little dingy

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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The Lighthouse

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader
Rated: T
Genre: Fluff & the slightest angst
Word Count: 3,776

Summary: You fell hard and fast for a gentle gaze and dimpled smile, the kindness and innocence that fills his heart and it makes you ache to return to that lighthouse once again.

A/N: I half love half hate this piece of work but it’s been forever since I last posted a fic so here we are 🎉 also I don’t know for sure if Namjoon’s pup is actually a boy or girl so I just guessed. 

The midday sun is warm against your face as you lean your head back, eyes closed and hair knotting in the cool breeze. The sound of strong waves slapping against jagged rock lull you into a state of daydreaming, though you’re startled out of it from the sound of a wooden door slamming against the wall of the lighthouse, rattling its hinges.  

You release the metal railing you were holding onto and place your hand over your thundering heart, squinting through the sunlight at a man chasing a frantic seagull out of the doorway who is quick to take flight. You stand there, mouth slightly agape, listening to the man grumble to himself something along the lines of grumble to himself something along the lines of ‘Pesky… good for nothing…’ and ‘Lucky I don’t eat you for dinner.’ He runs a hand through his hair and turns himself back towards the door but the flutter of your dress catches his eye, making him jerk back in surprise at the sight of you.

“Why… were you chasing a seagull?” You call across the space between the two of you.

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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.

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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Frank Castle x Reader

Originally posted by calif0rnia-lovers

a/n; so this came to me whilst i was reading my copy of milk and honey, and despite telling you guys i was going to bulk post, i just couldn’t wait to post this one. it’s a different style, so i hope you like it! enjoy! <3

@phoenixejean @raypclmer @shayara @rax-writes @emmcfrxst @put-in-writing

“the next time you 

have your coffee black 

you’ll last the bitter state 

he left you in 

it will make you weep 

but you’ll never 

stop drinking 

you’d rather have 

the darkest parts of him 

than have nothing”

-rupi kaur

She’s like clockwork.

Every afternoon, she will come into the dingy little diner on her lunch break and order the same thing. Black coffee, no sugar, no cream. She will order a blueberry muffin but she won’t touch it. She will drink the coffee and wince at the bitter taste but will continue to drink it until every drop is inside of her.

She’ll smile kindly at the elderly waitress, and the waitress will pretend to ignore the distant, numb look that the young woman holds in her eyes. She’ll leave a small tip and thank the waitress, heels clicking as she leaves to go back to her office job.

Every day, she does this. She’s done it every day, even when the man with scraped knuckles stopped coming with her.

The man that used to come with her, was a man that wore a heavy jacket in the middle of the Summer without complaints, one that had bruises blossom on his skin like flowers. He was a man that looked like he’d never seen a happy day. But when she met him there, he couldn’t hide the fond grin that took up his face.

He’d stand and pull her in by her wrist, pressing an almost chaste kiss to her lips before they sat down. Before he stopped meeting her there, she’d always order a latte and the same blueberry muffin. He’d always order just the black coffee, in which she’d grin and say,

I don’t understand how you can drink that, Frank. It’s so gross.”

He’d roll his eyes at her and take a piece of her muffin, and say,

“I’m an old man, sweetheart. Y’get used to it.”

They’d do this every day. They’d make idle conversation and tangle their feet underneath the table, looking at each other like they’ve found what they’ve always been looking for. The waiters had grown used to them, looking forward to their presence every day, at noon.

Sometimes after the elderly waiters and waitresses went home and the younger, livelier waiters came for the night shift, the man and woman would come. They’d come with fresh, deep marks on their necks and she’d be wearing a shirt that belonged to him. Despite the lack of PDA, it was made quite obvious that she was his, as he was hers.

She’d order her latte and muffin, and he’d order his black coffee. Like clockwork.

But ever since he stopped meeting her, her fond and beautiful smile was replaced with a tight, pitiful smile. The elderly and young waiters noticed, and could only assume the obvious. Like taking a stab in the dark.

Tonight she comes in, this time with no marks on her neck, but with bags under her eyes and her sweats in substitute of her usual work clothes. She slides into her usual booth and the young waitress glides over with the black coffee and muffin almost two minutes later.

As the waitress pours the coffee, she hears the woman sniff. She flickers her gaze from the coffee pot to the woman, who’s wiping at her nose with her shirtsleeve. The waitress gulps. She wants to talk to her: she feels as if she knows what’s going on, being an outsider who’s been observing in the background.

“Do you- do you want to talk about it?” The waitress asks suddenly. There are no other customers waiting for her.

The woman looks at the young waitress with bright red eyes, as if contemplating whether saying ‘yes’ is a good idea or not. But she just nods. After all, no one has been empathetic enough to listen.

The waitress slides in across from her, occupying the space the man had once sat in. It’s just another bitter reminder that he’s not coming back.

The silent is thick as the waitress watches her pick at her muffin. She still doesn’t eat it. The waitress doesn’t push for anything, letting her take her time before talking. She pours herself her own cup of coffee, making a face as she takes a sip.

“Don’t know how you can drink this stuff.” She jokes lightly, pushing the cup off to the side.

“You get used to it,” the woman finally speaks, with a hollow laugh. “That’s what he always said.” The small smile on her face slowly disintegrates, her fingers flicking off the muffin crumbs onto the table.

“The man?” The waitress asks. “The one that used to come in with you?”

The woman nods, picking up her coffee and taking a sip. She doesn’t wince this time.

“Frank,” she says carefully, as if saying his name as if he was in the area: listening, waiting. “Frank could drink that stuff all the time. He loves it.”

“Frank,” the waitress repeats slowly, swirling a spoon in her coffee. “He seemed like a good guy.”

“He still is, s’just- he just-” She struggles to find the words that could describe a man like Frank. “He didn’t seem to think he was good. Especially not for me.”

The waitress sighs and leans back in the booth.

“One of those guys?” She states as if she’s known the struggle. “I used to have a boyfriend like that. Thought he was no good for me because he was ‘damaged goods,’ or whatever. At least that’s what he said.”

This makes the woman laugh because Frank wasn’t an angsty teenager who occasionally smoked weed to seem edgy. No, Frank is a man who’s lost his family and himself and takes lives.

“Yeah, I guess you could say he’s one of those guys.” A lie. He’s not.

They sit in silence for a couple minutes, and the waitress watches as she finishes off the black coffee without flinching. Just like he used to.

“Do you think he’s coming back?” The waitress suddenly questions.

The woman stands, rifling through her wallet, taking out some cash as she shakes her head.

“Probably not,” she answers, eyes becoming glassy with tears she’ll shed when she gets out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. “At least not anytime soon.”

She throws a twenty on the table, more than enough for her coffee and muffin. The woman gives the waitress a sad smile, before stepping out into the cold New York air.

Despite the cold, bitter rival that’s reality, the woman comes back every day at noon for her black coffee and muffin.

Like clockwork.

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

mischief7manager  asked:

perc'ahlia or pikeval. Choose.

listen. it’s pikeval. perc’ahlia is Good but it’s Everywhere. what I really want out of my ships is to suffer and languish without content for weeks, devouring all the little scraps, staring through the window while everyone plays together and I am left standing alone in the rain

nevermindmeatall  asked:

Y'know we have all these AUs where J gets himself into trouble and get beaten up af and B has to take him to the batcave and take care of him, so I thought we need an AU where B is the one beaten up by many villains and he manages to escape but falls on his way through the rooftops and passes out, guess who's the lucky green haired guy who finds him bleeding and has to take care of him now??

Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. And I think everyone knows how much I love J looking after Bruce - I’ve used it in a few fics already and really wanna put it in ANG - so yes yes and once more for the people in the back YAAAS!

Because Joker will have this nasty, dingy little warehouse or something, somewhere to keep hidden while he concocts all his schemes and it’s got a ratty little mattress in the corner and J has to drag Bruce’s heavy armoured ass aaaallllll the way there by himself, muttering about people trying to take away his Bat - how dare. How fucking dare! - and how Batsy can be such a fucking idiot sometimes and it’s a good job he’s got his Jay-Jay here to fucking look after him otherwise where the hell would he be?

Whether J already knows who Batman is can be decided by you, depending on your need for drama and he’ll just spend his time getting Bruce out of the suit and checking him over, cleaning and tending his wounds - lemme pause to squee for three hours - as J has a whole stash of painkillers and other medical equipment because he’s had more than enough practice fixing himself up over the years. Although, if Bats is in really bad shape, there’s a doctor he knows - not entirely licensed but he gets the job done - who basically looks after all Gotham’s Rogues because, y'know, they can’t really just waltz into a hospital, can they?

And, yeah, J just spends the next week or so taking care of his Bat, cracking out the nurse outfit sometimes, too and Bruce secretly loves all the attention and Joker being nice and gentle for once and, as you can see, I have given this a lot of thought and just don’t fucking touch me for a bit, ok?

Zootopia / Robin Hood Fanfiction TAKE A STAND Ch.26 - Fire and Ice

(AN/ Hey guys it’s Garouge/Crewefox here with another chapter of Take a Stand. Ok i don’t know if you noticed but this fic has some new cover art and that is courtesy of @zenith1988 and @ziegelzeig, Zenith1988 commissioned Zigelzieg to comission this beautiful piece of art, and otakurec37 colourised it, this amazing gift actually brought tears to my eyes causing the doctors and nurses I work with to ask if I was ok, so thank you so much for this meaningful and beautiful gift, oh and @reddoshirousagi06 and @kawaiideadlyusagi you know who you are in this chapter. Thank you to everyone who liked, faved, followed, reviewed and reblogged the last chapter. So without further ado let’s get cracking with this chapter…)

Here’s the link…

Chapter 26- Fire and Ice

Mason Bogo was sat at the kitchen table in his home drinking coffee and anxiously waiting for Judy to arrive, he wasn’t due in work until 1pm and knew Hopps would heed his words about coming to his home as soon as possible. He was taking a risk and he knew it, he didn’t know if he was being monitored, if Bagheera questioned him on Judy’s presence at his residence he would lie and say he wanted a progress report on her injured arm. There was also the possibility that if Bagheera was as dirty as he suspected his home could have been bugged with audio devices but Bogo had anticipated this, he only hoped that his plan worked. A knock at the front door had brought Bogo out of his worries, the Cape Buffalo got up and walked to the front door and opened it to see Judy looking up at him. “Hopps.” Bogo greeted in his default gruff tone.

“Mornin’ Chief, I got your text.” Judy replied, her voice sounding a little worried.

“I can see that, please come in.” Bogo said, stepping aside so the bunny could enter his home.

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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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It’s all fun and games until you knock on France’s door

(Ok so I had this idea where angry ghost Alexander comes back to ruin Burr’s career by possessing his body turning him into a first class whore in the eyes of everyone that ever knew him. This is a snip bit of his meeting with Lafayette. French Fry is not amused. At all.)

“Come on French Fry. You’ve been cooped up in your dingy little room for foreeeever. Let me help you unwind a little for old times sake.” Alex pushed on twirling the thornless rose as he looked up at his old friend, granted now from a much more interesting perspective. Burr however… was terrified. Hamilton simply had to be blind not to notice to coldness of the stare Lafayette was giving them from behind his lose curls that almost seemed adamant on covering his face as much as possible. By some miracle this man looked scarier with his hair let lose than any ghost Aaron had the misfortune of meeting.

“Hamilton…. Hamilton you can’t do this, this is insane.” He tried, feeling his poor knees starting to buckle, turning cold under Gilbert’s gaze, before Alexander, as per usual interrupted him, ignored Aaron’s words like he did everything else and pushed himself close to the French man’s chest, oblivious to the the shudder he received in return. “Ugh, are you going to make me beg? You can be such a stick in mud can’t you Laf, I really -”

“Go. To ‘ell, Aaron.” Hamilton stopped when he heard those words. It took him moments to react, to even realize that, by now Lafayette was already pushing him off, straightening out his silky night gown as if it was stained with something filthy and was closing the door into his face. Aaron wanted to scream, embarrassment and fear consuming him, the shear coldness of Lafayette’s voice being enough to stop both him and Hamilton dead in their tracks and the only thing the confused, ex secretary of Treasury could do was utter a pathetic little, “What?” in return.

But it was too late. The door slammed shut, making Burr back away as if he was blow backwards by a gust of wind and still, no matter how hard he tried to regain control, to turn around and run away like a child back to his home, Hamilton persisted. He ran towards the door, knocking frantically and calling out, seemingly forgetting that he… really didn’t look like himself. “Wait! Laf, wait, no! Come on open the door! Look wait, I was just joking about the whole sex thing, please just open the door.”

Alex couldn’t believe it. The pain of such a harsh rejection hitting him harder than the bullet he now bore in his chest for an eternity. Still ignorant, maybe on purpose, of Aaron’s growing fear, he continued to bang on the door, refusing to leave a meeting with an old, truly dear friend, on such horrible terms. Even if it wasn’t his terms that he was playing on.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU IDIOT?! LEAVE THE DOOR! Get me out of here, Alexander please just turn around for once! You got what you wanted, he hates me now please…” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aaron begged, his normal calm and stern tone of voice replaced with nothing less but abject horror.

But Alex… He did not listen. He couldn’t listen, why should he? He had to make things right, now. Not run, not hide, he had to apologize he had to explain it all NOW! “Please, please, open the door, I swear I’m sorry, Laf, I really just…” A click. The door unlocked. He did it! Yes he DID IT! Alexander was ready! He was so ready to stop this act, just for a second, just have that one genuine goodbye, just - SMACK! –

Both Aaron and Alexander felt their left cheek burn, sparkles of pain flying through their shared face, making their eyes sting even more, forcing cold tears to stream down their face. In the state of shock, Hamilton got pushed out of the driver seat, leaving Burr to be the recipient of the blows soon to come.“Don’t you DARE call me zat!” Aaron felt his ears ring as Lafayette’s booming voice came crashing down upon him, blinding him to the fact that a hand was wrapping around his throat, squeezing down on his air pipe as his entire form was pushed against a wall.

“Don’t you DARE PRETEND LIKE YOU 'AVE ANY WRIGHT TO CALL ME YOUR FRIEND!” Burr wheezed, his hands pathetically trying to push against the thing that was stopping his breathing but Gilbert was relentless. He pushed just a little harder, obviously restraining himself from committing any further assault. Aaron stopped struggling. resigning to covering his face in fear, too scared to look at the once so relaxed and carefree French man in the face. Too ashamed to look at the result of his selfish actions.

“Well DO YOU?!” The question came, and Burrs response could only be a choked, gagging sniffle. The growl of frustration that made it’s way to the vice President’s ear sounded monstrous. “Look at me Aaron.” It was an order… delivered so harshly and threateningly that it made Aaron’s legs give out, choking him slightly further. “I said LOOK AT ME!” That was when the second hand came into play. Burr tried, he really tried to hide his wet eyes, his burning cheeks (weather they were burning from pain or adrenaline he didn’t want to know), his failure to at least comply with the wishes of a man from whom he had taken so, so many things from… and like everything in his life, he failed.

Lafayette slammed Aaron’s head, back against the wall, forcing the other man to open his eyes wide in terror… and look. To look at his shaking, raging form, to look at those crazy dark curls that looked now more like a mane of a hungry lion… and those eyes… those eyes that seemed to shine with… something. Hate, rage, sadness, pity, maybe all of it at once… All Aaron knew is that they were not meant to be on Lafayette. No such burning passion for revenge didn’t fit him. It made Burr feel so never endingly small… and all he could do was try to contain some dignity by now screaming when the next question came. “Look me in the eyes and tell me zat you are not so foolish as to zink we could ever be friends again.”

(I have sinned, sue me.

Sorry if it’s outta character. Tell me if ya want more. Bye.)

anonymous asked:

Hi mister! I have a bit of an odd question. Do you know any ways to wash stuffies? I have a build a bear who is about four years old at this point and goes every where with me but is a little dingy and I am scared to hurt him. Any advice?

This is an incredibly good question… and one that will take some patience and a slow hand.

My great friend Jennibellarella, being an experienced stuffie doctor and professor of stuffanomics has your handy dandy how to gude. 


Tells Your Story, Part 3/5, Lin-Manuel Miranda x Reader

Prompt: Reader is asked to be a part of the Hamilton Mixtape.

Words: 1125

Author’s Note: Alright turns out I didn’t really plan this far into the series so I’m just winging it at this point. Also, Christmas is this weekend so I might take a little break from writing this to write holiday inspired fics?

Warnings: Gets a little heated at the end, cursing.

Askbox | Masterlist | Part 1Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5

You knew Chris was one of Lin’s closest confidants, they were close and his opinion mattered a great deal to Lin.

You couldn’t explain why your palms grew sweaty when he approached you with a purpose in his stride. He wanted to talk to you, he said, about Lin.

“He’s an alright guy, like a solid six out of ten.” He started.

“I’d say that’s a pretty fair assessment.”

“He likes you a lot already, and that makes me nervous.” He waited a moment for you to throw back a funny quip, to deflect, but nothing came, “You know this?”

“I-” You stopped, not sure what you knew at all. You knew he was very nice, he’s a friendly guy and he seemed to show a barista the same common courtesy he shows you.

“I’m sure you’re very lovely. You seem nice and friendly and way out of his league. Just…” He paused when he noticed Lin emerge from his dressing room, making his way towards you with the occasional stop on the way, “I want him to be happy, and he takes this kind of stuff pretty seriously. I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

With that, the conversation came to an abrupt halt as Lin planted himself in front of you. There was a moment of silence that you quickly tried to fill, unable to shake Chris’ words off.

“You’re heading home?” You smiled, gesturing to his backpack. You needed this night to be over, you needed to go home and consider your options, and you certainly needed to be out of Lin’s proximity for a moment. He made your head go fuzzy, and you really needed to think.

“Actually, I was thinking about heading out to dinner. Join me?” He didn’t direct this question at the two of you - only you. You glanced at Chris for a moment, hoping he could save you from having to say no to Lin. He shrugged and quickly made his escape. Traitor.

“Sure.” You said to Lin, a lot less enthusiastically than you intended, “I’d love to.” You added for effect, feeling fuzzy again when he grinned at you.

His idea for dinner was a dingy little Chinese place. Very hole-in-the-wall, only regulars show up kind of place. It was 24 hours, and as the sun was setting, you took a booth near the window and ordered too much food.

He seemed very comfortable sitting across from you, no expectations other than hoping the appetizers would be out soon because you were both starving.

“This place has been here forever.” He told you. You glanced around at the peeling paint and the mismatching silverware.

“I bet.” You twirled your drink in your hands to keep them busy, the water almost tipping over the glass.

You small talked like a pro until the food came and Lin was reminded of the first time he came here with his parents. That reminded you of a restaurant back home that you always had to stop into whenever you were back.

“You’ve never had burgers like the ones there, I have to bring you sometime.” You said casually between bites, a very open ended invitation.

“I look forward to it.” His little grin made you soften a bit, and you wondered if Lin was thinking about kissing you as much as you were thinking about kissing him.

Chris’ words flashed through your mind for a second. You pushed them away once and for all.

You liked Lin. A lot.

You certainly didn’t intend to hurt him, or to lead him on at any point. You smiled back at him and you watched as he sat up a little straighter in his chair, allowing you to steal some of the food off his plate without any protest.

He insisted on paying, practically throwing your card back into your purse.

“You can get it next time.” He said cooly, unashamed that he was already asking for a ‘next time’. You nodded, and he had to stop himself from physically celebrating in the middle of this tiny Chinese restaurant.

You told him you only lived a few blocks away and he asked if he could walk you back. It was approaching midnight, and while you felt back about keeping him out late when he had another show to do the next day, you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

You shuffled along the few blocks, stretching the usual ten minute walk into twenty, very consumed with the other’s presence. He even insisted on walking you all the way up to your apartment door, just to be safe. You humored him, toying with the idea of inviting him in.

You closed your door, leaning against it for a moment, listening to his footsteps as he retreated down the hall.

Neither of you needed to say anything to see what was going on. It was very obvious where this relationship was going if you allowed it to stay its course. You let out a sigh, pushing away from the door and ready to head to bed.

A frantic knock at the door halted you in your tracks.

You peeked through the peephole, knowing better than to answer at one in the morning without checking. Lin was nervously fidgeting on the other side.

“Mr. Broadway, you have a show in a few hours.” You chastised, swinging the door open.

He stood looking confused and nervous at your front door, suddenly disheveled and with a mission in mind.

“Lin-” Before you could get farther, his lips were on yours. The kiss was desperate and heated, leaving you with nothing to do but kiss back and cling to Lin like he was your only source of oxygen.

He pulled back for a second to gauge your reaction. Your hair was disheveled, lips swollen from the sudden hungry kiss. His ego swelled when he realized he did that to you. He was back on you in a second, quickly working on stripping both of your jackets and backing you into your bedroom.

“Wait, wait-” You said inbetween kisses, when he pulled back to tug your shirt over your head. Your bit your lip, eyes trained on his still clothed chest rather than looking in his eyes, “Are we, you know, moving too fast?”

His hand was at your chin, tilting your head up.

“We can stop whenever you want, but Jesus Christ if I don’t kiss you again within the next five seconds I’m gonna fucking-”

You pushed him so he landed on your bed, bouncing from the sudden movement.

“-lose my mind.” He breathed as you positioned yourself over him, lips ghosting over his.

Well.” Your fingers toyed at the button on his jeans, “Can’t have that.

eastern massachusetts gothic
  • The men and women are staring at you with pupil-less eyes.  Their hoodies are emblazoned with New England Patriots logos and some sort of dark, sticky spray.  It looks fresh.  You know what they do to people who aren’t part of the Patriot Nation.  “Go Pats,” you say.
  • You’re driving to New Hampshire to buy fireworks.  The highway is surrounded by trees.  You keep driving.  The sky darkens.  You keep driving.  Are there more trees?  You keep driving.  You have been driving for hours.  The trees are getting closer.  You keep driving.  You have been driving for hours
  • Everybody knows the rhyme about the light on top of the old John Hancock Building.  Steady blue, clear view.  Flashing blue, clouds due.  Steady red, rain ahead.  Flashing red, get into the nearest building.  Barricade the doors with whatever you can find.  Sit motionless in the corner and breathe as shallowly as you can.  It will be over soon.  It will be over soon.
  • You go to Dunk’s.  The unsmiling girl at the counter hands you your coffee.  You can see the street through the glass doors.  You step through to leave and find yourself in Dunk’s.  Surprised, you turn again and open the door, stepping through into Dunk’s.  You scramble backwards through the door into Dunk’s.  Staggering to your feet, you turn to the counter.  The same unsmiling girl is there.  One of her eyes is orange, the other pink.
  • Tourists walk through the Granary Burying-Ground, looking for the graves of Sam Adams and Paul Revere.  They don’t question why there are iron gates at the front of the cemetery.  Locals don’t question why the gates look bent outward, as if something had been pushing at them from the inside.
  • You can find the most interesting things in the mud when the snow finally starts to melt at the end of March.  Waterlogged phones.  Stray keys.   Lost earrings.  Human teeth.  Wow.  A lot of teeth, actually.  You know what that means: it’ll be a hot summer this year!
  • You’re used to the reenactors wandering around giving tours.  You don’t think much of it anymore when you see people in tricorn hats or colonial dress.  Those particular ones look a little dingy, though.  Their red coats look old.  There’s mud splashed up their legs.  Where’d they find mud on cobblestones?  Nice job on the muskets, though, they look almost real.  So do the spreading red stains.
  • Oh, the Great Molasses Flood?  When a vat of molasses broke and flooded the North End?  Haha, yes.  Isn’t that funny?  21 people died, you know.  They say on a hot day you can still smell molasses in the North End.  They say that’s definitely what those sticky dark stains on the pavement are.  I wouldn’t even worry about those.
  • The tourists at Plymouth Rock always look disappointed.  It’s so small and unassuming.  They expected more.  You walk past them on your way to get an ice cream.  As you walk back, you notice there are fewer tourists.  The rock looks bigger, though.
  • The electronic signs on the highway are amusingly self-aware.  “Be smaht, buckle up.”  “Use yah blinkah.”  The further you go down the pike the funnier they get.  “Wicked bad storm comin’.”  “The dahkness waits foah no one.  Make sure yah sͥ̅t̆ảy̽͂̒̒͂ ̿̈ͬͨ̐aͦ̀w͂̑̑̆̒a͗̿ͪ̅̑͊keͣͤ͗̓.”    “Hͫͨͤ̑ͬͣe̓ͯ̔ ̔îͭͦ̚s̑ͩ̈ͫ ̒̌͂ͮͩ̇͆c̉ͩ̽õ̉ͬ̏̇ͧm̎̿ͣͣ̐ͫ̄i͗̚n̉̈̐́͊gͩͩͤ.͋̋ ͫͯ͗̈́̅ ̒̌̈H̍ͤeͮ̆͑̐̓̏ͦ ͌ͯ͛̒̚ĭ̐̄̍̀s̀ͥ̿ͥ͂̚ cͦ͊ͧo͛̿̄̑͗m̤͓͕͇̜̃̑ͬͩͫ̒ͬī̫̥͙̖͓̎̊n͇͔ͮgͨ͆̈.̫̬͔͕̅ ͇͚̝͙̩ ̱̒̄̐ͦͫ̍̅Hͤ̇͗̿ͭ҉̰͚̣Ȩ̤̭̳͖͖̫̩ ̶̻̦̻̳̝̮̯I̜̟S̺͍̼̯͔ ̜̻̲͓̝̳͎̆ͩ͒͊͌͢H͚̣ͯE̳̪͋͑ͧ͂͂A͓͖̙̤̾ͫH̑ͅ”

anonymous asked:

OK so I'm in love with your Trans!Isak headcanons Do you have any that focus on him coming out as Trans to the boy Squad? I hc that Jonas already knows but how do you think Magnus and Mahdi found out?

hallaa! i’m so glad you like them 😍! here r some more, just cause you asked. 

  • isak is nervous
  • hell, when isak not nervous?
  • it’s become something of a common theme, he supposes
  • anxiety surges in his veins, plunges in his gut and claws at his throat
  • his binder is tight; almost too tight, constricting his lungs and blooming bruises along his ribcage
  • a warm, slender hand snaps him out of it
  • squeezes the nerve-endings out of him, makes him exhale into may air
  • it’s still chilly in oslo
  • chilly enough for a jacket and, if they’re lucky, a scarf 
  • nevertheless, even loves wearing layers; something the shorter had learned early on in their once-catastrophic relationship
  • he was kind of like a reptile
  • the duo are meeting with the rest of the boys today
  • they’re supposed to meet up at this dingy little bakery mahdi frequented since he was a kid, something about the promise of homeliness screaming inside isak’s guts and making him squirm
  • when they arrive, isak is hit with the smell of fresh dough and lavender
  • an odd combination, surely, but it fits the quaint shop
  • there’s cracks in the walls covered by colourful flora and long, thorny vines, and mold on the floorboards painted over with swirls of purples and whites
  • even must be going wild, the artist that he is
  • the boys are already here, voices loud against the clanking of china and the soft acoustic wafting through the speakers 
  • all in all, it’s one the most comfortable places isak’s ever been in, and he reckons, momentarily, that it could soften the blow; if only a little bit
  • navigating to the rather rowdy table, even clears his throat, playing with his boyfriend’s fingers comfortingly
  • ‘‘hey!’‘ mahdi and magnus chorus in unison, standing up abruptly so as to smother the two in much needed hugs
  • jonas stays back, presumably to give the younger blond space, a knowing look in warm eyes and a furrowed brow
  • ‘you okay?’ he mouths
  • ‘fine,’ isak responds, quite weakly, humming under his breath and taking his spot next to the aforementioned brunette 
  • ‘‘we already ordered for you guys. two bear claws for even, and a cupcake for isak,’‘ magnus announces proudly, grin big and wide and oh, isak wishes he could smile back, wishes there wasn’t a dull roar in his organs 
  • swallowing, the boy lets out a soft murmur of thanks, eyes glued to intertwined digits
  • ‘‘isak,’‘ jonas begins
  • the latter quirks a brow, gaze wandering to a corresponding concerned one, all thick eyelashes and pale skin
  • ‘‘isak,’’ he says, again, firmer this time, as though comforting him in that quiet way of his, to which the boy is grateful
  • ‘‘so, uh, i have–i have something to tell you all.’’
  • ‘‘okay, shoot,’‘ mahdi says around a mouthful of red velvet cake, lips covered in frosting
  • magnus lets out a noise of agreement
  • ‘‘right, um–well, i’m–i’m transgender. a transgender guy.’‘ 
  • swallowing the last mouthful of his treat, mahdi wipes his mouth, hesitates once, twice; smiles
  • ‘‘thanks for telling us, bro. anyway, did you do your lit homework last night? i couldn’t get past the first fucking question!’‘
  • raising a rather confused brow, the blond breathes, ‘’you’re not mad?’’
  • ‘‘mad? why would we be mad? sure, it’s gonna take a little getting used to, but you’re still a guy. sometimes, certain guys have to let people know they’re guys,’’ magnus pipes up this time, smiling a nice, magnus sort of smile, one that’s soft around the edges and quiet in the shadow
  • ‘‘yeah, true,’‘ mahdi hums
  • ‘‘like, we never doubted you were a real boy, ‘cause you are one, ‘course, but telling or reminding us doesn’t hurt, either. you’ve just got different parts, and that’s chill. just means no more dick jokes.’‘
  • isak’s eyelashes are wet at this point, throat numb as he swallows thick tears because holy shit, how did he get so lucky?
  • even presses a reassuring kiss to his temple, and rubs soothing circles into his knuckles as they wait for their order, conversation like white noise in his ears 
  • truthfully, he hadn’t expected this, especially from magnus, of all people
  • magnus who, when prompted, went off about how hot ‘’two girls in action’’ were
  • nevertheless, his friend was apparently lot more educated than he knew
  • the more you know, really
  • ‘‘good job choosing this place, mahds,’‘ even grins
  • isak agrees

Peggy moves apartments like every season, but Joan gets married, has a kid, has her mother comes to live with her, and becomes a millionaire AND SHE’S STILL STUCK IN THE SAME DINGY LITTLE TWO BEDROOM APARTMENT SHE HAS IN SEASON ONE!