stoops face

the spy au that @philosophium ordered !!

Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.

He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.

He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.

“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”

Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot –  next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.

He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.

“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”

Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.

“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”

Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.

“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing us to keep you around, do you realize that?”

Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.

“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.

“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.

“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.

Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.

When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.

“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”

“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.

“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.

Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”

Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.

“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”

Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”

“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”

Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”

He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.

“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.

He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.

Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.

He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.

He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.

He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.

He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.

He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.

It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.

Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.

Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you. Got this. Got here first.

The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.

He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.

“We have to find Neil.”

Keep reading

without really meaning it

The Way You Said “I Love You” Prompts
@stileslydiah requested “24. Without really meaning it”

Watching Derek dote on someone is hard – harder than Stiles thought it would ever be, despite the fact he knows it’s insincere; despite the fact it’s the job and nothing more.

 It’s hard because Stiles hasn’t had those arms around him in months, hasn’t had opportunity to arrange a chance meeting on a crowded street in weeks, hasn’t had Derek’s eyes meet his and watched his mouth curl into a smile for him.

 Derek’s team have been fairly indulgent, letting Stiles tag along on the assignment to observe and allowing him to blend with various crowds just to be close to Derek. Early on, before Derek insinuated himself into their mark’s life, they even allowed them to talk on the phone, but that might as well have been in another lifetime.

 Sometimes, Stiles hates his job, hates Derek’s job, hates the fact they’d never have met if it wasn’t for their jobs because then he can’t hate it as much.

 Stiles is across the restaurant and he can’t tear his eyes away from the back of Derek’s head for more than a few seconds at a time, usually at the prompting of the agent he’s sitting across from.

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anonymous asked:

Something more from divorcee au please??? my family is starving the crops are dying

You know I stop working on everything else to update this right lol

Tony heard a knock on the door and froze, unconsciously clutching Peter tighter to his chest. He’d just—just recently gotten a vile voicemail from Stone saying he was coming for Peter. Tony had, of course, sent the voicemail to Pepper who had passed it on to Natasha, but then Natasha had called him with an ominous, ‘Batten down the hatches, Tony,’ and he’d been a nervous wreck all day. And now someone was here.

“Daddy, huwts!” Peter whined.

Tony gasped quietly and loosened his grip. “Sorry, Petie-Pie.” He pressed a few kisses to his cheek for good measure, and the toddler giggled reluctantly. Tony looked around nervously as the knock came again. “I’m—I’m coming, just a second!” Spying the closet, he hurried toward it. “Okay, Peter, you know how we talked about how bad people might be coming after us?”

His heart broke when Peter’s face went from a reluctant smile to a furrowed brow and frown. “I gotta hide and be quiet.”

“Quiet as a mouse,” Tony agreed, opening the door and carefully setting him on the floor. “And what do you do if someone who isn’t me finds you?”

“I scweam.”

“You scream so loud,” Tony said as Peter crawled to the back of the closet. “And then you keep screaming. I’m going to leave the door open a crack, honey. Remember, be quiet!”

Peter nodded and covered his mouth with both hands. It killed Tony a little to close the door on his face until the tiniest sliver of light caught his eye. Peter should have never had to deal with this, have to be taught to be quiet and hide because someone might come and take him against his and Tony’s wills.

The knock came a third time, and Tony took a shuddering breath before he went to get it. His heart leapt into his throat when he found a tall, broad man standing on the stoop, face set in a scowl. He looked like he could tie Tony into a pretzel and then throw him across a football field. Tony wished he’d thought to grab his gun before he’d answered the door.

“These are for you,” the man said gruffly, shoving a plate at him.

Tony had no choice but to grab them. Well, at least he could use the plate as a weapon now. “I—Oh, cookies. Um. Thank you.” Maybe this guy wasn’t a thug.

“Gluten, egg, and nut free,” the man grunted.

Tony frowned. Maybe this man was a thug and was actually trying to kill him via bland food. “You just sucked all the fun out of these cookies.”

“Steve didn’t know if Peter had allergies,” the man grunted.

Tony stared at him, confused. Then it hit him—Steve. Rhodey’s hot blond neighbor. And this—this must be Steve’s grumpy boyfriend. It figured that Steve’s boyfriend would be equally attractive. What had Steve said his name was? Something kinda dumb, if Tony was being honest.

“I’m Bucky,” the man said, thrusting his hand at him.

Tony took it mostly on instinct. Right. Bucky. What an awful name. “I’m Tony. Oh!” He shoved the plate back at Bucky and rushed back over to the closet, pulling the door open hurriedly. “Peter, it’s alright. It’s just one of our neighbors.”

Peter wiped at his eyes and sniffled a little before holding his arms out to him. Tony plucked him up and clutched him to his chest, running a hand up and down his back and murmuring apologies.

Once Peter had calmed down, Tony turned, embarrassed. Bucky looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Sorry.”

“Jesus,” Bucky said, appalled, and Tony flinched a little. “I just—No wonder Natasha hired me.”

Tony blinked at him. “What.”

“Natasha, your lawyer?” Bucky replied, raising an eyebrow. “She hired me to protect you.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. “Natasha didn’t tell me anything about you.”

“Yeah, that mighta been a secret,” Bucky said after a pause. “But man—you have your kid hiding in the closet in case someone comes after you. No wonder she texted me and told me to introduce myself to you.”

Tony stared at him warily, unable to help his disbelief. Why hadn’t Natasha told him about Bucky? Why hadn’t Steve?

“Listen,” Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes. “I can prove it. I’ll call Natasha and put it on speakerphone.”

“Auntie ‘tash!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

Tony sputtered. “Wha—Peter, not every woman named Natasha is going to be your aunt!”

“What,” came Natasha’s sharp voice through the phone.

“Except this time she is,” Tony added, confused, as Peter cheered.

“Tony? Peter? Bucky what the—” There was a cough as Natasha caught herself. “…heck. I said introduce yourself to Tony, not spill that I hired you to be his long-distance bodyguard.”

“He had his kid in the closet,” Bucky replied, and Tony fought the urge to wilt. He wasn’t sorry for trying to protect his son, even if it sounded bad.

“Auntie ‘tash!” Peter exclaimed, leaning toward the phone, and Bucky gamely held the phone closer to him. “Auntie ‘tash, I was reawy quiet! As a mouse!”

Natasha’s voice softened into a deep, sweet coo. “Did you, darling? I’m so proud of you. You’re a good boy to listen to your daddy.”

Peter blushed and covered his face.

“Aw,” Tony said, smiling reluctantly. “What do we say when people compliment us baby?”

“Thank you,” Peter mumbled, embarrassed.

“Well,” Natasha said after a moment. “I wanted Bucky’s involvement to be secret for a while so he wouldn’t spook you or anything, but…” She sighed. “But I guess Stone spooked you more. Listen, Bucky’s good. He’s great. He hasn’t failed me yet and he’s not going to fail me now.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked skeptically.

“I’ll kill him myself if he fails,” Natasha told him seriously.

Tony stared at the phone. “…I think you’re a mafia don,” he decided.

Natasha snorted. “You always think I’m a mafia don. I’m not. I don’t have time to rule the criminal underworld.”

“It frightens me that that is the only reason why,” Tony admitted.

“Listen, I have a client meeting that started a few minutes ago. I should probably get to them since they’re paying me. If Stone leaves you anymore voicemails, send them to me,” she ordered sternly. “Especially if they’re threatening like the last one. Worst case scenario, I move in with you guys and commute.”

“Yaaaay!” Peter crowed, flailing. “Auntie ‘tash!”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, зайчик?” Natasha cooed. “Once this big dumb trial is over, I’m taking you and your daddy out on a picnic and stuffing you with sweets.”

Tony’s groan could just barely be heard under Peter’s cheering.

“Take care of them, Barnes, or I’m going to skin you alive,” Natasha added cheerfully.

Tony was appalled, but Bucky didn’t look fazed in the slightest.

“G’bye,” Bucky said, then hung up, and then thrust the plate of cookies at them again. “Please don’t make me eat these.”

“I don’t want them!” Tony exclaimed, before his manners caught up with him.

Peter grabbed two cookies and jammed one into his mouth. Then he let out a disgusted ‘bleh!’ and spit it out, dropping the other to the floor. He looked up at Bucky, betrayed.

“It’s not my fault!” Bucky defended immediately. “Steve didn’t want me to kill you with allergens!”

“You’ve made sad disks is what you’ve done,” Tony said, the corner of his lip quirking up. He took a cookie just so Bucky would stop looking so constipated and bit into it. “…This is the driest shit I’ve ever tasted.”

“The batter was awful, too,” Bucky admitted. He stared at the plate of cookies before turning it over, watching them fall to the ground. “Oh no, I’ve dropped them.”

Tony covered his mouth to hide his smile.

Peter pointed at him accusingly. “You did that on puwpose!”

Bucky seemed to ponder this. “…Yeah, but they tasted like dirt anyway.”

Peter pointed at him a moment longer before letting his hand fall, conceding reluctantly.

Bucky stared at him for a long time before he asked, “Do you have any allergies?”

Tony opened his mouth, then closed it when he realized he was talking to Peter. When Peter looked up at him unsurely, he quietly said, “You know your no-no foods, Peter.”

Peter nodded sharply and turned back to Bucky. “Twee nuts.”

“Tree nuts?” Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Glad I didn’t make peanut butter cookies then.”

“Oh, he can have peanut butter,” Tony cut in, bouncing Peter so he’d laugh, and smiling when Peter let out a happy shriek. “Peanuts are a ground nut. He can’t have nuts like walnuts, almonds, pecans. Can’t have pine nuts either. I tell you, my mother rolled over in her grave when I adopted a kid that can’t eat pesto.”

“Pwesto!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands up, then patted at Tony’s face. “Down, Daddy! Down!”

“Okay, okay,” Tony said, setting him down, and watched as Peter toddled off to the coffee table to continue their puzzle. Once sure that he was occupied, Tony turned back to Bucky, belatedly adding, “Oh, uh, did—did you wanna come inside?”

Bucky looked down at the cookies on the floor, then back up at him. “No.”

“Alright.” Tony stared up at him for a moment before he asked, “Are you really as good as Natasha thinks?”

“I taught her everything she knows,” Bucky began, then stopped himself. “I taught her most of the things she knows. The rest she developed to kill me and take my power.”

Tony giggled reluctantly. “That’s awful.”

“Well, she’s a lawyer.” Bucky fiddled with the plate, frowning down at his shoes, before looking back up at him. “Listen, I just—I want you to know, I’ve got your back. I’ve done this for years, even worked for Rumlow for a while, so I know what to expect from him. I’m gonna take care of you guys.” He glanced at Peter, turning the plate in circles in his hands. “You won’t have to hide your kid in a closet ever again.”

Tony flinched and turned to look at Peter again. Normal kids didn’t have to learn how to hide and be very quiet. Normal kids didn’t have to worry about someone other than their daddy grabbing them and taking them away. Peter deserved better. And he didn’t even know it.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly. “You’re protecting your kid. I’m gonna protect both of you.” He reached out his hand, and Tony held his out dumbly, jumping when something cold was pressed to his palm. “You think you’re in immediate danger, you come over to hide. It’ll buy you some time. Steve knows and he’s ready for you. He stays home most days anyway. Okay?”

Tony stared at the key in his hand, then curled his trembling fingers over it. Who knew that when he’d served Tiberius with divorce papers, he’d have to go hide in his best friend’s neighbors’ house? God, he wished he could just go back and change everything.

“Hey,” Bucky said, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. As bad as this may sound, you’re not he first guy whose spouse is a complete psycho. I’ve worked a lot of these types o’ cases.”

That did make him feel better, in a strange way. Sometimes Tony felt like he was the crazy one, with the way Tiberius treated him, like he somehow deserved it. Logically, he knew that that wasn’t the case. He’d—he’d suffered a lot of gaslighting in the relationship. His therapist said so. (And it hurt to know that he’d needed a therapist to get away from Tiberius; that his therapist might need to testify on his behalf. He felt so weak, that he’d needed someone to tell him ‘you don’t deserve to be hit, Tony.’)

“I’ve got your back,” Bucky repeated, patting his shoulder, then turned to leave.

Tony sniffed and hurriedly wiped a tear from his cheek. “I hope—” He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t have too many of those awful cookies left.”

Bucky looked pained. “I’m gonna make Stevie eat ‘em.”

Tony couldn’t help a laugh at the image that came to mind of Steve trying to choke down those dry-ass cookies.

Until We Meet Again - Taehyung Scenario

another one! 


Summary: If you kiss him, he’ll disappear forever.

Word Count: 1,743

Bare fists clenched by your sides as the familiar stinging in your eyes started to well up in tears, you took a deep breath in, storming out the front door.

You were the type to hold things in, hold things in and hold things in and hold things in until your chest would feel so tight, so full that it ached. But you still held everything in. Crying was a weakness. You crying would label you as weak and you didn’t want another label to be stuck with your other ones. Since the moment your dad was laid off, the carefree lifestyle you had changed a hundred and eighty degrees.

You moved to a smaller city, to a smaller house… and you were completely fine with that.

You liked the small neighbourhood with the park nearby your house and the dog you passed by on the way to school everyday.


Moving meant having to make new friends, having to make good first impressions. Trust your luck for you to meet the popular girl’s boyfriend on day one, him outwardly flirting with you along the way to class and causing the girl to flare up in jealousy.

Words hurt.

You bit back your tears as you entered the secluded area of the park, feeling the tiny scars from proper nouns and additional bits of broken eggshells along with mucus-y liquid, slowly, slowly starting to close up. That area was your safe haven. A place where rarely anyone but the park sweepers visit, a place where there was your trusty bench under the huge tree that gave you shade and warmth and every other thing you lacked in life.


Leaning your head back against the bench, you swallowed, letting the salty drops flow down your cheeks in streams.

Life would be nice if it was like the good dreams you occasionally had the pleasure of having.

Your eyelids drooped as you breathed in the scent of fallen leaves and shaky hopes.

Life would be nice if you dreamed a good dream and never woke up.

“Oh no.”

More shuffling could be heard as the voice got closer to your ear. Damp eyes still shut tight, you furrowed your eyebrows, hoping that whoever decided to sit beside a crying girl would get the message and leave.

“Why are you crying?”

You felt no more tears building up as your frown deepened at the low voice.

The voice sighed before continuing, “Well I can’t do anything so I’ll just stay here until you feel better.”

Eyebrows still furrowed - this time in confusion rather than annoyance, you opened your eyes, turning your head to the right to see a boy around your age, shock plastered onto his face as your eyes looked straight into his.

Despite your shitty thoughts of suicide and death and never waking up, you couldn’t help but notice the art that was inches away from you. Long lashes, lovely eyes, perfectly sculpted lips…

Tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip, the boy let out a shaky breath.

Can you see me?

Finally letting words flow out of you, you eyed the handsome boy weirdly, “Of course I can see you?”

The shock on the boy’s face startled you, goosebumps unknowingly forming on your arms. After what seemed like minutes, the boy swallowed, lips parting. “You can hear me too?”

“Of course I can.” Although dumbfounded, you couldn’t help your curious mind. “Am I not supposed to-”

“Oh my God.”

You watched as the boy stood up, backing himself a step away from you. He bit his lip, “Don’t be afraid okay?”


“I’m… not human.”

When your expression looked like you’d seen a mad man, the boy gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m a ghost. That’s why I’m shocked that you can see me… and hear me.” You saw his cheeks turn a bit pink.

Ghosts could blush?


“But you look so real?” You stood up, stepping closer towards him, making the boy’s eyes go wide.

“You’re not… scared?”

Why weren’t you scared?

You simply looked down, “I’m too numb to be scared.”

The boy stooped down, face tilting up from below to look at you. He gave you the sweetest smile you’d seen in a long, long time. “I would buy you ice-cream but I can’t so… care to tell me what’s wrong?”

The first thing the boy asked you when your butts met the bench was why patches of your school uniform had damp parts and bits of shells stuck on them - causing you to let your guard down in front of the stranger, the streaks on your cheeks repainted with new streams. That in turn caused the boy to apologise profusely, constantly blabbering nonsense while whining that he shouldn’t have asked you that and that he felt so, so bad.

Kim Taehyung made you laugh for the first time in months.

The next day you found yourself walking towards your haven with rare light steps, smile unconsciously spouting when you saw the boy there, eyes closed and cheek squished against the wood. That day he followed you home, earning you curious glances from people and murmurs along the lines of ‘why is she talking to herself?’, filling the journey with laughter and boxy smiles.

“That’s it.” Taehyung huffed for the million time that day, resisting the urge to kick the blanket draped over him. “I’m going to school with you tomorrow.”

“You are not.”

Taehyung pouted at the girl placing her tattered bag on the ground. “I am.”

“Can we please change the subject.” You sighed, tossing yourself onto your bed, letting your head rest on the boy’s shoulder.

Fingers went in between yours, soft breaths entering your ears. “Okay.”

Looking at your intertwined hands, you wondered for the umpteenth time since you met the boy, how a ghost could feel so human. “How was today?”

There was a moment of silence - which was rare - before Taehyung’s deep voice filled the room. “I met another ghost today.”

“You did?” You sat up, weary of the foreign tone replacing the male’s usually eager one.

“Yeah.” Taehyung’s eyes followed you - desperate almost.

You waited for him to continue, the grip becoming tighter.

“The ghost wasn’t like me, Y/N. He was translucent.” His voice turned anxious. “He didn’t know I was a ghost until I approached him and… and he asked me whether I remembered anything.”

Taehyung and you never got into the topic of his past before. How he… died and became what he was. Seeing him so scared caused your heart to ache in a different way. You stroked the back of his hand with your thumb.

He looked at the joined hands, calming down for a bit. “I told him I didn’t remember anything.”

“…You don’t?”

The male shook his head, cheerless eyes looking into yours. “He told me that…” He let out a harsh sigh. “That I can’t do a certain thing. If I do that, then…” He gazed at you. “I’ll disappear and never come back.”

Your heart stopped at his words. Disappearing would mean Taehyung would be gone from your life. The guy who made sure to greet you with smiles as bright as sunshine, who would insist in going to school with you every time you came home with a frown on your face, who would whine whenever you had to do your homework and not talk to him for hours but stayed by your side throughout the entire time. The guy who had been there for you when you fell off the tight-rope of life to effortlessly lift you up and keep you standing on the unsteady line would be-

“What can’t you do?” Your hunted expression went unnoticed, feeling Taehyung pull you into a tight hug. The tears that you hadn’t felt for a long, long time reappeared as you buried your nose into his neck, arms wrapping around him. “I’ll make sure you won’t do it so you won’t ever have to go.”

You felt the hands on your sides move up to your cheeks, the warmth peeling off of you. Cupping your cheeks, Taehyung leaned his face so, so close towards yours, thumbs gently wiping the stains off your face. Giving you a sad smile, he mumbled, “You can’t stop me from doing it.”

Before you could even answer, he gave a choked sob. “I love you too much I don’t know how I can stop myself from kissing you.”

You let out a whimper at his words, tears never ending as he looked at you with so much affection and longing, fingers moving down to graze your lips.

I love you.” Taehyung whispered, lips quivering, “So, so much.”

Looking pass the blurry film of salty liquid, you wholeheartedly breathed, “I love you too.

Glistening eyes and warm smiles, breath ghosting over your lips, he so tenderly murmured, “Until we meet again.”

It was no doubt that life turned back upside down when the boy that stuck beside you for months vanished into thin air, his only remains being your swollen lips and intangible memories - leaving you longing for more.

It was that night that you found yourself up in the early hours of the morning, typing up the name you so loved in the search box.

You almost cried when you saw the familiar boxy grin, frantically clicking on the facebook profile, finding family members and contact numbers.

Oh you’re his friend?

Legs trembling, you jumped off the bus, dashing towards the building.

No actually, he was in a coma.

Zooming past glass doors, you hurried towards the counter, cold sweat dripping down your forehead. Panting, you asked the alarmed nurse, “Where’s Kim Taehyung?”

But he woke up yesterday!

Hand gripping the handle of room 405, you took a deep breath full of hopes and dreams and unsaid words, slowly opening the door.

Unfamiliar faces, curious eyes, and shocked gasps. Your gaze fell on the boy with the boxy smile, wide beaming eyes filled with surprise, happiness, and eagerness mixed in between.

“Oh no.”

Voice and sobs muffled by your hand, you carefully walked towards the boy, people parting to give way.

The boy grinned, feeling his eyes well up as well. “Why are you crying?”

You couldn’t help the smile forming on your face at his words.

I would buy you ice-cream but I can’t so… care to tell me what’s wrong?

Family V - Alfie Solomons

Family i | ii | iii | iv | v | vi | vii | viii - Alfie Solomons

You took Arthur’s advice to heart and stayed away from London. You moved back into your room at Polly’s and started helping Tommy with the books. Back in Small Heath you were a Shelby again. It’d been so long that the bad parts had been forgotten and you were nostalgic for the life you once lived. But while you stayed away from the city, London didn’t seem keen on staying far away from you.  

This was the third week in a row that you found a package left on the doorstep of your Aunt Polly’s. The first had been a dress, the second a new bracelet and the third a lace shawl with flower patterns crocheted into it. You realised that all the items were more from Ollie than Alfie. Most likely the latter telling Ollie to buy you something and Ollie trying to decide what a woman might like. You tossed all three items in your now empty suitcase under your bed, hoping that would help you forget.  

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Writing Prompt #18

Wow! So I got my very first actual writing prompt from @katyaseyeballnecklace!

So, thank you so much, Love! Hope this works for you.

“I’ll walk you home.”

Oh…As an aside…“FRED LIIIIIIIIIVESSSSSS!” For the sake of this story, at least.


It had been three months. Ninety days since his idiot of a younger brother had, rather horrendously, caused the heartbreak of one Hermione Granger. And, quite frankly, Fred had yet to even begin forgiving the great prat. The professional prankster wasn’t quite clear on all the details, but had gleaned enough information from their dear friend Harry to know that it was completely Ronald’s fault. Even Harry was angry with the youngest Weasley son, and, according to Harry, it was unlikely his two friends would ever reconcile their previously romantic relationship.

Just fine with Fred. Gave him a chance to insert himself more firmly in the brilliant witch’s life. Or, it would have been fine, had Hermione not been so miserable since.

It was probably the first weekend since the schism had sprung between Ron and Hermione that her famous bushy head had arrived on their doorstep. Fred and George had welcomed her, Fred so surprised to find she’d finally accepted their offers that all he could do was state for a moment. The moment was ruined, of course, when his dear, not nearly as handsome twin had called out for their mother. The brothers found themselves shoved unceremoniously to the sides as the plump woman who had raised them bolted out the door to scoop a crying and apologetic Hermione into her arms.

Now they all sat at the table, the meal beginning to wind down and the tension that had been bubbling up since Ron had entered the dining room and found a familiar face sitting at the table nestled firmly between the twins. There had been an icy moment of silence before Molly Weasley had snatched up Ron to help her set up. No one wanted to discuss the obnoxious elephant in the room. The obnoxious, red-headed, elephant in the room.

Turned out they didn’t need to. The person in question did it himself. The Trio had been chatting tensely amongst themselves for a little while as other conversations rose and fell around them, but one sentence managed to find itself out in the open during a lull in all other conversations.

“Merlin’s beard, woman! Can’t you just get off your high horse and forget it already! It wasn’t even that big of a deal!”

Silence took hold of the Weasley’s dining area as each red head stared in shock at either their youngest son/brother, or the witch that had been a mainstay at their table since they were eleven. Fred’s eyes were glued to her, staring with ever growing concern as the seconds ticked by. As Ron’s face brightened red and his shoulders began to stoop and slouch, her face hardened and her spine stretched straight. If she opened her mouth to speak now, Fred knew a river of righteous venom would pour out. But she never got the chance. The room seemed to explode with activity.

“Ronald Weasley!” came the scolding tone from their mother. “Why you little shite! Do you have any idea…” began Ginny. Harry and Arthur were caught in the middle trying to calm everyone down, while George wrapped a protective arm over Hermione’s shoulders before spatting his own displeasure across the table at Ron. Following George’s lead this time, Fred wrapped his own arm around the young woman’s waist, but instead of letting his prat brother have the lashing he deserved he was far too focused on the changes occurring on Hermione’s face as all the commotion writhed around them.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said, standing and trying to pull her along, waiting for her to stand on her own. She turned her face to stare at him for a moment, wide eyed, before quietly nodding and rising to stand with him and quietly escaping the Weasley’s home.

They walked quietly through the garden, not saying much, just waiting for the noise in the house to calm down before they returned. Fred watched her surreptitiously as they walked, and continued to do so as they paused, Hermione seeming to stare through the Burrow, deep in thought. “He…I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t good enough…” She mumbled. Fred let out a disgusted huff and reached out to pat her head, dragging his fingers over her bushy, tangling hair. “He’s an idiot, and you’re brilliant. He just doesn’t know how to handle all that brilliance, is all.”

Hermione huffed out a half-hearted laugh and glanced up at him, a small smile flickering on her lips before fading again. His own grin at the sight of it faded a bit, too before he took a deep breath. “I’ll walk you home,” he said tentatively. She blinked up at him in surprise before waving a hand dismissively. “Fred, it’s only a couple of blocks from the apparition point to my house. I’ll be fine…”

Fred shook his head, adopting a very serious expression. “Only a couple of blocks in the middle of the night, Merlin knows where…”

“I know where…”

“Who knows what kinds of ruffians could be lying in wait!”

“I assure you I’ll be quite safe…”

“What kind of gentleman would I be to let a fair maiden such as yourself-”

Hermione let out a scoff at that.

“-Wander off on her own. No, a true gentleman would see you to your doorstep!”

Hermione looked up at him disbelieving. “Fred Weasley. A gentleman?”

Fred grinned rogishly down at her with a wink. “Of course.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head once before looking back up at him. “Very well, Fred. I will accept your offer.”

Fred grinned again, reaching out to take her hand for side along. “Don’t worry about Mum and Ginny. I’ll let them know I took you home and you’ll floo or owl them when you can. They’ll understand.” Hermione, who had been glancing at the house again nodded before closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, and concentrating on their destination.

The pair reappeared with a ‘pop’ in an alley just a few blocks from Hermione’s flat. It was quiet as they walked, so Fred filled the silence with mindless chatter, telling Hermione some of the funnier little incidents that had occurred in the shop, little children swarming their store and causing havoc for their frazzled parents.

By the time they’d reached Hermione’s door, he had her covering her mouth, suppressing laughter so as to not bother her neighbors. She slid her key into her lock and paused, glancing up at her red headed companion, who wore a crooked smile as he waited for her to escape into the safety of her flat. She stood, staring in thought for a moment as Fred stood before her before she reached up to place one hand against his cheek. He blinked in surprise as she lifted up on her tip toes to place a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Fred,” she said softly before backing away and escaping through her door.

Fred stared in shock at the door for a moment or two before another grin creeped across his features once more. He bounced on the balls of his feet a couple times before turning around and making his way down the hall.

This was just fine with Fred, indeed.

He was so tired that he was scarcely able to hear a note of the songs: he felt imprisoned in a cold region where his brain was numb and his spirit was isolated.1

Requite this angel whose
flushed and thirsting face
stoops to the sacrifice
out of which it arose.
This is the lord Eros
of grief who pities
no one; it is
Lazarus with his sores.


And you, who with your soft but searching voice
drew me out of the sleep where I was lost,
who held me near your heart that I might rest
confiding in the darkness of your choice:
possessed by you I chose to have no choice,
fulfilled in you I sought no further quest.
You keep me, now, in dread that quenches trust,
in desolation where my sins rejoice.
As I am passionate so you with pain
turn my desire; as you seem passionless
so I recoil from all that I would gain,
wounding myself upon forgetfulness,
false ecstasies, which you in truth sustain
as you sustain each item of your cross.


Veni Redemptor, but not in our time.
Christus Resurgens, quite out of this world.
‘Ave’ we cry; the echoes are returned.
Amor Carnalis is our dwelling-place.


O light of light, supreme delight;
grace on our lips to our disgrace.
Time roosts on all such golden wrists;
our leanness is our luxury.
Our love is what we love to have;
our faith is in our festivals.


Stupefying images of grief-in-dream,
succubae to my natural grief of heart,
cling to me, then; you who will not desert
your love nor lose him in some blank of time.
You come with all the licence of her name
to tell me you are mine. But you are not
and she is not. Can my own breath be hurt
by breathless shadows groaning in their game?
It can. The best societies of hell
acknowledge this, aroused by what they know:
consummate rage recaptured there in full
as faithfulness demands it, blow for blow,
and rectitude that mimics its own fall
reeling with sensual abstinence and woe.


This is the ash-pit of the lily-fire,
this is the questioning at the long tables,
this is true marriage of the self-in-self,
this is a raging solitude of desire,
this is the chorus of obscene consent,
this is a single voice of purest praise.


He wounds with ecstasy. All
the wounds are his own.
He wears the martyr’s crown.
He is the Lord of Misrule.
He is the Master of the Leaping Figures,
the motley factions.
Revelling in auguries
he is the Weeper of the Valedictions.


Music survives, composing her own sphere,
Angel of Tones, Medusa, Queen of the Air,
and when we would accost her with real cries
silver on silver thrills itself to ice.



Geoffrey Hill


Graphic - Kinuko Craft

The Bargaining Chip

Words: 1674

Relationships: ThranduilxReader, LegolasxReader

Characters: Thranduil, Thranduil’sWife!Reader, Legolas, the Dwarves

Setting: BOTFA, Set in my Home At Last AU, I guess … 

Request: From @greenleaf-writings Imagine Thranduil and Legolas finding out that the Company took you to The Lonely Mountain for a negotiation. Your life for the Arkenstone.

Notes: I had to actually look up the script for the bargaining scenes, bcuz i’m a sad fangirl and couldn’t remember them anymore 

Note 2: Part 2?

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Thane has walked the promenade outside the hospital every day for many months, but today, with Shepard’s arm looped around his elbow, it has become a different place. An old krogan wandering alone, back stooped and face shadowed with thoughtfulness. The baritone thrum of a turian’s voice, giving directions to a passer-by. Pigeons, overfed and innocent, foraging for crumbs. The light is warm, and life is fragile.

They sit on a bench overlooking the market. He tells her everything that he can find words for, although certain details loom outside those borders. When he pauses, her fingers brush his knee and he knows that she can tell.

She fills the silence by offering him pieces of her own story: about Earth and Mars and—in great detail—the Normandy.

“Do you want to see it?”

He squeezes her shoulder through the thick fabric of the uniform. “Do you think the Alliance would allow that?”

“Do you think I care?” She cranes her neck upwards and her lips graze the ribbed underside of his jaw, sending tingles singing through his nerves. “If anyone asks, tell them you’re there as part of my health and wellness regimen. You know, for stress relief. Emotional support.” She narrows her eyes. “Exercise.”

Thane laughs. It’s a muffled flutter of a sound, like a bird escaping a cage. His hand drifts from her shoulder to her hair. “I’ve missed you, Shepard.”

fresh air

Lets just pretend that Hogwarts has dances

Young newt Scamander x gender neutral reader

Master list

Originally posted by stallingdemons

The starlight danced across your outfit, as you smoothed out the last few wrinkles, as butterflies fluttered about your stomach excitedly, giving your reflection  a giddy smile, before taking one last calming breath, and made your way down the stairs to the common room, focusing on not tripping as you went.

The halls of the castle were positively glittering, the suits of armour freshly polished, with white feather boas wrapped about their necks, crystals and silver ribbon hung like bunting in each door way. The beauty of it took your breath away, as it had the very first time that you lay eyes on the castle, all those years ago.


You shyly made your way down the grand staircase to the great hall, suddenly excruciatingly aware of the many pairs of eyes that were on you reached the bottom of the perilous stairs you found a familiar set of sea green orbs, you couldn’t help but smile, the lanky boy certainly did scrub up well. Not a spec of dirt lined his perfectly freckled face, the bowtie at his collar slightly crooked, in classic newt fashion.

His smile was as wide as you had ever seen, as you made your way to him, as he seemed rooted at the spot. He cleared his throat “you, you look, beautiful’ he managed to choke out, eyes filled with awe and wonder, as they often were. You could feel the blush rise to your cheeks, as you looked to the hard stone floor. “shall we head in" he asked finding hid courage, as you gently took his long fingered hand.

Newt twirled you about the dancefloor, chuckling as he did, his face flushed a rather lovely pink. “would you like some fresh air?” You called over the lively music, he could only nod in response, as he puffed and panted. Grabbing his far larger hand, you dragged him from the throng of the dance floor.

The cool night breeze hit your flushed face, as you pushed the ornately carved wooden doors open. You could hear newt beside you, fingers still intertwined, taking deep lung fulls of fresh air.

Turning to face you, he raised your still linked fingers to his full lips placing a chaste kiss to your knuckles, “what about a wonder around the lake ?” He asked, his voice hushed, as though he were telling you a secret. “we could give the squid a wave” he bargained, a cheeky lopsided smile at his lips, as you nodded enthusiastically, before sprinting as fast as you possibly could to the inky black lake, knowing that newt would soon be at your heels, thanks to his ridiculously long legs.


Of course he was soon behind you, picking you up and twirling you around, making you giggle uncontrollably, as newt smiled up at you, the moon shining in his eyes, the freckles that stood stark against his creamy skin, like tiny galaxies all their own.


Your giggles slowly ebbed away as newt lowered you down, stooping so your faces were mere inches apart, you could feel your heart drumming in your chest, as you slowly closed the gap between you.



Have a great day and be safe


Klaroline MashUp Event. Day One: Sentence prompt: “Are you taking his side against me?”

Friends In Odd Places.


Caroline age 13. Klaus age 18. AU/AH (Starts with a young friendship and then meeting later in life.)




Klaus grunted as he pulled on his tie uncomfortably. This was supposed to be a casual business lunch with a relaxed atmosphere. Though in his older brother Elijah’s opinion the term relaxed simply meant forgoing the standard suit coat and replacing it with a sports jacket.

One must still adhere to a proper professional personal Niklaus.

He could hear his brother’s words echoing inside his mind. He didn’t know why he needed to be here for this meeting in the first place. It was only a chance for their father and Mr. Lockwood to drink and speak of golf or other such nonsense. All the while his two older brothers would sit dutifully beside them while he sat bored out of his mind gaining nothing but scathing glares from his Father.

The sweltering heat of the small southern town in America was once again making Klaus wish he could have stayed back in London with his Mother and three younger siblings. Instead he was stuck here under the strict thumb of his Father in attempts to force him into learning the family business.

Having graduated and freshly turned eighteen, interning at Mikaelson Enterprises while going to business school was not on his personal radar. As sweat dripped down his back, his mind drifted to the acceptance letter from a very prestigious fine art university that was hidden beneath his mattress back home.

Klaus sighed as he caught the sight of his dullard brother Finn giving him a reprimanding look from inside the small bar and grill. He rolled his eyes, turning away as if he didn’t notice while thinking that the residences of this town were obviously lacking any creativity, naming the establishment, The Grill.


How utterly original and completely boring. He sneered in his mind.

In attempts not to sour his mood any more than it already was, he turned a critical and artist eye to his surroundings.

The small seemingly boring town did have a certain hometown-USA quality about it. The old yet well cared for buildings with their many shops dotted what he assumed was aptly named, Main Street. An overly large gazebo stood in the town square and the vast shrubbery and flowers were so well kept and picturesque that it sent a tiny spark of inspiration down to his fingers.

The scenery would look lovely, almost whimsical, done up in oil pastels.

His attention turned to the locals who were milling about.

Small children with ice cream slathered on their faces skipped beside with their parents as they chatted away. A young blonde girl stood dejectedly at the side of the street as a local sheriff’s car drove off after she had barely closed the passenger door. Teenage boys stood in groups gawking as girls strutted by pretending to ignore them. A few of the girls were not shy as they blatantly checked him out, slowing their speeds in pointless hopes that he would feel inspired enough to speak to them.

They had a better chance with the local males gawking at them. He scoffed to himself.

Unlike most young men his age, he wanted no part of the typical summer fling. Not after the hell he had just went through with his last failed romance.

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anonymous asked:

Thank you so much for doing these! And Remus being way taller than Sirius so Sirius can't ever suppose him with a kiss

S O   C U T E

  • Remus is a whole two heads taller than Sirius
  • And Sirius loves it…
  • Most of the time at least
  • Remus always has to reach the top ingredients in the potion’s store cupboard for Sirius when they’re making poison antidotes because that’s where the bezoars are kept
  • He’ll stand behind Sirius and pull him back so that Sirius’ ear reaches perfectly to where it can hear Remus’ heartbeat
  • Remus being so tall that his feet hang over the edge of the four poster so Sirius casts an extension charm and Remus thanks him for it for a week because “Merlin, was I uncomfortable” - he gets repaid in kisses
  • Sirius especially loves when Remus has to hunch over to talk to him, to kiss him
  • Remus will press his hands on either side of Sirius’ face and stoop low to press his lips to Sirius’, rubbing his thumbs softly over his cheekbones.
  • Another pro to Remus’ tallness is that, just like his height, everything else about him is larger than normal as well (yes, I know what you’re thinking - that’s true too)
  • His hands practically swallow Sirius’, the long fingers running through Sirius’ hair as they fall asleep
  • The ONLY problem with Remus’ height… is Sirius’ shortness
  • Sirius has to stand on his tiptoes to even get close to Remus’ mouth for a kiss, and even then, if Remus is standing straight, he can’t reach.
  • Remus likes to make a little game out of this and purposely pretends to not realize what Sirius wants:
  • “I’m sorry Pads, what was that?” “What’re you doing on your toes, Siri?” “Oh, did you need something?” And he just smirks the entire time
  • And Sirius wines and begs and pouts until finally, finally Remus smiles and crouches a little, or sometimes he just wraps his arms around Sirius’ waist and just picks him up so their lips can meet
  • Sirius loves how tall Remus is…
  • Except when he wants a kiss.

anonymous asked:

can u write a fic where Owen is sick and nauseous and amelia takes care of him (other way around from ur last fic)

Not Going Anywhere.

Thought I’d right a cheeky fic for a prompt I’ve received more than once, so here it is. I hope you enjoy it. Likes, Reblogs, and reviews are all extremely appreciated. 

Please tell me what you think xxx

Check out my MASTERPOST for any of my other fics if you haven’t already :) 

Enjoy x

The continuous drum of the monitors had become white noise to Owen and Amelia. Megan was being kept unconscious until she recovered from her surgeries. Hours had turned, unnoticably, to days and then to weeks and they had now lost count of how long they had sat at her side. It was late, the sun had set two naps ago and Amelia was slipping into her third, head propped up on her fist.

Owen, inhaled deeply, face twisting in reaction to a sick feeling that rippled up from his unsettled stomach. He cleared his throat softly and scanned his eyes over Amelia who sat beside him, swaying to stay propped up on her hand. Owen groaned, leaning forward in his chair, feeling flushed and chilled all at once.

His stomach lurched painfully and he surged forward in his seat, freezing with his hands fanned out across his mouth. “Owen…” Amelia opened her eyes slightly, grimacing. She stared, unsure of what was going on. “I’m…. gonna…” Owen stuttered out. She sat up straight, realization dawning on her. “O, are you sick?” she shifted forward on her chair, and ran her hand across his back.

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Long post. Hit J on your dash to skip.

(1/3) Ficlet prompt fill for @oddlyexquisite, who picked museum, exhalation, glasses. I was a little loose with it…

I’ve been skewing pretty hard into self-indulgent angst recently. This sort of scene has been done to death and back (and for good reason), so now it’s my turn! Written to this and this, played at the same time.

Theed’s Holy of Holies lies on the outskirts of the palace grounds–a memorial grove filled with sacred, glass-petaled chime trees. One for each life come and gone. A museum for Naboo’s noble dead that lives and breathes, thriving atop ashes and inhumations alike.

The air is clear, still, and tastes clean—it had been grey for so long, thick and greasy with ash as the city’s funeral pyres burned for a week straight. It’s quiet here now, and the place is nearly empty of mourners for the first time in days. The tree Obi-Wan stands beneath is young, the dark soil at its base is freshly packed around a slab of white marble inscribed with only a name.

Chime trees are rare and exquisitely beautiful, but that’s not why they’re held sacred.

Obi-Wan cups his hands and leans in close to the nearest, low branch. He blows gently in one soft, sustained exhalation—and the heat of his breath alone is enough to set the brittle, blush-colored fronds into motion. One leaf quivers, begins to spin in slow, lazy circles, clinking against its neighbors until they, too, take up movement in a ghostly chain reaction. Along slender twigs and branches, spreading up and outward through the lush, vitreous-pink crown, the chime tree shivers into life—and it sings.

The tree sings to him with the beautiful, catastrophic dissonance of a hundred thousand tiny, shattering glasses. 

It’s a basic matter of thermal physics–a calculation of heat flux and temperature difference and transfer coefficients that, on Naboo, simply translates into the breath of one becomes the breath of all. Obi-Wan closes his eyes and listens, silent and reverential. It’s a sound he hopes to hear in his dreams tonight, instead of the bone-shaking vibrations of Theed’s power generator.

Eventually, off to his right, the grass stirs in time with the halting shuffle-thump gait he supposes he’ll just have to relearn now.

Obi-Wan looks up quickly, out of the corner of his eye. Just long enough to see that the newcomer looks like a scraggly, dead tree that looms grossly out of place here. He’s immediately disgusted with himself for the intrusive thought. “You shouldn’t be walking yet,” the young knight calls out. “And certainly not alone.”

Qui-Gon comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, leaning heavily on the forearm crutch in his left hand. “I’m not,” he says mildly, indicating with a tip of his head. At the far edge of the grove, his companion med-droid—its vocal unit muffled with medical tape—lurches off to one side, vegetative. Its disassembled power unit dangles out the back.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, because even the lingering trauma of battle is no match for his inborn sense of propriety. “Don’t be troublesome, Master.”

Qui-Gon smiles, placid. “Far too late for that, my young apprentice.”

It’s an easy, slip-of-the-tongue endearment, and it hits Obi-Wan like a crack across the face. He nudges his toe into the overturned dirt at the base of the tree, silent for a long moment. The elder Jedi gives him space for his thoughts, expectant but unhurried.

“This one was your grave,” Obi-Wan finally says. “Gifted to you from the royal house of Naboo, for an honorable death in its service.”

Qui-Gon shifts on his feet, nods once in understanding, and pulls his robe tighter around his body. He breathes in deeply, for the sake of tasting the sweet, fresh air after weeks in the medbay—and then breathes out slowly to diffuse the resultant working-pain of his mangled lung. He digs his toes into the grass. “I wouldn’t mind dying in a place like this.”

Obi-Wan flinches. “Please don’t say that.”

There’s a tiny ignition of worry from Qui-Gon, and the feeling curls like smoke between them in the Force. It’s the Master’s turn for silence. Slowly, palpably, he begins to realize that he’s come upon something much different than a man paying his respects to Theed’s fallen. That smiling and attendant and Congratulations, Knight Kenobi, you have done well have nothing to do with being well. 

“Forgive me.”

Obi-Wan huffs out a strange, short laugh and braces himself against the tree, nearly brought low by two words for a poor turn of phrase. He fears, briefly and madly, that he’ll lose himself and sink to his knees entirely, never to get up again. But, no—the Force would never be so cruel, he thinks, to require the sort of balance where he must fall so that Qui-Gon Jinn may stand.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon pleads softly. “Padawan. Look at me.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t. “A resting place here is an honor afforded to very few,” he explains softly, then smooths his fingertips over the tree’s peeling, snowy-white bark. “There was no shortage of those upon which to bestow it.” He shakes his head to clear it, then pushes himself upright. “The space didn’t go to waste. It belongs to Yané now.”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

Because he’s not the man’s padawan anymore, and because he already knows what he’ll see—Qui-Gon, thin-thin-thin, grey-faced and stooped with exhaustion and newfound chronic pain. His beard is scraggly and his hair is down because he doesn’t have the mobility or dexterity fix it himself anymore. Beneath his Jedi robe he’s still wearing his med-tunics, and very likely the flimsy, blue slippers that look spitefully comical on a man of his rank and manner. It’s wrong, and it’s too much for Obi-Wan to bear in this of all places.

He’s too tired, too worn down for anything than a graceless deflection. “I’m really quite alright.”

Qui-Gon exhorts him the only way he knows will work. “Then do it for my sake.”

Obi-Wan is so new to knighthood that he can’t disobey a direct request like that. He stiffly folds his arms into his sleeves and turns to face the older man. Neutral. Obedient. Composed. He doesn’t resist when Qui-Gon takes his face between those large, thin hands and tips it up, stroking his thumb over the tiny mole on his right cheekbone.

The lines of Qui-Gon’s face are filled with sadness as he gazes downward. “You’re allowed to grieve, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan is staring at his chin, stubborn and tight-jawed. “For what? My braid?”

The joke is frail and bitter, a last-ditch effort to avert the terrible self-revelation Qui-Gon has backed him in to. It only makes the moment worse, and Obi-Wan seems to realize that just after the words leave his mouth. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

Qui-Gon shakes his head and his expression sinks deeper into heartbreak. “For anything you need to, padawan.”

When he finally raises his eyes to meet Qui-Gon’s, the spiderweb-fractures inside Obi-Wan give way. He shatters, and what’s exposed within him is not so much grief as it is desolation. A bleak and scoured chasm that had once been home to the kinder pieces of Qui-Gon Jinn—the ones which Obi-Wan had fought and scraped so hard for, for so long, and tucked away so carefully.

All of it wasted wholesale by a Sith, a slave child, and a short-sighted old fool.

This quiet, black emptiness is enough to undo him, too. Qui-Gon would willingly, stoically abide the weight of his own wounds, but he’ll never, never allow the same of his padawan. He drops his crutch and doesn’t embrace Obi-Wan so much as subsume him. He pulls the young knight into the protective, wiry frame of his own body, wraps him up in the warm depths of his robe. “Oh, my Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispers down into soft, auburn hair. “I’m here. I’m still here. I haven’t left you.”

Padawan, Padawan, Padawan… he’ll say it over and over, he thinks, and keep them locked in this place until that hollowed-out space within Obi-Wan is full again.

Obi-Wan bumps his forehead into Qui-Gon’s chest, blinks and stares down at his master’s ridiculous, knobby toes poking out of their thin, too-small shoes. “Your feet…” he whispers, overcome but dry-eyed, into the folds of brown cloth.

The wind picks up around them, bolstering the dying notes of Obi-Wan’s breath in the branches high above, setting the chime tree into motion anew. Qui-Gon smooths his hand up and down the back of Obi-Wan’s bent head, picks a frail, glassy leaf out of his hair. “They’re just slippers. Nothing more,” he murmurs, “nothing more.”

Coffee Shop (Epilogue)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven| Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Epilogue

[Author note: Hey guys, I couldn’t resist writing a little end to my first fanfiction! Sorry it is quite a bit later than my other parts but I wanted to get it right! Thanks for reading, and I might be posting another fic soon: when I am less busy with uni work!] 

You stood at the side of the stage, slightly obscured by the curtains that lined the wings, and watched where he was on stage.

He was answering questions, smoothly replying with charismatic and interesting answers, laughing warmly at all the right times and acting a little goofy at points. You could see the crowd in front of him completely won over, and you couldn’t help by feel a small proud smile begin to form on your face as you followed him with your eyes. 

As if he could feel your gaze, Chanyeol shot a glance to the side of the stage, his eyes searching, a small frown playing about his face, until he found where your half hidden figure stood. 

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We Get Worse Things Than Snakes Out Here in Australia

Living in Australia as a kid is strange. You get all the American and British media… television and books. We watch the same shows, and in a lot of ways share the same culture. But none of that belongs here in Australia; it all feels out of place. Christmas specials always reminded me of that. It’s always snowing on television at Christmas time, and I’m watching kids build snowmen and families wear those tacky patterned jumpers, while I’m melting in the the middle of a blistering Australian summer just trying to stay conscious in the heat.

I guess we have a lot of the same urban legends too, the same scary stories and monsters. They travel here one way or another. Serial killer hitch-hikers, werewolves, vampires… all that. But they don’t really belong in Australia. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Australian landscape, but it’s nothing like the forests or plains you get in Europe or the States. For a start, we call forested parts here “the bush”. The name is bloody appropriate too. A eucalyptus forest is hard going for hikers. The undergrowth is thick and scraggly everywhere other than the paths that have been worn by bushwalkers or animals. If you want to go off the path… well imagine walking through a hedge, filled with thorns and barbs. Now add the very high likelihood of spiders, which aren’t like the little pissy ones you guys get. Big fat spiders with thick ropey webs that tangle around your face and neck if you aren’t watching… Then there’s the risk of snakes, or more dangerous, unseen ledges or cliffs. The whole thing is a huge pain in the arse.

Your monsters wouldn’t fit in here. It’s hard to imagine being chased through the woods by a werewolf when anything bigger than a rabbit has to keep to the paths or find itself tangled up in lantana; but most white kids don’t actually learn much about the old Aboriginal stories. The things which live out in the bush, or those big red deserts. I think about that a lot now. Particularly after living alone in a place called Blackheath in the Blue Mountains. It’s not far from Sydney, the city with the big pretty bridge.

My curiosity was nothing more until recently. Recently things got pretty rough out there on my own. Living alone can really screw with your head.

Most nights I sit out on my deck til late reading and writing while I have a smoke. I have a floodlight out there but it draws in too many bugs, especially in summer. We get these things called Christmas beetles when the weather gets warm; they’re about the size of your thumbnail and they’re stupid as hell. If you leave a light on at night they come in scores, bumping into you like drunks at a crowded night club. I keep a little citronella candle instead to shoo the mozzies, then I turn on a bright spotlight round the other side of the house to lure the beetles away from the back deck.

Well last week on Monday, I was out maybe around ten-thirty at night just doing my usual. Everything was fine until suddenly the spotlight on the other side of the house goes out. I groaned aloud. I had a spare bulb in the house but the whole thing was an inconvenience more than anything. Anyway, I went and got the spare bulb, walked ‘round the side of the house to the light, and… well the bulb wasn’t blown. It was gone. Unscrewed and nowhere to be seen. Looking around, I heard a weird sort of scraping sound from nearby. Like two rocks rubbing together. It started slow and picked up speed moving fast toward me. I didn’t stop to think about it, I just made a bee-line for the door and got into the house. Bugger that for a game of soldiers.

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Pages [Youngjae Angst?]

Originally posted by derezzedgem

It had been weeks. Weeks without seeing you, and it killed him. He missed every last centimeter of you; your soft skin and vivacious e/c eyes that he loved so much about you now haunted him. The young idol was absolutely crushed, no matter how much he tried to play off the break up that had broken him. Maybe it was the fact that he was the root of the problem, the source of all of this pain, that had Youngjae brushing off your name as if brushing off dust from a jacket.

But it was nights like these that caused him to dwell unpleasantly on you and the last moments he had with you. The last words that he had spewed out to you in a brutal flash of fury, and the resulting aftermath that broke him like no injury ever could.

“You don’t love me, and you know it, Youngjae,” you uttered calmly and resolutely. Even though you had your fists clenched tight enough to turn white and were trembling all over, your words were delivered with a deadly certainty.

“You make it hard to even try to love you sometimes, Y/N!” Youngjae shouted, his tone far from your calm. You turned your back to him at those words, trying your best to keep your composure. Sobs threatened to bubble over, but your anger and crushing sadness gave you the ability to rein in the emotions. Behind your back, Youngjae was cursing to himself.

“This is exactly what the problem is: you know you don’t love me, but should I ever confront you about something like that, you flip out. It’s ridiculous, Youngjae,” you murmured to the wall, your voice breaking on his name. That was the truth; you loved him way more than he ever would, and you were punished for doing so. But you confronted Youngjae with one goal, and that was to end the pain that stretched between them like a bridge. Burn the bridge, end the pain. Simple.

Or not.

“Here we go again,” Youngjae laughed mirthlessly. “‘Oh! I love him more! He will never love me as much as I love him!’” he mocked in a high falsetto.

You spun to face him, unshed tears creating a glassy sheen over your crystalline eyes. “So you see the problem too then? The imbalance?” you demanded, with a watery smile fixed over her face.

Youngjae’s face crumpled when he saw what his words had done to you. He ran a hand through his dark locks, and rubbed his face in the same hand. “No, Y/N, God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t me-”

“If you can see the problem, and all you do is mock it, I think we’re done here,” you nodded, a single tear slipping over her flushed face. You stooped to pick up a packed duffel bag that lay beside your feet and rose, slinging the bag over your shoulder. “Goodbye, Youngjae.” The slamming of the door echoed through the room, and with you went all of his hope.

Since then, the once lively member of GOT7 was the slowest of all. He stopped trying once he had pushed one of the most important people in his life away. After all, there was nothing for him any more. So he stopped using his smiling unless absolutely necessary. He stopped eating, and moving, and all things needed for life, practically wasting away, over his stupidity. His self-hatred was manageable until the night, when his thoughts would attack him relentlessly, starving him of sleep.

Which was why he was just sprawled on his bed on that night, just listening to the rain patter against the window, hoping that some miracle could occur and his tired eyes would be granted some respite. The thoughts that once stung him now just thudded against the back of his eyelids like rocks, still hurting, but not as sharply. This would be as close as he could get to sleep, he knew, so he was immeasurably surprised when three rapid knocks sounded against his door. With a groan, he dragged his body off of the bed, already cussing at Jaebum for trying to help him again-

“Hi, Youngjae,” you smiled, your lower lip wobbling slightly. In that moment, Youngjae wanted to do nothing more than to crush you to his body and never let you leave again, but instead he stood there dumbly, his brown eyes widening at the sight of the rain-drenched miracle standing before him. “Jaebum called me, and told me how bad it was for you, and that he knew it was only worse for me. So I came here to maybe tell you-”

Your sentence hung unfinished as Youngjae crushed his lips to yours, making a mental note to praise Jaebum forever for bringing his heart back to him. You stood stonily for a moment, before unfreezing and winding your rain dampened arms around Youngjaes’s neck, pulling yourself into the kiss. He drew away, panting, and stroked your cheek with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what you want to tell me, but I need to tell you something: I love you. Maybe I never showed it right, maybe I was just scared, but I love you with every bit of me. When you said that you loved me more, I just got angry, and I said what I did, but I never really meant them. Y/N, if you’ll have me, I want you back, I need you, nothing’s been the same-”

Your lips cut him off this time, gentler, but still full of the same fire. “Then we’re on the same page.”

I’m kinda just clearing off names from a list and stories I’ve had done for a while. Apologies, but I’ll get to the requests asap.

-Admin A

anonymous asked:

Hi! Love your writing :) I really like how you're keeping everyone true to character, especially Bucky. Anyways if you are still accepting prompts: Both Bucky and Darcy are doing reconnaissance for the team (Bucky because of his experience and Darcy because she's the least recognizable and likes to help where she can) and has to go to a party to follow their mark. What happens next is up to you :)

Prompts Status: ACCEPTING

Anonymousasked: Hi! Love your writing :) I really like how you’re keeping everyone true to character, especially Bucky. Anyways if you are still accepting prompts: Both Bucky and Darcy are doing reconnaissance for the team (Bucky because of his experience and Darcy because she’s the least recognizable and likes to help where she can) and has to go to a party to follow their mark. What happens next is up to you :)

Go to a party, she says.

Mingling’s all you have to do, she says.

Barnes has got your back, she says.

Toes stretch forward in an attempt to cross the gap between the two balconies, they are painted lilac (of all the things to notice, this seemed the most trite) and were a match for the flowy dress she was trying to keep from tangling along her legs and sending her to a premature death. Feet find purchase, gathering up momentum she lunges for the rail of the balcony, grasping it firmly between chilled fingers—metal biting again her palm, she holds fast.

Swing her leg over the railing (it took two tries and about ten years off her life) she crouches down—snow is starting to stick to the ground which would make it hard to jump again but this window had no lights on. The third balcony from the room she’d started in just as instructed.

Two fingers to her ear she presses lightly against the commlink, it doesn’t make a sound when channel opens (she resists the urge to say hello to make sure its working, cause she’s better then that—most of the time).

“Barnes, I’m in position.”

He doesn’t reply (maybe he’s dead, maybe he’s been caught, maybe he’s fucking information out of the fake titty hussy from earlier) so she waits and stews.

Natasha was to blame for this, all of it.


It’s a half assed sound of pain (she was in so much pain it had become a hassle to display it) when her back smacked agains the ground for God know’s what time today. Clint is hovering over her, shit eating grin in place, offering a hand up. She has every intention of ignoring it but realizes the bigger hit to her pride would be failing to rise without it.

“Are you even trying anymore?”

“Listen—I’ll let you know when I can feel my ass again.” she retorts bring her fists up to the fighting position she had been taught (read: had beaten into her)

“Half of learning to defend yourself is working through the pain—how would you react against an uncontrolled situation if you don’t know the way pain makes you react.”

“I get it, Nat. I read Tolstoy—the Russians have a beauty in suffering shtick” using her hips to turn into the punch she’s blocked by Clint who just side steps it “And if suffering is beautiful then I’m Helen of Troy right now.”

“Concentrate, Lewis—show me I’m not wasting my time”

(She takes offense to that—what about her time? She’s tired, sore and she hadn’t been laid since Ian broke up with her six months ago—if not for this she could be out getting laid.)

With a cry of frustration she feigns a jab and drops down to a leg swipe that actually connects (hello bruised shins) and while it doesn’t topple Clint it does get him off balance enough to take a knee. He looks about as proud as she feels and they share a high five while Natasha looks on marginally please.

Darcy is spared another round by Hill’s entrance and if she prayed to a God she’d be thanking them right about now, instead she settled for sending a sloppy salute toward the dark haired woman. The thing about Hill is that most people think she’s this no nonsense kinda woman (and don’t get her wrong, she totally fucking is) but none can be that way all the time—even Pepper takes days off. So Darcy was still trying to find the lighter side to Hill (the Maria if you will—ugh, her inner monologue is turning into Dr. Seuss again) thus far no success, but she was nothing if not stubborn.

“Debriefing room, ten minutes.”

She’s picturing a lovely little scene—her with her feet on the coffee table, pizza box opened next to her, no Clint to steal the remote or Steve to complain about the programming, it’s heaven. Then with three words Hill bring it crashing down around her like Helicarriers in Washington.

“You too, Lewis.”

“Crap biscuits.”

Wiggling her toes to stimulate a bit of blood flow to her extremities, wondering what the Stark compensation package for frost bite was, she nearly misses Barnes touching down beside her with a soundless, graceful parkour move. As it was she just bites down the urge to squeak out a noise of surprise, living in building with Clint was good training for resisting jump scares (he came out of the vents sometimes—the vents).

Unfurling from his kneeling position Barnes signals her to wait before she follows, out of his pocket comes a set of lock picks—honest to God, lock picks.

‘Systems coming down in 3…2…1…Soldier you are go for entry.’

Natasha’s voice is the same pseudo-soothing pitch it always is, like she’s just come back from a good lay and Darcy has the strange thought that the Widow would be amazing at phone sex—you know if the career of Super Spy doesn’t pan out, she’d make bank.

“Entry acquired.”

Making a come hither motion with his right hand—she tries really hard to detach the image from the inappropriate thoughts she’d just been having, because Barnes just looks like a bad idea. A bad idea in the best way, the kind of man who women tell fond stories about when too many margaritas are involved. He’s got the broody, tortured hero thing with those too blue eyes and those thighs.

And they’d put the fucker in a tux.

(Yeah, beyond unfair.)

So she’s only been paying attention in the looses sense of the word, it wasn’t for lack of trying though it’s just this is her first time in the briefing room and it’s beyond cool and Hill was giving her the Tony Look—shit, no way she was finding the Maria today. Pointing at a map now, pictures of several men filled the screen adjacent to the map, Hill crosses her arms and cocks her head to signal her to pay attention without ever stopping the presentation.

“Dr. Foster’s research must be recovered or else we’ll risk intergalatic diplomatic issues and I don’t need to fill out any more paper work.”

The have forms for that? Wait, she’s ex-S.H.I.E.L.D they probably had forms for that.

“Which is were you come in, Lewis—you’re an unknown, which should make it easy to gain entry with the right strings pulled, an skilled hacker and familiar enough with Foster’s research to be able to recognize it even if it’s spread out in multiple drives.” (somehow Hill made the fact that she was a nobody, who tended to illegally gain entrance to things and typed up notes sometimes sound amazing, she’d need to have her proof read her resume sometime)

“So what, I use my super-secret-spy skills unknown even to me—get in, get out and do the tango somewhere in between? Whose idea was this anyway?”

“Agent Romanov seemed to think you were the right person for the job. As for a point of entry, Barnes would be your point man.”


Pulling the flash drive from her cleavage, noting the way Barnes looks away in a hurry when her hand comes up to the sweetheart neckline of her dress with a quick little backward glance at the end, she plugs into the the available port and lets the program do it’s job. Doesn’t take long before J.A.R.V.I.S has cracked the entire system wide open—the wonders he could do for the virtual world—and then she’s looking through relevant files as quick as she can.

They’ve broken up Jane’s findings and theories into three parts—but from the looks of it they were heading in a strange direction, she’d never seen Jane group her findings that way. Copying the files into the drive to show Jane later she works on deleting any trace of the documents and her presence. Video logs of tonight would be set on a timer to delete in twenty, per Natasha’s instructions.

Tucking the drive away back with the girls, she gives Barnes the all clear sign.

‘Extraction in fifteen, get a move on guys.’

Back out to the balcony they go, she has an easier time climbing now that Barnes is there to lend her a hand (Darcy is confident he won’t let her plunge to her death) and they make it back quickly to the room she’d snuck off to—it’s looks like a guest bedroom, it’s in the private section of the mansion they’d infiltrated and it had too much of a hotel look if you asked her.

Everything too perfect, what wasn’t perfect was the fact that she couldn’t find her shoes.

‘Soldier, you’ve got incoming—get a move on.’

Natasha orders, no doubt she was still logged into the security feeds.Barnes makes to leave the room, hand coming to grasp her arm with a lighter touch then she expected him to have.

“I need to get my shoes.”

A blank expression comes over his face, one of the three in his repertoire  and here comes number one—mildly annoyed,

“You took of your shoes.”

“Duh, how else was I supposed to do get here?”

“In them.”

“Fuck you, Barnes—I almost died twice without doing that on stilts.” she hisses out in lieu of yelling.

‘Guys, two minutes.’


Backing her up against the wall, stooping closer to her face—close enough she could count those thick lashes of his if they were so distracting—those icy blue eyes are watching her mouth, fingers doing something to her hair and she’s reminded for the second time this week how long it’s been since she’s been laid good and proper (and it’s longer then six months cause Ian was okay, but lacked uhmmm girth).

Done with whatever he was doing to her hair he shrugs off his jacket, tossing it toward the bed then in a move she’d only seen in movies before he scoops her up—her legs instinctively wrap around his trim waist—the door know clicks open as the knob turns and Darcy could swear she hears Barnes apologize before his lips are on her neck.Only it’s more then just lips, it’s his hand on her ass bringing her center closer to his body, it’s the teeth he scrapes against the underside of her jaw. Not one to waste opportunity she weaves her fingers through his hair and brings his mouth to her own in a searing kiss, that he tastes like toothpaste (minty and cool) is all she can register before a throat clearing ends their moment.

“Oh God, not again.” like a wilting flower she tucks her head against his shoulder in a mock show of embarrassment, he lets her down on her own two feet before turning toward the guard—his mouth is stained with her lipstick when he speaks.

“Sorry man, she had too much to drink—brought her to take a breath but you know….we’re newly weds. Saw a bed, couldn’t resist.”

All things considered the guard lets them off easy, clearly not the first time he’s seen this.In the van Natasha doesn’t comment on the way her hair is a mess and one corner of Barnes’ mouth is still stain with her lipstick as they drive off, it’ll be hours before they are back in New York. Settling back into her seat she tries to catch some shut eye (read: avoid looking at Barnes and his stupidly soft lips) eventually she must have managed it cause she wakes up to the sunrising and Barnes jacket covering her up.