The Rogue Squad Texting
  • Jyn: Literally 95% emojis. Mainly the knife and the tiny devil. She justifies it by saying that the team has so many native languages they should communicate with the universal thumbs up emoji.
  • Chirrut: Has Baze read the others' texts for him. Wierdly enough always understands exactly what point Jyn is trying to get across with sentence like "space ship, star, fire, cry face, thumbs up."
  • Baze: Full sentences. Always proper grammar and periods. Gets irritated when his kids don't immediately text him back to let him know they're OK.
  • Bodhi: Indecipherable acronyms and pilot jargon. Makes up for it by using a Lot Of CAPITALISATION and !!!! punctuation ????
  • Cassian: One of those people who literally. can't. text. at. all. His fingers always hit the wrong keys, spellcheck hates him, and something about texting really fires up the space!spanish/common disconnect in his brain. Sometimes just uses Google translate and sends crappy translations for his work stuff. Also can't keep track of who he's texting. 90% of the embarrassing things he's every done involve sending texts that should have ONLY EVER BEEN SEEN BY JYN to work colleagues. But it also means that he gets mixed up and sends super villains messages like "can you pick up eggs and milk gracias te amo :):)
The Signs as Bad Fanfiction Writers
  • Aries: turned off spellcheck and never looked back
  • Taurus: "lol fuck canon"
  • Gemini: would actually be a pretty good writer if they would stop calling characters by their hair color all the damn time
  • Cancer: can't imagine a fanfiction where they write their favorite character shagging anyone but their OC
  • Leo: three words: Throbbing Meat Wand
  • Vigro: can't describe anything without writing at least 30 fucking adjectives for the same thing in front of it
  • Libra: "Ohayo, Snape Sensei," Harry-kun said blushing, "You are looking Sugoi today, desu."
  • Scorpio: Thinks their writing is better & more mature the more times they have the characters curse at & insult each other, no matter how inappropriate (ie. Smurfs)
  • Sagittarius: "Hi my name is Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that's how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears"
  • Capricorn: has written 10 different fanfics about their most hated character dying within the past month
  • Aquarius: writes the most anatomically impossible sex you've ever seen
  • Pisces: "hi this is my first fic sorry i suck at summaries hope you enjoy"

I don’t think about Harry Potter a whole lot, typically, but today I saw a video that featured Harry wearing some cool shades and I started wondering: what if Voldemort’s killing curse had struck Harry just a little lower? What if, on the first of November, 1981, the Dursleys had discovered on the doorstep their infant nephew - not with a conspicuous jagged scar, but instead with eyes the colour of electricity? How would blind Harry Potter’s life differ from the story we already know?

The first divergences are small and predictable. On his eleventh birthday, Harry’s letter from Hogwarts is written in delicate braille and the signature of Minerva McGonagall is elegantly embossed. At the Hut-on-the-Rock, the newly-revealed wizard boy is impressed not by Hagrid’s size but by the unusual depth of his voice.

Arriving at Hogwarts, we get no description of Draco Malfoy’s appearance, but instead learn the self-important scuffing sound of his footsteps, plus the fact that Crabbe and Goyle smell of old oatmeal, too much candy, and something that reminds Harry of grumpy toads.

Instead of learning “Lumos”, our blind Harry learns spells like “Oros” - which makes books and letters whisper their contents to him in their papery voices - as well as “Divinus”, which causes his wand to hum like a tuning fork the closer it gets to the object he’s thinking of.

One very notable thing has changed, however. In this world, no-one will ever tell Harry that he has his mother’s eyes. It’s hard to tell how much this changes Harry’s story; perhaps, without Lily’s eyes to stir up such emotion, Professor Snape won’t inflict Harry with the sadistic cruelty of a jealous lover - though he still treats the Potter boy with the same distance and hostility he felt towards Harry’s father, James (this, plus the acrid fumes and addling, humid vapours of the potions classrooms, continues to make the subject one of Harry’s least favourite).

With eyes that mark him as “The Boy who Lived” he may not be able to see the reflection of his desires in the Mirror of Erised, but upon placing his hand on the mirror’s cool surface Harry’s head is filled with the murmurs of familiar and comforting voices - his uncles, grandmothers, great-aunts and second cousins - and he is taken by an overwhelming sense of belonging, of being home.

Our sighted Harry always relied on the help of his friends to overcome challenges, and this remains true through the challenges to reach the Philosopher’s Stone. Hermione will still fend off the devil’s snare and solve the potion riddle, while Ron’s command over the chess board will still get the trio through the fourth chamber. Unable to see, Harry may yet be able to capture the winged key in the third chamber; instead of chasing the key like a daring snitch-seeker, he rises cautiously on his broom into the middle of the whirling, fluttering cloud and waits patiently until his keen ears distinguish the slow and clumsy flapping of the injured old key, grabbing it cleanly out of the air as it lumbers past him.

In his second year, Harry’s blindness is if anything an advantage in the fight against the basilisk, making him immune to the serpent’s petrifying gaze as he follows the sound of Fawkes’ voice to rend it through its head. (Incidentally, the repercussions of Dobby’s meddling this year will be slightly lessened, as who could blame a blind twelve-year-old for knocking over a sugared violet pudding - although the Dursleys will try - or bumping into a wall at Central Cross station?)

Professor Trelawney’s classes in third year could only be incredibly tedious for Harry, being unable to read tea leaves or see into crystal balls. What’s more, the Divination professor makes near-constant references to “blind prophets” and “third eyes”, which Harry can’t help but feel is somewhat offensive. Hermione will be very patient with Harry when they sit down to practice their astrology readings and Harry has to ask “Where are the stars, Hermione? The stars? Is Mars in the house of Jove right now? What’s the moon doing?”

With all the talk of The Grim this year, all Harry notices is the lingering ‘shaggy dog smell’ that seems to follow him around whenever he’s outside the castle.

Will a blind boy be allowed to participate in the Triwizard Tournament? Of course he will! Wizards don’t understand ‘safety’. Our Harry may not be a confident flyer, but he still has command of the Accio charm, as well as an entire stash of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products under his bed in his dormitory. Even a Hungarian Horntail can’t see you through Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, not can it smell you once you’ve detonated a few dung bombs. After being tricked into devouring an entire case of Skiving Snackboxes, any dragon is going to feel like taking the day off.

Harry doesn’t recognise Hermione at first when she attends the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum: her improved posture changes the sound of her footsteps, and her voice has taken on a new lilt and clarity after Madam Pomfrey shrunk her teeth to undo Malfoy’s hex. Masking her characteristic smells of library books and toothpaste, she carries with her the flowery scent of the cosmetic potion she put in her hair.

Harry will be incapable of seeing thestrals, even at the start of his fifth year; after hearing the clopping of hooves from his carriage and remarking that “regular, horse-drawn transport seems rather mundane for Hogwarts”, he will be drawn into a very awkward and illuminating conversation with Luna Lovegood about the nature of death.

Umbrige will be described to us not as “toad-like”, but in terms of her voice “like an indignant budgerigar stuck in an expensive vase”. Her classroom smells strongly to Harry of talcum powder and too-sweet tea, with an undertone of vinegar and hints of nightshade.

With a fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul trapped within his eyes, Harry’s visions of Voldemort are stronger than ever, and he rushes as always to confront the Death Eaters - a group of determined friends by his side - at the Ministry of Magic.

Of course this Harry will succeed in hunting down the remaining Horcruxes and tracing the paths of the Deathly Hallows. How could he not, with his magical talents, his powerful capacity for empathy and love, and the endless help of his his allies and friends?

Coming to in a spectral representation of King’s Cross Station, Harry recoils from the whimpering fragment of Voldemort’s should before being greeted by the figure of Albus Dumbledore, whom Harry recognises from his distinguished voice - like a grand old oak tree, its branches bowed under the weight of a thousand stars. Harry’s figment of Dumbledore smells like soap and gold wire, like ink, polished wood and lemon sherbets, and very faintly of kind and humble tears. Occasional wisps of the old man’s expansive beard brush past.

Harry has the same conversation with Dumbledore about life and death, about his own plans and foils, and about Voldemort. Harry is offered the same choice: to go back to the land of the living or to board a train into the beyond. Harry still chooses to return to Voldemort’s camp in the Forbidden Forest, for the sake of his friends, whom he knows and loves by sound and smell and touch.

Harry - The Boy Who Lived - the boy with eyes like lightning, duels Voldemort without ever seeing his snake-like features or the contempt and malice in his red-ringed pupils, and defeats the dark lord just as he does in the original story, because the sum of one’s strength is more than any one sense, just like a community’s strength is greater than that of any one person. Beside the skinny boy with the dark glasses held together by Spell-o-tape stand a frizzy-haired muggle girl who has read every book, two of redhead siblings from a huge and loving family, a forgetful boy raised by grandmother, a girl who still carries around a battered pair of Spectre Specs, and countless other witches and wizards who know that love, acceptance and cooperation are the most powerful magics of all.

Alfred: If I get through a paragraph without a spelling error it’s not me. If I am an alien, this is how you will know

Matthew: But doesn’t spell check solve–

Arthur: Trust me, Alfred, I already have you covered there.

Alfred: Thank you Dad. Bro.   


(Guys my editor doesn’t work, so I’ve put a line break for the past events. I would have liked to emphasise a few words but unfortunately it doesn’t work on the phone.) (Inspired by the wonderful art @maryjoisu has drawn! Keep drawing! ^^)

The battle was tough, Ryuunosuke thinks to himself as he limps his way to his house. But if it meant he came out alive, he wouldn’t mind. Though he has been ruthless and monstrous on the battlefield, he hasn’t forgotten anything except a sense of momentary peace.

“Are you sure you want to go home right now? Your legs still haven’t healed.” Yosano Akiko warns, as she finishes wrapping his arm. Ryuunosuke nods, not saying anything but the way his eyes shine in determination is more than enough of an answer for the doctor. Yosano shakes her head with a knowing smile. “Fine then. Go after him.”

He opens the gate with one hand, considering that the other has been injured heavily in gunfire. (He did kill the bastard who had almost taken his arm away in the most satisfactory manner; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. In the end, all that remained of that fool was his skull when Ryuunosuke had been done.) His legs had both been ruptured, but right now he didn’t give a damn. He could see Atsushi again and that was more important than a trio of broken limbs. Wobbling, he almost steps on a napping Rashomon, who gives out a yelp and runs away to the door, glaring at him for disturbing his nap. Ryuunosuke would have laughed, but he’s not in the mood to cough out blood in the name of expressing his amusement at his cat’s antics.

He then hobbles to the door and knocks once. Atsushi’s, interestingly enough, got strong ears, so one knock would be more than enough. “Coming!” Ryuunosuke hears Atsushi call from inside, and then leans in physical relief against the wall.

When Atsushi opens the door only to see his significant other, heavily injured, it’s enough to make sure he opens his mouth wide enough for a fly to enter.


“No, it’s the boy who plays under the rain.” Ryuunosuke says sarcastically, supporting himself by pushing one hand against the wall he had been leaning on.

It’s enough to make Atsushi laugh with glad tears pouring out of his eyes.

Ryuunosuke notes that Atsushi’s wearing the same clothes at his departure. (He’s always liked those clothes on Atsushi and he knows those are the latter’s favourite.)

“Ryuu, the joker. God…” he wipes his tears and out of impulsive affection, hugs the other.

“Ouch. There goes my bones.” Ryuunosuke says lightly, as he pats the other’s head awkwardly, not knowing another way to express his relief at having come back.

Atsushi blinks and then loosens his hold on the other, mumbling hurried apologies along with expressions of happiness and relief, and Ryuunosuke can feel his army jacket getting wet.

He doesn’t mind. Not at all. (It’s far better than getting his jacket wet by blood, and here, these weren’t tears of sadness.) (They were warm tears of happiness and if Atsushi wanted to cry happily then he was more than welcome to wet Ryuunosuke’s jacket.)

Atsushi pulls back and smiles dazzlingly at Ryuunosuke, and he’s not sure if he can resist himself from kissing the other any longer.

“Thank you, Ryuu. Thank you so much. You told you couldn’t keep the promise, but…you kept it in the end. Thank you so much.”

Ryuunosuke doesn’t say anything and pulls the other into a gentle hug of his own.

He’s the one who has to thank Atsushi, though he doesn’t say it out loud.

He has to thank him.

For making him remember the whole time that there’s something worth living for.

He’s happy, for the first time in months and that’s more than what he deserves.

“I don’t think you belong in the mafia, Dazai-san!“ 

The boy, no, the young man tells him. Earnest sheen in his eyes even as his arms press stiffly against his sides and nervousness threatening to bend his back and shake his bones.

"I think,” Atsushi licks his lips and glances down at the concrete in a sudden wave of bashfulness, “I think that - I’m so sorry if I’m selfish, I have no right to be but - I believe your place is here." 

Atsushi takes a deep breath and Dazai do too. The sunset makes all the grey areas sparkle, and the yellow in Atsushi’s eyes as he looks up at him glows vigorously. "With us,” Atsushi finishes, attempting to stay calm. 

“With me." 

And, deep in that lonely hole inside his soul, Dazai yearns for that to be true.

{{Snart has been trapped inside the speedforce, and hopes Barry can help him escape. Inspired by tonight’s episode of the Flash. It’s kind of just a sad little drabble without spellcheck, I might try something a little more fine-tuned in the morning.}}

“I thought I already dealt with you?”

“You’re fantasizing about me? How sweet,” Snart drawled, offering that familiar smirk of his. Something was off about him, though. His voice was hoarse and his clothes old, his hair was growing in awkward patches and his bright eyes were uncharacteristically dull. 

“Stop playing games. I’m done dealing with you. We’re leaving,” Barry stated, still supporting Wally’s weight. The younger man groaned his approval, but otherwise contributed nothing.

“I know you are,” Snart snapped. “I want you to take me with you. I need you to get me out of here.”

Barry’s eyes widened and he took a step forward, scrutinizing the figure in front of him. “Snart?”

“The one and only,” Snart croaked, smirking again. Barry’s face lit-up with a smile, and he helped adjust Wally so he was able to stand on his own.

“It’s really you. You’re real…” It was more of a question than a statement.

Snart nodded, “I’ve been stuck in here since I took one for the team a few months ago. I can’t get out. I have to get out.” 

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see you,” Barry grinned, crossing over to Snart. “I thought you were dead…” Barry reached out a hand, slowly placing it on Snart’s shoulder, needing to feel that he was real. He didn’t pull away from the touch. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Snart visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping as he nearly fell froward. It was then Barry saw how terrible he looked- Aside from the untidy appearance he had long, twisted scratches along the exposed skin of his arms, a bruise that had been hidden in shadow was visible this close, and it marred the left side of his face. The torn parts of his clothing were singed, as if burned. “What happened to you?” Barry’s voice was barely a whisper.

Snart’s eyes turned to his feet, “There was an explosion. I was in the middle of it.” He shrugged, then winced. “I woke up in here. I was stuck in a cycle of the same day, I was–” His voice trailed off. “It changed when you showed up. It stopped.”

Suddenly those blue eyes, even the one marred by the bruise, were starring at Barry with a look of intensity he didn’t recognize. He felt his cheeks heat at the intense way Snart starred at him, but he didn’t break his gaze. “You were the figure it took, the speedforce. The one they used to threaten me. The one that got me to spill my guts.”

“Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we’re home.” Home. Snart smiled at the word, and followed Barry through the corridor, to where a breech was opening at the end. They spilled through, and when Snart hit the ground he did so with a grunt of pain. 

“Barry! Wally!” The team’s voices all mingled together, until one of them finally focused him. “Leonard?” Caitlin approached, and he struggled to sit-up and look at her. “Let’s get you and Wally checked out,” She smiled softly, offering a hand to help him to his feet.

Barry left the apartment with an overnight bag, his vision blurred by the tears he was trying not to shed. He was going to head straight to Cisco’s, avoid talking about it until the morning, just let himself wallow a bit overnight. However he found himself running in the direction of STAR Labs, sliding to a halt in front of his Flash costume.

He wanted to hate it, wanted to hate the rifts it had caused. But he couldn’t blame his powers. He had made the choices on his own, the speed hadn’t done it for him. He didn’t have an alter-ego like Killer Frost living in his head. He was just Barry. Barry Allen.

“Aren’t you a little young for a mid-life crisis?” 

“Snart?” Barry spun around. Snart was leaning against the doorway, his hand holding onto his waist. “You’re here?”

“Snow told me I should stick around until morning. Something about changing my bandages and resting. Better question: Why are you here?”

Barry sighed, turning away from Snart. “I don’t know. I’m not supposed to be. Iris and I are… Not in the best place right now. I guess I was hoping to avoid it for a little while. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re in luck because I don’t want to hear about it.” Barry laughed.

“You look like shit, Snart. Maybe you should lie down.”

“I’ll pass. I spent the last months of my life relieving the worst day of my life. I’d rather avoid thinking about it for a little while.”

“Oh… We could watch a movie, or something. There’s a killer flat screen in here.”

Snart quirked the brow that wasn’t covered by a thick bruise. “We’re going to pretend to be friends now?”

“We are friends. You’re just going to have to deal with it.” Barry smirked, already lowering the TV screen. Leonard ungracefully walked towards a chair, falling into it. “Now, what do you want to watch?”

“No sappy Nicolas Sparks crap.”

“And I’m assuming movies with explosions are out?” Barry smirked at Snart, who starred blankly back. “Too soon.” Barry turned his attention back to the TV screen, now lit-up with Netflix recommendations. For awhile they sat in silence, Barry occasionally looking over at Snart, who was certainly worse for wear. What the hell had that man seen inside the speedforce.


jungkook likes to hold hands with jin and hobi

(vid. credits: sweaterpawsjimin)

anonymous asked:

Tw for abuse So my parents abuse me, mostly physical from my mother, mostly verbal from my father. I've always coped with the abuse by acting calm and taking it, hiding, or attempting to descalate it and hoping I don't piss them off further. But recently I've started to act out with anger. Not just with them, with my little sister who yells as much as my father, and with animals. Not the ones I own, though. I'm afraid. What's happening to me? I shouldn't be angry. Being angry gets you killed.

while its certainly frightening, its also (as far as i can tell, with my own experiences and the experiences of others i’ve talked to) a normal response. essentially, either your brain thinks it’s safer and is deciding to start processing trauma (which doesn’t seem likely), or else you and your brain are both fed up. there’s really always a limit to how much someone can take, and it looks like you’ve reached that limit. since that can get you in trouble and also cause collateral damage (to the animals, or to your little sister, though “collateral damage” doesnt include self defense), i’m going to give you a few tips that might help you deal with the anger in a way that won’t make your parents abuse even worse.

 (please note that since i dont know your exact situation, some or all of these might not be feasible; if that’s the case, you can message me again with more details if you want? and i’ll look for some different things)

exercise: i know this sounds like everyone’s irritating neurotypical relative but i promise you that if you can do it, it will help.  exercise:

  1.   decreases stress and anger
  2.  helps you feel in control (even if you’re not. but it gives you hope, which is very valuable in abusive situations, right?) and 
  3. prepares you for physical attacks, if they get so bad that your options are fight back, run, or die.

im going to assume that you don’t have equipment that you can use, but if you do, use it. if not:

  • running–can be done anywhere, and it costs no money. if you think you will need to hide it from your parents, then go out very early in the morning, if possible (or late at night, but the morning is usually a lot safer, and no-one will be paying attention to you. literally anyone you pass will be pre-ocupied with going to work or school, and they will usually be too tired to even look up from their coffee). also try to use a specific pair of clothes–t-shirt, shorts if you have them, one sports bra if you use those, to minimize the amount of sweaty clothes you’ll be putting in the wash. during exercise is a good time to maybe think about your abusers–let yourself get mad. let yourself get pissed, if you can, and use the anger to run even harder. i did this a lot when i still lived with my parents, and it probably saved my life.
  • weights–you can often buy them pretty cheap on amazon or in a store, but if your parents are monitoring your purchases then you can use gallon jugs of water/milk (if they dont buy galons of water/milk then u can buy 1 gallon of water for around 1USD in most stores, which would be easier to hide and explain than any purchase of exercise equipment). fill the gallons with water, and lift them–you can google “dumbbell exercises” for some exercise routines. do this in the early morning if possible.
  • push-ups/sit-ups–these are probably the least satisfying to do, at least for me? but also the easiest if you aren’t able to get outside early morning, or if you’re absolutely not going to be able to buy any kind of weights. if you can’t do a full push-up, try working up to it by putting your weight on your knees, instead of your toes.

i recommend that you look into proper technique before you do any of these–im just trying to give you ideas.

if exercise isn’t feasible for any reason, then art is the next way to go. a lot of trauma survivors (especially child abuse survivors) write poetry. visual art is also a good outlet but i’ve found that it’s usually a bit less cathartic. if your parents go through your things regularly, then either make a new tumblr account and tell nobody about it, and write your stuff there, or (if tumblr isnt safe) write only on single sheets of printer/notebook paper and burn or shred them immediately after you’re done. 

if you think you’re not a good enough writer to do this, then listen: you’re not writing this for it to be good. you’re not. it doesn’t matter at all. no-one else will ever read it. you don’t even have to read it again. it doesnt have to look or sound good. the only objective is to process your trauma and anger. the plus side is that no matter what, you will improve your writing by doing this, so if you are interested in being a poet, or already are, then writing trauma poetry will only help you. i recommend poetry instead of prose (prose is anything that isn’t poetry) because you don’t have to worry about structure, or about it making sense/having a plot. it can be really hard at first, especially if you don’t usually write a lot. if you need to, you can try using these prompts (they probably arent all applicable but if you can finish any of these sentences in your head, then you can write a poem about it) (possible trigger warning, skip the bullet points if you need to)(i’m just going to use “they” because any gender of person could do this and i don’t want to make assumptions but you can swap out the pronouns if necessary)

  • they wouldn’t stop …
  • i don’t feel safe …
  • they hit me when …
  • i feel like i stopped existing at [age]…
  • i don’t want to be here …

when you are writing, let yourself get mad, if possible. nothing you write will have any consequences if you burn the page, right? nothing is out of bounds. write anything and everything. write about how they’ll burn in hell. about how you hope they get murdered gruesomely. about how you’ll rip them into pieces the next time they touch you. anything. if you can’t summon anger, that’s okay. you can also write about how you feel like you’re rotting. you can write about how you miss when they were good to you. or how they were never good to you, but you miss it anyway. about how when you get out, you’ll have a nice apartment with someone you love (platonically or romantically, it doesnt matter), and maybe a pet, and how you’ll go to the bakery down the street sometimes and get croissants and sit in the sun and how it will be okay. how you’ll never have to see them again. how safe you’ll be. how happy you’ll be.

any of that will be cathartic, i promise you. i started writing poetry at the age of 12, and all of it was about my abuse. it was bad–i went back and read it a few months ago, and i’ve improved a hell of a lot since then. i’ve worked through a lot of my trauma, partially with a therapist, but mostly with my writing. it’s easier than therapy for me, because no-one else can see me while i do it. it’s easier to break down every part of the abuse, to analyze it. and after writing a poem, i always feel drained, like i just lanced an infection or something. i dont know. but writing works. i promise.

therapy is the last thing thing on my list here because its very inaccessable to a lot of people. minors, anyone without insurance, or anyone in a rural area is going to have a hell of a time getting therapy, you know? so that’s why its last. if you have a good therapist, it’ll probably be the most helpful of all of these, but even that is a hit and miss (i’ve seen at least a dozen therapists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and mixtures of both, and i always seem to get the people who don’t believe me, who think that yelling at me will fix problems, who report everything to my parents. but not everyone’s like that–i just have some incredibly shit luck).

if you can get a therapist, do. they can help immensely. if you can’t, then try the other things until you can get to a position where therapy is accessable for you.

i hope this helped, im sorry its so long? and im sorry it took like a week gah

Taking In Strays - Chapter 4 - Steve Rogers Fanfic

A/N: Ok we’re now onto happier things for Emily, Mickey, and Steve, and all i can say about this chapter is DUM DUM DUM (that’s dramatic noises) we have a biggie in this one…
Also please note i wrote this in wordpad that doesn’t have spellcheck so i am sorry for any horrific spelling/grammar mistakes!
Summary:  Emily Embers is at rock bottom, doing what she can to care for her son after the death of her husband. A fall on an icy street finds her in the arms of Steve Rogers, who offers her some assistance that she gratefully accepts, but little does Steve know just how deep he will have to get himself into someone elses world in order to save them.
Triggers/Warnings: None

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3


Taking In Strays – Chapter 4

The room fell into a stony silence, everyone’s gaze turning towards Emily as she stood nervously shifting from one foot to another. She didn’t know where to look, but eventually her eyes met Steve’s and the first tear slid down her cheek as he spoke;

“Rumlow? As in Brock Rumlow?”

Emily nodded, biting her lip. She was scared. Scared that they would think she was Hydra, scared that they would take away every single shred of happiness that had been given to her over the last couple of weeks since she’d met Steve. What happened next surprised her; Steve hugged her;

“I’m so so sorry… oh my god…”

She stood teetering on the balls of her feet, unsure what to do or say, so when Steve finally let her go, a sea of apologetic faces greeted her rather than the anger she’d been expecting. Finally finding her voice she spoke;

“I’m not sure what you’re apologising for… it was me that kept this secret from all of you”

“I knew” Tony interjected; “Came up in the background check”

Keep reading


❗ When fans find out that you’re Heechul’s girlfriend and they don’t like you   

- For anon, I hope you like it! M.

P.S In the first picture my spellchecker had fun.. It isn’t “Dull” but “dumb”. SORRY.