little dingy


I’m really not sure about the ending but I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer! Thank you for reading and for being so excited about me writing again after months of nothing- it means the whole world and more (also thank you if you’ve even bothered to read this boring, sappy note). 

Enjoy my lovelies and let me know your thoughts, I’m quite proud of the most part of this xx

Originally posted by ohstylesno

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Dead on Arrival Part One (mobster bucky x reader)

Originally posted by elves-n-angels

Summary: Bucky’s the mobster king of Brooklyn. His word is law. You’d be a goddamned fool not to be on his side.

Word Count: 2.5K

Warnings: mentions of parental death, mentions of drinking, maybe a few swears??

A/N: I have this fic up on my other blog. But I will be deleting that entire blog, soon enough. I know a lot of the people on my tag lists have seen this before, and for that i do apologize. Feedback makes me utterly happy.

Dead on Arrival Masterlist

He was known as the King of Brooklyn, mastermind of the town and its city limits. Anyone could tell you that and you’d be a damned fool not to know that. He was feared and respected by all who had breathed the scent of his cologne. And God forbid those who wrongly crossed his path. His name was almost like a curse, anyone who wasn’t a close friend or a family member, died within days of speaking out against him. She grew up fearing him. After all, he was the reason her mother had died in a car explosion when she had barely passed the age of twelve years old. Of course, it wasn’t exactly his fault. Her mother happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or so she believed. He had been targeting an enemy and the explosion just happened to go off just as her mother strolled the streets, bags full of groceries cradled in her arms.

Her mother had died a terrible death that day, something she’d never forgive the man for - the death of her mother. If she ever caught sight of the man, she’d spit on the ground he walked on, not giving a hell of the consequences of her actions.

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Close Call ~PART 3

The angst continues! Sorry this is later than planned… I fell asleep.

Read Part 1 First and Here’s Part 2

Catch this fic on AO3

This four-part story is essentially what happens when Lance and Keith get captured, and put in separate cells. Lance is injured. Lots of angst. Go read the other parts first.

Hopefully you enjoy! Also, I apologize in advance. Just keep in mind that this has four parts.

@taylor-tut @dogsahoy @voltronpaella don’t mind me just leaving this here

Lance continued to stare determinedly at the door. Any moment now, he told himself, Keith is going to break down that door, and get us out of here. We just have to stay patient. What’s that thing Shiro always says to Keith to calm him down? Patience yields focus.

“How’re you holding up?” Matt asked again, looking over at Lance with concern.

“’M good,” Lance answered shortly. Matt eyed him skeptically, but Lane couldn’t bring himself to say any more. Talking had become a conscious effort, and a painful one.

Lance’s breath came out in short gasps, and the wound had still not stopped bleeding. Granted, the sword had stabbed straight through, but Lance had been applying pressure ever since he woke up.

Still, without any proper medical supplies, his efforts didn’t do much. Both Matt and Lance neglected to address the slowly growing pool of blood under the blue paladin.

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anonymous asked:

I absolutely adore your TodoMomo fics! ;_; Thank you so much for writing them! If there's a jealous Izuku, how about a fic starring a jealous Todoroki next? ><

Note: Thanks! To celebrate the blog reaching 800+ followers, I made this one longer than usual. Comedic and light hearted; Enjoy! 

In which Todoroki and Yaoyorozu go to a photoshoot

It’s been 3 hours. The gel was trickling down her neck. His too, actually. The heat of the salon lights bounced off the sweat protruding from every pore of his face and he decided then that this could be a form of torture. He would never agree to it again; but the way her eyes begged and pleaded sucked the soul out of him. Ugh. He just couldn’t refuse.

Todoroki turned his head to face his partner in crime as requested by his so-called “experienced” stylist.

“Thanks for helping out,” Yaoyorozu said. She was sitting across from him with another crew of stylists and advisors around her, and she closed her eyes as another mist of holding spray was applied on her silky, black locks.

“When they asked me to bring a guy to do the ad with me, the first person I thought of was you.”

Todoroki winced as his stylist accidentally poked him too hard with the comb for the tenth time that hour. He was starting to think this stylist had something against him.

“No problem,” he answered, trying to hide his discomfort and he heard a hearty laugh from afar, “Kaminari, I can hear you.”

The blond spectator held his palm against his mouth, and Yaoyorozu pressed her lips together.

“Let me enlighten you,” Yaoyorozu rose a finger in the air like she was a tenured professor. This was her element.

“Heroes have to appeal to the public by any means necessary. So although Todoroki and I may look silly right now, this is just part of our growth as young heroes.” She saw Kaminari’s stoic expression and continued, “I learnt this during my internship with Ms.Uwabami.”

Kaminari quickly nodded to placate the girl. Never underestimate Yaoyorozu’s power to educate.

“Sorry, you look great Yaomomo. I was just laughing at Todoroki.”

Jirou, lying low, angled and positioned her phone in front of her face. With a final decision to move one inch to her left, she steadied her hand.

“Smile! Wait, Todoroki can you smile a little wider. No, smile like you mean it. Okay, that’s perfect!” Jirou’s phone flashed and she went on, “As per Ashido’s orders, I am to take as many pictures of the backstage process as possible. She’s probably crying right now in her supplementary class.”

Yaoyorozu gave a winsome smile, one that Todoroki was sure would have earned her an academy award if she were an actress, and gazed upon her own reflection to examine her appearance. She seemed impressed. Within a brief moment, the stylists told them to get into the dingy little studio with cameras and flimsy backdrops set up by anything but their own accord.

“Okay we’ll be watching from here!” Kaminari called out, moving over to the side,“and uhh, Jirou’s gonna be our own little ‘camerawoman’.” He scratched imaginary apostrophes above him for emphasis.

Todoroki was actually, for once, doubting himself.

“We’re gonna start with Ms.Yaoyorozu’s solo shots,” the camera man said loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, “Mr.Todoroki please observe from the side.”

Todoroki complied and crossed his arms, moving himself over to Kaminari’s right. He felt like one of the audience in a show and found himself astonished at Yaoyorozu’s professional demeanor. True, she was in her element when she was teaching and fighting crime, but Todoroki had to confess, modelling might also be her calling.

Yaoyorozu sat gracefully with her legs extended in front of her on sand that was too yellow to be real, beside a beach ball. She was wearing a black bikini, no patterns, just a bunch of straps that was supposed to ‘hide’ her creamy skin. To add onto the sultriness of the photo, the staff sprayed some water on her chest and limbs to portray a ‘hey look I just came out of the water’ type of image. Her hair was down and she was holding a bottle of shampoo, levelled with her face; with every move of the camera, her slightly poised head would follow with a radiant smile brighter than the flash itself.

“Excellent,” the cameraman muttered with every click of his skillful finger. “Ms.Yaoyorozu let’s do one where you’re laying down on your stomach, looking into the camera.”

Jirou froze, “Hey isn’t that a little too…” And she blushed. Her new position made Todoroki’s blood boil in places it shouldn’t be. Were they advertising the shampoo or Yaoyorozu?

“Great!” The cameraman cried after a few shots, not willing to waste another second, “Okay now Mr.Todoroki could you please come and join her?”

Todoroki glued his fingers together like a glove and slid them down. Wait, where the hell were the pockets. He sighed. He totally forgot he was wearing these thin, red swim shorts with an airy shirt that looked like it came out of a gaudy 1980’s closet.

“Hey, shouldn’t Todoroki be shirtless? I mean, they’re supposed to be at a beach right,” Kaminari suggested, eyes looking heavenward as if he was thinking. God, Kaminari do you ever not cause me trouble, Todoroki thought. The cameraman looked hesitant.

“Well, Mr.Todoroki isn’t really supposed to be the focus of the shot-“

“Trust me, he has great abs,” Kaminari interjected, looking unnecessarily proud and patted his friend’s shoulder. Todoroki turned over and took a deep breath without saying a word. Someone control this idiot or he will take a blow to the stomach, slung over my knee in Satan’s presence.

The cameraman was convinced right away, “Mr.Todoroki, hurry, take off your shirt and both of you…” He placed a finger on his chin in thought, “lean against each other, back to back, and tilt your heads down.”

Todoroki looked visibly annoyed and unbuttoned his shirt. Tossing it carelessly somewhere beside him, he noticed at the side of his scope of vision that two female staff were ogling at him. He took them in stride and was quick to sit beside Yaoyorozu, who was waiting for him patiently.

The two did as they were told, albeit unfamiliar with the immense skin-to-skin contact.

“Sorry, we’re sorta touching,” Yaoyorozu said, peeking through her eyelashes. Her eyes were downcast upon her fingers below, giving the boy next to him a clear view of her chest and Todoroki whipped his head around to evade that image from branding into his mind.

“You chose me to help with this because you’re comfortable with me right?” Todoroki commented and pressed his back harder on hers. He saw the lens of the camera zoom and rushed to add, “Don’t worry, the shot will turn out great.”


The next week was a total nightmare for some, but heaven for others. Especially Mineta.

“Oh my gosh,” Ashido squealed, flailing about, “You two are on fire! Look at the bulletin board at the lobby!” She landed her hands on Yaoyorozu’s desk, staring at the other girl, and continued, “Well I should say, there’s only one picture of both of you there, and the others were mainly just you, but still!”

The acid heroine’s excitement was superfluous and on the side, Mineta was engrossed with the screen of his phone, looking like he was having a field day. Jirou peered over his lumpy purple head and saw what appeared to be snapshots of Yaoyorozu’s ad as the wallpaper on his phone. She gagged.

On the other side of the school, Todoroki and a few others observed as hormone-filled, puberty-ridden guys surrounded the bulletin board with mouths drooling. The fire and ice hero was undoubtedly fending off fangirls of his own that morning, but Yaoyorozu’s solo advertisements were magnetizing crowds beyond his scope of understanding. Why UA decided to have these on full display was questionable.

“Midoriya, let’s eat lunch here today,” Todoroki uttered. The melon bread was slowly being punctured out of its misery in his grasp.

“Why? I thought we were just passing by to check out your shots, well more like Yaoyorozu’s shots.”

“I don’t know, I just think this would be a good spot.”

Resembling a human coagulation of darkness, Tokoyami shook his head, “Todoroki, there’s a whole assembly of people here. How is this a good spot.”

Todoroki didn’t take his question into account, and promptly sat down across from the bulletin board, chewing his food slowly. Kirishima shrugged and followed suit.

“Does it have something to do with Yaomomo’s posters?” Kaminari asked, lowering himself beside the Red Riot hero and followed Todoroki’s seemingly point blank gaze. Todoroki gritted his teeth whenever someone took their phones out to record their own Yaoyorozu memorabilia and gulped down the last bit of his bread.

“Wow, you ate so fast,” Kirishima noted as he scooped a pile of rice into his mouth and Todoroki mumbled an incoherent response. One particularly suspicious-looking boy started to pluck out the pins out of one of the posters in succession. His eyes reflected an accumulation of inconceivable lust and Todoroki jetted off his spot as if to lunge at him. His friends’ mouths were wide open, except for Tokoyami who acted like he predicted this, when the normally rational Todoroki pressed his hand hard against the dangling poster.

“You’re not allowed to take this,” his voice was serious but didn’t stop the boy from pulling.

“But there are so many anyways,” the boy commented casually, “Who’s to know? Plus this one is my favourite, look at how great her –”

Todoroki further deepened his voice and lifted his head,“ The posters are here for…educational purposes only.” He knew that was a long shot, but went on, “It’s called stealing. If you don’t put those pins back, I will physically make you.”

“Okay, why don’t you try?”

The crowd began to bustle, but no one had the nerves to step between them.

Kaminari exhaled and went to the commotion, “Hey, if you don’t put it back. I’ll let Aizawa sensei know and he’ll deal with you.” The boy swallowed hard at that. This first-year probably had his ass kicked by Aizawa once, by the looks of it.

“Uh…fine!” The little thief stuttered, “But…But—“

“Just get lost,” Todoroki spewed, eyes glaring indiscriminately, and the crowd began to disband.

Kaminari scoffed, “I just saved that kid from having frostbitten toes, didn’t I. Gotta give it to him though, what a brave soul to dare talk to you like this.”

The boy’s previously anger-plagued eyes softened, “Thanks, I don’t know what came over me. Just a sense of justice, probably.”

“Sure, justice,” Kirishima slogged over, a piece of rice stuck on the edge of his chin, “I feel like it’s more of another word that starts with a ‘j’…mmm…what could it be?”

“Jealousy?” Kaminari teased and they both chuckled. 

“Oh man, he’s not even denying it!” 

“Should we go now, or does Todoroki here wanna continue playing tower defense?” Tokoyami joined.

“Good one,” Kirishima high-fived the birdman as the latter did a lopsided grin. These guys were deadly when they’re together. Midoriya stifled a laugh too, but did not chime in, watching as Todoroki turned his back to them without even a hint of protest.


“That…that happened?!” Yaoyorozu covered her face in embarrassment when Kirishima and Kaminari re-enacted the whole scene for her.

“Yeah and he was all like ‘oh my god I’ll kick you until you cried for your mommy’ and he looked so pissed, he had steam coming out of his ears!” Kirishima mocked and began to laugh hysterically.

Kaminari held his stomach in pain, “and I swear he was –“

A sudden chill creeped down both of their spines.

“Are you guys done?” Todoroki came out of the blue and glowered. Kaminari looked taken aback and pulled Kirishima to run for their lives, leaving the two alone to drown in discomfort amongst the quiet line of lockers.

Yaoyorozu fiddled with a piece of her bangs, “Thanks for doing the photo shoot the other day. If you’d like we could do another one? I was asked to do a car commercial.”

Todoroki still had an unreadable expression and she frowned, “or not…?”

He thought for a moment and considered her proposal, “Sure, I wouldn’t mind.” She nodded happily. Her hands fished inside her backpack, and pulled out something small enough to fit in her palm.

“Before I forget,” she held out her hand, “give me your wallet.”

The boy cocked an eyebrow but did as told. Yaoyorozu swiftly opened his bifold and slipped in the thing in hand. Curiously, he checked the inside when she returned it. At the front transparent pocket, was a photo of them, clad in skimpy swim wear and looking ecstatic.

“The studio gave us each a smaller version to keep,” she commented with a triumphant smile, “I hope you won’t lose it.”

“Mm, I’ll take good care of it,” he responded, “What Kaminari and Kirishima said, could you forget about it?” The last part was added to ease his conscience.

“Yeah of…of course! You did it out of the goodness of your heart! Those two were just joking!” She flopped her hand in the air to appeal for his approval and he relaxed. Watching as he stretched the muscles of his neck, she draped her bag over her shoulders.

“I have to go now,” she waved her hands, “see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, it’s getting dark. I’ll walk with you back to the dorm, Yaoyorozu.”

Her heart fluttered at the unexpected offer and followed his footsteps, walking in tandem.

It could be just her overactive imagination, but she had to admit, they did look amazing together.

I decided we needed more Coffee Shop AUs

There really wasn’t anything too special about the coffee shop on Rosewood Boulevard, but Stiles always found himself coming back. It was small and a little dingy, dusty in some corners and maybe a little odd. But the coffee was good for the price and they offered free, fast wifi and Stiles couldn’t really ask for more as a broke college student. It was also the most convenient place to be when being sexiled from his dorm by his roommate (not having your own car really limited how far you could go to escape that).

Now here he was, working on yet another paper, as the due date steadily approached. But, you see, he couldn’t quite get into his usual groove. No, that just wasn’t happening. Why, you may ask? Because he felt wrong. The day was just wrong. He got there during an unexpected rush hour and his drink was too sweet and he his table had been taken by a greek god. 

Yes, today everything felt off center and Stiles really wasn’t appreciating it.

So, yeah, today wasn’t running as smoothly as Stiles had hoped but there was nothing he could do about it so he just had to suck it up. And that had been working, for a solid two hours and he was proud of himself for buckling down and getting shit done. But his brave face just about shattered into ugly tears when his screen dimmed and a small notification in the bottom right hand corner popped up to tell him he was at 10% battery life. 

This was so not what he needed right now. He needed three more shots of espresso, maybe a shot or two of whiskey and for his laptop not to die in the middle of a very important paper. Seriously, his Medieval Folklore professor was probably real tired of his bullshit and inability to not ask questions every two minutes, this paper was suppose to make up for that. 

He looks up from his spot and eyes immediately land on his usual table. He gazes at it longingly. It was a lovely little table with the perfect dent in it to hold his pen and keep it from rolling away and a window to his side that allowed him to not feel so claustrophobic and a power outlet. There’s a cough and some movement in the corner of his eye and, wow he really didn’t think this day could get much worse at this point. But of course the world found ways to surprise him.

He hadn’t remembered until just then that there was a reason he wasn’t at his usual table. That reason happened to be six feet of hot chocolate sipping hotness that was coughing into his hand and looking mildly uncomfortable. Way to go, Stiles, just looking like a freaking creeper why don’t ya?

Sighing heavily he drops his head into his hands and takes a moment to mourn his complete lack of social awareness and gathers what’s left of his shattered determination from earlier. There was only one way to solve this issue without having to write another two pages on the witchcraft practices of the 12th century with a live porno soundtrack. 

He gathers his laptop, bag and half finished latte and makes the trek over to his usual table.

“Hi.” Stiles wants to slap himself, but his hands are full of caffeine and his computer so that’s a no go.

“Uh, hi,” the man replies. God, he’s even prettier up close with eyes that must have made eye color hard to define at the DMV for his driver’s license and cheekbones that could win awards.

“So, I am super sorry for totally freaking you out by staring, I promise I wasn’t creeping on you or anything. It’s just this is my usual spot on Thursdays but today was an emergency because I was sexiled by my roommate and I have a four age paper due tonight and it’s only half done but my laptop is at ten percent and you are sitting in front of the only outlet and it would be really cool if I could just like sit on the floor right here and plug in so I can finish this and not fail my class and like not graduate and therefore fail college and ruin my life.” Stiles takes a deep breath and waits, realizing too late that that was likely considered “over-sharing” and if Adonis wasn’t freaked out already he was probably sufficiently scared now.

“You could just sit across from me?” Stiles refuses to call it blanching, but he will admit to his eyes going a little wide. The man looks down at his cup a little shyly before continuing, “I would just give you the seat but it’s right under the heater and I’m freezing right now.”

“Uh, yeah, of course, dude. No problemo, could you plug me in though?” It takes them a few minutes but they eventually get situated in a way that works with Stiles needing stuff on the table and not taking up all the table space while the man adjusts so that their knees don’t knock under the table. Although Stiles doesn’t particularly mind that. 

“Thanks, man. You’re a real life saver,” Stiles smiles once their settled.



“My name. It’s Derek.” Stiles smiles brightly.

“My name is Stiles,” He laughs as Derek’s nose scrunches adorably in confusion before explaining, “A nickname. My legal name is a Polish monstrosity on English tongues, so I try to avoid it.” Derek nods and that’s where it begins - companionable silence and gentle tapping on a keyboard while the warm air from the heater cloaks over them.

Stiles isn’t sure how long it’s been when Derek seems to magically come back to their table out of no where. He hadn’t even noticed he left. He looks up at Derek in confusion when he sets down a new cup.

“You picked up your empty cup about three times to take a sip, thought you could use another,” he shrugs sheepishly. Warm creeps up Stiles’ neck making his thanks stutter slightly as he hides his smiles behind his new latte. It isn’t too much (well, as far as Stiles can tell) before Derek is rewrapping a scarf and getting up.

“Where are you going?” Stiles pouts, watching as Derek readjusts his coat.

“Oh, uh, my ride is here, I need to go.” Derek points a thumb over his shoulder to where the exit is. Stiles frowns some more before realizing this is probably a little crazy but he might never run in to Derek again.

“Can I have your number?” Stiles tugs Derek’s sleeve as he turns to leave, almost desperate to draw him back. He feels like he’s wasted time. Sure, he wrote nearly all of his paper with the exception of his conclusion, but he’s barely said a word to his table partner. His heart pounds but something warm blooms in his chest when Derek cheeks go pink. 

“I think I already covered that for you,” the man tells him quietly, gesturing to Stiles’ cup. He looks and sure enough there is a neat little row of ten digits.

“I could have accidentally thrown it away!” Stiles says in equal amounts horror and bashfulness, obviously not sure if he should be elated that he has Derek’s number or terrified that he could has possibly, literally thrown away his chance to talk to him. 

“Well, I really hope you don’t.”

“Me, too. I would really like a better shot at this whole coffee date thing.”

“A date?”

“Yeah, a date.” 

“Cool. So, text me?” Stiles smiles with a nod, watching his eyes crinkle in the corners as his own lips lift. That’s just seconds before Derek seems to swoop in and give him the sweetest, most chaste peck on the cheek and walk away with cheeks so red they could be harboring tomatoes.

It takes Stiles significantly longer to write his conclusion than normal when he can’t help the way his mind wander to warm lips and hot chocolate drinking sweethearts.

Thank you to 900 (now 938 ‘cause this is soooo late) followers!!! You lovelies make me so happy and I’m so happy you’re here. I hope you enjoy what you find as we fantasize over these two assholes in love :)

reasons to never let me write anything: this
#tw for abuse?? Has a good ending tho

Draco heard it coming before he felt it.

It wasn’t unusual, the head of his Father’s cane was hard, and it made a faint whistling when it was swung. He knew this personally, which is why he flinched when he heard the sharp whistle, bracing himself for impact. Bracing himself was more just for peace of mind, and it didn’t really stop anything from happening. He still ended up face first on the floor of Borgin and Burkes’, blood pounding through his ears and his head ringing. A sharp pain blossomed from the back of his head, and he suspected that there was blood getting into his hair. Phooey, he thought, remembering faintly the hour he had spent getting ready today, preparing himself to look his best. He knew nobody would take him seriously with blood staining his good robes. He knew he shouldn’t have touched anything, this was all his fault.

He felt a pressure on his spine, and he turned his head, focusing on the disappointed face of his Father and ignoring the black clouding the edges of his vision.

“What,” he hissed, tapping his cane harshly on his spine, making Draco wince in pain. “Did i say, Draco?”

Draco was about to reply, when multiple things happened at once. A sound came from near him, and he tried to lift his head, but white spots clouded his vision and his head began to hurt, so he lowered it back to the ground. He heard something smash, and he heard his Father yell out in pain. A hand appeared in his field of vision, grabbing onto the front of his robes, and he noted the dark skin and bony fingers. The hand looked familiar, and he looked up, following the arm up to the face of Harry Potter, who was frantically pulling at him. His mouth was moving, and he appeared to be talking to Draco, but his ears were ringing too much to hear anything.

He saw Potter look over, eyes wide, and Draco turned his head, following Potter’s gaze and wincing as pain blossomed in his skull. He saw his Father walking towards them, blood blossoming up the side of his forehead where small pieces of glass appeared to be stuck in him. Was that what smashed? He decided to himself that it must have been, and Potter could have been the only one to have thrown it.

“Malfoy, let’s go!” He heard Potter say faintly, pulling him to his feet, and Draco didn’t have much choice as he wobbled after Potter, the Gryffindor pulling him out through the front door of Borgin and Burkes and down through Knockturn Alley. Draco could see the fear in Potter’s eyes, and he recognized the look in them as the same fear he often felt when his Father was mad. Though he had never thrown anything at him, his Father often got mad at him when he did things he wasn’t supposed to. Like touching things in stores he shouldn’t, or sneaking out of bed to ask the house elves for something to eat, or tripping and knocking over one of the many priceless heirlooms scattered around Malfoy Manor. He was quite familiar with his Father’s anger.

Draco glanced behind them as they ran up a street, darting through people on their daily shopping trips, and he saw his Father, pushing through the crowds with fury in his eyes, and his stomach dropped. His head was pounding, but he turned and looked at Potter, who looked lost. Fortunately, Draco recognized a sidestreet coming up, and grabbing Potter’s arm, turned and pulled him down the sidestreet, taking control. His heart was in his throat as he ran down the street with Potter, looking for a place to hide.

“This way!” Potter said, turning into a dingy little alley and pulling him along with him. They ran down, taking cover behind a large dumpster along the side of the brick buildings. The moment they were stopped, Draco fell over, leaning against the dumpster as his head felt like it was going to explode. Potter was peeking around the dumpster, watching the bustling street for signs of his Father. Draco closed his eyes, trying to will the pain in his head to subside.

He opened his eyes a few minutes later, to find Potter staring at him intently. He looked into the other boy’s deep green eyes, and he saw an overwhelming amount of pity. Draco attempted to sneer at him, but he had trouble keeping a sour face as his head pounded. Instead, all that came out was a whimper and a soft whisper.

“Is he gone?”

Potter nodded, and he relaxed, pulling his knees up and sitting in silence, Draco feeling the blood beginning to dry in his hair. It was disgusting, and his entire skull itched, but he could barely muster the energy to raise his arms, much less thoroughly inspect his head. So instead, he sat in silence.

They continued to sit in silence for a while, what could have been minutes or hours passing, staring at each other. Suddenly, Potter spoke up.

“Why did he hit you?” He asked quietly. It made Draco uncomfortable to be in such a vulnerable position, talking about what had just happened with his sworn enemy. What was even worse was the level of pity in his voice, as though he felt sorry for Draco. That made his chest puff up indignantly, and he used what little energy he could muster to sound annoyed as he said,

“It was a family matter, Potter, and it would have been fine had you not interfered.”

Potter stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before tilting his head back and full out laughing. Draco huffed and glared at him while Potter attempted to catch his breath.

“You aren’t in much of a position to get defensive with me, Malfoy.” He said simply, and Draco shrunk in on himself, feeling impossibly small as he realized it was the truth.

If he returned to the Manor, or to his Father, he would be in immense trouble. Not only was he humiliated in front of people he knew, but Draco had run off with the enemy, and hid from him. If he made the mistake of returning home, Draco feared he might not be allowed to leave any longer. The thought sobered him up, and he felt small, hiding beside the dumpster next to Potter.

He felt small and vulnerable, his head was hurting and blood was still welling up from the wound, the concrete he was curled up on was making his rear hurt, and he had nowhere to go. For the first time in a very long time, Draco felt like crying. He felt like letting loose and crying into Potter’s shoulder, and he was sure the other boy would understand, it’s not like he hadn’t witnessed the whole thing.

But he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys didn’t cry, even if they only happened to be 12 years of age and have a bleeding wound on the back of his head. So instead of crying, he simply shrugged his shoulders at the other boy.

“He told me not to touch anything. It would have been fine if I had listened, but something caught my eye and i couldn’t help myself. It was my fault, not his,” He tacked on to the end as he saw Potter’s face configure into disgust, taking a breath and about to reply. But at that, all the wind was knocked out of him for some reason, and he looked at Draco with a kind of understanding.

“It’s not your fault,” He said quietly, and Draco scowled. Had Potter not just listened to anything he had said? He went to protest, but instead, Potter held his finger up to Draco’s mouth, silencing him if only in surprise. “If there’s one thing i’ve learned,” Potter said slowly, sounding older and wiser than the scraggly 12 year old he was, “It is never, ever your fault. Now turn around, and let me see your head, yeah? I’d rather you not die of blood loss in front of me. Might be hard to explain to the Ministry how they found me with the dead body of a Malfoy.”

He smiled at Draco, obviously trying to crack a joke, and to his own surprise, Draco smiled weakly, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a small, uncharacteristic smile. Potter’s words echoed in his head, and while he wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, he felt unusually safe as he shifted around, feeling Potter’s scrawny fingers sift through his blood dried hair and inspecting his wounded head.

He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen next, but a small, hopeful part of him whispered that it could get better.

and he let himself believe it.

Vanderweek Day 1

✿ Iiiiiiit’s Vanderweek! For day one, I’ve written out my HEAVILY headcannoned version of my Vanderwood’s backstory. Warning for mentions of dysphoria, harassment, bullying, child abuse, and some slurs.

I hope you enjoy! 

Throughout Mary Vanderwood the III’s life, they had discarded names, pronouns, and titles like most people discarded empty pens or splintered pencils.

On a hazy, smoke-covered morning at approximately 5:45am, the name ‘Oliver Poppins’ was written on a birth certificate, and an exhausted woman – so very young, too young to be a mother – was driven home by her similarly too-young, not-yet husband. The newborn cradled in her arms was a pudgy thing, oddly shaped as most babies are, with a frizz of blond hair and squinty eyes whose color reminded her of molten caramel. When she looked into his face for the first time, she knew she loved her child. She knew that nothing would ever keeping her from loving that child.

Unfortunately, the heart is weak and prone to wandering, and by the time Oliver was five, time had made a liar out of her. He was no longer a darling boy, but instead became a little brat.

[the rest is under the read more!]an

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Birthday Fireworks

Prompt: For the Fourth of July do you think you could write something where your Steve Roger’s girlfriend and you guys watch the fireworks together and it’s just super cute and fluffy and a birthdya one for steve rogers

AN: this is something I wrote a while ago and fit well with the second prompt too :)

Words: 411

Fandom: Marvel

Steve isn’t a big fan of the Fourth of July, despite the fact that it’s his birthday. His family had never had the money to celebrate, and of the few time he actually had done something it had been with Bucky. Plus this year the two of you were hiding from the U.S. government, and Steve said it just wasn’t an appropriate time to celebrate.

You disagreed. You tell him that today is the day that the world went from not having Steve Rogers in it, to having Steve Rogers in it. And that was something to celebrate. Since your money is limited this year, you hole up in the bedroom, and make a bunch of different party games and party decorations.

When Steve finally comes home, it is to your dingy little apartment decorated with construction paper. He can’t really help but smile. Then you come out, dressed in a forties style dress, your hair curled, with a homemade paper, party hat on your head. His smile grows. You give a little twirl and ask “So what do you think?”

His hands go to your hips, and he pulls you in close. “I think that you must love me a lot, to ditch your jeans for that dress. Where did you get that dress?”

You smile, and wrap your arms around his neck “Thrift store.”

“And the decorations?”

“I went on Pinterest.”

There’s a moment of silence before he says “You didn’t have to do all of this you know.”

“Of course I did. It’s your birthday, and that’s something to celebrate. I even cooked dinner.”

“You cooked?”

You nod “I can make soup and peanut butter crackers just as well as anyone.”

The rest of the evening passes with a lot of smiles and joy. But when the clock strikes nine, you stop pin the tail on the donkey, and pull Steve towards the window.

He doesn’t ask any questions as you slide the window up, and pull his head outside along with your own. There several moments of silence before he asks “What are we looking at. You just shush him, and a moment later the first crack goes through the air.

“You got me fireworks on my birthday? How in the world did you do that?”

You just shrug and say “T’challa likes me.” He just smiles, and you kiss his cheek. “Happy birthday, Steve.”

He just kisses you back and says, “I love you Y/N Rogers.”

Imagine hitting it off with Chris.

A/N: This is a request by @bywonater, enjoy 😊 

You sat at a corner booth in a dingy little dive bar, texting your best friend while the rest of your band got wasted. As the lead vocalist and bassist of the world renowned band: ‘Back to Basics’, you looked out of place in the environment you were currently in. You didn’t particularly enjoy dive bars, but it was a place you were used to. After touring the world with Ed Sheeran as his opening act, you and your band inhibited his habit of partying it up at a dive bar after a good gig. You had a particularly good gig tonight, performing at the after party hosted by Marvel Studios to celebrate their world premiere of the highly anticipated movie: ‘Avengers: Infinity War’. You were a huge Marvel fan and you saw a lot of familiar faces, but unfortunately had little time to interact. You managed to exchange a few words with Robert Downey Jr. who was kind enough to bring you and your band a round during an interval. You also ran into Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie on your way to the bathroom, screaming on the inside when you found out they were as crazy about you as you were about them. Sadly the one person you wanted to see was the one person you didn’t, and that was Captain America himself.

Chris was pretty disappointed when he realized he’d lost his opportunity to meet you too. He was a big fan of your music, and he couldn’t help but notice how easy on the eyes you were. When he heard you were the entertainment for the after party, he was so excited. He tried to catch your attention a few times by standing front and center, but you were too focused on your performance to spot him. He then tried to catch you during the interval, when you were getting drinks and circling the room. He literally missed you each time by a few seconds. The amount of times he heard his cast mates say “you actually just missed her;“ he kicked himself for his terrible timing. At midnight, the party came to a close. Your band packed up and left for the dive bar, leaving both you and Chris to wonder how on earth the two of you didn’t get to meet at such a small event.

You thought that was it, and honestly Chris did too until he found out an invitation had been given to the whole cast- specifically to him, Jeremy, and Anthony- to come continue partying at the dive bar your band was going to be at. You found out later that it was Max, your drummer who had issued the invite. He said he wanted to see if the Marvel cast- specifically Chris Evans, Jeremy Renner, and Anthony Mackie- lived up to the hype of being hardcore partiers. You and Chris were both incredibly grateful towards Max when you heard because that meant the two of you could finally meet in person.

A small group of the Marvel cast flooded into the dive bar, not that you noticed them with your head buried in your text conversation. Chris scanned the bar the second he entered, spotting you in the corner booth alone rather than with your band. Anthony, Sebastian, Jeremy, and Chris (Hemsworth) joined the rest of your band at the bar, while he slipped off to get that alone time with you before the rest crashed the table.

“Hey!” Chris called over the music and you looked up from your phone. You smiled upon meeting his piercing blue gaze, earning a warm smile in return. “Do you mind if I join you?” He asked and you shook your head, allowing him to slide into the seat across the table from you. “Tell me the truth, have you been playing hard to get?”

“You got me,” you nodded, laughing. He smiled, thoroughly enjoying how lovely your laughter was. “I had to see if Captain America is as capable as the movies make him out to be.” You teased and he laughed, placing a hand on his left breast; a signature Chris Evans move. “As always, you could use some work on your timing.”

“Be fair, at least I didn’t make you wait seventy years.”

“True,” you laughed, “you didn’t make me wait seventy years, so I guess we can consider it a win.”

“Oh, I’m definitely considering it a win,” he grinned, making you laugh again. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you,” he admitted, chuckling. “I am such a huge fan that I have to channel Captain America to prevent Chris Evans from hyperventilating.”

“And how do you recommend I stop from hyperventilating?” You joked. “I’m a fan of both Captain America and Chris Evans, and I’ve only got one persona to channel.” His laughter was so contagious that you couldn’t help but laugh along even though you were trying to play it cool.

The guy was the whole package, you didn’t understand how he was still single. He was good looking, almost intimidatingly so. But he was also kind, gentle, and sweet which made him easy to talk to. And if that wasn’t enough, Chris Evans was charismatic and charming; he could’ve warmed even the coldest of hearts. Out of all the celebrities you’ve met since becoming a celebrity yourself, the encounter you were currently having with Chris was easily in the top five. Ellen DeGeneres, Robert Downey Jr., Ed Sheeran, and Taylor Swift being the other four.

“It is really good to meet you. Like- really, really good.” Chris held out his hand and you eyed it, trying not to smile at how untimely the handshake was. Normal handshakes occurred at the beginning of the conversation, not halfway through. He knew that, and was hoping you couldn’t tell it was just an excuse to hold your hand. But you could and you didn’t mind. You lowered your phone on the table and firmly grasped his hand; a slow, tension high handshake began. “You’re judging the quality of my handshake, aren’t you?”


“And how am I doing?”

“You’ve got a nice firm grip,” you nodded.

“And you’ve got really soft hands,” he seemed slightly amazed by that fact. He broke the handshake then took both your hands in his to further examine the softness of your hands. You shifted in your seat, ignoring the tingles in your stomach that came with his touch. “Wow, that is- they’re like baby hands.” You laughed and Chris blushed when he realized how weird he was being. “Okay,” he drew back, lightly drumming the tabletop with his fists. “That was weird.”

“That was also cute,” you disagreed. “You’re very cute.”

“I disagree,” he shook his head and you furrowed your brows with a curious smile. “My dog, Dodger. Now he’s cute. I’m not sure if you’re aware of him,” he began as he reached for his phone. Before he could show you a photo of Dodger on his, you showed him a photo of Dodger on yours. “It’d be much more flattering if you didn’t crop me out, but okay.” He chuckled and you bit back your smile; he didn’t need to know you had photos of just him on your phone too.

“I’m sorry Dodger is much more appealing to me.”

“Who would’ve thought I’d ever be jealous of Dodger.”

“You’re an idiot,” you leaned back against the seat, laughing.

“I’ve been told that before. But I’ve also been told I’m very hot,” he resumed his flirtatious attitude with a smirk. You tried not to smile as you rolled your eyes; he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and his chin on his knuckles. “Would you care to chime in on that? Y’know, just to repair the ego you so cruelly destroyed with the ‘Dodger is much more appealing to me’ comment?”

“You’re hot as hell, Chris Evans.”

“Why, thank you. That is so unexpected,” he commented with a great deal of sarcasm and you laughed. “It’s also such a huge compliment coming from a girl as beautiful as yourself.” His genuineness turned your cheeks a deep red and you lowered your gaze. “Seeing as I’m hot as hell,” he smirked and you looked up, chuckling; somehow you knew what was coming. “Would I get a ‘yes’ if I asked you out to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Hm…” You pretended to contemplate, bringing Chris to the edge of his seat. You smiled, answering his question before you actually spoke. Another belly aching laugh came from him when you said, “only if you promise to let me meet Dodger after.”

Tags: @chrisevans-imagines @widowsfics @m-a-t-91 @imaginesofdreams  @katiew1973 @winter-tospring @shamvictoria11 @soymikael @faye22 @always-an-evans-addict @heartblackerthancoffee @whenyourealizethisisntagoodname @yourtropegirl @smoothdogsgirl @createdbytinyaddiction @dreamingintheimpalawithdean @rileyloves5 @buckys-shield @catch-me-im-a-falling-star @tabi-toast @ssweet-empowerment @chrixa @feelmyroarrrr @akidura79 @castellandiangelo @edward-lover18 @yourenotrogers @im-a-fandom-slut @royalexperiment256 @palaiasaurus64 @tacohead13 @badassbaker @pegasusdragontiger @sfreeborn @dorisagent101 @aekr @imagine-cats96 @adeptkillsyasse @shliic @justanotherfangurlz @winchesterandpie @creativeheartgemini @camerica96 @thestarlighthotel @lilya-petrichor @pinkleopardss @lizzysugar @bywonater @avengingalec @nerdingoutismylife @rayleyanns @captainxamerica @lapetitsyrene @01asianista @alwayshave-faith @southernbellestatues @thegirlwiththeimpala @callie-swagg1 @what-if-wenevermet @hillrichhill @patzammit @gerrardisgod @stevcsass @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19

anonymous asked:

I'd love to see a merman Obikin story. Maybe Anakin falls overboard on a water planet and finds Obi-Wan or maybe Obi-Wan has to dive in to save him.

“Its not often sailors come this far out, especially not in a little dingy.” Anakin almost walloped the man upside the head with an oar, gaping rather unattractively at the redhead suddenly at the rim of said dingy.

Looking about wildly, seeing no land anywhere for miles, the pirate spluttered out. “Where did you-how did you…what!?” He finally snapped out, staring at the shirtless redhead.

“Hmm, not very articulate are you?” The man mused.

Anakin finally snapped his mouth shout and took a deep breath. “I am not hallucinating yet, there is no way. I still have water and food that my traitor crew left me with when they abandoned me in the middle of the ocean in just a dingy…so that leaves how the hell you got here.”

The redhead snorted a bit and then Anakin started to gape again as a deep blue and silver scaled tail came to view. “Mers can go where ever they want to in the ocean as long as we’re acclimatized.” The redhead teased, green eyes flickering over him before humming. “You know for a human you’re rather pretty.”

“T-Thanks?” Anakin rasped out, staring at the mer, taking in his features properly for the first time.

Pale skin that looked soft with copper hair that took to the sun as if it belonged to the surface with a strong looking nose and chiseled chin hiding beneath a matching beard to the hair that was nicely groomed.

At the right side, he had a decorated braid that was full of black pearls though Anakin could spot one white one.

He was resting his arms on the dingy with his chin on his arms as he watched Obi-Wan.

Excitement started to bubble in Anakin’s stomach. “…They say sailors lucky enough to find mers can get a wish.” He offered, voice coming in oddly hushed with the sound of waves and seagulls.

The mer hummed at that, cocking his head faintly and the braid dragged against his shoulder. “That may or may not be true.” He smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Anakin.” He leaned towards the mer, headless of the warnings his mother had given him when young.

“Anakin.” The mer tested the name, his smile growing. “My name is Obi-Wan.”

“Its a pretty name.” Anakin shifted even closer. “Is it true though, a wish?”

“It may be, but you have to give me something for it.” The now named mer hummed, Obi-Wan’s eyes glittering strangely.

Licking his lips at that, Anakin nodded. “Whatever it is, I’ll give you it if I can.” He offered eagerly.

“A kiss for a wish.” Obi-Wan hummed and Anakin almost laughed at that, kissing this beautiful mer would do him no harm.

“I take that deal.” He grinned and leaned forward, careful not to tip the dingy as he quickly pressed his lips to Obi-Wan’s, reaching out with one hand to cup the back of the wet red head.

Gently he sucked the bottom lip into his mouth and nibbled on it delicately, smiling when the mer gave a pleased little hum before Anakin pulled back, peering at the mer.

He watched as Obi-Wan flickered his tongue over his now swollen bottom lip.

And then the mer sighed in disappointment, a black pearl appearing in the braid as green eyes focused on him. “…Avaricious wishes are not granted sailor, and your kiss tastes of greed.” And with that the mer tipped the boat with such ease that Anakin yelped.

The blond barely had time to move before hands grasped him and he was pulled further and further downwards from the sun and towards the black dept of the ocean.

Silver and blue scales barely shone and Anakin’s vision went fuzzy and black in the corners of his eyes as his lungs burned and he struggled to escape the strong grasp.

And then Anakin Skywalker knew no more.

Not that I think it’s going to be this easy, but...

I just wanted to play around with the whole cliffhanger and unresolved issues between Fitzsimmons thing, because good god did I need to write after that finale (which was great, don’t me wrong, I just need to make sure I get my Fitzsimmons fill)!

That being said, if anyone wants to see something specific, whether it be a missing scene/fix-it/specific idea for Season 5, feel free to prompt me - I’ve got a couple other things that need writing first, but I will get to them as soon as possible!

Honestly, I’m not even sure this makes complete sense, but I can’t stare at it any longer, so… Enjoy!


Jemma Simmons was very, very done with space.

She’d already been there, done that, and all against her will, as usual. Waking up to find herself trapped in a prison-like space station hidden in an asteroid belt? The most predominant emotion had been the overwhelming feeling of pure exasperation.

Not this again.

Her next thought, however, had been to wonder where the rest of her team was – where Fitz was. They’d all been together in that diner, and that was the last thing she remembered. Had they been transported to the space station as well? Were they all there together, just being kept apart?

The only thing Jemma was more done with than space was being separated from Fitz. Hadn’t they endured enough of that already to last a lifetime?

And when the ever-silent, helmeted guards began to bring her to a tiny little lab each and every day to do work for whoever it was that had kidnapped them, she made no secret of how very much she did not agree with this arrangement.

In fact, by the time a few weeks had passed, Jemma felt as though the only words that left her mouth now were dry, sarcastic remarks. Even her near-constant attempts to find out information about her teammates (always unsuccessfully) came in the form of barbs directed at her guards.

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queen-max  asked:

You know I can't resist your writing. I'm going to go with the obvious. Silver and Flint for 34.

@ellelan asked for the same. :)

“It’s not like I missed you or anything.”

The knock on his door had come out of the blue, but Flint would have been lying if he said he hadn’t spent many long hours picturing this exact moment in excruciating detail, in infinite forms, hoping for it and then trying his best to keep those hopes small and tempered. And yet, here they were: Flint stepping aside as his former quartermaster hopped past him into his dingy little hallway, as though not a day had passed since they had shared a cabin and a ship and a crew. Silver looked almost unchanged from the last time Flint had seen him. A little cleaner, perhaps, and more well-groomed, just, but looking as though he had simply stepped out of Flint’s memories like a ghost of a past life. Flint wondered, just briefly, whether he might be having some sort of funny turn after all, and what it might suggest that this is what his mind had chosen to conjure. But then Silver stopped and turned to face him, and Flint could see the faint smattering of freckles on his nose, and could smell the salt air clinging to his clothes, and he knew that those were vivid details beyond the capacity of even his wild imagination.

“You look different,” Silver said, at exactly the same moment that Flint said, “You look the same.”

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of first dates and new beginnings (peter parker)

@imaginesyes requested:

Hey darling, “Notice” was super sweet congrats :) Do you take requests? If you do can you write peter’s first date with the reader? I would really like to read it from you, I mean how would he ask her out, what would they talk, how would he make the first move aand stuff… so please write it if it’s ok with you :) thank youu

i hope this was alright!! as you can probably tell by now i love parentheses because i think they’re a great way to reflect stream of consciousness but anyway.,,, i hope this was what you were looking for!! thank you for the request :)

it was a tuesday.

you thought it would be like any other tuesday in your repetitive schedule—biology, history, stare at peter, algebra, lunch, english, stare at peter a little more, pe (also spent staring at peter because recently his stamina had increased exponentially and the way his face flushed after an amount of sit-ups you had thought to be impossible was all that your mind would think about), and study hall. but it seemed the fates had much more in store for you.

you were at your locker, the cool metal relieving your hot skin. (you had just walked by peter, who had such a funny look on his face when he saw you that it made your stomach do flips as if it were a gymnast.) the warning bell rang and you hastily threw your books in your bag when—

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Alternate Methods. [Smut]

A;N: So without further ado here is the first smut of 2017 from yours truly. I wouldn’t have had the idea if not for the help of the lovely @writing-obrien She helped me so much with this! Also shoutout to my hoes and @we-are-like-a-timebomb for being there to tell me it’s not shit. Love you guys. Enjoy! xoxo

Pairing: StilesStilinskixReader

Author: thelittlestkitsune

Warnings: Smut.

Word count: 7,071

Listen to me.

Originally posted by procrastinationoutlet

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Be My Girl, Baby [Natasha Romanoff  x Reader]

Warnings: Implied smut at the end

Y/N and Natasha have been in a relationship for a bit over three years and yet it felt like a lifetime, in a good way, of course.

Y/N met Natasha at a bar, right in the heart of New York City and Y/N knew that from the moment she saw her, she was the girl Y/N wanted, whether be for a night or the rest of her life.

Over the course of the three years, Natasha and Y/N were S.H.I.EL.D.S power couple. From the field to the floor of Tony Stark’s Weekly Saturday Parties, they were on top of it all and madly in love and there was no way that their relationship could be any better.

It was a late, hot and surprisingly for once, calm July night and the Avengers were at Clint’s safehouse, somewhere they went when they needed a break from fighting criminals and just to relax and enjoy life like normal people. Natasha had her head rested on Y/N’s shoulder with a beer in her right hand and a  marshmallow on a stick in the other. Y/N loved the sky there with the stars shining as bright as she ever saw them. Gazing at them, she whispered to Natasha, “ Aren’t they beautiful?” “Yeah”, Natasha replied, “They are.” Only Natasha wasn’t looking at the stars, she was looking at Y/N. Natasha loved the way she squinted her eyes just to focus on the furthest star or her grin when Tony made inappropriate jokes about blondes or even the way she could feel the laughter coursing through her chest when the stupidest of things made her laugh and that’s when Natasha knew that she was the one, that she was her once-in-a-lifetime girl.

Natasha gave a small sideways glance to Wanda and Wanda didn’t have to read her mind to know what was next. Natasha lifted her head of Y/N’s shoulder and stood up. The group went silent. Natasha then took Y/N’s hand and stood her up and looked her, almost with a wild rush going through her, not knowing the answer that Y/N will give. Natasha gracefully bent down on one knee and Y/N knew exactly what was happening and covered her mouth with her hands and internally and externally screamed, just a little and Natasha gave a small smirk, looked up and said, “Y/N, from the moment I saw you from across that dingy little bar on the corner of that deserted street I knew that I wanted to be yours and for you to be mine. I wanted to wake up with you in the morning, I wanted to sleep with you at night, I wanted to kiss you when you had nightmares and I wanted to love you until I had no more love to give. I have been lucky, so god damn lucky, that I’ve been able to do all of that with you and more,” she stated with a wink and a smitten smile only you could see, “ and because of you, I now understand how love is not only for children but for us. Y/N M/N L/N would you do me the honors of being my girl, for the rest of our lives?” With the amount of tears running down Y/N’s face and the strange gurgling noise coming from the back of her throat, the only thing she could do was nod and smile and jumped onto a kneeling Natasha Romanoff who was beaming at her and stifling that sneaky little tear at the corner of her eye.  

Once Y/N managed to stop most of her tears and helped Natasha to her feet, Natasha pulled the ring from the black box and revealed a small yet beautiful ring with diamonds encrusted all the way around and slipped it on Y/N’s finger ever so delicately. After the parade of “ Congrats!” and  “You owe me 20, Barton”, Natasha and Y/N sat beside the fire and  huddled into each other . “How’s it feel, baby?” Natasha asked. “The ring or the fact that I’ll have to change my name to Y/N Romanoff?” Y/N enquired, almost lost in night and what it had brought. Natasha stood up and pulled Y/N with her. “Y/N Romanoff. Can’t deny, it has a good ring to it.” “Yeah, it does.” Y/N replied whilst Natasha was leaning into her ear and whispered ,” How about we head upstairs and see how that ring looks with nothing else on?”

Originally posted by dailymarvelheroes

Rafael Barba: Good Neighbors / Part 2

A Part TWO to “Good Neighbors”, a previous request re: living next to Rafael in your 20s & reconnecting. This one’s the re-connection, :).

Originally posted by sherrykinss


It took you at least a few days to finally get the gusto to call his cell;



“How did you know it was me?”

“How couldn’t I?”

“Well, I was wondering if you did want to get together sometime, I’ve missed you so.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Uh… so soon?”

“It’s been too long already.”

“Right… Right, yes, tomorrow should work.”

“I’ll text you the place, eight sound good?”

“Sure, Rafi.”

You were just on time, apparently minutes after he arrived- and he rose to standing the second he saw you come in through the doors he had been absolutely transfixed on.

When he hugged you, you felt like you were twenty-something all over again; fresh, young, full of life and anticipation. And oh, he hugged you; the moment you were in reach, Rafael nearly tripped over the table in his rush to embrace you. It was kind, gentle, and he wrapped arms over your shoulders to keep you close for just a second too long- not that you minded.

“I’m so glad you called,” he held you out before him, and let out a shameful, hushed wolf whistle of approval. “Look at you; Lovely and all grown up.”

“Oh stop,” you brushed his hands off of you, before wagging your shoulders proudly. “The years have been pretty good to you too,” A pinch to his cheek, you couldn’t tell if the pink hue that came up was from your fingers or his blush, Lord he was handsome. “Bet you have to knock the ladies off of you with a baseball bat at this point.”

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Inconsequential (ficlet) - the one about Sherlock and sexuality

(I wrote this up as a prompt for a fic wishlist, and people told me to write it. I already have, in fact, but it was an indulgence for myself and I didn’t care much for the result at the time. I was asked to post it anyway. Enjoy)


“So, that thing that Mr Michaels said, right as we were leaving…”

 John pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. His voice is surprisingly steady considering the amount of alcohol they have recently consumed on their almost empty stomachs.

It had been 2 am when they’d managed to get a room in a dingy little hotel, and its minibar had proved to have little to offer when it came to food. But where it had lacked in solid food, it had provided well in terms of beverages.

Above Sherlock, a ceiling fan is doing nothing to help with the stuffy air. Despite the dimness of the room, the sight of the rotating, brass-coloured blades only seem to further provoke the vertigo that’s slowly building up somewhere inside his head.

He closes his eyes as it begins to feel like the bed is moving ever so slightly beneath him.

“He seemed to imply that you were… you know.”

It’s not a question, or at least it’s not phrased as one, and so Sherlock doesn’t bother replying.

One of the men they had questioned earlier that day had tried to appeal to some kind of good will on Sherlock’s part, implying that as a fellow gay man, Sherlock should be able to relate why he had chosen not to reveal the real reason behind his presence at the scene of the crime when questioned by the police.

Sherlock hadn’t found himself relating to the man in the slightest. But then, he rarely did when it came to such things.

The queasy feeling seems to be spreading to his stomach. Sherlock tries to remain very still, hoping that the sensation will pass.

Sherlock knows the conversation that is about to follow. It’s a conversation they’ve already had once, a year and a half ago, during their first meal at Angelo’s.

That time, they’d known each other for less than two days and John had dropped the subject after Sherlock had answered a few of his less-than-subtle inquiries with purposeful obscurity. Sherlock knows that this time, John is unlikely to let him get away with that.

“So, ehm, are you?”

There’s a shuffling sound as John shifts on his bed. Judging by the sounds, he’s turned over on his side, facing Sherlock. Even in the relative darkness of the room, John must be able to see Sherlock’s chest rise and fall, his breathing deliberately slow and even as he tries to breathe the faint nausea away.

“Am I what?”

John should at least have to say it out loud, ought to have to take any of the words into his mouth.




“Gay. Are you? Are you gay?”

John’s voice is inquisitive rather than hesitant now. Alcohol sometimes have that effect on John; causing him to forget about the years he’s spent building up a reserved but seemingly polite distance to most people around him.

“Would that be a problem for you?”

The words come out cold, distanced. There seems to be a need for that in this almost claustrophobic room, where the muggy air feels like it’s vibrating with questions that shouldn’t have been asked and answers that are impossible to provide.

“No, why would it be a problem?”

John sounds genuine in his question, and Sherlock feels a sting of something not unlike anger, because there’s the answer right there: it’s in the few feet that separates their narrow twin beds and in the way John had looked at it as they entered the room.

It’s in the way John frowns when there’s only one room vacant and the way he’s pointedly reminding everyone that he is not himself gay.

Sherlock had known that being ‘homosexual’ was a deviation long before he’d known what being homosexual actually meant, not to mention reflecting on his own potential sexuality.

At that point, it had already been made blatantly clear to him that whatever he was, he was in no way ‘normal’, and he felt no need to add anything more to the list of his so-called diversities.

And anyway, what does meaning does sexual orientation even have when you’re unlikely to ever find yourself in a position where your sexual desire is something that will ever affect another person?

“Because you’re not.”

There’s a silence before John answers, sounding more sober this time, his voice more careful as he speaks.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“What does the question of me being or not being gay have to do with anything?” Sherlock counters, clenching the fist of his left hand, the one John can’t see, because John has nothing to do with what Sherlock might feel or not feel when it comes to these matters.

Sherlock is aware of what he is, but it doesn’t matter - shouldn’t matter - because Sherlock has never acted upon any of his potential desires, and so he shouldn’t have to answer for something that cannot even theoretically affect another person.

“I’m sorry- I just wondered why Mr Michaels would assume–”

“People assume far too much.”


The fan is whisking around air, and the minibar is humming where it stands in the corner of the tiny desk. Sherlock can hear his own breathing, but he can’t make out the sound of John’s breathing.

And what or whom you desire shouldn’t define you. Unfortunately, Sherlock knows that in the eye of most people, it still does.

There were far too many anomalies in the way he functioned, in the way he behaved, so many things that made it so easy for people to dismiss him even when he was the one knowing the answer to something that none of them seemed able to figure out on their own.

Giving them yet another reason to do so, giving them another name to call him on top of the others - the ones that he got because of things he couldn’t hide or couldn’t control or choose - would have been to settle for a life in which none of the things that he was capable of would matter in the slightest to anyone else.

Would John still call Sherlock ‘amazing’ if he thought that Sherlock might interpret it as a come-on?

“Yes,” Sherlock finally said, more to the fan and the fridge and the sound of his own breathing than to John, who he couldn’t see, couldn’t even hear in over the darkness and the humming and the swooshing and the sound of his own pulse.

“Yes, I’m gay,” he says again, attempting to clarify. “I just fail to see how that matters.”

The queasy sensation in his stomach is starting to give way. He moves his legs a bit experimentally.

Around him, nothing changes.

“Ehm, well, I guess it doesn’t.”

John’s voice, careful, thoughtful.

“If it doesn’t matter to you, that is,” John adds.

“It doesn’t.”



“Have you ever wanted it to?”

“Not in any substantial way.”


“So it’s inconsequential to both of us, it’d seem,” Sherlock summarises, now stretching his legs, moving over to lie on his side. “So glad that we had this talk.”

The last bit he adds with a hint of sarcasm, knowing that John is sure to pick up on it even through effect the alcohol has had on his perception.

John, again, is silent.

For a moment, it occurs to Sherlock that John might in fact fall asleep at any second, leaving Sherlock alone with the humming and the swooshing and the beating–

“You have questions. More questions.”

“It’s none of my business, you’ve made that quite clear.”

“Get it over with.”

Turning over once again, this time so that he’s facing John’s direction, Sherlock adjusts the thin sheet that he’s using as a duvet in the heat.

“Another time,” John says after a few seconds, sounding almost a bit deflated. “We should sleep.”

When John falls asleep - Sherlock can see how his breathing has shifted to an even, slow rhythm by the way his chest moves - it doesn’t feel quite like being alone, no, it feels more like being… heard.

Sherlock had said it was inconsequential, and John had accepted this, had seemed to agree.

And so they both agree on this; that it doesn’t matter what or whom Sherlock desires.

Only it does, if only theoretically - if only ever for Sherlock, right there and then - it does when what he desires is something that he will never have, and when who he’s desiring is willing to agree that this fact doesn’t, in fact, matter.

(Part II here)