nail and thread

Man In Uniform {Part 3}

Fandom: Avengers/Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: Nightmares, angst

Writer: @imaginesofeveryfandom aka @thequeenofthehobbits

Summary/Request: James Barnes is the local neighbourhood cop known for saving cats from trees and walking people home at night. It just so happens that he lives in your apartment building, in the apartment across from yours.

Prologue X, Part 1 X, Part 2 X

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The widow’s nest.

@my-girl-is-the-best requested:  Can I request a Natasha x reader smut/fluff?

A/N: I read yesterday a post about how perfect sometimes smut seems. So I wanted to make this fluffy and cuteand, why not? clumsy. So I hope you all enjoy my Natasha fanfic, feel free to join my  Writing challenge 1.4. and send me requests if you want!

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader.

Words: 2,199.

Warnings: Language, Smut, 18+ only.

Originally posted by silent-infernos

The moment you opened your eyes that morning you knew it was a shitty day. You coughed and felt your throat burning and your nose congested. You cursed under your breath and tried to get up, only to fall back under the duvet, cold shivers running over your whole body. Your bones ached as if you had been beaten by one of Tony’s suits.

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an apology only lithium can write

dear Em,


I’m sorry I bothered you
with my bullshit
with my questions
with my pain
I thought you’d be happy
that I reappeared after disappearing
five years ago like a magic trick
gone wrong
maybe I misread the directions
it happens with these things
you know?
every step I’ve taken away from you
is a story I’d rather forget
my inquisitive bombardment
wasn’t meant to sound
your stress raid sirens
you’re the only one who
knows me in the ways
I can no longer live
I’m broken, beautifully
I care, overbearingly
I fucking miss you, abysmally
I thought you missed me too
I understand life sometimes nails you
with thread instead
of throwing a fair pitch
I don’t understand
how easily I was dismissed
like I was some thirsty boy
at the bar instead of the sorry boy
who made a blue blanket with you

the months of poetry I’ve sent
come from five years of words
the best were written
when I didn’t have a pen
I just had a cigarette
a quiet porch
a full moon
you don’t want to hear my voice
I wish you could hear me
so I know you get the message
instead of wondering if you
will ever read this “poetry”
you could’ve called at any time
she would’ve stopped existing
until I made sure your smile
wouldn’t leave your face after
for almost four years
she was a choice between
burnt steak or starvation
so I choked down every bite
the diagnosis
the medication
the alienation
didn’t put me in the hospital
You and Oliver
were sitting in every tree
peeking from cabs of semis
your smiles were in every knife

that’s the thing about
manic depressives
we live years thinking we’re normal
we make mistakes
we fuck up
we burn bridges
then we find out no one is normal
and we keep fucking up
long after the fad has passed
we break mirrors
we get arrested
we drink too much
we spend too much
we cry in showers
we adjust magazine stacks
because it’s fucking annoying
we get pissed at people in public
because we’ve tried so hard
our entire lives to be what society
expects of us
then we run out of luck
we sleep in a cell
one too many times
our friends stop carrying us home
we get fired, fired, fired, fired, fired
we break routines
we push magazines off tables
a gentle smile with a clipboard
tells us that we are aliens
wearing faces of people
we will never be
some of us accept this
taking medicene Google autocorrects
looking up side effects at 3AM
we notice a rash developing
even though we use sensitive skin soap
feel like fucking heroes
when we have a day good enough
to take a shower or eat a fucking
blueberry muffin and a bowl of cereal
some of us finally give in
some of us make a salad
of unpronounceable pills
some of us cut veins
in backyards so no one
needs to clean the mess
some of us decide
if the doctor doesn’t answer
his god damn phone this time
we’ll just leave work
drive into the first tree we see
that can take a third gear
redline down shift from
some of us can’t continue

but my doctor answered
I drove to dim hallways instead

that’s the thing
about manic depressives
apprehension isn’t a word
it’s the air we breathe
the last flakes
of optimism I have
coat my stomach
in the feeling
that this won’t be

the last time
you ignore
my apology


As The Storm Approaches (J.Jones)

PAIRING/S: Reader/Jughead, Reader/Veronica, Betty/Jughead
WARNINGS: Mentions of Depression
WORDS: 874

As The Strom Approaches

YOUR head rests in Veronica’s lap as she stroked your hair, her perfect manicured nails carefully threaded through each strand. You curled into her wishing that this, right here could be your life. Lying with Verconia as she so affectionately consoled you in your time of need, with your big brother sat on the end of the bed not too far away. But instead you were mentally pinning over a boy who would never think of you anymore than a best friend.

It was that time of year again, when your seasonal depression was acting up. Usually around this time, Jughead would be there patiently holding you close and whispering positive things in your ear to make you feel not so down. But this time around it is as if your best friend had completely forgetten about your existence and there was no way in hell you were going to contact him, knowing that interrupting the writer was never good.

Your depression at this time was worse than usual, Jughead’s noticeable absence must have been making a larger impact on you than you originally thought. It wasn’t as if you weren’t glad that Veronica was here, even if you felt extremely bad for putting this on her. But considering shes only been in Riverdale for not even three months, she was taking it like a trooper. This was just the first time in fifteen years that Jughead wasn’t here to help out and it left you feeling quiet hypothetically empty.

Betty and Jughead had been getting overly close the past two months or so. You were never to question their relationship but Archie and yourself had a lowkey bet going on to see who would make the first move. They were both as awkward as one another when it came down to handling their feelings and considering the last time Betty expressed her feelings of longing for the boy she liked cough, Archie Andrews and in return got rejected, your hopes weren’t too high for the poor girl; so you had your bets placed on Jughead.

It was no secret to either Archie or Veroncia, that it pained you to see Jughead so close to Betty, but you had reassured the two that you were perfectly okay, and hopefully on the outside it did infact look like you were, well, up until now that is.

You pretended that it didn’t hurt when he blew off your invite to Pop’s earlier on that night, yet again claiming that he and Betty were working on the Blue and Gold. It wasn’t so bad at first due to fact you know how serious he takes his writing and how large of an infatuation he has with the Jason Blossom case, so you had let it slide because there is always another time. Which is ironically what you have been continuously telling yourself for the past month. When you and Archie decided to go to Pop’s that night without Jughead for what he’d like to call, ‘Sibling Bonding’ and came across both Betty and Jughead sitting across for each other, in Jughead’s booth, sharing a plate of fries (which is very un-Jughead like). Jughead was sat without his iconic laptop anywhere in sight, and yes you were hurt now more than ever before.

“Hey, V?” You looked up at her, lying on your bed in her silk pajamas.

“What’s up Y/N/N?” Her voice was quiet and sweet, she sent you a small sad smile. You glanced down at your hands before turning back to her with a sigh.

“I miss Jughead.” You pause to take in a breathe. “I just-why am I never good enough?” You whispered into her shirt, gripping the material for life. Archie had fallen asleep a little while ago so Veroncia had turned the movie off and you were both lying in silence. “I-I don’t blame either of them because i know it can’t be helped. And I love Betty, shes one of my best friends. But it hurts.”

“Its allowed to hurt Y/N, there isn’t anything wrong with feeling hurt. I know your hating yourself more because you think you’re being selfish, but its okay to feel.” You let out a loud sigh after you took in her words. With a roll of your eyes and a scoff you said,

“Well, I really wish I couldn’t.” The slight breeze from the window swept through your room, and shook the large tree outside your window. The sound of the leaves ruffling caught your attention and you watched the shadow on your wall.

Listening to the quiet of the night and the feeling of fresh air you took in your surroundings. Your eyes began to drop and before late, you were fast asleep curled into Verconia’s side.

What you were unaware of, was that this infact was just the beginning of some wild rollercoaster that you weren’t prepared to board.

PART 2 // Masterlist

Hey Guys!
I wrote this because I got bored and i was thinking of doing a part 2? I know its super shitty lmao but If anyone actually reads it, tell me what you think? 😊 Also check my last post for request info!!

My Wife, a missing moment fic by mmmuses, part 4

The eye is much better (was concerned it was pink eye, but hallelujah! I dodged that bullet) and finished this…I borrowed one of my favourite lines from The Black Moon, pg 512, Kindle Edition because…well, I suppose I’m choosing to think it was what they were trying to convey in the adaptation. Yes it is, dammit. Anyhow, I hope you like it, my friends!

From Poldark 3.03, continued from here (part 1), here (part 2) and here (part 3). Story request by @poldarked-fangirl

The second boot slid from his hands, hitting the floor with a thud. He sensed the urgency in Demelza’s voice, the silken touch of her finger that raised the hair at his nape and down his arms. The arousal that had retreated surged back with an intensity bordering upon pain. He turned, licking his lips in response to the heat blazing in her eyes. He leant close, taking her mouth with his, hungrily, roughly. The button on his left cuff pinged its way across the floor as he broke free from her for an instant, whipping his shirt overhead. Her nails scored his chest, threading through the swirling hair to find his nipples. “Judas,” his breath hissed from between his lips at her light pinch. “Need you so.” 

“As I do you.” She kissed him again, her teeth nipping his bottom lip. Ross’s fingers scrabbled for the buttons of his breeches, shoving them down his thighs as he stood, twisting to burrow under the bedclothes. Her hand closed over his cock, making him groan aloud. “Ross,” she breathed, her lips finding his nipple while she stroked him.

“Can’t, love, please,” he moaned, his hands reaching for her night rail. “Let me see you.” She released him, nodding apprehensively he knew for she could never understand why he found her so desirable when she was with child. He drank in her beauty as the fabric inched its way up her long, shapely legs, the dark russet fleece at the apex of her thighs, the scent of her arousal strong, igniting his need for her ten fold. He slipped his hand along her hip to her waist as she drew the garment the rest of the way over her body until it joined his shirt at the foot of their bed. “Oh, my God.” 

He wanted to run his tongue along the blue veins tracing their way along her full breasts. Her nipples made him mad with desire, had done from the first time he’d seen them, tasted and teased them when she’d come to him in that blue gown. There was something about how they felt and tasted now, as they had each time she’d carried their child, deep rose and so sensitive, as they were now. Her fingers slid through his hair as she drew him down into the feather ticking, and he closed his eyes. I want her, not any other, not the most beautiful eighteen-year-old damsel born out of a sea-shell, not the most seductive houri of any sultan’s harem; I want her with her familiar gestures and her shining smile and her scarred knees, and I know she wants me in just that same way, and if there’s any happiness more complete than this I don’t know it and am not sure I even want it. So you’ve been away and risked your life, you damned fool, and this is your undeserved reward.

“Demelza,” he murmured against her flesh. He lifted his head, meeting eyes that blazed with heat at the mere utterance of the word. “Please.” She nodded frantically, shifting onto her side, reaching behind to pull him close. He slid inside her wet heat, the friction causing them both of groan, she into the pillow and he into the curve of her neck, matching him stroke for stroke. His hand caressed the swell of her belly, his index finger circling her distended navel before slipping between her legs to her bud, slick and turgid against his touch. She growled low in her throat, words of love and desire all but sung as she trembled against him.

“I l-love you,” she stuttered, turning her head, seeking his mouth as her climax seized her, showering his cock with her dew as he groaned her name against her lips as he followed her in ecstasy.

Several moments had passed before she shifted, breaking the tenuous connection they’d held. “I must,” she sighed when Ross protested and reached for her night rail. “Just in case Jeremy should come in.” 

Ross opened one eye, grinning as his wife settled against the pillows once more. “If he does, the mongrel will have to go.” 

He wrapped her in his embrace, his hand resting on the mound of their child atop the bedclothes, pressing nuzzling kisses along her neck and jaw. “No doubt you were plagued by French beauties.” 

Ross looked at her in surprise. She smiled, earthy temptress that she was, this woman who could stop his heart with a glance. “No doubt I was,” he drawled, nibbling her skin, tasting the salt from their lovemaking.

“And no doubt you availed yourself,” she challenged, lifting her chin to bring her lips just out of his reach. 

“No doubt I did,” he said, chuckling, his mind a whirl over this new, teasing banter she’d adopted. So much change, so much healing over the past few months. He arched a brow, leaning closer. “For I have no beauty at home to compare.” He laughed once again, kissing her. “Have I?”

His mouth claimed hers as her arms drew him down once more. If there’s any happiness more complete than this, I don’t know it and am not sure I even want it. 

gif by @panoramamelodrama

one hundred ways to say “I love you.”


“It reminded me of you.”

Harold’s whole body turns to face John then; he could feel himself twitching with facial acrobatics of befuddlement and disbelief.  “A bunch of indecipherable squiggly lines reminded you of me?” Harold says dubiously, trying and failing not to sound vaguely insulted by the very notion.

John’s own face is a mixture of amusement and smugness, and it’s equal parts endearing and annoying.  “Who says it’s indecipherable?” John drawls all-too-innocently as he moves to stand beside him, hands loosely tucked in his pockets with a pose Harold knows all too well as feigned casualness.

Harold narrows his eyes.  “It’s supposed to have meaning?”

John smirks.  “You’re the genius, Finch.  You tell me.”

Harold glares, but he knows it’s futile; John isn’t intimidated by him anymore, and merely gives him a mysterious smile.

Harold huffs and turns his attention back to the wall.  They’re at John’s loft, unwinding after a successful case with their latest Number; they happened to be in the area anyway, and John invited him upstairs for some tea.  He had tried not to show his surprise when he saw that not only has John stocked his kitchen with fresh (and rare) tea leaves for Sencha green, but has also purchased tea makers, infusers, and complete tea sets, with linen.  John had brewed a fresh pot for him, and poured it into the most ridiculously delicate porcelain teacup Harold has ever seen, and handed it into him as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Harold would’ve been tempted to tease, except John had offered it to him with such a doleful look, not unlike Bear when he’s hopefully looking up at Harold for praise — or treats.  “I promise it’s not poison,” John had said encouragingly, tinged with just the slightest hint of nervousness.  Relenting, Harold had graciously accepted the offered teacup, and surprisingly discovered that it was, in fact, the best Sencha green he had ever tasted.

John had brightened then, looking so pleased and proud, and Harold had been thankful that the tea was quite warm so he could blame the flush in his cheeks to the steam rising from the cup.  Curiosity piqued, he was about to ask the reason for the tea, when something else suddenly caught his eye and demanded his full attention.  Something utterly mind-boggling.

“They look like something a toddler would’ve drawn on the wall with a crayon,” Harold deadpans.

John is unperturbed.  “Do they?” 

Harold scowls.  John’s smile widens.

It wasn’t, in fact, drawn with a crayon.  When Harold had prepared this loft for John, he had deliberately left it sparse, wordlessly allowing John the freedom to decorate and make use of it as he wants to; it is, after, all, his.  For the most part, John had left it as it was when Harold had first given it to him, seemingly finding comfort instead in the simple, efficient, minimalistic style of the military.  

Except John seems to have a… unique (bordering on questionable) sense of aesthetics when it comes to interior decorating.  Particularly with what he has chosen to decorate the largest wall with.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, frustrated.  “They’re squiggles.

John grins.  “Meaningful squiggles, Finch.”

They were deliberately placed too, because they weren’t drawn into the wall.  It was made with nails and string, not unlike the board Finch had once used to keep track of the Irrelevants he failed to save (the board that had mysteriously disappeared, and though they never once spoke about it, he had a feeling John had disposed it without his knowledge when he caught Harold looking painfully at the board too often).

There were no pictures here though, just seemingly randomly placed nails with string threaded through them, forming several rows of horizontal lines that go up and down, like a roller coaster, except with no sense of direction or design or aesthetic whatsoever.  

Harold stares at him, aghast.  “They really mean something to you?”

John looks at him then, and his tone turns soft and serious.  “They mean the world to me.”

Harold’s breath catches in his throat as he watches John’s gaze travel over the wall’s design of his making; the only personal touch in the seemingly impersonal living space.  “Despite what you believe, Finch,” John murmurs, “you don’t know everything about me.”

Harold doesn’t know why, but hearing that… hurts.

He turns away from John then, knowing that his face is betraying an emotion he doesn’t want the other man to see.  He lifts the teacup and sips a little too quickly, the tea scalding the back of his throat.  He looks up at the lines of nails and thread, and his face hardens, resolute.

He may not know what it means.  But he’s determined to find out.

He’s surrounded by a fortress of books, with multiple tabs open in the monitor in front of him, when John walks into the library the next morning.  He senses the way John halts and hesitates before curiosity gets the better of him.  “Research for our new Number, Finch?”

Harold stiffens.  “No,” he says brusquely as he resumes his typing, pausing every now and then to refer to one of the open books on his desk and to write on the pad where he keeps his notes.  

He ignores the prickling on the back of his neck as he senses John staring at him.  He hears John step closer, and tries not to react when he feels John’s gaze sweeping over his desk, knowing what he’s seeing: stacks of books about ancient ciphers and codes in varying eras and parts of the world, the computer screen displaying the more modern ones.  Out of the corner of his eye, Harold sees the way John raises his eyebrows as one of the open tabs show that Harold has hacked into the (supposedly) secret codes of the CIA.  

“Finch,” John says slowly, “isn’t this getting a little… obsessive?”

Harold holds out for several more seconds before he can’t take it anymore.  He lets the pen he’s holding fall to the table with a loud clatter.  “Can’t you at least give me a clue as to what those lines mean?” he asks helplessly.

He swivels in his chair to look up at John, and stops short.  Despite the obvious amusement in his features, John also looks strangely… fond.  Harold swallows, unsure why he suddenly feels embarrassed.  And so… exposed.

John lets his fingers run lightly over one of the book’s open pages, his gaze faraway and unseeing.  “I don’t know what to tell you, Finch,” he says softly, “except that it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Harold crosses his arms over his chest.  “That doesn’t really help at all.”  He refuses to pout like a child.  He comes very close to it.

John chuckles.  “Do we have a new Number?” he asks, deftly changing the subject.  

“No,” Harold says morosely.  He heaves a deep sigh and makes a shooing gesture.  “You can have the day off, Mr. Reese.”

John’s mouth quirks.  “I’ll leave you to your research then, boss.”

Harold glares at him; the man even has the gall to wink at him. 

Sniffing, he turns back to his computer and his books.  He hears John’s footsteps fading into the background, before he hears a pause as John bends down with a low whisper to Bear.

“Make sure he doesn’t wear himself out, okay?”

Surprised, Harold turns around to look at John, but he’s already gone.

The library feels strangely… empty.

Harold sits straight up, startled out of his stupor at Bear’s loud bark.  He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and fumbles for his glasses, his movements lethargic as his limbs seem to take a bit longer to adjust to wakefulness.  He squints at the dust motes visible from the sunlight streaming in from the windows, and he realises that it’s already late in the afternoon.  He must have fallen asleep at his desk again.  

Bear woofs again, and Harold pats his head apologetically.  “I guess it’s time for your walk,” he says gently.  He moves to stand—and gasps.

Pain shoots up from his spine with an electric jolt, digging into his shoulders and his injured leg like shards of glass.  Belatedly, Harold realises that his prolonged nap not only made his overworked, overtired muscles stiff and aching—it also made him forget to take his scheduled painkillers.  

He lowers himself slowly, hissing through gritted teeth, and through the haze of pain he can hear Bear whimpering.  He lets his eyes flutter open as he senses Bear’s movements, and he sees the dog nosing at an amber bottle that Harold very clearly remembers wasn’t there before.

Bear pushes it toward him.  Shakily, Harold reaches out to take it, and even the blinding pain isn’t enough to make him fail to recognise the prescription bottle.  

Bear noses another object toward him, and Harold smiles at the dog gratefully as he takes the water bottle.  He realises that it’s already pre-opened with the seal already broken, and he has a moment to be oddly touched before another stab of pain whites out all his thoughts.  He quickly shakes out the pills and downs them with gulps of water, before he replaces the caps on both containers… and waits.

He doesn’t know how much time passes; it may have just been minutes, even though it feels like hours.  Bear has settled himself by Harold’s feet with his chin on Harold’s lap, staunchly watching him the entire time.  As soon as Harold finally feels like he can breathe without the phantom sensation of his spine grinding itself to pieces with every expansion and contraction of his lungs, he tenderly runs his fingers through the dog’s soft fur.

“Thank you, Bear,” he says as Bear thumps his tail minutely, almost hesitantly against the floor, as if still unsure of the state of his master’s well-being.  “Although… am I correct in assuming that Mr. Reese is the one who dropped these earlier while I was sleeping?”  He thumbs at the prescription bottle as it rattles in his hand.

Bear woofs, and Harold smiles, feeling a warmth blossom in his chest.  “Then I suppose I have to thank him as well.”

He turns over the bottle thoughtfully.  “Though I wonder how he knew the right brand and dosage,” he muses, “not to mention the time and frequency needed for me to—”  

He stills.

Can’t you at least give me a clue as to what those lines mean?’

He stares at the bottle.  “Of course,” he murmurs to himself.  “How very clever, Mr. Reese.”

Finally convinced that his master is out of immediate danger, Bear shuffles back to make room as Harold swivels his chair forward and powers up the monitor of his computer.  Operating on a strong hunch, he opens his personal files and accesses his medical records.

And there, in front of him, is the answer.

‘They mean the world to me.’

‘It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’

“Oh,” Harold breathes.  “Oh John.

Evening finds him standing in the middle of John’s loft, once more staring at the lines on the wall.

“You covered them with fluorescent paint,” Harold observes.

Several feet behind him, a good distance away, John steps out of the shadows.  “Yes,” he quietly affirms.  “I did.”  

John’s military efficiency shows in his habits; the only lights he turns on at night are the ones in the bathroom and in the kitchen counter.  In fact, the only illumination of the room is coming from New York City itself, as the lights filter in through the windows which John—despite being an intensely private person himself—refuses to cover with curtains.

Harold is beginning to suspect, however, that there’s another reason why John prefers his loft to be blanketed in shadow at night, aside from the practical reason of saving electricity.

Harold tilts his head toward the design on the wall.  “They look like constellations,” he softly remarks.  The fluorescent paint made the entire thing glow in the dark; the nails stand out like stars in the night sky, the thread connecting them reminiscent of the shapes that can be found in astrology books.  “It’s beautiful.”

A small smile plays on John’s lips as he steps closer.  “It is,” he agrees.  “I needed the reminder.”

“Oh?” Harold looks at him.  “Of what?”

John moves to stand beside Harold, the fabrics of their sleeves nearly brushing.  “Of a light that never goes out, no matter how dark the world gets.”

Harold’s heart flutters at that.  “I see,” he says, carefully neutral.  “That’s… a very optimistic view to have, Mr. Reese.”

John looks up at the wall.  “They give me hope,” he murmurs, indicating the glowing lines.

Harold takes a deep breath.  John senses his wordless unease, and blinks when Harold hands him a file.  He takes it, opens the folder—and Harold sees the exact moment it registers in John’s eyes that Harold finally knows.

“I wonder, Mr. Reese,” Harold begins softly, “why would you design your wall with the test results of my electroencephalogram?” 

Harold steps closer as John peruses the medical records Harold knows John has already seen in detail before.  Harold tries very hard not to think about how John may have acquired those records in the first place, and very possibly kept a copy for himself as reference; the design on John’s wall is a near-perfect replica of Harold’s EEG reading, the star-like lines a larger, glowing version of the measurement and recording of Harold’s brain activity. 

“Specifically,” Harold continues, gentle in his probing, “it’s the reading the doctors gave me when they tested me after the bombing.”

John’s head snaps up at that, but Harold’s gaze is calm.  The memory doesn’t give him pain anymore, only a lingering sense of loss that he’s continuously learning to live with; Nathan’s absence will always be Harold’s phantom limb, the burden of guilt a constant, sobering guide for his conscience.

Slowly, John closes the folder and hands it back to Harold.  He takes it, and waits.

“It reminds me to be careful,” John finally says as he looks back at the wall.  “To protect at all cost what the world can’t afford to lose.”

Harold holds his breath.  “And what is that, Mr. Reese?”

John is quiet for a moment longer.  He closes his eyes, and even as Harold watches, the most peaceful expression Harold has ever seen settles over John’s features.

“A beautiful mind that can save the world.”

Harold turns away.  It’s almost too painful to look at John then.

A light that never goes out, no matter how dark the world gets.’

He blinks away the sudden mistiness that comes over his eyes.  He removes his foggy glasses and takes out his pocket square to wipe them clean.  When he puts them back on, John is looking at him, waiting.

They are teetering on the edge of a precipice, and John, as always, is following Harold’s lead on whether or not they both should leap.

“I suppose,” Harold manages to say amidst the rapid beating of his heart, “we should schedule for an electrocardiogram next.”

He turns to John, who at first has a look of confusion on his face, before it swiftly ratchets into tempered panic.  “Finch, are you—”

“No, no, Mr. Reese, I’m perfectly fine,” Harold puts up both his hands to placate John.  “I meant, we should schedule an ECG for you.”  

John blinks, looking completely bewildered.  “Me?  But why?”

Harold smiles, and glances up at the wall.  “Because your design is incomplete, John.  It’s missing its other half.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and Harold turns to him.  “We need the other half of the equation,” he softly explains.  “After all, what is a beautiful mind that can save the world… without a beautiful heart that can change it?”

The city lights are reflected in John’s eyes as they shine with a riveting combination of fear and hope.  Harold steps closer into his personal space—much closer than they have ever been before—and sees the way John’s eyes dilate as Harold looks up at him.

“I suppose it’s for my benefit too,” Harold admits, dipping his gaze shyly as he places a hand on John’s chest to steady himself.  “After all, I, too, need a reminder of what I can’t afford to lose.”

They’re standing so close together that Harold can feel the vibrations of John’s rumbling voice reverberating between them.  “And what is that?” 

Harold smiles, tucks his head beneath John’s chin, and presses his ear to John’s chest, hearing the rhythm of the future he’s fighting for.

“Your heart.”

Created Your Own Rebel Alliance Symbol String Art

String art is a simple DIY project that puts a one-of-a-kind twist on familiar shapes and symbols. While Star Wars has its share of notable symbols, one of the most prominent is the sign of the Rebel Alliance.

Turn the symbol of the Rebel Alliance into unique art for your home in this all-ages craft that calls for just string, nails, wood, and paint.

Check out the step-by-step to create your own below. 

Keep reading

Rafael Barba / Tu Caballero Blanco

Per Request HERE, by @vanessa-found-a-boy.
re: You’re Rafael’s girlfriend, and you get attacked- he cares for you and gets super protective.

Warnings: violence, stalking, etc.
Tu Caballero Blanco = Your White Knight

Originally posted by all-things-raul-esparza

Ding: “Just go ahead without me, I’ll meet you there.”
Ding: “Order me the usual, I’m on my way.”

That was sent over an hour ago, though. His office was only ten minutes from the coffee shop you two had intended to meet at, and he had only actually been fifteen minutes late in leaving.

Twenty-five. It took him twenty-five minutes to arrive at the destination you two had agreed upon, less than half an hour late. Yet here he was, an hour later, sixty entire additional minutes, unable to reach you on your cell phone. Odd, really- you always answered him. Not that you had a particular obligation to, of course, he knew you prided yourself on your independence. Rafael would never try to steal that from you, but it was out of the ordinary for you to not answer his calls.

And, even more disconcerting: you were never unpunctual.

Ding: “Mi amor, are you upset I was late?”

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“You’re bad at this. You gained that power up halfway through the round but you never used it.” Hunk commented, admiring Keith’s low score and his high one that rivaled Pidge’s.

“I know, dude. I never played video games back on earth, aside from mario kart. And this isn’t mario kart so therefore I am dying.” Keith muttered. Those thin hands were stiff around the controller, like it really was an alien object and not something from Earth.

But then he caught sight of those cute purple eyes and remembered that Keith wasn’t fully human either.

(those thick eyelashes that framed those foreign eyes and the little fringe of human-ish hair that he was always pushing out of his face.)

“One more round? I’ll walk you through and go easy. I’ll show you which buttons to press.”

(that little crinkle of thin eyebrows and that worry line that Hunk wanted to kiss away.)

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Chris Marker - The Koumiko Mystery / Le Mystère Koumiko (1967)

Hour Arithmetic 時の算術 (1966)

by Kumiko Muraoka 村岡久美子

Today is already the eighth day of spring, and this is the twenty-seventh spring. I am beginning to understand that times and that things all the methods for measuring time: cutting notches on the flow of time, making bouquets of the seconds, putting them in rows on paper. Sometimes time seems to be a ribbon, sometimes a point, sometimes minuscule thorns.

The length of time is the thing that is the most difficult to understand. One day it’s too short, or too long, endless. That’s why there are men who devote their life to keeping watch over the length of time, we call them “scientists. ” But scientists have never understood the length of time in which they are living, and they disappear suddenly from the earth.

On the Yurakucho viaduct pass circle-line trains, under the viaduct, a silent cobbler-shoe-shiner is seated on a small wooden stool. He is there all winter and summer, squeezed into clothes that he puts on over each other. On him he is carrying all the clothing that he possesses, but he’s always numb with cold. It’s because of this wind passing under the viaduct. which is different than
that blowing from the other side, several feet from there.

The hands of the shoe-shiner are dried out, blackened, deformed, the pupils of his eyes are constantly dilated. In the obscurity, he can make out the grey luster of the nails and pound them into the sole with dexterity; he hasn’t ever lost a single one, or struck it sideways, or missed. The eyes of the cobbler are extremely sensitive to miniscule objects: needles, threads, nails, leather
remnants …… But his eyes can’t focus on larger objects.

There are now two mutes and a hunchback leaning his hump against the cement wall. When there aren’t any customers, the cobblers’ conference is held: they chat, gossip and laugh with their heads thrown back, their gestures more and more lively more and more frantic, strange. You can’t hear their conversation, because of the trains passing ceaselessly over their heads.

They have come to the conclusion that the sun is a kind of crawling animal. It is never far from where they are, but it never comes to see them. They find that incomprehensible. One of them, however, has found an explanation: “Maybe it has no shoes.” They burst out laughing as a sign of triumph. The triumph of the intelligence. But the eyes of the cobbler don’t see the length of time.

Kumiko Muraoka, ”Hour Arithmetic,” The Purple Journal, No. 9, 06/07. The first version of the text was published in the journal Sinjinruigaku 1966 and part of it was later published in the French journal La Délirante 1967.

cut my heart out (watch me bleed) [J-Hope]

Pairing: Prince!Hoseok x Soldier!Reader
Genre: Fluff ; Angst
Word Count: 5144
Description: If you love hard enough, everything will be okay.

Author’s Note: This is my longest hobi fic #noragrets at all cos this took so much time but i like it also it kinda doesnt make sense butwtv…, dedicated to @syubingseok who is patient even when i torture her

Hoseok is not made for the battlefield.

Hoseok is soft — inside and out. Soft, unblemished skin, soft, uncalloused fingers, soft, undamaged hair, and most of all, a soft, unbroken heart. Hoseok is too lovely, with his toothy, radiant smile, and warm eyes, and glorious, loud, laugh.

Hoseok is too lovely, and Hoseok is not made for the battlefield. Those are two things you learn at a very young age.

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anonymous asked:

Yay you are taking prompts! I love awkward high school pair ups. Stonathan being assigned to a science project together or Stonathan ending up in detention together or Steve being evil/cute and picking Jonathan for his team in gym class. (surprising him since he is usually picked last)

( Ahh you gave me so many good choices, also this was the fastest response I’ve ever gotten and it made me smile! )

“Byers,” Jonathan looks up from his sneakers with a frown, the gym breaking out in a few confused murmurs as Steve Harrington grins at him from across the room. “C’mon, dude we don’t got all day!” He waves the younger over, and Jonathan walks over obediently.

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So, I was making handmade books (or an album or a notebook) using available stuff found at home.. Very neanderthal way to do this tho.. using hammer and nails, and mother’s needle and thread. I made the album for the purpose of collecting my 2.5 years of travelling, including all museum brochures and maps! Ooo how I love maps. But then I realize that I need more space for the album, these ones are already full :( . Well, I guess I have to make another one when my back is not aching anymore. :p with blue ribbons!

Just Sorry? (Chapter 2/??) (M)

Summary: The Seven Boys throw a party to welcome back Jackson and Jaebum to the Mansion. You decide to tease both boys by flirting with their guests but neither of them are too please

Chapter 1: (x)

Warning: Smut ahead, Daddy Kink, Rough Sex, Explicit Language, Threesome later on.

Word Count: 2044 

Your nails dug into the soft threads of the carpet beneath you. Hearing Jackson’s question, you already knew the activities planned for you were not going to be for your benefit tonight. Then again, to go against the Seven Boy’s rules would always end up with a punishment. No excuses were allowed. Either you obeyed or they’d find another way to make you regret your decisions. Nodding your head at Jackson’s request, you kept your gaze on Jaebum, once again thanking the heavens the younger was doing the reprimands instead of him.

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You will need:

A whole head of Garlic
3 large ‘iron’ nails
9 pieces of White Thread (7 inches long each)
6 pieces each of Black Thread and Red Thread (7 inches long each)
One White Egg
Water and Wine

Twist or braid 3 white, 2 red and 2 black threads together, melt a little wax and dip the threads so that it forms a stiff twine/wick like feel. Do this two more times so you have 3 waxed braids.

Place the nails in a fire until they are red hot, while still hot (you can let them cool a little bit) wrap each nail with a garlic leaf. Then wind one of the waxed threads around each leave covered nail.

In a dish or bowl make a triangle with the nails and place it in a safe place (or your altar). Place the egg in the triangle so it stands up, sprinkle with wine and water everyday.

Posted by, phynxrizng

papofglencoe  asked:

Omg, please feel free to drabble that wrist tattoo plot... Katniss has a tattoo on each wrist. Both names say Peeta Mellark. I'd die a thousand deaths to read that.

so you asked for this a while ago, and i can’t find that post anymore and can only vaguely remember it now. this isn’t exactly what you want unfortunately, i tweaked the premise a little.

anyway, this got away from me a little. but there’s smut. i thought we could all use some raunchy gratuitous smut :)))


Katniss traces the small, thin letters on the inside of her wrist with the edge of her thumbnail. The black ink is relatively fresh, the flesh around it still tender and pink, stinging from the cutting press of her nail. She doesn’t flinch.

She can’t.

She’s 18 now. And with the brand now imprinted on her wrist by the Overseers, she has been made into an assassin. And assassins don’t flinch.

She traces the letters again, softer this time, hardening herself to what she must do. This is the mission of every Underling like herself, their purpose. Their burden. Balance is needed, the Overseers say, so there must be a Culling. Kill or be killed. This is what they have divined for her and countless other Underlings, imprinting the names of their targets onto their bodies so they can never forget, even afterward. Killing is necessary, after all, but proper repentance is, too.

She doesn’t think she’ll need the reminder.

Swallowing the rest of her warm honey ale, Katniss thumps the glass down on the table and stands to leave the tavern. She secures a thin alloy band around her wrist, concealing her tattoo for now. Her target can’t know she’s coming. 

Which won’t really matter if she can’t even find him, she thinks wryly. Once outside, she pulls a holo from her bag. Time to get to work.

He’s a pretty one, Peeta Mellark.

She observes him from her obscured corner in the grog shop. With his ash-blond curls, blue-glass eyes and pale skin, he’s out of place among the group of Underlings around him. They look almost grubby in comparison. He draws her eyes like a beacon, as if the Overseers have shone a light on him to lead her right to him.

If so, she could have used their help a lot sooner. Instead, it’s taken her weeks to track him down to the Fulcrum district. Turns out, Mellark is a fairly well known name in these parts, as his family owns the sole boulangerie here. This place is a hub for the surrounding townships, the central marketplace.

She’s to kill a damned baker. She wants to laugh. She would laugh, but pressure clots the cavities around her eyes, and she can smell salt in the back of her nose. She swallows down the rising tide, fortifying herself. Then she picks herself up and weaves her way through the bodies until she’s at the edges of his group.

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