i paused it and this is what i got

3

Requested by anonymous

”You bitch!” You shouted at Sally furiously “you killed me you sick-“ you had to pause and look down at your form. You remembered this woman killing you but… here were. Could have been a dream? No that was impossible. The whole scenario seemed so weird.

”Oh calm down” Sally replied, rolling her eyes at your rage “we all got to go eventually. All I did was sped up the process.

”So you did kill me? Then how…” you trailed off. What the hell was going on? If you had truly been murdered then logically you shouldn’t be still in the Hotel Cortez but you still were.
“I don’t understand” you muttered.

”You’re dead idiot. Like me. You’re a ghost that’s doomed to walk this shitty hotels halls forever” Sally explained. You blinked, for a moment you just stood there. Unsure of what you should do with this information.
“Don’t look so god damn depressed, here” she said offering you a box of cigarettes “have a smoke, it’ll take the edge off”.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

anonymous asked:

You hurt so many people, not only civilians, but your own friends and fellow supers. Do you know what happened to Kick? Tu Hutt? To Vik? They all got hurt one way or another because of you. You don't deserve to be alive, not after you took the life of so many like that.

“I…I didnt mean to- I swear, I-i…You’re right..” He paused, “What happened to Ja- I mean Kick, to Huttman?? Ive been looking everywhere…dont tell me they- That I-” He started crying again.

Shit my wife has said to our cat, part 4

- You are a lap real-estate mogul, Miss Kitty. You got some supreme above-the-knee property.

- I’d like to remind you, my favorite little bastard, that you may have International Cat Day, but we queers have a full month. So take that.

- Eat it. Paper-mâché your fucking heart

- Did you hear it? Did you hear it speak? That which haunts the halls of this apartment… (cat: meows). Shut up.

- (Listening to disco) Are you feeling the love vibration tonight, Miss Kitty? Is that why your tootsies are like this?

- You come to us. For pets? For knowledge? For Wisdom?….. For…. pets?

- I feel like being obnoxious tonight, like you are every night you little…… shit…. head? I couldn’t think of something terrible to call her.

- You fucking motherfucker. You opportunistic little bitch. You Machiavellian motherfucker. GO WRITE SOME LATIN.

- Sic semper tyrannis ad mortum, Miss Kitty. You’re the ’ tyrannis’ in this situation. I’m the ‘ad mortum.’

- Happiness can be found outside the lap, Miss Kitty. That is the way of enlightenment. Happiness can be found without stepping on my titties, and making them hurt with your toe beans.

- I peer in your eyes in the middle of the night. I know what your soul is.

- HA! Now I can leave the floor without feeling guilty! Neener Neener, you shithead!

- You’re famous, Miss Kitty! You got famous by doing nothing but being an object of ridicule. (long pause) We toyed with fire, I know…

- I say so many mean things to you and I don’t take them back.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Alright, brief trigger warning for a rape joke mention.

Health class right? We’re going through the dating and relationship unit, and this guy - this guy who is a TOTAL asshole starts making all these horrid jokes about rape.

And for background about this absolute moron of a creature: talks over the native students in history class bc he’s “1/17 Cherokee” (???) obviously not, he’s white as hell with brown hair blue eyes. Although he’s a friggin high schooler he’s been known to pull girls hair and laugh about it. He argued that my friend (who is Muslim and wears a hijab) be kicked out of school for having a pocket watch (this was right after the clock “bomb” incident with that elementary (middle school?) kid) and y'all just get the idea, this guy was douchebag supreme and the only ppl who like him were other future alt right douchebags.

So finally he makes a comment and said “you know if girls don’t want to get raped they shouldn’t wear tiny dresses at night. That’s like walking through the ghetto in a KKK hood.”

So me, being the foolish high school freshman Tumblr user with this grand delusion that this couldn’t possibly have any bad consequences for me and that everyone and their mom would start clapping, gets up and walks to this idiots desk. I had had the last straw.

I said “well maybe if you didn’t want to fucking get decked you shouldn’t run your mouth about girls that are “asking to get raped”“ aaaaaaand I decked him. Real hard. Kids in the bad could hear my fist collide with his cheek.

What I though would happen: the class and the teacher would start clapping at my Bravery and Sjw Passion to deck a rape apologist and he would have a talking to after class like in those obviously fake Tumblr stories when they were still a thing.

What actually happened: school police escorted me out of the classroom and I was suspended for a week and had to write an apology letter to this goblin.

Moral of the story: don’t punch people in class. Tumblr sjw lied to you.

Follow up 1 year later: my dad is apparently sitting outside the school with the same police officer bc some kid had slashed one of my tires and he had been stopping by to drop some stuff off in my car. So him and the school officer are out there talking, and officer mentions: "Heisler? Aren’t you the dad of the kid who punched that boy in health class?” And my dad, keeping he’s cool goes “yeah, that was mine.” The officer pauses then tells him, “I couldn’t say this at the time and I shouldn’t say it now so don’t tell anyone but I’m glad that renville kid got what was coming to him.”

smile ✦ peter parker

summary : as the adopted daughter of none other than tony stark, you have a myriad of responsibilities. babysitting peter parker probably wasn’t supposed to be one of them. not that you’re complaining.

word count : 4.7k (also known as the longest thing I’ve ever written)

author’s note : ur adopted b/c not everyone is white and i don’t want anyone to feel excluded from reading this due to the fact tony is white (and yes ik there are interracial couples i just want everyone to feel included i want to make sure whoever wants to read this can without feeling weird about it b/c i know it is something that bothers people in the fanfic community okay bye enjoy my loves.)

   Tony Stark was a lot of things to a lot of people. He was the billionaire, he was the genius, the philanthropist, and the notorious playboy in his younger years. Most notably, however, was that he was Iron Man. He was marveled at by the entire world, him and the group of heroes that stood beside him; the Avengers, as they called themselves. To you, however, he was your father. 

   A terribly overprotective one, at that. 

  Of course, this was only to be expected of a father, even a foster one, but the lengths the man went to in order to keep his only daughter out of whatever he deemed trouble were rather extensive. You rarely ever left the Avengers tower, and if you did you were accompanied by a team of people you could only describe as rip off Secret Service men. Sometimes, Natasha would replace them, or Steve, but that was a rare occurrence. You were homeschooled by the best tutors his money could pay for- this particular move was less about refining your education and more about keeping you away from any boy in the five boroughs. 

   You chose to spend majority of your time reading in your room and training, always wary of anyone who approached you about being a friend. Your surname meant everything to people, especially the girls that wandered around Manhattan desperate to become the bestie of the daughter of the richest man in New York. You loved your dad with all your heart, but the stigma that ran with the Stark name would never stop irritating you. 

   That, and the impromptu plans he threw at you on a regular basis. 

   “Miss Stark, your father is requesting access to your room. He knows you hate it when he barges in.” Vision drifted into your room without warning, making you jump. You yanked your earbuds out of your ears, giving him a look. 

   “I hate when anyone barges in, Vision. That includes you, too.” You pushed your chair away from your desk, placing your pen on the desk and shutting your notebook. “Tell him he can come in if he lets me become an Avenger.” You raised your voice at this, knowing he would hear you. 

   “He says that he’ll consider it if you let him in.” 

   You raised your eyebrows. “Touché.” You motioned for the door to open, and your father walked into the room, immediately taking his pristinely polished shoes off and lying down on your bed. You stared at him.“Dad, it’s not cool to wear sunglasses inside. You look lame.” 

   Tony Stark rolled his eyes at you. “It’s called a look, sweetheart.” You laughed, pretending to nod in agreement. He placed his hands behind his head as you spun your chair back around to your desk. “What are you working on?” 

   “Something for Bruce,” you muttered, pen cap between your teeth as you continued to jot down important points from his numerous lab reports. You were going to have to hand in a full analysis of his findings for your end of term science paper, and he was more than willing to aid you. “Science report.” 

   “My daughter, beautiful and intelligent, my flesh and blood,” Tony declared proudly. 

   “Dad, I love you to the death, but I’m still not your biological kid,” you smiled all the same, though, and he knew behind the tough exterior you were happy to hear his expressions of admiration. 

    “Who needs a biological kid when I’ve got this great, wonderful adopted one right in front of me.” 

   Not looking up from your notebook, you said, “You’re really laying it on thick today. I’m all of those things, obviously, but I know you want something. So, what is it?” You paused, then said, “Thank you, by the way.” 

   “You sure we’re not related?” He sat back up, clasping his hands together. “What do you say about Germany?” 

   “Nice enough place I guess, interesting history, why?” 

   “I kind of need you to go there for two weeks with me.” 

   With a groan, you dropped your pen and held your face in your hands. “Another surprise trip? Dad, I have school. I have homework! Do you see this?” You held up the thick stack of reports from Banner’s lab, waving them around. “This is gonna be, like, my life’s work.” 

   Tony shook his head. “Kids these days and their homework. Seriously. When I was at school I would have taken any opportunity to shirk my responsibilities.” 

  “You did do that.”

    He waved his hand. “Technicalities. Anyway, as you know the Avengers have been disassembled. Sokovia Accords and all that bullshit. I assume you’ve been keeping up?” 

   “Hard not to.” It was true. Anything in the news was about the great split of the infamous team, Captain America vs Iron Man. It was impossible to turn on the television without hearing about it. And, considering you lived underneath the same roof as half of them, it was quite literally not an option to be ignorant to what was going on. 

   “Good,” he grinned proudly again. If there was one emotion that the man felt whenever he was around, it was proud. Nearly everything you did made him beam with pride, and if you had been placed into an actual high school, there was no doubt in his mind that the person at the top of every single class would be you. You excelled no matter the circumstances. “So, to sum up, there’s gonna be a big showdown in Germany. Western style, naturally. Guns blazing and everything.” 

   Your eyes lit up and you nearly flew out of your chair, rushing over to him. “Oh my god, are you finally gonna let me fight? You’ve seen my training, right? I’m getting so good. I’m like, practically Natasha level good. She’s been showing me that move where I can snap people’s necks with my thighs and-” 

   “First of all, your thighs are not going around anyone’s neck, so jot that down,” he interrupted. Your enthusiasm visibly deflated. “I need you to kind of watch over this kid who’s coming with us. He’s from Queens. You love Queens.” 

   “You’re making me babysit?” You flopped down on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “C’mon, dad, I’m sixteen. That’s practically an adult. I think I should be allowed to fight this time. I’m Avenger worthy.” 

   “Practically an adult is not the same as literally an adult, as in over eighteen.” You groaned again. “Don’t call it babysitting, anyway. He’s your age. Well, he’s a few months younger, but that doesn’t matter. Just call it… hanging out with a good kid that’s fighting for your dear old dad and making sure he doesn’t get into trouble in Germany or annoy Happy too much.” He patted your knee, standing up. “We leave in the morning, kiddo, so pack up.” 

   “How come he gets to fight if he’s younger than I am?” 

   “’Cause he’s not my daughter. Goodnight, light of my life.” He kissed your forehead before leaving, giving you another encouraging smile.

   “Goodnight, pain my ass,” you grumbled as he left. He popped back in, a stern expression on his face. “If I watch your new protégée can I become an Avenger?” Tony rubbed a hand over his eyes. Teenage girls were exhausting. 

   “We’ll talk about it.”


   You’re sitting at your breakfast table with suitcases piled next to you when Peter Parker strolls into your life with happiness in his every footstep because he is just so, so glad to be there. You’re spooning cereal into your mouth when he sits down directly across from you, a video camera cupped in his soft looking hands and the little red button clicked on, meaning that he is recording you. You place your spoon back into the bowl of milk that is dusted with cinnamon sugar from the Cinnamon Toast Crunch you’ve been eating for the past ten minutes. 

   “Do you mind?” 

   “Mind what?” He asked, peeking up from behind his camera. You gestured toward it, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. 

   “The camera. I’m kind of still in the middle of eating breakfast in my pajamas,” you leaned forward, switching it off. “You must be the Spider-Boy.” The chestnut haired boy feels a blush creeping up his neck and settling along his cheekbones when you say that. 

   “Oh, did Mr. Stark tell you that?” He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “Um, it’s Spider-Man, actually.” He mumbled the man part, knowing fully well that he didn’t look like much of a man in the eyes of anyone, his eyes casting down as he fidgeted with the strap on his camera. 

   “Oh good,” you nodded. You took another spoonful of cereal. “I like that better. Nicer ring to it.” You grabbed your box of sugary breakfast and pushed it toward him, an offering. 

   “Huh?” He was a bit dazed. He stared at the box in front of him and then realized he had been doing that for far too long of a time to be considered normal. “Oh, right, um, sure, thanks!” He opened the box and took a handful, shoving it in his mouth. You kept eating your cereal, silently staring at the bowl and willing yourself not to laugh at the boy in front of you. With all his nerves, he was still a bundle of energy and cheerfulness, and, well, let’s face it, he was sort of adorable. “So, you think my name’s cool?” He tried to sound suave, charming, as he said it, tried to smirk at you, but he stopped when he realized that he looked stupid.

   You gave him a half smile. “It’s pretty good.” His face positively lit up with happiness to be taken seriously, and you knew the feeling too well. You stuck out your hand. “Oh, forgot to introduce myself-” 

  “Y/N Stark, adopted daughter of Mr. Stark, probably the smartest girl in all of New York and, uh, correct if I’m wrong but… Black Widow’s best student as well as Bruce Banner’s apprentice.” 

   You gaped at him. The blush he had been sporting crept up to his ears and made his nose turn the shade of a strawberry. “Well, uh, yeah,” you said, flustered. “Should I creeped out or flattered?” 

   “Flattered, please.” The genuine worry in his eyes as he leaned forward made you laugh. He had an endearing personality. 

   “Flattered it is.” You watched the slow sigh of relief leave his mouth, his hands flying up the mess of hair atop his head and fixing it distractedly. Your dad walked into the room, and Peter practically fell out of his chair trying to stand up and seem presentable. Your slouch was indicative that you didn’t care much. He was just your dad. “Morning, pops,” you slid the box over his way.  

   He frowned at it.” Y/N, that stuff is crap. I don’t know why you eat it.” 

   “Wanda and I like it,” you said defensively, a slip of the tongue. You knew your dad was going to get annoyed at the mention of the Scarlet Witch, who had evaded and ignored his attempts at keeping her powers under control. “It’s good. High quality. Right, Peter?” You whipped your head toward him. 

   He felt his heart give a little tug. He grabbed the box out of your hand and shoved more cereal in his mouth, the cinnamon sugar sticking to his lips. “Yeah, Mr. Stark. Best stuff ever,” he said through a mouthful of it. Tony gave them an amused glance, picking up your two heaviest suitcases and beckoning you both to the landing strip. Peter swallowed his food. 

   He didn’t even like Cinnamon Toast Crunch that much. He was just thrilled that you knew his real name.


   Everything about this kid was infuriatingly dorky in the cutest way possible. You came to this conclusion as you boarded the jet with ease, sitting in your usual spot by the window and greeting Happy with your typical friendly smile and idle chitchat. Peter stumbled onto it with awe written across his features as he stared around the place, touching nearly everything much to Happy’s dismay. 

   “Haven’t you been on a plane before?” The man asked, growing irritated with the way the kid was filming everything. You saw Peter zoom in on Happy’s face and grinned out your window. 

   “Nope, never!” Peter exclaimed, his video camera still in front of him as he captured every detail of his trip. 

   “Well, sit down so we can take off,” Happy said gruffly, grabbing Peter’s shoulders and forcefully placing him into a seat. 

  Peter sat still for a moment, then hopped over to the seat next to you. He placed his camera in front of him on the tray table. “Y/N, smile for the camera. I’m recording.” You looked at him, then turned to the camera and gave it a deadpan stare. You even threw in a slow blink. “Good enough,” he shrugged. He kept it recording as he shifted in his seat so that his entire body was facing you, his chin resting in his hand and his elbow on your armrest. His gaze was sort of nice. “So, Miss Stark, I have a few questions.” 

   “Um, okay, shoot,” you closed your book that you had open on your lap. “I’m not that interesting, just so you know.” 

  “I think you’re interesting,” he assured you. You heard Happy let out a choked laugh at Peter’s flirting attempt, but it was just another thing you found sort of lovely. It was a genuine compliment. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”

   You’d been expecting the typical what’s it like being Tony’s daughter spiel, and you were pleased to get an actual question about yourself for once. “I like everything, I guess. I kind of love school, but I don’t go to a conventional school, so. Training is cool, I like that a lot.” 

   “You train with Black Widow, I have to ask- can you show me some moves? I need to refine my technique before the fight,” he explained.  

    “Do you wanna learn how to crush people with your thighs?”

   “Wow! Do you think I could? Could you teach me? That’s so cool,” he beamed, turning to the camera for a split second with an overexcited look. 

   You pursed your lips, staring out your window for a minute. You were up in the air by now, and there was long flight ahead of you. “Maybe. If my dad is okay with it. I have to check.” Peter looked confused, 

   “Why wouldn’t he be?” 

   “He’s, you know, really overprotective.” You put your first against the cheek, leaning the same way that Peter was. You sighed. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Which is fine, but I can’t even attempt to go make any because I have a whole freaking SWAT team on my ass the minute I step out of the tower because he’s so worried about my safety.” You let your head hit the window, your eyes rolling skyward. “And that makes no sense because-” 

   “You’re really strong and stuff. You can protect yourself,” Peter finished. 

    “I think you know me a little too well, Peter,” you said, poking him lightly in the arm. “But… yeah, exactly. I don’t really get to do anything fun. I don’t have adventures. Sure, reading is fun and studying is fun for me and training is great and I love hanging out with everyone in the tower but I’m still a teenager. No fun for me, though. My life is pretty boring, sorry if that makes your little video diary suck.” You stuck your tongue out at his camera.  

   “No worries,” he said, taking it off the tray table and turning it toward you. “Tell me every boring detail, Miss Stark.” 

   “As long as you stop calling me Miss Stark.” 

   “You’ve got a deal.” 

   It was a seven hour trip, and you both passed out by the three hour mark after Peter had pried every excruciating detail from your life out of you. You hated sleeping on airplanes, but your head was slumped against his shoulder and his arm was knocking against your own and his sweatshirt was as soft as pillow. You remembered the shy glance he had given you just before you knocked out on his shoulder for the remainder of the flight. He had a sweet smile. 


    Peter filmed absolutely everything. He filmed himself getting off the plane and then filmed you getting off the plane and nearly shoved the camera in Happy’s face until he threatened to break it and Peter backed off. He radiated enthusiasm. “Look at this, and this, and this, oh shit wow that’s so cool look at this! Oh man this is good stuff!”

   “Peter this is literally just the airport how am I supposed to take you around the actual city?!”

   “OH WOW Y/N have you seen this!” 

    “Yes, Peter!” 

     He zoomed in on your face, your devoid of emotion look appearing again. “Are you ever gonna smile for the camera?” He gave you a pout, doe eyes and all. You turned away. 

   “No. I’m supposed to be babysitting you, please be behave.” You touched your fingers to the bridge of your nose, dragging Peter to a couch. “Please sit. We’re getting the hotel reservations checked.” 

   “Do they juice boxes? I’m really thirsty.” He was just trying to make you laugh at this point, and annoying you was kind of funny for him. You let out an involuntary chuckle when he pretended to claw at his throat, throwing himself on the ground. 

   “I’ll make sure they have juice boxes for you, Petey. You’re such a seven year old, geez.” You pretended to gag. 

   Looking offended, Peter replied, “I’m actually twelve.” 

   Jokingly, you said, “You’re a twelve year old that’s going to get a punch in the face if you don’t settle down right now.” He stood up, directly in front of you with his light eyes and little grin, another feverish looking heat burning at his face. Nevertheless, he still said, “It’d be an honor to get beaten up by you.” 

  His voice, the sincerity he carried within it despite the ludicrous statement, made you feel those famed butterflies fluttering inside you. Maybe it was the way he looked into your eyes as he said it. Maybe it wasn’t. But something within you was starting to like Peter Parker, and you’d barely known him for twenty four hours. 

   Then again, it was hard to not like Peter. The kid was just so damn likable. 


   He had known it from the moment he first set his eyes upon you that day in the tower that he was a goner. If he had known it then, just from sitting down across from you with nothing to him but his lanky figure and a suit that resembled a onesie more than it did a costume fit for a hero such as he, he was sure of it now, a week and a half later. 

   Every day had been the same routine. He’d be up bright and early in the morning so you could help with him his training, teaching him how to utilize the suit your father had given him with ease rather than his usual tactic of jumping into everything blind. You’d been the one to help come up with nearly all of the web shooter combinations. He didn’t know all of them yet, or close to half of them, but he was progressing wonderfully. 

   After training, you’d give him the tour of your favorite places around Germany, close enough to where you’d both be able to get back to the hotel before dark. He filmed the both of you constantly, but you shied away from the cameras every time without fail. He couldn’t understand why, but he didn’t push. He just liked filming in general, and would accept you not smiling in any of his clips as long as you were still in there. 

   There was a beautiful sense of normalcy that came with hanging around Peter. You reveled in it. No one had ever made you laugh so hard with his ridiculous attempts at jokes or made you smile so much at his shy flirting skills that clearly needed to be revisited. 

   It was okay. You didn’t mind. And the fact that you didn’t tease him for it made him so, so happy. 

   Then, came the day of the fight. Peter had his camera out, he was dressed in his spidey suit, and you were standing there next to him dictating who he should and shouldn’t go after. 

   “Don’t go after Wanda ‘cause she could obliterate you in two seconds and Cap could crush you, too, but he won’t ‘cause he’s really nice like that. Bucky won’t care as much, though, so don’t do that- Ant-Man seems pretty cool and harmless but I don’t have as much intel on him and Peter if you get hurt you have to go hide somewhere-” 

   “I’m not gonna get hurt,” he said confidently. 

   You ignored him. “I’m gonna be in your earpiece, figuratively speaking, so I’ll hear everything you do and if you talk I’ll be able to hear you and you can hear me. So, just… keep me updated.” Peter took off his mask for a second, hair sticking up everywhere from the static. You leaned up, smoothing it back into place. Everything about him was soft. You wanted to curl up in it and stay there for as long as you could. 

   “I’ll be fine, Y/N, don’t worry,” Peter placed his hand on your shoulder. You felt your face heat up. 

   “I- I’m not worried.” You totally were. “I know you’ll be fine.” You didn’t want him getting hurt. “I just want you to be careful.” You didn’t want him to fight. 

   You could’ve sworn his face fell a  bit when you said you weren’t worried, but he squeezed your shoulder anyway. Without a moment’s hesitation, you threw your arms around him, your nose pressing against his neck as you took a deep breath. He stood there for a second without doing anything until he realized that if he didn’t hug you back, he’d be the dumbest person on the face of the Earth. You felt his surprisingly defined arms hug you back. 

   You didn’t look at him when you pulled away. You stared at the spider emblazoned on his chest, gave him a quick good luck, then departed from the room. You sat on your own hotel bed with a rapidly beating heart.

    The nerves were killing you. Ten more minutes. You opened your laptop and pulled up the system that would allow you to communicate across Team Stark. You were more focused on your dad and Peter. You tapped into your dad’s earpiece after placing the headset on. “Dad?” You spoke into the microphone. 

   “Hey, kiddo, everything okay?” 

   “Y-Yeah I just-” you took another breath. “Be safe. I love you.” 

   “I love you too, Y/N. Are you sure everything is okay over there?” 

   “Can you just make sure Peter gets out okay? If he gets hurt, bring him right back, please. That’s it.” Maybe it was a stupid request in someone else’s eyes, but you needed Peter to make it back in one piece. Tony Stark looked over at Peter Parker, crouching in his hiding spot and fumbling around with the gloves of his suit and gave the kid a knowing smile. Of course that was the one his  daughter fell for in the end. Perfectly fitting. 

   “I’ll make sure.” You knew your father couldn’t see the grateful smile on your face, the sigh of relief that fell past your lips when he spoke these words.

   Peter Parker, I swear if you make it out of this, I will smile like an idiot in every single one of your stupidly adorable video diary things. I swear. Just be safe.


 “Your black eye is awful,” you told him, dabbing at it with more cream. “Totally ruins your face.”

   “I think I look manly.” 

   “You think incorrectly.” You stepped back, your fingertips tilting his chin up so you could examine it further. “I think I got the worst of it. You did really well, Peter. Exceptionally well.” His face was glowing from your compliment. 

   “Can I get on that tape?” He asked excitedly, ducking under his hotel bed for his camera. You nodded, and he switched the camera on. He held out his arm so that you were both in frame. And you smiled. He forgot all about what you were supposed to say the moment that beautiful smile appeared there. “I- wow, Y/N.” 

   “What?’ 

    His stare was kind as it usually was. “You just-” he paused. “Your smile is really, really beautiful.” There was no way for you to turn away from the camera this time and you were left grinning like a lovestruck idiot at the boy in front of you, leaning up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

  “Thank you.” 

  You slept the entire plane ride the way you had the last time, curled up against Peter. This time, it was intentional. One of your arms was flung across his waist and his was wrapped around your shoulders, the sweatshirt he had came in now swaddling you cozily. There were two separate cars waiting for you. You stood in between them when the flight got off, the sleeves of his sweater hanging off your hands as you reached out to grab his. He felt you push a piece of paper into his hand. “You better call me, Peter Parker. I’ll be really upset if you don’t.” 

   He wrapped you suddenly in an embrace that lifted you off your feet just a little bit, his lips pressing against your temple. “I’ll call you every day.” 


   He kept true to his word. Every day without fail, your phone rang with a call from Peter, and you fell asleep on the phone with him more often than not. If you weren’t on the phone with him, you were texting him, and if you weren’t doing that, you wished that you were. The consistent communication was better than nothing, but regardless, you missed his presence. You missed the way you felt walking next to him as he explained why chocolate ice cream was so clearly better than vanilla. You just missed him. 

   “Peter?” You held the phone to your ear, nestled in your blankets already even though it was barely nine o'clock. His sleepy voice mumbled out a yes? “Would it be stupid if I said that I missed you?” 

  She could practically hear his wide smile through the phone. “Of course not. I miss you, too. So much. Probably more than you miss me.” 

   “That’s so not true!” She scoffed. 

    “Wanna bet?” His tone was mischievous, no longer the hoarse, pretty voice of a boy just waking up from his nap. “Open your bedroom door.” 

    “Are you joking?” 

    You hung up the phone, throwing back your covers and not caring one bit that your hair was a dripping mess from your shower or that you were wearing  a terrible set of hello kitty pajamas that weren’t meant for anyone over the age of ten based on the size of the top. You nearly tackled him to the ground when you saw him standing in your doorway, a happy squeal escaping your lips. You were surprised he even got in, considering your dad wasn’t home, but you figured Vision had let him in. Vision always had a way of knowing. 

   “Have I ever told you that you have a really pretty smile?” Peter’s lips hovered over yours, almost hesitant. You took the initiative to kiss first, your hands delving into his silk-like hair. There was no point in waiting anymore. Your noses bumped together clumsily when he tilted his head back, admiring. You could feel your whole being light up when he gazed at you the way that he did, in that admiring, careful, Peter way of his. 

   “Careful, Spidey,” You warned, hands on his chest as you stared right back up at him. 

   “Careful of what?” He quirked an eyebrow. 

   “You’re going to make me fall in love with you one of these days if you keep looking at me like that.” It was only the truth, and you were a honest person.

   “That’s sort of the plan,” he shrugged in a seemingly careless way, but he couldn’t hide it. He was an open book. An open book who loved you, and the way that you smiled at him when he pulled back his sleeve to reveal a web shooter, a strange glint in those brown eyes of his as he said, “You up for an adventure?” 

Angel in the Darkness (M) pt. 8

Originally posted by aestheticvbts

Summary: After a patient urgently pleads you to go and help a friend of his, you naively agree to it. Little did you know, that you would get more than what you agreed to, when he leads you to a brothel, to help a dangerous prostitute named Jeon Jungkook.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (ft. Jin, but not romantically)

Word count: 6.5k

Genre: Smut (M), angst, mafia!au, prostitution!au

A/N:This is a dark and filthy story! Graphic descriptions of sex (oral, penetration, etc), heavy dom/sub undertones, drug use, vulgar language use… This is a mature read! You have been warned!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9



“Again? Didn’t we already talk about this?” your mother scolded with a sigh, as you two entered your small apartment.

She had gotten a call from work at the rehab centre, that you had gotten into another fight with the kids at your school. And this became an alarming concern to her since this was the third time this month that you had fought with others.

“I didn’t mean too…” the nine-year-old you sniffled, as you shyed away from your mother’s harsh glare.

“Y/n this is the third time this month that your school has called me!” your mother exclaimed tiredly from the kitchen, getting ready to prepare dinner for the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered from your spot on the sofa, trying to withhold your tears. You knew your mother hated when you got into fights – you didn’t even like it either, but the kids always picked on you. You just wanted them to stop…

“You said you were sorry last time.”

“I know…” you mumbled in reply.

“Then why do you keep fighting?” she frustrated. “No matter what those kids say, you don’t put your hands on them.”

“But they wouldn’t stop!”

“Then tell the teacher-”

“They hit me first,” you interrupted. This caused your mother to pause in the middle of her footsteps.

“Why?” she asked in confusion.

“They just wouldn’t stop saying those horrible things, even though I begged them…”  you said as your tears started to fall.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

For McHanzo, who would propose to who? (I saw the proposing video in your blog lol )

*In the midst of a raging battle* *on private comm channel*

Hanzo: *snipes someone* A formal partnership, you say.

McCree: Yeah, so’s we can get Winston to put us in a bigger room, an’ I can getcha on my health insurance. Cut through a bunch of red tape, that sorta thing. *Fans the hammer*

Hanzo:  And what is required of us in order to obtain this partnership? McCree,  watch your six.

McCree: *Headshots someone* Sonovabitch crept up on me, thanks darlin’. I dunno, probably sign some shit, get it notarized. You know, nice an’ legal.

Hanzo: Hmm…

McCree: You got some headin’ your way, sugar. Left side. 

Hanzo: *insta-scatter arrow kill* Neutralized. McCree, this ‘formal partnership’ sounds much like…marriage.

McCree: *Long pause*

McCree: Huh. It does sound an awful lot like that. *Throws flashbang*

Hanzo: Indeed. 

McCree: So how about it? You an’ me. 

Hanzo: I am not averse to the idea. It may be the most practical solution for us. *Releases sonic arrow* The payload has stopped.

McCree: Alrighty, let’s get this goddamn payload movin’, and then have ourselves a drink ‘cause that sounded like a yes, sweetheart.

Hanzo:  A resounding yes.

McCree:

McCree: I’m gonna give it to you so good when we get back.

Polydads

Also on ao3

Based on a post that @catsforartists made!

—–

When Amanda woke up, she decided to crawl out of bed to get a bowl of cereal. And eat it on the couch, of course.

“Ain’t nothing beat couch cereal.” She declared to the empty room and dug into her delicious and dangerously sugary cereal.

Almost immediately after taking a bite out of her cereal, she heard footsteps coming from her dad’s room, but, when she glanced up, she saw Damien walking by her.

“Good morning, Amanda dear.” Damien greeted.

“Mornin.” Amanda responded. She KNEW it. Her dad and Damien had been getting pretty close, so it wasn’t a completely wild assumption that they would start dating. And, of course, the footsteps she heard must be…

Keep reading

#pining!draco #parseltongue #quidditch

Prompts: @yxxn-g1
Author: @queenofthyme

There may have been fourteen players on the field but Draco only had eyes for one. Fast, lean, focused, Potter was like a bullet the way he shot across the Quidditch pitch. The other seeker didn’t stand a chance. 

“No wonder you didn’t want me to come,” Blaise said from beside Draco, breaking him from his trance.

It was true – he didn’t want Blaise to come. Some of the eighth years had set up their own Quidditch club. Draco wasn’t a part of it, of course, but that didn’t mean he didn’t wake up ridiculously early every morning so he could watch them, well, Potter, play.

Draco, of course – he had the worst luck, made the mistake of stepping on that creaking floorboard by Blaise’s bed – he usually avoided it but the early starts had started to make his brain a little foggy.

Blaise hadn’t been too happy at being awoken before the sun itself, but the more Draco pushed for him to go back to sleep, the more curious he had become. In the end, he insisted Draco take him with him.

Draco forced his eyes to land on another player before replying. "What do you mean by that?“

Blaise snorted. "Come on, Draco, it’s pretty obvious why you’re here.”

Draco kept his face straight ahead, avoiding Blaise’s knowing eyes. “I enjoy Quidditch.”

“Maybe you enjoy it a little too much.”

Draco averted his eyes as Potter flew into his line of vision. That was hardly his fault. He turned to Blaise. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Blaise smirked. “I think you know exactly what I mean.” Blaise jerked his head out to the field. “Heads up, lover boy.”

Draco turned back to find Potter hurtling towards them, the snitch at the edge of the pitch where they sat in the stands. With his Quidditch robes flying behind him and a fierce determination in his eyes, Potter looked like a dream. In fact, Draco had had this very dream, maybe with a few minor adjustments to the rest of Potter’s clothing. (What clothing?)

Potter’s hand closed around the snitch – close enough that Draco could have leaned forward and snatched it up himself – and a low hissing sound escaped his mouth. Draco felt the sound in his entire body.

Potter twisted his broom with ease, avoiding impact with the stand, and flew back to his team, his hand raised high, showing off his win.

Draco slumped back – he had somehow found himself at the very tip of his seat, leaning into the pitch. His heart pounded against his chest, as if it wished to escape.

“What was that?” Blaise asked.

Draco waved a hand dismissively, focusing on calming his heartbeat. “It’s parseltongue. Potter use to – does speak it.”

“That’s not what I –“ Blaise paused. His voice grew mocking. “Oh no.”

Draco looked over to Blaise, alarmed. “What?”

Blaise smiled – it stretched over his face slowly. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t!” Draco crossed his legs nervously. He immediately regretted it when Blaise’s eyes were drawn to the action, widening at the implication.

“You did!” Blaise clapped his hands together. He was enjoying this. “You pervert! Potter’s snake tongue has got you all hot and bothered.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Draco insisted. “Why would – “ Draco spotted Potter flying back up to the stand and his voice faltered. The snitch was nowhere to be seen.

Blaise leaned into Draco to whisper: “Better keep your legs crossed.”

Draco blushed. “I AM NOT HA - Potter!” Draco yelled as Potter approached. “Good catch.” Great form. Amazing body.

Potter dismounted his broom, considerably less gracefully then he flew. “Thanks, Malfoy” he said, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you were - I mean, did you want to play? Is that why you’re here? Because I can – “

“I’m fine,” Draco interrupted. He didn’t fancy making a fool of himself.

“Draco prefers to watch,” Blaise added. Draco shot him a murderous look. Blaise. Was. Dead.

Luckily, Potter didn’t catch on to the meaning. He shuffled on the spot. “Oh, okay then. If you change your mind, let – “

“Why do you - when you - why do you do that?” Draco blurted out before Potter could leave.

Potter tilted his head, staring at Draco intently with puckered eyebrows, confusion clear on his face.

“He means why do you speaks parseltongue when you catch the snitch,” Blaise translated.

Potter’s face relaxed; he laughed sheepishly. “You heard that? It’s just something that happens when I’m not concentrating on what I’m saying.” Potter paused to think about it. “You know, when I’m reacting instinctively.”

“Reacting instinctively hmm?” Blaise repeated, his whole face alight. “That must happen quite a bit huh, Potter?” Blaise said with a painfully obvious wink, nudging Draco as he did.

“Yeah, actually, it’s – “ Blaise’s implication must have hit Potter a second too late. He fumbled over his words. “What are you - Oh I didn’t mean - that’s not - I mean, you don’t need to - um.” Potter closed his mouth firmly, a blush creeping over his cheeks. Draco could see the cogs in Potter’s mind working overtime, trying to find an escape. Draco felt quite the same way. Blaise was worse than dead.

“I should get back to the team,” Potter said, after a telling pause, mounting his broom.

“Bye, Potter,” Blaise said sweetly. “Draco looks forward to the opportunity to hear your parseltongue once more.”

Potter hissed again, low and breathy. Draco didn’t require a translation to know Potter was swearing.

“He means during Quidditch,” Draco quickly covered up, crossing his legs tighter and internally vowing to destroy Blaise for the most mortifying experience of his life.

“No I – “

Draco clapped a hand over Blaise’s mouth before he could ruin Draco’s day further. Draco tried to smile at Potter, his face burning.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Potter said, his face just as aflame as Draco’s. “Our next Quidditch meet,” he explained when Draco remained silent.

Draco nodded a little too enthusiastically once he understood Potter’s meaning, already anticipating the next time he might hear Potter make that hissing sound again. “Yeah, see you tomorrow, Potter.”

more like this l @queenofthyme

Aren’t my Friends- Sweet Pea x Reader

Originally posted by betty-and-jughead

Fandom: Riverdale

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Female!Reader

Words: 1094

Warning(s): Sadness, Loss of Friendship, Fluff

Description: With your friends always trying to set you up with someone, you come clean and tell them you already have a boyfriend. You just hoped they would have been more accepting.

Taglist: @sleepylunarwolf @stranger-films

Keep reading

“You Love Me?”

Title: “You Love Me?”

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Reader

Type: Platonic | Romantic | Familial | Other

Warnings: angst, profanity, mentions of aids, mentions of neglectful parents.

Prompt: F13: “you love me?” “You have no idea.”

Never in your life did you dream you’d fall in love with Richie Tozier.

You’d known him since your diaper days - toddling about together, plump thighs and sticky mouths, with both of your parents watching - your’s attentively, Richie’s listlessly, bored, looking as though they wanted to be anywhere other than watching their only child take his first steps.

Growing up, shared rattle toys became shared peanut-butter sandwiches or bright-coloured hairclips pilfered from your mother’s china dish. Richie loved to wear those hairclips, more than even you. He’d stick an assortment of them into his unruly web of dark curls, specks of pink and lime and chrome swathed in a brunette tide.

Richie had always been… spacey, almost. From the first time, in third grade, you could cross the road on your own (“be very careful, Y/n. Remember to look both ways, and stop and listen for any cars, and never, ever cross on a bend.”) Richie’s parents gave no such forewarning, and it was with cheery ignorance he sauntered right into the - albeit, quiet - road on Monday morning.

Your hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar in childish alarm. “What are you doing? We have to look both ways first!”

“Oh yeah,” he returned cheerfully. “I forgot.”

Brushing off your scandalised look, he pointedly craned his neck left, then right, and then took your hand in his and pulled you from the curb with no warning. You shrieked at him all the way over the asphalt, sure a car would come from nowhere and career into you. When you scrambled onto the sidewalk on the opposite side, you ripped your hand from a giggling Richie’s grasp.

“That wasn’t funny!” you said shrilly. “I told you, we have to be careful when we cross a road, else we’ll both be hit by cars!”

“What happens when you get hit by a car?” Richie countered thoughtfully, as the two of you began walking. You paused to think, chewing your lip.

“We end up flat as pancakes, and the police have to peel us off the road,” you eventually returned triumphantly, but if your aim was to deter Richie, it backfired.

“Cool! I want to be a pancake!” declared the boy enthusiastically, but you merely shot him a frosty look and dragged him through the school gates.

You were there when Richie got his glasses, and the teasing started. Sneering jibes of “four-eyes” were brushed off, kids asking how many fingers they were holding up deflected with ease. You worried for Richie, the sensitive soul that you were, but he only ever laughed about it.

You were there when his parents stopped calling when they weren’t going to come home that night. Before, it was apologetic phone calls (“Richard, sweetie, we’re so sorry, the most silly thing - your father enjoyed himself a little too much at the gathering, you know how he likes his currant wine, only we thought it best to stay at the hotel tonight.”)

You found him hunched up by the side-table where the phone stood. The house was dark and cold - the heating wasn’t on. Richie looked like he hadn’t moved in years, a statue gathering dust, huddled against the wood of the table. You flurried around, snapping the lights on, straining to reach the boiler on tiptoe and turning the dial all the way up before scooting over to Richie and crossing your legs anxiously.

“What’s wrong, Richie?” you inquired. “Where are your parents?”

A pure stab of shock flashed through you at his sudden sob. Tears dripped down his screwed-up face, and when he spoke, his voice trembled. “I don’t know.”

Eventually, after a few phone calls, it was discovered that they were in New Jersey for an open evening of his father’s business. Richie stared at you, stricken, as you solemnly recited what the lady on the phone had told you. “But why didn’t they tell me?” he whispered. You didn’t know the answer to that, so you hugged him instead. He smelled of apple suckers and loneliness.

You were there in fourth grade when Richie discarded his mismatched sweaters and jeans for bright eyesores of Hawaiin shirts and jean-shorts and colourful sneakers. He traded his thin, wiry black glasses for thick red ones that made his eyes looked three times their normal size (you noticed what a pretty brown those irises were, then). He was there when your love for rainbow ponchos and ballet skirts and bracelets with bells on them faded in favour of garish maroons and olives and navies, overalls and sandals and short-shorts. He still wore the hairclips, sometimes - the dark red one that was always his favourite. The rest he kept in a small pot under his bed, along with a photo of you and him grinning toothily in first grade, tucked safe under the velvet lid.

You were there when Henry Bowers, held back for the third year running, decked him for the first time. He called Bowers a “son of a motherless whore” - something impressive-sounding he’d overheard on TV - when he saw him laying into the tiny asthmatic kid from world history. It hadn’t ended well, and you ended up wiping the blood from his nose and lips and teeth. He smiled sheepishly as you scolded him, but his apology was real as the blood staining the tissues. And another plus - from that day, you had three new friends. Stuttering Bill and Eddie Spaghetti and Stan the Man. You five were united as outcasts, not exactly a force to be reckoned with but certainly one that required brief consideration before attempting said reckoning - or whatever.

And in fifth grade, Richie hit some sort of tipping point.

He grew louder and more foul-mouthed, more enthusiastic in his spastic movements, and far more inclined to disrupt a class or smoke in the toilets or flunk school entirely. Then the remarks filtered in - intrusive and suggestive, comments on your legs or your chest or your mom. It annoyed you to no end, but you could think of no way to make him stop. Every time you snarked him or socked him on the shoulder, it made him slightly wilder, a shit-eating grin cracking his face in two - until you remembered something you’d seen once on telly. A man and a woman, and the man talked a lot. Whenever he talked too much, the woman would press a big red button that made a loud “BEEP BEEP” sound.

So, when the next remark came - “Hey Y/n - you have any other hobbies, ‘cept for being my own personal bicycle?” - you stared him dead in the eye and countered solemnly, “beep beep, Richie.”

He gaped at you like a fish out of water, speechless for the first time in years. “Did - did you just - beep me?”

From then on, it seemed to work to shut him down.

But it wasn’t until four months ago - when Georgie went missing, and you met Bev and Mike and Ben, and IT chased normalcy from your life did things between you and Richie start to shift.

You wanted to be with him every second - he was the longest-standing memory you had, the boy with hairclips in his curls who watered your head like a flower the first day of second grade. He was the one who poked your cheeks and called you “bubs” and yanked your ponytail and drew obscene images on your hand in permanent marker. He was the one who spent 70% of his time sleeping round your house when the silence of his was unbearable, who held you sombrely when you cried and cursed at the toughest of bullies in your honour. Richie was, to say with a flair for the dramatic, your life - mapped out in dark hair and freckles and lime sneakers, your other half.

The first time you wanted to kiss him was after the blood oath.

You hissed in pain as you wiped your hands absently on your black shorts. Richie walked beside you, gazing at the jagged cut on his palm with avid interest.

“I swear you can get AIDS from doing shit like this,” Richie commented as the both of you reached your bikes discarded in the grass.

You huffed a laugh. “Probably - but don’t go telling Eddie that.”

“Please. He’d convulse and die on the spot,” Richie scoffed, swinging a leg over the leather saddle. “So, where’ll it be, sweetcheeks?”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. “I’m kind of in the mood to not think about anything. You wanna head to the arcade?”

Two hours later, pumped up on blue-raspberry Slushies with fingers cramping from the buttons and levers you’d been busy stabbing and yanking, you and Richie sat in a greasy-spoon café, snacking out of a shared basket of cheesy fries as the sky darkened outside the window.

“What d’you think’ll happen now?” Richie asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?” You swallowed your fries, reaching for your Pepsi to wash it down.

“Now IT’s dead. Kaput, bitch. No more missing kids, no more hallucinations, no more freaky fuckin’ clowns.” Richie heaved a sigh. “Cause I don’t think everything will just magically go back to the way it was.”

“No,” you mused in agreement. “No, you’re probably right.”

“‘Cept for us,” Richie beamed suddenly. “We’re inseparable, right?”

You grinned. “You bet, Tozier. For better or for worse.”

You looked at him - skin illuminated by the softly-glowing neon lights from the sign outside, the contours of his face sharply shadowed, hair a black, untameable mess as ever - and the urge to kiss him took you so fiercely, it almost knocked you off your chair. You swallowed your mouthful of fries too quickly in your shock, and one ended up dislodged in your throat. You choked and wheezed, and Richie unhelpfully thumped you on the back until you’d swallowed the damn thing.

“Jesus Christ,” he commented. “Y/n, if you wanted something to choke on, you could’ve just asked.”

A week ago, the comment would be met with an eye-roll; now it only made a flush climb your face, and you took a long swig of your iced Pepsi to ward off the redness.

The first time you actually kissed Richie Tozier was two months later.

It was midnight, but sleep troubled you not. You sat wide-awake, flat on your back and staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, when a sudden tap like long nails on wood made you start violently. Clambering to your feet, you glanced at your window; sure enough, a second later, a pebble hit the glass pane and bounced off again, and you sighed, picking your way over and opening it wide.

“Throwing pebbles, Romeo?” you called down teasingly. Richie glared up at you.

“Can I come up?”

You jerked your head in affirmation. At this point, your parents were so used to you going to bed alone and coming down in the morning with Richie, you didn’t even have to worry.

You slid the ladder out the window until it touched solid ground, then went back to your bed. A minute later, Richie’s face appeared at your open window, and he hauled himself in with all the grace of a sack of wet concrete.

You frowned as the scents of - was that wine? Wine and perfume - wafted in after him. He was also wearing a suit - a suit - but the illusion of whatever formality he’d been going for ended at his hair; looping black curls in total disarray, a soft tide of dark hair held back by a lone red hairclip.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” you eventually managed to choke out.

“My parents are home,” he answered non-communally. “And they decided to host a fucking mixer at our house tonight. So I was forced to wear this bullshit thing -“ he plucked at the suit in disgust “-and I only just managed to get away.”

“Wow.” Your eyes caught the red hairclip glinting amongst the soft web of dark curls. “I haven’t seen that thing in years.”

His hand skittered up to trace the clip absently. “My final act of defiance,” he chuckled weakly, before sinking down to sit on the carpet with heavy shoulders and clasped hands.

“Why are they such assholes, Y/n?” he asked suddenly. “I don’t know if I mortally offended them as in infant, or some shit like that - but even if I did, I still wouldn’t know, because they don’t talk to me. I don’t get it. Why have a kid if - if you’re not gonna-“ He waved his hands around in frustration, as if he could wring some meaning from the sentence if he hit at it enough.

“I don’t know, Richie,” you sighed, sliding off the bed and scooting closer until you sat toe-to-toe with the despairing boy. “I wish - I wish I could help you.”

Finally, he looked up; the tear tracks on his face glistened faintly as he smiled - not a smirk, or a shit-eating grin - a real smile that tore a hole in his chest and let all the dully-glowing fragments of the real Richie spill out for you to see. “You already have,” he answered softly.

Your breath seemed to catch in your throat. “But there’s gotta be more I can do. Damnit, Richie, I love you, so much and it fucking kills me to see you just - just take this shit.”

Richie stared at you, stricken. “You love me?”

You scoffed lightly, your face softening. “You have no idea.”

“But…” Richie was struggling to finish a coherent sentence. “Do you love me like - like the kid the split your granola bars with in second grade or do you love me like a…” Again with the wild hand gestures. “Y’know?”

A laugh bubbled through your lips. “Who says it can’t be both?”

As he opened his mouth to retort, you covered it with yours.

It was chaste and clumsy, but the chaps on his lips felt just right against the smoothness of yours, and the squeak of surprise he made at the embrace was swallowed. You could feel the heat of his cheeks and the flutter of his eyelashes and the firm beat of his heart all in that one, fleeting moment your lips touched.

And even as you pulled back, you felt him still. He was stammering in a way that’d give Bill a run for his money, but you could only smile.

Never in your life did you dream you’d fall in love with Richie Tozier - but right now was one of the rare, blissful seconds reality was better than dreams.

In The World

Katsuki Yuuri is a puzzle, one Viktor is always happy to go back to, sliding long fingers over the pieces. Yet every time he thinks he’s worked it out, he realizes there’s no edge to the puzzle, no end, and everything rearranges.

“Yuuri,” he calls, “what’s this?”

The dark mess of hair and pajamas emerges from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes. “Origami.”

“Was there some kind of craft fair near our house yesterday?”

“I made it,” Yuuri mutters. An intricate dragon, out of soft blue tissue paper, and Viktor’s fiance made it. “I needed something to do with my hands while I waited for the dashi to simmer.” For Yuuri, that’s the end of the discussion. No further explanation, just another piece of Yuuri’s history plucked mysteriously from the void. 

Yuuri can juggle. He can play piano. If his hands are steady and he’s given the right pen, he thoughtlessly sketches out calligraphy. When he sings to himself while Viktor soaps his back in the shower, he drifts between styles: Broadway showtunes, operatic Italian, Japanese lullabies. Knitting. Jump-rope. Shadow puppetry, when they’re feeling foolish under the covers of their king bed and waiting until they’re ready to… 

Viktor thinks he wouldn’t be surprised if Yuuri was capable of magic– but then Viktor would be lying to himself, because he was surprised when Yuuri pulled quarters from out of thin air, made Viktor’s ring disappear for a few moments from beneath a cup.

What can he not do?” Yurio hisses, half delighted and half serious, when he bites into homemade cake. Viktor wants to tell him he doesn’t know the half of it– he’s never played darts or cards with Yuuri, unlike poor Viktor Nikiforov. “How. How is it possible.”

“Darling,” Viktor probes, when he finds Yuuri spread over their living room floor one evening, whittling away at wood while sitting in his splits. “How do you… how do you know how to do all these things?”

“What? Oh, this?” Yuuri says, gesturing with his knife and carving that has only started to resemble Makkachin. “It’s silly.” Viktor wants to strangle him, quiet the easy dismissal– preferably with his lips. It’s not silly. You’re brilliant. “We got a lot of different people, coming through the onsen. Sometimes, if the room wasn’t ready yet or they asked for company, I sat with them. I didn’t like…” he pauses, bites at his lip, and scrapes off a shred of wood. “Talking is difficult? I’m not entertaining, that way. But everyone likes teaching, so I picked up a few things.”

A few. Their apartment is a shrine to Yuuri’s many accomplishments, both world-record-holding and minute. Origami and sketches and trophy cases, gleaming. Viktor is the religion’s most ardent follower.

“We’re going to have so much fun when we retire,” he realizes.

“Hmm?” Is Yuuri’s only reply. Makkachin’s tail is emerging beneath his hands. “Also, do you want a massage later, Vitya?” He doesn’t even have to ask. Viktor pads over, sits behind him and wraps arms around his fiance’s steady waist.

“Do you know what I want to be the best at,” he hums into Yuuri’s neck.

“You’re already the best at skating,” Yuuri states bluntly. Nipping at his neck, Viktor wordlessly scolds the current world record holder. Yuuri laughs, the steady strokes of his whittling knife faltering as he twists to catch Viktor’s lips. “What, Vitya?”

“I want to be the best at loving you,” Viktor whispers, and it’s a skill he’ll spend his entire life perfecting.

Different Ways to Say “I love you”

Peter and you had been seeing each other for quite some time – longer than he had imagined you staying with him, anyway. Five months of his life had been dedicated to you, romantically. Peter would never tell you, but he had dedicated his life to you since your first day at Midtown High. You had met Ned in one of your classes and he had convinced you to join the decathlon on your first day. Peter had owed him ever since that day.

It was hard for Peter to ask you out – hell, it had taken him a year to even tell you that you were pretty. So, it didn’t come to a surprise to him when he found himself too terrified to tell you how deeply he felt for you. He loved you – he loved the way you were smarter than him (you knew that, but you never made him feel insignificant), he loved that when you wanted to hold his hand you’d walk next to him and let your hands brush first (you’d start tapping his fingers with yours until eventually your hand engulfed his completely), he loved how when you found out he was Spider-Man you weren’t mad that he kept it from you (“I get why you couldn’t tell me – you have to promise me you’re going to come back… you have to come back to me.” “You’re the only reason I’ll always come back… a-and Aunt May, obviously.”). He loved you – he knew he did. He had tried to tell you so many times. But, what he didn’t know was that he had already told you he loved you – in so many different ways.


“You got me this?” Peter nodded at you. “You were in Berlin – fighting alongside the Avenger’s… and you found time to get me something?” Peter couldn’t fight the blush on his face even if he tried.

“I-It’s not a big deal. I saw it in the window. I don’t know, I just – it reminded me of you.” You smiled, leaning in to peck him.

“I love it.”


“Ugh, Pete,” you whined, your eyes welling up with tears. “It’s broken.” You held up the charm bracelet that Peter had given you for your birthday. “I’m so sorry,” a couple of tears had fallen and Peter was quick to reach up and brush them away.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, “it’s just a bracelet, it’s okay.” You shook your head.

“I loved this gift – it’s my favorite bracelet.” Peter’s heart beat a little faster.

Come here,” he whispered, “come on. Let me fix it.” And he was relieved to see the smile on your face as you made your way to him.


“I’m glad you came tonight, Peter.” You nudged him as you walked out of Liz’s house together, side-by-side.

“I am, too.” He smiled softly at you, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets as you both fell into a comfortable silence. It was a cool night in New York and as Peter saw you wrap your arms around yourself he registered you had forgotten to bring a jacket. He automatically pulled his sweater over his head, straightening out his shirt. “Here,” he handed you his sweater. You shook your head.

“Peter, no. It’s fine, I’m fine.” He gave you a pointed look.

Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.” You reluctantly took the jacket and pulled it over yourself, feeling his scent overwhelm you and a smile ghosting on your face.

“Thank you, Peter.” You linked your arms together and pushed yourself up to kiss his cheek. Smiling when he turned red and mumbled a small ‘anytime’.


“I’m sorry that I’m ruining our date night, Peter.” Peter shook his head until he remembered you couldn’t see him over the phone.

“You’re not ruining anything, babe,” he said, packing up his backpack with the necessities May told him he’d need. “You need to focus on that sore throat.” There was silence. “Babe?”

“Huh?” He chuckled, walking out of his front door. “I’m sorry, Petey. I dozed off.”

“It’s fine, I’ll see you later. Okay?” You mumbled an incoherent response before Peter decided to end the call. He found himself outside of your home fifteen minutes later. He knocked and your mom let him in, letting him quietly use your kitchen to warm up the tea he had brought for you. He then quietly walked to your room, opening your door to see you sleeping. He almost didn’t wake you up, but knew your tea would be cold. “(Y/N)? Babe?” You stirred awake, feeling alert and sitting up when you saw Peter on your bed.

“Peter! What are you doing here? You’re going to get sick!” He shushed your hoarse voice, picking up the cup and handing it to you.

“Here,” you grabbed the cup, looking at its contents, “drink this. You’ll feel better.” You looked at his dough eyes and opened your mouth to say something, until deciding to just keep quiet and drink the tea, a soft smile on your face.


“Oh, my god.” Peter turned around from his seat at his desk, seeing your distraught expression as your eyes grazed over the test you both had received from Calculus.

“What’s wrong?” You bit your lip to stop it from quivering.

“I failed,” you whispered. You had studied with Michelle and Betty for two weeks straight. You had thought you were doing so well – even Michelle had thought so. How could you have failed?

“Hey,” you looked up at Peter, “it’s just one test. You’ll get ‘em next time.” You smiled at the use of his words – it was a phrase you’d use on him whenever he didn’t pass a quiz or test he didn’t study for due to his after-school activities.

“I guess,” you sighed, your smile fading. Peter stood up, walking over to his dresser. He opened the top drawer and shuffled through it, picking up a CD case. He sighed, counting to three before turning around to sit next to you on the bed.

“Here,” you took the CD from his hands.

PETER’S HAPPY MIX

You looked up at him, seeing him shrug. “You might like this,” he stated. “It makes me feel better when I feel like crap.” You reached over and hugged him, mumbling about a million thank you’s.


Now here Peter sits, next to you on his couch, watching a movie of your choice. It was one that you had seen at least a hundred times, but he didn’t mind. If you loved it, so did he. And, god, did you love it. He watched your profile, seeing your lips move as you recited the character’s lines – every character’s lines. Your hands were moving in tune with them, too. And as he looked at you he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t plan it coming out like this, but it just happened. He just – “I love you.” Your hands stopped and so did your lips. You turned to look at him quickly.

“What?” Peter nodded slowly, reaching for the remote and pausing the movie.

“I love you.” He repeated. “I love you, and I have for awhile. I don’t know when liking you stopped and loving you started – it all kind of just blends together but – yeah. I love you.” You blinked a few times, registering how your shy and reserved boyfriend, Peter Parker, got the nerve to tell you he loved you before you did. You shook your head at the thought. Peter Parker was braver than you – who knew?

“I love you, Peter.” You finally said, the look on his face telling you your silence was scaring him.

“You do?” He asked, too ecstatic, but he didn’t care. You nodded, setting the bowl of popcorn that was on your lap on top of the coffee table. You sat up and crawled closer to him, leaning over him slightly.

“I love you so much, Peter Parker.” You leaned all the way down, pressing your lips against Peter and feeling Peter wait not even a second before matching your pace.

“I love you, too,” he mumbled against your lips, but not stopping your kiss.

Even though Peter Parker had told you he loved you more than once, he felt a weight lift off of his chest after hearing it come out clear as day from the both of you.

Keep reading

#smut #nsfw #oblivious!harry

Prompts: @a-sisi-universe
Author: @queenofthyme

Warning: well, I mean just read the tags above. exactly as it says really.

There were pros and cons to being attracted to your boss. The cons, Draco wasn’t too fussed about. His reputation couldn’t get much worse anyway (he was an ex-death eater after all), and it’s not like he didn’t have the money to get by if he lost his job. The only reason he’d worked so hard to become an auror in the first place was because of Harry Potter.

And therein laid the pro - his boss was Harry Potter.  Gorgeous, delectable, dreamy, oblivious Harry Potter.

Draco certainly wasn’t the only one in the office charmed by Harry. He’d noticed some of the other aurors staring too - during the rare moments when he could pull his eyes away from Harry. And it wasn’t just Harry’s looks. If it were just that, Draco would have gotten over it years ago. No, Harry had to be brave too. And powerful. And a little wild. And above all, kind.

Draco knew it was sappy of him but, Merlin, did he find that kindness sexy. Harry was the type of boss who took responsibility in the media when you messed up in the field. The type of boss who would take over your reporting for you (despite his own ridiculous workload) when he could see you were stressed or affected by a particularly emotional case. He was the type of boss who never treated you as if he were your boss at all.

Of course, Draco wouldn’t have minded if Harry threw his weight around a little. The fantasies Draco had of Harry often involved him doing just that - albeit with a few orders that would be highly inappropriate for the workplace. But no matter how obviously Draco pined, Harry still didn’t seem to notice. He really had no idea of his effect on people.

So when Harry called Draco into his office - the start to many a fantasy - last thing on a Friday before he could leave with the other aurors, Draco knew Harry wouldn’t understand the thoughts that were running through his head. Empty Department. Friday night. Boss’s office. Harry Potter’s thighs.

Keep reading

Certainty

Originally posted by misunderstood-adventures

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (ft. Steve)

Content/Warnings: angst; fluff

Words: 1645

A/N: I’ve got a Bucky Barnes soulmate AU here for you. Obviously a bit of an AU from canon, but hey, I couldn’t help myself. This is set after CA:TWS. It was requested by anon for 15. Your soulmate’s scars appear on your body (and vise versa). Enjoy, guys!


You have had the ugly scar that ringed around your shoulder since birth. It was jagged, and looked old, as if it had happened a long time ago. Your parents were concerned, understandabley, and only slightly less so when the doctor stated that it wasn’t yours, but rather your soulmate’s instead. You seemed to always be getting some sort of new scar. Most faded, but there were some that looked suspiciously like bullet wounds. And you couldn’t help but notice that other than the scar around your shoulder, your left arm never received any sort of marks compared to the rest of your body.

The first person you ever showed that scar to, outside of your parents and the doctor, was Steve. You had first met Steve, or Captain America, as he was better known, when he was fresh out of the ice. Fury requested that you take him in, teach him about the new world he lived in, until he could get on his feet. Steve was the perfect gentleman, and despite the fact that you were born decades apart you struck up an instant friendship. You had ended up showing the scar on accident, when you had left your room in a tank top in search of your hoodie.

“Y/N?” Steve had asked, brow scrunching together in curious confusion, eyes finding the noticeable scar immediately. “What happened?”

You shrugged. The feeling of discomfort you expected never came. Probably because Steve was never one to make anyone, least of all you, uncomfortable. “Don’t know. It’s not mine, it’s my soulmate’s.”

“Oh,” He said simply. You thought you caught a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, but you didn’t pry, and neither did he.

Keep reading

i love you - boyfriend!tom

Summary: You and Tom say “I love you” for the first time.

Tom had known he loved you for a little while. It had really solidified for him several weeks earlier, a week after he’d met your parents. He’d had a rough work week in LA, and had planned to visit you for the weekend, but wasn’t sure he was up to it come Friday morning.

So with a bit of reluctance, Tom flew out as planned and found himself knocking on your apartment door, excited to see you, but tired and grumpy all the same.

When you opened the door, you gave him a sympathetic smile and pulled him into a tight hug.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

He dropped his bag in the living room and returned with you to the kitchen, where several pots and pans were resting on the stovetop. Spoons, measuring cups, and spices were scattered across the counter next to a printed recipe.

“What are you making?” he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred.

“That thing your mom always makes, that you made me when I was sick last month? I thought it’d be nice to come back to.”

He quirked a smile at that, genuinely taken aback by your thoughtfulness, and lifted his head to press a kiss to your temple. “I’m gonna go change,” he said, grabbing his bag and taking it to your bedroom.

He came back a minute later shirtless and in gray sweatpants, stretching out on your couch. “Mmm, I forgot how comfy your couch is,” he called over his shoulder to where you were in the kitchen.

You quickly wiped your hands on a dish towel before strolling into the living room and plopping down next to him. You snuggled into his side as he lazily scrolled through his Instagram feed with squinty tired eyes. After a few minutes you spoke. “So…you had a really long week?”

He sighed, dropping his phone on the coffee table and wrapping his arm around you. “Yeah. Lots of paps. Everywhere, all the time. And then my manager’s been calling me nonstop about a new deal we’re negotiating. I didn’t really get any sleep.  I just feel drained.”

“I’m sorry, baby. Hopefully you’ll catch up on some sleep this weekend.”

He nodded his head, running his fingers up and down your back. “How has your week been?”

“Eh, y’know-”, you were about to respond when a loud alarm sounded from the kitchen. You sat up startled.

“Wha-”

“Oh fuck!” you exclaimed, racing into your smoky kitchen to pull your burning lemon sage chicken out from the oven.

Tom came running in behind you, assessing the situation, before grabbing your discarded dish towel to fan the smoke away from the alarm. You threw the burnt chicken on top of the counter, shutting the oven with a huff before grabbing another dish towel from the drawer to help Tom fan the smoke alarm.

Tom looked over to your frazzled state and frustrated expression. Your hair was sticking up in all different directions, you shirt was covered in splattered lemon sage sauce, and your cheeks were flushed red both from the heat and embarrassment. Tom couldn’t help but smile, and it dawned on him that he was crazy for even questioning whether he wanted to spend his weekend next to you.

“What’s so funny?” you questioned when you noticed Tom staring at you, giggling, and cracking his first real smile that night.

“Nothing, I just.. I -”

I love you, he thought to himself.


He’d kept it to himself that night. He hadn’t wanted to scare you off, or ruin what you guys had. But as time went on, he found himself thinking it more and more often, and getting closer to letting it slip out.

A few weeks passed and another weekend scheduled for you to visit Tom on his press tour rolled around. It was late and the two of you were fooling around in his hotel room.

You were straddling Tom on his bed, and he was extra eager, as it’d been a couple weeks since you’d been together. He roughly pulled your shirt over your head before reattaching his lips to yours. He reached around your back to unclip your bra, but got thrown off by your new clasp-less lacy bralette. Frustrated, he tugged too hard and ripped it down the back.

“Tom!” you laughed, pulling away from him in surprise.

His jaw dropped a little. “I swear I didn’t mean to do that. I’ll get you a new one, I promise. I am so sorry.” He chuckled at the stunned look on your face, making you laugh harder.

“It’s okay,” you giggled. “I still love you.” You paused for a second, realizing what you’d just said, and quickly pressed your lips back to his in a panic thinking, Dear god I hope he somehow didn’t just hear that.

He gripped your waist but pulled his mouth away from yours, certain he’d heard the words he’d craved for weeks. “What’d you just say?”

“Nothing,” you said, moving his hands up to your breasts in an effort to distract him and leaning in to kiss him again.

After briefly allowing your lips to press to his, he pulled away again, flipping you over and pinning your hands down on either side of your head.

“Tell me again,” he said with a smile.

“Hmm?” You scrunched your forehead still trying to deny what you’d confessed.

“Tell me again,” he teased, kissing your jaw, “that you love me.”

“Did I say that?” you teased back, wiggling your body in attempt to break free from his grasp.

“Mhmm,” he smiled into your neck before pulling back to look at you and releasing your wrists.

You sighed in defeat, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I guess I did….because I do. I love you.”

He grazed his upturned lips against yours. “Good. Because I love you too.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

highly highly highly requested. we’re squealing.

xoxo, L & A

anonymous asked:

Please write a short fic about tony catching peter drinking i would die omg

“Hey, Peter,” 


He froze, eyes widening as he heard the all-too-familiar sound of expensive leather brogues scuffing along the floor a few meters from him, and he turned quickly, brow furrowed into a deep V as he watched Tony wander up to him, all smiles and casual posture, hands buried in the pockets of his grease-stained jeans. He looked like he’d come straight from the workshop, stopping only to throw on a leather jacket along the way.

Why he was here at all, however, made no sense at all.

“T- Mr Stark,” Peter said, trying to communicate with him through eyebrow movements alone. If it turned out that he had to suit up and help out somewhere, he was pretty fucked, considering the fact he’d had a bit to drink at the party he’d been invited to.

Well. He said ‘a bit’. It was possibly more accurate to say ‘a fucking shit-ton’, but whatever.

Tony looked at him blankly, before shooting another smile toward the circle of people who were stood around Peter and staring quite blatantly at the both of them. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to take Mr Parker away. He’s an intern at Stark Industries, you know how it is. Lots of work, yadda yadda, okay bye,”

And before Peter could even open his mouth, Tony had grabbed him by the arm and snatched the solo cup out of his hand almost angrily, pulling him away from the group of people and through the crowds of rowdy teenagers that littered the huge house.

“Uh, Mr Stark, wha’dd’ya want me for, exactly?” Peter asked, speaking loudly above the blaring music and wincing at how slurred his voice came out.

It had been a weird month, okay. He was just trying it out. 

Tony paused, and Peter saw him purse his lips even tighter before beginning to walk again, guiding Peter through the crowds and holding him tight as he stumbled a little.

“Hey, Parker, leaving so soon?” Flash called out from somewhere to his left, and Peter stopped turning to face him as the other boy wandered toward them. “We haven’t even begun yet, Jesus, are you a pussy or what-”

“Kid,” and suddenly Tony had let go, spinning around and walking up to Flash, who seemed to suddenly recognise who exactly Tony was, because his eyes went hilariously wide and he stumbled backward a few steps. Peter snorted involuntarily, and he saw Tony turn briefly, before shaking his head and looking back to Flash, “it seems like you’re having an absolute ball here, but I’m gonna say something and I’m only going to say it once.”

Tony looked down at Flash, eyes harsh as he drew a little closer. “Leave. Peter. Out of it. Do you understand? He is not here for you to manipulate, not here for you to bully into trying out crazy shit for your amusement-”

“Tony, what the fuck,” Peter blurted, frowning and stepping forward, more than a little put out. He’d only just managed to get accepted by Flash and all the other popular kids, and Tony was just going in, ruining it all, “you’re not my dad- don’t tell me or my friends what I can and can’t do.”

Tony turned, eyebrows raised. “Friends?” He snorted, shaking his head and walking over to Peter once more, taking him by the arm. “You haven’t called in with Aunt May for two days now,” he hissed into Peter’s ear, “she’s worried sick. You are coming with me, right now.”

“No ‘m not,” Peter pushed his hand off, looking over at Tony in anger. “You are fucking….embarrassing me…. in fron’ of my friends-”

“They are not your friends!” Tony snarled, pulling his arm again, “your friends are all currently at home, worrying their asses off because this is not like you, Peter, and they didn’t know what to fucking do, so they ended up calling me. Now you will fucking follow me out of this goddamn place right now, or I am hauling you out.”

(Read more, mobile users!)

Keep reading

I love the theories, but can we take a step back and appreciate for a moment?

Who Killed Markiplier? is absolutely amazing. There was clearly so much work and passion poured into it.

Mark’s acting abilities are really impressing me though. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t doubt he could do it, I’m still amazed though. We all knew he could do the Colonel, and Jim… Damien’s character is so intense sometimes though. He conveys a lot of these really deep emotions and Mark pulls it off so well! You know it got to you when he left you at the top of the stairs with that, “you too.”

Everyone’s acting in this is phenomenal though. I love all of the characters for what they are, and how they interact with each other. I love the story, the crazy hints, all of the possible misdirects and all of the crazy jokes.

When he dropped that Jumanji reference in the third chapter, I had to pause the video because I was laughing too hard to see or hear it anymore. I laughed for way longer than I’m willing to admit before I could even finish the video.

We’re not even to the end yet and I’m already hoping so hard that there’s going to be Behind the Scenes, and maybe even Bloopers. We could all use some Jim Bloopers in our lives, couldn’t we? Also is it just me or is Jim a little inspired by West of Loathing’s stupid walking? XD

At the end of all this… whether that’s tomorrow, or who knows when…no matter what theory is right, or if they’re all wrong and he has some big trick up his sleeve, it’s all been amazing. Thank you to all of the theorists and crazy fans for pouring over those videos and giving me all the hints I couldn’t get on my own. He was right… it’s never been about the poker, or about him or his death, it was always about us. ;) I already know I’m going to love however this ends.

I doubt they’ll see it… but if someone from Teamiplier or anyone who worked on the videos does see this, thank you. Thank you for the amazing videos, the great set up, and this chance to just be a crazy theorist with this awesome community.

 I hope they’re proud, because I for one am proud of them.

The Things They Remembered

This is either an oddly written one shot fic or an unnaturally verbose set of headcanons or somehow both. I don’t know, I just have a lot of feelings and they wound up here.

MAJOR TAZ SPOILERS THROUGH THE END OF STOLEN CENTURY


           Sometimes they saw memories in the corners of their minds.

*

           The days after Mookie’s birth were as close as Merle and Hekuba ever got to happiness together. Merle spent long hours of peace and quiet between them sitting with Mookie, coaxing him to sleep, rocking him gently. He found himself almost unconsciously humming a song, which after a moment he remembered as one of the few Pan hymns he’d actually liked growing up in the commune. Mavis, a tottering, curious five-year-old, was peeking over his lap, watching Mookie with wide eyes. She started humming along, and then singing, but words were all wrong. When Merle tried to correct her, they nearly woke Mookie back up with their escalating argument. Hekuba snatched Mookie from Merle’s arms and hissed at him about how pointless this argument was. Besides, she said, Mavis was right anyway.

           If not for the sleeping baby, there would probably have been a row right then and there. As it was, Merle swallowed his pride, and nobody ever brought it back up. However, on the day Merle left to “buy a pack of smokes,” he sang the song loudly to himself as he walked away. He paused along the road, staring intently at a large patch of fungi eating away at a tree, still singing under his breath.

           “And when the night gets dark

           You know the moon still shines

           Soon you’ll hear the morning lark

           Sittin’ on Pan’s green vines.

           He paused, surprised to feel a tear slide down his cheek. He tore his eyes away from the mushrooms. If he got away from Hekuba unchallenged, he ought to offer Pan a prayer of thanks, he mused. It had been too long since he’d really prayed.

*

           Taako didn’t understand why he always expected Sazed to have a different face. It was the most disorienting thing: they’d fall into a quiet rhythm, testing out a recipe for a future show, Taako sautéing vegetables while Sazed chopped up beef behind him. The calm and the familiarity of a happy kitchen would wash over them with the stinging scent of fresh-chopped onion until a gently contented smile stretched Taako’s cheeks. Then Sazed would tap him on the shoulder, wanting to consult him on how best to cut this piece off the bone, and Taako would turn to face him, and Sazed’s face would startle him. Once, when they’d been prepping a particularly elaborate dish for two hours straight without talking, turning around to see Sazed had made him jump so badly he dropped a knife and nearly sliced his own toes off.

           He couldn’t have explained whose face he expected to see, or even if he was expecting anyone at all. All he knew was that, in those quiet moments, when he settled into the heartbeat of the kitchen, Sazed always seemed wrong or out of place. Once he nearly forgot his name, even after they’d been together for three years. He opened his mouth to ask him to pass the salt, and for a few seconds, a different name sat on the tip of his tongue, just out of his reach. He had to close his mouth, rub the sweat away from his forehead with his sleeve, and then remembered Sazed’s name with a start. He called out imperiously, burying his momentary confusion out of sight.

*

           Julia’s friend Rachel came barreling into the Hammer & Tongs one morning, looking haggard. Magnus, whittling away the final touches on a table, looked up in surprise.

           “Where’s—?”

           “Julia’s not here,” he said. “She and Steven went down to visit—”

           “Magnus, do you know anything about coaching?” Rachel asked. Magnus set down his knife.

           “Um, not really?” Rachel ran a hand through her hair, fingers catching on her tight curls.

           “Lucas took a nasty fall and fractured his leg. He’ll be laid up for a few weeks, or until we can get a healer passing through to come fix it up. But that—”

           “Leaves the kids’ kickball team without a coach,” Magnus finished for her. He stood up, dusting woodchips off his pants. “Don’t even worry about it,” he said. “I am here for you.” Rachel danced from foot to foot, looking anxious.

           “Are you sure?” she asked. “I really came looking for Julia—”

           “She can take over next week when she’s back from visiting her aunt. But you need someone for this afternoon, don’t you?”

           “Magnus, do you even know the rules? You didn’t grow up here, are you sure it’s the same—?” He waved off her concerns.

           “Psht, the kids will help me figure it out. It’s just for a few days. This isn’t the first time I’ve coached a sport I don’t know how to play.” Rachel tilted her head, curls swinging.

           “It isn’t?” she asked. Magnus paused, frowning.

           “You know, that’s a lie. I don’t know why I said that, this is definitely the first time I’ve ever coached anything. But I have a feeling I can figure it out.” He gave Rachel a grin. “Come on,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “Show me what these kids have got.”

*

           The water wrapped around Barry in a cool embrace, lifting him gently, letting him drift quietly through the world. He could feel the heat of the sun bathing his face. With his ears underwater, there was no sound to interrupt him, nothing but the gentle rushing of the lake. He kept his eyes closed, his breath so slow his chest barely moved, his arms fluttering gently to keep him floating, drinking in the silence.

           You won’t be able to remember learning to swim. And in fact, you’ll probably remember that as a kid you never learned how, so going in the water will probably freak you out a little bit at first. But don’t worry about that, swimming is muscle memory, so as soon as you start doing it you’ll be fine.

           The magic coin that had his voice had been right, as it was about most things. Barry had waded into the quiet, secluded lake with trepidation, almost stopping in panic when the water first splashed up over his knees. He might have stopped there, but three months of the hottest summer he’d ever experienced – or, he supposed, the hottest he could remember – combing fruitlessly through Neverwinter for clues to a mystery he didn’t understand, wading through the grime and the stink of a city dead with heat, made him want to dive face first into this fresh mountain lake whether he drowned or not. He’d taken a deep breath and plunged forward – and found that he could swim perfectly well. His arms and legs moved without thought. So he turned on his back and floated. For once, the weight that always seemed to sit heavy in his chest eased. He let the water carry him, gentle, gentle, peaceful, peaceful, quiet, quiet, quiet.

*

           Sometimes, Davenport didn’t sleep. Sometimes, he would be possessed by an urgency he could neither understand nor articulate, and he would pace around his room, trying desperately to think of what he might have forgotten to do. Lucretia would hear him sometimes, from her bedroom next door, and would knock on his door, wrapped in a dressing gown and yawning. He couldn’t explain what was wrong, but she’d sit with him anyway, let him keep pacing if need be. Sometimes she’d fetch a binder of the Bureau’s schedule for the next few weeks, and go over it with him. They’d note down appointments for maintenance to the Moonbase, a regularly scheduled meeting with Garfield to go over Fantasy Costco’s inventory, a check-in with Johann and the voidfish, and select reclaimers to send after the newest rumors of a Grand Relic. Eventually, Davenport would feel calm enough to go to sleep, and Lucretia would shut the binder with a smile, sending him off to bed. Sometimes their sessions lasted almost until dawn, but Davenport never once heard her complain that he kept her up. If there were bags under her eyes the next morning, she ignored them, and no one else would ever have dared comment.

*

           Sometimes they could feel the holes in their lives like they were missing a tooth. They filled them any way they could.

*

           “I cast Zone of Truth!”

           The dragonborn woman next to Merle glared down at him. Next to her, the wizard leaned back in his chair, examining his nails, looking immensely bored.

           “I don’t think there’s any need for that,” the woman said, crossing her arms. “We all trust each other here, don’t we?”

           “I just think we can all trust each other a bit more if we know we’re all telling the truth,” Merle said, raising his hands in surrender.

           “What is it with you and that spell?” the wizard asked, picking at a bit of dirt under his fingernail. “I’ve known you less than a week and you’ve used it three times.”

           “And every time it’s put a potential employer on the defensive,” the dragonborn woman growled. She turned back to the elf, who was eyeing them skeptically across the table. “I apologize for him,” she said. The elf pursed her lips.

           “I had no intention of lying to you,” she said. “But if this makes you feel more comfortable…” She shrugged.

           “Sorry I don’t like being sent on an adventure for an employer who’s withholding information,” Merle grumbled. The wizard shot a single tiny flame from his fingertip, landing it in Merle’s beard. Merle yelped and patted it out. He glared at the wizard, who gave him a careless smile in response.

           “Oops,” he said.

           “You little—”

           “Oh, what are you going to do? Cast Zone of Truth on me? Ask me how I feel about it?”

           “Well, you’re just a wise guy, aren’t ya?” Merle stood up. “I’m not gonna be part of a group that tries to set my beard on fire. This beard is a lot of work. If you folks decide you want to keep working with me, then you can come find me, and apologize,” he announced, and walked out.

*

           Taako pulled his wizard’s hat low over his eyes, poking a finger at the tavern’s dinner. It had been years since Glamour Springs, but people still sometimes knew his face, and an elf wizard transmuting food would be a huge tip off. He didn’t feel like making a quick exit tonight. Glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention, he whispered a spell under his breath, and the suspicious mystery meat turned into a perfectly decent ribeye steak. He breathed a sigh of relief and dug in before the barmaid could notice anything odd about what he was eating.

           He’d chosen a table tucked into a cramped corner, where the building stuck out at an odd angle to take advantage of as much extra space as it could. There was a dusty bookshelf next to him, mostly full of religious pamphlets and books left behind by clerics. A six-month-old flyer advertising for adventurers had been forgotten on one of the shelves. Leaning against one end was some fat, esoteric volume on candle making, and a slim collection of bards’ songs. Taako ran a disinterested eye over all of it, ready to retreat to his room for the night, before he caught sight of a battered book lying flat on the bottom shelf, almost invisible in its black cover. He crouched and picked it up, dislodging a massive dust cloud that sent him into a brief sneezing fit. Once his eyes stopped watering and he managed to brush away enough dust to open the book, he dropped back into his seat in disbelief.

           He hid the slim little book on transmutation magic under his shirt and snuck it up to his room. Lighting a candle, he devoured it overnight, reading and rehearsing every spell it described. He ran his fingers along the broken spine of the book. He was getting better, he thought, despite his still-frequent mistakes. Transmutation spells always felt right, almost familiar, to him. He wouldn’t make a mistake like Glamour Springs again. He could master this, he was sure of it. Taako would be the best transmutation wizard there ever was. One day.

*

           Magnus scraped his knife gently along the edge of the chest, pausing to blow away the slender curls of discarded wood. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. The elaborate jellyfish carving covered the chest: its bell sat on the top, with tentacles reaching out and around, encircling it on all sides. At a small cough from the doorway, he turned to see a woman standing there, looking embarrassed.

           “You, uh, you didn’t have to do this, you know,” she said. He waved her off.

           “I wanted to,” he said. “It was the least I could, after you let me stay here almost a month.” The woman shook her head.

           “You really helped us with driving off that sea snake,” she said. “I don’t know what we would have done if we’d lost any more fishing boats.” She stepped closer, admiring the chest. “Is that a jellyfish?” she asked.

           “Yeah,” he said, smiling. He ran a thumb across one corner, dislodging some sawdust. “I just need to varnish it and it’ll be done.”

           “It’s beautiful,” the woman said, letting her finger trail gently across it. “When have you even seen a jellyfish? I thought you said this was your first time by the sea?” Magnus shrugged.

           “I’ve seen pictures somewhere. I just really like them.” The woman dropped her hand, standing back and admiring the carving.

           “Thank you, Magnus,” she said. “For everything.”

           “Yeah,” he said. Something ached in his chest as he looked at the carving, an insistent feeling of loss that he couldn’t quite identify. He looked away. “Of course.”

*

           There was a piano, and Barry’s fingers itched.

           He had to keep tearing his eyes away from it, reminding himself that wasn’t why he was here. The coin had sent him asking around Goldcliff after the elf woman he was always looking for, although for some reason it never told him her name. Since one of the traits it had rattled off was that she could play the violin, he’d wandered his way to an elegant country club that hired bards and other musicians to entertain their guests. A tall human woman stood on the stage, singing a high, chipper song.

           His eyes kept straying to the piano.

           He didn’t even think he could play the piano. He couldn’t remember learning, and if he’d learned it during what the coin called his “stolen century,” the coin hadn’t bothered to mention it. Still, his fingers itched.

           He straightened his suit jacket, forcing himself to focus as a fancily dressed dwarf walked up, staring him down.

           “What do you want?” he asked bluntly. Barry wet his lips nervously.

           “I’m looking for an elf woman. You might have hired her to play the violin? She’s—”

           “Name?”

           “I… don’t know her name.” The dwarf looked exasperated.

           “I hire a dozen performers a month, kiddo. I’m not gonna remember one elf lady without a name.”

           “Please,” Barry said, feeling desperate. “It’s important.”

           “Sorry. Not my problem.” The dwarf turned to go.

           “Wait!” Barry called. The dwarf paused. “Forget the elf woman. I want to play here. For the guests.” The dwarf turned back, looking him up and down critically.

           “You a bard, kid?”

           “No,” Barry said. “But I play the piano.” He prayed his cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt. He was almost sure he was telling a blatant lie. But if he could figure out how to stick around, just a little bit longer, then maybe he’d be able to ask more questions about the woman. The dwarf was squinting at him suspiciously.

           “Come back for an audition in the morning,” he said. “I’ll need to see if you’re good enough.” Barry nodded eagerly.

           He came back the next morning, to a dwarf looking disheartened that he’d actually shown up. He sat down at the piano, staring at the keys, and for a moment he nearly bolted. He didn’t know how to do this. It was ridiculous to imagine he’d just magically know how to play the piano. Sure, he could swim without being able to remember learning, but that was different. He wasn’t even certain he had ever learnt to play the piano.

           Then he set his fingers on the keys, played an opening cord, and before he could think, there was music flowing from under his fingertips.

           He closed his eyes as he played, careful not to think too closely about what he was doing. He let the music come naturally, felt it move trippingly along his fingers. He knew when to pause, when to crescendo, when to let a note linger. He didn’t notice the tears on his cheeks until the song ended. He sniffed, embarrassed, hurriedly wiping at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt before turning back to the dwarf, who looked mildly impressed.

           “Okay, kid, I’ll admit, you’ve got some skill there. You… can’t cry in front of the guests, though, you know that, right?” Barry nodded, pressing his lips together and sniffing again. “Well, you’re hired for next week if you want the job. That was a beautiful song – your own composition?” Barry shook his head, and didn’t understand the words that came out of his mouth, but he said them anyway.

           “It was only half a song.”

*

           Davenport liked to stargaze. On clear, warm nights, he’d find his way to one of the outdoor decks on the moonbase, lie on his back, and stare up to the stars. He’d trace constellations with his finger. It always brought him a feeling of peace and security to look up and see the stars shining brightly in the sky. One summer evening, Lucretia joined him, taking her first night off in too long to remember. She lay beside him quietly for a long time. Finally, she murmured, more to herself than him, “What do you see up there?”

           Davenport turned to look at her, smiling, because he had the word today. “Home,” he said. She flinched, looking at him wide-eyed, and then slowly stood, turned, and walked away, leaving Davenport alone.

*

           Sometimes they went looking for people. They didn’t know their names, or their faces, or how they would find them, but they went looking all the same.

*

           Merle plopped himself down in front of the chessboard, giving a challenging stare to the man sitting on the other side.

           “Fancy a game?” he asked. The man looked at him in surprise.

           “I just took it out to clean off the dust – I’ve been travelling all day—”

           “Exactly! What better way to relax than sit down and play a little?”

           “Well, chess is actually not that relaxing—”

           “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” Merle cajoled. “We don’t have to bet or anything.” The man glanced around the tavern, and then shrugged, reaching for his case of pieces.

           “Alright,” he said. “Let’s play.”

           He and Merle fell into silent concentration, sliding pawns and rooks and bishops across the board. Merle’s knight laid waste to the man’s pawns until his queen stopped it. Merle played defensively, retreating his pieces out of reach when they started to get into danger. The game progressed slowly as the tavern grew first rowdier, and then slowly quieter and quieter as patrons drifted out. Finally, Merle dropped his bishop into place with a decisive “Checkmate!” The man flicked his king with one finger, knocking it over. He smiled at Merle, reached across the board to shake his hand, and then stood up, stretched, yawned, and left for bed.

           Merle stayed seated until the innkeeper came by to shoo him away, staring blankly at the now-empty table, his hands clasped, wondering if he should have said something else to the man with the chessboard.

*

           Taako was soaked to the bone, shivering in the downpour, his wizard’s hat heavy with water and sagging on his head. The barn sat dark and quiet and isolated, the house it must belong to almost out of sight up the hill. He darted up to the door in the cover of the dark, pulled it open, and slipped inside. As soon as he was out of the rain, he pulled off his hat and wrung it out, creating a puddle. He shook himself, trying to squeeze water out of his shirt and even his hair.

           The smell of manure assaulted his nose, but the barn’s only occupants were a couple of disinterested cows and a small flock of sheep. There was a stack of hay bales in the back, and Taako picked his way across the floor until he collapsed against the hay in relief. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Tonight, of all nights, he had to run into someone from Glamour Springs, someone who knew his face with the kind of detail burning hatred brought. He’d fled into the rain, too afraid to even return to his room for his luggage, and run as far as he could. The town’s lights long out of sight behind him, he’d slowed to a walk, and trudged along a road rapidly turning into muddy soup.

           Raindrops ran down his forehead, dripping off the end of his nose. He scrubbed them away with his hand, his eyes still closed. He was so tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lain down and properly meditated for a good few hours. Every time he tried, he got distracted. He felt like he couldn’t remember how he used to rest before. It had always been tough, but he knew he used to be able to do it.

           Maybe, he thought, he could just try, right now. He was so exhausted. Maybe he could just lie down and be quiet, even just for an hour or two.

           He stripped off most of the wet clothes and set them aside to dry. He pulled out of the haybales and lay down against it, ignoring the sharp, uncomfortable prickling. He tried to breathe slowly and evenly.

           He always envisioned a field when he meditated, a field with long grass on a warm summer’s night, a vision from his childhood. He’d been a cook’s assistant in a travelling troupe. Full of a particularly good beef stew, he had gone out to lie in the field, where he could stare up and see the stars wheeling overhead. He’d felt so peaceful. But it seemed lately that his memory of the field was pale and empty.

           He opened his eyes. He was so cold.

*

           Magnus shot up in bed, shouting. He was covered in sweat, chest heaving with breath. He clutched the sheets, his eyes wide as he stared into the dark tavern bedroom. His dream had been so vivid it still danced before his eyes: Raven’s Roost was crumbling to the ground. Julia stood atop one of the towers, her hands held out to him, calling for him, but he couldn’t move, because he was made of stone. He was nothing but a statue, able only to watch as Raven’s Roost fell, burying Julia under a mountain of rock.

           It took a long few minutes for his heart to slow, or his hands to uncurl from around the sheets. Unable to think of sleeping again, he climbed out of bed, lighting a candle, and retrieved a block of wood and a whittling knife. He carved a duck, occasionally humming to himself. By the time he finished, the gray flush of predawn light was creeping in through his window. He stared at the duck in his hands for a long time. He didn’t need another duck. He didn’t understand why he kept carving them. He left them as gifts, sometimes, for the innkeepers that gave him nicer rooms or let him do some maintenance work in lieu of payment for a room. Still, they were nothing but decorative. They served no useful purpose.

           He felt, for a moment, the utter helplessness of being a stone statue. He felt the terror of the stone squeezing breath from his lungs and life from his heart. He saw Julia tumbling down, down, down, still calling his name.

           He threw the duck so hard across the room that it hit the wall and shattered.

*

           Barry was just walking down the streets of Neverwinter when he saw her.

           It was the barest glimpse of a face, but his heart stuttered wildly in his chest. It was her, it had to be her. He knew it was her. He spun around, making the people behind him almost trip and fall into him, and caught just a glimpse of pointed hat vanishing into the crowd. His heart pounded wildly. He started to run.

           “Hey!” he called. “Hey! Come back!”

           He shoved people aside, ignoring the glares and occasional cusses, focused on nothing but the slightest glimpse of that pointed blue hat. He saw it again.

           “Hey!” he called. She paused, and he kept pushing his way towards her, keeping his eyes fixed on her hat. “It’s you! It’s – I know you.”

           She started to run. Barry shoved aside an orc almost twice his height, feeling frantic.

           “Wait!” he begged. “Wait! Please! Please wait! Please ­– come back, please! Please!” She weaved her way masterfully through the crowd. Barry started to run after her, but the orc grabbed his shoulder, glaring in displeasure. The hat vanished. Barry went limp against the orc’s hand, and broke into tears.

*

           Normally, Davenport was okay with faces. Faces he could more or less handle. Sometimes it was difficult – some of those dwarves looked bafflingly similar, for instance, and he frequently mixed up humans with the same hair colors. But all in all, faces were usually manageable. Names, however, were a whole different story. He could rarely manage to form words for himself. Fixing entirely new names in his head proved to be nigh impossible. Since he could almost never say them anyway, at some point he stopped trying. If he didn’t know who they were talking about, Lucretia could usually show him a picture.

           The day that the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet was recovered, three strangers walked into the moon base. Davenport studied their faces, working on committing these three to memory. Elf, dwarf, human. At least, if they were together, it would be easy to remember which was which.

           Then they introduced themselves to Lucretia, and to Davenport’s mild shock, the names stuck. They were Taako, Merle, and Magnus. He knew their names with as much surety as he knew Lucretia’s, almost as certainly as he knew his own. Their names were just as clear in his mind as their faces, even if he could rarely say them, even if he didn’t understand why.

*

           Sometimes little things slipped through the cracks. Fingers moved, hearts pounded, and smiles and tears broke across their faces without rhyme or reason. What they forgot, their bodies clung to stubbornly.

*

           It was Taako who pulled them along to the Moonbase’s pub. “We recovered one of these Grand Relic thingies that everyone here is so hung up over and yet haven’t managed to find themselves. That means we’re basically heroes,” he explained. “We ought to celebrate like heroes! Plus, we all had to drink whatever bodily fluid that voidfish ichor was, so we’re getting drunk tonight to forget what that tasted like.” Magnus shrugged and then proceeded with enthusiasm as soon as Taako waved a drink in his face. Merle sighed, muttering something about kids, and followed suit, albeit in a much more disgruntled manner. The scattered other members of the Bureau in the pub eyed them curiously.

           The three of them stumbled out of the pub hours later, all using each other for support and giggling helplessly.

           “But did you—” Taako snorted. “Did you see him pulling the arms off that robot? He was—” he hiccupped, “he was so intense.”

           “I saw your scrawny ass getting punched by an ogre,” Merle said, trying to wave a finger at him and slapping him in the midriff instead. “So much help you were.”

           “Hey, I did stuff,” Taako replied, trying to glare at Merle, except his eyes kept unfocusing.

           “Yeah, that umbrella stunt was pretty— was pretty—” Magnus waved his arms, miming an explosion, and sent the whole group careening sideways, nearly crashing into a wall.

           “Yeah I dunno what that was,” Taako chuckled. He glanced down to where he was leaning on the umbrella like a walking stick. He stopped, planting himself, and raised a finger dramatically. “I have. The most dangerous umbrella. In all the moonbase. Thank you, thank you!” He bowed to imaginary applause as Magnus and Merle struggled to catch their breath from laughing. Magnus, wiping tears out of his eyes, finally paused.

           “You know, you guys aren’t half bad,” he said. “We make a pretty cool team.”

           “Yeah!” Merle piped up. “We make a great team!” Taako’s head lolled on his shoulders momentarily before he snapped it back up to look at Magnus.

           “You— you’re good with the—” He mimed punching and nearly took Merle’s eye out with the umbrella. “You’re a pretty good fighter, my dude.”

           “And I’m sure Merle contributes something,” Magnus laughed.

           “Hey! Hey! Who saved Taako’s ass when he was unconscious back in the cave?” Taako swayed, leaning on the umbrella, and nodded slowly.

           “That is true. You did— you did in fact, save my ass.” He slung an arm around Merle and another one around Magnus. “I say, let’s keep doing this. Hey, maybe next time we find one of these relics, we turn into real heroes around here, huh?”

           “Sounds good to me, buddy,” Magnus replied, wrapping his arm around Taako.

           “Be nice to get the recognition we deserve,” Merle agreed amiably. The three of them started stumbling forward again, before pausing at a fork in the path.

           “Hey… does anybody remember where we live now?” Taako asked. There was a moment of tense silence. Then, Merle snorted, and started to chuckle. “No, seriously, where are we supposed to go?” Taako insisted. Merle kept on laughing, his chuckles getting louder and louder until they turned into belly laughs. Magnus began snickering too, and then laughing, drowning out Taako’s protests. The three of them swayed dangerously, almost toppling. Taako, helpless against his companions’ mirth, began to chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it all. They swayed again, in the other direction, all of them nearly screaming with laughter now, and then they swayed even further and all of them fell on their asses and collapsed into the ground. They laughed so hard that tears ran down their cheeks. They laughed so hard their stomachs hurt. They laughed until none of them had the slightest idea what had started it all anymore, but as soon as they calmed down, they would make eye contact and dissolve into fits of mirth again.

           Finally, exhausted almost to collapse, and their stomachs aching from laughing too hard, they fell back on the ground, shoulders and elbows and knees shoved up against each other. They sighed collectively, grins still stretching their cheeks. Somehow, even on a strange, futuristic Moonbase, with no idea where they were supposed to spend the night, they felt like they were home.