is there room for one more cot

Locked Away

By reddit user Pippinacious

Six months. That’s how long almost half of the new hire last when they become social workers. Some will tell you it’s the pay, others will tell you it’s the stress, still others will complain about poor training or case overload or the broken system. But that’s all bullshit. The reason they quit is always the same; the kids.

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(based on something weird that happened to me in college)

Her chosen name is Varia. “After my favorite owl,” she says. Varia counts things. It’s not a conscious action so much as a reflex, such as blinking or breathing. She runs her fingers over the stones in the walls one, two, three, four and feels great discomfort when things are not in even sets.

Everything must be even. She taps her fingers one-two-three-four-five on the left hand against the table, but she can’t leave the table until she’s done the same with her right hand. Well, she can, but she doesn’t like it. It feels unbalanced.
She has to have the same things in her pockets on either side or else of the same weight: iron sphere in the left pocket, heavy glass marble she found under a bush in the right, salt mixed with pocket lint.
She rarely takes off the jacket.

Varia counts the doors in the dorm halls.

It’s always the same, every day. One, two, three, four, five, six doors pass under her fingertips on the left. One, two, three, four, five doors on the right. It isn’t even. She hates that.
But one day – a Thursday, she thinks, she isn’t sure now – she leaves her room at twilight and walks down the hall, headed for the common room. Her hands extend, as always, to count the doors.

One, two, three, four, five, six on the left.
One, two, three, four, five, six on the right.


Varia backs up, sure she’s counted wrong. Her eyes track up and down the walls, but it remains the same. Six on the left, six on the right. And the sixth door on the right is open now.

From the hallway, she can see bare wood floors. A cot. A multicolored woven bag settled on the end of it. Nothing more. Varia does not see the woman until she steps into the doorway.
Her feet do not cross the threshold.

Varia has never seen her before, but she feels as though she’s been here a very long time. Bright eyes peer over rosy cheeks in a wrinkled brown face, but it’s impossible to tell what color her eyes are. Her hair is covered by a woven cloth of the same kind as her dress: multicolored, flowing, like dyed wool, but the texture seems wrong. When she smiles, Varia is sure she smells grass in the summer and tilled earth.

Varia doesn’t understand the language the woman greets her with, but she knows she’s heard it. Her RA appears from behind the woman – now she sees hallmates in the room where she was certain none were before – and translates.
“She wants to know if you’d like any Turkish Delight,” the RA says.

Varia knows her C.S. Lewis. This does not sound wise. Left hand grips the iron sphere, right hand grips the marble, and she asks, “Was this door always here?”

“Of course it was!” her hallmates scoff, but she’s very sure she’s never counted this door before.

“Varia, it’s Tuesday,” says Bridges. “Nothing too bad happens on a Tuesday.”

Is it Tuesday? Varia counts many things, but not days. So she takes the Turkish Delight. But she does not enter the room.

The sweets are good, but she does not feel any overwhelming urges to betray siblings for more Turkish Delight, and so she reasons that the food was likely safe. It seemed to be freely given, anyway. Varia is cautious but polite with her thanks, and returns to her room. She doesn’t remember what she was going to do in the common room.

The next day, she’s going to classes and she counts the doors as usual.
One, two, three, four, five, six on the left.
One, two, three, four, five on the right.

The extra door is not here. The woman is not here. No one on the hall seems to know what she’s talking about when Varia asks about it.

The next day there are five doors on the left and six on the right. The woman has returned, but Bridges – reckless, cheerful Bridges – is missing. Varia takes the Turkish Delight, but leaves one of her marbles in exchange.

The Extra Room is gone again the next day and all the doors are where they should be. But Bridges hasn’t returned and no one even remembers that anyone lived in that room. But Varia remembers.

Varia counts things.


“Have you got another pair of breeches?”

I asked, picking up the discarded ones and draping them across the counter to dry. 

“Aye, I have—upstairs. Wait a bit, though.” He snaked a long arm into the cupboard beneath the counter, and came out with a neatly lettered notice that said GONE OUT. Attaching this to the outside of the door, and firmly bolting the inside, he turned to me. 

“Will ye step upstairs wi’ me?” he said. He crooked an arm invitingly, eyes sparkling. “If ye dinna think it immoral?” “Why not?” I said. The impulse to explode in laughter was just below the surface, sparkling in my blood like champagne. 

“We’re married, aren’t we?” 

The upstairs was divided into two rooms, one on either side of the landing, and a small privy closet just off the landing itself. The back room was plainly devoted to storage for the printing business; the door was propped open, and I could see wooden crates filled with books, towering bundles of pamphlets neatly tied with twine, barrels of alcohol and powdered ink, and a jumble of odd-looking hardware that I assumed must be spare parts for a printing press. 

The front room was spare as a monk’s cell. There was a chest of drawers with a pottery candlestick on it, a washstand, a stool, and a narrow cot, little more than a camp bed. I let out my breath when I saw it, only then realizing that I had been holding it. He slept alone. 

A quick glance around confirmed that there was no sign of a feminine presence in the room, and my heart began to beat with a normal rhythm again. Plainly no one lived here but Jamie; he had pushed aside the curtain that blocked off a corner of the room, and the row of pegs revealed there supported no more than a couple of shirts, a coat and long waistcoat in sober gray, a gray wool cloak, and the spare pair of breeches he had come to fetch. 

He had his back turned to me as he tucked in his shirt and fastened the new breeches, but I could see the self-consciousness in the tense line of his shoulders. I could feel a similar tension in the back of my own neck. Given a moment to recover from the shock of seeing each other, we were both stricken now with shyness. I saw his shoulders straighten and then he turned around to face me. The hysterical laughter had left us, and the tears, though his face still showed the marks of so much sudden feeling, and I knew mine did, too. 

“It’s verra fine to see ye, Claire,” he said softly. “I thought I never … well.” He shrugged slightly, as though to ease the tightness of the linen shirt across his shoulders. He swallowed, then met my eyes directly. 

“The child?” he said. Everything he felt was evident on his face; urgent hope, desperate fear, and the struggle to contain both. 

I smiled at him, and put out my hand. “Come here.” 

I had thought long and hard about what I might bring with me, should my journey through the stones succeed. Given my previous brush with accusations of witchcraft, I had been very careful. But there was one thing I had had to bring, no matter what the consequences might be if anyone saw them. 

I pulled him down to sit beside me on the cot, and pulled out of my pocket the small rectangular package I had done up with such care in Boston. I undid its waterproof wrapping, and thrust its contents into his hands. “There,” I said. 

He took them from me, gingerly, like one handling an unknown and possibly dangerous substance. His big hands framed the photographs for a moment, holding them confined. Brianna’s round newborn face was oblivious between his fingers, tiny fists curled on her blanket, slanted eyes closed in the new exhaustion of existence, her small mouth slightly open in sleep. 

I looked up at his face; it was absolutely blank with shock. He held the pictures close to his chest, unmoving, wide-eyed and staring as though he had just been transfixed by a crossbow bolt through the heart—as I supposed he had. “

Your daughter sent you this,” I said. I turned his blank face toward me and gently kissed him on the mouth. That broke the trance; he blinked and his face came to life again. 

“My … she …” His voice was hoarse with shock. “Daughter. My daughter. She … knows?”

“I Hate You So Bad, It Hurts” - Mitch Rapp Smut Part 1

Paring: Mitch Rapp x Reader

Warnings: Smut, cussing (lots of it), Mitch’s fucking hands, violence and DEATH

Word Count: 5,557



Author: @lukehemmo134

*I got a little help from a friend btw (@mf-dispair-queen ), also CAN WE JUST HAVE A MOMENT IN PEACE TO APPRECIATE THOSE GOD DAMN HANDS???* - Adrianna

You were guided by an older man as the sky above you got darker, your skin itching to find out who your new partner was going to be. For the past couple of years, every partner you had was shit lying around on the floor and waiting to be stepped on by the unlucky soul that does step on it. But as you had been guided by Stan, you felt eyes stare into you and your skin crawled. Your eyes scanned the area smoothly, not wanting to be jumped in case this was a test and you had to pass it like an assassin.

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Tell Me

I realized my Bucky imagines are really lacking in quality.
So to make up for it, here’s a new one!
Hope you guys like it xx

Title: Tell Me
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: You get injured on a mission and Bucky is upset about it. You call him out on his distance and he finally explains himself.
Word Count: 1,521
Warnings: None

Your name: submit What is this?

           "I’m fine, trust me,“ you grunted as you slipped out from under Steve’s arm.

           His brow furrows in concern, reaching out to support you as you limp. Steve does everything he can to keep you upright as you fight against his grip. Bucky stands beside you, arms crossed and a stern look on his face.

           "Y/N, you need to rest,” Steve tells you, nodding towards the cot you were just laying on.

           You wave your hand dismissively and Steve complies, releasing his grip on you. You were in the med bay of the Quinjet, fresh out of a mission, and while the rest of the team got away safely, you got in a slight scuffle and sprained your ankle and fractured your arm.

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Calm, Perhaps

SUMMARY: To her, Dean Winchester is nothing short of art, and she loves to watch over him. But as a mission goes wrong as she becomes captured, the hunter finally realizes the importance of her eyes that trace his skin.

WORD COUNT: 1,814 words


NOTES: ngl, this is one of my favourites. have fun!

She loved to look at him. His eyes, they were usually vibrant, but she loved when they turned dark in the face of death and how they seemed foggy when he woke from slumber. How Dean Winchester smiled, and what a special occasion it was when he truly laughed. When he would lock his jaw, or cross his arms, or stare at someone as they told a tale. (Y/n) loved his face, his arms, his legs (no matter how bowlegged they were).

Her favourite times to watch the him was when he just wakes up, or when he’s deep in work. When he stumbles into the kitchen with that grey robe loose around his body, his eyes traced with sleep and his mouth yearning for coffee. When he sits in the library, sifting through books and cracking through databases, he often bites his lip from, or furrow his eyebrows as he reads a new article. And when he was really stressed, he’d run a hand through his hair.

Art, she would think, this man is a piece of art.

He would catch her a lot. How could he not? He was trained to know when eyes were upon him, eyes of the dead or of the ones he lived for. Often he would watch her back, and they would wait until one of them smiled or walked away, or until Sam came in and they had to look away. That was torture, having to cower, but neither could admit what they felt to anyone on earth.

They had their questionings about each other. When Dean would catch her staring, he wondered if it was from curiosity, fear, lust, anger. And when he would stare back, (y/n) would try to figure out of it was aggression, assertiveness, interest, or maybe calmness.

She always scratched out that last one. Calmness didn’t exist for hunters.

But he made her feel calm. For those seconds where she could breathe, and where her eyes could rest on him, she felt such ease with the ruined world.

She wasn’t foolish, and neither was he. They both knew calm doesn’t last. Nothing lasts.


She was keeping up with the days. Somehow, past the pain of the lashes and the constant draining, she remembered the number of days she had been held by these vampires. She’s at 67 now, and she thinks it’s a Wednesday. Maybe it’s noon, but it feels like midnight. She doesn’t know that; it’s been 52 days since she last saw sunlight.

“Mission gone wrong.” That’s what someone would call it, someone who would be comforting Dean and Sam and trying to tell (y/n) she would make it out alive. But this mission had been going so right, so perfect and to the point of what they set on the table. (Y/n) as bait, Sam and Dean with machetes to take the small pack out. But when their numbers turned out larger than they had estimated, the mission had gone too well, and she was taken.

(Y/n) was tired. The constant feeding the pack of twelve did was exhausting. Their last girl, a young teen by the name of Maddy, died of blood loss on her third round with the vamps. (Y/n) was past the hundredth, and she wonders how she still manages to breathe.

They let her sleep six hours, and she had to guess the time off of those moments. She would eat a small meal in the morning, hook up to an IV and maybe a blood bag if the prior day was heavy during lunch, and she would get another meal in the afternoon. They let her shower once a week, but she hasn’t seen her own face in a mirror in over two months.

She’s tried to figure out where she is. She knows it’s close to Kansas City, but that’s only a feeling in her gut. She’s tried to escape, the last attempt just a week back, but that resulted in lashings and a cut down on meals. She had given up on day 58, and wanted to die on 64.

She knew she would never be found. Sam and Dean had probably pronounced her dead by now; what would be the use of searching for a lost cause? It’s lost for a reason. She had accepted her fate: bleed, eat, sleep, repeat, until maybe death had managed to catch her.

She had found an anchor. A thought, a memory, a distant stretch of her heart and soul to the image of Dean Winchester. His eyes, his walk, his demeanor. She longed for that little tranquility she got by watching him. But by now, she was having a hard time remembering the layout of the hunter’s face and body, or even how that grey robe draped across him in the early mornings.

She could recall his arms, how scratched and scarred they were. She remembers his eyes, but only that they’re green (the last look she got at them was when they were filled to the brim with fear and anger as she was dragged into a car). She holds onto the memory of his smile, and the sound of his laugh, but she’s starting to think she made those up by now.

Oh, what she’d give to watch Dean Winchester one last time before she left for beyond.


The door opens and (y/n) closes her eyes, her hands shaking as someone stands in the doorway. She slowly looks up, sitting still on the edge of her cot when she sees a familiar figure. The tall girl, the alpha’s lover, the one who retrieved her and sent her back every day. She looked normal, (y/n) was sure of it, but to her she was as awful as Lucifer.

“Come on, (Y/N/N), don’t make this hard,” the lady calls out.

“Please, just another hour of rest, Aba,” she pleads.

The woman, Aba, laughs with amusement. “I don’t think so.” She walks to her and (y/n) gasps as Aba pulls her by the arm. She feels so fragile, her bones frail and her blood thin. She’s lost weight, she knows this, and she feels like if Aba pulls any harder that she might fall apart.

As she’s pulled though the basement, her feet seem to stick to the cement. It’s cold, always so cold, and dank in the air with the windows boarded up. Aba tightens the grip on her arm and yanks her around a corner, and (y/n) lets a whimper echo her chest.

She dreaded the room she was now in. “The fill-up” was what they called it. It was a small room with a few cots, IV stands all around with blood bags and needles on carts. But the one thing different today was that it was empty.

“W-Where’s Liam?” (y/n) asks quietly as she sits on a cot.

“Finally ran dry,” Aba says coolly as she grabs a needle. (Y/n) blinks back tears; Liam was her last straw, the one person she trusted here, a small boy of seven years old. She had tried to protect him, she tried to have him seem weaker so she could bleed more instead of him. But she must not have tried hard enough.

As Aba walks to her with a needle, (y/n) shifts.

“Aba, please,” she whispers.

“You’re the last one, (y/n), you know that,” Aba says in a monotone voice. “The longest lasting we’ve seen, too.” She grins, kneeling in front of her as (y/n) tries to scoot away. “I wanna see just how long I can drain you for-”

“I’m not weak,” she manages to say despite the fear. “I’ll get out.”

Aba laughs, looking up at her. “I will drain you of blood and soul, girl,” she hisses, and (y/n) sits up straight. And as Aba looks down at the needle, an impulse runs through (y/n). She raises her hand and hits Aba hard, making her fall onto her butt as a crashing sound is heard overhead.

(Y/n) looks up with wide eyes as she backs out of the room. Aba rises quickly, and (y/n) flips a cot in front of her to make her trip. It buys her a second to turn and run down the long hall. She can hear the harsh steps behind her as she turns a corner, but she doesn’t turn around.

“(Y/n)!” a strong voice calls, and she stops in her tracks. It’s a voice she held onto for over two months, one so deep and full of pain and strength that it made her knees shake. It was the voice of Dean Winchester, and it was just too far.

Before she can recover, she gets tackled to the ground. She rolls over to see Aba with her fangs out, and (y/n)’s eyes go wide. She shouts through barred teeth, pressing up against the vamp’s neck to keep her teeth as far away as possible from her flesh.

A door opens across the room, and hard steps trample down the stairs. (Y/n) keeps her eyes on the vamp, yelling out as she pushes her face away.

But suddenly, arms reach out and pull the vampire off of her, and a machete ends all the commotion in the room as (y/n) scoots back to sit up. She takes quick breaths, shaking with fear and exhaustion from such a simple action.

Soft hands touch her shoulders and she cries out in panic as she spins around. But it’s familiar hands, the touch of Dean with Sam coming down the stairs. And as she looks into his eyes, she’s engulfed once again.

“Dean,” she whispers, tears in her eyes. “Oh my god.” He drops the machete and falls to his knees, grabbing her and pulling him into his arms. She sobs, gripping his jacket and wetting his shirt with tears. His hands are strong on her weak back, and his fingers wrap around her sides to keep her body against his.

“I’m so sorry,” he says into her ear, kissing her forehead and her hair. “(Y/n), I am so sorry.”

She shakes her head, crying as he pulls her to his lap so he can sit. Sam just smiles, leaning against the wall as Dean buries his face deep into (y/n)’s hair.

“68 days,” (y/n) whispers, and Dean pulls her back. He marvels at how much weight she’s lost, how small she seems in his arms and how her skin hugs at her bones.


“It’s been 68 days, and you never gave up,” she asks, looking up at him. “Why?”

“I don’t think I could make it a lifetime without having someone watch over me,” he says, and she laughs once with tears in her eyes. He kisses her forehead and her laugh turns back into a cry as she grips his shirt for dear life.

And for the first time in months, she feels calm.

Metamorphosis: Chapter 11 - The Midwife

The Premise: What if Claire had conceived on her wedding night?

You can find previous chapters here.

September 29th, 1743; Leoch.

I opened the door of my surgery and came face to face with Leoch’s midwife, the very person I’d been working up the courage to seek out for the last two weeks. She was a tiny little thing, the top of her head barely came up to my chest, and much younger than I had envisioned. I felt a measure of relief as I noticed her bandaged hand and knew she wasn’t here to discuss my pregnancy.

“I dinna wish to trouble ye, Mistress Claire-”

“No, not at all,” I interrupted her, “please come in.”

She dutifully followed me to my work table, where I had plenty of light to inspect her wound. The cut wasn’t very large, spanning her right, index distal phalanx, but it was deep enough to need stitching.

It was still bleeding, and I instructed her on how to better stem the flow before walking away to gather my necessary items. We spoke of the unseasonably warm weather and other trivialities as I moved about the room, the normality of the situation lulling me into a quiet calm.

Was this was the opportunity I needed?

I returned with an easier heart, and was pleased to find the bleeding had slowed, revealing a relatively clean wound. Nature had done most of the work for me and the blood flow had rid the gash of any debris. It would only need a few swabs of the alcohol before I stitched it closed. The task was done before I was ready and I fiddled with the bandage as I tried to think of a way to broach the subject.

“Out with it, lass,” she admonished, “or ‘twill swallow ye whole.”

I started, pulling the wrapping tighter than I intended and she winced.

“Sorry,” I murmured as I quickly finished. My hands left hers, instinctively hovering over the swell I knew she couldn’t see. I hadn’t a clue what to say to break the awkward silence that fell.

“I think… I mean, I don’t know, exactly, but I…” I trailed off, staring stupidly at my lap. “I think I’m bigger than I should be.”

Completely nonplussed, she asked, “Would ye have me take a look, then?”

I hesitantly nodded and she patted my arm.

“Dinna fash,” she assured me as we crossed the room, heading towards the small cot that often served as my examination table. She perched on the edge of the bed like a songbird taking roost, “I’ve seen just about everythin’ an’ what I havena seen, I’ve felt myself, birthin’ four bairns o’ my own.”

I felt more than a little self-conscious as I lifted my skirts, and she squeezed my hand reassuringly before beginning to examine me. Her eyes slid shut in concentration, her head tilting to one side while her hands did the work. The bandaged digit was held aloft, sticking it out to avoid unwanted jostling.

“How far along are ye?” She inquired.

“About three months.”

Three months, two weeks, and, give or take, four days.

Her brows furrowed as her hands stilled, “Are ye sure of your dates?”

“Yes,” I replied, a little too quickly. She gazed down at me with an amused smirk, and I felt my face flame as I stammered, “I, ah, was married the eleventh of June.”

The smile blossomed into a full grin as she tipped her head back and laughed.

“Oh, aye? Then ye’ve given your lad a mighty fine wedding gift, to be sure.”

“Jamie?” I called cautiously into the dim interior of the stables.

The walk here had hardly given me a chance to gather my thoughts. One moment, I was sure I had them neatly in a row, each emotion identified and acknowledged; the next, they shot off every which way, leaving me in a jumbled mess of tears, fears, and hormones.

“Here, Sassenach,” was his reply.

I stepped in, pausing a moment to allow my eyes to adjust before heading towards the sound of his voice. It was surprisingly cool within, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar scents of hay, horses, and leather did nothing to make my stomach heave. I could hear Jamie speaking Gaelic in hushed tones, and it had very much the same calming effect on me as it did the horse he was working on.

“Hello,” I greeted him softly, standing at the entrance of the stall he was in.

He gave me a warm smile in return, moving from behind the mare to place a gentle kiss on my temple, “Hello to ye, mo nighean donn.”

“I met the midwife,” I whispered as I leaned into him, unsure if we had an audience.

“Oh, aye?” His arms encircled me in an embrace that melted me to my very core. “Did ye ask her?”

I simply nodded, unsure of how to continue now that I’d begun the conversation.

“Is she sure?” a tremulous qualm ran thru me at his question and I felt his heartbeat race against my cheek, the thundering echo reminding me that I wasn’t alone in any of this.

Alone. I would never, truly, be alone again, would I? Not while life grew within me, not while I could cradle such a love close to me in my arms.


A dhia, Claire,” I clung to him as he breathlessly spoke aloud the word I had been treasuring in my heart,


I don’t really know what this is, but I couldn’t shake the idea so… Here’s a little post 5x20 thing.


“Oliver, man, I really think you need to go to the hospital,” Diggle said as soon as they’d gotten both Oliver and Felicity safely back upstairs into the old campaign office.

“I’m fine,” Oliver argued, moving a little unsteadily on his feet before bracing himself against a desk.

The bloody gash on the back of Oliver’s head from what was probably a pretty spectacular fall down an elevator shaft told a different story, but before John could argue Felicity was already at Oliver’s side.

“You hit your head so hard you passed out, Oliver,” she said, wrapping a hand around his wrist. “Which was not a fun couple of minutes, let me tell you. I thought…”

She trailed off, lip quivering slightly, and John didn’t even have to see Oliver’s reaction—the way his shoulders slumped, expression softening—to know that the argument was over.

“You should go, too,” he said softly, placing a hand on top of her’s on his wrist. “Your chip…”

“It’s probably fine,” Curtis interjected, causing everyone to look in his direction where he was standing beside Rene and Dinah. “As long as it’s working again it shouldn’t… be… much of a…”

John swung his gaze back around in time to see Oliver glaring at the younger man. When he turned back around Curtis’s eyes had gone wide and he looked appropriately nervous.

“But you should probably still go get checked out,” Curtis said, gesturing to Felicity. “Better to be safe than sorry, right? And you do have a head wound, too, so it probably wouldn’t be a bad thing to…”

John was almost impressed by Curtis’s Felicity-worthy babble, but his friends had clearly already tuned the man’s ramble out, lost in that place where only the two of them existed. He felt his lips pull up in a smirk as he watched them interacting with each other in a way he hadn’t seen in far too long.

“I’ll go as long as you go,” Oliver murmured after a few moments.

Felicity smiled, eyes crinkling in amusement, before she winced. Her hand shot up, gently touching the wound at her hairline. “Yeah,” she agreed with a nod, “we should both go. Probably gonna need a professional to do the stitches if I don’t want to end up looking like Rene.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rene asked.

“You know, cause of your…” Curtis chuckled, gesturing to his own eye to indicate the scar on Rene’s face.

Oliver laughed, moving away from the desk and gently throwing an arm around Felicity’s shoulders when she gestured for him to use her as a crutch, though it didn’t escape John’s notice that Oliver seemed a lot steadier than when they’d first pulled him out of the bunker.

“What’s that supposed to mean about my face?” Rene asked again.

Curtis eyes went wide and Dinah stepped up, patting him on the shoulder, but John didn’t stick around to see how that argument ended. Instead, he followed Oliver and Felicity out to his car.


“Everything looks okay,” Dr. Schwartz said, looking at the chart in front of her. “But you really need to stop getting concussions.”

“That’s what I keep telling him.”

Oliver turned at the unexpected voice to see Felicity leaning against the doorframe, ankles crossed. A bandage covered the wound on her forehead she’d received when the EMP had knocked them both across the bunker.

Oliver wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt a rush of relief at seeing her. It could have been because she was clearly okay, despite Adrian’s attack, or it could have just been that she’d bothered to come find him at all. It was probably both.

The warm smile on her face was definitely a relief after everything that went down with Helix and then Adrian attacking them in the bunker. Oliver had ended up admitting things about himself to her that he’d never so much as considered telling another human being, especially not her. But, somehow, it seemed to be exactly what they’d needed. He’d felt like a weight had been lifted as they spoke. The wall that they’d built up between them finally toppling as he confessed his biggest fears to her. And her being here in his hospital room, that smile on her face, despite everything, only proved what Oliver already knew to be true.

Felicity Smoak was remarkable.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“Oh!,” she laughed, gesturing to the bandage on her head. “Yeah. Didn’t even take many stitches.”

“I know in your line of work it can be unavoidable sometimes, but you should be cautious. Both of you,” Dr. Schwartz said and Oliver saw Felicity stiffen from the corner of his eye.

Her eyes went round in surprise that the doctor knew their secret, before her expression melted into a kind smile.

“We could definitely stand to take a few less risks,” she agreed, moving over towards the bed Oliver was leaning against. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him,” she said, voice soft and earnest as her gaze met his.

Like always, everything started to slip away, leaving nothing but the blue of Felicity’s eyes. He remembered a time when that sensation had scared him, but now it felt like coming home. He’d missed it.

“I’ll go get your paperwork started,” Dr. Schwartz said, interrupting the moment. She moved for the door with a knowing smile. “When you’re ready.”

Oliver nodded before glancing down at his feet, suddenly more uncertain than he’d felt in a long time. He wanted to reach out, to cup Felicity’s face in his palms and make sure she was really alright. But, despite the warmth that had suddenly replaced the epic cold front their relationship had been experiencing, they weren’t there yet. They might never be there, Oliver admitted to himself, feeling his heart sink.

“So…” she said and he glanced up to see her smiling. “You ready to go home?”

The words cut through him. They were everything he wanted to hear, but he knew she hadn’t meant them the way they’d sounded. Which she realized half a second too late, judging by the suddenly nervous look in her eye. But when she spoke, it wasn’t exactly the awkward babble Oliver was expecting.

“I mean, my home. You know, the loft,” she clarified, then took a deep breath and he watched as her blue eyes filled with a steely kind of resolve. “I think you should come home with me.”

Oliver’s mouth dropped open and he could only stare at her dumbly for a moment. Long enough that she heard what she’d said.

“Not” —she gestured wildly in front of her— “like that! I just meant…” She paused, regaining her composure. “You’ve been staying in the bunker and now that Chase has compromised it… I don’t want you staying there.” Her eyes went soft as she smiled. “Stay in the guest room. That way I know your safe. Besides” —she grinned— “I know for a fact the bed in the guest room is more comfortable than that cot you’ve been sleeping on.”

Oliver couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face, he really couldn’t. “Oh, do you?”

Felicity’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. She stared up at him, eyebrows lifted pointedly, until he finally nodded.


Sleeping Arrangements (2/4)

I’m a meanie butt, but after 12,00 words I had to conceded and admit that the last part needed its own chapter. My conciliation: I actually swear it will be up as fast as possible after the 30th. (I do have to write my CSBB)

Read Part One Here

When Killian Jones is six, he’s sharing a bed with the increasingly wide berth of his mother and all too happy to share it. He’s gathered they’re poor (vicious kids on the street, kicks from discerning shop owners, the way Liam sometimes knicks bread for them to eat) but his mother always smells of lavender and hums him to sleep. Her hands are still soft and everything about her touch speaks of love: the way she cards her fingers through his hair when he’s had a nightmare, the way she lets him clutch at his fingers when they’re at the market, even the way he used to snuggle into her neck before her body became unwieldy with the carriage of his sister.

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Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: ~2500

Summary: Bucky’s POV; It’s been nearly thirty years since you were separated from the man you called Зима, Zima, Winter. He was made to forget you, and he never knew why. What had the two of you done wrong? Now that he’s found you again… well…

Warnings: Angst, Fluff-ish

Originally posted by allthisherostuff

Her hand so small in mine. Her skin is warm and soft and just as I remember. The slow rise and fall of her chest should bring me comfort. I suppose it would if she didn’t also have a tube down her throat. They tell me she’ll be fine, that she’ll wake up in time, but there’s no way to know how long it’ll take. There’s no sound in the room aside from the beeping of the machines and the pumping ventilator.

“Soldat, this is (Y/N).”

I remember the fear in her eyes, and at the time I thought it was me she was afraid of.

“We’re giving her to you.”

It was like they were giving me a pet. They made me responsible for her, gave me freedom I didn’t have before her. She was a soft light through the darkness.

“Come on, Зима. Please?”

“You have to stay here.”

“But I can help.”

“You’re not ready to be in the field. Maybe next time.”


“As long as you promise to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“I promise.”

She smiled, her eyes bright with hope. I should have taken her with me. Maybe she would have been okay.

A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my silent reverie. Steve comes in, sympathy clear in his face.

“It’s been two days, Buck.”

“I’ll wait here for two weeks if I have to.”

He sighs, picking up a chair and setting it down beside me for taking a seat.

“Who is she?” he asks.

“She was my everything when I had nothing. I didn’t know what to think of her when they gave her to me. I trained her, taught her everything I knew. At first, it was like a having pet or a child. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her.”

“So what happened?”

“I left on a mission. She asked to come with me, but I told her she needed to stay, made her promise to stay out of trouble. All I wanted to do was protect her. Everything was fine until I started asking for her. They put me in that chair, strapped me down.” I caress the back of her hand with my thumb, “When they brought her out, she had a black eye. Her face was swollen. She had no fight left in her when they sat her across from me. They wiped me in front of her. I can still hear her begging them to not to do it. She blamed herself.” When I finally look at him, I find him staring at her face with a complex expression twisting his features, “They put me back under, and when I woke up she was gone, not that it mattered. I mean, my memory of her was gone until a couple of years ago. Even then, I thought she was dead.” I turn my attention back to her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “I just want her to wake up. I want to make things right.”

“I won’t ask you to leave her, but I did bring you a change of clothes and some other stuff I thought you might need.”

I smile, patting his back with my free hand, “Thanks, pal.”

“Go change.” He says, gesturing to the small duffel bag by the door, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

I nod, standing and taking up the bag from the floor. Even though I know the odds of her waking up while I’m gone are slim to none, I still hesitate at the door. I spare one more glance to her sleeping face before finally leaving the room.

After a week, we arranged for a cot to be put her room. Every night, Steve spends about thirty minutes with her while I get cleaned up.

After a month, it seems like everyone around me is starting to give up hope. I can’t give on her.

I need to know what she remembers. I need to know what they told her. I need her to know that what happened was not her fault. Above everything, I need her to know that I loved her, that I love her.

The heart monitor begins to scream as her heart rate proceeds to climb. My first thought is that I’m losing her. I stand at her side, leaning down so that my lips are beside her ear, and I beg her not to leave me. Then her eyes open and she’s gasping around the ventilator tube. I try to keep her calm as doctors and nurses flood the room.

Even though she’s looking at me, I’m not sure she’s actually seeing me. Her eyes stay on me as I’m pushed from the room.

It’s been a week, and they still won’t let me see her.

A meeting’s been called. Everyone sits in their usual seats around the large conference table. Bruce is the last to join us as he’s accompanying Helen; they’ve both taken responsibility for (Y/N)’s care. She gives Steve a small stack of files. He takes one and sends the rest around the table. I’m the last to get one; (Y/N)’s name is printed on the edge.

“The files you’ve been given contain everything I’m about to show you along with the transcripts over every evaluation she’s undergone in the last two days and the results of all medical exams.”

Natasha picks up the tablet that sits on the table in front of her and taps a few buttons before a projection comes up at the front of the room. (Y/N)’s picture takes up half the screen while the other half is dominated by her information.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet (Y/N) (Y/M/N) (Y/L/N). Born in a military hospital in Spain on _____, 1969. Biologically, she’s 47, physically 22. (Hair Color). (Eye Color). (Height) inches tall and weighing approximately (Weight) pounds.” The slide changes to a picture of the facility she was recovered from. “A month and a half ago, she was found in a state of cryogenic sleep in this HYDRA facility in France. After comparing her blood to that of both Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, it is apparent that she has a trace amount of the altered serum in her system. FRIDAY, the light please.” The room darkens as the image on the screen shifts, “This is the first interview, conducted a few hours after she first woke up. Her voice is soft and little hoarse. Refer to transcript number one if necessary.”

The video starts, the camera focused on (Y/N)’s face.

“Do you know your name?”

She nods. “(Y/N).”

“My name is Natasha. I just need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?”

(Y/N) nods again.

“Do you know where you are?”

“They tell me I’m in New York.”

“That’s right. What can you tell me about yourself?”

(Y/N) shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders.

“It’s okay if you don’t remember. (Y/N), I want to show you some pictures. Would that be okay?”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Scenery. People. Some things that might help jog your memory.”


The first picture is shown to the camera – a snowy scene with the Siberian facility in the distance – before being passed to (Y/N).

“Do you know what you’re looking at?”

“Siberia. The building looks familiar.”

“Good. How about this one?”

It’s a wide-shot of the inside of the facility. (Y/N) visibly flinches as she takes the picture. She stares at it in silence for a moment before turning it face down on the bed.

“And this one?”

It’s an image of the chair, the very thing that played a part in our separation.

“I remember.”

Her voice has fallen to a whisper, fear and recognition clear on her face.

“Okay. Do you know this man?”

Even I don’t remember his name, but I know he was there. He was always there. (Y/N) looks confused as she shakes her head.

“And this one?”


Fear takes her over again, and she refuses to even touch the picture. The beeping of her heart monitor begins to speed up as does the rise and fall of her chest.

“Okay.” Natasha tears the picture in half and tosses it to the floor, “Take a deep breath. It’s okay.” (Y/N) nods, tears now filling her eyes, “Just two more.”

It’s me, but it’s a recent picture.

“He was there when I woke up.”

“He was. Okay. Last one.”

It’s a picture of me as the soldier, as the man she called…

Зима. Winter.” She snatches the picture from Natasha’s hands and holds it tight, “He’s alive. He was here.”

“He is here.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not yet but you will soon. I promise.”

“Can I keep these?”

(Y/N) picks up the other picture of me and sets it atop the first.

“Of course.”

The screen goes black, and the lights come back up.

“As you can see, recalled quite a bit more than expected. She was given some time to rest after this and he physical evaluation was complete. She’s completely healthy, and her mind is recovering quickly. The second interview, conducted two days later, covers the circumstances of her capture as well as her connection to the Winter Soldier.”

(Y/N)’s sitting cross-legged on her hospital bed across from Natasha. They’re playing some kind of card game.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m okay.”

“You certainly sound better.”

“They say my throat is almost healed.”

“Do you mind answering some more questions for me?”

(Y/N) looks up at Natasha, “What kind of questions?”

“About your relationship with Winter and the circumstances of your capture.”

(Y/N) bites her lip and fiddles with the cards in her hands before nodding, “Okay.”

“Let’s start with how you ended up with HYDRA.”

“I had just started a new job as a secretary for some tech company. It was early 1989; I was almost twenty. I left work late one night. The last thing I remember before waking up in that place was walking into my apartment.” She seems lost in thought, her gaze distant as she continues her story, “During my first year there, Vasily took care of me.”

“Vasily Karpov?”


“And when you say he took care of you, what do you mean?”

“Looking back, I guess you could say it resembled the way a father cares for his child. Oddly enough, he made me feel safe.”

“How did you come to meet Winter?”

“Vasily gave me to him.”

“Gave you to him?”

“He told me that it was so I could be trained, but Winter took over my care after that. At first, he was like a brother to me, but by the end of that first year…”

“It was more than that, wasn’t it?”

(Y/N) shrugs, “I loved him. The day we were separated was the hardest day of my life.”

“Tell me about that.”

“He’d gone on a mission. I wanted to go with him. I thought I was ready, but he didn’t so he told me to stay. He made me promise to stay out of trouble while he was gone, but once he was gone, Vasily had me tortured.”

“Do you know why?”

“He said the Soldier was too attached, that he needed to learn a lesson. He just never explained what that lesson was. They sat us across from each other.” She wipes at the tears that fall slowly down her cheeks, “They turned on that machine. I tried everything to make them stop. I told them it was my fault. Vasily agreed, but he said that hearing Winter’s screams while they erased me from his memory was my punishment.”

“Do you remember anything else after that?”

“Only a sharp pain in my neck. Then I woke up in this bed.”

Natasha nods her head and sets her hand of cards down, “Thank you, (Y/N), for confiding in me. I know it must be difficult to talk about all of this.”

“You have kind eyes, and…” (Y/N) meets Natasha’s gaze steadily and smiles, “I trust you.”

The screen goes black once again, and Natasha turns to look at me. Everyone else’s gazes follow.

“Bucky,” she says, “I’m hoping you can fill in the blanks.”

“There’s nothing to tell. She was taken away from me in every way possible. I only started to remember her a couple of years ago; even then, I never expected her to still be alive.”

“Is there anything else?” Steve asks, breaking the tense silence that’s formed.

“One more video, taken when she sent for me yesterday.”

The video starts as she speaks.

“I was told you wanted to see me.”

“You know, I’ve spent the last couple of days staring at these pictures. While my head understands that they’re the same person, I truly only recognize one of them.” (Y/N) picks up the image of the Winter Soldier, “I know him, but that’s not him anymore. Is it? Does this new version of him not want to see me? Is that why everyone keeps saying that I can’t see him?”

Natasha, in an attempt to keep (Y/N)’s gaze on her, takes (Y/N)’s face in her hands as she begins to cry.

“He has been here every day trying to get in here. He gets the same answers as you.”

“I just want to see him before I forget again. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to be forgotten.”

She begins sobbing, and Natasha pulls her into her arms, “Tomorrow. I don’t care what anyone says.”

The room is silent as the video ends. My left hand is fisted against my knee. My eyes zero in on the image on her attached to the open file that sits in front of me.

I look up at Steve when he calls my name.

“Go.” He says with a nod of his head.

Before anyone can say anything else, I’m on my feet and moving as fast as I can to the medical floor, opting for the stairs over the elevator. Several people shout at me to stop, telling me that I can’t go into her room. I nearly knock a hole in the wall as I shove the door open.

She watches me with weary eyes as I close the space between us. She rises to her knees at the edge of the bed, cautiously reaching her hands up to touch my face.

“Зима…” she whispers.

“Everyone calls me Bucky now.”

She smiles, “Bucky. That’s going to take some getting used to.”

“We’ve got time.” I reply, tucking her hair gently behind her ear, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I never thought you’d remember me.”

“But I did, and I swear I’m never going to forget you again.”

I hold her face between my hands, my thumb dangerously close to her lips. Her hands move to rest against the sides of my neck in the moment before she raises those lips to meet mine.

A/N: Hey guys! Do you think this needs a second part? Cause it might get one. I haven’t decided yet.

Update: It got a second part… and will get a third… and however many parts I need to give this a satisfying ending.



Kwon Jiyong/ G Dragon x Reader

Awkward moment when someone sends you a drabble request but it’s for your absolute ultimate bias so you kind of go cray and write almost 6K words worth of angsty fluff.. Sooo that happened. Enjoy.

Originally posted by fantasticidols

The sun was so bright as it came into the room, her eyes felt like they were burning. The room she woke up in wasn’t hers, but she had been there before. Everything was blindingly white. The drapes over the windows, the sheets on the bed. The only color in the room was Jiyong. His hair was back to it’s natural black. His skin looked like a darker caramel than usual in comparison to the stark white of the room. He smiled at her and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek.

“Wake up.” He whispered, his breath tickling her neck, “I can’t do this without you.”

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The Best Surprise

A/N: Happy birthday @animoozies! Hope you have a great day full of smiles, cake and most importantly…MOUNTAIN DEW. Love you, Connie! Hope you like this little Gruvia drabble!

Words: 600

When she feels his arms circle around her shoulders before reaching up to cover her eyes gently, she already knows who it is.


Gray leans down with a smile, his voice tickling the shell of her ear as he tells her, “No peeking, got it?”

Resting her hands over his, she nods excitedly. “Could this be a surprise for Juvia?”

“Yeah,” he says, helping her get to her feet before steadying her against his own body. “You could say that.”

Carefully, he guides her through their small home, along the hallway and up the stairs, the last one creaking just like always. Though she couldn’t see anything past the slits of light streaming in through his fingers, she knew exactly where he was taking her. Past the paintings and photographs, past the trinkets and ornaments they’d collected over the years to the room at the end which had always been labelled as the ‘spare room’ until just a few months ago when they decided it would belong to a very special person instead.

“Okay, stop right here…” With one hand, Gray reaches around Juvia to open the door, the other still covering her eyes.

“Can Juvia look now?” she asks, fingers clasped under her chin as she tries not to bounce on the spot with excitement.

“In a sec. First, take another step forward…”

Now, Gray-sama?”

Gray glanced around the room one last time before resting his chin on top of her head. “You ready, Juvia?”


And slowly, he lets his hands fall away.

Juvia finds herself standing in the middle of a room so blue, it resembles the sea. There are paintings everywhere—boats floating above soft waves with fishes swimming below, a rainbow stretching out across the far side wall and overlooking art of their guild, snowmen and igloos and penguins all dotted around as specks of glittery white fell down on them — every wall is different and is its own little story.

Tilting her head up to the ceiling, she sees clouds and a big yellow sun in the centre, its rays meeting the edges of the room and tumbling down the walls in bright patterns, like gold falling from the sky.

In the middle of the room, there is a white cot, and as she steps forward to get a closer look, she sees that hanging just above is an ice-made mobile, glinting in the light and crafted into shapes of different snowflakes by experienced and precise hands. She reaches to touch one, and when it jingles softly in her ears, she feels a lump rise in her throat.

For a moment, she stands in awe, glancing around the room once more, taking in every small detail of what was to be their child’s nursery — and then she hears his voice.

“Well, what d’ya think?”

Gray is still stood beside her, arms folded, a big smirk on his face. Only now does she see the splotches of paint on his clothes, and only now do her eyes fill with tears.

“Gray-sama!” Juvia flies into his side, wrapping her arms around him and pressing a kiss to his lips. “This is so beautiful!”

Smiling, he looks around the room at his work. Now that he had finished, the fact that they were having a child felt even more real. It was a strange feeling, knowing that there was going to be a little boy joining them soon, keeping them up at night, making them laugh, eventually calling the two of them ‘mom’ and ‘dad’.

“Juvia loves her little family so much,” she tells him, hugging the swell of her stomach. “And she cannot wait to be a parent.”

A strange feeling, but one he welcomed all the same.

“Me too,” he says, placing his hand over hers.

Parent Reddie

Because it makes me want to cry

- They adopt twins who are 5 months old

- It was kind of by accident, they agree on the one boy {Oscar} but the attached sibling file gets lost and one day they get a phone call like “sorry there is two of them, we can find another child”

- But they are both smitten so they accept the little girl {Lara}

- They have visiting days and both of them are such smol bbs

- Richie lowkey goes for a cry in the bathroom while Eddie has cuddles

- When they come home there are some really rough nights, but Richie is determined to make it work {don’t think about how this is because his own parents never really loved him}

- When Eddie goes back to work everyone cries

- Richie is terrified of messing up, at nap time he sits a table in between their cots and hovers on it, keeping one hand on each of their little chests

- When Eddie gets home there are cups of half drunk coffee littered around the house

- Richie is in the living room, laying on a sofa with Lara in one arm and Oscar asleep on his thighs

- Richie is also asleep

- Eddie smiles and pulls out a polaroid camera from a lifetime ago

- He takes a picture of his perfect family, sticks the print out on the fridge and goes to collect all 700 of Richie’s discarded cups of coffee

There was passion in Lando’s words. Han turned. Lando was staring at him.

“Did you hate me too?”

“No,” Lando said. “But you sure as hell made me ashamed of myself.”

He pushed off the cot and paced around the room. Then he yelped, bent over, and grabbed his calves. His face had gone gray again. Han got up and helped Lando back to the cot.

“Who’d’ve thought you’d get leg cramps from treading water?”

“Anyone who’s exercised,” Han said. “You should have asked Nandreeson to let you warm up before he tossed you in that pool.”

“Very funny.”

Han slowly stretched Lando’s leg, massaging the muscle. “No pushing, buddy. You almost didn’t survive that one.”

“I’m tough,” Lando said.

“Stupid is more like it. What were you thinking, coming back to the Run?”

“I had to find you, Han.” Lando stretched out his other leg.

The New Rebellion by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Han got into trouble, so Lando put himself in the path of a guy who’d been trying to kill him for decades, nearly died, and now Han’s giving him a massage

This is gay

1000 Follower Ficlet #7

T.he incredible @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse requested a special bonus not-on-the-list prompt that I just could not resist!

You know just how to push my buttons to get away with murder in the best possible way.

Fandom: Star Trek AOS.
Pairing: Leonard McCoy X Reader.
Prompt: Working an Emergency with Him.
Rating: All ages.
Words: 1296.

Originally posted by hellyeah-karl-urban

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So like

Haven’t seen this pointed out but

Not only do Ana and Soldier not “share a bed”

They literally don’t even sleep in the same room of the Necropolis.


Ana’s little hideout has MORE than enough space for him. He could easily put his cot in one of the corners or something.

But instead Soldier “I’m so extra about this old soldier thing” 76 was like, “Nah, you know what? This sad little side room in this creepy temple full of dead people is perfect for me, but thanks for the offer, Ana.”

This is the most “no romo” buddy cop relationship on the planet, holy hell.

Ana: look, if we stay in the same room we can cover each other in the event we’re discovered -

Soldier: yeah uh, you know, I just really need my own space and the mummy over there is offering that room for half the going rate around here -

Ana: …what

Soldier: listen, do you know how hard it is to find a studio flat at that price in this area?

Ana: …wait JA C K N O

Soldier: it’s to DIE for.

Ana: …

Ana: go to your room.

Soldier: …okay mom.

Ego Incorporated (pt. 7)

For a while, Amy is only thinking about how mad she is at Wilford for treating Bim like some kind of Cinderella, forcing him to do all these odd jobs. She watches Bim’s back as he walks her through the backstage hallways full of empty offices that hold different kinds of recording equipment and computers for video editing, and Amy wonders how someone would allow that to happen to themselves. Then they stop outside a room with a little, paper star tacked onto the wall with “Bim Trimmer” written on it in marker.

Bim’s changing room is a modified broom closet.

“Um,” he fidgets nervously with the front of his suit and grins, “It’s a little cramped, so try not to bump your head.” Bim opens the door for her and ushers her in with shaking hands.

The ceiling is slanted to match the slant of the stairs that go over their heads, and there’s no window, only a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Bim clicks the light on and reveals a room barely big enough for the two of them. A cardboard box in one corner holds a change of clothes, cleaner for Bim’s glasses, and some stage makeup. There’s a smudgy, full-length mirror leaned against one wall with a stack of books beside it.

There’s a cot shoved up against the slanting wall. “It’s not much,” Bim mumbles more to himself than to Amy, “but it’s home.”

“You live here?” Amy asks, looking around completely mortified.

“Well, I wasn’t expected. Dark thought I’d long since faded away, so they didn’t add a room for me anywhere in the building. When Dark found me, he sort of dumped me on Wilford.” Bim twiddles his fingers behind his back and looks down at his shiny shoes. “He was originally going to make me sleep up on the catwalks.” Bim shudders at the thought.

“Bim, don’t you think you deserve better than this?” Amy gestures at the miscellaneous stains on the ceiling and the cobwebs in the corners. “This is some Harry Potter levels of abuse.”

The Ego pushes his glasses farther up his nose and mutters something so quietly that Amy can’t hear him, so she asks him to repeat himself. Bim shrugs his shoulders and smiles. “Harry Potter is my favorite.”

Amy takes one more look—it’s not a very long look—around the room, her hands placed on her hips. “This won’t do at all.”

“I’d really like to have plants,” Bim says, out of nowhere. Amy drops her hands to her sides and turns to him to see he’s smiling sweetly. “There’s no window, so they wouldn’t get any sunlight though. But if I could have anything, I’d want plants to keep me company.”

Amy blinks a few times at Bim before giving him a quick hug and stomping out of the room. She finds Wilford still grumpily eating brownies and carrots, grabs his ear, and drags him into the elevator kicking and screaming. “You. We have a lot of talking to do. Now.”

Wilford has never been ordered around like this before. Dark tried once, but that didn’t end well. There was a lot of blood and glitter involved, and Dark is still cleaning it out of his office—the glitter, that is. But Amy Nelson is a lot prettier than Dark, and Wilford Warfstache is properly smitten.

A Court of Flames and Curses - (acotar 4) - chapter 1

In the end, everyone decided a ship was really the only practical way to cross the ocean. Rhys and Feyre were off repaying their debt to Bryaxis. Azriel, after some protest, had gone to the Day Court for a break from the darkness and for his wings to heal. Elain had adopted a house, garden, and small army of stray tulip nymphs to care for in Velaris. And Mor was spending some much-needed time away in the depths of winter.

So the rest of them were left with a moderately-sized wooden ship (called The Cursebreaker, much to Feyre’s embarrassment and Rhys’s utter delight). Amren off seducing the captain (possibly attempting to crash the ship into an iceberg for sport). Lucien and Vassa dining a polite distance apart, discussing politics more enthusiastically than politely.

Nesta and Cassian ill beyond reason below deck.

Nesta could barely see him from her spot curled up on the cot, though the room was only large enough for two small beds and a strip of floor space between them. She had one eye open, unfocused but looking vaguely past her drawn knees toward his lumped form on the floor.

He’d come in to mock her for being nauseous, until the vessel had taken a sharp turn that sent him crashing to his knees and the blood rushing from his face. She could tease him in return if opening her mouth didn’t make her feel like dying.

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yaoi-king02  asked:

Hey i love your work but i would mabe cool if you did erwin and levi eavesdropping on armin and eren talking about boys to find out they are talking about them so they start making moves on eren and armin? (Sorry its long)

This was getting far too long because Eren and Armin`s girl talk is something I could write forever, if you`re still interested in a second half just send another ask!

Night fell over the Corps` temporary HQ, and Captain Levi and Commander Erwin themselves walked down the corridors together in friendly - ish on Levi`s part - silence. It was just something they did, the swiftness of their steps, the weight of their feet, the glances they shared all spoke volumes. Neither were men of emotion, but their little routine always reminded the other “Yeah, we`re friends.”

Tonight however, there were giggles and laughter floating through the hall and despite their rounds being a sort of bonding time, it was still a job and they needed to investigate.

Levi found the sounds were coming from a certain bright-eyed, stupidly attractive, shifter`s cell, and he immediately thought the kid had finally lost it and went insane down there, but there was another, lighter laugh accompanying his. And because Levi happened to be a nosy shit, he shushed Erwin from calling out and nodded him over as he slightly, quietly, peeked the door open.

Finally, actual voices could be heard.

“This is gonna be so much fun!” A blonde cried, Arlert if the way Erwin leaned in that much more was anything to go by. Eren popped into view by wrapping his arms around the blonde`s shoulders in a failed attempt at a piggy back.

“Yeah, we`re gonna do all the stuff Mikasa doesn`t want us to do, and eat snacks, and wear comfy clothes-”

Levi snorted lowly. “A sleepover, c`mon Erwin, there`s nothing to see here.” Erwin chuckled fondly and made to follow Levi away from their spying,

“-and talk about boys!”

Levi whipped around so hard you could hear his poor old man neck crack.

Erwin bit his lip, contemplating the absolutely childish, not even acceptable from trainees type of proposal he was thinking of. But… well technically it was his duty as a commander to know of all his subordinates relationships, to avoid putting them in the same squad or keeping them in separate groups on missions.


“We shouldn`t.” The raven cut off.

“You`re right. It`s completely unprofessional.”

“We would be acting like a couple of teenaged boys.”

“We would, it would be ridiculously immature.”

Levi looked at Erwin.

Erwin stared back at Levi.

The two quickly huddled close to the door once more, pushing and shoving to get a good view.

“Erwin, scoot your fat ass over! I can see anything!” Levi hissed, shoving the blonde harshly with his shoulder to squeeze nearer to the small crack in the door.

“Rude, you`re the one-” The commander couldn`t finish his protest before his shorter companion shushed him.

“The brats are talking, quiet.”

Eren playfully ruffled Armin`s hair as they plopped themselves onto the hardened floor of Eren`s cell, it wasn`t exactly a good place to meet, but Armin would have sat on hot coals if it meant spending time together, Eren knew. He was such a sweet fucking coconut it was insane.

Armin and he had been planning their mini, boys-only, sleepover all day, Eren had perhaps gotten too excited about talking and doing things Mikasa wouldn`t approve of and exchanging secrets while talking shit, he was already buzzing at the fact that Armin had found their old pajamas to wear.

Clearing his throat dramatically and pointedly wiggling his eyebrows, Eren nudged his blonde buddy. Armin looked at him with a half confused, half annoyed glare that only had him adding more and more suggestive gestures to his movements.


“You`re some strange things Levi.” Erwin whispered at the many odd and somewhat impossible faces Cadet Jaeger was making.

“Fuck off, he looks adorable.”

Erwin decided Levi was hopelessly biased.

“Eren, what the fuck are you doing?” Armin deadpanned, his angelic facade used to hide his dark mind fell when it was just the two of them, Armin had a dirtier mouth than Levi himself at times.

“So much for Angel Arlert.” Levi whistled, trying very hard to ignore the could-be whine of possible want Erwin made.

“Ugh, I`m trying to say we should talk about boys Armin! Duh, sleepover 101? Literally the one thing Mikasa would kill us for?” Eren groaned.

“Oh…” Armin looked away shyly. Which cause Eren to bum rush him onto his back and grip his shoulders.

“Oh, my, fucking, walls. Armin! Who?” The brunet squealed. Armin fidgeted but didn`t say a word. Eren realized despite how brash he could be, Armin was still an Armin and needed to be treated with expert care. “Okay, don`t say his name, just tell me about him, and I`ll guess, okay?”

Armin sighed, “He`s…. older than me.”

“Be specific, that`s almost everyone”

“He`s a blonde.”

“Okay okay, we`re going places now.”

“U-uh, he`s, um, really handsome.”

“Oh Armin, is it Jean? I love you but Armin, I will disown you if it`s that fugly horse!”

“What? No! I said handsome dumbass!”

“Thank fuck.”

“He`s got blue eyes anyway, not shit brown.”

“I taught you so well. So blonde hair, blue eyes? You`ve got your eyes on a regular prince charming huh?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Eren hummed, but nothing came to his mind. Armin giggled and added,

“He`s our superior.”


:Ugh no! It`s-”

“The commander!? Oh my gosh, as in Thunder Thighs himself? Armin!

Armin babbled something shrilly, along the lines of ‘shut up` and `fuck off` as he buried his face in his hands.

Levi punch his over sized companion in the shoulder when he leaned in so far he was on top of him. “Calm your dick Erwin!” He growled.

“He likes me…” The man whispered in awe, you could practically see the rainbows and sparkles flying from his ass in happiness.

“You sound like a kid.”

“You`re just jealous.”

“Whatever, what about you Eren?” Armin asked quickly, desperately to get the subject off of him. And it worked, Eren`s eyes widened for a split second before he girlishly swooned and exaggeratedly fell into Armin`s arms.

“Oh Ar, I think I`m in love.” The brunet sang, it had his friend shaking his head fondly. He could tell Eren had been waiting to gush about this from the start, and he decided it was only fair to humor him.

“What`s he like?”

“He`s perfect.”

Armin scoffed, “Be specific, dummy.”

“He`s got dark hair and gorgeous grey eyes, his body is drool-worthy and he`s funny and really sweet and his name is so hot, I love it, and he kills titans and-”

“Hold on. From what I hear, this sounds like…”

Erwin balked, “Now I know he can`t be talking about…”

“…captain Levi. But last I check he was short, mean and angry, I don`t remember all that extra shit.”Armin was sure that`s what he was the last time he checked.

Eren tutted, “You don`t know him like I do, he`s actually just a big teddy bear with a mad face.”

“Levi, you look constipated.” Erwin teased.

Levi felt fucking constipated, happy shit was bubbling in his guts. Eren wanted him, he was gushing and bragging over him like he was some catch when it was all the other way around. But he was all too smug now.

Just as he was about to retort to Eyebrows, a loud, screeching voice came ringing down the hall.

“Levi! Erwin! What are you doing!?” Hanji called as they bolted down there way, which caused two pretty brats to whip around.

“Shit!” Levi cursed whilst scrambling up like a newborn foal, Erwin following swiftly and knocking his head on the door frame, drawing even more attention.

The two bolted around the corner, grabbing Hanji on the way to clamp their hands over their loud mouth. Just as they were out of sight, Eren poked his head outside his room, eyes darting around for any signs of noise or commotion.

“See anyone?” Armin asked, now huddled on Eren`s cot.

“No, maybe it was our imagination? I don`t know… Whatever, finish telling me how you plan on taking Erwin`s dick because I still say it`s impossible.”

After the door closed once more, the eavesdropping men let out a breath as they ignored Hanji`s muffled protests. They shared a look, a look that one would give when they knew they were getting laid, which they would if they had any say.

Those poor, shy cadets, they`d have no chance against their charms.

Or so they thought.