tell me what i'm supposed to do with all these leftover feelings of you

I guess I wrote this and never posted it?

Prompt: Kakashi finds out his wife is pregnant before the war.

Rating: T

Pairing:Kakashi x Reader because I’m garbage

The unforgiving winter of Konoha was at its peak as you walked down the blustery cobblestone road. You wrapped your scarf tighter around your neck, burying your nose beneath the wool as you held your sides. The wind blew against your already rosy cheeks, stinging your skin as you looked up to read the signs.

You walked into the convenience store a few blocks from your apartment and finally exhaled in the presence of warm air. Your lungs thanked you, and you grabbed a basket.

You looked at your list:
Eggs, bread, milk.

You gathered your belongings, making sure to look like this wasn’t the only thing you were here for. Carefully, you walked down the family planning aisle, staring at the pregnancy test as if it could just tell you the answer without having to go through the painful process of purchasing it.

You put it in the middle of your purchase as you lined them up, thinking that this process wouldn’t make the cashier think too much of the famous Kakashi of the Sharingan’s fiancé to be buying a pregnancy test. Especially at the brink of a war.

Your fingers shook as you paid for your items and bundles yourself, quickly exiting and making your way back home. Your mind raced, thinking of if it were true or perhaps your hormones were just out of wack with the impending stress load that was projected to double in the upcoming weeks.

That time of the month had come and gone without a speck of blood. You tried not to worry, but the more you put it off, the more the symptoms persisted. The unexplained weight gain, the irritability, the breast swelling - you couldn’t ignore them anymore.

“You’re home early,” Kakashi stood in the kitchen, a bowl of leftovers in his hand as he shoveled it in his mouth. His mask pooled around his neck and he smiled at you with a mouth full of salmon.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” you told him, avoiding his eyes.

“Again?” He put his bowl down on the table as you stripped off your winter wear. Chewing still, he put his fingers to your forehead and stopped you.

“You don’t seem feverish,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you should make an appointment with the doctors?”

“That’s rich, coming from the person who never sees the doctor,” you swatted his hand away. He looked at you, frowning as he swallowed his food. His eyebrows knitted together.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asked, his tone changing to match yours.

“Nothing,” you stuffed the small pregnancy test in your pocket, handing him the grocery bag. “Could you put these away?”

His eyebrows rose with the sudden change in your tone. Blinking, he took the bag from your hand and watched you as you walked into the bathroom, locking the door.

* * * * * * * *
You couldn’t breathe. It felt like your chest may cave in as you stared down at the little piece of plastic.

Positive.

It was the third pregnancy test you had taken this week. You had gone to different stores within Konoha just to purchase them without causing rumors to spread. All of them had been positive.

You could feel your hands tingling as you stood up, thinking of how you would tell Kakashi. With the political heat escalating and the missions becoming more dangerous, he has been stressed enough trying to protect he village. Now he would have something else to protect. If Konoha were to go to war, he surely would be distracted with a pregnant fiancé at home.

This was not supposed to happen, you thought. This was the last thing that was supposed to happen and you wondered how you had been so careless. Perhaps you had missed a day on your pill. Or perhaps it has been when you were sick a few months ago and your pill hadn’t worked. Your mind raced, trying to figure out this puzzle.

* * * * * *
It had been a week since you found out. You contemplated how you would tell him, thinking of different scenarios as the days passed. You continued to push it off, afraid of how he would react.

“Kakashi?” You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, watching him as he wrapped his ankles with bandages for the day.

He didn’t look up, and you observed him from afar, his hair still askew from sleep.

“Hm?”

“Can I talk to you?” You asked hesitantly. Finally, he looked up, his eyes tired as he stopped his preparations.

“Is something wrong?” He asked.

“Not exactly,” you looked away. You felt yourself begin to shake, your nerves enveloping you.

What if he was mad? What if he didn’t want the baby? What if he said you couldn’t afford to keep it? What if he had too many responsibilities? What if it stressed him out?

He watched you for a moment before looking down, cutting the tape of his bandage off and placing it to the bed.

Kakashi stood up, walking over to you. You were much shorter than him, and he had to dip is head to try and meet the eyes that you kept avoiding. You turned your head, wrapping your arms around your waist.

“Is there something wrong?” He asked again, this time his voice was more stern.

You felt your chin quiver and you bit your lip, inhaling a shaky breath. Emotions bubbled up in your chest and you felt Kakashi take your shoulders.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he told you, sounding more concerned.

“I can’t,” you managed, tears spilling out.

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid.”

Kakashi let go of you, and took a step back. You looked up, seeing the look in his eyes that seemed like he was afraid.

“Did something happen?” He managed. “Did- I mean - are you - is there someone else?”

You quickly shook your head, “no, not at all. It’s not that.”

His eyebrows came to a point, “than what is it?”

A tear streamed down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away.

“Please don’t be mad,” you told him.

Kakashi took a step back, taking your shoulders again.

“What is it?” He asked, his voice frustrated.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you reacted, pulling away. Anxiety was taking over you.

“[y/n]!” His voice was stern, “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m pregnant!” You finally exclaimed, beginning to cry now. “I’m pregnant, okay? I’m sorry! I’ve been hiding it from you and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I’m sorry, I know you have so much to do and the war and -”

“[y/n],” he breathed, taking a step closer to you. He touched your shoulder and you looked up, meeting his eyes with yours.

“You mean it?” He asked, his voice shaking. “Are you sure?”

You blinked, “I took three tests. They were all positive.”

Suddenly, you were wrapped in his arms, his face being buried in the crook of your neck. He held you tight, feeling his body become stiff.

“Kakashi?”

“I could never be mad,” he exhaled, his voice cracking against your skin. You reached up, holding onto him as you realized how emotional he was.

“You mean it?” You asked.

He laughed against your ear, his clothes lips tickling your skin. You couldn’t tell if he was crying, but his voice sounded as though he was holding back so many emotions.

He pulled away, looking you in the eye with a small smile.

“With this impending war- with all the turbulence in the village -” he paused, “this is the best news I’ve heard in a very long time. I have one more thing to fight for now.”

cosmic-files-87  asked:

2/11/15 MSR for the angsty list....I know....I am an ass.... (but really!!!!! Please write that!!!!)

2 - I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you.

11 - You can’t keep hurting me and then demand I apologize instead.

15 - You betrayed me.

Author’s Notes: Okay, this one hurts. Like a kick to the groin kind of hurt. I almost feel bad. It is high angst & will probably piss some of you off. If you proceed – you were warned. Post IWTB.

Two Weeks, Too Cold

It’s been two full weeks since she’s seen him.

She can’t remember the last time she went more than a day without hearing his voice – What’s up, Doc? – watching him as he watched her, or felt his broad chest against her back as he spooned her to sleep.

I won’t be coming home, she had said. Don’t do this, he had begged.

Scully keeps telling herself that she made a mistake by letting him kiss her as she stood in their front yard with tears rolling down her face, by entertaining the notion that they could ever hide from the darkness. It was cruel, she thinks, because even then she knew that she wouldn’t be coming back home.

Which isn’t exactly true, because she did come home, briefly, to gather a bag or two of her belongings. Her chest aches at the memory – of the desperate tears and of his voice breaking on each  I’m sorry and please don’t leave me.

That was two weeks ago. Two weeks that have been filled with work, because if she can’t help the man she loves then at least she can help a child breathe. Two weeks filled with too much coffee, because her fingers feel ice cold without his own interlaced with them. Too little sleep, because her skin trembles and aches without his hands there to gentle away the nightmares.

Two weeks, she has decided, is long enough.

I just want to see him, she tells herself as she guides her car onto the long gravel drive that leads to their shared home. The house is modest, but cozy. Most of all, it’s theirs. The few tangible things they’ve shared in the past have been wrenched away from them – but not their home. No blood to scrub out of the carpet, no taped X in the window to summon life-threatening information. It’s just home, and it’s theirs.

She steps out of her car into the crisp air of early morning to pull open the gate, and she smiles to herself. The ritual of it is comforting. Countless mornings and evenings have began and ended with opening this gate, letting herself back into the beautiful, private world she shares with Mulder.

Pulling into her spot in front of the house, she sees a strange car. She frowns curiously. Did he go out and buy a car after I left? She wouldn’t put it past him, except that it would require his actually leaving the house (and nothing short of a psychic priest has convinced him to do so thus far).

On her walk to the front door, her heart begins to hammer against her ribs at the thought of seeing him again.  It’s only been two weeks, she chides herself. Still, she expects that he may be angry. When he’s hurt, he tends to deflect – in his case, that means petulant withdrawal and an abundance of sarcasm.

She draws in a deep breath and unlocks the door. He may still be asleep, she realizes as she steps into quiet darkness. It’s just after five o’clock in the morning. Just because she hasn’t been able to rest doesn’t mean he can’t.

But oh, she’s finally home. She closes her eyes, relishing the smell of Mulder’s aftershave mingled with the scent of the roses he had delivered to her office just a week before those goddamned agents showed up at the hospital. She remembers bringing them home, carefully tucking them into a vase of water. They’re beautiful, she had told him. Not as beautiful as you, he had replied, his hand tucked against the small of her back.

“Who are you?”

Scully starts at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, opening her eyes to see a woman standing at the threshold where kitchen becomes living room.

A woman.

Tall. Brunette. Holding a glass of water. Wearing only a t-shirt and a confused expression.

“This is my house,” Scully says, the words scraping past a throat that has gone as dry as desert sand. “Who are you?”

The woman stares back, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt uncomfortably.

No, not her t-shirt. Mulder’s t-shirt. Scully’s favorite shirt that Mulder owns, because it’s soft and worn and somehow still smells like the cologne he wore the first time she slept in his arms, even after all these years.

I’m going to be sick, this is not happening, oh Mulder what is going on…

The woman finally speaks, clearing her throat. “He – he said he lived alone.”

I’ve wandered into the wrong house, Scully thinks numbly. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.

But no. That’s Mulder’s shirt, and that’s the drinking glass my mother gave to me when we moved here. That’s the couch where Mulder and I made love less than a month ago.

“Scully.”

This can’t be the wrong house, because that’s Mulder. He’s standing in front of her, and he’s not wearing my favorite shirt, he’s not wearing a shirt at all, and he looks terrified, and oh God I’m going to be sick…

“Mulder?” Her voice sounds tiny. Her hands are still freezing, but now her palms are sweating as her stomach churns. Please explain this, Mulder, she begs silently. Please please please please.

“Who is she?” When the other woman speaks again, Scully wants to scream at her. She has no right to ask that. Scully is the one who should be demanding an explanation. She’s the one who deserves an answer. Not this stranger, with her morning-after hair and her long smooth legs brushing the hem of Mulder’s shirt.

I’m going to be sick.

“Mulder?” This time, her voice is louder, sharper, less please tell me this isn’t what it looks like and more how fucking could you.

He doesn’t acknowledge the other woman’s inquiry, instead stepping toward Scully with his hand outstretched. “Scully,” he begins, and her name on his lips tells her all she needs to know. She’s heard him speak her names countless times – calling to her for help, playfully teasing her, comforting her in times of distress, moaning in ecstasy as she coaxes him to climax, even shouting in anger during a particularly intense argument.

Never – never – has he said her name with this desperate, helpless tone threaded through it.

The woman has disappeared, and Scully can hear her in the bedroom – our bedroom  – gathering her things, probably eager to get away from this house – our house – and whatever is about to happen between them.

Mulder moves forward, and she sees panic etched into the lines of his face.

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head as the full realization of what’s happening settles over her. “No,” she chokes, swallowing against a throatful of stomach acid. “No, no, no.”

“I’m sorry, Scully, please let me explain.”

Her eyes fly open, and she wraps her arms around herself. “Explain?” Her voice catches on a sob. “What is there to explain?” She stares at his face, his beautiful face, and it’s more than she can take, his eyes full of regret. She backs away, grappling for the doorknob.

“Scully, don’t leave. Please.”

Two weeks, Mulder!” Her stomach aches, her head pounds, and I need to get out of here, this is not happening. “I was gone two fucking weeks!”

She is hot and cold at the same time, her clammy palms sliding against the doorknob as her fingers shake uncontrollably. She feels the heat of his body behind her, and oh God, she wants to lean into him, just to warm her hands, but nonononono, she has to leave, she cannot stay another minute in this house.

When he places a hand against her shoulder, her entire body recoils. “Get the hell away from me,” she gasps, her breaths coming in shorter spurts now, her lungs burning.

The doorknob finally relents, and she shoves against the door, stumbling outside where it’s still so cold, it’s not home, and she can’t breathe, and fuck you Mulder how dare you how fucking dare you.

He follows her across the yard. “Scully, please.”

She doesn’t break stride or respond. She’s almost to her car when she feels his hand catch the arm of her coat. She jerks free, but his grasp is lighter than she expected, and the heel of her boot slides against a leftover patch of ice. 

Under any other circumstance, she would have caught herself. The reflexes instilled in her all those years ago in FBI field training never failed her before, but she can’t even catch her breath so how is supposed to support her full weight?

Maybe she doesn’t even want to.

Her knee meets the ground with a sharp crunch, and she hisses in pain.

Immediately, Mulder is at her side. “Oh God,” he says, and reaches for her again. She slaps his hand away, and finally the tears she’s been fighting break through, streaming hot against her chilled face.

“In our bed, Mulder,” she says bitterly, leaning back against the tire of her car. “I was gone two weeks, and you fucked someone in my bed.” She tries to suck in a lungful of air, but is met with resistance when the breath halts on a sob. So this is what suffocation feels like.

“I was drunk,” he whispers miserably.

“When are you not?”

He flinches, but continues. “I don’t know what happened. Scully, I don’t even know her.”

“Where did you meet her, Mulder?” She glares through her tears. “All this time, while I’ve been working, have you just been out meeting women to bring back to our home? Our bed?”

“Of course not,” he breathes, staring at her in horror. “Never. You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did,” she whispers brokenly. “I never believed you would do this. Not in a million years, Mulder.”

“Neither did I.“ His voice is pitiful and sincere.

She swallows thickly. “You betrayed me.”

He sinks all the way down beside her. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know, and I’m so sorry.” There is a heavy silence between them for a moment before he adds, “Scully, you left me.”

Scully shifts to face him, and grits her teeth against the pain that the motion sends shooting through her knee. “You’re unbelievable,” she spits venomously. “You screw another woman in my bed, on the sheets you bought for me on my last birthday, and you’re making this my fault?” She fumbles with the top of the tire, trying to pull herself to her feet.

“Scully, stop,” Mulder pleads. “You’re hurt – your leg.”

“You’re damn right I’m hurt,” she snaps. “And it has nothing to do with my leg.”

She gives up on standing for the moment. “You never answered my question,” she tells him, her eyes burning hot into his.

“What question?”

“Where did you meet her? I’ve never known you to socialize, but clearly, there are a few parts of your character I somehow missed in all our years together.”

He stares at his hands for a moment before meeting her gaze. “I went on a walk and ended up at a bar. It’s a couple miles down the road. I had more than I planned, and she – she offered to drive me home.”

Scully folds her arms tightly around her midsection. The tire is wreaking havoc on her back, but she barely notices.

“Classy, Mulder.” She closes her eyes again, but the tears fall anyway.

He sighs. “You left, Scully. You just left, and you wouldn’t return my calls. I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”

Scully tenses as another wave of nausea washes over her. “I left because you wouldn’t leave the house unless it was to spiral back into your fucking paranoid obsessions!” 

She covers her face with both hands. “You can’t keep doing this,” she sobs. “You can’t keep hurting me, and then demand that I apologize instead.”

“When have I done that?” His voice is laced with disbelief. “When have I ever done that, Scully?”

Fuck you Mulder fuck you fuck you fuck you –

“Fuck you,” she cries, gripping the edge of the tire again and heaving herself to her feet. “I don’t need you.” 

She ignores the throbbing in her knee when she puts weight on it. “I don’t need anyone,” she says, her voice breaking. “I think we both know I’ve survived greater losses.” She wrestles with her purse, digging for her keys. “But it’s fine. I don’t need any of you.”

Mulder touches her shoulder, and she shrugs him away again. “Don’t touch me.” She yanks her car door open. “I told you to get away from me.”

“Scully, I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “You may not need me, but I need you. I always have.”

“You didn’t need me last night,” she tosses back viciously as she forces key into ignition. “I can’t take care of you anymore, Mulder. Figure it out.”

He positions his body so that she is blocked from closing the door. “Scully,” he tries again, his voice echoing with despair. “I’m begging you. Please. You came back for a reason. Please don’t leave again.”

Her chin trembles as she answers him in a voice as brittle as dry ice. “I left for a reason, too.”

She grasps the door handle in her hand despite the remaining tremors. “Move.”

He slowly backs away, and at last she sees tears shining in his eyes. It’s too late, it’s too much this time, I can’t.

The sound of her slamming door causes him to jump. The pressure she places on her gas pedal makes her moan with pain as her knee protests the movement.

When she glances in her rearview mirror, she sees a tear-blurred image of her entire world, standing with his arms hanging helplessly at his sides.

He’s still not wearing a shirt, she realizes.

Go back inside, Mulder. It’s too cold out here.

I would know.

END.

Before you ask, yes, there will almost certainly be a follow-up.

anonymous asked:

for your prompts!! (I'm so excite thx for doing this!) sheith royalty au where Keith and Shiro are princes from warring countries and when Shiro's country loses he is captured and sent to Keith as a slave. When he shows up he has been treated very badly...what will Keith do?? Will they fall in love? Can they gain each other's trust??(Requesting maximum angst and Shiro being tenderly taken care of plz <3)

Okay, I got way WAY too into this one and had to force myself to stop writing. I absolutely love this prompt and love putting Shiro through hell. My sweet sweet son. Let’s punch him in the face again.This is the best ending spot I could find, but you bet your ass I have like 1000 more words I haven’t posted.

This is the first fill for my most recent follower celebration, stay tuned for more of me getting way too into prompts.


He wasn’t unfamiliar with the goings on of war. He knew exactly what a well placed punch felt like, what an arrow felt like piercing his shoulder, what a blade felt like slashing along his side. He knew what torture felt like and was all too familiar with the sensations caused by all the different tools they liked to hide in the deep dark holes of war camps. He knew what it felt like to have his arm separated from his body as he watched, as he fought for his life, as he watched his country massacred in front of him. He knew what it felt like to be held up on a podium of bodies, hasty tourniquet tied over the stump of what used to be an arm, he knew what it felt like to be a trophy and absolutely nothing more. He remembered the feeling of Sendak’s knife, slicing through his face, inch by inch, the sound of cheering a dull roar, pierced by his own incoherent screams and Sendak’s soft whisper, filling his ears, his mind, and his memory.

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and all these little things

ao3 link

robert finds a way to support aaron throughout his counselling sessions.

or, four tuesdays that robert supports aaron, and one tuesday where robert needs his husband.

The first counselling session had lured Robert into a false sense of security. He’d collected Aaron from the counsellor’s office in Leeds, and he’d been okay, he’d been quiet, sure, but he’d been okay - he’d smiled at Robert and suggested lunch in town somewhere before they made the drive back to Emmerdale.

Robert didn’t know much about counselling, if he was honest, beyond what he’d read online when scouring through the infinite list of counsellors Aaron could go and see. Aaron had been the one to agree he needed counselling, but Robert had been the one to find a counsellor for him, in the end.

He hadn’t know what to expect, from Aaron’s sessions, but that first one made him think they wouldn’t be all that bad.

It was the third, when Robert realised it wasn’t going to be an easy road. Maybe it had been completely naive of him to believe they could just muddle along and everything would be okay, even with Aaron having to relive the worst parts of his life over and over, have someone pick them apart and put him back together all over again.

Aaron was quiet, when Robert came in from work. He’d driven himself to counselling that afternoon, Robert stuck in meetings for Home James until the earning evening time.

“Hiya,” Robert greeted, setting his laptop and folder down on the kitchen table, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Aaron’s head. His husband flinched away from Robert’s touch, and instantly, Robert was worried. “How was your day?”

“How do you think?” Aaron snapped, not looking up from the cold cup of tea he was holding tightly to.

Robert wasn’t really sure what to say. “Have you had tea?” he tried, hoping it would elicit a better reaction.

“‘M not hungry.” Aaron shook his head, shoving his chair backward. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s six o’clock, Aaron.”

“So? Are you tryin’ to tell me when I can and can’t go to bed now?”

“Aaron, you know -“ Robert began, sighing as Aaron walked out of the backroom without waiting for him to finish his sentence. He stood alone, in the kitchen, for a few minutes, trying to figure out what he could do to help.

His first instinct was to follow Aaron, and hold him close, and reassure him that everything was going to be alright, that he’d be okay - but Aaron didn’t want that, he’d told Robert he didn’t want that.

He’d just have to find a new way to help Aaron through it all, he supposed.

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Private Lessons (9/10)

Dad!Chris Evans/first person OFC (Elaina)

A/N: jesus christ I’m wordy. and also exhausted so there’s a good chance that this doesn’t even make sense. but proof reading is for the weak. um so anyways, there’s some fluff, some angst (more angst than they’ve experience before, I think) so that’s fun. I’m considering doing like a part two with this couple, so feed back on that idea would be bomb-tastic. *insert finger-gun emoji*

Synopsis: Elaina is teaching swimming lessons to a little boy named Lukas when she discovers that he is the son of Chris Evans. When Chris approaches Elaina to do private lessons with Lukas at the Evans’ home will things heat up? Will Elaina turn into a home wrecker that she never wanted to be?

Originally posted by elenaamerican

The following weeks went quickly and without much happening. I continued to give Lukas lessons and Chris continues to invite me to stay for dinner. We went on a few more dates, just the two of us. We went to dinner a couple times, saw a couple movies, and one time we had a late night picnic and stargazed while Chris told me everything he knew about space. Lukas had always been comfortable with me but as time passed it seemed that the dynamic of our relationship was changing just as my relationship with Chris was. Lukas became more clingy; he didn’t want me to leave after lessons, he wanted me to put him to bed, he didn’t want Chris to spend time with me without him. I didn’t have any problems with the changes, but I could tell it was making Chris worried.

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anonymous asked:

dude, how do you know so much stuff?? like, reading your fic, it's evident you have a huge range of general knowledge – you drop facts about nutrition, chemistry, physics, botany, psychology, geology…are they all just things you've learnt unintentionally over the course of your life? do you do specific research? sorry if this is weird ask, i just find the breadth of your knowledge really impressive haha. (also, your writing is amazing, thankyou for sharing it with us <3)

alkjfdsafsa <3

It’s…a few things. It’s that I have an okay mind for science (it was where my career was supposed to be, except dyscalculia (number dyslexia) made the foundationals almost impossible for me at the time). Like, I just have a good mind for remembering things. I taught myself to read via scientific encyclopedias just as much as I did fiction. I remember being fascinated by On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin at the age of 9, and reading that in the library at lunch with a dictionary next to me.

It’s that I do research for things. Anything science-based usually comes from knowledge I already have. Anything architecture / furniture / etc. based comes from researching as I need. Some of it’s leftover from other stories, I read about 5 tomes on volcanology for a hard science fiction series I never ended up writing. As a result, I have a lot of useless information about volcanoes waiting up my sleeve, along with general geology, because I was trying to construct new planetary systems and I needed to figure out things like where did the sand come from if beaches couldn’t exist due to weather patterns etc. (answer, deep sea mining, making it an incredibly lucrative but dangerous career choice). Ditto knowing too much about the uses of bagasse and bagassosis (byproducts of farming sugar cane that can be used for a whole bevy of things) for a short Solarpunk story I was going to write and never ended up writing, and can now talk to sugar cane producers like I actually know something about it.

(You only need to dig a little deeper to realise I don’t, lol, but I have accidentally fooled people in their chosen professions into thinking that I was also a member of their chosen profession before! The surgeon who removed my tumour at the age of 18 was convinced I was pre-med, because of my ability to grasp the jargon / what he was talking about. Idk, I honestly didn’t think I was doing anything except learning and retaining that information. Glen gets this too, incidentally, the dude I live with - he often gets mistaken for being an academic economist. He is not any kind of economist except an enthusiastic armchair one.)

I read a lot of non-fiction, I enjoy reading books about biology the most? Like I just acquired a new book on the octopus brain that I’m really looking forward to. Some of what I read is like ‘pop science’ and some of it is academic science heavy on the references, and some of it is niche science like my weird art-science book on the spider web and only the spider web (it’s amazing), it mostly just depends on what I feel like. I once took out over 50 books in the library on many of the elements found in the periodic table, including three individual books on Iron and then Platinum. That was also research for that hard science fiction universe, but in the end it was also just because I found it interesting. And then I took notes. Which is a leftover habit from my university days (I did media, I’m too dumb to do any of the hard sciences academically, having a good memory is not being good at hard science), but helps with knowledge retention.

So I just seem to have a pretty okay mind for retaining some of that knowledge. I’m a bit of an autodidact, and if I want to know more about something, I just look it up. I’m that person in a conversation where someone goes ‘oh, well, I don’t really know how that things works so,’ and then I just look it up right there. I’m sure it’s very annoying. Mostly I also have a good mind for words. If someone tells me a paraganglioma is a rare type of tumour found primarily in the head/neck etc. I will never forget that word or how to pronounce or spell it, or that bit of information about it. It didn’t occur to me other people might struggle with that, until later.

But damn does it ever come in handy for writing. :D (Virtually useless for everything else though, lol).

Call Me | Luke

anonymous: Hi! I was just wondering if your request is open if you could write a one shot where you and Luke broke up before tour, and he’s upset and the boys call you to comfort him? Thank you, xx

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The last time you saw Luke was two months ago; three days before he left for an eight month tour. He’d begged you to change your mind, told you that ending your relationship was an awful idea. Your worst, even, since the time you’d agreed to have Calum be responsible for feeding your pet fish for a week. He’d tried to reassure you that eight months wasn’t that long; that he could be gone and still be there for you and it wasn’t that you doubted him. 

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anonymous asked:

Gohn breaking up with his girlfriend and him getting drunk and all, but you're always by his side comforting him and you want to tell him you've liked him since forever but can't? Sorry if that's not like Gohn, but a oneshot like that? Angst and fluff? I'm not sure, you guys are the experts! So, I'll leave it up to you! :) thank you Admins!

Ha, we aren’t experts, but thank you very much! Sorry for the wait, and you are welcome!!

-admin p

It was three a.m.

It was three a.m. and someone was banging on your front door.

 It was fucking three a.m. and you were pissed.

 By the time you had stumbled to your front door you had planned out every word you were going to say to whatever asshole was on the other side. But those words got caught in your throat when you opened it to a red-faced Gohn. His eyes landed on you and he laughed, staggering forward to sling an arm around your shoulder.

 “Heyyyy, _____. Thought I might find you here.”  He reaked of alcohol and the half- empty bottle dangling in his left hand confirmed to you that he was completely wasted. You sighed and pulled him in through the door making sure to lock it before helping him onto your couch. He went to take a swig from the bottle but you were quick to grab it from him.

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anonymous asked:

Could you please write something Hope introduce Lightning to his parents and tell them and the gang about their marriage plan?

Lightning Farron did not get nervous about things. She faced them head-on like any true former soldier would.

A little laughing voice in her head reminded her that she hadn’t been a soldier on this world, and meeting a boyfriend’s parents wasn’t something she’d ever experienced - in this life or any.

Maybe that was why she was…nervous.

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anonymous asked:

✫ - skimmons - 17. Or do you pick the number? I'm a little fuzzy on the details.

(Enh, I’m not picky on generating the number or if you pick it.)

leave a ✫ in my inbox + a character/pairing and i’ll generate a random number and write you a drabble

17. Pretend Couple!AU

“I call Jemma this time.”

All eyes turned to Skye who shrugged. “What? We haven’t gotten to have a mission working together in a while.”

“That’s because we all remember last time.” Fitz muttered under his breath.

“I’d be glad to work with Skye.” Jemma purposely ignored Fitz’s comment. “I’ll even come up with the backstory for us!”

She gave Skye a pleased smile who returned it while everyone else avoided looking both of them in the eye.

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