volcaroona  asked:

4 alphas stuck in the castle of lions, but in this universe a high alpha environment usually has some alphas changing into omegas to keep balance, an ancient ability from tribal days that is now controlled by vaccinations. unfortunately alpha shiro missed his because of a burst appendix, and now, stuck in space, biology decides that they cant expect to be a functional tribe, so the only option is for shiro to become an omega

*salute* Hammered this out quickly, so minimal editing (sorrry) and ended on a sort of cliff hanger but worry not. I’m sort of. Testing the idea out for myself? And also wanted to separate the plot from the porn. ;) 

A bit of body horror and made up science shit.

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three3isme  asked:

I'm sorry you're experiencing troubles with the tags, but I'm glad you're still writing despite that! Thanks for your determination! If you've got the time (and inspiration) could you write jaydick with "no trespassing and/or beware of dog"? I'm loving your writing style.

Honestly it’s a really small thing with the tags, but I think I know what it is, and my fics are still getting notes despite the issue so it’s nothing to really worry about. It’s not going to stop me from writing though! 

Also, thank you to everyone for the prompts/follows/notes, it really makes my day. Also, don’t be afraid to send a prompt in! I’ll try to write whatever you guys send me!

Beware of Dog

Things had finally calmed down between Red Hood and the vigilantes of Gotham. After a long few months of chasing him down and trying to negotiate with him, Jason and Bruce had finally come to a tentative agreement. Red Hood was allowed to operate in Gotham, but he wasn’t allowed to kill anymore. It had taken weeks for Jason and Bruce to hash out all the terms, but there was finally some peace between them. 

Dick really wished he’d been able to see more of it, but he had been busy with crime in Blüdhaven, so he’d been forced to hear most of the details through Oracle’s updates. Every time Dick had tried asking Bruce about it, Bruce would just grumble at Dick until Dick left the issue alone. 

But now, Dick was finally in Gotham and he had an address from Oracle so he could pay his old friend, and former family member, a visit. Dick found the building with relative ease and peeked in one of the windows, perching on the fire escape. Jason wasn’t on patrol right now, he was inside making dinner and listening to music, singing along occasionally and aiming the lyrics at the German Shepherd following him around. 

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Challenge Prompt

My friend gave me a weird challenge prompt which basically amounted to a scify alien adventure and then an hour brainstorming up an entire galaxy.

So meet Adja.

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Wake Up
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

I wrote a bit of Luke Cage in the Sunshineverse because his show was amazing and also why not.  Includes feralMatt being an idiot because of chocolate.

More stuff upcoming!  Thanks for being patient with my slow ass.

No Luke Cage spoilers in it either.
The First Dream of My Soul (With Hope At Last)

by @bellamythology

for @03890389: Bellarke x Wessa The Infernal Devices crossover

rated: general audiences

[read on AO3]

our submissions box is currently open for prompts!

It was just before 3 a.m., according the clock in the hall, and Clarke worried only briefly about the propriety of wandering the Institute at night in her dressing gown — these Shadowhunters seemed to care less about decorum and more about protecting people. (Did she even count as people anymore? she wondered. Was it a question of what she truly was, or what she identified as? Because she certainly very much felt like a person; she always had, and these past few months had shaken but not obliterated that previously indubitable belief.)

The rich sound of a violin drifted through his door, a simple but haunting melody that wrapped around her like a not-altogether-comforting cocoon. Normally Wells was great company on sleepless nights, thoughtfully tranquil, but tonight he seemed preoccupied and so she was loath to disturb him.

She found her way to the library on a combination of memory and guesswork, pushing the door open cautiously. They’d said that she was welcome to these books anytime she wanted, but she still had a hard time believing her luck, especially after the Mountain Men had so horrendously restricted her access to reading (or any) material that might distract her from the purposes they had in mind for her.

A shiver ran down her spine and she turned on the lamp in the corner to banish the shadows. The light was warm, gently washing over shelves of books stuffed in every which way, stacked on and around each other in precarious yet oddly sturdy arrangements.

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anonymous asked:

Clairedevil / Undress, pretty please ?

Prompt Challenge!


Matt prefers to know where he stands. Which is why, despite his initial pleasure in Claire’s un-self-conscious habit of wandering around the apartment only half-dressed, his guilty pleasure fizzles into something much closer to just plain guilt. (Because of course it does.)

Once he starts to focus on the guilt part of guilty pleasure, his overactive conscience sure that Claire’s forgotten just how much of his environment he can sense, that she believes she has a level of privacy that doesn’t actually exist. That no matter what intimacies she’s explicitly granted him, that this is not one of them.

So he tries. Tries to stop tracking her so closely as she moves through their shared spaces. When that fails he tried to focus on something other than the sound of fabric being stripped away from skin any time she changes. But caught in his spiraling guilt trap all he can think about was Foggy’s observation that listening to someone’s heartbeat without their permission was as bad as eavesdropping…

Unfortunately he can’t just turn his senses off. Ignoring a barely dressed Claire isn’t simply a matter of turning his back, and his attempts to distract himself slowly grow more and more elaborate, though he thinks he’s hiding his discomfort pretty well. Which means of course that Claire turns to him one evening after she’s taken a shower and is brewing a cup of tea - in just her towel - and asks, “Is it a modesty thing?”

“Huh?” He’d been focusing on the sound of water flowing through the apartment, first from her shower, then from the sink while he washed the dishes. Through the pipes in the walls, through the walls into the surrounding apartments…

“It’s okay if it is.”

“I don’t understand.” He turns off the water and slowly dries his hands on a towel, mind racing as he tries to anticipate the directions this could take and his possible responses. None of them involve him knowing how to talk about this without sounding completely awkward with the concept of nudity.

“Do I make you uncomfortable when I’m undressed?” She stirs honey into her tea, the spoon clanking softly, rhythmically, against the sides of the mug, a sure sign that she’s more concerned about this than she sounds. (Except she sounds concerned at the very least because her heart is beating heavily, and…damnit.)


“You know when I know that you’re naked?”

“The smirk used to give it away. But then you got weird about it.”

Oh. That’s…okay. “I thought maybe I was intruding on your privacy.”

“At least half the time I was hoping you’d intrude on something else.”

That’s encouraging. “And the other half of the time?” He starts edging closer, now very focused on the clean scent of her. Among other things.

“There is no reason I should have to wear pants in my own house if I don’t want to.”

“Sounds reasonable.” He’s close enough to touch her now, which is also close enough to tell that her body heat really isn’t warming up the space like it should. “You seem cold.”

“Is that an offer to warm me up?”

“Do you want it to be?”

Claire shrugs and the towel drops away, still damp enough to fall limply to the floor. “Oops. Should I get that?”

“I got you covered.”

“Prude.” Her laugh echos through the room briefly before he finds a better way to distract them both.

Last night I dreamt that I broke all your teeth
with my bare knuckles,
left your liar’s mouth bleeding and raw.
I tore that smile off your face,
I stuffed it down your throat.
Your love was like a dust bowl, dry cracked dirt
staining beige over my bones,
kissing hard ground and scorched throat,
kissing sunburnt skin.
I told the priest to soak my body in holy water,
to exorcise you with Latin chants and incense smoke.
I told the healer fix me, get him out of my skin.
I told the doctor I would swallow all the pills if it meant
that I could learn to breathe again,
could taste the air without your mouth on mine.
I told the poet, write me better.
Write me happy.
Write me whole again.
—  All These Words Still Taste Like You | d.a.s

Here’s the thing: Stiles doesn’t want to get married. At least, he’s never mentioned it and Stiles mentions everything.

Derek figures he’s safe in assuming that if the guy who’s mentioned Derek’s shoe and sock combinations almost daily for the three years they’ve been living together hasn’t mentioned marriage, even in passing, he’s not interested.

Derek is totally fine with Stiles’s aversion to marriage, of course. Obviously, a piece of paper’s not important; it’s their commitment to each other that defines their relationship. Even if marriage was important to his family (it was) and he wanted to honor their memory by carrying on their traditions (he does), he can’t impose that on Stiles!

At least, this is what Derek has to tell himself several times a day.

When he rolls over in the morning and Stiles is just waking up, mouth stretched wide, drool on his chin and hair ruffled and sleep wild, he has to tell himself.

When Stiles breaks down into terrible dance moves, usually some form of an epileptic robot, while washing the breakfast dishes, Derek has to remind himself.

Stiles doesn’t want to get married.

When Stiles shows up at Derek’s classroom in his deputy uniform and tells the kids to take an early lunch because he has to “interrogate their teacher,” Derek huffs and is annoyed. But when Stiles pulls out his favorite beef sandwich from the good diner and informs him it’s Eat with Your Favorite Cop Day, Derek has to tell himself.

When Stiles is twenty minutes late coming home from work and he walks in complaining about the imposition because, “Don’t they realize that I now have twenty minutes less of growly, sexy boyfriend time?” Derek really needs to remind himself.

Don’t mention the unmentionable.

When Stiles gives him an old framed photograph he’d dug up in the town’s archive of Derek’s parents’ wedding day for an anniversary present, Derek chants it in his head.

And when Stiles touches him the way no one ever has, reverent but teasing, loving but naughty, Derek almost slips up.

Here’s the thing: sometimes Derek thinks that he could have proposed to Stiles the day he met him and it still wouldn’t have been soon enough.

He soldiers on.

It’s on a day when he least expects it, when Stiles has been more annoying than usual (thus inspiring less need of proposal restraint), that Derek finally breaks.

“I think we should get some tomatoes and onions for our burgers. What do you think?” Stiles asks, pushing the cart.

“I think you should marry me,” Derek blurts, right there in the middle of the produce section of their local supermarket.

Stiles’s eyes widen. “What?”

Derek gulps. Now he’s done it. But he is stubborn and he will follow through. “Marry me, Stiles.”

Stiles picks up a tomato and squeezes it. He then throws Derek a blinding smile over his shoulder. “Okay.”


“Yeah,” Stiles beams. “Let’s get married.”


Here’s the thing: it turns out that Stiles thought Derek didn’t want to get married because he never brought it up.

Three years together and nothing’s changed—they’re both still idiots.


(Their wedding is in May and it is lovely.

“The wedding was so beautiful Allison cried, Derek. We made the hunter cry. We win weddings.”)

This is the kind of love poem
that cleans my name from between your thighs—
only to lay it back into your mouth gentle and inviting so that I might hear the sound of me from you again soon. Maybe broken, maybe croaked and vulnerable in the quiver of your descent but if I didn’t crack something inside of you between these sheets tonight then clearly I’m not finished yet. I’d like to say that this – this is all rust, all familiar, all been there before and stained-worn over time; but tell me, does it scare you as much as me to say that all I see when I see you is rain? All fresh; all foundation, nothing but tender against my cheek despite the cold. This, this isn’t the love poem that gets dirty, but stands with bare feet in the clinging mud after your dark, lust storm and says I’d love you so hard you’d grow from it. I am transparent for you, all sweaty palms and unlocked knees.

This isn’t the kind of love poem that knows temporary, this isn’t the type of love poem that takes you once and dresses itself up again; this is take me home to your parents and make love to me from across the room over childhood pictures, this is set our past, our broken on fire and slow-dance upon the ashes, this is: if my heart’s more resistant than my core when it comes to letting you in, knock the door down, break the glass in—I dare you, make a mess of me.

—  “This is the Only Love Poem I Know" -valentina thompson
Fic: Truth Time

luckyjak prompted: Klaine, pretending to be dating before actually dating. :)

It all starts innocently enough.

They become friends freshman year when they meet in Dance 101 and bond over the fact that they keep messing up the same moves again and again.

A year later they’re both better dancers and closer friends, so Blaine is not all surprised at first by Kurt’s question when they hang out in the quad after voice class.

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anonymous asked:

Bucky is so lucky, like, his man does it all! I can just imagine some guy saying something along the lines of 'good luck finding a gal/guy who'd do that for you, let alone enjoy it' and Bucky is just like wait do people not usually like sucking dick, taking dick, and orgasming five times in a row?

“That’s the stuff of dreams,” Dugan whistles.

“You’re damn right,” Jones sighs.

“What?” Bucky asks, and Dugan turns around the little dirty postcard for Bucky to see. 

“Huh,” he agrees.

“That don’t phase you?” Dugan demands. “Damn. You must get around.” 

“Or jerk it in the shower.” 

“Shut up,” Bucky mumbles, and shifts in his cot, looking back down to his book. “Seriously, what? Yeah, she’s a very beautiful lady.” 

“I’ve never been with a girl who wanted to do that.” 

“What, swallow?”

Jones and Dugan stare and Bucky in disbelief.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“No, suck it at all,” Jones explains. 

Bucky narrows his eyes. “What?” 

“You know, if you want a lady to – is he for real? Are you for real?” Dugan asks.

“He’s for real,” Jones affirms. 

“You mean you’ve never–?” 

“No, I have,” Dugan says. “And I know Jones has because he wouldn’t stop bragging about it back in Nice. But unless she’s a loose lady you’ve gotta be really nice, you’ve gotta take her out to dinner, you’ve gotta be sweet, you’ve gotta be engaged…” 

“No you don’t,” Bucky frowns. 

Dugan and Jones share wide-eyed looks. 

“You’re tellin’ us that you get this,” Jones says slowly, and points to the postcard, “On the regular?” 

“Hell yes,” Bucky says. 

There’s a moment of stunned silence. 

How?” Jones asks. 

“I don’t know, I ask?” Bucky says. He folds up his book. Watch the pronouns, Barnes. “She offers?” 

Blank stares. “She likes it,” Bucky tells them, equally slowly. “You know – she wants to?” 

“She wants to?” 

“What are you two, a couple of parrots? You heard me, she wants to. She likes it down her throat.” 

Jones coughs. “Jesus,” he says.

“She does,” Bucky insists. “She likes being on her knees, I don’t know.” 

“You married, Barnes?” Dugan squints.

Hah. “Nope,” Bucky says.

“You engaged?” 

“Nope,” Bucky pops the ‘p’, acting disinterested. “I just know how to take care of her right. She likes my dick, boys. It ain’t my fault.” 

Jones rolls his eyes. Dugan keeps squinting. “You never mentioned a girl before, how do we know you ain’t making it up?” 

Bucky says, “What, you wanna hear about her? You horny assholes.” 

Jones and Dugan exchange a look.

Fine,” Bucky says. “Her name’s Steph. Pretty little blonde thing, slip of nothing, ninety pounds soaking wet. Sweetest little tits you’ve ever seen. And a cute little ass to boot. As soon as I get home from work she can’t get her hands off me. One time she let me pick her up and fuck her right up against the door. About bit a chunk out of my neck trying not to scream.” 

“She let you?” 

“She loved it,” says Bucky, truthfully. “She likes getting spanked, too.” 

Dugan chokes on his own spit. Bucky bites down on his grin while Jones pounds him on the back. 

“Jesus, kid,” Dugan wheezes.

Bucky shrugs. “Speakin’ the truth.” He frowns. “She won’t wear the lacy things I buy her, though,” he says. “Gets spitting mad every time I ask.” 

“What a fucking tragedy,” says Dugan flatly. 

“His dick’s probably magic,” Jones says. “You know, witchcraft of some sort. Like a snake charmer.” 

“I got a big dick and she likes it,” Bucky admits, a little cocky now. “I’ll never fuckin’ know how she takes it all, though, I’ll be honest. She’s so goddamn little I’m always afraid I’ll break her in half.” That’s true, too. 

“Shut the fuck up, your dick is not that big,” Jones says. 

“Jones, this whole entire platoon has seen each other buck-ass naked,” Bucky says. “You both know just how big my dick is.” 

“It’s not like either of us ever really sat there staring at it, you vain motherfucker,” Dugan tells him. 

Bucky shrugs. “Well, she thinks it’s a good one.” 

Dugan squints at him. “Show us.” 


“Show us your dick.” 

“You fucking son of a –” 

“Barnes,” says Jones. “Seriously.” 

Bucky looks between them and huffs a sigh. He jumps off his cot and stands in front of them and unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants and shoves them down and puts his hands on his hips.

“Jesus motherfucking Christ,” says Jones in flat shock. 

“Did you sell your motherfucking soul?” Dugan demands. 

“Nope,” Bucky says, and zips back up and collapses back on his cot.

“You are one lucky son of a bitch, Barnes,” Jones tells him. “I hope you know that.” 

“I’m certainly learning it,” Bucky says. 

Holsom soulmate AU where your soulmate’s first words to you are written on your skin. Several people requested this one, so hope y’all like it!

For a while, Ransom is pretty convinced Taylor Swift is his soulmate.

His soulmark happens to be the first line from the first song off her first mainstream album, written in a loopy script. He doesn’t know this until he hears Fearless playing on the radio, at which point he almost crashes his car in shock. He’s heard of Taylor Swift, sure, but he’s never heard her – he’s twenty-one, and he thinks he’s found his soulmate.

Of course, as several people worldwide reveal their Taylor Swift lyric soulmarks over the coming years, Ransom realizes there’s a good chance it’s not her.

But she’s the first person he hears sing those words, and even if she’s not his soulmate (he intends to meet her at some point just to check) Fearless becomes his favorite song. The twang of the guitar, the distinctly country feel – he’s never been one for country, but he lets it slide this one time. After all, it’s basically his song.


Medical school is hard.

Really hard. And Ransom’s a delicate coral reef at the best of times, so he’s learned to manage his study time carefully. He gauges his mood and decides if he needs pure silence, moderate noise or overwhelming heavy metal to study in. His habits come down on the side of pure silence more often than not, but he has on occasion gone down to the music rooms just to sit outside the door and zone into his studying with a dreadful screeching and the crash of drums in his ears.

Today, though, Ransom decides that he’s itching for something else. Brown is an elite school and there are plenty of coffee shops littered around trying to capitalize on the highly stressed student population, but he’s not in the mood for seeing several other frazzled people with papers strewn across tables. Instead he opts for something slightly further out from college, about ten minutes away by bus, and hops off at Bits and Pieces at 2pm sharp. He’s never been to the cutesy café-bakery before, but he’s heard only good things about it from April, March’s girlfriend, so he decides to give it a try. He approaches the pale blue storefront and pushes open the door to the tinkle of bells.

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1. This town, with its bleeding jaw, gutted my childhood. I buried my grandfather last summer in a citrus field, and I have not been able to eat oranges since. I still remember his cloudy cataracts, his gentle hands. He told me there was beauty in being untouchable – this is why I lock the doors.

2. Some love is soft, I know, but not this kind – this kind slams drawers and ignores the screaming. Your mouth was like formaldehyde. Your hands were silver scalpels, were ragged teeth. Do not touch me with your liar’s bones. I hope she tastes the poison you keep tucked under your tongue for the girls you want to break. I hope that, when she leaves you, you have no one to pick up the pieces. I hope you rot in this town.

3. I spent sixteen tangerine winters in this city like split knuckles, like an open wound, and I can still taste the burning. I want to eat Manhattan and climb through its throat to Chicago. I want to touch the very ground God walked upon. When asked what I want for Christmas, I say miles, miles, miles.

4. I keep breaking bones just to get back up. The band aids on my knuckles are from punching walls and slashing tires. They never have the chance to heal. I do not know what I look like without violence on my palms.

5. This town – bleeding jaw, split belly. Town like childhood, town like funeral bells. Town like angels dying. Town like your eyes, bruised and blackened. You were not gentle with my heart, so I hope that you rot in this gutted city, with your mouth clasped to hers. I hope she sucks out your soul: I want you broken. I burnt down your heart long before she loved you – you are a monument, yes. But you are not beautiful, your ribs are a ruin, and when you kiss, it tastes like smoke. This is why I left you. This is why I lock the doors.

—  5 Reasons I Lock the Doors | d.a.s

anonymous asked:

prompt: A witch takes Dean's ability to speak or write in English and then runs off. They need information from Dean to track her down and get his voice back.

Dean slams the bunker door loud enough to wake his brother, who comes sliding in with a gun in his hand a quick minute later.

Seeing Dean, he drops it and sighs.  “Dean.  What the hell, man.”

He turns back around, presumably to go to bed.  

Frustrated, Dean stomps on the floor twice.

Sam stops, confused.  He turns and raises an eyebrow at Dean.  “Any particular reason you’re feeling destructive tonight?”

Dean gestures at his throat and opens his mouth.  “I can’t talk!” he mouths.

“You lost your voice?” Sam asks, looking bewildered.  “What were you doing out th - you know what?  I don’t wanna know.”

Dean rolls his eyes and scrambles to the nearest table, where a pen and a pad of paper rest.  He picks it up and begins writing.  Satisfied, he shows Sam.

But Sam just squints.  “Those are literally just loops and squiggles, Dean.  Are you okay?”

Dean looks again at the pad of paper.  What he wrote really is just loops and squiggles.  He tries again.  I’ve been cursed by a witch, is what he tries to write, but what comes out of the pen instead is a fucked up version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

He drops the pen and paper, putting his head in his hands.  Luckily, by this time Sam has caught on.

“You ran into someone evil?” he guesses, and at Dean’s eager nod, he asks, “Someone who took away your voice and your ability to write?”

Dean nods again.  Finally!

“Dean?  Sam?  What’s wrong?”  Cas wanders in, looking alarmed.  “I heard loud bangs and noises a minute ago; it was louder even than the show I was watching.”

“Dean lost his voice and his ability to write,” Sam says tiredly.  “Think he ran into someone while he was out.”

“Crowley?” Cas asked, immediately ready to mobilize.  “Should I track him down and - “

“Let’s see what Dean has to say first,” Sam says, raising a hand to calm Cas’s ire.  

Dean nods.  He mimes sitting at a bar and knocking back shots.

“You were at a bar drinking,” Cas says, not sounding particularly happy about it.

Dean gets up and pretends to be the lady who approached him.  He bats his eyelashes and plays with invisible Dean’s collar.

“A woman was hitting on you,” Cas says, and if possible, he sounds even surlier.  

Dean pretends to be himself again and shakes his head at the imaginary woman, raising his hand as if to ward off further advances and mouthing something.  Then he pretends to be the woman cursing him, spreading a hand against imaginary Dean’s chest and pushing hard against it.

“So a woman hit on you and you rejected her,” Sam summarized.  “And she cursed you for that.”

Dean sighs silently, lowering himself onto a chair and looking frustrated.

“Why did you reject her?” Sam asks, sounding curious.

Dean glares.  He doesn’t need words to say exactly what his face is saying: “Doesn’t matter, Sammy.  Drop it.”

But Sam is undeterred.  “Dean, you may not be her only victim.  We need to know why you rejected her because it may be one of the links between you and our other hypothetical victims.  Maybe she only curses people who reject her because she’s ugly - who knows?  We just need to be thorough.”

An uncomfortable minute passes.  Dean just stares at Sam, then stares at his shoes.  Finally, he sighs again, defeated.  What Sam said makes sense - and he’d be a piece of shit hunter if he let this witch take away the voices of other poor SOBs without giving his damnedest in this investigation.  

He gets up and walks straight up to Cas, who looks more bewildered with every step Dean takes toward him.  

“Dean?” he asks, slightly panicked, as Dean tries to smile gently.  It probably comes out more like a wince.

He cups Cas’s jaw, who goes still underneath his hand, eyes wide.  Dean touches Cas’s bottom lip with his thumb, feeling out his reaction.  When the only thing Cas does is turn red, he replaces his thumb with his own lips, kissing Cas slowly like he’d been imagining, refill after refill, on that barstool.

When he draws back, he knows he’s gone all soft and doe-eyed, but he’s too preoccupied with Cas, who just stares and stares and stares as if he’s the one without a voice.

Sam is the first to recover.  He clears his throat.  “So.  Uhm.  You told her you had feelings for someone else, I take it?”

Dean nods, smiling encouragingly at Cas, who bites his lower lip and flushes even redder.  Then he’s swaying forward into Dean’s space and kissing him harder, clutching at Dean’s jacket.

Vaguely, past the low moan Cas emits, Dean hears a sigh.  “I’m gonna go and try to find other victims,” Sam says morosely, like he doesn’t expect Dean or Cas to react.  They don’t.  He grabs his keys and jacket and starts climbing the staircase to the bunker’s exit. “Right, you two, don’t wait up,” he says dryly.  They don’t.  In fact, they go straight to bed.

anonymous asked:

omg sam/rhodey!!!! how would their first meeting go? part of me wants sam to be all cute and blushy and military cuz he's MEETING A COLONEL but also he charmed captain america with very little effort. maybe his squeeing is all inner monologue? or maybe rhodey comes to a random VA meeting and immediately gets a crush because sam is so charming and sweet. SO MANY POSSIBILITIES

i got this :D 

“Wilson, this is Rhodey; Rhodey, Wilson,” Tony Stark says, and suddenly some six foot tall sexy guy is shoved right in front of Sam, and they both stumble a little, bumping into each other. This is a crowded party. “You guys have things in common, right?” Stark asks. “Uh, Army stuff. Talk about that. I hate wallflowers; stop wallflowering and talk to each other.” 

“Neither of us are in the Army!” Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes calls. “You know this!” Stark waves an arm behind him, walking away. Then Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes sighs. “Sorry about him,” he says, long-suffering. He sticks out his hand. His voice is deep and he’s so tall and he says, like he isn’t just the most respected man in the US military, “James Rhodes. Nice to meet you.” 

Oh, shit. Sam snaps his gaping mouth shut. He shakes Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes’ hand. “Lieutenant Colonel, sir. It’s an honor.” 

“Oh, hey, no, you don’t have to do that,” Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes says. “Rank doesn’t count at a Stark party.” 

Sam laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck. Is he blushing? He’s blushing. Stop blushing. “Sorry, si – shit, it’s reflex, man.” 

“Come on, I’m not even famous like these guys,” Rhodes says, but he looks pleased. “So what’re you drinking?” 

“I got no idea,” Sam admits. He looks at the glass in his hand. “Rogers kept trying to get me a glass of some top shelf brandy, so finally I said yes –” 

“Whoo, Rogers,” Rhodes whistles. “That guy – I mean, no offense –” 

“Kind of a lush? Totally,” Sam agrees. He looks back over his shoulder, following Rhodes’ gaze. Steve is laughing with his head thrown back, sitting on a couch with Thor, his hand on the guy’s thigh. Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “You know, he’s so young in some ways, it’s weird. I never expected that.” 

“So you guys are pretty close,” Rhodes says. 

“Yeah, you know,” Sam shrugs. “Good guy.” Not like he can talk about their missing persons case, no matter how handsome and stately Rhodes is. He snorts. “Kind of an asshole, though. We met because he couldn’t help but point out how slow regular people like to take their morning jogs compared to super soldiers.” 

Rhodes grins. “No kidding?” 

Sam leans close, conspiratorial. “For real.”

Rhodes laughs. He has a rich, nice laugh. Sam’s favorite thing ever is making people laugh, especially hot guys like Rhodes, and he knows the look on his face is probably stupid as fuck. He can’t help it. The last person he clicked with like this was Rogers, but like hell he’s getting involved in that mess. He loves the guy, but no. Rhodes smacks his shoulder. Sam’s just tipsy enough that he can admit he’s pretty starstruck. 

“Come with me,” Rhodes decides. “If we sneak out right now, nobody will notice. Let me get you a better drink.” 

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. “Like what?” 


Now you’re speaking my language.” 


“So I looked up at him, and I said  –” 

“Oh, shit,” Sam wheezes. “You did not –” 

“I said,” and he puts on a voice: “Anthony Edward Stark, I’m gonna whoop your pasty ass into next week.”

“Oh my God,” Sam gasps. 

“And he is convinced,” Rhodes insists, “Convinced, to this day – to this day! – that he was talking to the ghost of his first nanny. Convinced. He fucking tells that story at parties and says it was his,” Rhodes waves his arms around spookily – “One experience with the paranormal.

Sam wipes a tear from his eye. “Shit, Rhodes, oh my God,” he gasps. “Oh my God, you are outta your damn mind, fuck.” 

Turns out Rhodes likes making people laugh, too. He’s grinning at Sam, kind of quietly. He finishes off his beer. The air out on the balcony is warm and summery. Sam tries not to watch his throat move while he swallows, but it’s a lost cause. Rhodes pats his knee, casual. “We better get back in,” he  says. “Someone might send a detail otherwise.” 

“Damn, already?” Sam asks, relaxed and happy. “How long we been out here, anyway?” 

Rhodes checks his watch. “It’s…only two thirty in the morning.” 

“Shit,” Sam laughs, and then they catch each other’s eyes and they’re both laughing again. “God, okay, alright,” he agrees. “Yeah, let’s get back in, you’re right. Good thing one of us here is responsible.” 

“You better be getting Cap back home too, right?” 

“Eh,” Sam says, shrugging. He gives Rhodes a hand up. Rhodes is a little taller than him, and their chests are close now. “He can take care of himself. Mostly.” 

Rhodes is making a weird face, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What?” Sam asks. 

“I –” Rhodes sighs. “Sam, look.” They’re on first name basis now? Sam’s chest does something about that. “I don’t know any way to ask this that won’t make it –” he gestures between them, “Uncomfortable, but –” 

Sam’s eyes go wide. “Oh, man. Oh, Rhodes. No. No no no no no.” 

“No? Wait, no-no, or…no, no?” 

“No-no,” Sam clarifies. “Are you kidding me? He’s a great guy, he’s a good friend, but –” 

Rhodes puts his hand over his face, chuckling. 

“Couldn’t pay me,” Sam continues, having fun with it now. “Wouldn’t do it for a million dollars. No. Nope. No. He’s hung up on someone, anyway. A couple someones. Hell no, man.” 

“Good,” Rhodes says. Then his eyes go wide. “I mean, you know, good that you – good that you two are friends, right, he seems like a pretty cool, uh –” 

“Rhodes,” Sam laughs. 

“I’m gonna give you my number now,” Rhodes says to him, in that calm, commanding, warm tone that Sam is probably gonna fall head over heels for in about two weeks flat. “But it’s on one condition.” 

God, anything. Wait, don’t say that out loud. “Shoot,” Sam replies. Keep it chill, Wilson. 

“My name is James,” he says. His eyes are so kind up close. All Sam’s ever wanted – somebody with kind brown eyes. “So please call me James.” 

“James,” Sam replies. “Alright, James.” 

“Alright,” James replies, and then Sam mumbles, “God, fuck it,” and tilts his head up, and kisses him on the mouth. 

The last time I fell in love,
I landed in a bed of needles
and sea glass.
It was all glimmering light,
even when I watched it fall apart.

You always smelled the way
the ocean does once the
sun spills her secrets to it,
and to this day I can’t stand
the taste of salt.
I meant to ask you about your family
the last time we talked,
but I was too busy watching your mouth
and the way it curved around the letters
of my name.
You didn’t touch me,
but I still felt you on my
skin days after that,
like an airborne disease
I couldn’t wash away.
I want to ask the doctor
how to get rid of mold
when it’s growing on top
of your bones,
but she’d probably laugh it off
and tell me not to listen to those poets,
that you can’t really die from a broken heart.

I want to ask her what it’s like,
pretending that the only sick ones
are the people sitting in her waiting room.
She’d probably tell me she’s seen
the way people are born bloody
and I’d tell her I’ve seen people
still bleeding even
after years of stitching themselves up.
She’d ask me how I know,
and I’d say

‘Because I’m one of them,
because I’m still bleeding,
and for the life of me,
I don’t how to wash off this blood.’

—  Y.Z, I broke my hands again

While Phoenix may be the most considerate member of the welcoming committee, he is, unfortunately, a little scatterbrained. 

we had so much fun writing franziska! thank you for the prompt, everyonelovesedgeworth

Fic: Courage

Anonymous prompted: Blaine trying to hide that he’s Nightbird from his new boyfriend, who has a tendency for getting into trouble.

Read on the AO3 or here:


Being a college student by day and a superhero by night doesn’t really leave Blaine a whole lot of time for dating. Which makes it all the more perfect when Kurt just sort of – happens to him.

They run into each other outside the cafeteria – literally. Because Blaine hasn’t had more than three hours of sleep a night all week and Kurt is busy rifling through a folder full of sheet music and not looking where he’s going.

So their first meeting is a full frontal collision the first day of Blaine’s sophomore year, Kurt’s freshman year, around lunch time, which knocks Kurt onto his ass, papers flying and scattering across the polished surface of the college hallway. Blaine stumbles back against the wall, hitting his head hard on the edge of the doorframe.

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