i hope as they fall you can hear this tinny voice going

12.14 coda

Dean may have missed out on the fight, but he still feels like drinking when he finally gets back home. Ketch’s expensive bottle of bribery is still sitting on the war room table and his glass is still in his favorite spot, right where he left it.

“Oh, hello, sweetness. Daddy’s here,” Dean coos at it. He hums as he picks up the bottle - still heavy even after a couple of drinks. “Shhh. It’s just you and me now.”

Sam scoffs. “Really, Dean? You’re that easy?”

Dean rolls his eyes over his shoulder. “So?”

Sam doesn’t really want to start anything, he’s feeling too good. He lets Dean smuggle his booze away to his room like always and revels in the still-fresh feeling of adrenaline-fueled ass-kicking. Changing the world. Power in the palms of his hands. He’ll try not to let it go to his head, but he deserves to celebrate the win at least.

Dean, meanwhile, falls like a heavy weight against the back of his bedroom door. 

Keep reading

lupelovell345-blog  asked:

83) “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.” This is a really awesome idea and I love the two that you've written so far! :) I might use these prompts for my own writing ^^ I love your art and writing by the way :) Have a good day~

Uh alright! You didn’t suggest a ship so I’m just gonna take a stab in the dark and assume klance? Haha alright here we go. For the 100 ways to say i love you thing (please no one send me more requests. I’ll kick your ass if you do. I have so many!)

“Hey babe?” 

Lance’s tinny voice comes through the speaker of Keith’s phone. Keith lays in bed, swaddled in blankets, listening to the rain thunder against his window. It’s peaceful in his dorm room. His roommate is away for two weeks, and without classes or assignments, Keith has been enjoying the downtime. He likes the quiet.

But there’s someone he wishes he could share his time with.

“Yeah?” Keith speaks a bit louder so his phone’s speaker picks it up. His phone lays to his side, as his hands are busy with his playstation controller. He moves his character around his virtual farm, watering crops and cutting down trees.

“It’s a bit late for you to be calling. You ok?”

“Uhhhhhhh…..” Lance’s voice is high and unsure. It sounds distant.

“Where are you? Are you at home?” It doesn’t sound like the dead acoustics of Lance’s bedroom.

“Noooo…” Lance confirms. “I’m not home. I’m in a park somewhere.” 

“Oh, are you walking home from work?”

“No… I’m uh… I’m trying to meet up with someone.”

Keith pauses his game and looks skeptically at his phone.

“At 9pm?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s an impromptu visit. Bit of an emergency.” Lance laughs.

“Oh man, hope it’s not too cold.”

“Oh it’s pretty damn cold.”

“It’s storming here pretty bad.”

“Oh…. oh I know.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Keith stares at his phone again like he’s missing something. 

“Listen I wanted to ask…. for like… no reason…” Lance’s voice is hard to hear. Something rumbles outside Keith’s window and echoes in the phone.

“I just… like your college campus… what building did you say you lived in again?”

“I’m in F block.”

“Cool, cool, cool…. so like… is that close or far from the athletics centre? Like I’m just wondering if you’re…!”

Keith’s eyes widen and he snatches his phone. He holds it up to his face, gripping it with both hands and staring at Lance’s name.


“Yes?” Lance tries to sound nonchalant.

“Are you…are you here?!” 

I mean…” he laughs. There’s a tremble to it. “I’m just … HYPOTHETICALLY if I was…. how could I… find you?” He squeaks.

Keith’s eyes dart to his window. Rain slams against it and lightning crackles outside.

“Oh my god where are you?” His voice rushes out in panic.

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m calling you!” Lance’s voice finally betrays how worried he is.

“Oh god, i was trying to be an awesome boyfriend. I really wanted to surprise you at your door. I would knock, and you’d answer it, and I’d be there. You’d cry and oh man…” He sniffs. “Man I ruined everything.”

“No! No! You didn’t.” Keith hops off of his bed and is pulling on mismatched socks. He tosses his phone on the bed whilst he throws on a jacket. There’s no time to find his umbrella.

“You’re wonderful. You’re amazing. But I am seriously worried. Where are you? What’s around you?”

Thunder crashes. Keith hears it reverberate in the phone. Lance must be close then.

“I’m huddled under a gazebo in like… i dunno… i feel like art kids would sit here and get high?” Lance’s voice shakes. “The athletic centre is across from me. I can see some jocks running on treadmills.”

“Are you cold?”

“I’m so cold dude.” And Keith finally identifies the tremble in Lance’s voice as shivering.

“Aw babe. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just please help me. Where do I go?”

“No, no.” Keith grabs his wallet and checks for his key card. All good. 

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

Lance sighs dreamily.

“My hero.”

Keith flies down the building stairs and across the lobby. He runs into the rain without hesitation. His feet slap against the puddles.

“Don’t worry. I’ll warm you up soon.” He pants into the receiver.

“I know that’s supposed to be like… sexual? But honestly I feel like my dick’s going to fall off if I don’t get inside soon.”

Keith laughs loudly. Even in a bad situation, Lance could always make him smile. It was one of the reasons he had fallen so hard for the other boy in the first place. 

“I’m not far.” Keith reassures. He turns a corner and his feet skid on the slick pavement. The tall buildings begin to part and trees begin to rise up. Bushes mark the perimeter of a large courtyard. The rain sounds softer here, as it falls on the soil and leaves. 

In the centre stands a white gazebo. And under it, sopping wet and shivering, a thin boy with olive skin. His brown hair is slick to his brow and his blue jeans turn dark at the cuffs. 

“lance…” Keith breathes into his phone. He hits the end button, then shoves it into his pocket. He picks up his speed as he runs into Lance’s arms.

He collides into Lance’s body. Their frozen fingers clamber for one another, and cool lips meet. They pant into one another’s mouths, and their warm breath forms mist between them. Lance seeks out the heat of Keith’s body and slides his hands under his shirt. Keith squeaks at the cold touch, but doesn’t pull away. 

They kiss in the rain until their limbs grow numb.

anonymous asked:

Klance, galra rescue, if that's okay with you??

If Keith doesn’t cradle carry an injured Lance at least once during the series then what even is the point

Hope you enjoy!

           Lance closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose, concentrating on the faint sound of the footsteps, just audible through the reinforced prison door. One two, two two, three two, four two, five two, and they drew even with the door. Six two, seven two, eight two, nine two, ten two, eleven two, twelve two, thirteen two, fourteen two, fifteen two, and they reached the end of the hall. Perfectly consistent, every single time. It would be 600 seconds before another soldier passed by his door. He turned away from the door and slid his butt back towards his feet, which were the real problem. He’d figured out everything except his feet. He had a way to get the door open, he knew the routines of the guards well enough to circumvent them, and he had been on enough Galra ships at this point that he knew how to find the emergency escape pods. He just had to pray they were close enough to a planet where he could land and hide until he could get a message to the castle. His feet, however, were still posing a problem.

           The Galra had cuffed them together as soon as they’d stripped off his armor, and as soon as they’d brought him to a cell, they had locked the cuffs against the floor. Since then, Lance hadn’t moved from this spot. At least they gave him a bucket they emptied fairly regularly. He wondered morbidly if he ought to be flattered, in a way, that his interrogators came to him. Did they really think he posed such a threat that it was too dangerous to even move him from one part of the ship to another? Still, it was conundrum for Lance: they weren’t cuffs like anything he had ever seen, made of shimmering purple light and yet somehow solid. If he had to guess, it was probably some kind of druid magic mixed with technology.

           He massaged his bare feet absently while he thought. They had gotten swollen and sore from being still for so long, and had developed a habit of falling asleep all the time, waking Lance up with painful pins and needles. His best solution at the moment was to fake some sort of collapse, since he was reasonably certain he was still valuable enough to the Galra to be taken to a medical facility – but every time he thought of inviting needles and scalpels and god knew what else near him, a vision of Shiro’s metal arm flashed before him like a specter and made him set the idea aside with a shudder.

           A sudden impact against the ship threw him sideways, his elbow smacking painfully against the floor. As he pushed himself back to a sitting position, the ship shuddered again, and he thought he could make out the distant sound of blaster cannons firing. He strained his ears, hardly daring to hope—

           The door of his cell flew open with a bang, the crumpling, sparking form of a broken guard drone tumbling after it. Keith stood in the doorway, breathing hard. His sword retracted into the bayard handle, flashing back to his waist, and he rushed forward.

           “Lance!” he cried.

           “Keith!” Lance gasped, finally overcoming his surprise, only to be knocked speechless again as Keith dropped down and caught Lance in a tight hug.

           “Guys, I found him. He’s alive,” Keith said into his helmet. Right next to his head as he was, Lance could faintly hear the tinny sounds of the cheers of his teammates. “Lance, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

           “N-nothing a night of sleep in my own bed and a good face mask can’t cure,” he stuttered, bringing his arms up to return Keith’s hug. “Did everyone else make it off Uveer okay?”

           “Yeah, we’re all fine,” Keith said, and Lance could’ve sworn his voice cracked just slightly. “Even Blue’s back safe and sound in the castle, waiting for you.” He pulled out of the hug and grabbed Lance’s hand. “Can you walk? Come on, let’s get out of here.” He pulled, snagging Lance’s feet against the cuffs.

           “Keith, wait— I can’t,” he said, pointing at his feet. Keith looked down, noticing the problem for the first time, and drew his bayard. “Wait NO—” Lance shrieked as Keith brought his sword down. It bounced off the cuffs, which sent an arc of lightning up Lance’s body. He screamed and collapsed to the floor.

           “Lance?” Keith asked, dropping back to his knees, sliding his hands under Lance’s head and back and lifting him up. “Lance, are you okay?”

           “Every time you try to break them, they do that,” Lance panted, muscles still limp. “I have no idea how to get them off.” Keith frowned.

           “Guys, can anyone else make it into the ship?” he asked his helmet, and paused. “We need to find the key for Lance’s cuffs, I can’t break them,” he explained. After a moment, he cussed, glancing between Lance and the open door of the cell, where red emergency lights washed the whole ship in the color of blood. He gently lay Lance back on the floor and stood. Lance struggled back to a sitting position. “I’m going to go find a key. I will be right back, I promise,” Keith said. Lance stared up at him, feeling hope slip away, despair settling back into his limbs like lethargy. Keith must have read it in his face, because he crouched down briefly and brushed Lance’s cheek with his fingertips. “Lance,” he said, his voice low and soft and rough. “Look at me. I’m getting you out of this cell and off this ship. I promise you won’t spend another hour here. I promise.” Their eyes met, and Lance felt a tear slide down his cheek. He nodded slowly. Keith hesitated, and then pulled off his helmet and settled it over Lance’s head. “Say hello to everyone else in the meanwhile,” he told him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Lance nodded one last time, and Keith disappeared out the door.

           “Hey guys,” he said, his voice shaky, and was greeted by a chorus of his name. He felt a smile spread slowly across his face. “Yeah, it’s good to hear your voices too,” he said. “Everyone doing alright? Hunk? You holding up out there? Hopping Voltron around on only one leg?”

           “Yeah, we look pretty silly without you,” Hunk said. His voice, so warm and familiar, seemed to fill Lance with a sense of security he hadn’t felt in weeks.

           “Just hold on, Lance, Keith will be back any minute,” Shiro said. “He’s been on a warpath to find you ever since you didn’t make the rendezvous on Uveer.”

           “Really? Keith?” Lance wondered. There was no reason to doubt Shiro’s words, and yet Lance had figured Keith would be the one advocating they leave him behind. He closed his eyes, seeing the intense sincerity in Keith’s face as he promised he would be back, and something fond stirred in his heart.

           “Yeah, he—” Pidge’s words were cut short as the helmet was ripped from Lance’s head. He froze at the feeling of a blaster pressed against his temple. The Galra soldier standing above him pulled the helmet onto his own head.

           “Stop attacking, or your friend dies,” he said. Lance’s breath came shallowly. The blaster was cold, barely an inch from his eyes. “Now,” the Galra insisted. Abruptly, the ship stopped shuddering, and the distant sound of the blaster cannons went quiet. “Abandon your lions, return to your ship, and we will send your friend to join you.” Lance was afraid to blink, afraid to move, his heart thudding painfully against his chest. He flinched at the sound of his name.

           “Lance!” Keith shouted. “I found the—” He skidded to a halt in the doorway, taking in the scene. Lance stared at him wide-eyed, willing him to escape, to turn and run, to take Voltron and go because he wasn’t worth this, he wasn’t worth losing Voltron and he certainly wasn’t worth getting another Paladin killed. The Galra said nothing, only pressed the blaster closer against Lance’s head.

           “Get away from him,” Keith growled, low and dark.

           “Put the bayard down or he dies,” the Galra said.

           “If you harm a hair on his head, I swear,” Keith said, something dark and ugly and murderous in his tone that Lance had never heard before, “I swear I will kill every last Galra on this ship with my own two hands.”

           “Put it down.” Keith didn’t break eye contact with the soldier as he slowly bent and set the sword down. Lance shivered at the look on his face. He had never seen so much rage in Keith’s eyes before. “Good,” the soldier said, and Lance noticed he was a little breathless. He’s afraid, he realized. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. “Now, uh, put your hands up and, um, walk over to the wall.” Keith didn’t move, still glaring at the soldier. Lance, heart thudding so loudly he could barely hear, made a very stupid decision.

           As fast as he could, he reached up, grabbed the blaster, and pulled it away from his head. The Galra pulled the trigger in panic. Luckily, it missed Lance’s head. Unluckily, it managed to clip the edges of his cuffs, sending the worst arc of electricity he’d felt yet screeching through his body. It knocked him backward with such force that he took the soldier with him and the blaster went skittering across the floor. He struggled to breathe, his chest tight and his heart stuttering arhythmically. Keith was already on top of them, dragging the soldier away from Lance. Lance couldn’t turn his head to see what was happening, but the sickening sound of rending flesh and the soldier’s garbled, gurgled scream made him decide he didn’t want to. Moments later, Keith was kneeling over him, his helmet back on his own head, unlocking Lance’s cuffs. Lance twitched his feet, sighing in relief.

           “I told you I’d be back,” Keith said, smiling softly. “Are you okay?” Lance managed a nod.

           “Just a little… just a little out of breath,” he said. Keith gently pulled Lance’s arm up around his neck, and tucked his arms under Lance’s knees and back.

           “Let’s go,” he said. “Healing pod first, then face mask, okay?” There was something infinitely soft in the way he said it, and Lance felt some of the tightness in his chest ease.

           “Sounds good,” he murmured.

[I am no longer accepting prompts, just completing the ones in my inbox]

let's go back to our cocoon

Summary: Post 4x03. Bellamy, trying to get back to sleep, wakes to Clarke entering his room. Rated G. WC: 2220

A/N: this is my first work in the fandom & it’s been a long time coming. likes, kudos, reblogs, and comments are all very much appreciated. let me know if i should write a pt. 2! / title taken from “cocoon” by milky chance

tags: fluff & angst, sleep cuddling, canon compliant


He stirs at the sound of his name, eyes opening into darkness. This is usually how one of his nightmares starts: Clarke running, calling his name—her voice filtered through the blackness as if nightfall could be a physical place that blocks them in. He can’t get to her, can’t see her. She just keeps calling his name, the sound of her voice made tinny as it ricochets off walls that keep her in and keep him out. These walls are impossible to find, even running straight at them with his hands stretched out, as if breaking a bone is the least of his problems.

But this is no nightmare because this time, a door opens. The rectangular plane shifts, becoming thinner and thinner as light begins to burst from the hole it leaves behind. Bellamy, raising his head, props himself up on his elbows and squints.

Keep reading

here, have this kinda angsty byeler piece that i wrote when i was gone but publishing random and sporadic writing under my byeler-sideblog account lmao. edited ever-so-slightly from its original content because i didn’t like the way it read.


It’s like this: When Mike is 18 years old and helping Will clean out his room on a sticky-hot August evening before they all head off to college in a few short weeks, he finds a dusty cassette tape mixed in among the various papers lining the top of Will’s dresser. He almost tosses it into the pile labeled To Throw Away - until he sees the crooked piece of masking tape adorning the other side. For Mike, it says in Will’s small, tidy script. A tiny drawing of a walkie-talkie sits in the upper right-hand corner of the tape, and Mike runs his thumb over it adoringly.

Mike should really put it back where he found it, he knows he should. He should pretend he didn’t see it, because clearly if Will wanted him to have it, he would have given it to him when he made it. But for some reason, Mike finds himself shoving the cassette into the breast pocket of his jacket before Will can turn around and see what he’s found among the mess of papers and polaroids and broken colored pencils that litter the floor around them.

The stupid, little plastic rectangle feels like it’s burning a hole in Mike’s chest the rest of the day. His fingers itch to touch it, to trace over the words until he’s memorized the shape of Will’s neat lettering against his fingertips. Guilt claws at the back of his brain with annoying insistence, and he thinks about placing the tape back where he found it no less than five separate times. He doesn’t, though. He keeps it. He feels it pressed against his pounding heart the entire ride back to his house, the weight of it not quite pleasant against his ribs.

Mike doesn’t listen to the tape when he gets home. He doesn’t listen to it the next day when he wakes up and sees it sitting on his desk like some sort of glaring reminder of a secret he’s stolen from his best friend. He doesn’t listen to it the day that he says goodbye to Will as he heads off to school, with lingering hugs and softly whispered words and eyes that shine with some kind of mixed emotion in the late afternoon sun. He doesn’t listen to the tape until he’s three weeks into his first semester at university and missing Will in a way that phone calls and letter-writing just can’t fix. So he finds it - hidden carefully in the depths of the sock drawer in his miserably small wardrobe - and loads it into his tape deck, presses play with his breath held carefully in his lungs, an attempt to slow a racing heart.

It takes him until the ending of the third song to realize that he’s listening to love song after love song. And that’s what people call them, right? Love songs. Songs with lyrics like whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again and if a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you?. Songs with slow melodies and crooning voices and words that put a name to the catch in Mike’s breath when he thinks of Will’s smile. Songs that make Mike feel like his heart’s been ripped open and sewn back shut again too many times to count - a tender, open wound that stubbornly refuses to heal. He rewinds the tape when it’s over. He falls asleep listening through it for the fourth time.

Mike listens to the tape so many times that he’s got the lyrics to Lovesong by The Cure permanently burned into his brain. He finds himself scrawling out the lyrics to If by Bread along the margins of his microbiology notes. He calls Will and tries to say I miss you, tries to say a single cassette tape couldn’t hold all the words I’d like to tell you, but the sentences never string themselves together the right way and instead they talk about school and lame college parties and how many stray cats Will has named and befriended on his city campus. Mike’s roommate yells at him for hogging the phone line nearly every night.

It’s like this: Winter break means a month back home in Hawkins, and a month back home in Hawkins means Mike is going to ask Will about the tape, to ask his forgiveness for taking it, to ask how much of it is still true. Mike is going to hold Will’s hand and tell him he’s missed him, and that the phone doesn’t do justice to how sweet his laughter sounds in person, and that he’s memorized the order of the songs on the tape so much so that if he ever hears There Is A Light That Never Goes Out playing on the radio, he’s thrown off when it’s not immediately followed by I’d Really Love To See You Tonight. Mike is going to ask Will if he can kiss him under the clear December sky where the stars and the moon and god can see the nerves dancing beneath his skin where his veins are visible at the surface.

The night before he’s set to drive back home, Will tells Mike through their tinny and static-ridden phone connection that he’s excited to see him again, that he’s got something important to tell him. Mike says, yeah, me too, and smiles against the mouthpiece of the phone, wondering if Will can hear his pulse pounding away in his neck - like his heart’s trying to escape, like it could flee from his chest and makes its way back home, back to Will and his warm eyes and his cold hands and his soft, gentle smile. The drive back to Hawkins is a blur of late-night gas station coffee and humming absently along to the tape that skips and scratches in the rickety tape deck of Mike’s hand-me-down car, but it’s calm. It’s quiet. It’s happy.

But then Mike meets Garrett, and Garrett is Will’s friend when he’s introduced in public but Will’s boyfriend when he’s introduced in private and Mike feels sick as he shakes his hand. He fights the urge to turn and leave just as soon as he’s met him. He forces a smile and tries to tell Will he’s happy for him but Mike’s never been great at lying to his friends. Instead he says it’s good to see you and he seems nice, because it is and he does but Mike’s mouth hurts around the edges from faking a smile and everything he says comes out like a pre-recorded lie. He hopes Will doesn’t notice. He probably does.

Mike wants to destroy the tape when he gets home. To crack it into pieces. To make it impossible to tell that it once held all of the feelings that make Mike’s heart feel too big for his chest, too big for his body, too big for his nineteen years. Instead, he plays it over and over again and wonders how long ago his chance was lost to time or distance or some inevitable combination of the two, how long ago Will’s truth was no longer woven through the songs that echo on repeat in Mike’s ears long after the tape has ended.

Not alone

John put their cups on the kitchen counter and poured the last drips of milk into their teas. “Anything I can get you from Tesco? Seems we ran out of um… Apparently everything.“ 
Sherlock didn’t respond, he just ended his quiet sonate. The whole night he had been playing his violin. All of John’s favourites. 
John placed the cups on the desk before he let himself fall into his chair, cupping his tea with both hands. 
"So, anything planned for today? A case, ruining Mrs. Hudson’s china or are you finally planning on getting rid of the ears?” John tried to get at least the hint of a smile out of Sherlock, who has been focusing on his cup, running his slender fingers over the notes on the desk. 
“Throw the ears away." 
"Are you sure? You’ve been working on this for weeks, you wouldn’t let me come near-”
“Garbage. Today.” Sherlock remained stone-faced.
“Fine, good. As you wish.” he threw his hands up in surrender.
Sherlock’s expression shifted, now showing worry, even sympathy. 
“John we-” he took a deep breath at the pure anticipation John offered him. “you need to stop this." 
John’s heart clenched, he kept on smiling. 
"Stop what?" 
"You know exactly what I’m talking about." 
He knew. "No, I- don’t" 
"For God’s sake John! Wake up. I’m not here.”
“You do this all the time, why can’t I-”
The flat went quiet. Just the steady noises from the busy street reached his ears. He couldn’t look at Sherlock, not now. 
"I think I should get ready. Appointment with Ella. I want to finish the groceries beforehand. Risotto for dinner? What you think?" 
A tremor forced him to clench his left hand as he stood up. 
He would buy mushrooms, Sherlock always liked that. And milk, he mustn’t forget about the milk. 
"John, please.” Sherlock’s voice was just a whisper.
And maybe a new bottle of scotch. 

John scooped the burned risotto into the bin, fully aware that Sherlock was surveying him, disapprovingly so.
“There’s still a can of beans behind the tea." 
"I think I’ll let it be for tonight. Sorry I’ll make up for it tomorrow.” John sounded defeated. He felt defeated, by goddamn risotto. 
“You shouldn’t be drinking." 
"Doesn’t mean I can’t.” he said raising his glass in Sherlock’s direction before taking a huge gulp. John edged past him, his glass in the left, the alarmingly light bottle of scotch in the right. 
Sherlock sat in his chair, hands folded in his lap, his eyes sharp as a knife observing John’s every move. 
“Could you- not do that” he mumbled casually. The alcohol was already paralyzing his tounge, making his skin warm and almost numb. Numb was good. Better than the alternative. Numb was bearable.
“Do what?" 
"Condemning every single decision I take." 
"I could. As soon as you stop condemning every single decision you take.”
Very funny. Hilarious indeed. Another gulp. 
“Touché” he ran lazy circles on the fabric of his chair. 
“So what your therapist said today…” Sherlock leaned forward.
“I don’t wanna talk about it." 
"Yeah, that’s what you told her." 
A bitter laugh escaped John’s throat. 
"You need to get it out." 
More Scotch. 
"What for?! It wouldn’t make a difference.”
“Right. Better keep up with the drinking. If you’re lucky you won’t even last two more weeks.” Sherlock has always been a righteous arse, but he has never been this- mean.  Not to him.
“Then I should probably try harder.” The faint of a broken smile played around his lips. 

Minutes passed without a word. Not a single sound would break the silence. His throat burned, the pattern on the wall was nothing more than a blurred puddle, made no sense. Nothing made sense. 
“Go to bed.” Sherlock’s voice was so calm, so quiet, as if he was afraid to scare John. 
He didn’t respond, just tried to get up, kicking over the bottle of Scotch at his feet. He needed to force himself not to reach for it and throw it against the next wall. 
Slow unsteady steps, clumsily hitting every piece of furniture in his way. 
Sherlock was in front of him, moving motionless, like a statue, slightly blurred maybe due to the alcohol, maybe because he began to- it must have been the scotch. It must.
He heard murmurs, voices, muffeled, far away. Cars and wind and-
“John. Call someone. You shouldn’t be alone right now." 
"I…I’m, I’m not alone." 
"John.” Sherlock still didn’t move, a figure of marble, poorly lit by the kitchen lights. 
He felt panic creeping up, everything seemed distorted. The room, his voice, Sherlock. 
He kept hold of the table, resisting the urge of letting himself fall to the floor. 
“I’ll be fine. I’ll be. You’re here.” John’s voice cracked. “You won’t leave." 
"John!” Sherlock was pleading, almost screaming his name. 
“You can’t. Y-you won’t do this. Please.” Shivers ran down his spine, he could feel the cold breeze on his skin. Please. Distinct voices, alarmed, yelling. 
“Goodbye John.” Those very familiar words. Just centimetres separated them. But his voice, tinny and so far away. 
“No. No.” John closed his eyes. “Stop. Don’t! Stop!” He sobbed, his whole body was trembling.
A dull crack and then- nothing. Except for John’s short sobs. His nails were digging into the table, his last sense of reality. 
“John. John open your eyes." 
"Look at me.” He felt so close, his tone so clear. 
His body was disobeying him, but eventually he opened his eyes, blinked away hot tears, still not daring to look up. Counting tiles around their feet to calm the fear. 
“Good. Now look at my face.” Sherlock paused for a second. “please." 
Ever so slowly he let his eyes move upwards, along the buttons of the Bellstaff, over the collar of his shirt, his pale neck and jaw. 
"Please” John begged. He didn’t want to.
Blood ran down Sherlock’s face, thick drops, creating the perfect contrast to his skin, coming from a deep wound on his forehead. His curls, dampened, glued together shimmering red in the light. Eyes wide open, staring into the void expressing the absence of everything. 
John’s lips began to quiver.
“Sher- please talk to me.” His voice broke.
Sherlock remained silent.
“Sherlock!” John cried out, drool running from his mouth. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” He reached out for Sherlock’s cheek, but before his fingers could touch his skin Sherlock laid on the floor, limps spread morbidly into all directions, his cold eyes still fixed on John.
John slipped on to his knees, bending forward, holding himself, sobbing. ‘It’s not real. It’s not real.’ He repeated it over and over. Almost choking on his own saliva. 
“It may not be real. But it’s reality.” The voice came from behind. Calm, steady, naturally cold. 
“I, this, this can’t be. What can I do?” It was still hard to talk. His throat burned, he felt like vomiting.
"Nothing.” He scoffed turning his head in the direction of Sherlock’s voice. 
“I- it needs to stop. Just make it go away. How can I make it stop?" 
"Accept it." 
John crawled over to the wall and sat down. His head fell back, beside him sat Sherlock, in his favorite dressing gown, perfectly fine, smiling sadly at him.
"How could I? I had to watch my best friend jump to his death right in front of my own eyes. How’s that acceptable?" 
"It’s not." 

John sighed, it’s been almost an hour since either of them said something. At least his mind stopped playing tricks on him.
"I’m sorry." 
Sherlock looked puzzled, just raised an eyebrow.
"I- I shouldn’t have said that. That ‘machine’ thing. It’s my fault." 
"John, stop it." 
"It’s true, isn’t it. I deserve this. It- you should haunt me for the rest of my life." 
Sherlock laid his hand on John’s and for the breath of a moment he imagined he could feel the weight, the warmth. 
"It’s not. And you know this." 
"It’s not fair.”
“No it’s not. Death is never-”
“That’s not what I meant. You know, holding a monologue, your 'note’, without even giving me the chance to say something, anything." 
Sherlock turned his head to the side, now looking directly into John’s eyes. "Then say it now.” His face was all edges, sharp lines and still it was the softest thing John ever laid his eyes on.
“It won’t change a thing.”
“It won’t." 
John smiled. Earnest. 
"I love you." 
Only a vaguely perceptible tremor in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and wet eyes testified that he heard those three words.
John took a deep breath, saying it, out loud, hearing himself uttering these words. Making it real. He expected pain, despair, sorrow, instead he felt calm for the first time in weeks. 
"And now?” He asked facing away.

A little post Reichenbach fic that has been floating around in my drafts since tld.
Ankita’s little thread today reminded me of it, I hope you like it 😈 @love-in-mind-palace

anonymous asked:

namjin #15

oh man i am so sorry this took so long!! i’ve been having a writer’s block of sorts (more like a life block) for the past few weeks, but anyway, i hope you enjoy this!! thank you for requesting ^3^

15. “i made your favorite.” + namjin

Sometimes, Seokjin felt at peace when he was baking.

The not having to think about what he had to do when was he kneading dough settled his nerves. The feeling of the starchy mass underneath his fingertips was in a weird way, extremely comforting. The dough was putty in his hands and he had full control.

Seokjin liked having control.

Especially when it came to his younger boyfriend Namjoon.

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Peppermint (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Originally posted by newt-and-pickett

✯ prompt: cHRISMISH

✯ word count: a lil bit short soz

✯ warnings: none :) just fluff!

✯ notes: sorry it’s been so long! im going to try and crank out at least three this weekend :)


She wishes she can capture this moment, wrap it up and keep it with her wherever she goes because Newt’s smile is far sweeter than the gingerbread houses they’re baking.

It’s as if he has intoxicated her because she sees stars every time she looks at his freckles and his words seem to build worlds and she can’t stop wondering if his lips taste like the peppermints he has been sneaking.

She can’t but smile as she catches Newt in the act, freckled fingers far from conspicuity reaching for another glittering sweet, his eyes flicking to hers as a sheepish blush dusts itself across his cheeks like the confectionary sugar strewn across the table.

He lifts his hands, fingers still grasping the wrapped mint, “I swear it was for the gingerbread house-” He tells her, a grin playing at the edges of his lips.

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The Sun Will Rise

Prompt : No matter how much your past haunts you, the sun will rise and it’ll be alright.

Word count : 3183

Warnings : Nightmares, mentions of blood and death. 

Author’s note : Enjoy it. Don’t forget to give me some feedback. And I hope you will enjoy it as much as Her voice is calling to me. If you want to be add on the tag list, just tell me. As the previous times, English is not my first language so mistakes may remain even if I check it. A tinny advice : listen to the song while reading :)

Song of the title : The Sun Will Rise, Kelly Clarkson (and the acoustic version because it’s pure golden)

Tag list : @allandnothing90, @amypond14, @flyingsparkle, @crazychick010, @capsbuchanan, @jarnesbrnes, @spiderbarnes, @imaginingbucky@writingruna, @bovaria, @sincerelysaraahh, @youandbucky


Gif is not mine


Screams once again. It often happens in the middle of the night, always coming from the same bedroom. Bucky’s bedroom. Sometimes, they stop by themselves, sometimes Steve calms him down, sometimes he spends a night without nightmares. But tonight, there is no stop since more than an hour, no Steve calming him down and nobody else going. I can’t sleep, I can’t face my own nightmares, I can’t face the past that’s haunting me as his haunts him, so I push away the blankets of my bed, walk towards the door, open it and go to his room.

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literarymerritt  asked:

Idk if you're still taking prompts for the concern meme, but if so... May I request Promptis + 16?? ( > v < )

16. 'C'mon, look at me! Don’t close your eyes, okay?’

When Noctis opens his eyes again, he smells burning cloth, the foul odor of melting daemon, and the particular sharp tang of blood. He pushes himself up, does a quick inventory of his body. Nothing seems to be broken or hurt too badly. He looks around. 

He remembers MTs dropping from the sky again, and then an explosion rocking through the air. He remembers warping too fast, hoping to reach his friend before he fell over the edge—


Noctis climbs to his feet, casting frantic glances at the debris surrounding him. Where was— There. There’s a spot of black amongst the rubble and broken metal armour. He stumbles over quickly and shoves a caved-in helmet off Prompto’s body.

“Prompto,” he says, falling to his knees. “Prompto, tell me you’re okay, please, Prompto—”

Hazy blue eyes blink open, and Noctis has time to breathe a sigh of relief before Prompto is groaning, lurching onto his side suddenly. He heaves, but nothing really comes up. Noctis reaches forwards before Prompto’s arms give out beneath him. 

“Hrrnngh,” Prompto groans, clutching at his head. “Hurts. Hurts, Noct.”

“I know, I know,” Noctis says, but he’s panicking, badly. He’s not the one carrying the potions, and he distinctly remembers emptying it from the armiger during the battle. He brushes aside Prompto’s hands gently, and sucks in a breath when he sees the gash in his forehead, still bleeding sluggishly. “Shit, Prom—I mean, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just, just stay awake? Yeah, don’t fall asleep, just, keep your eyes on me.”

Prompto doesn’t give any indication that he hears him. He leans against Noctis, eyes squinting like it hurts to open them. His hands fall from his head, and he tilts over.



Noctis has his phone out and is trying desperately to connect with Ignis, but Prompto’s eyes are drooping closed. “Prompto, no! C’mon, look at me! Don’t close your eyes, okay?” 

When Prompto doesn’t respond, Noctis drops his phone on the ground and reaches for his friend’s face. He taps Prompto’s cheeks lightly until Prompto is scrunching up his face and blinking open his eyes again. 

“Prompto, I need you to do something for me,” Noctis says slowly, firmly. He hates phrasing it like this, but he knows that Prompto would never turn down a favour from him. “I need you to stay awake, okay? Gladio and Specs aren’t here, you know? So you need to watch me. You’re Crownsguard, aren’t you, Prom? I need you to keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?”

It takes Prompto a couple of seconds to process that. Noctis can hear the tinny voice of Ignis through his phone, but he doesn’t look away from Prompto. 

“Okay,” Prompto says eventually. He’s wearing a tired scowl, and his eyes are still slightly unfocused, but he keeps them on Noctis determinedly. “I will. I will watch Noct.”

“Thank you,” Noctis says. He takes Prompto’s hand, and doesn’t let go until Ignis and Gladio arrive.

goodbye to safe and sound

@natsumeweek 2017
Day 4; Flowers/Nature

pairing: nishinatsu

title borrowed from youth by troye sivan


Somewhere in the latter half of their third and final year of high school, Natsume comes to a decision.

It’s lunch period, and Satoru is digging through his bag for some change for food from the newly installed vending machine on the first floor when Adachi calls across the room, “Nishimura! Someone’s here to see you!”

The whole class “ooooh”s, and Satoru looks up from his bag to find Natsume lingering in the doorway. He gives up on finding any change and heads for the hall, giving the snickering Adachi a dirty look as he passes him.

“You can just come in next time, you know,” Satoru points out, stretching his arms above his head. “No one cares. Half of those guys were in our class last year.”

“That’s okay,” Natsume says. “I wanted to talk to you alone, anyway.”

Ignoring the automatic way his heart picks up at the implications, Satoru gestures towards the stairs with a flourish. Natsume smiles at him, quietly radiant, and leads the way up to the roof.

“Well, you’ve got me where you want me,” Satoru says, stepping out into the gray afternoon. It isn’t wet yet, but the sky has been threatening rain all day. “What’s up?”

Natsume shuffles for a moment, then visibly squares his shoulders. Brushing some of that long fringe out of his eyes, he meets Satoru’s eyes bravely and says, “I’m going to college.”

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Free as the birds that fly with weightless souls

He wrote her a piece of music before he left. Then he went home, and he died, and now all she has is his music, and this dance, and the heartache. And to make things more complicated, she may have fallen in love with her pianist. It’s been that sort of year. [Kashleth, modern au, 5.7K]

Many, many thanks to @atleastthreesketchbooks for the absolutely amazing art. Title from “Old Pine” by Ben Howard.

[read on ao3]

“Why ballet?” Kashaw asks. Shuffling echoes through the rehearsal room as he gathers his music at the piano.

Keyleth presses deeper into her stretch, folded nearly in half, and holds it for a moment, silent. The shuffling stops. She rises slowly, pushing her hair out of her face to meet his eyes in the mirror. For a moment they watch each other, he at the piano and she on the ground. Keyleth glances away first. She feels his eyes follow her.

“My mother danced,” she says, swinging a leg out and folding herself down again, rolling forward until she’s flat against the ground in the splits, toes pointed. Her hair spills out beside her, loose from its bun. Kashaw tucks his music into his folder and leans down to pick up his bag. The bench slides on the smooth wooden floor.

“She quit?”

“I don’t know. She left.”

Kashaw zips the bag. “Oh.”

Keyleth comes out of her stretch and pushes herself to her feet. “Yeah.”


She shrugs and busies herself with her own bag, fishing out her sweater and pulling it on. It swallows her, sleeves falling past her hands. She pushes them up impatiently. “It’s alright. It’s been a while.”

Kashaw stands and swings his bag over his shoulder. “Do you want a ride home?”

“Okay. Thanks.”


Keyleth flicks off the lights when they leave, and locks the studio behind her. The night air is cold, the parking lot empty. Kashaw waits by his bike with his arms crossed, eyes watching her. Keyleth stares at his distorted reflection in the studio window and sighs.

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anonymous asked:

Welcome Guys! So happy to have it reopened thank you for being the admins I'm so excited this is my favorite blog! I was wondering if you guys knew some fics of Parent!sterek with a little boy there are so many fics with daughters but not a lot with sons thank you :)

You are so right. There are so many fics with them having a daughter. I am such a fan of kid fic I don’t even care. Just give me some fluff. My fav kind of kid fic is when it’s a were baby that shifts when they get upset. *clasps hands* Anyway, here’s your bb boy fics! I might have gone overboard. -Anastasia

Originally posted by tiredwitch

Adventures in Exhibitionism by Alpha Ella (Leviarty)

(Complete I 271 I Sterek I Fluff)

Stiles and Derek take the kids to the park.

All I want for Christmas by trilliastra

(Complete I 1,375 I General I Sterek I Fluff)

…I know it’s bad to listen to the adults talking, but daddy was talking to Uncle Scott about a man with black hair and green eyes and beard and mom says dad is lonely so I want to make daddy not lonely.

Please Santa? Please, please?

Love, Charlie

P.S: I want him to like dogs too. And comics and Adventure Time and video games.


Trials of Single Parenthood by Alazan

(1/? I 2,078 I General I Sterek I Fluff)

Thanks to his family’s wealth, Derek can afford to be a stay-at-home dad for Erica and Isaac and be the idealistic, if not sometimes overly sexualized, perfect PTA father. He puts up with everything, the moms, the dads, the teachers, the bake sales, everything…for his kids.

Erica can be…energetic, but has no problems making friends. The problem was Isaac, his shy little wolf. Until he finds a friend in Scott McCall. Every day it was Scott this, Scott that. Recess soon wasn’t enough and he was setting up play dates with Lydia, who Derek at first thinks is Scott’s mother/guardian.

One day it’s not Lydia who’s picking up Scott from a playdate at the Hale home, but Scott’s dad. A.K.A Stiles freaking Stilinski! A.K.A Derek’s current biggest celebrity crush!

animal skins by gasmsinc

(Complete I  2,277 I  General I Sterek  I Fluff)

The first time Stiles dresses Caleb up in a ridiculous outfit Derek thinks it’s a joke. He comes home from work one day and is greeted by the sight of their newborn pup in a zebra onesie complete with ears and a tail.

We’re Doing This Right by alphagottadonk

(Complete I 3,035 I Not Rated (General) I Sterek I Fluff)

“I wanna sleep in here,” A little voice spoke then and Stiles jolted upright so fast he nearly managed to brain himself on Derek’s chin. Islay was sitting at the edge of the bed looking at them curiously and Stiles was about ninety percent certain he was going to end up putting bells on his children so they couldn’t sneak up on him like Derek still managed to do almost every day.

All Hale Stilinski by MishaAteMyBlog

(2/8 I 4,334 I Explicit I Sterek I Abuse)

After reading many fics, I have figured a few things out.

1. I like AU’s where either Derek or Stiles have a kid or two

2. I love the idea of Isaac and/or Scott being a toddler or kid

3. I hate how a lot of kid fics have too much sadness. i.e. a parent died or potential for parents to get back together.

4. I don’t care whether or not Kate is in a story, but do like it when people think outside the box and don’t have her burning people alive. I mean, this is AU right?

5. I like Derek having his family

I am hoping that this story will do justice to all of these things, and that you will like it.

All I want for Christmas (baby, I already have) by MemeKon

(Complete I 4,806 I Teen I Sterek, Scira, Allydia I Hurt/Comfort)

“It isn’t white,” Derek said after a while, once Alec was sleeping again, his cheek on Derek’s chest and his arms and legs strewn around, Derek’s hand rubbing his back.

“Huh?” He rearranged Dea, who was kind of slipping to the side; it made him the tiniest bit nervous, so he held her with both hands, one on her back and one on her diapered butt. She was so small that his hands were practically overlapping.

“Our fence. It isn’t white,” Derek elaborated.

Stiles snorted.

“Of course you’d focus on that, you dork.”

Eighteen and Beautiful by allhalethealpha

(2/5 I 5,383 I Not Rated I  Sterek I Human!AU)

“We’ll never see each other again.” It was meant to be a joke, but Derek knew Stiles believed it.

“Yes we will,” Derek said, more trying to convince himself than anything.

“Yeah, we will.” By the tone of his voice, he knew Stiles didn’t believe it.

But they didn’t. At least, not for a long, long time.

or, the one where Derek and Stiles were best friends throughout middle and high school, fell in love somewhere in those years. They lose touch when Derek goes off to college, and don’t see each other until their two sons become best friends when they tag along with their dads and meet at the fifteenth reunion.

Accidental Dad by loveless_loves_beloved

(6/8 I 7,639 I Explicit I Sterek I Werewolf!Baby)

Stiles wakes up one morning and is gifted an infant! Derek immediately offers to help and Stiles starts to realize that time does heal all wounds. Maybe he is ready to look a little closer into this attraction he feels to Derek. Maybe Derek will actually reciprocate. All Stiles knows is that there is a baby werewolf that needs them and he’ll give himself willingly.

make something good by verity

(Complete I 7,693 I  Explicit I Sterek I Single Dad!Derek)

Stiles sighs and slouches down in his chair, taps his pencil against his desk irritably. He spent a year and a half fighting evil, being evil, and then fighting evil again, and now he’s just—a glorified babysitter.

This is how it ends: not with a bang, but a whimper.

Edited To Add by Fatebegins

(Complete I 7,663 I Explicit I Sterek, Peter/Scott I Single Dad!Stiles, Thug!Derek)

Derek is a thuggish debt collector and Stiles is a single dad sitting on a lot of debts from his shady ex. Derek has a soft spot for Stiles’ son and… subsequently falls for his clueless, sarcastic father.

(Not an) Egg Baby by the_ragnarok

(Complete I 8,154 I Sterek I Fairies, Male Lactation)

“Changelings are an old myth,” Deaton says, tinny through Stiles’ phone. Derek can hear him over the– the not-a-baby’s squalling, just barely. “They take the place of human babies to drink their mothers’ milk.”

“We’re kind of short on mothers right now,” Derek snaps.

Daddy I’d Like To…. by AlphaDerekMakesMeDrool

(9/? I 10,560 I Teen I Sterek I Single Dads)

Slow-Build Sterek! AU (Everybody’s Human). Derek and Stiles are both single fathers. They want each other: 1st it’s lust, then it’s friendship, it mightn’t get beyond that since they both lack they courage to find out how the other feels..

When You Wish Upon a Dragon by lupinus

(Complete I 13,739 I  Teen I Sterek I Magic Baby)

Stiles is at the Hale house, lounging on the front stoop watching Isaac, Erica, and Boyd wrestle, when the baby comes running out of the woods.

Derek becomes instant father to a magically appearing baby and falls in love. Stiles can’t take the cute and worries Derek’s heart will break if he loses the kid.

A Wild Heart’s Desire by mikkimouse for marguerite_26

(Complete I 13,410 I Teen I Sterek I Magic!Stiles, Ferel!Derek)

If there’s one thing Stiles Stilinski knows, it’s that Deputy Derek Hale absolutely Does Not Like him. The only reason Derek even tolerates him is because their kids are worryingly codependent.

So Stiles is understandably confused when a very feral Derek shows up in his backyard after a call gone wrong and proceeds to move in with him.

ladybugs by thepsychicclam

(Complete I  20,723 I Explicit I Sterek I Domestic Fluff)

It’s Saturday night, and Derek Hale is at Toys R Us. Shopping for Leapfrog games. If asked, it wasn’t exactly how he pictured his life. Or his Saturday nights.

In which Derek and Stiles have been married for ten years, have two kids, and are planning their five year old’s birthday party.

DILF by twentysomething

(Complete I 30,871 I Explicit I Sterek I Single Dad!Derek, Teacher!Stiles)

“Today is Scott’s first day of kindergarten and Derek is terrified.”

Prince of Christmas by redhoodedwolf

(Complete I 36,550 I Mature I Sterek I Teacher!Stiles, Single Dad!Derek

Derek Hale’s son, Prince, is a sixth grade student at Beacon Hills Middle School. Like his mother was, Prince is a wonderful violin player, which means that naturally his favorite class is music. It also helps that Mr. Stilinski is such an awesome teacher. Derek thinks so to.

After The Storm by matildajones

(4/4 I 41,357 I Mature I Sterek I Hurt/Comfort)

Derek’s mind flits to Stiles’ face. It’s a hard face to forget and for some reason Stiles is one of the only things Derek can think about without feeling like he’s lost something.

Erica grins. “When are you going to see him next?”

“He’s a cop,” Derek says gruffly.


Derek remembers being at the station, he remembers all those fucking people who thought he had killed his own sister. Laura. He hates all of them, and says as much aloud.

Erica hums. “Sounded like you didn’t hate him.”

Adding You to My Future by NekoIzumi

(9/9 I Explicit I 42,252 I Sterek I Mates, Single Dad!Stiles

“So, I’m Stiles.” he smiled warmly once he had put his unannounced patient down on the exam table. “I will poke and prod you a little bit to check for internal injuries, those that I can’t see because they’re inside you, and some of it might hurt but it will pass, I promise. I will tell you everything I’m about to do and why I’m doing it so just stay calm and this will go like a breeze, okay?”

Now, Stiles wasn’t stupid in any way, shape or form, he knew a were when he saw one… although he had obviously never seen a werecat before, and definitely not one as young as this one.

He’s Not Mine by Sunnee

(19/19 I 68,534 I Explicit I Sterek, Berica, Scallison I Mates, Magic!Stiles)

Derek comes home to find an abandoned werebaby on his front porch and Stiles volunteers to help him out. Surprisingly, that is just the beginning of his problems.

I Still Believe by IAmAVeronica

(19/19 I 111,412 I Sterek, Scisaac I War AU, Angst)

War is hell.

Falling in love with enemy solider Derek Hale, secretly mating him, and then accidentally being left behind by him when the war suddenly and violently ends is a special kind of hell apparently reserved for one human omega Stiles Stilinski.

But Stiles is determined to find his mate again, because Derek left more than just Stiles in a war-ravaged and werewolf-hating country - and with danger at every turn and nothing but Derek’s gun and his own wits for protection, hell hath no fury like Stiles now.

too long the children’s voices sing of death

WOOO I finished the trash fam fic that’s been sitting on my laptiop for five billion years I feel so accomplished. Okay, I really really REALLY hope I got Mace’ character okay because I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO WRITE HIM and the presence of the Rebels gang in trash fam au is very half-formed atm, so bare with me (disclaimer: I know very little of their canon backstory). BUT, here it is! Shameless trash. (which I’m actually vaguely proud of)

He had never expected ten years of solitude to be so … isolated.

Certainly, isolation had its merits, and he wasn’t completely alone in the middle of the Mon Cal ocean; two younglings smuggled out from the Temple before the clone – storm troopers arrived, bundled in overlarge robes to disguise them and taken on as his – 

What? Padawans? Mace hadn’t had a proper padawan learner in ages, it felt, and while quite used to their presence in the Temple, two of them at once with only each other for company was … admittedly daunting, at first.

Ten years of isolation, of lingering nerves (a Jedi knows no emotion – but then, that couldn’t be all there was to it, anymore, and he found himself wondering, doubting, second-guessing. One wrong move, was all that was on his mind – one step the wrong direction, and all could have been lost.)

(Jedi – what exactly does that word mean, anymore? It’s been ten years.)

But that was ten years ago, and he was – is – nothing if not stubborn and fiercely in control. The galaxy had been in shambles. He’d had to cling to the only things he had left.

(Sidious’s shriek of anger, the unearthly wail when Anakin had stepped back, the fire in his eyes burning blue, so bright and clear and blue – “No,” he’d said. “I don’t need you.”

Mace had never been more frightened in his life.)

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Not According to Plan ~ Liam Dunbar x Reader

Requested: Can you do a Liam Imagine where your in charge of making food for Lydia’s spur of the moment surprise part for stiles bc the original plans fell through and Liam startles you and so you accidentally burn your hand on the pan and he feels really bad and he helps you? and then he helps you bake the rest? also, could the reader be like a supernatural creature? (mermaid or siren) thanks! xx

A/N: I made the girl a half-faerie since I couldn’t find a way to incorporate a siren or mermaid. I hope that’s alright!

 Things never go the way you expect them to- they never go to plan. But no matter how many times plans go awry, we can’t help but be hopeful that next time will be different. Then reality strikes and we’re still disappointed even though we shouldn’t be. Predictable, but still disappointing. We can’t help but hope for the best even when experience tells us that it’s a nonsensical notion when hope is not so far off from optimistic dreaming. And Stiles’ birthday plans are no exception to this redundant routine.

 Originally, the pack was supposed to take a road trip to the beach to celebrate Stiles’ 18th birthday. Festivities were to be complete with a barbecue, beach volleyball, swimming in the ocean, and whatever else they could come up with on the spot. In all honesty no one cared much about what they ended up doing during this trip, they were just elated to spend time together in a relaxing environment away from Beacon Hills.

 They should have known that a serene getaway would be too much to ask for, even just for a day. The day before the event, Stiles’ jeep took a crap on life, and this time duct tape could not resuscitate the worn hunk of metal. After a lot of failed attempts of revival, copious rolls of that silver tape, and immense amounts of swearing, it was determined that the powder blue jeep’s condition was terminal.

 Stiles being Stiles, he refused to accept the blatant truth. The jeep is as much of the pack as anyone else is. Maybe even more so than Liam, at least in Stiles’ mind. He denounced the option of proceeding with the plan without the jeep and planned to have a professional take a look at it the next day.

 Well now it is the next day, and instead of spending time at the beach with the pack, Stiles is sitting at the repair shop. What he doesn’t know is that although the plans have been altered, they have not been canceled altogether. Scott and Lydia made some last minute rearrangements, determined to celebrate this day one way or another. It might not be a day at the beach, but a surprise party will have to suffice.


“Really, I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” Lydia’s high-pitched voice rings clear throughout the kitchen. The banshee is put on speakerphone so the girl put in charge of food can multitask talking and cooking. She didn’t get a lot of notice. In fact she didn’t get any notice at all. What she got was a phone call at 8:30 in the morning begging that she handle the food for Stiles’ surprise party, and since she’s the only one who is skilled in that department, refusal was out of the question.

 “You make it sound like I had a choice in the matter,” she laughs in good nature, checking the temperature of the boiling water. A few more degrees and it will reach a scalding temperature, which is exactly what she needs for making sugar crystals.

 “No really, you’re my favorite half-faerie,” Lydia bubbles, her grin almost visible through the sound waves.

“I’m the only half-faerie you know!”

“I don’t see why that should make a different,” Lydia quips.

“Of course you don’t,” she chuckles, “You’re lucky I didn’t charm my way out of this.”

“You’re more caring than conniving. Besides, just think of the look on Stiles’ face when he sees what we’ve done. All the slaving over a hot stove will be worth it.”

It’s true, Lydia’s right and she knows it. Being woken up out of a dead sleep in the early hours of the morning and the warmer than average temperature in the kitchen were not and are not pleasant, but this isn’t about her current inconvenience. This is about Stiles. Their friend who deserves the world, but since they can’t give him that, a surprise party will have to do.

“You’re doing a good thing, Lydia,” she says in reference to the impromptu party they conjured up no more than two hours ago.

“So are you. Call me when you’re finished and I’ll drop by to pick up what wont fit in your car.”

“Sounds good, see you then.”

“See you then.”


The exact passage of time is indefinite since she refuses to look at the clock above the stove. The numbers do nothing but make her feel rushed and panicked with the idea of not being able to finish in time. It’s better if she stays in the zone, blocking out everything that is not related to cooking. This is why she failed to hear the sound of the door opening, or the patter of footsteps on the hardwood floor.

 The click of the stove dial and the bubbling of the water are the only sounds that resonate in her ever so subtly pointed ears. She takes the pot into her grip, careful not to spill any of the steaming water on her delicate skin.

“Hey! Need any help?” a voice booms from behind her, unaware of the havoc he has just inflicted.

The sudden noise causes her to shriek and jump back in surprise. The scorching water splashes out of its metal confines, as the movement is abrupt and unsuspected. Her left arm is drenched from her wrist up to the crease of her elbow, her skin already turning an angry shade of red.

 “Shit,” she hisses in pain, her eyes flashing to the color of amethyst and her teeth turning into tiny, sharp razors- an instinct brought on by extreme agony.

The pot falls to the floor as a tinny echo reverberates throughout the room. The remaining water pools on the floor, the cool wooden panels bringing it to a safer temperature.

“Oh my god,” Liam rushes over to her, heat flooding his face, “I am so sorry.”

 “S’okay,” she assures through gritted teeth. She turns the cold-water nob, the clear liquid spilling out of the faucet rapidly. Her skin stings as burning flesh is challenged by cold water.

 “No it’s not. I am a safety hazard who shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house,” Liam grimaces. Welts are being to form over the length of the injured area.

 “Now you’re just being dramatic,” she chuckles, rotating her arm to cover the entirety of it.

“Is there anything I can do?” the beta frowns, guilt washing over him.

“There’s aloe vera and gauze in the pantry around the corner. Could you get it for me please?” she asks, her tone soft.

“Yes, of course, I can do that,” he nods sharply, departing to retrieve the supplies.

She smiles to herself, shaking her head. She’s known Liam for a few months now; he was the first one to sniff her out. She was able to evade the rest of the pack, flying below their supernatural radar when she arrived in Beacon Hills. Faeries and half-faeries aren’t like werewolves, they don’t draw a lot of attention to themselves. Their abilities are more understated, their charm passable as being just exceptionally charming. The purple irises and jagged teeth are manageable, as they are not triggered by anger or an increasing heart rate. But somehow Liam figured it out. He paid very close attention to her, and not because she seemed threatening or because he was suspicious of her sudden appearance. He was drawn to her because she her personality is enchanting and her physical appearence ethereal.

 In complete honesty, he had no idea what she was in the beginning. He was just a teenage boy enthralled with the pretty new girl. Impulse control has never been his strong suit, so he allowed himself to pine after her. As it turns out, his infatuation is what revealed her secret. He began to notice things that were out of the ordinary, things that anyone else would have never have noticed because they were so subtle.

“Alright, I got everything,” Liam reenters the kitchen, “Let me see your arm.”

She ruefully abandons the sink, hopping onto the counter and stretching her arm out to be wrapped. Liam squirts the aloe into his palm, rubbing his hands together to coat them in the substance. His hands feel cool against her irritated skin, the lotion providing a nice relief.

“Am I hurting you,” Liam’s brows furrow together in concern. He’s never been very good at flirting. He’s not charming and smooth. He’s awkward and bumbling and even though he’s not an expert at attracting the opposite sex, he’s pretty sure that giving them a burn injury is not the best way to entice them.

 “No, not at all. It feels nice,” she assures. She’s not lying, but she’s not being completely truthful either. The aloe does feel nice, but the burn still hurts like hell. She doesn’t want to tell him though; it’s obvious he feels badly enough already.

 “I just wanted to stop by to see if I could help out. I know Lydia dumped a lot on you with all the food prep,” he sighs, mentally kicking himself for ruining his sweet gesture that went south remarkably fast.

He finishes wrapping her arm in loose gauze to cover the wound but still allow airflow. She hops off the counter, inspecting his patch up.

“You had good intentions and I appreciate it. Accidents happens,” she smiles warmly at him, squeezing his shoulder.


 She winces as she begins to clean up the mess, Liam noticing the way her eyes squeeze shut quickly and then pop back open. She’s not the type to ask for help, or whine when something unfortunate happens to her. She sucks it up and puts on a brave face, because if she gave up every time she got hurt, well, she wouldn’t be living much.

“Still hurts, doesn’t it?” he mops up the water, nudging her to sit down while he cleans it up.

 “It’s much better than it was,” she forces a smile, sitting back against the cupboards.

“I know that’s your version of lying,” Liam rolls his eyes, “Can I try something?”

“By all means,” she waves her uninjured arm, inviting him to come closer.

He scoots over to her, letting his fingers dance across her palm experimentally. He’s aware that his heart rate has picked up significantly and he hopes to god that she can’t hear it. Her palm flexes open, allowing him to intertwine his fingers with hers. Sure enough his veins begin to turn black as her pain is transferred to him. Scott taught him how to absorb the pain of others through animals at the clinic, but this is the first time he’s done it with something other than a dog.

“It’s working,” she sighs in relief, letting her head fall back. The absence of pain is almost euphoric.

For Liam it’s a little less than pleasant. His face contorts into a strained scowl while she grins blissfully, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. It burns. It burns so bad that Liam wants to yelp in pain, but he holds it in, letting her relish in relief for just a little bit longer.

“You can let go now. I can manage,” she announces, looking at him fondly.

“Are you sure?” he asks, hesitant to disconnect their hands.

“Yeah, plus I’m afraid you might break my hand if you squeeze any harder, and that is the exact opposite of the solution to our problem,” she laughs lightly, removing her tiny hand from his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize,” he looks at her apologetically.

“No harm done,” she uses his shoulder to hoist herself up.

He looks at her with wide eyes as if to say ‘oh really?’

“Okay, maybe some harm done. But I don’t fault you for it. Now get up and help finish frosting the cupcakes.”

Liam nods compliantly, hopping to his feet. He’s not experienced in the kitchen, but how hard can frosting cupcakes be? Plus he definitely owes her for all the trouble he’s caused in the past twenty minutes. Who knew he could do so much damage in such a short amount of time.


 “Are you gonna make more sugar crystals?” Liam inquires, spreading light blue frosting over the cupcakes he’s been assigned.

“Sugar crystals can suck my ass,” she scowls, blaming the food more than she blames Liam.

“Suck my ass,” he giggles, the teenage boy in him making an appearance.

“It’s gender neutral,” she grins, opening a new can of frosting.

“I like it,” Liam agrees.

They stay like this for a while, frosting baked goods and making conversation about whatever comes up. Every now and then they flick powdered sugar at each other, or smear frosting across each other’s cheeks when they’re not paying attention. Inevitably they both end up covered in frosting and powdered sugar.

 Liam moves to wipe the blue frosting off his cheek with a wet towel, but she stops him before the towel gets anywhere near his face.

“Wanna play a game?” she grins cheekily.

“Sure,” Liam nods, putting the towel down.

“It’s called no hands. My mom and I used to play it when I was younger and would help her bake,” she explains, “You can’t use your hands to wipe anything off.”

“What can you use?” he inquires.

“Anything else,” she licks frosting off the back of her hand, “My mom tried to lick flour off her elbow for a good twenty minutes once.”

“How did that end?”

“She gave up eventually.”

Liam has never been one to deny a challenge. Especially not one that involves ingesting any type of sugar. After all, it would be a waste to simply wash off the frosting decorating their skin. They might as well have some fun with it.

 “Game on,” he grins, licking the side of his hand.


An hour and a half later they’ve managed to have all the food done and ready. The cupcakes are frosted, the lasagna is baked, the salads have been assembled, and the bowls of candy have been sorted. They’ve also managed to keep up the no hands game rather successfully. This is not how she planned to complete the task Lydia has assigned, but it turned out much better.

“I can’t believe we’re actually done,” Liam breathes out, leaning against the counter.

“Two hours and ten cans of frosting later,” she jokes, brushing the back of her hand against her nose to itch it. Frosting on the side of her arm rubs off on her lip, coating the flesh in a sugary blue cream.

 “Wonderful,” she laughs, noting how she has frosting just about everywhere now.

“Here,” Liam picks up a towel, and moves towards her, “I got it.”

 She backs away from him, causing Liam to scrunch his face up in confusion.

“No hands,” she quirks her eyebrow.

“W-what?” Liam stutters.

“That’s the rule. You can’t use your hands.”

“What do you want me to use?” his eyes dart everywhere but her face, a light blush creeping into his cheeks.

“Judging by the redness of your cheeks, I’d say you already know,” she smirks, tilting her head.

“Do you… Do you want me to?” he searches for clarification.

“Only if you want to,” she panics a little; afraid she may have misread the way he regards her.

“Oh I want to,” he confirms confidently, fitting his lips against hers before he loses his nerve.

The frosting is sweet and melts in their mouths quickly. After the thin barrier dissolves it’s just lips on lips that have a lingering taste of sugar and vanilla. Her fingers brush over his cheekbone, further spreading the pearlescent frosting that’s been there for quite sometime now. Their searching hands smear whatever was on their body beforehand, creating an even bigger mess than there already was. But they don’t seem to mind.

 Her body buzzes everywhere Liam touches, taking her mind off the dull burning sensation in her arm. She quickly decides that he’s a better pain reliever than aspirin as his fingers knot in her hair, streaking the tresses with something blue.

 They pull away, their chests rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes flash purple while his have turned yellow, the kiss making their bodies go haywire. He rests his forehead against her, letting his fingers toy with hers gently.

“That wasn’t how I was planning on coming clean about my feelings for you,” he chuckles, his breath hitting her face.

She returns the laugh, kissing the tip of his nose sweetly.

 “Since when do things ever go according to plan around here?”


*Not my gifs (X) (X)*

Your Stars Are My Stars

The one where Sirius is in the marines and Remus can’t go with him and doesn’t know how to be without him.

part viii


Sirius is in the light again. Usually he’s in the dark, heavy blackness but occasionally he comes to. Then it’s bright and painful. Everything hurts too much and he sinks under again, like a wave crashing over his head. He never has enough time to register much more than a fabric ceiling and a very annoying, very slow, methodical beeping. There’s another sound too though. A heavy rattling sound that reminds him of someone breathing through one of those Darth Vader masks. He once had time to wonder if he was making these sounds before the waves overtook him again.

He can’t seem to open his eyes this time. He can’t move. He doesn’t even think he can really feel his own body. Panic squeezes at his chest and the beeping picks up slightly. He tries to yell but there’s something in his mouth, something that makes his throat raw. And he’s so, so hot. It’s sticky and makes what he thinks are bed sheets feel like they’re glued to him - he doesn’t know how he didn’t realize it before. He’s miserable and it feels like some place near his chest is leaking fire all over him. He longs for the darkness.

Then, suddenly, there’s a cool hand being pressed to his wrist, fingers brushing against his forehead, feeling heavenly.

Remus is his first thought, Remus is here.

it has to be Remus. he’s here he’s making it better he’s here.

Then Sirius remembers the last time he’d spoken to Remus. He remembers how they’d fought and what he’d said and he struggles again because now it is a million times more important that he gets his eyes open. He has to tell Remus how sorry he is, how much he loves him. He has to tell him everything-


He’d been protecting James. Sirius’ mind reels. He’d been with James, he made promises to James. there had been a gun, he’d gotten…

He’d gotten hurt.

Was James hurt? Had Sirius saved him? Or was James…

Sirius felt ice in the pit of his stomach. Were they dead?

Light finally floods his vision, almost making him squeeze his eyes shut again but he refuses. He blinks rapidly, eyes rolling around for a moment before they focus on a figure beside him.

His heart drops.

“Mr. Black? Can you hear me, Sirius?”

There’s a flurry of beeps and the nurse curses.

Sirius welcomes the blackness as it washes over him once more. He doesn’t want to think.



Remus wants to scream. It’s been two weeks and Remus just wants to fucking scream.

Bones comes almost every day, keeping him updated. Lily too, but she has work so she mostly saves her visits for the weekends and maybe brings some takeout over mid-week, just to make sure Remus is still alive. She must decide that he is, she keeps leaving and coming back… but he certainly doesn’t feel it. She’d found out James was alive the following Friday after they’d found out about Sirius. She’d tried to hide her joy from him… Remus doesn’t think she would have even told him if he hadn’t asked. But it was written all over her face. The relief, the happiness. He tried not to hate her for it.

It’s just him today though. Bones had been over… it could have been yesterday, could have been last week, bringing news of Sirius’ first responsive period of alertness, although it was only a minute or so.

“It’s a good sign, Remus.” Bones had said.

But then he’d gone on to tell Remus all about an infection that they worried was starting in Sirius’ shoulder and Remus had forgotten all about good signs.

Well you don’t have to call, you know. If it means so fucking little. You don’t have to call.

You don’t have to call.

Remus wants to scream. Because if that’s the last words he’ll ever speak to Sirius Black he thinks he just might off himself.

Suddenly restless he switches from slouching on the couch to walking circles around the perimeter of the square rug around the coffee table. He tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, tries to stay on the very edge of the rug, tries to distract himself. But his mind reels.

Because the worst part is that Sirius actually hadn’t called and- and Remus doesn’t want to think it but the thought springs up anyway:

What if Sirius dies mad at him? What if Sirius dies thinking Remus was mad at him?

His feet carry him faster, one in front of the other, toe to heel.

The thought that Sirius’ last thoughts could be about Remus feeling anything other than complete and utter love for him makes him feel ill. He stops abruptly, tripping on his own feet and grasps that arm of the couch before his knees collide painfully with the hardwood floor.

His should get up, but all he can manage is to curl in on himself, head bowed like he’s praying… and maybe he is, in a way.

He’s not sure he can do this. Fuck, he’s not sure he can make it.

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by the tinny sound of xylophones coming from his phone. He doesn’t even jump when he hears the phone anymore. He blindly gropes for his phone, not even raising his head.


“You are receiving a call from Royal Marines Base Camp Bastion. To reject this call, please hang up now. To accept, please press one.”

Remus straightens up so fast he sees stars. Because who could- there’s only one person who’d…

He’s confused, frantic, panicked. Remus desperately hopes this isn’t how they deliver the worst news. No, Bones wouldn’t allow that. Still, he feels almost too scared to even answer the phone. His thoughts feel like they’re colliding with one another as he punches 1.

He’s silent for a few beats, “Hello?” His voice breaks.

There are familiar, high pitched, distant beeps, then a crackling voice,


And it takes Remus a few moments through all that crackling and telephone wire and fog in his head to realize.

He knits his eyebrows, confused, “James?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, “Y-Yeah. Yeah.”

“I- What-“ Remus doesn’t really know what to say. James has never called him before. Not knowing what else to do, he stutters, “James… I- are you okay?”

“I-“ Another breath, “I’m- Fuck, Remus I’m-“

There’s an especially loud crackling nose, like wind blowing into the speaker. Remus realizes it’s James letting out a harsh breath. It’s followed by smaller hitches and silence.


But James can’t seem to finish the sentence.

And Remus realizes he’s crying. That it wasn’t a breath but a sob.

Dread fills him.

“No. No- James, did-“ He squeezes his eyes shut, “Did something-“ He feels tears brim his own eyes, “Is… is he-“

“It’s my fault.”

Remus’ eyes flash open. He swallows, “What?”

James’ breathing sounds like a bird rattling a cage, trying to get out, “It was my fault.” He sobs and Remus’ chest tightens, “I was- it was so dark-“ his breath hitches, “I didn’t see- I didn’t see them-“

“James- stop-“ Remus presses his palm to his chest, as if that will stop the tears, stop the ache.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, Remus I’m so sorry-“

“James, please-“

“I might’ve killed him-“ Remus can pictures James pulling at his hair, eyes squeezed shut, “Remus-“

No. James you didn’t kill him.” Remus is holding the phone so tight he’s worried he’ll snap it, “Fuck, you didn’t kill him because he is not going to die. He’s not going to die and you aren’t fucking allowed to think any otherwise.”

Remus leans his forehead against the couch arm, breathing heavily through his nose, trying to relieve the lump in his throat, “It’s not your fault James. It’s not anyones fault.” He says finally.

They are silent after that, just breathing, calming down, knowing the other is still there but not knowing what to say.

“He had my back.” James croaks.

Remus squeezes his eyes tight against the burn.

James sniffs, “He always has… he always will.” He adds the second part fiercely.

And Remus feels his resolve fall, his face crumple. He lets his face fall to his palms and finally, finally allows himself to cry. Really cry.

James does what he can from across the world, shushing him and telling him it will be okay.

Remus cries.

He cries until he thinks he falls asleep because he doesn’t remember hanging up.


He’s still in his place beside the couch, on the floor, when he realizes he’s being shaken awake.

Bones’ face comes into view, eyebrows drawn and face tight with worry.

“We need you.” Is all he says before he pulls Remus upright. Remus isn’t sure if it’s appropriate for an army officer to make him eggs, but Bones insists.

“So…” Remus mostly pushes food around his plate, to caught up in the look on Bones’ face, “You said…” He trails off, glancing at Bones across the table.

Bones bites his lip, fighting, “Please eat something first…”

Remus sighs, tossing his fork down with a clatter, “How the fuck am I suppose to eat with you looking like that?”

He does a bit more lip biting, his eyes flitting from the eggs to Remus’ face, before he sighs.

“Alright then.” He runs a hand, distressed, through his short cropped hair. It’s a gesture that hits much too close to home and makes Remus’ chest tighten. He takes some eggs in hopes that it will encourage Bones to continue.

“Last night… Sirius’ fever spiked.” He takes one look at Remus’ face and rushes to continue, “It’s alright, it’s okay. We just… we need to put him under for a few days. So his body can focus solely on healing.”

Remus waits a few beats to hear the problem but Bones just looks at him.

“Well then bloody do it!” He blurts.

“It’s not that simple-“

“Why the fuck not?-“

“He won’t let us.”

Remus regrets the bite of egg as it churns in his stomach, “What?” he says weakly.

Bones shakes his head a little, “It could be the medicine, maybe, messing with his head. He’s scared and in nearly constant pain… but he won’t let them do it. The doctors need his consent, Remus.”

Remus swallows thickly, “Well, I- I don’t see what I can… What could I do?”

Bones leans forward, lacing his fingers. He wets his lips, “Talk to him.”

Remus’ pulse is skyrocketing in a second, he grips the edge of the table.

Bones carefully pulls a phone from his pocket and for some reason it makes bubbles of panic rise in Remus’ chest, “What- No. I can’t-“

“Remus, listen to me.” Bones’ eyes are calm and comforting. Remus doesn’t want to know what his own look like, “He’s been alone for so long. Surrounded by people he doesn’t know, people only there to pump him with drugs and preform operations. No one he knows or can truly care for him… not the way you do. Remus… you can convince him.”

How?” Remus can’t drag his eyes from the phone, a possible real connection to Sirius for the first time in… forever.

“Just talk. Let him hear your voice. Talk about the whether, a sports game, anything. It doesn’t matter-“

“He’s dying and you want me to tell him the bloody wind patterns?” Remus feels like something is lodged in his lungs.

Bones’ eyes get even more intense if possible, “Put yourself in his shoes, Remus. If you were him, wouldn’t you want to hear his voice? And would you give a fuck what he was talking about?” He shakes his head, “Wouldn’t you just want to hear him?

Remus is silent for what feels like a long time. He needs his heart to calm down, needs to get air into his lungs. Because he knows he has to do this. Because Sirius needs him. Fuck, his wonderful, brave, fucking hero of a boy needs him and he’d sooner die than let him down again.

He nods.

Bones’ shoulders sag in relief, “Good. Now, he won’t be able to talk back. He’s on breathing support,” Remus knew this already, or at least assumed, but it still sent a ache through his chest, “but he can hear you…” Bones presses a hand to his shoulder, “I’ll dial.”

Bones murmurs a few words into the speaker before turning back to Remus, “Okay. Try to stay as calm as you can, yeah? We need him relaxed. He’s only barely stable right now, but he could be if this works.”

Remus’ hands shake when he reaches out and takes the phone.

“Mr. Lupin?” Remus is surprised (and thankful) to hear a kind sounding women on the phone instead of all the serious sounding officers he’d been dealing with.

“Yes.” He feels numb.

“Thank you so much for this… I know this is hard but… I just know it will mean so much. Are you ready?”

Remus thinks he says yes, but it could have come out as just a muffled sort of affirmative sound. He’s not sure.

“Sirius? We’ve got someone on the phone for you, love.” Her voice sounds distant like she isn’t near the phone anymore but instead holding it out to someone else.

Remus wants to cry at how sweet she is to him. He wants to cry because thank god someone is there to talk to him like that through all of this.

There’s a rustle, and Remus can now hear a methodical rushing sound and a beeping. When he realizes that it is the sound of Sirius’ heart beat and breathing monitor, he has to pull the phone away from his cheek for a moment to let out a shuttering breath of relief. Because he’s listening to the sounds that mean Sirius is alive. The sounds he wasn’t sure he’d even hear again.

He takes a deep breath, “Hi, love.”

The moment he speaks the beeping picks up, nearing a frenzy and there’s a disruption in the rattling sound of the ventilator, like someones desperately trying to take it out. He hears the women softly shushing him, whispering reassurance.

Remus feels tears burn his eyes but refuses to let them show in his voice,

“It’s okay, Pads. You’re alright.” He bites his lip until the beeping returns to normal, if not a tad faster still. He clears his throat, “There you go, you’re okay… S’cold here. You’d like it… Nice and windy.” He hears Bones laugh softly from beside him.

“I, um, I’ve been watching that stupid show you like. What’s it, Reign? I’m up to- well, maybe I shouldn’t say… I’m pretty sure I’m ahead of you now. But no wonder you like it, that Condé’s nice to look at, isn’t he?” Remus doesn’t know where this is coming from, doesn’t know how he’s even fucking managing it, but he even conjures up a little laugh (even if it is noticeably watery).

“Anyway, don’t worry I’ll- I’ll re-watch with you when… when you get home, yeah?” Remus squeezes his eyes shut, trying to steady himself before continuing. He lets out a long breath, “But the thing is… Pads, we can’t do that unless you let them help you. You have to… You have to let them put you to sleep for a bit, okay love?” He can hear it in his voice his resolve’s crumbling but he has to get this out, “I know it’s hard… Fuck, Pads you’ve been so amazing. I know you’re probably scared… hell, I’m scared too but-“ Remus blinks rapidly, swiping at his cheeks, “You have to heal. You’re sick, love, and you have to help yourself heal. Just think, when you wake up, you’ll be one step closer to coming home-“

He barely finishes the word ‘home’ before he has to swallow back a sob and his voice gives out. He’s silent for a few moments, letting Sirius’ breathing calm him.

Finally, he takes a breath, “91 days, Pads. 91. We’ve made it through 41 of them, more than half, and we’re sure as hell not giving up now.” He bites his lip, cradling the phone to his hear, trying to pretend he could just reach out and brush Sirius’ hair out of his eyes, “I love you, okay? So much.”

Sirius doesn’t respond with the more but Remus knows it’s there.

He passes the phone back to Bones and presses a palm over his beating, aching heart.

He doesn’t breath again until Bones gives him the thumbs up, signaling Sirius is under and healing once again.

(damn this is a long one. got very caught up. hope you like it <3 )