the youngest summer of your life

Breakfast on the Patio

AN: Enjoy some early morning fluff.

Thanks to @whore4batfam for letting me write this.

It’s inspired by this post!


Early morning breakfasts are a tradition for you and Bruce. During the summers the two of you sit on the porch and talk quietly while Alfred works in the kitchen. The kids are typically still asleep, so the two of you enjoy the quiet and your special alone time together.

    Which is why, you’re more than a bit surprised when Damian storms out onto the patio. Your youngest wakes up early. It’s a fact of life. It is also a fact that he spends this time in the morning training. Setting down your orange juice, you and Bruce turn to face him. Before you can even ask what’s wrong, he shouts, “You need to have a baby!”

    You choke on nothing, and as you cough, Bruce’s hand pounds against your back. As the fit subsides you look up at your youngest, “Excuse me?”

    “I refuse to be the baby any longer. Grayson, Todd and Drake are constantly using it as an excuse to keep me away from things. I’m not allowed near Joker, because I’m the baby. I can’t drive the batmobile, because I’m the baby. No Damian, you can’t diffuse that bomb, you’re the baby!

    Your voice is hoarse as you say, “Damian … it’s not that simple.”

    He scoffs, “What are you talking about? Father adopted three children without you, and I’m the result of a drug induced one-night stand. How hard is it? Have a child together, adopt, I don’t care just as long as it is younger than me. Because I am done being the baby.”

    You watch him storm off and turn to your husband. He smirks at you, “Well that’s one way to ask for a younger sibling.”

You can feel a blush spreading to your cheeks, “Bruce!”

He smiles at you, and before you can blink he’s out of his seat and crouching in front of you, “Haven’t you ever thought about it? A little baby?”

You splutter for a few seconds, before finally saying, “Yes, but we’re super-heroes, and CEO’s. We don’t have time for a baby.”

    “Is there ever really a good time to have a baby?”

    “When you’re not constantly out until three am, and working nine hour days.”

    “We could take a step back.”

    You raise an eyebrow in questions, “We or I?”

    He meets your gaze, “We. With the boys around we have more than enough help protecting Gotham, and we could start working regular hours at the company.” You sink back into your seat. His voice is a whisper when he asks, “Have you really not thought about it?”

    You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t. You wanted a child, but you’d been unwilling to upset the balance of your boys. They were finally on good terms with Bruce, and Damian had always been one to be jealous. But at the same time, you yearned to hold that little baby in your arms.

    Almost as though he can see the gears turning in your head he asks, “Sweetheart, do you want to have a baby?”

    You smile, “I do.”

    He smiles, before kissing you.

    When you pull back you say, “Imagine Alfred’s reaction when we tell him.”

    “It’ll be quite Joyous Mrs. Wayne, I assure you.” You look over you shoulder to see the butler watching the two of you through the kitchen window. You roll your eyes, you were surrounded by snoops, and you were convinced Bruce came by it naturally.

    With a smile you say, “Let’s try for a baby.”

Everything Backwards (Chapter 2/12)

Summary: When you make-out with a ‘James’ on a night out, you don’t expect to see him again, so imagine your surprise the next day when it turns out he’ll be your new sort-off-flat-mate. As Nanny for Peggy & Steve’s three children, you’ve lucked out, but now the guy across the corridor is threatening to ruin it all. This is the story of how it works out.

Chapter 2 summary: Day two of living with Bucky isn’t any better…

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader (gender neutral) Slow burn.

Word count: 1318

Warnings: Swearing, and Bucky’s still a bit of a dick. Actually, he’s worse here… sorry!

Catch up: Chapter 1

Everything Backwards Masterlist | Masterlist.


Monday morning is obviously hectic at the Carter-Rogers’ home, and as this is only the second one you’ve dealt with, you are understandably stressed. After your unpleasant reunion with Bucky yesterday, you’d spent the rest of the day in your room, skipping dinner and getting an early night. Which means you’re now well rested but very fearful of bumping into your new house mate. 

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anonymous asked:

Oooooo! Yandere Genji with an female albino reader! He acts like really protective of her because of the delicate skin and eye conditions she has to the point where she cannot leave the house at all, but slowly starts to get use to it.

Genji: 

Dating Genji Shimada could get pretty overwhelming sometimes, even if you did feel like he really loved you. He had to love you with how overbearing he was about your condition, even your parents hadn’t been this bad about the whole thing. If you had known that it was going to get this bad you might have thought about moving in with him a little more. Probably still would have done it but you wouldn’t regret putting some more thought into the matter. 

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Scaredy Cat

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Hoseok is your best friend, who you happen to be in love with, and as usual he gets scared of anything. Will he ever be the one to take care of you for once?

Word count: 3854

A/N: This is the third story from a Halloween project I’ve been working on. If you’re interested in checking out the other stories I wrote you can find them here:

Jin - Yoongi - Hoseok - Namjoon - Jimin - Taehyung - Jungkook

The Jung family was very close to yours. Ever since you could remember, you’d spend holidays, summer and spring breaks with them, as well as random weekends. Your parents liked to go camping with them and you often found yourself sharing your space and life for a few days with the Jung family in some cabin in the woods.

This time, it was the your sister’s birthday and of course she wanted to spend it with her best friend, incidentally, the eldest daughter of the Jungs. Hoseok, the youngest son was the same age as you – plus your best friend since you could remember, and your all-time crush to say the least.

There was nothing your sister loved more than horror movies or stories, anything related to the supernatural, and since her birthday was on Halloween there was no way of escaping it. Incidentally, it was what Hoseok hated most, as he was a scaredy-cat. You couldn’t complain really, he often found himself hiding in the crook of your neck as you watched the movie. This time was no exception.

“Well, I think we’re going to head to our rooms. Don’t stay up too late kids, Samara might catch you!” Your sister said after having seen horror movies for the past few hours.

“Take care of Hobi, ______. Make sure he doesn’t trip on his own feet when he’s running away.” His sister said laughingly as she saw her clearly less than amused brother in a fetus position.

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Get Elliot away from his abusive household fund!

Okay, normally I don’t ask for help, but this shit’s really urgent.
For those of you who don’t know me, hello. I’m Elliot, a seventeen year old trans boy from Idaho. I’m the youngest of two kids, and I’m just your average trans highschooler with a flair for writing.
However, my mother isn’t supportive. At all.
I’ve lived in an extremely abusive household my whole life.
My father was verbally, emotionally, mentally, and physically abusive my whole life. When I was outed to as not straight to him the summer before high school started, he didn’t take it too well-
IE, he beat me. He died shortly after my Freshman year of high school started, and me, thinking I was safe to come out as FTM trans, came out to my mother in my sophomore year, thinking she would be more accepting.
Needless to say, that was the wrong choice.
However, we have come a long way in terms of understanding. She was using correct pronouns, all that-
Until she dropped the bomb today that she was putting me in therapy to “set my head straight.”
IE, the closest thing to conversion therapy she can get.
See, Mom thinks I’m a “trauma induced” transgender because I came out after my dad’s death, and no matter how many times I try to tell her that no, I came out after he died so I wouldn’t be murdered, she just won’t listen.
So, needless to say, I’m scared shitless and I don’t have anywhere else in town that I can go, and I’m scared to start this therapy because I have another half of a year before I turn 18 and move out.

So here’s the plan:

When I graduate high school, I plan to move to my boyfriend’s @turntxchgxdhead place in Michigan.
That being said, I need money for a plane ticket and rent shit for an apartment.
And I can’t work, because I’m not allowed to.
I’m Literally not allowed to get a job, because I’m taking care of my abuser- which, I should mention is dying of stage 3 c melanoma, and getting a job would mean being unable to do shit for her.

I know this sounds callous, but I’m so scared to start conversion therapy and I don’t have anywhere where I can go. If I just up and leave she’ll report me as a runaway or my boyfriend as a kidnapper, so I have to wait until I’m 18. Every cent would mean so much to me.

TL;DR: Help a trans kid make a fund to avoid conversion therapy and move out when he’s 18.

My PayPal: paypal.me/elliotlark or mandynicmil@gmail.com Thank you to all who reblog, and donate.
HAYATE WADA: FIRST PHOTOBOOK SOLO INTERVIEW [ENG TRANS]

An opportunity from my mom’s neighborhood socializing


I was quieter than I am now when I was a kid. At school, I absolutely did not speak during lessons.  When we were asked “Do you understand this problem?”, even if knew, I thought “If I’m wrong, I don’t want to make a mistake,” and I would look down to ensure I would not be called on. I think that maybe I didn’t want to be seen as inferior by other people there.


However, I did like soccer and playing with friends outside, and I did jump rope and double dutch very often. Come to think of it, when I was in first grade, I went up to the horizontal bar during break time, and the female deputy teacher started calling out “Look, look!”, because I’d done a flip for everyone to see (laughs).


I started dancing when I was in kindergarten. The opportunity came from my mom socializing in the neighborhood (laughs). All the mothers had good, friendly relationships with each other and suggested “Why don’t the kids all try it together?”. Since I have no memory of announcing my own intention to starting dancing, I’m guessing that was the beginning of it.

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Imagine Kili lying with you in a meadow while putting flowers in your hair.

Anonymous as requested. 

“This way, y/n.” Kili called excitedly over his shoulder, his fingers wrapped tightly around yours as he dragged you around the mountain side.

“Where are we going?” You ask curiously. Kili had unexpectedly pulled you from the muggy markets of Erebor and out the front gates some time ago. Summer had come again to Middle-Earth and with the forges re-lit during Thorin and Co’s reclaiming of the great Dwarven city, the heat was almost unbearable.

Up the Lonely Mountain’s side Kili pulled you for what felt like ages. It was too hot to be hiking and you were in your favorite summer dress to boot. Kili did not answer, instead continued to pull you through thick forest for several more yards before coming to a stand still in front of a lovely willow tree.

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Creepypasta #532: Second After Second

​​The sound of the clock ticking keeps me awake most nights.

It doesn’t help that I put a scarf over it. It doesn’t help that I took the batteries out months ago. It just keeps ticking. Second after second.

I never used to mind the ticking. I never really noticed it. When he lived here, when he shared my bed, the soft sound of him breathing drowned out the other noises in the house. I wouldn’t get startled every time the house settled or a neighbor set their car alarm.

I could sleep back then.

But it’s been fifteen months and I don’t think I’ve slept a wink. My eyes close and when they open again, feeling as though morning must be right around the corner, only a single minute has passed. Sometimes two minutes, on a good night.

I thought about getting a night job. I applied all over town, but no one is hiring. I get rejection emails more frequently than I hear from my kids. I have had one call-back, but once they met me in person, they decided I ‘wasn’t what they were looking for.’ I wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, sure, but I could still clean houses or offices. I could still make someone’s space look presentable.

It isn’t about money - I still get his disability benefits. Survivor Benefits, the Social Security Office calls them. As if I lucked out and won something, by outliving the man I wanted to grow old with.

But instead of working, I lay in our bed and hug his pillow tightly. I haven’t washed it since that last night he laid down on it. I cannot stand the idea of losing his scent. After fifteen months, the pillow doesn't actually smell like him anymore, but I still pretend.

Sometimes I can dream for a few minutes - a half-awake, half-asleep mirage of images and sounds and lights.

I lie in bed, curled around his pillow, and I fall into one of these dreams.

I can hear him in the bathroom, shaving. He is humming something - a song from his Swing Jazz album. It’s a riotous tune, full of upswings and drop offs. I smile as I press my face into his pillow and catch the scent of him. Of his aftershave and medicated shampoo.

“Say, Dolly,” he calls from the bathroom, just as he did every morning. “You got a kiss waiting for me?” His voice is youthful and full of love.

“When don’t I?” I say back, just as I used to. I keep my eyes closed and let the waking dream wash over me. I allow myself to feel the steam floating into the room from the bathroom, muggy and stiffing from his hot shower. He always did take scalding showers - I never understood how he could handle the temperate.

“Dolly?”

“Hmm?” I hum. I feel my eyelashes scratching across the pillowcase.

“Don’t ya ever miss it?” I didn’t hear him enter the room, but he’s suddenly there, sitting beside me, the weight of his hand on my hip.

I raise my head slightly off his red-tinged pillow, so old it’s now turned into a brownish, ruddy stain. “Miss what?” I ask softly. I don’t dare open my eyes in case it ends the dream.

“Me,” he replies. His voice is the epitome of remorse.

“Every day,” I whisper, nearly choking on the sob that tries to rip itself from my mouth. “Every second.”

“Why won’t you join me?”

He has never asked this before. Why won’t I join him? I suppose because I was born and raised Catholic, and taking your own life was never promoted. I suppose because the children might still need me. They were only just out of the house - one was twenty-three and the youngest twenty-one. What if they lose their jobs or their apartments? Where would they go?

“Don’t you love me?”

“Like the ocean loves the moon,” I say. He said that to me when we first laid together, wrapped up in an old blanket under the stars, our love warm and thick like the Louisiana summer sky.

He chuckles and I feel his breath, so warm on my neck, his fingers at my scalp. “I’ve missed running my hands through your hair. I’ve missed singing to you.” He hums and his soulful voice makes my tears slip past my closed eyes.

“All you’d have to do, love, is bring the razor along your throat,” he murmurs, and I feel his finger trace over my throat. “That beautiful ebony throat. Damn, Dolly, I’ve missed kissing it.”

I open my mouth to agree. I open my mouth to beg him to take me with him. Up to Heaven. To whatever was after this… this dreary wasted grey life without him.

My fingers curl around his pillowcase and I feel it, grimy and unwashed, against my palm. The pillowcase, still stained in blood after all this time. Stained from when he drew a straight razor across his own throat fifteen months ago.

I gasp a little, and I smell something else. Something not like Albert. Something….

“Remember the mariachi band at that Mexican restaurant?” I whisper. “Our first date?”

He moans softly and chuckles - the laugh is too rich, too deep. “Yes, mon amour. Take the razor.” He’s pressing something hard against my hand.

“Remember the last football game of the season?” I ask. I can’t open my eyes. I just can’t. “How the stands were empty except for you and I. Our team having lost every other game, no one bothered to show?”

“Yes, mon amour. Take the razor.” More insistent this time.

The smell of sulfur is growing stronger. “Remember when Abby was born?” I continue. My cheeks are so wet I don’t know how I’m not drowning in my tears.

Yes, mon amor. Take the razor!

I take a deep breath and wrap my hand around the razor. “That’s odd. Because we never had a daughter.” I open my eyes and lash out with the razor and it sinks deep into his neck - the same way he had done to himself all those months, days, seconds ago.

Black, thick tar-smoke bellows out of the cut I’d made and he only laughs. “I suppose I’ll have to try harder next time, won’t I, Dolly?”

The demon fades in a rush of sulfur and the clock ticks back, louder than before, second after second.

Credits to: Neepha_Pheepan