his voice is a miracle

my only angel


Based off my favorite song from the album and my favorite pet name. I’m not going to edit this so please ignore any glaring mistakes.Thank you for reading and i hope you have a swell day!

You had the string of the tea bag twirled around your finger.

Slowly, you dipped it into the mug with steaming water, humming along to the radio playing softly in the corner of Harry’s rather large kitchen. You were wide awake at seven this morning and no matter how hard you tried to go back to sleep, you couldn’t. So you stumbled out of Harry’s plush bed and found his pajama pants and a discarded t-shirt sitting on the ottoman in front of his reading chair. You needed socks for your insanely cold feet now, but you weren’t going to go back upstairs to disturb him. He was sleeping soundly and you didn’t have the heart to go back up there. So you decided to stay down here on the first floor drinking a cup of tea while you tried to get some work done.

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『 サクラメント』By Okamoto Nobuhiko Ending for Vatican Miracle Examiner

Omg I can’t. I’m going crazy.
It’s the first time nobu sing for an anime ending, and he nailed it!

Ahhhh It’s so beautiful… That I’m already crying at the first time I heard this

Astral, Ch. 2

<< Previous Chapter

Katsuki’s first day at Yuuei doesn’t go perfectly.

But then, it’s not like he expected it to.

The first day of high school, Katsuki only gets out of bed because Deku’s chattering gets unbearable. If he had things his way, he’d hole up in his room the whole day.

(Yuuei was Deku’s dream.)

“And I can even show you around, Kacchan!” Deku babbles. Fucking annoying. It hurts Katsuki’s ears.

“And why’s that?” he grunts while dealing with his hair.

Delighted at finally getting an answer out of him, Deku admits sheepishly, “I… may have been… taking a look. Around school. You know. Professional interest and all that.”

“Stalking and trespassing,” Katsuki sums up.

“Nope! Definitely not!” Deku flails. “Just, you know. Seeing if I could do it! And come on, Present Mic was there. And I saw Midnight, too! And-“

“Just shut the hell up,” Katsuki groans. “You’re too fucking loud.”

“…are you okay? Do you have a headache, Kacchan?” Deku’s eyes are big and concerned and Katsuki fucking hates them. “Noise doesn’t usually bother you, I mean, of course not, you can make explosions and stuff. So, are you all right?”

“I’m fucking fine, damn it!” Katsuki yells and immediately feels guilty for it.

“…I’ll tell Auntie Mitsuki to speak softly, is that okay?” Deku asks quietly, not quite looking at him before he winks out of existence. Katsuki throws a shirt at where Deku just was, cursing violently.

He hates everything about this day.

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Post-Rescue Sanvers Cuddle

She’d been so focused on not drowning that she almost didn’t register that the water?

The water was cold.

Very cold.

So cold that when she reaches for Maggie’s hands, Maggie can barely distinguish them from ice.

She loses consciousness on the way to the DEO, and Maggie leans over to take a look at Kara’s hand. To make sure Kara didn’t hurt herself breaking that glass.

Because she might be Supergirl, and she might still be in that suit, but right now, staring frantically at her big sister in the back of the DEO van, only moving so the medics can surround her, can make sure she stays alive, can make sure her temperature comes down safely?

Supergirl looks an awful lot like Kara Danvers.

An awful lot like the girl who almost lost her big sister.

So she offers her free hand to Kara, and Kara accepts it with her own.

They say nothing, but they don’t have to. They ride back to the DEO holding hands.

Keeping each other solid. Keeping each other steady.

The medics report to J'onn that her temperature has returned to safe levels, and it’s then that Maggie finds her voice.

“But her hands still feel like ice.”

The medic glances at her sympathetically. “Her limbs aren’t in any danger, and her core temp’s getting to where we need it to be, you don’t have to worr – ”

If he’s going to object to what Maggie’s started to do, or question it in any way, J'onn and Kara both stop him with a silently raised hand. Because they know better.

Because Maggie is maneuvering into the tiny medical bed next to Alex, shimmying under the covers and diligently making sure Alex is completely covered. She pulls Alex close to her, gently, gently, carefully, carefully, so that their bodies are flush together.

So that she’s giving her all of her heat.

Because that’s all she has to offer right now.

And that’s all she ever wants to give Alex: all she has to offer.

Winn chooses that moment to rush into the medical bay, and his brow immediately furrows on seeing Maggie in the bed with Alex, and J'onn and Kara hush him, too, before he can say anything.

But Maggie reads his expression, and she grins.

“Don’t worry, Winn, I’m not naked under here. You’re not interrupting anything.”

J'onn covers his face and Kara snorts as she reddens, and Winn splutters and stammers and James, entering behind him, just laughs, because Alex is alive, alive, alive.

“She still unconscious?” Winn finally forms the words to ask, and James grins.

“That’s probably the only reason Maggie’s still wearing clothes,” he teases, because she’s alive, god, she’s alive, and J'onn groans and promptly leaves and Kara shoves her fingers in her ears and hums loudly.

“Is she… how was she? When you found her?” Winn asks, his voice almost reverent.

Like it’s a miracle. Like Alex is a miracle.

And god, she is.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Maggie whispers, and she pulls Alex even closer to her and kisses her forehead. “She’s gonna be okay.”

Rowaelin (sorry not sorry)

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, holding her icy hand in his, eyes closed as tears formed behind them. “I’m sorry Fireheart. I’m sorry, for hating you, for not seeing how broken you were. I’m sorry I couldn’t see how much you needed a light.” Nothing happened. He had never once apologized to her when she was with him… He was trying now, in case his sorrow could reach her and being her back. But there was no sudden jerk of her fingers or beating of her heart. He doubted she could even hear his words, but he needed to try, for her, his mate who never- would never- have enough time to love. “I’m sorry I never realised, that you were my mate. I’m sorry I never noticed. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. That you had to be strong all over again and I wasn’t there. I’m sorry Fireheart, I’m so, so, sorry.” And still, nothing changed. “I miss you. Every day I miss you. Like a knife is piercing into my heart, twisting into it and slowly killing me. I miss your smile, your eyes, your voice. I miss your body against mine. I miss your scent.” Nothing was changing, she wasn’t returning to him and his voice cracked as the tears streamed down his cheeks. “I miss kissing you, because we never did that enough. I miss every moment I didn’t take time to savour. I miss every night, when we would lie there, just you and me, and even, just for a second, we were infinite.” The sound of blades being sharped filled his ears, men and woman shouting at one another to be ready, horses being shoed and armor tightened. But not the sound of her heartbeat. Of either of their heartbeats. “I should’ve reached you sooner. I should’ve loved you harder. I should’ve noticed.” His eyes flickered briefly to the small swell of her stomach. “I should’ve found you,” he choked out, gripping her hand harder. It was so, so cold, no fire burning underneath her skin. He wanted to kiss her, as if it might bring her back to him, but he felt, as if kissing her might steal the last breath lying buried and dormant in her body and he couldn’t bring himself to take it. “It should’ve been me. Gods know I deserve it after everything I’ve done.” His whole body shook as he prayed, and prayed for his Fireheart to come back to him. Prayers weren’t working. Not even Mala was listening to his pleas. Not even the Gods, could give him his Fireheart because they wanted their freedom more than his joy. “I can’t do this,” he whispered unsteadily. “I can’t be alone again…” Footsteps came closer to the tent.
“Rowan,” Aedion called, brushing back the tent flaps. “Everyone’s ready,” he sighed, taking in the sight of his cousin who lay, dead, on the bed roll. They were too late. All of them to late, and too stupid to notice what she had done to save them, and they were almost saved, almost… Rowan, did not feel as if he had been saved.
“I need time,” Rowan muttered, trying to make his voice even. He didn’t just need time, he needed a miracle. He needed his Fireheart- His mate.
“Five minutes. It’s all we have.” Rowan nodded and Aedion left. He looked once more at his Fireheart, who was lifeless and without her flames. 
“I miss you,” he croaked. “I miss the future we could’ve had, the life, the family.” Once more, his eyes flickered too the bump on her stomach. She’d been with child, and now his Fireheart, and his child, were dead, and he was living his worst nightmare all over again. “Come back to me,” he pleaded, the tears dripping off his cheeks and onto the hand he still clutched in wild desperation. “Please. I’ll do anything, just come home.” But she didn’t, and the five minutes were soon over and he had to leave the tent. He had to leave his Fireheart once more. When he came back, he too, would be dead. He knew it, the way you knew certain things. To get to Erawan, he would die in the process, and it would make him happy. If the Gods could not grant him his joy, he would fight his way through every hell for it.

He’d be with his Fireheart once more.

And Lysandra and Aedion could rule Terrasen, rule it in the ways Aelin would’ve wanted. 

And he’d be happy, to be dead and with his Fireheart. 

So he walked onto that battlefield, chin high and with an army behind him. And he fought- he was always savage when he fought and anger made him worse. People would speak of the way he fought, long after he was buried, as if a fire had burned inside of him and shielded him until he was walking towards Erawan and swinging his sword. And maybe, Aelin’s fire had burned within him, and protected him, and sheltered him in the love she couldn’t give him when they were separated by heaven and hell. 

He killed his way to Erawan and then he killed Erawan and himself.

But he saved everyone.

And he died. 

And he was happy, because his Fireheart was waiting.

Reincarnation

Here’s my piece for day one of Wondertrev Week!

day 1 // July 24th - reincarnation // favorite scene/interaction 


The time passes with little to no fanfare. First, it’s just days. They visit the celebration happening in Trafalgar Square following the end of the war. Etta hears about the memorial set up for fallen soldiers and the crew goes to see it all. Diana walks by celebrating young lovers, a child propped on his father’s shoulders and her heart breaks more and more with each step. The pain floods back to her and she falters as she approaches the board of soldiers’ photographs. She sees Steve again and it takes all the strength she can muster not crumble to the ground. Unshed tears form in her eyes and she tries to smile at Steve’s picture but she can only manage a slight upturn of her lips before she has to turn away.

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Making Time [REQUEST]

The Han River was buzzing with activity despite the sun beginning to set along the western horizon, filling the sky up with streaks of orange and red across the sky. All around you, people were passing by enjoying their evening, riding their bikes or jogging along the river bank or just simply taking a leisurely stroll. No one paid much attention to you sat by yourself on a bench, nor did they flicker a glance at the man dressed in a black suit just behind you.

You had found that people often seemed to just ignore dealings with the mafia, blissfully ignorant to the darker world going on around them. You probably would be the same if you hadn’t grown up with the mafia. Growing up with a mafia boss for a father meant you were pretty used to living a dangerous life, especially since your father died and your fiancé was named his successor. Now instead of being the daughter to a mafia boss, you were about to marry one.

Despite all the crazy, dangerous and possibly illegal things going on in your life, you and Jongin still managed to make time for each other. It may not sound like a normal relationship but you tried to be as much as possible - date nights to the cinema or dining out in fancy restaurants. For tonight’s date night, he was treating you to ice cream by the river.

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Hangover (Drabble)

Jesse McCree woke up in a haze with no recollection of anything beyond yesterday afternoon. His head throbs painfully, and his limbs feel like they’ve been rung out and hung to dry like Sunday laundry. Actually, his whole body felt very much like that. Shit, what just happened last night?

He stretched, stopping with a hitched breath when his legs hit something that shifts minutely beside him. His heart dropped to his stomach and it took all the willpower in his weary body to not bolt out of the bed and run out of habit. Beside him was you, still asleep but seemingly on the cusp of waking. Oh no.

He wracked his brain, desperate to remember before you got up despite the fuzziness and pain. What the hell happened last night? He was drinking, that much was obvious. Who was he drinking with? Hana was there, definitely. Hanzo. And a few others who held their liquor better than expected. They were all drinking, but were you there? Why were you here? His head felt like it was about to crack.

“M’cree?”

“Heya, darlin’.” His tongue was heavy, and his voice came out like sandpaper in this throat. It was a miracle to him that his voice didn’t shake or betray any of the anxiety that was building up in his bare chest. It wouldn’t be the first time waking up in someone else’s bed after a dubious night of drunkness, but with you…that’s another story entirely. He respected you as a comrade. A friend. He had to know, otherwise he’d never be able to look you in the face again. If he even had a face once word gets out to the other members of Overwatch.

“I didn’t…do anythin’ untoward t’ya last nigh’, did I?” He wanted to throw up.

You blinked at him blearily, propped up on an elbow. Realization crept into your features, and you shook your head with a breathy laugh. It eased some tension that coiled in his chest. He didn’t mind hearing such a laugh so early, actually. It was…pleasant and washed away his fatigue like a gentle drizzle. “No, nothing happened. You just wanted a hug and…went to sleep like that.”

Jesse had a feeling there was more that you weren’t telling him, but judging by the fact that you’re still clothed and there were no visible marking on any skin that he could see, he could probably say he was safe from an awkward conversation. You yawned, dropped your face back into the pillow, nuzzling it. Cute, like a cat. Now that the danger has passed, Jesse noted with some amusement that you seemed unusually at ease with the presence of a half-naked cowboy in your bed. (Probably because you still had all your memories intact.) You looked ready to fall back asleep, and McCree doesn’t want to overstay his welcome.

“Well, thanks for the company, darlin’, but I shou’ get goin’…”

He’s stopped by a warm hand on his thigh.

“Just stay. You make a good heater.” You don’t even open your eyes to address him. He considered his options and decided fuck it, if you were okay with him being here and having him as a heater, then he’s okay with it, too. He pulled the blankets over himself and you. You snuggled closer, grumbling slightly, and he had to keep himself from commenting on how  adorable you were and wrapping his arms around you tight. He wasn’t sure where the boundaries were in the situation, after all. He chose to just drape an arm loosely over your waist, relishing in the warm and steady presence you provided. If he was allowed to, he could get used to this. 

Sleep was always a good cure for hangovers.

vixensheart  asked:

I request "So are you guys dating, or?" for BbRae! XD

YOU GOT IT. I’m kind of hyped about YJ S3, and I’m looking forward to some more BB character development, so, I’ve had this idea in my head for a while! A potential ‘what if’ situation. :) I hope it’s okay! For obvious reasons, he’s aged up here. 


“You came,” she breathed, her expression more of relief than anything else.

It was the first time in a long time that he’d seen her act not so indifferent; she was genuine in her pleasure with seeing him again. It gave him hope, made him feel a glimmer of that exhilirating anticipation, that he was something more to her. Especially when she looked at him like that

Beast Boy morphed back into his human shape and dusted off his uniform. Sparing her a small smile, and spending a few moments to appreciate her uncanny beauty, he finally found his voice. “And you’re not actually evil.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

It was a miracle neither Bart or Jaime had been there to hear that one. 

Suddenly, her eyes were like purple steel. She crossed the room towards him, closing the distance in a few strides, and her hands came up to clutch at his shoulders. He tried to ignore the way his heart pounded in his chest at her unexpected nearness. “Gar, you can’t be here. You have to go. Now.” 

The seriousness in her tone had returned, but the way her brows furrowed, and her bottom lip jutted out, told him that she was just worried about his well-being. 

He shook his head in protest. “I can’t just leave you here, Rae. Not when I know the truth. Come on, we have to go tell the others what’s really going on.” He grabbed hold of her hand firmly, not waiting for her consent, and tugged her after him.

Raven broke free of his grasp immediately after giving him quite a bit of resistance. “No! I can’t!” She cried out.

He stilled, watching her back away reluctantly, like it was the last thing she wanted to do. “Beast Boy, I can’t go with you.” Her voice softened, and she averted her gaze to the ground.

“Why not?” Even to his own ears, he sounded desperate.

[the rest is under the cut!]

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Running from the Past: Chapter 10

Summary: Female!Reader is a mutant who was experimented on by HYDRA. Due to her unique powers, she escaped a year and a half ago without being seen when the Avengers attacked the Hydra compound she was kept in for 5 years of her life. Her mutations and Hydra experiments allow her to blend in with her surroundings (like a chameleon/cuttlefish/octopus) and change her appearance in minor ways (such as hair, skin, and eye color), though the changes are only temporary. She has decided to stay with the Avengers in the hopes they can help her retrieve lost memories.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Avengers x Reader (Platonic)

Word Count: 2,102

Warnings: Language, violence/fighting, traumatic past (mentions of torture/experimentation), angst, more angst, slow burn

A/N: Did someone say angst? I’m pretty sure I heard “angst.” It’s only going to get worse. Sorry not sorry.. Except about the delay. I am sorry about that.

Translations: sestra - sister

Masterlist // Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Originally posted by jlstreck

The Past

You sighed softly when he kissed your neck before setting you down. “I hate it when you’re right,” you said, pecking him on the lips. “Please tell me you have a way out of here,” you said, glancing over the edge of the rooftop at the mayhem below.

“Of course, (Y/N). I’d never let my best girl get hurt,” he said, grinning at you.

You smiled sadly back at him. You both knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep.


The Present

Bucky’s POV

You were late. You always made breakfast at the same time every day. It was one of the few habits you’d developed in your time at the base. Bucky glanced at the digital clock on the wall. It flashed “9:32″ at him in bright neon blue letters. Thirty-two minutes late.

He’d been avoiding you but still kept a close eye on you. He would always worry about you, but his feelings for you were only growing and you had no idea what there had once been between you. He had to distance himself before he ruined your relationship by making a move on you while you were confused and vulnerable. He’d never take advantage of you like that.

A sense of dread wormed its way into his stomach. He got up from his spot at the dining room table and headed to the room you shared. He knocked on the door quietly. There was no response. He knocked a little louder. FRIDAY had said you had entered and not come out yet. Trying not to panic, he quickly entered the pass code.

She was probably showering. That had to be it. That’s why she didn’t respond. He thought to himself. He shoved the door open and let out a deep sigh of relief when he saw you sitting on the bed, cross-legged.

“Good, you’re alright. You could have answered the door, y’know,” he said, eyes adjusting to the low light.

“Bucky,” you said. Something in your voice made his stomach clench with dread.

“(Y/N)?” he asked tentatively, taking a step into the room. The door shut with a deep, foreboding clack.

Your POV

You held the tablet in your hands, staring down at it. Tears trailed down your cheeks in an unfaltering torrent. Instead of answering Bucky, who had been inching closer to the bed, you pressed the play button. The sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra’s Moonlight Serenade filled the room with the romantic melody. Bucky froze as soon as the first chord of the song rang out.

Finally, you looked up at him. He was staring at you, pale, eyes widened in shock as he finally realized you were crying.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice cracking, hiccuping between choked sobs.

“You remember? Everything?” he asked.

Something inside of you snapped. “I don’t know, Bucky!” you screamed, standing on the bed. “But I know we were dancing on a rooftop! And I know how I felt about you. And I saw it in your eyes. You felt the same! You broke through the Hydra brainwashing! Because of me! For me!” you said, glaring down at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, unable to hide the hurt in your voice at way your heart was breaking.

“You wouldn’t’ve believed me,” he said quietly, voice strangled. His eyes searched yours. “And even if by some miracle you did, I still wouldn’t be with you,” he said, eyes flicking to the ground as he spoke.

Liar,” you hissed, heart shattering.

“Never, Doll. Not about this,” he said, refusing to look you in the eyes.

“Don’t call me that,” you spat. “I’m not your doll.” You tried to ignore the way your legs threatened to give out.

You clambered down off of the bed and stormed up to him. He stared determinedly at the ground.

“Last chance, Bucky. Tell me everything. Give me an explanation I can understand. Fix this now, or I’m never going to speak to you again,” you said, your tone deadly. It would hurt to much to be around you and not with you, You thought, chest constricting painfully.

He was a silent for a moment before he spoke. “I think that’s for the best,” he said, voice completely devoid of all emotion.

The tiny spark of hope you’d carried until then was smothered by his words. You raised a hand and pulled it back to slap him, but froze. No, you wouldn’t let this turn you into something you’re not.

Instead, you grab his shirt, the fabric balled in your fists. You tug hard on it, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “You’re a fucking liar, James Buchanan Barnes,” you rage, giving him a slight shove before you walked past him and out of the door to his room, slamming it behind you.

You made it ten feet out of the door before you started sobbing. You couldn’t even make it to Wanda’s room before your legs gave out. You dropped like a sack of potatoes and curled into a ball. There was more than just one rooftop dance. Something in your mind told you that, and you had to agree. A simple night of kissing wouldn’t hurt this badly. One of the most unfair parts about the entire situation was that you didn’t even know why it hurt so much. Sobs racked your body and you didn’t notice right away when a pair of arms lifted you up and held you bridal style.

Through your tears you managed to see Sam, looking at you worriedly.

“What happened, (Y/N)?” he asked, concern clear in his voice.

You shook your head violently and buried your head in his shoulder, muffling your sobs.

“Want me to take you to Wanda?” he asked quietly. You nodded, unable to speak.

“Alright, Cuttlefish. Let’s go,” he said. He carried you down the hallway to Wanda’s room. When you arrived, she was already at the door. She looked from you to Sam and back in alarm.

“What happened? Was it another memory? Where’s Bucky?” she asked, opening the door so Sam could carry you into her room. You whimpered at the sound of his name.

Sam placed you gently on the bed and shrugged helplessly to Wanda. “I’ve got no idea. I was on my way back to my room when I found her crying in the hallway. You know about as much as I do,” he said, sharing a worried look with Wanda.

“Thanks for bringing her to me. I’ve got it from here… I hope,” she said, giving Sam a bracing smile. He didn’t look entirely convinced, but exited the room anyway, shutting the door behind him.

“What happened, sestra?” Wanda asked as she sat down next to you on her bed. She grabbed blankets and pillows and half buried you under them. You welcomed them. They made you feel just a tiny bit safer.

“Duh wah tahk bou ih“ you said between gasping breaths, voice muffled blankets.

“… If you’d prefer, I could look into your mind, instead? You look a mess… Something horrible must have happened. I’d like to help you, if I can,” she said, giving you a small, warm smile.

You thought about it for a moment, hiccuping quietly. “-Kay,” you croaked, nodding your head. She placed her hands gently on your head and you took a deep, shaky breath, preparing yourself as best you could.

A second later, she invaded your thoughts. You thought you were used to her doing it by now, but this was some sort of personal hell. You only caught glimpses of it, but she was looking at your memories of being The Infiltrator with The Soldier. She watched your most recently acquired memory: the murder of the Senator and the events afterwords, including your fight with Bucky after regaining consciousness. Reliving it all sent you into sobs all over again. You’d finally remembered what you’d seen when you’d passed out the first time. You didn’t think remembering would be this painful.

Suddenly, her hands left, along with her presence in your mind. Then she was hugging you, crushing you to her chest. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N). I thought it was the memories, but- If you want, I can kill him. Or maim him. Or give him horrific visions. It’s up to you, really,” she said as she rubbed circles on your back.

The thought manages to lift your spirits a little and the corners of your mouth turn up slightly as a fresh wave of tears ran down your cheeks. You shook your head against her shoulder and blew some of her hair out of your face.

“Not worth it,” you said, hugging her back. “’Preciate it, though.” You said, giving her a gentle pat on the back. You tried to wrangle in your emotions. It sort of worked. You were crying a little less now.

“Do you want ice cream?” she asked, leaning back enough to peer at your face.

You thought about it, wiping your tears away with your sleeve. “Can I hit things, first? Then ice cream after?” you croak, voice hoarse from crying.

She beams at you. “I like that idea. Let’s do that.”


Turned out hitting things and eating ice cream made you feel a little better. While you were out with Wanda, Sam and Steve had moved most of your things into your brand new room. It had been ready for a day or two now, but you’d put moving off. Until now, you hadn’t wanted to move out of Bucky’s room.

The last step was moving all of your books into your room. You and Wanda joined Steve in moving them, but you’d asked Sam to go grab drinks for the group. You didn’t want to risk him seeing your collection. You could imagine all of the jokes he’d make until you were all old and wrinkly and suppressed a shudder of horror.

You set your final box down and flopped backwards onto your huge new bed, exhausted, and stared at the ceiling. Wanda joined you a moment later, hitting the mattress just as hard as you had and joined you in your tired staring contest with the ceiling. Something huge flies past you and you yelp in shock as your mattress flies a few inches in the air. Steve had taken a running leap and launched himself onto the bed next to you. He’d caused enough force for the bed to convulse under you.

You turned your head to look at him. He smiled at you sheepishly. “Sorry, the bed looked perfect for that. It was,” he said, giving you a thumbs up.

You snorted, and on your other side you heard Wanda giggling.

“The Falcon’s coming in for a landing!” was all the warning you got from Sam before he ran at the bed.

“Sam, no!” Steve said.

“Don’t you da-” you began.

“No no no no no n-!” Wanda exclaimed.

But Sam had already jumped, landing on top of the three of you. You sat up and glared at him as he laid across your knees. Steve and Wanda weren’t as lucky. Sam was laying across Wanda’s stomach, and Steve’s head was in Sam’s armpit. Sam made a valiant attempt to keep the Super Soldier in the prone position, but Steve shoved him off, then gasped for air.

“I brought drinks,” Sam said, grabbing the bottles off of the bed. “Threw ‘em before I jumped. For dramatic effect, of course,” he said, handing all of you your orders.

“Sam, get up,” Wanda said, wheezing under his weight.

“What’s the magic word?” Sam said tauntingly.

“Whatever I want it to be,” she said dangerously. Her eyes began to glow.

“Shit,” was all Sam was able to get out before Wanda launched him across the room. He landed in your dirty laundry basket, ass first. You all broke into laughter at his predicament.

“Haha, yes. Very funny. Now please help me. I think I’m stuck,” he said, trying and failing to wiggle his way out of the basket.

“Did you hear something, Steve?” You asked him.

“No. Did you, Wanda?” Steve asked her.

“Nope, not a thing,” she said, smirking.

“Oh, that’s cold,” Sam said, causing you all to begin laughing again.

Eventually, Steve went over and helped him out. But not before you all took verbal potshots at him, getting revenge for his unannounced dive bomb earlier.

You were having so much fun with your friends that you were almost able to ignore the gaping hole Bucky left in your heart.



Chapter 11

Permanent tag list for all future RftP chapters I release below the cut. If you’d like to be added /ask me or like this post.

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Stray Dog 3/3

As fugitives from Soul Society, they don’t exactly have the chance to get out much. Which might be nice if Shinji was living with a harem of beautiful, busty, voracious women, but instead he’s stuck with seven of the weirdest, most aggravating morons this side of a mental ward.

Just one more thing to blame Aizen for, in the end.

Sometimes, when he cannot physically withstand another sandal to the head or another dirty manga abandoned on the couch or another bout of Rose humming or Kensei and Mashiro squabbling or anything without unleashing his inner Hollow on the lot of them, Shinji will have just enough of an attack of stupid not to give a shit anymore. Aizen or Soul Society or whatever—by that point he’ll freaking welcome them with open arms. So he’ll leave. Just up and walk out, and the first time he did it he freaked out the rest enough that they were on their best behavior for months afterwards, never mind that he’d never made it further than the nearest bar to get plastered.

Unfortunately, that effect seems to have degraded with time. Now he’s lucky if they even give him a few hours of peace when he gets back. But, well, sometimes an hour’s better than nothing.

Shinji always makes sure it’s fairly dramatic, too, his departure. Lots of screaming “good riddance!” and slamming doors with inhuman strength and such. This one’s no different, and he stalks away from their base with his long coat flaring out behind him, the memory of seven startled faces barely enough to begin wearing away at his murderous edges.

He ends up in a lounge a few hours later, like he always does once his temper cools enough that he can start to feel sorry for himself. It’s a tiny little hole in the wall, just enough upscale edge to make it a certain shade of gloomy that appeals to Shinji’s sense of aesthetics, and while it’s not the cheapest place in Karakura it’s definitely what he needs.

This time, when he walks in still mildly seething and halfway wishing for a Menos or something to brutally slaughter—which is an improvement to wanting to slaughter his fellow Vizards—the bar is practically empty, the tables scattered around the floor unfilled. There’s a woman seated at the far end of the bar, giving off such clear fuck-off vibes that Shinji doesn’t even bother giving her more than half a glance, but otherwise there are no customers.

There’s a new bartender, too, and Shinji wonders with faint amusement if that’s got something to do with the deadness.

Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s barely four o’clock on a Monday.

Still, the guy’s cute, though with the tattoos and scars he looks a little out of place in his neat bartender’s uniform—more like he should be in some back-alley joint with bouncers and regular fights and a baseball bat behind the counter, rather than a lounge like this. Spiky dark hair and tanned skin and lots of sleek muscles, and yeah, Shinji is more than appreciative of the eye candy, his bad mood quickly falling away in the face of it. Because chicks are great, and boobs will never get old, but there’s something to be said for pinning another guy down and making him scream.

“Good afternoon,” the guy says, putting down the glass he’s polishing and giving Shinji a faint smile. There are slight lines around his storm-grey eyes, almost wariness, but maybe Shinji’s reading too much into things. “What’s your poison?”

For half a second, Shinji debates ordering a Blow Job or a Screaming Orgasm just to see the man’s reaction, but regretfully decides he’s not in quite that sort of mood and instead offers, “You any good at a Lemon Drop Martini?”

That earns him a flash of teeth as the man grins and turns away. “You wearing socks? ‘Cause I guarantee I can knock ‘em off.”

I bet you can, Shinji thinks admiringly, studying the very, very nice curve of the man’s ass as he turns away. But it’s a bit too early to be scaring the guy away, so he goes with, “I’ll hold you to that. But you look new. Something happen to Hayato?”

The strong shoulders, barely hidden by the white shirt and vest, lift in a quick shrug as the man tilts the tumbler and deftly pours it into a glass, garnishing it with a twist of lemon before he slides it over to Shinji. “He got married and decided to get a real job. I’m Shuuhei.”

Shinji takes a sip, eyes closed to savor it. Sweet, sour, bite. Just the way he likes it. But that opening’s too good not to take, and he gives the man—Shuuhei—a quick grin. “An’ I’m Shinji. So this isn’t your real job, then? Got something on the side?”

A sideways glance from beneath dark lashes almost catches him by surprise, since the guy’s barely looked at him twice, but it’s strangely appealing when coupled with those sharp-stark scars and the blue stripe of that tattoo. “Yeah,” Shuuhei says dryly. “I try and save the world whenever I’m not mixing drinks for stuck-up assholes.”

Shinji barks out his first genuine laugh in what feels like a god-damned age, grinning widely as he takes a generous sip of martini. “Oh? I can see the spandex thing working for you, definitely, but I’ll admit you didn’t strike me as the type.”

Shuuhei grins back, a little wry but mostly amused. “Well,” he says easily, “not every superhero fights out in the open. I like to think I’m more of a back-alley-deals kind of guy. Stop the megalomaniac from the shadows and all that.”

Something twists in Shinji’s chest, bitter and bracing, and he tosses back the rest of his drink to cover his grimace. “Takes all types,” he agrees, and tries not to think how very much his situation fits that simple summary.

“Another?” Shuuhei asks, already snagging his glass.

By now, Shinji’s more than ready to throw caution to the wind. The guy seems open enough not to take a swing at him, at least. Summoning up his best flirtatious grin, he drops his elbows on the smooth wood of the bar and leans forward, like it’s a secret. “And if I asked for a Screaming Orgasm?” he questions, voice just above a purr.

Shuuhei meets his eyes for three long heartbeats, expression unreadable, and then one corner of his mouth curls up in amusement. “I’d say my shift’s over at six,” he answers, and that flare of heat in his eyes is somewhere between challenge and anticipation. An answering heat curls in Shinji’s stomach, and he wants.

Then Shuuhei gives him a full-on smile, bright and a little wicked, and lowers his voice to add, “Beyond that, I really hope you like to top. I think I could use a screaming orgasm of my own after today.”

Shinji’s mouth goes dry, a vision of acres of golden skin spread out beneath him flashing before his eyes, and he has to think of Hiyori’s screeching to keep from embarrassing himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s a fucking miracle that his voice comes out steady. “I think we’ll be able to work something out.”


Shinji wakes up alone in the hotel room with bright sunlight falling over him, warm and well-rested and totally at peace with every damn thing in the universe. It’s been years since he last got laid, and every single bit of tension that’s been coiling through his body is gone, eased away by a really fucking awesome night.

And, yeah, it might be nicer if Shuuhei was still here, ready for a final round of morning sex, but Shinji can’t bring himself to mind the other man’s absence too much. It was a one-night thing, and both of them knew that going in. Shinji’s in no place to be making commitments, not to anything aside from tearing Aizen down and grinding him into the mud. And, regardless of looks that should be able to get him laid without effort, Shinji got the impression that Shuuhei was just as in need of a release of tension as Shinji himself.

He rolls over in the bed, enjoying the stretch and pull of muscles that haven’t been put to good use in far too long, and grins to himself. Yeah. No penny-dreadful romance novel plots here, but it was still one fucking awesome night, excuse the pun, and he’s content with that.

There’s a note on the nightstand beside him, a scrap of hotel stationary scrawled in a ridiculously neat, precise hand.

Sorry, had to go to my other job. I’ll buy you a drink next time you come in to make up for the lack of morning-after sex.

–Shuuhei

Great minds think alike, apparently. Shinji decides that a drink with a hot guy sounds very nice indeed, already planning a time to sneak out of the base to take Shuuhei up on it as he hauls himself into the shower. A quick scrub, a cup of fancy coffee from the upscale place down the street, and he saunters deeper into Karakura, deciding to let the other Vizards stew for a bit longer. The bastards can take it, after all, and Shinji’s going to milk this not-an-actual-clusterfuck of a day for all it’s worth before he has to go back to the loony bin.

Well, that particular loony bin, he acknowledges, seeing as his feet are headed towards Urahara’s store. But Urahara’s usually up for a spar at the very least, and Shinji could use some downtime. With the others, sparring is training for taking on Aizen, and Shinji doesn’t want to think about that bastard for at least another few hours.

With a peaceful sigh, he rounds the corner and strides into the courtyard in front of the store, waving a lazy greeting to the little girl sweeping. “Yo, Ururu-chan.”

“Hirako-san,” the girl mumbles, blushing. “Boss is inside, if you’re looking for him.”

Shinji nods and heads up the steps without hesitating, though he keeps his easy swagger. No point in rushing, after all. “Kisuke?” he calls, poking his head around shelves and stacks.

“Shinji,” the scientist responds cheerfully from about three and a half inches behind him, making him all but jump out of his skin. That earns him a fan-flutter and a very wide, badly hidden smirk. “Oh my. Jumpy, are we?”

Shinji scowls at him, but can’t force himself to hold it for long. In the end, he settles for rolling his eyes and reaching out, smacking that stupid bucket-hat down a little further over the younger man’s eyes. “Whatever, ya sneaky freak,” he huffs. “Any news?”

Agreeably, Kisuke readjusts his beloved hat and turns, leading the way towards the dining room. “Ah, not much, I’m afraid. Things have been rather quiet of late. There’ll be a new shinigami stationed here soon, but she’s unseated and nothing to worry about.”

About to respond, Shinji pauses. There's…reiatsu in the air, a reiatsu he’s not familiar with, and while he hardly thinks Kisuke is going to betray them after so much time—

“Urahara-san, where do you want these? Back in the storeroom?”

That voice is entirely familiar and just as wholly unexpected, making Shinji falter even as a head of spiky black hair appears around the corner, half-concealed by a precarious stack of boxes. The arms he can see are strong and corded, the skin honey-colored and smooth where it isn’t lightly scarred, and intimately familiar.

Shuuhei-kun?” Shinji blurts in absolute shock, because this is the man he fucked into a mattress last night, only with the addition of enough reiatsu to leave him at the lower end of captain-class and a katana slung diagonally across his back.

The man pauses, then carefully sets the boxes down and stands up, grey eyes meeting Shinji’s with muted surprise.

“…Oh,” Shuuhei says after a moment. “Shinji-san.”

“How interesting,” Kisuke coos, flitting around the two of them with a bright, knowing smile. “You’re acquainted with my new part-timer, Shinji?”

Biblically, Shinji wants to say, but he’s tactful enough to settle on a simple nod. No need to give Kisuke any more ammunition than he can dig up on his own, after all.

“Urahara-san,” Shuuhei says after a long moment of fairly awkward silence. He gives the shopkeeper a quick, meaningful glance and Kisuke’s eyes narrow beneath the shadow of his hat.

“Do you think that’s really such a good idea, Hisagi-kun?” he asks, and there’s very little that annoys Shinji more than being left out of the loop. He fixes both of them with a hard stare, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an expectant eyebrow.

Shuuhei, of course, meets his stare dead-on—even knowing him less than twenty-four hours, Shinji can tell he’s not the type to be easily cowed by anything. But the younger man inclines his head regardless, as though Shinji’s just won some sort of battle, and steps back. “I’m sure,” he tells the shopkeeper. “Sorry, Urahara-san. We’ll be using your training ground, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly, certainly. Take all the time you need, Hisagi-kun.” Sharp grey eyes stay on them as Shuuhei leads the way down the hall, and Shinji spares Kisuke one last glance—narrow, warning, because Shuuhei is obviously a shinigami or something very much like it, is obviously well-acquainted with the shopkeeper beyond just working for him, and Shinji’s going to be having words with Kisuke about keeping important things from him—before following him.

As soon as Shinji’s feet hit dirt, he turns to look at Shuuhei, and is almost startled to see the younger man dip into a deep bow, the kind of gesture that no one’s directed at Shinji since the whole disaster with Aizen. It’s…strange, seeing it again.

“Hisagi Shuuhei, former lieutenant of the Ninth Division, under Tousen Kaname,” Shuuhei says formally, straightening up and meeting Shinji’s eyes again, firm but faintly apologetic. “I’m sorry for misleading you, Captain Hirako.”

“…Ninth,” Shinji says after a beat, his gaze settling on the pair of numbers inked into Shuuhei’s skin. He’s seen them before, every time Kensei has taken his shirt off, but he’d dismissed it as coincidence. A mistake, obviously. “I should have realized.”

The brunet blinks, one hand rising to touch his cheek, and then he smiles a touch wryly. “Oh, right. Not my subtlest decision, I guess, but for the record I wasn’t drunk and I’ve yet to regret it. Captain Muguruma saved my life the same day he…disappeared. But he inspired me to join the Gotei 13 about fifty years ago, where I heard about what had happened. It was just…something I couldn’t let go of, especially since I started having suspicions about Tousen, Ichimaru, and Aizen. So I left, and eventually found Urahara. He filled me in.”

Shinji’s not a fool. He can tell there’s far more to the story than those five sentences let on. It’s been almost a hundred years since their exile, after all, and fifty years are a long time to spend alone and hunting. Shinji knows that better than most. And to leave the Gotei 13 on a hunch? To abandon everything so simply for the sake of a man Shuuhei only met once? That’s…

Shinji can’t tell if it’s absolutely flat-out moronic or the noblest damn thing he’s ever heard. Maybe a bit of both, honestly.

“I take it you’re in on Kisuke’s plans?” he asks with a faint sigh. Yet another life upended that he’s more than happy to blame on Aizen.

Shuuhei nods, grey eyes going sharp and hard, like honed steel. “I am. Shiba Kaien knows my location and what’s going on, and he’s been helping me sneak in and out of Soul Society when necessary. Urahara-san is to going to use that as a backup plan, and I’ve agreed.”

“Knowing Aizen, we’ll need a backup plan for that, too,” Shinji huffs. He eyes the former lieutenant, the easy way he carries himself, and remembers the sword callouses on his hands. For a moment he wavers, but then, with a faint sigh, he gives in to his curiosity. “Feel up to a spar? That’s what I was coming here for, but after a hundred years I’m tired of kickin’ Kisuke’s ass all the time. Want a turn?”

Shuuhei smiles. It’s definitely not a nice expression.

The sword comes out.

“Let’s see if I can’t kick yours first.”

Shinji grins right back, pops a soul pill, and steps out of his body as it falls away. “Now we’re talkin’, kid. How about you put your money where your mouth is?”

Shuuhei flips his zanpakuto around, catches it deftly, and growls, “Hado 58: Tenran.”

Sakanade comes to Shinji’s hand like an old friend, and he laughs even as the hurricane comes right for him. This will be fun.


When he wanders back to base some time in the early evening, it’s deathly silent within. Shinji steps through the barrier, brows rising when he sees all seven Vizards sprawled out in the main room. 

Almost instantly, Hiyori bolts to her feet, screeching, “You stupid baldy, where the hell have you been?!”

“Worried, Hiyori-chan?” Shinji asks blithely, pretending not to see the way seven pairs of eyes are studying him for any sign of injury as he hangs his coat up. “Sorry, got distracted over at Kisuke’s or I woulda been back a couple hours ago. Nothing happened.”

That doesn’t quite get a sigh of relief, but Lisa immediately gets up from the couch and wanders away, and Love isn’t far behind. Rose takes one more look at Shinji and heads for the kitchen, presumably to start dinner, and tows Hiyori—screeching and snarling, of course—along with him.

About to retreat to his room, Shinji pauses. Kensei is still on the couch, magazine propped open on one bent knee, and Shinji is…curious.

“Oi, Kensei,” he says, and the silver-haired man looks up, pierced brow rising. Shinji thinks about Shuuhei with his tattoos and has to smother a grin. They’re more alike than one would think, apparently.

“Yeah?” Kensei asks disinterestedly, attention still mostly on the magazine.

“You remember what happened the day before you disappeared? Back then?”

That gets him Kensei’s full attention instantly. After all, it’s an unspoken rule that they don’t talk about the past, especially not the past that close to their unwilling transformation. But apparently there’s still enough relief hanging around at Shinji not having abandoned their sorry asses to get him an answer, because Kensei snorts.

“Of course,” he scoffs. “Last time anything was even vaguely normal, wasn’t it? We had a patrol, me an’ Mashiro and some of the Ninth’s upper seats, looking into those disappearances. There was…” He pauses, eyes going faintly distant, and one side of his mouth quirks up. “A Hollow, outside of a little shit-hole town. Big and ugly. And a kid, this little brat who couldn’t stop crying. Big eyes, hair like a black porcupine got stuck to his head. I told him to quit crying and be happy he was still alive. Wonder if it worked.” Kensei pauses again, looking away, and then shakes his head. “Kid’s probably not even alive anymore, damn it,” he mutters, and there’s a regretful sort of anger in his voice—something Shinji’s more than familiar with.

Shinji wants to correct Kensei, tell him that he’s wrong and that crying kid is actually schlepping boxes for Kisuke right this minute, as powerful as a captain and able to give Shinji a workout in a spar. But Shuuhei already asked him to keep his presence a secret, so he holds his tongue. “Ah,” he says instead, and heads for his room, lifting a hand in a halfhearted wave. “Thanks, Kensei.”

Kensei says something, asks a question, but Shinji is out of hearing before he even gets halfway through, and closes his door firmly. With a tired sigh, he flops onto his bed, stretching out on his back and pressing his palms over his eyes.

One more thing Aizen ruined, he thinks, feeling that familiar, seething fury rise in his chest. Kensei coulda seen the kid grow up to be something great, if we’d stayed. Shuuhei coulda grown up with his hero pushing him to be even stronger. Hell, kid’s strong anyway. Maybe he woulda been a captain by now. Who knows what woulda happened if Aizen’d never crawled out from under his rock.

Who knows.

Nana Tyler

The announcement Jackie’s been waiting years for.

For @timepetalsprompts and @doctorroseprompts because of TenToo and Nana Tyler.


“So, Betty Richards’ daughter had her baby.”  Jackie started as soon as they were seated at the dining room table for their usual Sunday family dinner.

Rose and the Doctor exchanged looks, not unfamiliar with Jackie’s none-too-subtle hints.

“Really?  What’d she have?”  Rose asked neutrally.

“A little girl.” Jackie sighed theatrically, making her husband roll his eyes.  “A granddaughter.  Can you imagine?”

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Starmora Week Day 2 - Hands

*finishes the prompt with 20 minutes left in the day* 

Nailed it.


Peter’s a tactile person - it’s not exactly a secret. He’s the kind of annoyingly touchy person who’ll poke people in the shoulder just because he can, who has to stop and pet whatever dog-like species he sees, who’ll inevitably curl all up on people if they sit next to him on the couch. It’s something Yondu and Kraglin and whoever else didn’t threaten-threaten to kill him on a daily basis on the Eclector learned the hard way, and it’s something his team learns even quicker.

The days spent recovering on Xandar were some long ones, okay?

But for all that Peter is a tactile person, hands, on the other hand (hah)-

The thing is, Peter has a bit of a bad track record with holding hands. Not taking his mother’s hand when it’s all she wanted to do before she died is right at number one on list of Top Ten Worst Things Peter’s Ever Done.

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The Six Senses - Chapter 1: Shake the Blinds

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   AO3

I actually posted a snippet of this first chapter on here, but didn’t really do much with it after.  Yesterday, I randomly got inspired to work on it again, and ended up finishing this chapter, coming up with a title, and even working on chapter names.  Don’t worry, I’m still working on “Stan-at-Home”, but I thought you guys deserved a fic chapter of some sort while I slowly chip away at it.

Summary: A shady company turns its eye towards the rare humans born with psychic abilities, and kidnaps them as infants on the day they are born. Only three people have ever escaped. On August 31, 1999, two newborns are taken from Piedmont, California. Two men, determined to bring the newborns home, find themselves back at the company that stole their childhood. Their names: Stanley and Stanford.

The evening wind will shake the blinds
You’re stirring from your slumber
We’ve got something hateful on our minds

- The Mountain Goats, “Alpha Rats Nest”


1999

               The phone rang.  Stan let out a loud groan.  He blindly slammed his hand down in the general direction the noise was coming from. His fingers finally grabbed the phone, and he put the receiver near his ear.

               “Uh-huh?”  His voice was thick from sleep.  

               It’s a miracle I was even able to get out those two syllables.

               “Stanley, sorry to wake you.”  Stan frowned.  He recognized that voice.

               “Stanford?  Surprised you’re actually using a phone,” Stan said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes tiredly.  “Instead of getting ahold of me through the usual way.”

               “Yes well, the usual way has its downsides.  One of them being that I can’t let others talk to you.  And there is someone here that you need to speak to.”

               “Uh-huh?  And who’s that?”

               “Our older brother.”  Stan’s heart suddenly began to race.

               “Wait, older brother?  You- you actually managed to track down our family?” Stan asked, startled out of sleepiness.  Ford chuckled softly.

               “It certainly took me long enough.  By the way, found out our last name, too.”

               “What is it?”

               “Pines,” Ford said, in a tone that suggested he was still getting used to the concept of having a last name.  Stan mouthed the name himself, hoping for yet at the same time dreading a connection to this, one of the few remnants of the life he could have led. “Regardless, Mr. Pines-”  Stan snorted.

               “Can’t really take you seriously there Sixer.”

               “Mm, it doesn’t feel familiar, does it?”

               “Nope.  Not at all.”

               “Well, regardless, Stan, our older brother wanted to talk to you. Here he is.”  There was a shuffling over the line.  Stan swung his feet over the side of the bed, putting himself into a bit more formal position.  Something that suited meeting a long-lost brother better.

               Not wearing pants, though.  

               “Stanley?” a voice said.  Stan’s heart, which had slowed down somewhat, began to pick up in pace again.

               “Yeah, it’s- it’s me.”

               “Holy Moses, I- Mom and Pops, they told me that you and Stanford were lost. Stillbirths.  Never thought I’d hear your voice.”

               “I’m in a similar boat here.”

               “Yeah, I suppose you are.  Anyways, my, uh, my name is Sherman.  But please, call me Shermie.”

               “Shermie.  You got it.”

               I have an older brother named Sherman Pines.

               “And this- this is all going to sound awful but, uh, Stanford got a hold of me at a pretty pivotal moment.”  Shermie let out a dry laugh.  “I mean, the first time I meet you guys, and it’s to ask you a favor.”

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anonymous asked:

Johnlock & 15, pretty please?

15) things you said with too many miles between us


Sherlock knows something is wrong as soon as he picks up the phone, and hears John’s breathing. It’s just a little too controlled.

“John?” Sherlock’s fingers tense around his mobile. “Are you alright?”

A forced laugh. “Good evening to you, too.”

It’s not an answer. Sherlock knows this. Sherlock also knows John knows this.

“Is it Harry?” he guesses.

John sighs. “…Hm. Yes and no. I- Harry’s doing… doing really well, actually, it’s just-” He sighs again. “Being back here again.”

John trails off for so long that Sherlock momentarily fears their connection has been lost. 

Then, a miracle: John coughs, and his voice sparks back into life again. 

“Just memories,” he says. Sherlock can picture the shrug that is paired so often with his words and, oh God, how he misses him. 

“I understand,” Sherlock replies. He closes his eyes, and tries to picture John in the room with him. “Let’s… stay on the line? Until you sleep? You don’t need to talk.”

John laughs. “Jesus, I miss you,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can’t wait to be home.”

Sherlock silently thrills at that, that 221B is now home, and not the home town John is currently in.

They chat for hours, just the tiny, mundane things from their days. It makes Sherlock smile to hear it. He only stops when John’s voice fades away into sleep. He hangs up with the thought: Come home, soon. Please.


Doing johnlock (& now hoopkins too <3) prompts from this lovely list even though I’ve got loads of other prompts to fill lmao sorry but these are so lovely for more inspiration <3

Numbers filled (johnlock): 6; 31; 12; 11; 60; 8; 51; 34; 54; 60x2; 3; 14; 42; 60x3; 22; 10; 16; 20; 2; 25; 15

Numbers filled (hoopkins): 14; 25; 41; 9; 8; 12; 51; 29

anonymous asked:

"I'm not that flexible!"

“Fuck, Aaron, stop - stop!” 

Aaron dropped Robert’s legs instantly, pulling out of Robert. Worry was written all over his face as he sat back on his heels, chest heaving rom exertion. “What, whats wrong?”

Robert’s face flushed bright red as he realised he’d have to admit exactly why he was yelling at Aaron to stop mid thrust. His leg cramped up again as he tried to sit up, and he winced.

“Did I hurt you?” 

Robert shook his head, rubbing at the muscle of his upper thigh. “It’s just a cramp,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low enough that it was going to be a miracle if Aaron actually heard his admission.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, his dark hair standing on end, Robert’s hands having been magnetised to it a few seconds previously. “You what? he asked, looking slightly less concerned now he realised that Robert wasn’t actually having some kind of heart attack.

“It’s a cramp.” Robert said, slightly louder this time. He’d expected at least a second or two of sympathy, but Aaron burst into hysterical laughter, clutching at his sides as he snorted.

“You’ve got a cramp?” Aaron managed to say through his laughter, finding the whole situation wildly funny.

Robert crossed his arms against his chest, a grumpy look on his face. “It’s not funny,” he grumbled, not at all seeing the bright side that Aaron was clearly revelling in, his laughter filling their tiny room at the pub.

Aaron snorted, shaking his head. “It’s hilarious! God, Robert, you’re such an old man.”

Robert huffed, wincing slightly as the cramp in his leg worsened. “I’m not old! Everyone get’s cramps, you know.” 

Aaron laughed again, reaching out for Robert’s leg. “Aw, you poor baby, you’ve got a cramp,” he teased, fingers digging into the stiff muscle of Robert’s upper thigh.

“Yeah, well, maybe next time don’t try and shove my legs over my bloody head. I’m not that flexible!”

send me a prompt and i’ll write you a drabble

Worship

ˈwəːʃɪp

noun

1 . Kneeling at your altar, hoping for an answer. You try to honor Him, but it’s hard to pray when you’re scared of His voice. You still need a miracle. You still need something to get you through tonight (and all the other nights, but tonight you feel like collapsing under the weight of life), so you hope. Hope for a sign. Hope that He understands.

2 . Talking to yourself late at night. It’s pitch black- an incredible feat in the height of summer. With the covers thrown off your bed, you lie there, only talking. Soon, your words turn to Him, and you say everything you couldn’t say at your altar. You’re less afraid than before. He smiles.