1 the next morning, ready to listen to his album from start to finish as he debuted it on his best friend Nick’s breakfast show. As you listen to the songs, all of them where filled with such sadness, it seemed. Being alone, being hurt. It broke your heart. You hadn’t realized how alone Harry felt, how much sadness he truly had within him. Though when Sweet Creature was next, Nick asked who it was about and Harry simply looked over at you and smiled before shrugging and saying it was up to interpretation. 

Once you heard the words, ‘don’t know where we’re going but we know where we belong’, ‘wherever I go, you bring me home’, you think you knew who it was about. Harry meets you eye and the two of you smile at each other. 

“Your album is lovely, Harry.” You tell him once he was finished with the show. The two of you stood in the front lobby, waiting for your car to pull around. He smiles at you, pulling you into a tight hug. 

“Couldn’t have gotten through any of this without your support.” He presses a hard kiss to the side of your head before pulling back to smile down at you. “I really don’ know what the future holds for you and I but I know I’ll figh’ for us forever. You’re my home, my happiness, my love, and I can’ imagine my life withou’ you in it.” His words just about brought tears to your eyes and you reach up, taking his face in your hands and standing on your toes to reach your lips to his. 

“Lucky for you I’m not going anywhere,” You assure him when you pull back. “Even if we are far apart for awhile, just know you’re who I will always come back to. And the second you need me, I’ll be there - no matter what.” 

“I love you.” He presses another kiss to your lips before the car pulls up and your conversation ends as you head outside, walking past the fans waiting out front with a smile and a wave in their direction. By now everyone had gotten used to your relationship as in a two months it will have been a year since the two of you got together but they still were excited about it. Now though, the question moved from ‘when are you going to get together?’ to “when will you get married?’ Obviously that was no where near about to happen but you let the fans continue to dream anyway. 

Your life with Harry was everything you could ask for. You were happy and in love, as he was with you and really, that’s all that you needed. You were excited to see where the future did take you, what kind of life you would get to live with Harry, but for now you were perfectly content. 

Our Friends Across The Pond-Avenger!Reader x Eggsy Unwin

Summary: Requested by
@zainab-al-huwaizi:‘Hi!! Can you make an Eggsy Unwin x Avenger reader?? Where the reader is Tony’s cousin and she helps Eggsy in a mission and they meet more and stuff? (her powers are Telekinesis and Pyrokenisis) Idk if you like mixing two fandoms but I think it’s a good idea!’

Characters: Eggsy Unwin x Avenger!Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)= Your name

Warnings: Bit of swearing


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


“You’re sending me where?” I asked, wondering if I had heard my cousin right.

Tony continued to work on his suit.“To England. There’s a secret organisation like S.H.I.E.L.D stationed there. I hear it’s very James Bond though.”

“Why am I going? I mean, I’ll do it! But why me specifically?”

“They want to breach out their agents. Now that the world has realised that there are people with powers out there, they want to use it their advantage like S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“So I’m the test run?”

“Yeah. So don’t mess it up.”

I was to fly out to England the next day. Trust Tony to leave it last minute. Being the cousin of Tony Stark had brought many dangers, one of them being captured and experimented on. Only five years old and one of the last members of Tony’s family, I was an easy target. They kidnapped me from school, just as I was about to catch the bus, locking me up for years. Three years passed slowly, torturous experiments day in and day out, until they realised that they had done their job. They had given me telekinesis. However, because I was so angry and tormented by all of this, the telekinesis formed to gift me pyrokenisis. Tony was able to rescue me but these powers would take years to control.

Walking out to the launch pad, I saw the quinjet that had been prepared for me. Dumping my bag inside of it, I tried to calm myself down. I was representing in-humans everywhere. This secret service wanted to introduce them to their programs, we could all work together in peace, no one would be afraid anymore.

“Don’t be nervous. You’re powers won’t work.” Tony made me jump.

“I’m fine. It’ll be weird working with different people.”

“You know what to do if they give you trouble.”

“Light their asses on fire.”

“That’s right.”

Laughing, we hugged each other goodbye before I dissappeared onto the jet. FRIDAY was going to be piloting it for me. It was a long flight, around eight hours. That would give me enough time to think how I was going to be around these people. Would they be accepting? Was I going to be helpful in this mission?

We landed on the greens of a huge mansion. This couldn’t be it could it? Unless this was like a HQ thing? As FRIDAY touched down, I spotted a man stood further ahead with a clipboard, two younger (what I assumed were) agents standing either side of him. The back of the jet opened, revealing the cold weather I was told so much about; welcome to England.

“(Y/N) Stark, welcome to Kingsman. We are so glad that you agreed to come.” the bald man said.

“How could I say no? Free vacation to Britain sounded nice.” my American accent sounded harsh in contrast to theirs.

He shook my hand.“I am Merlin, I’m in charge of anything technical and overseeing new recruits.” He gestured to the woman beside him,“this is Lancelot,” then to the man,“and this is Galahad.”

They all saw my confusion.

“Those aren’t our real names.” the woman smiled.

Merlin also smiled.“No. They certainly are not. Just codenames.”

I chuckled.“Oh right. I wasn’t sure whether it was just insanely British around here.”

“Well, I suggest we head inside and have a briefing of the mission.”

When walking through the building, my mind was going crazy over the thoughts of everyone else. Clearly, talk of my arrival had been spread around. Many of these thoughts were negative. They couldn’t believe what the organisation was doing; some were bad mouthing the Avengers. They had no idea how much we had saved them from. One thought stuck out for me though, coming from a young man to our right.

'This is barbaric. They’re just going to end up hurting anyone who is normal.’

Tired of all these silent comments, I marched towards him. He obviously seemed panicked but was too slow to react to anything. Grabbing him by the collar, I created a flame in my hand, holding it just out of his reach.

“Sir, I would appreciate it if you would clear your mind of those disgusting thoughts. I’m here to help, and once y work here is done, you’ll be working with a lot more people like me.” the flame intensified.“So if you don’t want to get third degree burns, shut the fuck up.”

Everyone around us had stopped, shocked by what they had just seen. Shaking my hand, the flame went out and I went back to Merlin, waiting for him to continue walking. He cleared his throat, carrying on. I saw the two other agents smirking. At least someone enjoyed it.

I heard Galahad whisper to Lancelot.“That was bloody mental.”

The mission wasn’t a hard one. I was simply going to meet the target at one of his charity balls whilst Galahad would break into his office to gather his files they needed. As I had telekinesis, I would be able to see into his mind and hopefully gain the passwords we needed.

“So, what’s your real name?” I asked Galahad as we gathered up weapons.

“Eggsy.” his cockney accent rang out.

I tried to suppress a laugh.“Eggsy?”

He scoffed out a laugh.“Ok, well it’s actually Gary, but no one has ever really called me that.”

“I actually like it. It’s different.”

“So are you.” Eggsy stopped loading his gun.“I didn’t mean that to sound horrible-”

“No, it’s alright. You’re not wrong.”

His face suddenly lit up.“I couldn’t believe what you did! I’ve only ever seen something like that in superhero films! Come on, guess what I’m thinking.”

I laughed loudly, surprised by his enthusiasm.“Eggsy, we don’t have time-”

“Please!”

I sighed.“Alright.” I looked at him, wanting to mess around.“You think I’m utterly amazing.”

“Not far off luv.” he smirked.

I couldn’t help blushing, shaking my head as I tucked away a pocket knife.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Bloody hell, that was amazing!” Eggsy whooped as we sped away in his car.

“No it damn well wasn’t! I almost set fire to the place!”

Although I was successfully able to flirt and recieve the passwords needed for Eggsy, he was caught escaping the office. To cause a distraction for the guards, I had produced a small flame, setting alight to the long curtains that draped throughout the huge hall. However, I had not predicted that a bigger fire would erupt, causing everyone to evacuate. Eggsy had just grabbed me and made a dash for the car.

“When do you leave?” Eggsy asked.

“What? Uh, tomorrow I think.”

He sent me a charming smile.“Good. You need to see the sights of London before you leave.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


“And where are you off to?” Tony called out, sounding fed up.

“Take a guess.” I grinned as I saw him standing at my bedroom door.

“You going out with full english breakfast again?”

That was Tony’s nickname for Eggsy, not only because he was English but also because his name had 'egg’ in it.

I rolled my eyes.“He just finished a mission here and he’s got a few free days.”

“He seems to be over here quite a lot.”

“Yes he does. And I think it’s lovely that he wants to see me.”

“When I say 'quite a lot’, he’s been here six times in the last month.”

“Look Tony, I’ve not got enough time for this. I’ve got a date.” I grabbed my handbag, walking past him.

“Date? Hold on, it’s official now?” he followed me down the corridor.

“Yep. Now go work on some really technical thing, I’m going to be late.”

I managed to escape him in the elevator, heading straight down to the lobby. Bursting out of the doors, I couldn’t help a huge smile light up on my face as I saw him leaning against his car. Hugging him tightly, I whispered to him.

“I’ve missed you.”

“You saw me two weeks ago.”

“Eggsy, that’s a long time when you live across the ocean.” I pouted.

“Well I’m here now.” he kissed me smoothly, still leaning back on the car.“And we always make the most of it.”

“I know.” I sighed, slightly dazed by his lips. The effect never wore off.

His time got softer.“Don’t worry, we’ll be together soon, properly though.”

“Promise.”

“Good. Cause you know what I would do to you if you broke that promise?”

“Light my arse on fire.”

Like a Beautiful Flower

Okay, so I know this prompt is ancient but I’m just now getting around to writing it and I’m sorry. But I’m going to pretend that said Phil is a gardenER and not a garden because I don’t even know what that would be. So, here’s a oneshot for you! 

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 979


Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses. Dan always believed in the common saying. However, it was when he stayed smelling the roses that it was over the top. He, for some reason, would never leave these roses. So, there he was: a florist.

The job got boring quickly for Dan. He always loved nature, so he really thought it was the job for him. But when he started selling flowers for weddings, instead of stopping and smelling the roses, he woke up and smelled them. Dan was alone.

The only friend he even had was his gardener. The sweet old woman who supplied Dan with his flowers was the only person he ever talked to, and even then it was brief. But at least he had one person in the world who cared about him. But when she died, Dan was not only alone, but also out of flowers to sell.

Desperate, he searched his phone book for another garden he could get his flowers from. There was only one name in the book. “Lester’s Garden.” Dan read the name aloud to himself, as if he was questioning its validity for some reason. Staring at the page, Dan had to appreciate the aesthetic roses in the background of the garden’s contact information. At the bottom of the ad space, there was a single sentence. Squinting his eyes, Dan read it. “Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses.” Dan dialed the number.


Pulling up to the garden, Dan checked the address he had written on a torn piece of paper. The address was correct. However, he was in the driveway of a quaint brick house in the suburbs of London. Dan walked nervously up to the front door and knocked. The door swung open, and there stood a tall, black-haired man, smiling widely. “You must be Dan!”

“Yeah… And you’re Mr. Lester?” Dan eked out the words awkwardly, eyeing the man up and down. He wore denim overalls over a pastel yellow shirt. His outfit truly fit his job. And Dan, quite frankly, found it adorable.

“Call me Phil.” Phil winked at him, leading him through his house. Dan blushed, relieved Phil couldn’t see him. Dan noticed multiple dying houseplants throughout the house as they walked, and began to question Phil’s ability to grow flowers. However, when they reached the back door of Phil’s house, Dan found his backyard to be a sea of color. “I believe you asked for 500 tulips and 500 roses, equally divided with each color I have?” Dan simply nodded, distracted by the backyard. He had each color of flower planted out in the order of a rainbow. In the back corner of the yard sat a koi pond. “Dan?”

Shaken from his own thoughts, Dan responded. “Sorry, yeah. I’m here. I was just admiring your setup there.”

“It really is nice, isn’t it?” Phil loaded Dan’s flowers into a crate for him to take them back. “How are you doing?”

Dan was taken back at Phil’s attempt to get to know him. The soft, cute boy was also incredibly sweet. “I’m good, I guess… I’m glad I finally found you. I’ve been without a supplier for a few weeks now.”

“I’m glad too. You seem really nice.” Phil hesitated, glancing off into the distance before looking Dan in his chestnut brown eyes. “You will be coming back, right?”

Dan smiled back, admiring Phil’s blue-green-yellow eyes. “Of course. I’ll probably need a shipment in a couple weeks, actually. I’ll actually order another one now. Two weeks from today?”

Phil beamed. “Perfect!”

“Alright, as soon as I load the flowers into my truck and I’ll be on my way. I’ll see you then.” Dan smiled at Phil, who pulled a marker out of his pocket.

“Oh, yeah. Hold on. You can head on to your truck. I’ll bring the flowers.”

“You sure?” Phil smiled softly.

“I’ve got it.”


Dan arrived back at his flower shop and unloaded the flowers he bought from Phil. After each bouquet was gone, Dan found a single red rose in the bed of his truck. Picking up the rose, he saw a small piece of paper taped to it. “Text me for a bit more than flowers.” Dan smiled upon reading the phone number scribbled after the short message. The number was in his contacts within five minutes.


Only a week had passed, but Dan was already texting Phil whenever there was nobody in his shop. Phil had become his hobby, his refuge. He confided most everything in Phil, and Phil did the same for him. They had even disclosed their sexualities, and Dan’s heart jumped upon learning that Phil was as gay as he was. He wanted to ask Phil out. Badly. But something told him that Phil was too important for a text. He wanted to something special. Phil deserved it. Dan took out a pencil and a piece of paper.


“Dan?” He smiled at the surprised Phil in his doorway. “What are you doing here? Your next shipment isn’t until next week.”

“Actually, I have a flower delivery for you. Someone sent a bouquet to you. Dan handed Phil the bouquet, carefully arranged in the order of a rainbow. Phil found the attached note, and read it to himself before looking up at Dan, confused. “Phil, will you be my boyfriend?”

The ebony-haired boy beamed at his chestnut-haired counterpart. “Of course I will, you extravagant spork!” He wrapped his arms around Dan, who embraced Phil with a sweet, peaceful smile. The flowers fell to the ground, the note facing up. You’re like a beautiful flower, Phil. And I want to stop and smell the roses.

The Next Morning

The Next Morning

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 640

Warnings: brief mention of violence, general grumpiness, fluff, touching, implied smut.

A/N: This is for Sommer’s Sarcastic Writing Challenge, hosted by @wayward-marvel-sommer1196! My prompt: “It’s a beautiful day to leave me alone.” Enjoy.

Originally posted by bringmesomepie56

The smell of coffee brewing was the most beautiful thing you had experienced in the seventeen minutes you had been awake. Your entire body ached from the last hunt. Of course it did. You had been violently flung across a room, against a brick wall, before landing on a concrete floor. You were surprised you had any more functioning brain cells.

You poured the coffee into your mug and shuffled over to the small kitchen table. The silence that surrounded you made you smile as you slowly sipped your life juice, secretly hoping the boys had left for the day. When you had woken up, Dean was already up, and something about that fact made you smile.

You were completely done with people, at least for the day.

You cringed at the unmistakable sound of Dean’s boots stomping against the bunker’s concrete floor. He barged into the kitchen, smiling as he peered down at you.

“It’s a beautiful day, babe. We should go do something!” His voice was obnoxiously loud, making your entire body recoil from the sound. Sure, you loved the man, but you really needed your space today.

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iii. house of cards | myg + oc

house of cards | Min Yoon Gi + OC

word count: 8,679
genre: gang!au, smut
rated: NC-17+
warnings: teen pregnancy, mentions of blood, mentions of guns, nihilistic themes


iiiiii iv



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amusewithaview  asked:

If you write a smutty Darcy/Steve for the prompt: "You're telling me the fate of the world hinges on us making the beast with two backs?" "Yes." "...eh, I've done stranger things for worse reasons," then I will write a reciprocal fic for a pairing/prompt of your choice.

***EVIL CACKLING***


Darcy Lewis, The Superhero Layer

**

Darcy’s formative years were built around the late nineties and early ‘aughts, and therefore, were built on a strong foundation of powerful women on television.  Xena, Warrior Princess.  Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Kathryn Janeway, aka master of the universe.  She might not have been seeing strong women in movies, but she saw them on her favorite television shows.  And she learned quite a few things from her ritualistic watching and rewatching of those shows.

Lesson One:  Female friendships are important as all hell.

Trying to befriend Jane Foster had changed Darcy’s life.  She had been a shiny faced twenty-one year old kid when she’d spotted the astrophysicist falling asleep standing up with a McFlurry in her hand, and half an hour later she was the only applicant to a life changing internship.  Truly life changing.  

She’d befriended the Black Widow without a second thought, and thanks to that friendship, she got the call before the Sokovian Accords went live.  Darcy had just enough time to spirit Erik and Jane and Helen Cho away to greener, safer, restriction free pastures.  And once she had set up the Ranch for Wayward Super Scientists, it had quickly expanded into the Ranch for Wayward Super Scientists and their Bootylicious Vigilante Superheroes. Aside from having to churn her own butter, her current set up in life was pretty sweet, indeed.  The wifi was excellent.

Befriending Jane brought Sif, who was a badass lady herself and taught Darcy how to knock a man out with the blunt side of a sword.  And it was Sif who would come crashing back into her life seven years later with dire news about the end of the world as everyone knew it and inform Darcy that she was one of two people who could save it.

And in order to do that, she’d need some support.


Lesson Two  Always Have a Supporting Team of Awesome Sidekicks

Sure, a lot of people thought of Darcy as the sidekick in life, but she and her rocking self-esteem had decided that she was the heroine.  And people like Bucky Barnes and Wanda Maximoff were her sidekicks.  

“Dude,” Darcy came rushing into the main building of their secret superhero enclave, interrupting a definite moment between the former Winter Soldier and the Black Widow.  “Dudes.”

“Your protege is dude-ing me again,” Bucky sighed.  He gave Darcy the closest approximation he had to a patient look and asked, “What is it now, Little Lewis?  Did the cows get out of the pen again?”

“First, rude, all of my emergencies are serious business, Buckster,” Darcy sassed.

“That time with the coyote that was actually wind whipping around a loose shingle?” Natasha smirked.

“If that had been a coyote, you’d have been sorry!” Darcy sing songed.  She pointed a very stiff finger at Bucky as he opened his mouth, “Don’t even think about bringing up the time I thought the upstairs bathroom was haunted!”

Bucky held up his hands to wordlessly protest his innocence.  Darcy nodded at him and put her finger down before taking a deep, bolstering breath and blurting out quickly,

“I’m going need to take Steve to a ritual site in about forty-five minutes and I’m going to need complete privacy and I’m really going to need you to not ask any questions.”

She brought up the finger of no argument again and stuffed it right under Bucky’s nose.

“No, I’m not going to entertain your ridiculous questions.  Now—get it done.  The fate of the fucking universe depends on this!”

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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?

!!!PLEASE READ: THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER!!! THERE IS ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT!!!

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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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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Feeling Alive- Part 9

Summary: Dance school!AU (or the Step Up/Pride and Prejudice mash up nobody asked for). Bucky Barnes is forced to take twelve hours of commercial dance classes to pass the year- and that just happens to be your regular weekly dance class.

Introduction

Part 1 (Slow Hands)

Part 2 (Stay)

Part 3 (There Will Come a Time)

Part 4 (Weapon of Choice)

Part 5 (Came Here For Love)

Part 6 (Where the Sky Hangs)

Part 7 (When Can I See You Again?)

Part 8 (Manhattan)


Skip To The Good Bit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Chapter 10/?: Skip To The Good Bit

Word count: 3718

WHAT. The last chapter-? So many people-? Liked it-? Reblogged it-? I’m just an incoherent mess of half-formed sentences tbh THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH I DO NOT DESERVE YOU. This chapter is long and fun and hopefully you will finish with a smile on your face ;) Read on!


You huff out a breath and roll over in bed. It’s no good. Your brain simply won’t switch off. All you can think about is the last few hours: Bucky smiling; Bucky dancing with you around the kitchen; curling up on your tattered sofa and carefully tucking yourself against Bucky’s side… And the tiny matter of the incident on the porch. The miniscule, insignificant fact that Bucky had leaned forward in the weak yellow glow of the outside bulb and pressed his lips softly to yours.

Yeah, that.

Even just thinking about it makes you grin into the darkness. Fizzing bubbles seem to have filled your chest cavity, exploding against your ribs in glimmering sparks of colour.

Bucky kissed you.

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Five Times Zethrid Flirted With a Cat (and one time it flirted back)

Rating: T (language and brief but graphic depictions of violence)
Words: 5392
Summary: Zethrid has a problem, and that problem is a cat.

(Or, Zethrid might be crushing on Narti. She might be too much of a coward to talk to Narti. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud.)

Written for @queen-gr​ as part of the @vldlunarladies​ exchange!

[Read on AO3]


1. Accidental

It was a slow day in the Galra Empire. No rebellions to put down, no threats to confront, no large game on nearby planets to hunt as a gods-damned break from the monotony.

“I hate this assignment,” Zethrid said to no one in particular. It was just her in the officer’s lounge on the space station in the middle of literal nowhere that had been her home for the last… how many decaphoebes? Hell, she’d given up counting ages ago. Not like she was going anywhere anytime soon. All the interesting posts were reserved for the pure Galra. The ones with respectable parentage. The real soldiers.

Yeah. She’d like to see one of them step into the ring with her. Then they’d see who the real Galra was.

The lounge remained disappointingly quiet, and when she drove a fist into the couch cushion in frustration, it gave a rather anticlimactic huff and then, slowly, sagged beneath her knuckles.

Groaning, Zethrid flopped backward and pulled a pillow over her face. She could only imaging the lecture Lotor would give her if he saw her moping like this—let alone Acxa . But she couldn’t help it. She was bored. There was nothing to do except go down a few decks and pick a fight with one of the enlisted men, and it had already been made clear that that was not an option befitting one of Lotor’s generals.

The door hissed as it opened, and Zethrid groaned into the pillow. “I swear to fuck if you’re here to tell me there’s some dumb-ass meeting I should be at right now–”

Something small, light, and poky landed on her gut, forcing the breath out of her in a rush.

“What the–? Kova?” Zethrid lifted the pillow from her face and glared at the cat as he began kneading at her stomach. He didn’t purr—he never did—just stared her in the eye as he jabbed his tiny, sharp-clawed paws into her again and again. She swung the pillow at him and he scuttled back, hissing at her. Zethrid hissed back.

They glared at each other for a long moment, a silent battle of wills that dragged on longer than it should have. Once Zethrid realized she was having a staring contest with a cat, she flopped back down and cursed at the ceiling.

“That’s just perfect,” she grumbled. “I’ve stooped to getting territorial with an animal. Great job there, Zethrid. Really striking fear into the men’s hearts with this one.”

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