laughing loone

Opia

Hi everyone! So this is part one of the ABO Verse fic I promised to post. I finally got around to writing it and voila! Let me know what you think pretty please? It’s kinda short but every first chapter is right? xxx 

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Summary: The a/b/o verse where Hydra fucked with Bucky’s hormones and temporarily made him a Beta (because they take orders better) as the Winter Soldier, but now that he’s safe at Stark Tower, Tony hires Y/n to help re-orientate him back to his natural-born rank as Alpha.

Tags: Angst, fluff, smut (duh), and everything else I can’t remember right now lol

Tagged Lovlies: @softforseb@mrtinslydia, @wine-and-space-donuts, @aislinsekhem, @creideamhgradochas (lemme know if you wanna be tagged x)

(oh and I did this lazy crappy last minute minimalist cover, but I would love if you guys submitted your own covers :) Sexy, angsty, whatever you want idc but I’d love to see some!!! You guys are way better at graphics than I am lol)


                                                     Prologue 

Opia n. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel                                      simultaneously invasive and vulnerable


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This piece is from a little while ago. There are a couple events coming up that you should come to if you’re in Western MA: I’m giving an artist’s talk at Hampshire College in mid-late November and participating in the Oculus opening at Eastworks later this winter. It’s really super duper exciting to me to start feeling like I’m finding some purchase in my art practice: it was really only a year ago that I settled into living in a single place and began to develop a drawing practice. I went from being a mostly transient, closeted creature to being somebody that is finding myself embedded in a group of people that looks like family a mere two miles from where I was born. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and it’s leading me into thickets that are denser and more full of fruit than I thought possible.

Dancing with the Stars- Tom Wilson

Originally posted by hockeyeurs

Ok guys so I have never seen Dancing with the Stars. Really. Unless it’s hockey or cooking, I don’t tend to watch TV so I’m just kind of winging it! Hopefully I don’t mess it up too bad, but we’ll see! Enjoy!

Warning: like one curse word

@scottish-kid Request: I know you have a lot of requests but could you please do a Tom Wilson one where his girlfriend is on dancing with the stars and he gets jealous and protective? Sorry to add on.

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              You knew Tom wasn’t going to like it the moment your partner played the sensual song.

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The Greatest Gift

Hey everyone! A while back I asked for Johnlock ficlet prompts. This is what I came up with based on the wonderful @carlgrimeschildsoldier prompt that I was given ages ago!

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Takes place exactly one year after The Hug. For this ficlet, I’m pretending that Rosie never existed. 

Sorry for the cheesy title as well. Unfortunately, I don’t have an AO3 account, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t understand how to post this there.

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Sherlock blinked awake, his eyelashes grazing fabric and skin. He gathered his thoughts as his mind ascended away from his dreams and back into reality; he was in his bed, with all but his head buried under the comforter. Gray light hinted that it was not quite dawn. Sherlock relished in the warmth emanating from John, whom he was half draped over, his face resting on the pillow between John’s neck and shoulder. He didn’t want to get up, but there was something he needed to do. He pressed a gentle kiss on John’s neck, who sighed contentedly but did not wake, and carefully removed himself from the endearing tangle of limbs and bedsheets.

The air in the flat was cold from the drafty windows, and Sherlock shrugged on his dressing gown over his bare torso and flannel bottoms. He treaded lightly to the closet and stretched up on the balls of his bare feet until he could remove the small wooden box from underneath various garments on the top shelf. He paused for a moment, letting his fingers trace over the familiar smooth wood and carved patterns, before walking with it into the bathroom.

Flicking on the lights, Sherlock set the small box on the counter and opened it deftly, as he had thousands of times before. Inside, seated in the dark velvet, were a single syringe and a small, partially filled glass vile. Normally his fingers shook, but today Sherlock’s actions were calm and deliberate as he held the vile of solution up to the light. He watched its contents swirl around, imagining the sensation of it flowing through his veins, fueling his brain… Sherlock uncapped the vile and tilted his hand until the solution drained out in one long ribbon into the toilet. Once the last drop cleared the glass, he flushed. A hint of a smile graced his lips as he watched the last of it leave 221B. He tossed the empty vile in the wastebin with a satisfying plunk.

Next Sherlock grabbed the plastic syringe. Out in the flat, he donned his long coat, scarf, gloves, and shoes, not having the slightest care that he was about to walk through London in his pajama pants. Just as he was about to descend the stairs when a loud yawn sounded from the hallway. John blinked blearily at Sherlock, tying his own dressing gown around his waist.

“Sherlock? Mm, what’re you doing, love?” He asked groggily, stretching and rubbing his eyes. “What time is it? Oh and happy birthday, by the way.”

Sherlock smiled, but before he could reply, John’s eyes focused on the syringe in his hand. His brow knit together and he looked back up at Sherlock, wearing a freshly concerned expression. “Sherlock…?”

Smiling lightly, Sherlock took John’s hand and began pulling John’s coat over his shoulders.

“Ha-hang on, what’re we doing? Where’re we going?” John’s tone was one he was accustomed to using and one that Sherlock was accustomed to hearing.

“Come on,” said Sherlock, helping John with the remainder of his coat and pulling a wool hat over his ears.

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I’m in my pajamas.”

Sherlock said nothing; he only gestured to himself (I’m in mine too, John) and waited by the doorway for John to finish getting ready.

“Right, where are we going?” John asked on the pavement outside 221B. Wordlessly, Sherlock took John’s hand in his and pulled him along.

It was a very long walk. And it was cold. And John hadn’t even had any tea yet! But Sherlock kept a firm grasp on John’s hand and didn’t say anything, so as usual, John went along with it. Finally, Sherlock stopped at a railing along the edge of the Thames. Sherlock waited as John caught his breath and rubbed his hands together to warm them before carrying on with his intent. Holding the syringe in his palm for John to see, John looked at it for a moment before returning his expectant gaze to Sherlock’s. Sherlock loved the way the sunrise played with the blues of John’s eyes.

Closing his fist around the plastic, Sherlock stepped back, stretching his arm out behind him, before hurtling the syringe as far as he could possibly manage into the river. He watched the gray water, which began to dance with morning light, fold over it and travel away. When he finally turned back to John, he was met with an expression brimming with affection and awe. The soft, crooked smile that he wore made Sherlock’s chest swell. He was pulled abruptly into a tight hug, with one of John’s hands gripping his waist, the other holding his head as if he were a small child.

They stood like that, enveloped in each other, for quite a long time. It could have been days. But when they finally pulled apart, the sun still shed dawn rays on the river. John gazed up at Sherlock with a sudden mischievous countenance.

“You know,” he said, the mirth clear in his eyes, “that’s technically a biohazard. And I never took Sherlock Holmes to be a litterer…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “For Christ’s sake John, it was supposed to be symbolic, or romantic, for you, but – “

John cut him off with a chuckle. “I’m only joking, you git. Hell, you probably know exactly where and when it’s going to wash up, and you’re going to disappear one evening, claiming to go for a stroll or something, when actually you’re going to find the syringe and throw it away properly.”

Sherlock glared. “…It won’t be in the evening, it will be in the morning. And I will tell you that I’m going to pick up parts at the mortuary, not going for a walk. Otherwise you’ll want to come along,” he mumbled defeatedly.

John couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Sherlock was unable to hold his glare for long, and he ended up breaking into a few giggles as well. So the two stood by the Thames, in the freezing cold dawn of a quiet January morning, laughing like loons in their pajamas.

“Happy birthday to you, you git. And thank you,” John finally whispered, moving back in for another hug.

“Happy birthday to me,” agreed Sherlock. He wove his fingers through John’s, and they started back for home, where they would have a quiet day in, eating Mrs. Hudson’s homemade cake, prank calling Mycroft by the fire, and making love as the snow began to fall.

And after, under the sheets, John would whisper: “What you did today, that meant a lot. But you’re not the one who’s supposed to be giving gifts on your birthday, Sherlock.”

To which the detective would reply: “My greatest gift, forever and always, is you.”

Do you think?

How many times did our paths cross?
How many ways did we almost meet?
How many stories did we almost share?
How many lives did we almost live?


Do you think if we knew for sure
We all would smile at strangers more?
Laugh like loons and sing like pros
And dance with sand between our toes

It's Our Destiny

“It’s our destiny, Margaret! To save the world and each other, we must become one! You’re the reincarnation of my lost love Maggie but she was taken from me. I swear on my honor as a werewolf and the love I have for you, that I’ll protect you this time and we can be together forever!”

Peggy wakes from her dream actually laughing, sat up and howling into her lap from how ridiculous and hilarious her cheesy romance novel dream was. Steve wakes up purely confused as to why his wife was laughing in the dead of night. She turns to him, grinning wide.

“I had a dream that you were an immortal werewolf stud and I was Margaret, the reincarnation of your one true love Maggie. And we were going to mate for life and have a pack of pups as the werewolf goddess foretold. Straight out of those Mummer romance novels.” She cups her face and hoots into her hands. Just knowing what she was dreaming had steve in stitches. Did she ever read cheesy romance or was that drawn from what she heard?

“Werewolf stud, eh? If you wanted me to bite you, Pegs, all you had to do was ask.” He playfully lunges at her with a growl and kisses all over her neck, getting giggles from her this time.

“Steven!”

“Now I gotta tell you about my mermaid seahorse dream where I was the pregnant one and you were the queen of Aquatica.” Of course he was joking and it was so ridiculous she headbutts his shoulder to laugh like a loon.

“We have the worst subconsciouses.”

“If it helps, you’re still the queen of my heart.”

“Oh you cheesy sweet man.” She cuddles into him and lays back down to form a cuddly, smiling puddle with him. “And you’re always my stud.”

Marriage seemed to come easily to them but it was ironing out the odd kinks that would prove amusing.

So you all know the rumors about Kaz and stuff?

Like I bet there were rumors about all of them, like especially after some of the stuff they were pulling in the books, maybe even a few ghost stories about Dirtyhands and his Wraith, the sharpshooter who can shoot your pinky off as easily as kill you, the crew that took on the Kings of the Barrel without a fighting chance and came out swinging (it couldn’t have been anything less than magic helping them)

And tons more, and like I can just see Inej picking up some of these stories and coming back to the Slat or wherever they are at the time, and even though they were going through some crazy stuff I can just imagine them all sitting around, getting drunk off their butts and laughing like loons over the craziest stories  

Scribble-Doodle: The Joke

Something light and funny for a change…

♠~♠~♠

“And remember our first meeting?” Magnus asks, carding his fingers through his lover’s hair.

Alec makes a frowny face. “You mean at the club? When I saved your life?”

“No, later on, in my lair,” Magnus corrects him.

Alec rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you call it that. By the way, I still don’t understand the joke.”

Magnus lifts his head from his pillow to look down at his lover who’s lying sideways on their bed, feet dangling over the edge, head propped on Magnus’ stomach. “Which one? I told many that night. You were a hard nut to crack.” He tugs at Alec’s hair gently. 

Hey!” Alec exclaims softly and pokes Magnus in the ribs. “Who are you calling a nut?”

Magnus laughs, making Alec’s head bounce. “You’re a very, very lovely nut. The joke?” he adds.

“Oh, right. The one with the dirty lair? You said yours was downright sloppy.”

Magnus guffaws so hard that Alec sits up to save himself from head injury. “You innocent lamb, you!” he wheezes out breathlessly.

Alec frowns down at him. “What?” he asks. And when Magnus laughs even harder, curling up on himself, Alec pokes him in the ribs again. “What? Explain it to me. Magnus! Why are you laughing like a loon? Magnus?”

Mistletoe


Characters - Dean, Reader

Summary - You maybe go a little crazy decorating the bunker. It’s maybe not such a bad thing

Word Count - 1833

A/N - I had seen one of those “imagine your otp” things where one stands under the mistletoe waiting for the other to walk by. When the other does walk by, they don’t notice the mistletoe. Or something along those lines at least. I started with that in mind but my noggin led me a different way.

Warnings - Swearing (this is me, here), no smut (what?!?!), kissing, drinking

Tags - Beta’d by the ever amazing @sis-tafics@deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @salvachester @mrswhozeewhatsis @littlegreenplasticsoldier @sleep-silent-angel @demberly @aprofoundbondwithdean @heckyeahjensenackles @luckygrahams @feelmyroarrrr @silver-and-green @demondeansdomme @savingapplepie-eatingthings @awhiskeywithawinchester@oriona75 @manawhaat  @winchesterenthusiast @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @writingbeautifulmen @but-deans-back-tho @the-mrs-deanwinchester @supernatural-jackles @mamapeterson@rizlow1@misswhizzy​  —  If you want tagged (or don’t!) in my fics, just shoot me an ask!


It’s just a few weeks until Christmas will be upon you. And you couldn’t be happier. It’s always been your favorite holiday. Not because of presents, though you always give the best damn presents, but because it was the only time the whole of your hunting-crazy family got together. Now you have very little of your family left; a couple retired uncles, a few aunts that never hunted, and one cousin still in the life. You’re in contact with her more than the rest, it’s always nice to have another hunter ready to lend a hand.

It’s been years since you’ve had a proper Christmas and you miss the traditions and the love that the season brings. You had begged and pleaded with the boys (alright, mostly Dean) to let you decorate the bunker. Sam had agreed almost instantly, much to his older brothers irritation. Dean had taken a little convincing, and some bribery in the form of the Christmas pies you planned to bake anyways.

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