lurkdusoleil  asked:

Zimbits, sphallolalia

[flirtatious talk that leads nowhere. alternate universe.]

Jack slides into his seat at the far end of the counter the same way he’s done every day for the past week.  He’d told himself when he first stepped through the door of Martha’s Inn and Café that it was just another stop on his round of the town he’d call home for the next month, and that had been true at the time.

At the time, though, he hadn’t yet met Eric. He’d sat at the counter and taken his time with the menu set in front of him, shoulders hunched and head ducked beneath the brim of his hat.  Jack had done his best to look as small as possible—a feat—and decided that he liked the overall atmosphere of Martha’s—warm, welcoming, laid-back, full of soft chatter and laughter that filtered in from the kitchen—as well as the simple menu. Coffee had been poured and cream and sugar offered.  Jack had eaten and been ready to pay and leave when the door to the kitchen had tipped open and Martha’s had gotten much brighter.

Eric slips through the kitchen door now.  Jack’s heart skips.

Eric’s wearing shorts this morning beneath his apron. There’s nothing particularly scandalous about them, but Jack can see the light catch on the golden hair at Eric’s calves, can see the tender skin at the back of his knees.  Paired with the t-shirt whose collar dips just low enough to reveal the soft hollow of Eric’s throat and Jack’s a goner.

This is the reason he’s been back at Martha’s every day for the last week.  This right here.  Eric Bittle turning to him with wide, warm eyes and a flashing smile and a dusting of summer freckles that make Jack’s fingers itch.

He wraps them around his coffee mug instead.

“Morning,” Eric says, sidling along the counter until he’s standing in front of Jack.  He leans forward, forearms braced.

“Morning, Eric.”  Jack sips his coffee, forcing himself to take his time, reminding himself to return Eric’s smile but not too eagerly.  “Something I can do for you?”

Eric’s smile widens.  “Isn’t that my line, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“Is it?” Jack asks.  “I thought yours was, ‘Have you tried the peach cobbler yet?’”

“Have you?”  Eric straightens, fingers on the counter instead of his forearms.  Jack breathes a little easier at the added space between them and pretends he isn’t disappointed.  “I made it fresh this morning, and I swear to all that is good on this green earth, Jack, you will never taste anything better.”

Jack hums, eyes following the way Eric’s bangs slip across his forehead and the easy flick that flips them back.  “Never been much for peaches.”

“Never been much for—”  Eric gapes at him.  It makes Jack chuckle, which earns him narrowed eyes and a carefully pursed mouth. “Shut up and drink your coffee.  I’ll be back with the cobbler.”

Doing as he’s told, Jack settles into his seat and does his best to ignore the way his heart races when Eric mumbles something about luck and how pretty Jack is.

It’s been a week.  Jack only has three more.

And yet…

Three Words More

Author’s Note: Mulder’s behavior in Three Words is…well, he’s an asshole, for lack of a better description. I’ve always felt that there was a lot of potential there to explore the feelings of isolation, depression, and betrayal Mulder must have been dealing with, but the way he was portrayed in that episode, he really just came off as a jerk to a very pregnant Scully.  It was sloppy writing, and the fact that TPTB still wanted to play coy with who the baby’s father was asinine. So here’s some much-needed context.  As always, a million hugs and smoochies to my best friend and beta-extraordinaire, @piecesofscully.


Scully shifted Mulder’s half-empty duffel bag to her other shoulder and turned the key, the lock sliding away like the sound of a guillotine.  Mulder slipped by her, not bothering to take the bag from her.  She tried to ignore the pang of annoyance that flared within her as he brushed past.  The bag wasn’t heavy, but the fact that he didn’t take it from her, had allowed her to carry it up from the car, irked her.  He’d been so solicitous of her before…before.  From the outset of their partnership, Mulder had treated her as an equal, had trusted her to hold her own as an agent and as his partner, but his rigid New England-bred gallantry had always managed to shine through in small, charming ways.  She was so used to him holding the door open for her, guiding her gently with a hand rooted to the small of her back, hoisting both of their bags from the baggage carousel, that for him not to perform this small act of chivalry stung her more deeply than she cared to admit.  Just last week he was dead and buried, she silently chastised herself. She could carry his damn bag for him for once. The baby kicked at her ribs, and she grimaced.  Mulder didn’t notice.

Watching Mulder walk through his living room, the planes and angles of his body at once so familiar and so unexpected, she swallowed past her irritation, convincing herself that her frustration was just a surge of hormonal irrationality. She strode past him and set his bag down just inside his bedroom door.  The smell of Pine-Sol hung cloyingly in the air, and the dark wood of his furniture glowed in the mid-afternoon sun that shone through the open blinds, a few dust motes swirling in the wake of his careful inventory.  

“Must feel good to be home,” she said softly, when his silence was suddenly too much.  

“Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally, spinning in a slow circle, his eyes raking over his earthly possessions. “Something looks different.”  He still hadn’t met her eyes.

Scully chuffed, willing herself not to cry, and squeezed her eyes shut as tears pricked them.  It’s exactly the same, Mulder, she thought. It’s exactly the same as when you walked out that door six months ago. Your suits are still hanging in the closet.  The same stupid movie we were too busy making love to be watching is still in the VCR. Your rent is paid through the end of this year.  Your credit cards are still sending you statements, despite zero balances, because I paid them off and couldn’t bring myself to cancel them.  Your wallet is still sitting on the coffee table, for God’s sake.  I didn’t give up on you.  Can’t you see that?  “It’s clean,” she said instead. 

“Ah…that’s it.”  He walked over to the fish tank and peered in. “Missing a molly.” 

She felt her heart start to hammer.  “Yeah. She wasn’t as lucky as you.” Sensing her mounting despair, the baby shifted within her.  Scully studied him intently as he turned towards her, finally, and perched nonchalantly on the edge of his desk.  He folded his arms, looking at her expectantly, his eyes sweeping over her quickly from head to toe, pausing for a split-second on her stomach before he looked down at the ground again quickly.  

He hadn’t touched her once since he’d finally wrenched himself unsteadily from his hospital bed with the help of the occupational therapist.  After he’d been discharged from the hospital, he’d visibly flinched and pulled his hand away from hers when she’d tried to interlace their fingers as they walked out to the car.  He’d barely strung more than three words together during the five-hour drive back from North Carolina, except to remark that the Thai place on 14th Street was gone, and then again to vehemently and vocally resist her gentle prodding to stop by one of his favorite old delis for a Rueben and an iced tea for lunch.  

He hadn’t said one word about the baby, studiously avoiding her midsection when he did actually look at her.  She wondered briefly if he hadn’t done the math.  Surely, he knew…he must know.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hi ! Can you write please, about sansa and jon having a secret relationship because he is their foster brother . And everyone learn their relationship because one day jon has an accident and when he woke up the first thing he ask is "where is sansa ?" .

Thanks for this prompt! I’ve been wanting to try my hand at a modern au for a while and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Hope you like it!


Jon and Sansa were never close as children. She was Taylor Swift and cheer tryouts and he was Hozier and staying late in the library.

Her father and mother constantly reminded her: Jon was part of the family now. Ever since his mother died in that car accident when he was eight and his father’s family showed no willingness to take him in.

“Why can’t you just make an effort, San?” Robb would ask her. “He’s a great guy, if only you got to know him.”

“It’s not like I don’t like him,” Sansa huffed reading over her chemistry text book at the dining room table. “It’s just not exactly like we have anything in common.”

Jon for his part, didn’t exactly put in a huge amount of effort with Sansa either. Whether he thought her shallow, or he just didn’t have time for his best friend’s younger sister, he certainly wasn’t about to go out of his way to forge a deep, sisterly bond with her the way he had Arya.

“Why do you hate her so much?” the younger Stark daughter asked him one day, leisurely munching an apple on his bed as he typed up an essay at his desk.

Jon sighed and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not that I hate her,” he replied. “She’s just … not the same as you and me, you know?”

Keep reading

For @gladlybeyondanyxperience, who requested a fic about Bar Harbor.

***
He took her to Bar Harbor because they had time and money. New England made him feel calm inside, the quiet dignity of covered bridges and circumspect WASPs who asked few questions. It was the closest thing he had to a home, and returned to it in exile.

He showed her Cadillac Mountain, the crimson sails of the Margaret Todd. They ate lobster rolls and spoke only of small matters, letting the big ones ride for a time.

“I could live in Maine,” she said one night. They were walking along Firefly Lane, Scully slouched with her hands in her pockets. She wore his sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled back twice. “I came once before, do you remember?”

He thought for a moment. “Was that case with the, uh, the doll?”

“Though it wasn’t supposed to be a case. It was supposed to be a vacation.” She shook her head in remembered annoyance.

He shrugged. “What can I say? You’re marked, Scully. An irresistible siren to the arcane and obscure. A beacon among the dark sea of indifferent souls.”

She considered him, her nose wrinkled. “It would certainly explain a few things.”

“Like me?”

Scully looped his arm through his, steering him onto the village green. “Especially you,” she said.

They sat on a bench in the gazebo, Scully’s nose full of the briny scent of the sea. She was hungry for something, but unsure of what it was anymore.

Mulder regarded her beneath the ambient glow of streetlamps, and knew better than to think of the golden ring of light on her head as a halo. She deserved more than to be cast as an angel. She did not have to save him.

There was laughter down the street, the drone of cicadas. Across the grass, a couple ambled behind a pair of Shelties.

“There must must be some good ghosts here, Mulder,” she said after a time. “Tell me a story.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

She waved her hand, only the fingertips visible. “We approach the witching hour, Mulder. Enchantment is afoot.”

Scully drew her feet under her, curling against the safe weight of his body. She looked up at him expectantly.

He pulled her closer, and she tucked her head against his shoulder. Mulder stroked her hair, spoke to her about the two women who haunted the Cleftstone Inn.

“Well told as ever,” she murmured.

“Thanks.”

Silence for a time, then her hunger moved her to speak. “I chose this,” she said to him. “ Always remember that I chose it.”

He nodded, bathing himself in her light.

right so instead of helping solve the latest clue i wrote this. lol, hope you enjoy guys


They’d find him.

This was all taking a surprising amount of effort.

To be fair, the folks in this dimension were actually pretty good at this whole riddle/puzzle/cipher thing. It’s what attracted his attention in the first place–not only did he have a physical body trapped here, but someone had written his story like some sort of intensely mislead or maybe self-destructive prophet. The fans drew his sigils everywhere. Wore them. Venerated them.

“DON’T SHAKE HIS HAND,” some of the fandom shouted. Many of the very same then immediately stating exactly how they wanted to be the one to shake his hand.

It was hilarious (how dumb they all were).

There was a fucking army out to find him. Hirsch was supremely helpful, especially for someone who honestly thought that strange stone statue he and his twin had found on accident in their youth was just someone’s idea of a joke or a prank of some sort. But Hirsch had some degree of distrust surrounding him. Not enough that the #CipherHunt didn’t exist, but enough that he had shuddered away at the thought of shaking the statue’s hand for a couple decades.

Ah well, Bill’d seeded the rest in the back of his dreams, Hirsch’d told at least part of Bill’s story, and now here they were. A scavenger hunt full of devotees ready to shake his hand and claiming they’d free him for free.

So Bill waited. Patiently. Well, okay, impatiently at having been slowly swallowed by a forest, fluctuating between multiple dimensions but just as frozen for more than a decade.

It hadn’t been that long, in the greater span of things, but he’d spent decades trapped in the second dimension. Being trapped like this in a different dimension was like a slightly renovated version of that hell.

But now they were all on the final clue, fans worldwide trying to figure it all out.

All he had to do was wait.

Once Upon a Time

This is a fill for a prompt that is so old I actually can’t find it anymore in my inbox. I’m sorry! But better late than never, I hope. The prompt was: Will and Hannibal, dancing


*

The ballroom was floored with Carrera marble. A poor choice for dancing, but it gleamed prettily in the soft lights, so he kept it. He also kept the elegant sweep of other couples, the gleam of diamonds and crystal. He upgraded the chamber orchestra to a far finer one, but kept the Dvorak. 

He rarely recast his memories, finding it false and displeasing when there was so much to enjoy in the world. But today had not been a good day. A ballroom in Florence, then, with his preferred partner.

Will had never stepped onto this floor, but Hannibal conjured him now behind closed eyes. They were closed often, these days. Little to open them for. 

Will led him with light, the very lightest, suggestions, with his hand correctly at Hannibal’s waist. Would Will know the steps of the waltz? Hannibal doubted it, but he gladly supplied him with that skill now, and re-figured his own steps into the woman’s part. They moved together in perfect union. A striking couple.

Keep reading

falling-crimson-memories  asked:

Yoonseok for the ship thing. :3

  • who holds the umbrella when it rains

it depends, honestly, but hoseok’s usually the one holding the umbrella by sheer virtue of the fact that he’s taller. yoongi’s usually the one to have an umbrella on him when it rains though – although neither of them usually do, so more often then not, they get stuck ducking into shops during storms and both get soaked.

  • who is the grumpiest in the morning

neither of them are morning people, but Yoongi is less of a morning person – by which we mean he needs two cups of way-too-sweet-to-be-called-coffee concoction before he’s speaking in more than grunts.

  • who worries more when the other is sick/hurt

Hoseok’s more prone to sickness and it never fails to send Yoongi into low-key frenzy of like – bugging Jin for homemade soup and buying a fuckton of meds and creating basically a panic-room except for sick people. He’s super bossy about Hoseok resting and not pushing himself too hard and sits in the same room as Hoseok with his laptop, working, for basically a week straight, getting up occasionally to check Hoseok’s temperature and pet his hair and give him water.

Having said that, Yoongi getting sick is probably worse because he won’t acknowledge it until he’s pretty much unable to move or do anything and even then he tries to pretend that he’s fine and Hoseok basically has to strap him in place during the day when he’s at work or dance class. Finally, Hoseok realizes that blowjob bribes are more-or-less the only way to get Yoongi to sit the fuck still and actually get better.

  • who plays pranks on the other

Neither of them is particularly into physical pranks but Hoseok tends to tell really awful jokes and like… puns while holding the kimchi he just bought and Yoongi tends to laugh and/or swat him for it.

  • who is always the first to suggest cuddling on the sofa

They don’t so much suggest it as taking turns collapsing on top of each other and that turning into cuddling.That they do in almost equal measure, just depending on who’s exhausted and who’s already sitting on the couch. But, most nights that Yoongi isn’t living in the studio or attached to his laptop, working, end up in them cuddling and also lots of kisses.

  • who insists on creating nicknames for the other

Hoseok calls Yoongi any manner of things that are not his name, honestly. Usually the thing that they have in common is that they’re a play on sweet things because Hoseok’s always enjoyed making fun of him for “Suga”. So, Yoongi has to deal with “honey” and “sweetie” and “cinnamon cream puff” while Hoseok smirks at him. Their friends don’t really know about exactly how far it’s gone until one day Hoseok calls Yoongi “Peppermint White Mocha” in front of them and they all stare at the two of them, dumbfounded.

  • who drools on the other when they’re asleep

Hoseok is in the habit of falling asleep on Yoongi’s shoulder on the couch, still sweaty from dancing, while Yoongi’s on his laptop. By the time Yoongi gets up to move them both into the bedroom, there’s usually something of a wet spot on his shoulder from Hoseok, but it’s honestly fine, so he just doesn’t really mention it.

  • who says ‘I love you’ first

In a wholly unexpected turn of events, Yoongi. It kind of just slips out when Yoongi’s really not thinking about it – he’s in the middle of producing a song and Hoseok drops off dinner and kisses him and Yoongi barely glances at him except that as Hoseok’s walking away he hears a mumbled “I love you” from behind him. He doesn’t double take, but he does break out into a huge-ass grin and waits for Yoongi to realize what he’s said. (He does, eventually, realize, but when Hoseok brings it up, he doesn’t take it back, just blushes.)

Love and Coffee

A fill for the “kitchen fun” square on my stevetony bingo card.


The once full of Avengers Tower stood empty.

Tony lived there, of course, because it was his home. But Steve still felt like a guest on a quick visit until he found another place to live in.

There were no Avengers after Wanda—Steve didn’t want to think about it. The Avengers were gone and that was it.

A part of him delayed flat hunting; he didn’t want to be alone and he didn’t want to leave Tony both. Steve suspected Tony wasn’t dealing with the Avengers disassembling any better than Steve himself.

They’d have to talk about it, eventually, but it was too soon. For both of them.

Steve sighed and started preparing his morning coffee. He was fully aware the scent would bring Tony Stark from the dead, much less the restless sleep he was getting lately, so he made a double portion already; the way Tony liked it, rich and deep. Steve would just add milk and sugar to his own mug later.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long until Tony walked in the kitchen, clad in only his pyjamas pants. They hung low on his hips, as if he was losing weight. It was also evident in the visible line of his ribs, in how thin his wrists seemed.

Steve felt a pang in his heart. He should’ve—done something. He wasn’t sure. Tony was an adult man, he knew how to take care of himself . . . it was just that sometimes it didn’t seem like he wanted to.

Steve wanted to hug him, but settled for pouring him a full mug of hot coffee.

Tony basically inhaled it, and then stick his hand holding the now empty mug in Steve’s direction. Steve obediently refilled it.

Tony smiled. “I think I love you,” he said, and drank the other mug, much more slowly.

Keep reading

Dean suspected that the odd boy sitting next to him in history was meant to be proper. The sweater vest and khakis kinda gave it away. But it was the little details that said otherwise. Like how his dark hair always looked like he shoved his fingers into an electrical outlet and he lived to tell the tale. Or how one of his shirt tails of his button up always slipped out of his pants. Or how his socks never seemed to match. One was currently blue and the other yellow.

“Do you have a problem with my socks?”

Dean looked up startled at the boy in question, his hand still floating above the question sheet they were supposed to be working on.

The boy, Castiel, Dean recalled, squinted down at his socks, twisting his ankles to see.

“Uh, sorta. They don’t match,” Dean answered, blushing slightly that he was caught.

“Yes, they do,” Castiel answered matter-of-factly.

What? “Buddy, one is clearly blue and the other one is yellow.”

“Different colours don’t mean they don’t match, Dean Winchester.”

Dean could only stare. This guy may be nuts.

Castiel smiled and twisted around on his seat so he was facing Dean fully. “Look.” He pulled up the cuff of his pants. “This one has bees and this one has flowers. Bees are attracted to flowers. To collect pollen. To make honey.”

This was not cute. This was not cute.

Dean bit back a smile, but it must have looked like he was constipated.

Castiel’s own smile dimmed and his blue eyes became downcast. “You don’t like them?”

“You can’t be this cute! You’re not really this cute, right?” Dean hissed.

Castiel blushed faintly as Dean tried to ignore the giggle coming from Charlie, his best friend, sitting behind him.

“I mean, really? Bees socks? You’re killing me, man.”

Castiel smiled at his feet, “This is how I am. I can’t help it.”

“Jeezus.” Dean couldn’t believe how adorable this kid was. He was amazing. “Go out with me, Cas? This weekend? I’ll get my dad to lend me his car.”

Castiel titled his head and Dean nearly had a heart attack.

“You wish to take me out?” He blinked his large blue eyes. “All right, Dean Winchester. I will allow you to woo me this weekend. I look forward to it,” Cas smiled one last time at him before turning back around to do his work.

“Smooth, Winchester. Very smooth,” Charlie muttered.

Dean could only grin at his work. He had only admiring the frazzled look of the boy sitting next to him, and now he had a date with a frazzled boy who also happened to be very cute. Nice.


inspired by the adorable commission I still can’t get over by @diminuel!

anonymous asked:

Maybe married Jon and Sansa with "When I wake up I’m afraid somebody else might take my place" after he comes back from the fight with the White Walkers?

Prompt from here.

❝When I wake up I’m afraid somebody else might take my place.❞

Jon dreams of Sansa every night, happy and surrounded by children and flowers and songs. He knows these summer visions won’t be fulfilled until the winter ends and the sun shows itself again, but still he hopes for his wife to be only ever joyful. 

He fights the darkness, the flaming sword in his hands shining just as bright as the burning fire in his eyes. They beat the Others back with dragons and black daggers. When the last man of ice falls and the light creeps over the horizon, Jon smiles for the first time since he left Winterfell all those moons ago. Finally, he can go back home to her now, and leave this nightmare that is his life. 

Yet he returns broken and shattered. So many of his brothers-at-arms died; his aunt perished besides him. When he sees Sansa he collapses in a fit of flowing tears and shattered memories, shaking in her arms.

“I want you to be happy.” He tells her, over and over again. Happiness is not a gift he is sure he can give. Not while he is a broken man, and Jon is sure he will be a broken man forever. 

But Sansa places her body flush against his, puts his hands across her rounding stomach. “I am.”

He presses kisses against her forehead, over and over, thankful for the joy she brings. Sansa loves him, the warrior of the Dawn, the prince that was promised, but most of all she loves her broken man. Jon is Jon and will love her always, and she will always love him. She tells him this and more, holding him tight in their bed. 

They name their child after the fallen queen, and Jon wakes up to his beautiful wife at his side every morning all worries shot away.

anonymous asked:

okay but what if one day bucky n the reader are lying in bed cuddling and she brings up kids and bucky gets all scared but like he wants to have them,, hes just afraid of hurting them or what theyll think of him

Title: I Do

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Reader 

Words: 856

Warnings: angst-ish, fluff, swearing, mentions of children, lack of self worth

A/N: Wow, I really loved this request! I love the thought of the Avengers having kids, so I added Steve having a daughter too. I hope you like it! :)

Originally posted by assetandmission

Sometimes lying beside you in the early morning hours, Bucky can see it. He sees you experiencing symptoms, your wide smiles when the test comes back positive. He can see your belly swell, a little part of both of you growing inside you each day. He can see it all. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t scare the shit out of him.

Today was one of those mornings. You, your hair splayed against the pillows, mouth slightly ajar, arms twisted in the covers lay completely unaware of his fond gaze, head swarming of babies. Glancing away from you, he checked the clock; 6:30, you’d be waking in a half hour to go to work, and selfishly hoping to steal a few kisses, Bucky slipped his hands around your waist, pulling you to his chest. 

You groaned, smashing your face into his night shirt, frustrated by the harsh rays of sunlight, “What the fuck?” 

“Good morning to you too, sweetheart.” 

You peeked at him through one eye and threw your middle finger in the air at his entirely too chipper expression, “Why am I not still sleeping, asshole?” 

You never were a morning person, Bucky mused. “For a good reason, doll.” he smirked, puckering his lips in your direction, “I want a kiss.” 

“Nope, morning breath.” you teased, pushing him farther away. You didn’t mean it, you’d kissed him a million times without brushing your teeth, but it was fun to mess with him.

A slow smile came across his face, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “Okay.”

You arched your eye brow, “Okay?”

“I’ll just tickle it out of you.” Before you could react, his body was already on top of you, holding you down as his fingers dug into your sides. Through peals of laughter you begged, “Stop, Buck! Please, please!” 

His hands only moved faster, “Will you kiss me if I do?” 

“Y-yes! Yes, I swear!” You squealed, you’d agree to anything to make him stop. He immediately stopped, moving his hands to cup your cheeks as he teased, “I knew you’d come around, doll.” 

“Uh-huh.” You hummed, murmuring against his lips, “Are you gonna kiss me or not, Barnes?” Bucky ignored your sass and pressed his lips to yours, quickly maneuvering his tongue past your lips. You smiled, damn, could he kiss. He was gentle this morning, his lips were soft against yours, his kisses slow. Your toes curled at his sweet assault, arms tightening around his neck. His kisses were intoxicating, your mind was a fog, but one thing was clear; you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Slowly, he pulled away and peppered quick pecks on your face and neck, but you were too distracted to respond with anything than a smile. Why couldn’t you stop thinking about it- did he think about it? Maybe you could talk to him. Yeah, you could talk to him; he was your boyfriend after all, you trusted him with everything.

So while you both lay entangled together, facing each other, he softly grinning at you, you blurted it out, “I want to have kids someday.” You mentally face palmed at your bluntness. His face dropped and his eyes flitted around the room nervously. That could’ve went a lot smoother.

Bucky swallowed thickly, mumbling, “Okay.” You could feel the panic coming off of him in waves. Your heart broke a little at the thought of him not wanting to have kids- it was something you wanted, especially with him. You knew he’d be an excellent father; he was kind, patient, and absolutely doted on Steve’s daughter Sarah, always asking if he could watch her- he was pretty much made to be a father. 

“I-,” he paused, trying to find the words, “I don’t think I can, Y/N. I don’t think I should even if I want to.” 

“What? Why?” You cooed, smoothing back his hair, “Bucky you’d make a fantastic father.” 

He scoffed and shook his head, avoiding your eyes as tears welled in his, “Why? I’m a monster- I could hurt them, because that’s what I do, Y/N, I hurt people.” 

His confession felt like a knife to your heart, “Oh, James,” you sighed, eyes stinging, “You are not a monster, the people that took you, forced you to do terrible things are the monsters.” 

Bucky choked back a sob, “And what will they think about the terrible things I’ve done?” 

You felt your own tears sliding down your cheeks, “They’d be proud of who you are today, they’ll love you for who you are, for your strength to overcome Hydra. They’ll know that it wasn’t your fault because that wasn’t you.”

He stayed silent so you kept going, “You deserve to be so happy, Bucky. Let yourself be happy.” 

He’d stopped crying, eyes red, but managed to give you a smile, “I want to have kids with you. Have little Y/N’s and Bucky’s running around- I want to watch them grow with you. That would make me happy.” 

“You do?” You laughed breathlessly, feeling ecstatic.

That same fond smile he often wore when looking at you worked it’s way onto his face, “I do.”

Caesura

Chapter 2: Blue

Caesura /sɪˈzjʊərə/ n. In poetry, a rhythmic pause in a poetic line or a sentence where the reader stops to breathe.

England, 1915, the world is having a war to end all wars. But, in the midst of the nightmare that seems to encompass their every hour, two people find one another and learn to how to breathe again.

(WW1 War Artist AU)

rated T | words: 4.2k | Prologue | Chapter 1ffnet | ao3


The sun is halfway up the sky when he finally gives in and goes to the hospital. His arm wrapped in an old shirt, his bootlaces sloppily tied, the walk to the hospital is a nightmare. Every step, every movement bringing a sharp shot of pain up his arm.

He hadn’t bled at first, the stubborn pulsing pain of his wound only getting louder, more insistent. But as he had begun to clear his small area of work, not much less stubborn himself, he’d watched as a single drop of the deepest red fell from his arm into his bowl of alcohol, the colour blooming into a wide disc between the swirling deep blues and rich purples of his painting.

The pain had turned piercing then, the old sharp stab of breaking skin and blood welling where a cut had opened. Unable to control or staunch the exacerbated ache, he’d put on a coat and begun to walk.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Adoribull prompt from Christina Rossetti's Goblin MArket "We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?"

I love this poem and this line is so gloriously creepy thank you

Adoribull, T, 2701

pre-relationship, Dorian dealing with internal prejudices


His hands. Strong and scarred, missing fingers, knuckles always bruised, palms calloused. Thick, muscular wrists and arms corded with muscle. Spidering silver lines and wider gashes, skin shifting over wide shoulders.

A broad chest, a strong heart, lungs made for bellowing: laughter, battle cries. He couldn’t be soft, that would be too much.

His face, sharp, lined and pitted from years of battle. The missing eye; a story often told, a small price to pay. What would it be like to be valued? To be worth blood, pain, just as he is?

The other eye. Quick, bright, piercing. Intelligent. He’s been caught staring. Of course he has.

“Like what you see, ‘Vint?”

His first instinct is no, vehement and defensive. His first instinct is to look away. Savage, murderous. Hasn’t he seen the Bull’s brothers and sisters murder soldiers on the beaches of Tevinter? Hasn’t the Iron Bull himself cleaved a man’s head from his shoulders in front of his eyes? That this was in Dorian’s defense is irrelevant. 

“I was just wondering if you were aware of the spider entrails on your pants. They’re hard to see against the… pattern… but I assure you I can smell them just fine.”

The Iron Bull laughs. Jovial, loud. He slaps his leg, and looks at his hand.

“Ah, you’re right. Guess I’ll go jump in the river real quick.”

“But it’s freezing!”

“We’ve got a fire. Should dry pretty quick. I could take ‘em off, if you want a show.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He turns back to his staff. Polishing, he thinks, and is glad it’s dark enough to hide the heat on his cheeks. Why is he reduced to stuttering adolescence? He’s been taught… but so many truths he thought were immutable have been proven worse than false.

It’s not youthful rebellion. It’s gone on too long to be morbid curiosity. It’s bordering dangerously on infatuation.

The Iron Bull leaves the wavering circle of firelight, splashing in the nearby stream. Dorian scrapes his whetstone down the blade of his staff. Varric snores.

Why this? Why him? Surely, Dorian could find a more fitting recipient for his…. interests. The Inquisitor, perhaps. Noble, heroic, unattainable.

But he doesn’t want unattainable. He wants attention. He wants a bright eye and wide hands. He wants loud laughter and indiscretion. Stupid of him. He can’t even tell himself that all he wants is exotic thrills and a rough fuck. He wants the Iron Bull, spider guts and beheadings and all.

The Iron Bull returns, dripping. Is it moonlight or Dorian’s own fantasies that makes the droplets glitter?

He wipes the water from his chest, looks at Dorian across the fire. Dorian looks back.

“Better?”

“Acceptable.”

He is beautiful.

Dorian Pavus is accustomed to lying. No one will ever know.

archiveofourown.org
終わりのセラフ | Owari no Seraph | Seraph of the End - Sarah737 - Picture This

UPDATED: Chapter 2

Summary:
When Mikaela Shindo, photographer for a pornstar magazine line, meets rookie pornstar, Yuuichirou Amane, he suddenly finds taking nude pictures a more interesting and difficult endeavour.

The only problem was how to date Yuuichirou without any one finding out.

Somewhere In Indiana Part I: Scully

Words: 796

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Mulder and Scully

When: Somewhere in season 4 or 5, probably (spoiler free)

Synopsis: Scully’s “wishful thinking becomes reality, and, yet again, it is at the worst possible time.”

The constant juxtaposition of the roughness of his actions and the gentleness of his words has kept me hanging here for so many years, always on edge and always aching for more. Busting through doors and holding people at gunpoint, loud voices and accusations… Fox Mulder is anything but tender. And yet when he touches me, when the perpetual warmth of his skin permeates mine, I cannot help but wish he would stay. As soon as he moves away, I feel the coldness of the world sink into my bones again.

Keep reading

bottomkook  asked:

Whispers jikook and sugamon for the ship thing

God, Rae, so demanding :p. Just Jikook for now because this got incredibly out of hand, but I will definitely get to the Sugamon. You know me.

Jikook:

  • who holds the umbrella when it rains 

Jungkook inevitably ends up with the umbrella, but not for lack of protesting from Jimin. Jimin is constantly like “Yah, brat, I’m your hyung, I’ve got it” and Jungkook is like “but your arm isn’t long enough, hyung” and Jimin is kind of annoyed but it is really inconvenient for them to walk together in the rain if Jimin’s the one holding the umbrella. Also, he kind of likes that, if Jungkook’s the one doing the holding, he has an excuse to wrap his arm around Jungkook’s waist as they walk.

  • who is the grumpiest in the morning

Jungkook is nearly impossible to wake up in the morning, but once he’s awake he’s usually awake and goes from half-asleep and grumbling to way-too-hyper in about a minute and a half-flat. Jimin, on the other hand, acts like it’s 7am and he’s just gotten up until it’s like… almost lunch time – he’s all slowly blinking eyes and yawning and stretching and being late to react – and Jungkook takes so much advantage of it, both to bother Jimin and to dote on him. Jungkook brings him tea – Pomegranate is Jimin’s favorite – and Jimin sits in his chair with his palms warm and barely reaching fully around the mug and Jungkook leans against his shoulder while playing Piano Tiles on his phone. Until about 11:30, it’s easy to pretend that it’s just the two of them in their own little world. 

  • who worries more when the other is sick/hurt

Jimin always takes care of Jungkook, so when Jungkook is sick, it’s honestly not that much different – just that Jungkook is clingier than normal and even cuter with his hair ruffled and looking up at Jimin, bleary-eyed, from under 3 blankets. Jimin’s found that he’s a lot more amenable to Jimin’s cooing and cheek pinching when he has a cold and that suddenly he just turns into a giant, whiney cuddle monster who pulls Jimin into bed with him and Jimin has to be like “Ahh, Jungkookah, you’re going to get me sick too”, even though he still indulges Jungkook to no end.

When Jimin’s sick, on the other hand, Jungkook turns into the most mother hen that has ever mother-henned and literally all of the other members make fun of him for it. He rushes around the house gathering supplies and skips dance practice to take care of Jimin and is snarky as hell when Namjoon asks him if he’s coming – “you’re the one that needs extra practice, hyung, not me,” he says – and Namjoon would normally get annoyed at him, but when Jimin’s sick all of Jungkook being an asshole to the rest of them is kind of forgiven in the face of the fact that Jungkook’s, well, worried out of his mind and single-minded to the point of not caring about anything else besides Jimin. It’s kind of cute, honestly.

Of course, then Jimin gets better and he gets to tease Jungkook for like two solid weeks about how overprotective he’d been. In Jimin’s opinion, blushing Jungkook is among the best versions of Jungkook. 

  • who plays pranks on the other

Jungkook tends to steal Jimin’s stuff – his phone, his iPad, sometimes even his wallet – and hide it. Jimin’s always leaving his things around and that just makes it easier and it’s kind of fun to watch Jimin realize he’s lost something yet again and to let Jimin freak out for a minute and then pull it out with a “ta-da”. The thing is, though, that Jungkook gets so giggly when he steals Jimin’s stuff that Jimin gets in the habit of leaving some things around just so that Jungkook will steal them and then attach himself to Jimin’s side for the rest of the day waiting for Jimin to notice what’s missing and to react to it. This way, Jungkook gets his fun and Jimin gets a clingy koala bear of a boyfriend for whole afternoons.

  • who is always the first to suggest cuddling on the sofa

They don’t so much cuddle on the sofa as Jungkook attaches himself to Jimin at various points throughout their day – from wrapping himself around Jimin’s back when Jimin’s brushing his teeth, to crawling into Jimin’s bed at night and tangling their legs together. Neither of them are particularly verbal about cuddles and they’re so used to reaching out for them from each other and receiving them whenever they’re wanted that sometimes it’s almost imperceptible who’s doing the reaching and who’s doing the giving. The hyungs start teasing them for it before they even get together, making fun of the way that Jungkook follows Jimin around like he’s on a leash and the way that they’re constantly on top of each other, but, really, the way that they’ve always been, in terms of physical affection, just gets even easier when the two of them start actually dating.

  • who insists on creating nicknames for the other

Neither of them are particularly into nicknames or pet names, except for the ones that they already have. Like, Jungkook gets “Jungkookie” and “Jungkookah” and “Kookie-ya” when Jimin’s slightly annoyed at him and Jimin mostly just gets “hyung” and “Jiminnie-hyung”. Except, one day Jimin’s got Jungkook spread out over the bed and is jerking him off and Jungkook’s so close and Jimin says to him, “Look at you, baby, you’re gorgeous. Are you enjoying yourself?” and Jungkook comes pretty much as hard as he’s ever come and… well… Jimin creates the only non-obvious nickname, is the point.

  • who drools on the other when they’re asleep

Jimin falls asleep on Jungkook more often and more easily, but Jungkook is the one that sleeps with his mouth open. It’s not so much drool as it is super annoying breathing right into Jimin’s ear and Jimin has to adjust him and try not to let his shoulder fall asleep and brush off Taehyung who’s like, “Bro, just wake him up and make him sleep on the actual headrest”. But, Jimin doesn’t want to, he likes Jungkook and Jungkook takes so long to fall asleep that he really doesn’t want to disturb him until he has to. So, he mostly just deals with the small annoyances in favor of settling into place and letting himself be used as a pillow.

  • who says ‘I love you’ first

The first several times that Jimin says I love you, it’s approximately 85% a joke. Okay, no, that’s a lie, it’s not a joke, but it’s said in such a way that Jimin knows that Jungkook will take it as a joke. “Awww, Jungkookie, hyung loves you!” is not an uncommon phrase and neither is Jimin pointing to his cheek and saying, “Kiss, Jungkookah!” 

That obviously changes a lot as they both get older and the relationship between them turns into something that’s not just hyung and dongsaeng and can’t be joked about in the same way. Then, Jimin pretty much stops using the word “love” altogether, except sometimes on broadcast, and Jungkook feels so bereft without it that he doesn’t know what to do to have that back – even if it’s just teasing, Jungkook misses Jimin saying he loves Jungkook so easily. 

So, he comes up with a plan: he’s going to be subtle and he’s going to get Jimin to say it again – just one more time for now, that’ll be enough. Except, let’s be real, Jungkook is really bad at plans and at emotions and so his plan is to ask Jimin, after teasing the ever-living shit out of him, “Don’t you love me though, hyung?” and having Jimin stare at him, annoyed, and not respond. Jungkook slinks back in defeat to come up with plan two, except that doesn’t work either, and neither does plan three and finally Jungkook just says, “I love you, hyung, why don’t you love me?” And Jimin smiles so wide that Jungkook can’t breathe and says, “Of course I love you, Jungkookie.”

Blaze - YuuMikaYuu Gift Exchange Fic

Ahoy! Here’s my gift for @blueberrynedesu - I hope you like it, dear! :3

Summary:  When Prince Mikaela’s only friend Akane is kidnapped by pirates, he asks for another pirate to help him rescue her. He just never expected this journey would change his whole life.

****

“Mika?”

The prince looks up just as a waitress sets down another drink, and Yuuichirou drinks it slowly this time as he watches Mikaela blink at him.

“Are you so worried about your fiancée?” The pirate asks teasingly, and Mikaela blushes, scowling at him.

“She’s not my fiancée,” He hisses, “She’s my friend.”

Though it’s true that his father had been talking about marrying him with Akane. But he couldn’t even imagine it; Akane is like a sister to him. Marrying her would be weird.

“Whatever you say,” Yuuichirou shrugs, and his eyes gleam again as he stares at Mikaela with desire, and the prince shudders under the pirate’s gaze, “You’re a prince and you’ll eventually get married with a cutie like her, but I am the one who knows how to pleasure you, ain’t I?”

“Can we please get back to topic?” Mikaela doesn’t want to talk about the things they’ve done when they were alone in Yuuichirou’s cabin. He doesn’t want to think about how good it was to feel Yuuichirou’s rough hands on his body, Yuuichirou’s rough lips on his lips… He’s always known he was weird, never finding any interest in women, but to finally do something with another man made it official. He knows now that he’ll never be happy in a marriage with a woman, because what he wants is…

Read More

Dialogues | Ice Cream

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing.”

“It looks like you’re eating ice cream at 2 o’clock in the afternoon with your laptop on your chest and a snuggie wrapped around your head like a turban.”

“My ears get cold.”

“Tim, why is the laptop camera on?”

“Because I’m going to Youtube me eating ice cream and other various things. I’m going to be the new Magibon. She left, and now there is a power vacuum and it is my destiny to eat things in front of the camera.”

“You are not the new Magibon.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re not cute enough to be Magibon.”

“Okay, one, highly offensive thing to say to the new Magibon. Two, Steph thinks I’m cute.”

“Steph, regrettably, is out of her mind. Which is a shame, because I was rooting for her.”

“She went to rehab once, and it was for an undercover mission. And you only like her because she blasts Bruce every once in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s like the portal to heaven opens every time he gets that stupid insulted look on his face. I can hear angels sing~”

“Wipe that smile off your face. Besides, it’s not as if you and Dick don’t do stuff like this.”

“We do not–”

“Kiwi-vodka sauce scrub?”

“…Screw you, Nouveau Magibon.”

“How drunk were you?”

“I wasn’t drunk, and our hands were soft for a month afterward!”

“Grab the nutella.”

“Why are you like this.”

“No spleen, no cares. I’m a happy man, Jason. I’m the Magibon-Man.”

Hey all. I’m still not decided on the next fic before Ultron, but I am working, I swear. 


T'Challa tapped a finger on the windowsill. “May I give you some advice my father gave to me?”

“Sure.”

“He told me many times, for all the things a king must do to rule, such daily things as diplomacy and negotiations, economic policies and foreign affairs, there is one thing that must rule the king — his people. He must always take care of his people. Every decision he makes must be in the service of the people.” T'Challa smiled at her, a sad thing but real. “Take care of your people. That is what you must do. And that is who you will be.”

Darcy let those words settle in her head, then nodded. “I can do that.”

T'Challa sighed and leaned against the sill. “So can I.”

“How do we fix all of this?”

“With time and patience.”

“Do we have enough of either?”

“I surely hope so.”