right there in the middle of the gear


Violet Baudelaire was the eldest Baudelaire child. She was 14 years old, right-handed, had a real knack for inventing and building unusual devices. When Violet Baudelaire tied up her hair like that, it was a sure sign the pulleys, levers and gears of her inventive mind were working at top speed.

Klaus Baudelaire was the middle child and only boy. He was a little older than 12 and wore glasses, which made him look intelligent. He was intelligent.

Sunny Baudelaire was an infant, a word which here means “a person of the age at which one mostly speaks in a series of unintelligible shrieks”, so most people had trouble understanding what she was saying. What Sunny lacked in communication skills, however, she made up for with the size and sharpness of her four teeth.

Neil and Andrew being constantly hyperaware of each other is such a beautiful thing so here’s some headcanons about that:

  • Like obviously these boys spend 90% of their time staring at each other so hard they forget that anything else is happening
  • But the other 10% of the time they spend Not Staring at each other while still managing to keep track of everything the other is doing
  • (Neil will go off to spend time with Matt or Dan or Allison but his mind is still at least 40% occupied by Andrew’s hair in the sunlight)
  • (and for Andrew it’s plausible deniability)
  • (not because he needs to uphold his reputation or anything but because if he doesn’t stare he doesn’t have to face everything that Neil means to him)
  • (who is he kidding)
  • So Andrew will be sitting in a beanbag chair with his glasses on reading a book and when Neil comes in he’ll keep his eyes firmly on the page
  • but then Neil starts rifling through the room, putting on his shoes and jacket for a run, and he keeps digging through drawers and looking under papers and in all the coat pockets trying to find something
  • and Andrew just reaches over without looking up from his book and grabs Neil’s keyring from the countertop and throws it at him
  • Neil goes on his run but it takes him ten more minutes to leave because he keeps stopping to stare at Andrew and smile

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I would really like some of these to be turned into fanfics….

- Lance has feelings/crushes on everyone on the team but nobody even remotely or lowkey returns his feelings so he’s bottled it up inside

- Lance collapses from sleep deprivation in a hallway and nobody finds his more almost an entire day, they think he’s just playing games.

- Hunk knows a little Spanish and sometimes tried to reassure Lance in Spanish but he gets it wrong and accidentally tells Lance he’s useless instead of special

- Lance asks Pidge why she isn’t sleeping anymore and she yells at him about her family and how he doesn’t understand. Lance loses his cool and screams at her that he’s so home sick he’s thought about leaving so many times and never coming back. His tantrum quickly turns to an act of crying. Pidge doesn’t do or say anything because she doesn’t know how.

- Lance dies on a mission and the only people looking for him are Keith and Shiro, everyone else assumes he’s ignoring them.

- Instead of saying quiznack, Lance has returned to saying fuck

- On missions, Shiro stops paying attention to Lance and his ideas. Eventually Lance gives up and basically runs away, not knowing the rest of the team needs to form Voltron.

- Matt is saved and is immediately introduced to the blue lion and they begin to bond. Lance lashes out at Matt, claiming he’s taking away the only friend he had left and the rest of the team gets offended and tells Lance to shut up.

- (trigger warning: self harm) Lance cuts is thighs when he’s upset. Keith’s caught him on multiple occasions and has never said anything.

- Prince Lotor intercepts the team on a mission and begins to beat their asses. He’s infatuated with Lance and wants to be with him— romantically and sexually. The team asks Lance to say no, “Lance don’t do it! We need to form voltron! Think about us!” And that’s what sets Lance off. He strips right then and there of his Voltron gear and leaves with Lotor.

- Prince Lotor kidnapping Lance in the middle of the night to add discourse to the team, only to find out no one is looking for him for 2 days.

- Keith and Pidge continuously playing pranks on Lance, often blaming stuff on him he clearly didn’t do and videotaping it. Lance can’t laugh at it when they tell him it’s a prank, and they ridicule him for crying.

- Hunk forgetting the time in the garrison with Lance and having to re-bond with his buddy but it doesn’t work and now they aren’t even friends

- Allura asking the team to stay silent for an entire day as part of a team building exercise but of course Lance wasn’t there so he goes the whole day thinking everyone’s ignoring him, and when he goes to Allura to talk about it, she yells at him for breaking the rules

- Lance going deaf from and explosion and when he tells his teammates he can’t hear them they lash out.


My LARP group had a photoshoot last weekend! The story has shifted forward in time several months under our new WM team so it was a perfect time to bring back my old elven character and play a magic user again >:3 Shes a very different personality from my merc so I’m excited to be her for a while.

Updated my old outfit to a fancier and more practical gear, she also has a blind eye and scars but I don’t have my eyepatch yet plus has a birthday dinner right after so couldn’t do the scars since I needed just makeup I could take off fast >_> lol

Love so many of the photos!

The top and bottom photos are by Alexa Lachuta Photography

Middle three by The Plaid Ographer


Author: me (honestground on Ao3)
Rating: K+
Words: 1,400~
Pairing: BotW!Zelink (postgame)
Summary: He knows he can’t protect her from everything, but Hylia be damned if he isn’t going to try. He asks, “Are you warm enough?”
Notes: Your weekly reminder that I’m actually garbage. Also this could totally turn smutty so if anyone wants to request that I’ll totally do it. Okay, I did it.
Edit: Now on Ao3 with the smut attached for convenience. 

The winter chill seemed to have settled over Hateno early that year; trees turned bare and wind turned icy, weather swiftly transitioning from cold to colder. It meant more maintenance on the house, and keeping a closer eye on supplies, and Link had about fifty more things to do before the snow really set in, but he couldn’t be happier. 

It was one of their rare weekends off, and while it was too cold out to really get much done, Link was entirely content in doing nothing with Zelda tonight, to listen to her happily thumb through the Sheikah Slate while he cooked them both dinner, the house smelling like good food and comfort and warmth.

“Link,” Zelda calls to him from her favourite chair by the fire. She sounds curious and pleasantly distracted, and Link smiles at her voice, the way his name sounds different, better, coming out of her mouth, somehow. “What does this—”

She’s abruptly cut off, an odd but familiar hum of energy smothering whatever she had been about to ask, and Link turns around just in time to see her vanish in a shower of shimmering blue lights.

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I’m trying to figure out why I like Davepetasprite so much.

Part of it is the juiced-up wish fulfillment of it all, which feels like a very deliberate gesture - DPS look like someone’s OC because they are a perfected being, the Very Thing You Want, as filtered through the native symbol language of MSPA.  Forget that Hope nonsense: this is what an angel looks like in comic sans.

It’s also the end of Dave’s arc, in the way that Jasprosesprite is the end of Rose’s.  The Strider/Lalonde problem is anhedonia.   A situation in which Dave is able to delight in himself - surely that’s the major problem of his character solved, right?  And it couldn’t happen to the “real” Dave, because that kind of solution doesn’t happen to real people.  You don’t wake up one day and decide that you love yourself.  Magic is required.

So the squared sprites are projections of what Dave and Rose wanted to be, really.  Ultraconfident sexually aggressive tentacle cat princess and empathetic androgynous never-alone mindmeld hyperfurry?  Are you kidding me?  Sign my terrified middle-school self up.  If this were really a video game and these kids genuinely gained all the levels, these are what the results would be: the highest selves of 13-year-old trauma victims.  Not god tiers, but gods. And, as gods, they are peripheral - they have to be, right?  The mortals are over there weeping and hugging and smothering themselves with pillows, but the trade-off is they get to have the real relationships and learn the real lessons and live the real lives. Original Dave and Original Rose get to live without pain.

There are always these gears turning in Homestuck under all the bullshit, and that’s what I’m here for.  The Bad Man has this insane propensity for getting me to feel genuine feelings about the impossible and the impossibly stupid.


Character/Pairing: Dean x Reader
Location: Motel swimming pool
Random Word: flirty
Requested by: anonymous

“I wondered where you got to,” you said, looking down at Dean as he surfaced at the edge of the pool.

He looked up at you and smirked. “We’re allowed to relax, you know?” He ran a hand over his face, wiping the water from his eyelashes and cheeks. “I keep trying to tell you and Sam that.” He leaned on the edge and you kept staring down at him. You were feeling inexplicably warm at the sight of the water clinging to his skin, mixing with the freckles on his face and shoulders. 

“Right. Well, Sam and I have to work hard to make up for you slacking off,” you said. 

“Hmm. Well, I give you permission to take a break… Right now. Right here. With me,” he said. He flashed you that boyish grin you found nearly irresistible. He pushed back off the pool wall and took a few strokes back toward the middle of the pool. “Come on. The water is perfect. I promise I won’t even dunk you,” he teased.

You tried not to be obvious about staring at his strong chest and back, the muscles rippling beneath those freckles. “I seem to have left my swimsuit in my other bag of hunting gear,” you replied.

“Swimsuit?” he repeated. “You think I own swim trunks?” He looked down at himself. “These are boxers,” he said, giving you another grin. “Besides… who said anything about you wearing a swimsuit?” 

You felt your cheeks grow warm. “Dean!” 

He laughed and swam back over toward the edge of the pool. “I’m just kidding. …sort of.” He looked up at you. “Come on,” he said again. “You’re gonna make me stay out here and enjoy these stars and this empty pool all by myself?”

You considered him for a moment, pursing your lips in thought. The ripples on the surface of the pool were throwing light into his green eyes and making them sparkle and you finally bent and began to roll up your pant legs.

“I will sit. Here. And put my feet in,” you said. You pointed at him. “No splashing,” you warned.

Dean put on a mock stunned expression. “You think I would splash you? I’m offended!” The gravel in his voice was thick and you couldn’t help but bite your bottom lip again. He swam closer to you and you caught a mischievous glint in his green eyes.

“Dean…” you said with a warning tone. 

“What?” he shrugged, still swimming closer.

“Don’t! I mean it!” 

“Would you relax? I’m not gonna splash you!” he said. He came and leaned against the edge of the pool by you, sighing contentedly. “It is nice in here though. You really should come in,” he said.

“Yeah, I believe you,” you said, kicking your feet in the water. You caught Dean’s eyes for a brief moment and both of you let the gaze stretch. 

The next thing you knew Dean had grabbed your hand and pulled. Hard.

You came up gasping and sputtering and started raining punches on every part of him you could reach, pushing your wet hair back out of your face with the other hand and shaking the water from your eyes. “DEAN! YOU. ASS!”

He was laughing and easily caught your fist as you threw the last blow. “I told you it’s nice in here,” he said, raising his eyebrows at you.

You wiped a hand over your face and shook your head at him. His hand suddenly relaxed around your fist and he slipped his fingers in between yours.

“Do you want me to get you a towel?” he asked. There was still the small ghost of a smile on his lips, but something in the mood had changed, and his fingers between yours were making it hard to think.

You shrugged. “Eh. I’m already here. Might as well stay for a while…”

Dean nodded. “Good.”

Hitched (1/10)

a Captain Swan AU fan fiction

Summary:  After a series of events leave her life in pieces, Emma Swan finds herself hitchhiking out of Maine, her wallet empty and her heart broken. The best she hopes for is a driver who isn’t a pervert and takes her far away from the painful memories of Storeybrooke. But when she finds a ride with a quiet truck driver named Jones, Emma discovers that maybe a trustworthy friend is all she needs.

Rating: M or MA; some profanity and sex scenes.

Cover art: created by the absolutely fabulous @thesschesthair!!

Links: ff.net // ao3 // ch. 2 // ch. 3 // ch. 4 // ch. 5 // ch. 6 // ch. 7 // ch. 8 // ch. 9 // ch. 10 // epilogue

(also @teamhook, who really wants to read this ^^)


The southbound on-ramp seemed to beckon to her, stretching wide and flat up the small hill until it crested on a small incline, leading to the highway.  Emma gnawed her lip, torn. She didn’t know whether it was legal to hitchhike on highways in Maine—it was definitely illegal in some other states—but even if it was, the alternative was trekking back to the truck stop in Bangor and trying to con someone there into giving her a ride.

And if I did, I’d end up using my boobs to do it, she thought bitterly. She gritted her teeth, suddenly filled with determination, and strode forward toward the ramp.

Chilly wind whistled from beneath the underpass, and she reached up to pull her tuque lower, snugging it around her ears. Then taking a deep breath, she extended her arm and put up her thumb.

“Anyone but a trucker,” she muttered. “Come on.”

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At Least a Little

Summary: Dex is doing an admirable job of forgetting about what exactly happened on their Taddy tour - at least he was until a poorly timed game of spin the bottle ruins everything.
Rating: M
Wordcount: ~1700
A/N: So I just found out this week is Nursey week and don’t have the time to write something new, but in honor of it I’m posting this nurseydex fic that’s been sitting in my drafts forever. Thanks for reading! 

“I’m not gay Nurse,” he spits. 

Nursey recoils as though he’s been slapped. “Well excuse me,” he says, “but since my dick has been in your mouth I’d beg to differ. That’s at least a little bi.” Nursey smiles, as though he’s just chirping Dex - as though it’s no big deal. 

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“Give me your best shot, Tater Tot.”

“Give me your best shot, Tater Tot,” Kent Parson says across the face-off circle. 

Alexei has been living in the US for almost two years now, and he likes to think he’s been making headway in becoming fully fluent in his adopted second language.  He may still get tripped up on pop cultural references and nonsensical idioms, but even on his first day in the States, those words he would have understood.  In fact, those were the first words he ever learned in English, aside from the the odd Anglicisms naturally adopted from such a massive exporter of pop culture as the United States.  Because Alexei has had those words imprinted across his chest since he was eleven years old.

“Give me your best shot, Tater Tot,” says Kent Parson, Alexei’s soulmate.  

He has approximately half a second to digest what just happened before the referee drops the puck and play resumes at a blazing pace.  It is only years of muscle memory and diligent practice that allows Alexei to slam his stick after the puck with only the smallest hesitation.  It’s enough for Parson however, the man is dazzling on the ice, he snags the puck and passes it with precision to Graham, neatly giving the Aces possession when the Falconer’s are still scrambling to make up the point difference in a 2-1 game.

“Did Parson just call you Tater Tot?” his linemate Spencer asks incredulously, flying by in a flurry of defensive maneuvers.  Alexei is quick to follow after, but not quick enough to stop Parson from looping behind the net to score on pass from Graham.  The fans around them groan in unison as Parson is swept up in a hug by his teammates. Alexei grudgingly acknowledges that it was a splendid bit of skating, as he slides back to the bench to change shifts before the next puck drop.

“You ok, Alex?” his Captain asks, leaning into his shoulder briefly to get his attention.  Zimmermann has sixth sense for sorting out when his players are a bit off, one of the many attributes that make him such an exemplary leader.  “Yeah,” he replies gruffly. He knows he’s behaving a bit oddly, he’s usually the first on the bench to cheer on his fellow Falcs (often bellowing at a volume loud enough to be heard in the reserved boxes), but he just met his soulmate - the person he’s been eagerly waiting for ever since his parents explained the writing along their shoulder blades. So instead of exuberantly yelling as his team regains possession, he’s reeling that the universe has revealed his ideal partner and it’s Kent Parson.  The man is sitting only a few feet away, separated by a wall of plexiglass and overly large hockey players.  Stretching upward, craning his neck, he can barely make out the top of Parson’s helmet.   

Alexei briefly considers confiding in Jack, after all, if anyone would be able to tell him more about his soulmate, it would be Jack Zimmermann, whose boyhood orbited hockey and Parson in equal measures.  But the moment passes in the brisk rush unique to hockey games, and he and his line are back over the boards and in a mad scramble for the puck.

It’s easy to focus on the ice. The scrape of a hard stop, his stick connecting with rubber, pushing hard to shove a player into the boards long enough for his team to retrieve the puck.   He wouldn’t have made it as far as the NHL if he wasn’t capable of focusing when it’s his time on the ice.  But despite the familiar comfort of the game, he can feel how much his equilibrium has shifted, like stepping onto dry land after months at sea.  

Kent Parson.

Captain of the Las Vegas Aces, Stanley Cup winner, current point leader in his division, his accolades are many. Parson is a dazzling skater, he has an ebullient personality in general but the man seems to sharpen when he’s on the ice, all determination and and drive and focus. He is entirely centered when he is laced into his skates.  Alexei spends the rest of the third period biting back words, and he know his teammates are looking at him strangely, for him to skate practically mute is an anomaly of the highest order.

He can’t help it, his instincts are screaming at him to close the space between him and Parson, he’s swallowing compulsively as if trying to bury the words deep in his gut.  He’s not sure what is holding him back, by all rights he should be ready to sweep the man up and yell his happiness for all to hear.  The middle of play during a professional hockey game is hardly the place he thought he’d be meeting his partner, and Alexei wonders if it wouldn’t be quite fair, really, to distract Parson as he’d been distracted at the face off. He tries to tell himself to focus on the game, that there will be time enough to figure out his response later.  

Parson is almost entirely covered in his gear and sweater.  Still Alexei can’t help hoping for a glimpse of bare skin, but the only skin visible is the man’s face and part of his neck, unlikely spots for imprints.  If his location matches Alexei’s it will almost impossible for anyone to see it while they’re in the middle of the game, but he’d love to have some kind of hint of what he’s eventually going to say to the man.

He knows it’s not unusual for soulmates to have imprints on disparate body parts, but he’d always found it romantic when partners shared a location. He thinks looking forward to finding his imprint on Kent.

They manage to score again late in the third, but can’t manage to pull ahead enough to tie it. The game finishes 3-2, much to the disappointment of their home crowd.

Lining up the shake hands with the Aces he feels a pull deep in his gut, anxiety flaring as he nears Parson.  This man is a stranger to him. He sees Jack tap gloves, congratulating Kent and awkwardly thumping him once on the helmet before continuing down the line.  And then it is the two of them. Alexei reaches out a hand, and looks up into blue eyes, cold and bright, and the moment passes. Parson moves on, chirping the men behind him as he moves further down the line.

“Hey, Tater,” Spencer says from behind him, “What’s the hold up?” He nudges him gently with his stick to keep him moving.

“Sorry,” he mutters, before reaching out to the next player. He just couldn’t do it, he’s felt a sting of recognition looking into those eyes, his mind blanked, losing the moment like water through his hands.


“Oh my god Tater. I can’t believe you finally have a hockey nickname and it came from Kent Parson.” Snowy is moaning when they get back to the locker room.

“I don’t understand, is tiny potatoes, yes?” Mashkov asks uneasily, not getting why everyone in the locker room is beaming at the name.

“Dude, it’s pun. Potatoes, tater, Mashkov, like mashed potatoes?”

Ah, that does make sense. He feels his face fold up involuntarily into a smile.

“See there! He does remember how to smile.” Spencer says, red curls specularly ruffled after pulling his sweater over his head.

“What’s wrong Tater, you’re usually the one cheering the rest of us up.” Snowy asks, bend over undoing his laces.

“Is…complicated.” Alexei says, unsure if he should elaborate. He likes his team, he knows in most circumstance they would be thrilled to know that he met his soulmate. He knows they would chirp him endlessly over having met his soulmate in the middles of a hockey game, would give him wild suggestions for what his own first words should be to Kent. But that’s part of the problem, his soulmate is not some stranger to all of them, it’s Kent Parson, complicating things immensely. For one, he’s the captain of the team they narrowly lost to only minutes ago. Second, their own captain has a murky, unspoken past with the man, with hints that the two parted ways less than amicably. Alexei doesn’t know where the two men stand. It’s only his own first year with the team, he hardly wants to shake things up with his captain.  So he’s getting undressed in a locker room feeling unsteady, wanting to reach out to his team but uncertain of his reception, with a half formed soulmate bond to a man who is likely getting ready to fly to the other side of the country.  He’d pictured meeting his soulmate and feeling nothing but overwhelming happiness, not this muddle of confused thoughts.

“We are going out tonight?”  He asks the room at large. “I need a drink.”

A thing I’ve been working on, sort of an alternate path for Don’t Speak Before We Say Too Much.  I’m a little bit stuck on whether to continue angsty or fluffy as I have ideas for both. It is surprisingly difficult to write from Mashkov’s POV and also continue in an angsty vein. 

“What are we going to tell her?”

Arizona’s eyes followed her seven-year-old daughter as she crossed the small café, a bounce in her step as she approached the counter and waited for the barista to hand her down her own small hot chocolate. Sofia was getting so big – over the last year she’d been in New York, the little girl had grown in spades, both physically and emotionally, and although she’d always been a little precocious Arizona was sure she was now intelligent far beyond her years.

Callie let her gaze follow her ex-wife’s for a moment before directing it back across the table toward the blonde herself, and she reached out almost instinctively, her hand lightly squeezing the other woman’s.

“The truth, Arizona. She’s going to be so happy.”

“Exactly,” blue eyes immediately glanced toward the elder brunette, “she’s going to be so happy, Callie…but what if this…what if we don’t work out – again? It’s going to break her heart. She was never old enough before to know any different, but if this doesn’t work and we break up again, she’s going to be crushed–”


Callie cut the smaller woman off, glancing over towards their daughter again to see that she was now animatedly in conversation with the teenager behind the bar.

“Stop thinking we’re going to break up again.”

Arizona’s eyes flickered up to meet the deep brown gaze across the small table, and her fingers fiddled lightly with the open collar of her jacket.

“This is it for us,” Callie continued speaking softly when the blonde didn’t reply, “we are together. We’ve been together again for nearly six months, and I know it’s been long-distance but it’s felt so, so right. You’re it for me, Arizona. I’m never letting you go again – I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”

A small smile graced the beautiful features in front of her, and Arizona let out a calming breath, letting her own smile match the other woman’s.

“I love you, Calliope. I’m not going anywhere either.”

“Mom, Mama, guess what!”

Sofia appeared beside them with her to-go cup carefully held in her hand, and she set it on the table as Arizona pushed her chair back a bit, allowing the young girl to climb into her lap. With her mother’s arm wrapped snugly around her waist, Sofia grinned happily, pulling her cup towards her again.

“The girl who makes the drinks is named Sofia too! I saw it on her apron. And I know I’m not supposed to tell strangers my name but you were right here and she was super nice and she said anytime we come back she’ll make sure to give me extra marshmallows and the chocolate sauce on top and the whip cream cause Sofia is the best name.”

Callie couldn’t help the grin that lit up her face as she watched them. Sofia was so much like Arizona – from her expressions and her sense of humour, down to her bubbly, talkative personality. She’d missed this – missed them together. Their weekends over the last year had never been enough.

“Sofia is the very best name,” Arizona’s dimpled grin matched their daughter’s as she smoothed down some flyaway dark hair, “and maybe we can come back here next Sunday, how about that?”

The young girl looked up at her mother and then across at her other parent, brown eyes curious and hopeful.

“Are we really still gonna be here next Sunday?”

“We are, I told you, baby,” Callie wrapped her hands around her own warm cup of coffee, “we’re home for good. That’s why we packed up everything in New York.”

“Just making sure. Are you going to keep staying with me and mom and Andrew?”

“Actually, Sof…” Arizona glanced over her head to see Callie nod, confirming what she was about to say, “I think you, me, and mama are going to get a new house – just the three of us.”

Sofia’s face lit up immediately – although her eyebrow arched curiously as she looked up into the blue eyes of her mother.

“Another new house?”

Laughing softly, Arizona dropped a kiss on her temple, squeezing the small body affectionately around the middle.

“I know, sweetie. There have been a lot of new houses the last couple years. But this one will be the last, I promise. It’ll be a really good one.”

“And we’re going to live there for a long, long time. Together.”

Callie chimed in, and she could see the gears turning in the young girl’s mind as she sipped her hot chocolate again, her inquisitive brown eyes studying Callie’s own for a minute.

“Because you and mommy love each other again, right? Like, love love. That’s really why we came home.”

Sofia Robbin Sloan Torres was always so much smarter than her mothers imagined – not that either of them were terribly surprised. And they’d been kidding themselves in thinking she hadn’t picked up on what was happening between them.

“Yeah, Sof,” Callie laughed softly, reaching over to twine her fingers with Arizona’s in plain sight of their daughter, “I love love her. I love her a lot.”

Arizona smiled, her gaze meeting Callie’s over the top of Sofia’s head. and she tightened her hold ever so slightly on the hand wrapped around hers.

“I love you, Arizona.”

And while it wasn’t the first time they’d uttered the words since being together again – in fact, they’d spoken them many times, in many ways over the phone and in texts and on weekends in New York – it was the first time they’d spoken them in front of Sofia. And somehow, speaking that promise out loud to her was even more of a commitment – even further solidifying their need, and more importantly their want to be together. Because the one thing they’d realized over the last six months was that being in love with each other was so much more than a simple, invisible pull – it was undeniable, fated even, that much was clear – but it was also a choice. And for the last time, for good, they had chosen each other.

“I know.”

Sofia grinned widely, plucking a half melted marshmallow from the top of her cup, and practically glowing from the obvious love of both her mothers, she popped it into her mouth, licking her chocolately fingers. 

As far as she was concerned, it was simple. Her mothers loved her, and they loved each other. She had everything she’d always wanted.

“Can we invite Andrew over for supper sometimes though? He’s not a very good cook…he might starve without us.”



So I was in Hot Topic a few days ago, and I was absolutely overjoyed to discover the small (but very much present) Pride Gear section. Reminder, I live in a tiny conservative town in the middle of Redneck Central, North Carolina. Much like the rest of my town, my parents are very conservative and have no idea they raised a biromantic asexual daughter. So I happily walk my gay ass over there and standing by the Pride Gear was a person (I’m not aware of their gender, so I’m not going to assume). They were gleefully examining the merchandise, as was I, but I had an even bigger smile on my face. However, that smile began to fade as I looked back and forth between my mother and the wonderful Pride Gear, overjoyed to see the support for the LGBTQ+ community in such a hateful state, but sad to know that not only would I not be allowed to purchase anything, but that I would never be able to come out to my mother with her acceptance. The person next to me must have noticed because they look one look at me, then at my mother, and turned to me when she looked away and said, “I promise you, it gets better.”.

I nearly started crying right there in the middle of Hot Topic. That experience reaffirmed my knowledge that even if my family, most of my friends, my church, or my town will never accept me, there’s an even bigger community out there that will love me no matter what. I felt the need to share this, especially since it’s currently Pride Month, to let everyone know what that one person’s encouraging words did for me. Nobody is alone. There are so many other people out there that know exactly what you’re going through. And for every one terrible and unaccepting person, there are two more who will love you for everything that you are. Whether it be a random stranger in Hot Topic standing by the Pride merch, or someone you met on Tumblr, there is still love and acceptance out there.

Mute Part 5

Part 4

Genre: Angst
Words: 2,176
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: Rape mentions, mentions of possible cheating (pls don’t read if this will trigger anything & also i’m here to listen if anyone needs to talk)
Summary: Bucky doesn’t know what to do when traumatizing events result in your witty remarks dying down to nothing.

Wanda’s shocked look didn’t last long before she pulled you into an empty conference room. Her movements were antsy, and her expression showed full confusion.

She stopped you in the middle of stressfully running your hand through your hair. “How do you know he is? This is Bucky we’re talking about.”

You didn’t want to say the reasoning out loud and admit it to the world, but you were pretty sure that if you held one more thing back, your body was going to collapse in on itself until the secrets blew away with the rest of you.

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still-waiting-for-godot  asked:

A certain exy junkie ghost haunts the foxhole court

“I know you’re new here,” Matt explained on the way from the locker room to the court, “and your cousin looks ready to take on the world, but there’s some things we don’t mess with.”

Glancing back from his cousin (but no, he wasn’t taking on the world, he was just smiling creepily at the more outspokenly homophobic fifth years, great) Nicky side-eyed Matt.

“Some things like… salt on the windowsills.”

“It seems to help.”

“And the holy water by the doors that, uh, what’s her name–”


“– Yeah, her - the ones she manages.”

“Those definitely help. She learned from a professional.”


“I know what you’re thinking–”

“You keep saying it helps, but with what?

Matt cut a hand through the air, struggled for words, and finally, shrugged.

“At first, I didn’t believe it either. But, it’s. Well. Take my word for it: the court’s haunted.”

Nicky laughed.

Matt did not.

Nicky stopped laughing.

“Sorry,” Nicky said, smile strained, “I don’t usually ask this before we at least have a dinner, but: come again?”

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anonymous asked:

I just read that drabble you wrote two days ago -- the one where Kitamoto gets hurt -- and and and... COULD THERE PLEASE BE A CONTINUATION?? I really want to see how Nishimura and Kitamoto react to flying on Madara and their realization that Natsume indeed can see youkai and and and I'm imagining Natsume being terrified that they'll be too scared to approach him from now on but they're just like dude, you're our friend and always will be, and it'll be Tanuma's first time flying as well and AAHHH

a continuation of this

Disappearing cats and disembodied voices are both things that Satoru was not prepared to deal with during their overnight camping trip; right alongside his best friend breaking his wrist, and the four of them gearing up for an admittedly treacherous hike back down the mountain in the dark.

But Natsume’s face is white with real fear, and his eyes are as dark as they were the day Satoru met him, even if his expression doesn’t really change much. His arms are curled around his middle the way they’d usually be curled around his cat, like a guard – as if those frail hands could shield him from anything that really wanted to hurt him – and, remarkably, Satoru can put aside everything else that’s going on to frown at his friend.

Sure, there was a violent curl of wind and a screen of white smoke, and Nyan-nyan-sensei vanished into thin air. Kitamoto stumbled back a few steps in alarm, but Tanuma was there to keep him steady, which leaves Satoru free to jab a finger at Natsume and snap, “You look like you’re gonna pass out! Take a breath!”

Some of that awful, bleak dread in Natsume’s face recedes to make room for bewilderment instead. Satoru has that affect on people.

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Fic 463: Bunkin’ Up

A little Texas Toast for you all. It’s a cold night in Coldfort…

“It’s dead as a doornail.” Engineer announced to seven blue-tinged faces and one black respirator. “Gonna need some parts from town to fix it.”

All eyes were on the oddly shaped metal slab on the kitchen table. Ostensibly it had once been a functioning part of Coldfort’s furnace, which was now non-functioning due in large part to it now, in fact, sitting on the opposite side of the base. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows in their panes, and a collective shiver ran through the group.

“Engineer.” Spy lit his cigarette as smoothly as he could, but it was impossible to miss the trembling of the flame as he brought it towards him. “You cannot get to town until this storm passes.”

Engineer nodded. “Yup. I reckon that’s right.”

“This storm is forecasted to sit over this god-forsaken mountain for the next two days.”

“Yup. I reckon that’s right, too.”

Spy snapped his lighter shut. “So you are saying that we will be without heat, in the middle of a blizzard, for two days?”

Engineer paused. The team leaned forward. Then he crossed his arms. They leaned forward more, watching as the gears worked inside that impressive brain. And then he paused again before finally shaking his head.

“Naw. I figure it’s gonna be closer to four. Gotta actually get to town for the dag-burn part first.”

At the back of the room, Heavy shrugged. “Is not so bad. Is like home.”

“Yeah, okay for you, Abominable Snowman, but how about us who ain’t had time to fatten up for winter?” Scout scowled before withering under the Russian’s glare.

Engineer held up his hands. “Look, I know it ain’t the news you boys were lookin’ for, but I ain’t figured out how to bend space and time. Yet. In the meantime, we got firewood and fireplaces, and I recommend we all get to usin’ ‘em. And you might wanna find a buddy and get cozy. A little body heat goes a long way to keepin’ a fella warm.”

“Hummh huh muh.” Pyro’s mumbled cheerfully as they deposited another armful of blankets onto the bed.

“Not at all, partner. Happy to have you.” Engineer grinned as he tossed another log on the fire. After the meeting in the kitchen, he’d been glad to have the firebug clamp onto him like a dog on a bone. Pyro seemed in better spirits than the others about the whole situation, but that just might have been that their asbestos suit was as good at keeping a body warm when it was cold as it was keeping a body cool where it was hot. No matter what it was though, they were a fair bit more cheerful about the whole thing than anyone else. If he was gonna suffer through this blizzard, he was at least going to do it with a smile.

Pyro hummed happily to themselves as they lay their blankets out on top of Engineer’s bed. Already dressed in pink striped flannel pajamas and with a nightcap on top of their mask, they looked ready to bed down for the evening.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Even with the fire roaring away in the fireplace, there was enough chill in the air to make his joints start ache, and that meant that working on any of his partially completed blueprints would have been about as much fun as walking barefoot through a patch of prickly pears.

The bedsprings squeaked as Pyro hopped under the covers and snuggled down under four quilts, two duvets, and two blankets.

“You look like the ‘Princess and the Pea’ if the princess decided to sleep under all them mattresses.” Pyro threw their arm over their head in an exaggerated swoon, and he chuckled as he got back to his feet and made his own way to the bed. He wasn’t as bundled up as Pyro, but he was thanking Mama Conagher back in Bee Cave for the new pair of long underwear that she’d slipped in his suitcase during his last trip home. Between that and the knit cap on his head, he almost felt warm. Reaching over to the small side table, he turned off the lamp as he squirmed his own way under the covers.

As he got comfortable there was the sound of rubber being worked between fingers, and an odd ploff as the mask was dropped to the ground in surprisingly careless fashion.

“It is cold.” Pyro whispered. “Do you think I could see my breath?”

“I reckon so. But I’ll be damned if I’m reaching my arm back out there to turn on the light for you to find out.”

“Ahhhhhh…. Oh, Engie! I can see it!”

Engineer turned his head just enough to see the silhouette of Pyro’s head illuminated by the base’s external security lights. Their chin jutted out just a little as puffs of breath hung like ghosts in the cold night air.

“Ain’t that something?” He yawned and pulled his cap down a little more before laying his head down onto the pillows.

“Ooooooh… Ahhhhhhhh…” Pyro continued watching their little bellows of air. “Whoooooo-rar!”

Engineer squeaked as he felt a pair of hands grab at him under the covers. “Tarnation! What in Sam Hill are you doin’?”

“I couldn’t decide if I was gonna be a steam train or a dragon.” Pyro giggled as they buried their face into his shoulder. “So I decided to be both.”

Engineer sighed, but rolled over just enough to let Pyro wriggle over the rest of the way. It involved a little wriggling on both of their parts, but eventually they were comfortable, buried under blankets and with the crackling of the fire to lull them to sleep.

“Count yourself lucky you’re a space heater, else I’d be kicking you outta here so quick it’d make Scout’s head spin.” he muttered as he felt flannel wrapped legs bump up against his own.

“Would not.”

It was too dark to properly see Pyro, but Engineer reckoned there was a tongue being stuck out at him at that moment.

And darn if they weren’t right.

anonymous asked:

You asked for prompts, if you're still interested - BAMF!Stiles that shows everyone that he doesn't need saving, especially from Peter (who's simply smitten). Have a great day!

The best helping hand is at the end of your own arm.

Stiles can say without a doubt that he has never been the strongest or the fastest or the smartest, but he can also say that he has never needed to be saved either. He does that by himself just fine, thank you very much, because he may not be the est anything, but he’s strong enough, fast enough, smart enough and, essentially, everything enough to take care of himself and the people he cares about.

And if he isn’t, well, he finds a way, he learns, he gets better.

Okay, okay, he has to admit it takes him embarrassingly long to kick his ass into gear, but excuse him if the sudden knowledge of the existence of a whole new world has left him floundering for a bit… especially with attacks raining left and right on him apart from his usual school drama.

But enough is enough and it’s time to get his ass into gear already. He draws the line at being kidnapped and tortured by a geriatric fascist and having to sacrifice his poor Roscoe to save people that didn’t appreciate it afterwards, fuck you very much. Because Stiles is not like this, he doesn’t let things catch him off guard. Where he’s concerned, pre-emptive strike may as well be his middle name. Or if he does get caught off guard (because he may not be the smartest but he knows it), he always has backup plan after backup plan lined up to execute. In short, pre-emptive strike may be his middle name, but forearmed is his third.

With that in mind, when he can finally move without having his whole body protest loudly in pain, he orders three different rare species of aconite (ones that he knows will survive in California’s weather) and he goes in search of his mum’s gun. His dad gave it to her when Stiles was about five years old because a twerp that was angry at his dad tried to take it on his family. Needless to say his dad took steps to have them as safe as possible when he wasn’t there to protect them and, despite her vehement protests, took his mom to the shooting range after making her get a license until she could hit on the target every time. Then he got her a Glock 19 (smaller and lighter than the 22 that his dad has in his safe) and a full case of 9mm hollow-point bullets. His mom wasn’t happy at all, because she was against guns, so without telling him, she hid it where she was sure Stiles wouldn’t accidentally find it, bought an almost identical BB handgun and went on with her life as normal. His dad never found out and since he never had the heart to go through her things after she died (Stiles was the one that painstakingly slowly moved everything to the attic), he never took the gun.

In fact, Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t even remember it, which works just fine for him, because he would have had to steal the one in his safe or find a way to acquire one illegally otherwise.

It’s painful, both physically and mentally, and he ends up filthy in the process because neither Stilinski has set a foot up there since Stiles brought the last of his mom’s belongings up while his dad was passed out in front of a bottle of whisky. It takes him veritable hours to find both guns and the extra bullets and pellets hidden in a box full of knitting patterns and needles and he flees the moment he has it in his hands.

He takes a shower and then filches his dad’s cleaning supplies to take care of the gun. He hides it and takes her mom’s BB handgun to practice in the backyard, because he can get access to more than enough pellets but can’t afford to waste actual bullets. He has good enough aim but he has to be better for what he has in mind.

When the wolfsbane arrives he sets out to work with it. Because he’s a vengeful bastard, he fills the empty space in the bullets with four different mixes of the three aconite he has and then seals the opening, careful to not mess up with its balance. He puts a tiny mark on each bullet’s case to know which is which just in case an accident happens and then fills the two empty magazines he has alternating the kind. This way, even if someone manages to take the gun from him, they have a quarter of probability of actually getting the cure and three-quarters of poisoning themselves even more.

He tries to work out the be a spark thing but it’s an utter failure other than for his ability to make the mountain ash function enough to make a barrier. The Internet doesn’t help, no matter how much he tries, so he reluctantly goes to Deaton. The cryptic man talks in circles for fifteen minutes, gives him another pouch of mountain ash and then shows him where the door is. Stiles mentally gives the man a big fuck you very much and moves on to greener pastures.

He trains. Trying to get stronger is an exercise in futility when one’s average opponents can lift a car one-handed without even breaking into a sweat, so he has to get smarter. Getting faster seems like a moot point too, but again, if he’s smarter about it, it will help. And so, he concentrates on agility, on falling without hurting himself, on jumping without fear out of harm’s way. Self-defense seems like a good idea, but without anyone to actually practice on (because Scott is in despair land being consoled by his new best friend Isaac and he hasn’t called since summer vacation started… and Stiles is salty enough about it to not call himself) he’s had to be content with just memorizing the moves.

A month into summer vacation, he learns from his dad that Erica and Boyd are still missing and he frowns.

It’s not like he cares about them -Erica gave him a concussion with a part of his own car, Boyd treated him like an irritating pest and, more importantly, they both left him behind after he helped them out of the Argent’s basement- but he heard them talking about going back to Derek last time he saw them and he doubts they’re willingly putting their parents through a calvary while hiding cozily with their alpha after a whole month. Which can only mean one thing: there’s more supernatural shit about to go down.

He decides to go to talk to Derek anyways. He doesn’t fancy being pushed against walls just because the werewolf can’t control his temper enough but at this point it’s not like he has any other options and he needs to know if he’s being paranoid or if his hunch is right to decide how to proceed.

As luck would have it, Derek is not the one at the loft.

“Are you stealing those?” he asks with one cocked eyebrow.

“Why, Stiles, hello to you too,” Peter drawls. “FYI you can’t steal what’s already yours.”

“Since you’re officially dead, you don’t actually own anything, though.”


Stiles bends into an exaggeratedly pompous half-bow before turning serious and asking without preamble. “So, Erica and Boyd?”

Peter cocks his head as if he’s found a particularly interesting puzzle and then smirks. Stiles braces himself.

“What do I get out of this?”

“Your continued survival?”

Peter laughs heartily and then smirks again. “Ah, I knew I liked you for a reason. What do you know about the alpha pack?”

Oh, boy.

“Say, Peter,” he muses after the man brings him up to speed, “how much better is a werewolf’s sense of smell and hearing compared to the ones of a normal wolf?”

Peter pauses and looks at him carefully, with an unholy gleam on his eyes. “Practically the same.”

“Huh. Interesting. See you, creeperwolf.”

And Stiles unceremoniously leaves.

So, according to Peter, they have combed the preserve and found nothing, which means that they must be hiding in one of the abandoned buildings around Beacon Hills or they would be drawing too much attention (if what Peter says of some of the members’ appearance is true) to themselves. There can’t be many of those around Beacon Hills, right? It’s a small town after all.

Peter is at the loft too when Erica and Boyd crawl their way back with a surprising addition in tow. Derek and Isaac gape for a moment before hugging them tightly. Peter hovers at the fringes because the first thing that comes out of his nephew’s mouth when Cora looks at him is he killed Laura.

(It shouldn’t smart this much that Cora, whom was left behind just like Peter, stays put.)

They explain what happened… or what they know anyways. Cora was already captured by the time Erica and Boyd were imprisoned in the bank’s vault. They were kept in a mountain ash circle and no moonlight would reach them, so they were slowly losing their minds. The alphas would rough them up every day and barely feed them. Then, today, just after they had been paid a quite painful visit, shots (the muffled kind that suggested a silencer) and screams started and continued until just one heartbeat remained. Whoever it was, they moved around a lot for a while and then they stood still. Then, several hours later, more shots and screams erupted before silence reigned. Once again, the person moved around for a bit before coming to the vault’s door. They opened it but the werewolves didn’t dare come out for fear of being shot too. However, just after leaving the door unlocked, the person left. After a while, Cora dared to peer outside and found the mountain ash line disrupted. Outside their former prison, there was a lot of blood painting the tiles and some walls, but no bodies at all. They hightailed out of there.

Five alphas that have annihilated pack after pack all around the country, taken down in a matter of hours by one single person. One person with enough steel in his core to not panic about having to dispose of five bodies when it’s not even fully dark out now. Peter feels giddy with want.

(Unfortunately, nothing ever falls on Peter’s lap, so if he wants, he’s going to have to make sure he gets it himself.)

He slips out stealthily and wonders where his dear boy is thinking to hide the bodies. The answer is the Preserve, of course, so he makes a guess of where exactly that might be in there and then he takes off running. Then he thinks about it, stops to grab some curly fries (he sneers in disgust at the grease that seeps through the paper bag) and then he heads out again.

He finds Stiles grunting as he drags one body to a very deep pit that has been obviously prepared beforehand. Peter can’t help the broad grin that splits his face. He grabs one leg and hauls it up one-handed and Stiles starts a little, letting go of the body to put him at gun point. Peter just tosses Kali carelessly to the pit and hands him the curly fries. Stiles blinks surprised for a moment and then rolls his eyes, holstering the gun. Peter leaves him there munching happily at the greasy monstrosities and goes to grab the last two former alphas to toss them to the pit. Then he helps the teen dose them with a concoction that has him sneezing the whole time before filling the hole with the soil that was separated to the side. Very cleverly, the topmost part of it has been carefully taken so as to not disrupt the grass on it, so when they put it back in its place, it looks as any other patch of forest floor.

Peter wants, he wants so bad.

He wants this ruthless yet caring boy. He wants his resourcefulness, his cleverness, his loyalty. Hell, he wants his cheekiness, his rough edges, his always running mouth and his stupidly spastic ways.

“Congratulations,” he says instead. “But what about the darach?”

“The whassit?”

“The dark druid that has been preparing for a ritual on the Nemeton,” Peter states simply.

Stiles stops where he was folding the newly clean tarp he used so that no evidence was left on his jeep. He looks at Peter, gaze penetrating and unwavering.

(He wonders if he’s given himself out, if it’s too clear that he makes people want to keep him around by making himself useful and indispensable, and he fidgets inwardly.)

“Isn’t this something Deaton should notice right away?” Stiles asks suddenly and Peter blinks surprised.


“Huh,” he muses. “Maybe we should pay him a visit.”

Peter grins.