their deadpan voices are the best

bones | 04 (m)

Originally posted by fairybcby

• pairing: jung hoseok x reader // min yoongi x reader, college! hoseok, college! yoongi
• genre/warnings: angst, smut, friends with benefits
• words: 9,074
→ summary: you were broken from a past relationship, and Hoseok wanted to fix you, but what price was he willing to pay? Would he end up worse off, or would you realise in time, that your best friend was the one…?
• note. inspired by this song here.

  » playlist | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

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rubysvida  asked:

jealous clarke?? something in that vein?? canon verse maybe?? this is so vague sorry ily <3

A|N: nothing to be sorry about considering jealous clarke is mY JAM

p.s: ily too <33


Look, objectively, Clarke knows that Bellamy’s a pretty attractive individual. A collective sigh goes up around camp whenever he wrangles his shirt off (completely unnecessarily) to do some mundane task or the other. His smile can reduce a normal, functioning being into a swooning mess. Monty claims to be forever changed after the one time he witnessed Bellamy emerging from the shower.

But, still. It’s no excuse for Roma to be hanging all over him.

“Her head is going to spontaneously combust if you keep glaring at her like that,” Raven remarks, drawing up next to her. The smirk on her face is enough for Clarke to direct the force of her glare over to her instead, crossing her arms over her chest. Unperturbed, she continues, “And is it normal for there to be a vein throbbing so close to your forehead? Because I’m getting a little worried.”

“I’m fine,” she huffs, gritting her teeth at the sound of Roma’s high-pitched, lilting giggle. Bellamy’s response is lost in the clamor of the crowd, but she recognizes the soft quirk of his lips, the sardonic arch of his brow. Amused. (It’s one of her favorite looks on him, even though she’d never admit it. Not to his face, at least.)

Raven looks thoroughly unconvinced by that. “Yeah, I’m having a little difficulty believing that considering your face is currently a unflattering shade of puce.”

The scathing response on the tip of her tongue dissolves at the sight of Roma’s hand curling over his bicep, squeezing, and she’s moving before she can rethink it; stomping towards them with all the grace and subtlety of someone who’s had a little too much to drink.

He brightens when he spots her; the expression quickly morphing into concern when he catches sight of her face. “Clarke. Is everything okay?”

“Great,” she manages, flat. “I just— I think we should rethink our plans to send a team out past Trikru territory. Do you have a minute to talk? Alone?”

“Yeah, sure.” He goes, completely unfazed; his hand coming down to rest on the small of her back as he steers her towards his tent. Then, looking over his shoulder, “See you around, Roma.”

“See you,” Clarke adds, shooting her a tight, close-lipped smile before striding off. (For some strange, unfathomable reason, the moment fills her with a kind of smug triumph that leaves her grinning throughout the rest of the day.)

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Call Time (M)

Originally posted by mvssmedia

Summary: Taehyung had just wanted to rant to his best friend about how ridiculous he looked.

Warningsanal fingering, dirty talk, phone sex, allusions to pet play *hint hint wink wink*, guided masturbation

A/N: This is the first part my little panda’s other birthday gift that I completely forgot to post soooooooo HERE YA GO MONNI I LOVE YOU V MUCH!!!! Rogue pls don’t kill me ok

Taehyung huffed in exasperation. He looked ridiculous. Absolutely, certifiably ridiculous. He had purposely chosen to dye his hair this obnoxiously vibrant shade of red for the very simple fact that he didn’t want to wear the damn ears and tail in the first place. But his best friend being The Indomitable and Resourceful Park Jimin, Taehyung really shouldn’t have been surprised that he would find the fuzziest appendages possible that just so happened to perfectly match his new hair color. Honestly, Taehyung was beginning to question why he even considered the impish little brat a friend when he so often and so willingly broke their most sacred Best Friends Blood Oath and Spit Pact of December 2010. 

He glared at his reflection once again, eyes stuck on the unnaturally “cute” ears peeking out from his tousled coppery locks. There was no way in hell he was going to go live looking like this. Nope, nuh uh. Kim Taehyung was willing to do a lot of things for his loyal fans–and had done a good chunk—except look unreasonably absurd. With another loud huff, he batted at the stupid triangles before snatching his phone off his bed to angrily tap at his best friend’s contact information.

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The Ignition fic that no one asked for but that I needed to write because damn. That video has ended me. Enjoy!
@strongenoughfoundation sorry, I had to tag you again, that video has done things to both of us XD

It was too hot, too loud, and the traffic was too AWFUL.

You’d been sitting in this car for God knew how long now, on a packed highway in the summer heat. Every window was rolled down in an attempt to fight off a heatstroke and honestly, you’d started counting the minutes until your sure death if you didn’t get off this road soon. Groaning in despair, you snatched the hair tie from your wrist and tied your hair back in sharp motions.

At the sound of your voice, your best friend glanced at you from the driver’s seat, eyebrows raised. “You all right over there?”

“I’m dying, Lin,” you deadpanned. “I am actually dying.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” he remarked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“This damn highway is doing dangerous things to my head.”


“I imagine death so much, it feels more like a memory.”

At that, he burst out laughing. With a hand resting on the steering wheel, he leaned back against his seat and sent you a warm glance. “I feel like I can’t argue with you because you just did that.”

Flopping back against your seat with a loud sigh, you pointed at him. “That line is the one I relate to the most, honestly,” you told him wryly.

“Why am I not surprised?” he asked.

You lifted your head and arched a brow at him. “Are you saying I’m a negative person?”

“You said it, not me.”

“I feel the need to remind you that you’re stuck in this car with me for at least an hour.”

“I feel the need to remind YOU that this is my car and I can kick you out at anytime.”

Grumbling, you shifted around in your seat to get to a more comfortable position and brought your feet up onto the edge of it. “Asshole,” you muttered simply and he snickered. You wondered if walking was a better choice than this traffic-induced hell after all.

Sighing in resignation, you settled for dozing in the searing sun and sneaking a couple glances over at Lin as you did. Hey, you couldn’t help it if your best friend also happened to be kinda (really) attractive, could you? It wasn’t bad just to look, right? You idly studied him through half-closed eyes, admiring the way his hair got all tousled as he ran a hand through it. He was wearing a dark blue tee because of the heat and you tried to steal a few guilty glances at his arms. You bet it’d be nice to be wrapped up in his arms, heat or no heat.

“…you done staring at me yet?”

“Shit!” you hissed, blushing furiously at having been caught. Lin cast you a sideways glance that was wayyyy too knowing and was that jerk SMIRKING? Growling something unintelligible, you reached forward to the dashboard. “I’m putting the radio on!” you announced.

“Hey, I don’t mind, you can look all you want—”

“I’M PUTTING THE RADIO ON.” You jabbed at the power button and cranked up the volume.

The first few notes of a song blared out and you recognized it at the same time Lin did.

You groaned out a frustrated “NOOO,” while Lin practically cheered like a two-year-old.

“I’m turning it off!” you said at once, and you reached for the button again.

“No you aren’t!” he shot back, batting your hand away. He ignored your squeak of protest and flashed you a wide grin. “You turned it on, so you’re stuck with the consequences!”

Sinking down in your seat, you brought your fingers up to your temples. The lyrics to the “Ignition” remix pumped out of the speakers and brought back a ton of memories. “Lin-Manuel Miranda,” you stated, “if you start rapping, I swear to God—”

“No, I’m not tryin’ to be rude, but hey pretty girl, I’m feelin’ you, the way you do the things you do, remind of my Lexus coup—”

“AAAGHHH!” You threw your hands up as he started freaking dancing in his damn seat, one hand still on the wheel and other in the air, and dear lord, it was like PTSD. Hands over your ears now, you glowered at him from your hunched over position. Lin just smiled back like the stupid, hot person he was and pointed at you as he went on with the song:

“So baby, give me that!”


“Let me give you that!”

“HELL NO. Lin, I swear, I will never speak to you again.”

Cheerfully ignoring you, he kept going, letting that edge of a growl into his voice and you internally swooned. Why did these things happen to you? “It’s the remix to ignition, hot and fresh out the kitchen, Mama rollin’ that body, got every man in here wishin'—”

He cut off, making you glance over in confusion; just in time for him to lean across and steal a kiss, lips pressed to yours fleetingly. Your eyes shot open wide, body going rigid as he grinned into your mouth and then pulled away a second later.

“Lin!” you spluttered out, as he just laughed and went back to rapping out the lyrics. “What—You—What the hell!?”

The lyrics became a little shaky as he tried not to laugh, a stupid smile on his face. When he glanced at you, his eyes softened and…was he blushing?

Against your will, your mouth quirked up too and you looked down at your feet.

As the two of you sat, with the speakers blasting around you, you brought your fingers up to touch your lips in wonder.

feysand17  asked:

I meant to ask Feysand fluff fic I'm made you a cake

See my favorite thing as a writer is to write something totally off base of what might be expected from these prompts… I think I did that with this one… hope this is fluffy enough, friend. I’m kind of obsessed with it.

Feysand + “I made you a cake”


“Mor, have I ever told you how much I completely and totally loathe you?”

“Oh quit being dramatic,” Rhys’s cousin snapped from where she stood between him and Azriel, her hand in his. “You’re the one who said you wanted a night out downtown with all of us!”

“I meant a night out drinking, Mor. Drinking. Alcohol. The cheap kind. And lots of it, preferably.”

“There will be alcohol!”

“Yeah Rhys, didn’t you read the pamphlet?” Cassian sauntered up to his friend, hooking an arm around his shoulder. “‘Wine and Canvas Painting.’ Sounds delightful, right? A real party. I mean I personally am gonna get so– ow! Quit it!”

Mor leaned over and pinched Cassian in the side to which he yelped.

“Don’t make fun,” Mor hissed. “My friend Feyre is still in the early stages of starting her own business, and I want to support her. And you guys support me, thus, we’re going to drink wine and paint some damn canvases or so help me you two will–”

“We’re here,” Azriel cut in smoothly.

Mor gave Rhys and Cassian one last glare that would have sent other men running before sauntering up the steps and opening the door to a little shop with an overhanging sign that read, “Velaris.”

“That’s a weird name,” Rhys grumbled to himself as he followed after his friends.

Once they were inside and had taken off their coats, Rhys glanced appreciatively at the space inside. It was… nice, he would give it that. Spacious and warm and full of light.

Mor’s friend - Feyre - apparently owned this little studio and taught art classes all throughout the week. And every other Friday she taught a 21 and up class where they served wine while doing canvas paintings.

And Mor, being Mor, thought it would be a great idea to do that this very weekend instead of going out to their favorite bar, the Illyrian, like they usually did.

“Well where is this friend of yours?” Cassian grumbled. “And where is the wine? If I’m doing this I need to be drinking.”

Rhys and Azriel laughed, but quieted instantly when Mor glared at them.

“She’s probably setting up or something. But her sister and Amren are over there, come on.”

“Amren’s here?” Azriel paled. Mor ignored the other two as they snickered and walked ahead.

“Amren! Nesta!” She called out. Two girls in the back row whipped their heads around.

Rhys recognized Amren, the terrifying woman that Mor had introduced him to a few times. The other one, Nesta, must be Feyre’s sister.

Amren just looked the boys up and down and huffed before turning back around in her seat.

Nesta rolled her eyes at Amren and gave Mor a forced smile. “Hey,” she said without much enthusiasm.

Mor went to reply and sit in the open seat next to Nesta, but the next thing they knew Cassian had practically shoved her aside and was careening to sit beside the young woman.

“Well hello there,” he said in his charming voice. “I’m Cassian. And you are?”

Nesta just stared at him, completely unaffected.

“You literally just heard her say my name,” she deadpanned. She looked back over at Mor. “Mor, who the hell is this guy?”

“I’m sorry.” Mor just rolled her eyes. “I told them to be on their best behavior, but I only have one of them trained.” Azriel narrowed his eyes at her but she only giggled and moved to sit down beside Amren and Azriel followed suit on her other side.

“Oh I can be on my best behavior,” Cassian continued, clearly not taking the hint. “I can be on whatever sort of behavior you want, sweetheart.”

He leaned in close to Nesta, giving her his best seductive look.

She was thoroughly unimpressed.

“Get your face the hell away from my face before I break it.”

Cassian’s brow shot up in surprise and Azriel and Rhys both snorted in laughter. His surprise soon turned into wicked delight.

“Oh just wait sweetheart, you’ll learn to love my face. In fact I’ll bet you’ll be painting it before the night is over. Or perhaps if my charm really sways you, you might even be s–”

“Do not finish that sentence and do… not… call me sweetheart,” Nesta seethed.

Rhys was just about to go sit on the other side of Azriel to avoid all of… that, when someone bumped into him from behind.

“Oh, oh I’m so sorry! I just… well I can’t really see right now so…”

Rhys turned to the voice only to be met with a stack of canvases stacked way too high for one person to be carrying. The stranger’s face was hidden behind the stack and it was clear she couldn’t see anything in front of her. He chuckled.

“Do you need some help there?” He offered.

“Nope!” The female voice chirped brightly. “Nope I am perfectly fine. Just fine.”

“Really?” He drawled. “Well then by all means, continue your trek.”

The person froze.

“Right. Yes. Continuing now.”

The woman turned slightly to the left, then slightly to the right. She took a small step forward only to bump into Rhys’s other shoulder.

“Dammit,” she hissed under her breath.

Rhys laughed openly, reaching forward to take half the stack off of her hands.

“Here, allow me.”

When the stack was considerably lowered, Rhys finally saw the stranger’s face - and felt like he had been sucker punched.

With her eyeline free now, the girl blew a stray strand of messy hair away from her face. Her eyes were blue-gray and absolutely stunning. She had a single purple streak of paint on her cheek that he had a feeling she had no idea was even there.

And then she smiled up at him.

“Thanks,” she said, clearly not noticing that he wasn’t even breathing. “Are you here for the class?”

“I uh…” he stumbled, unable to tear his eyes from hers.

What the hell was wrong with him, he didn’t get nervous around girls? Especially not ones with paint on their face and a stubborn attitude to boot.


“Feyre!” Mor shouted suddenly, and the next thing Rhys knew his cousin was shoving him out of the way to give the woman an awkward hug over the canvases she held.

“Hey, Mor,” she said in a strained voice, giving Rhys a look that said ‘save me’ over Mor’s shoulder.

“I told you we would come.” Mor pulled back with a grin. “I brought Az, who you know, and then Cassian is the one over there about to get his balls ripped off by your sister, and it looks like you’ve already met my cousin, Rhys.”

“Yeah we… ran into each other,” Feyre said, smiling over at Rhys.

He could’ve died a happy man right then.

“Well I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to get the class started,” she continued apologetically.

“Oh it’s fine,” Mor said quickly as Feyre started to make her way up to the front of the room. Rhys followed awkwardly with his half of the canvases. “Oh and happy birthday!” Mor shouted suddenly.

Feyre froze, whirling towards Mor but running into Rhys yet again.

“It’s your birthday?” Rhys asked, his head cocked to the side.

Feyre paled. “Yes, but don’t say anything else please. I hate celebrating my birthday, it’s just so awkward.”

Rhys grinned, his earlier awkwardness melting away and turning into his usual suave because now he had an in with this girl.

“My lips are sealed Feyre, darling,” he said softly as he sat down his stack of canvases and stepped closer to her. She looked up at him a bit nervously.

“Allow me to formally introduce myself since my cousin thought she needed to do it for me,” he said smoothly, extending his hand. “I’m Rhysand.”

He noticed her shiver and grinned a bit wider.

“Feyre,” she replied, taking his hand. “Feyre Archeron. And please don’t call me darling.”

Rhys laughed, walking backwards towards his seat.

“Whatever you say, Feyre, darling.”

“You know if you keep calling me darling I’ll have to come up with a name for you too. How about prick?”

Ohhhh, he liked this girl already. His smile said as much.

He finally made it back to his seat, plopping down next to Azriel. Cassian and Nesta were still at each other’s throats.

Rhys was watching Feyre as she set up her own easel when Mor leaned across Azriel and pinched his arm.

“Ouch! What, Mor?”

Mor grinned like a fox.

“I knew you two would hit it off.”

“You… you planned this?”

Mor only laughed, leaning back in her seat and grabbing the glass of red wine in front of her as she spoke to Amren. Rhys looked at Azriel incredulously.

He just shrugged as if to say, ‘what can you do?’

The class started, and Rhys found himself captivated by Feyre yet again. She spoke about painting reverently, it was clear this was her passion. Her eyes lit up and her voice took on a tone he could listen to for the rest of his life.

Then when the actual canvas painting began, she walked around the room and answered questions, helping here and there. She stopped by Rhys’s row a couple of times, but only long enough to chat with her sister, Amren, or Mor before skittering off to another place in the room.

Rhys huffed as she avoiding his gaze for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Mor giggled. “The chase not working out how it usually does for you, cousin?” She teased.

“Neither is his painting,” Azriel murmured.

Rhys cursed his brother, elbowing him in the side.

“What do you mean?” Mor asked. “What’s wrong with your… Rhysand!” She shouted, leaning across Azriel and smacking him in the chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Stop hitting me!” Rhys hissed. The rest of the class - and Feyre, he observed - was watching them. “And mind your own business. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh do you?” Mor drawled. “Well then by all means, show us your wooing skills.”

Before Rhys could say another word, Feyre had sauntered up right next to him.

“Everything okay back here guys?”

“Oh yes,” Mor said before Rhys could get a word in edgewise. “Az and I were just observing how wonderful Rhys’s painting is.”

Oh Rhys was going to kill his cousin.

“That’s great!” Feyre said enthusiastically, meeting Rhys’s eyes finally.

“Yeah, super great. Go ahead, Rhys.” Mor propped her chin in her hand with a sly grin. “Show her.”

“Well, Mor,” he seethed, turning his easel so Feyre couldn’t see his painting. “I actually wanted to show Feyre darling here my painting when the class was over.”

“Oh but it’s just SO good Rhys, show her now.”

“Yeah, show me,” Feyre jumped back in. Rhys melted at her soft smile, feeling a bit like a prick now. “I bet it’s great.”


“Oh for goodness sake.”

Mor leaned across Azriel for a third time, turning Rhys’s easel towards Feyre herself.


Feyre’s jaw dropped when she saw that Rhys had painted a… cake.

A terrible looking cake with blue frosting and candles that looked like sticks. And in black paint he had written across the top, “Happy Birthday, Feyre Darling.”

She was silent for a few seconds and Rhys thought she might have stopped breathing.


“I made you a cake,” Rhys finally said. It sounded infinitely stupider when he said it out loud. “Since it’s your birthday and I just thought… you’re smiling. Is that a good thing? Did I do something right or are you showing me pity?”

Feyre snorted, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I love it,” she said in between her laughter. “I mean it looks… utterly horrendous–”

“Hey now, this is exquisite.”

“But it’s very sweet of you,” she said, meeting his eyes with a genuine smile.

Rhys felt his own lips tilting upward at the corners of their own accord.

“Anything for you, Feyre darling.”

Feyre’s smile dropped and she rolled her eyes.

“You had to go and ruin it, didn’t you, you prick. Call me darling one more time tonight and I won’t go out with you when you ask me after class.”

“Oh I’m asking you on a date now, am I?” He asked, mouth turned up in wicked delight.

“Well you better. You already made me cake,” she gestured to the painting. “Now you have to buy me dinner.”

He met her teasing eyes and realized he was already in deep shit and he didn’t mind at all.

“Anything you want.”

Charming | Charles Xavier

Title: Charming
Author: Clara
Character: Charles Xavier
Warnings: none i dont think
anon: “Hey there, would you be willing to do a Charles X reader one shot with “I’m not afraid. Not anymore.” please? XxX :)”
anon: “hi!!! i was wondering if you do a charles xavier x reader (walking charles?) where the reader cant really control her teleporting powers so she ends up in his bathtub and all that good stuff. thanks love! <3” 
Note: This is basically Erik catching you and Charles in compromising positions

Originally posted by x-mutation

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anonymous asked:

can you do a jealous sasuke pleaaase

characters: sasuke, sakura, sarada
author’s note: sarada’s like 10 here
this probably isn’t what you had in mind, but something tells me papasuke gets jealous too

“this is embarrassing,” sakura rolls her eyes, “sasuke, if you want to spar with her, just ask.”

the dark haired man snaps his head at his wife and looks at her as if her suggestion is completely absurd and incomprehensible. because it is. why should he have to ask her to train with him? shouldn’t his only child yearn to spar with her father? he’s a legendary ninja—a fucking neo-sannin—it’s ridiculous that she hasn’t so much as asked him for the smallest piece of advice.

it was clear that sarada was like him in many ways, most notably in appearance, but subtly in personality; like him, she prefers to be quiet and keep to herself. so he doesn’t mind that she would rather perfect her aim on her own, or work on her teamwork with her squad members or read scrolls in solitude late into the night.

but he does mind that she would rather spar with naruto than him. sure, he was the hokage, but he saw no other reason for sarada to look up to that idiot like he fucking hung the moon. hokage or not, naruto is a bumbling blonde baboon—so why on earth was his only daughter so fucking infatuated with him?

he watches as the two go at it in the backyard, as she expertly catches his punch and uses the momentum to push herself back. naruto smiles and tells her good job, and they go back to perfecting the technique again.

“do you think she still hates me?” sasuke asks, black eyes piercing through the window.

sakura rolls her eyes and sets her cup of tea on the counter. really, this was pathetic. “sasuke, would you cut it out,” she groans, “just because she wants to train with naruto doesn’t mean she hates you. do you understand how ridiculous you sou—”

“shhh, she’s coming inside,” sasuke hushes her.

his wife deadpans as he straightens himself out, and looks at her daughter as she enters the living room. a thin layer of sweat coats her forehead, she’s panting slightly and her sharingan is still activated, but she’s smiling nonetheless. it makes sasuke sick—she was enjoying herself! having fun training with that dobe instead of her papa. 

“training hard, sar-chan?” her mother smiles sweetly, a sickening tone of voice to sasuke. he sure married one annoying woman. 

the dark haired girl nods with that same smile on her face, “uncle naruto is the best, he said tomorrow we’re gonna work on shurikenjutsu!”

the comment nearly makes sasuke come to a boil. “shurikenjutsu? naruto couldn’t hit a steady target in his dreams, how could he possibly teach you shurikenjutsu?”

sakura elbows him to shut him up, “what your papa means to say, sarada, is that if you want to practice your shurikenjutsu with him, he’d be happy to help.”

sarada looks at her parents and sighs with a small smile. she walks towards her papa and beckons him to lower himself to her height before she reaches her right hand forward and taps his forehead, “i’m sorry, papa, but uncle naruto already offered. maybe next time.”

oh, he was so going to murder naruto. a slow, painful death to give him enough time to apologize for trying to steal his daughter from him. he doesn’t know what that kind of brainwashing that usuratonkachi has done to his precious daughter, but he wasn’t going to stand for it. he was not going to have his sarada ditch him for that whiskered fool everyone calls the hokage.

tomorrow came and sarada went out to train with naruto again. she strolls in around dinner time, happily sweaty as she tells her mama about her training. uncle naruto this, uncle naruto that; sasuke was considering going over there and training with uncle naruto himself. 

“are you training with uncle naruto tomorrow, sarada?” he questions over dinner. she shakes her dark hair and reaches for more onigiri. “would you like to train with me? i’m sure i can help you with your shurikenjutsu.”

“um, no thanks papa,” she says quietly, stuffing food into her mouth afterwards, hoping that he’d stop questioning her if she had food in her mouth. unfortunately for her, it doesn’t work. 

sakura opens her mouth to keep the peace, but sasuke beats her to it, “how come you’d rather train with naruto than me?” he finally asks.

sarada sighs and brushes the crumbs off of her lap, “i was hoping you wouldn’t notice papa, i didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” she stands and says, “but i’m not strong enough to train with you yet, so i asked uncle naruto to help me out.”

sasuke sits dumbfounded and sakura smirks in the corner (i told you so, she chants to herself). sarada goes on, “you’re the best ninja out there, besides for mama of course, but she’s the best kunoichi ever so it’s okay. if i’m going to train with you, i have to get better, so i train with someone who’s almost as good as you.”

the shock washes away as he listens to his little girl; it’s soon replaced with a smug smile, “i’m better than the hokage?”

sarada rolls her eyes and walks over to him. this time she bends down to tap his head, “silly papa, of course you are.”

anonymous asked:

92 "that SOOOO counts as a date" with Scoot Sinners

scott + ‘that SOOOO counts as a date’

Don’t get me wrong, Scott Summers is pretty much ‘the boy next-door’ at the mansion. He’s charming, he’s smart, he’s a natural born leader, and he seems to have everyone wrapped around his fingers.

Except you. Scott Summers to you, is a menace.

You’re not sure why he chose you out of all the girls at the mansion to pester, but he did. You always brush him off, and act indifferent towards his constant flirting. But there’s one thing about him, that bugs the shit out of you.

It’s that you actually kind of dig it.

His attention boosts your ego by a longshot, and he always manages to at least make you feel a little bit better if you’re feeling down. A perfect example of this, is now.

You’re sitting in the library with your papers and textbooks scattered about, trying to figure out where you went wrong for one of Hank’s tests. It’s the first test you’ve failed in his class, and it’s irking you that you missed one simple-

“Hey, am I interrupting?” Scott voices, making his presence known. He slides in the seat across from you, as you look up at him with tired eyes.

“Not really, I’m just wallowing in self-hatred and self-pity.” You confess, in a deadpan voice as you slam the textbook shut. Scott raises a brow, and chuckles quietly.

“Damn, wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says playfully. “but seriously. Are you okay?”

“I’m just being stupid,” you sigh, as you lean back in your chair. “I just never fail his tests because it’s my best subject.”

“It’s understandable,” Scott agrees, being stupidly supportive. “but luckily, I’m here to save the day.”

“Oh really now?” You ask, brows raised, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “What’re you planning?”

“Oh, nothing.” Scott says nonchalantly, standing to gather your textbooks in his arms. “Maybe a paid dinner, and maybe even a trip down to the arcade. And who knows? I might even pay for that too.”

He’s offering you his hand now, and he’s got that shit eating smirk on his face. (That he totally got from his brother!)

You look at his hand for a second, and then back up at him. He’s right. A paid dinner? A paid trip to the arcade? That sounds like pure nirvana, after the day you’ve had. So you sigh, and take his hand, and say,

“This isn’t a date, Scott!”

He laughs and leads the way, and he replies,

“Whatever you say, (y/n).”

It’s well past curfew, and you’re surprised that Alex or one of the other teachers hasn’t been sent out to drag you and Scott by the ears back to the mansion.

You’re giggling like schoolchildren as Scott walks you up to your dorm room, and you’re trying to shush each other as you do so. His arm is around your shoulders, and his jacket is draped over your shoulders. When you reach your dorm, you lean against the door with a small smile, teeth biting your lower lip.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Scott,” you whisper, smoothing down a wrinkle in his shirt. “And it’s still not a date.”

Scott scoffs, as you bite back a laugh.

“C’mon! This SOOO counts as a date!” He says, a little too loudly. You’re quick to cover his mouth with your hand, as you quiet him down.

You reach behind you to turn the knob, as you look up at him with a mischievous grin. He’s watching you almost with a dumbfounded expression, as your door opens. You walk inside, and before you shut it, you smile and say,

“Better luck next time, Summers!”

Don’t Get Me Started

Based off of a tumblr post: The idea is that one person gives the other a word, and they have to go on angry rant about whatever it is. 

What happens when Dean asks Cas to go on a rant about Dean?

Read it on AO3!

Castiel, despite what many people thought, did not dislike parties. He didn’t necessarily like parties all that much, but he didn’t harbor any unnatural hatred towards them. He would just rather stay on the fringes, where he wasn’t expected to dance or shout to be heard over everyone else shouting to be heard.

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Fire Across Skylines


If the last month had taught her anything, it was that skylines and sunsets went well with hard liquor and heartbreak. At least, that’s what Clarke told herself as she took another sip from the bottle in her hands on the fire escape of her building. She found she didn’t mind the hard metal that pressed into her legs or the faint smell of smoke that drifted from the windows of one of the apartments below her, not when she was lost in the pinks and oranges that tinged the clouds above and the mesmerizing patterns of the red lights that blinked on top of the skyscrapers that sprawled for miles ahead of her.

The Baltimore summer heat made the air thick, blanketing her surroundings and seeping into her pores like the steam that rose from the city pavements below. The humidity it brought clung to her hair, kinking it into frizzy waves and weighing it down against her skin.

The first time she’d found herself out here, she’d just needed a place to release the emotions that had threated to drown her if she didn’t open the flood gates. She’d stayed there for several hours, watching the blue sky fade slowly to black, giving a silent roll call to the stars as they blinked to life. When she’d climbed back through the living room window with red eyes and wet cheeks, her roommate didn’t ask questions. Octavia wasn’t the type to pry, and for that she was thankful.

It had become somewhat of a routine in the weeks that followed. She’d come home from her shift at the studio with a new bottle of whatever had seemed most appealing on her pit stop at the liquor store and slip through the window to the fire escape. She’d perch herself on the staircase to watch the sun go down, feet draped over the edge beneath the rails to tease the open air. Sometimes she cried. Usually she just drank until the stars were too blurry to count.

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Prompt: mukuro naming her weapons by @ikusabamukuroo

A/N It’s been a while since we last talked about this but I never forgot. I hope you read this wherever you are now, friend. You will be missed. (She’s not dead or anything, I just really miss her.) Disclaimer: this is a mess of google searches, I’m so sorry.

What’s in a Name? - naekusaba

Corpse Warblade is what her name literally translates to. Back when she was a kid, she called herself “Corpsey Mcwarblade” and to this day, she still tries to be edgy.

She still has this leftover habit of giving nicknames and one day Makoto stumbles upon this fact by accident.

“Have you seen Reaper?” She asks frantically.

To which he gives her a confused look and asks, “Who’s Reaper?”

He later finds out that Reaper is actually the name she has for her favorite knife. He thinks it’s adorable and even voices out his opinion which makes her blush furiously. He asked for any other weapons she has names of and he could have sworn it was like a lightbulb was switched on in the room because of how bright she looked. Granted it was a red tinted lightbulb because she was blushing but that’s beside the point. She takes him to the “Armory” or the small closet where she keeps all of her weapons stored.

It’s only after being introduced to her other weapons that he finds out that she likes to name in more than one language.

“Sah mat here is my trusted sniper.” She proudly hold it up in her possession. “It’s Turkish for checkmate.”

“Rychlý is one of my oldest rifles.” She says with a touch of nostalgia sifting through her voice. “It’s Czech for fast.”

“This is Raspršiti, the best shotgun that I have.” She states and easily hefts it out. “Croatian for scatter.”

She pulls out the smallest gun. “This micro-pistol is Biche.” He looks almost scandalized at the name until she corrects his misconceptions. “French for doe.”

“And this is щит.” She says when she gestures to the bulletproof vest with a name that sounds like “sheet” but with her deadpan expression he suspects it’s supposed to sound like “shit” instead. She sees the face he’s making and she smiles, amused. “Don’t worry. It’s just Russian for shield.”

He inspects the rest of the cabinet’s contents and sees the smaller yet still deadly kinds of arsenal. “What about the discardable types of weapons? Do you also name them individually or just in general?”

“Just in general according to type.” She pulls one out and explains, “This is a smoke bomb or as I like to call it Fantôme ou fantosme. It’s French for phantom.”

“It’s a bit of a mouthful but I like the translation.” It’s a genuinely good name, he admits.

She puts it back and pulls out a different one. “This is Fantasme.”

He looks at it and he can’t quite tell the difference between this and the first one. “Oh, is that a smoke bomb too?”

“No, it’s actually sleeping gas.” She shakes her head. “It sounds close if you’re not learned but it translates to fantasy.” It’s her most romantic name he’s ever heard yet.

They go through her knife collection last.

“смерть.” She points at the first one.

“Oh, that sounds different.” He winces as he tries to think of which language it was but he honestly couldn’t tell. It’s unlike anything he’s heard of. “What does that mean?”

“It’s Russian.” She answers with a small smile. “It translates to death.”

“Interesting word choice…” Well he had to admit that it was fitting for a military knife although disturbing for the common citizen. He points at another. “How about that one?”

“Ölüm.” She supplies.

“Is that another language?”

“It’s Turkish.” She nods. “It means death.”

Huh, that’s an odd coincidence. He doesn’t let it bother him and points again. “And that one?”

“Mort.” She doesn’t even wait for him to ask. “It’s French for death.”

He feels like he’s detecting a pattern here. “And this one?”

“Muerte.” She answers and waits a beat before adding, “Spanish for death.”

Yes, definitely a pattern here. He points again. “And this guy?”

“Tod.” She says curtly.

He almost anticipates her to say it’s death again but the normalcy in its name catches him off-guard. “Huh, that actually sounds like English and surprisingly ordinary.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment. Until finally she continues, “It’s actually German for death.”

Ah, there’s the pattern again. He should have known. “And this?”

“Faca.” She carefully enunciates.

“Let me guess, it means death?” He says almost jokingly.

She shakes her head. “No, it’s just Portugese for knife.”

He pauses and blinks at his mistake. “Oh.” Well that was… unexpected and embarrassing.

There’s still one last knife and Makoto recognizes it as the one he gave to her as a gift.

“How about this one?” He says with a blush dusting on his cheeks. He shouldn’t be so embarrassed about it but he can’t help but feel shy still.

“Oh, that one…” Mukuro pauses far longer than she’s supposed to and when she does speak up, it’s barely above a whisper, “Ma…cutie.” She doesn’t meet his eyes and it takes all of his will just to stare at her in shock. They’re both blushing madly.

And Makoto thinks that as much as he likes Mukuro’s edgy naming sense, he likes the cuter ones too.

ajoyfulstorm  asked:

Something about oversized sweaters and mugs of warm beverages, everyone loves oversized sweaters.

replace “warm beverages” with “wine straight from the bottle” lol. hope you like it!

Jack wasn’t due back at the apartment for another hour and Bitty was miserable.

Not so much in a codependent, can-only-be-happy-with-my-boyfriend way, but more of a…Jack’s ridiculous floor-ceiling windows were drafty and Bitty was already soaked through from the sleet he’d trudged through getting from his rideshare to the lobby of Jack’s building and he needed his big, unnaturally warm Canadian boyfriend to snuggle his frozen limbs back to life sort of way.

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hetaliankilljoy  asked:

Ummmm Okay, prompt: Sam is clueless (destiel, please?) I love you, by the way! Good luck with your studies! :)

Oh! I didn’t see it! But can you choose one of the starters? I can’t choose!

I picked this starter: “You’re not gonna cry, are you?” you’ll see why ;)

It’s quiet and peaceful when Sam returns to the bunker. Because of Dean’s relentless teasing, he decided to have a Skype chat with Eileen as far away from Dean as possible. 

He switches on a lamp on the library table; his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. He sees a strange shape in the dark corner of the library on a chair that he can’t quite make out. It looks like his brother, but…

Sam’s mouth drops open. “Dean? Cas?”

Both named figures spin around on the chair and look at Sam guiltily. Castiel is straddling Dean’s lap and his tie is askew. “Hello, Sam,” he says in his familiarly gritty voice; a little hoarse from the making out that he and Dean had probably been doing since Sam left the bunker.

Sam points a finger at them, shaking his head in denial. “What… I don’t… how…?”

Dean gently taps Castiel’s leg, indicating for him to get up. They both rise out of the chair and Dean slings an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, his usual shit-eating grin on his face. “What’s the matter, Sammy? Surprised?”

“I… I had no idea…”

Dean pokes an elbow into Castiel’s side with a laugh. “Told you he had no idea.”

“How long?!” Sam chokes out.

“Eight months,” Castiel says in a deadpan voice.

“Eight… oh my god…” Sam sinks to a chair by the table, running a hand through his hair. Once he’s processed the shock, he looks up at his brother and his best friend, unable to hide his joy. His brother isn’t alone. If Sam ever left, he would have Cas. Dean finally has opened himself up to someone. “You guys. Oh my god.” 

Dean groans. “You’re not gonna cry, are you?” He plants a kiss to the side of Cas’ head. “I’m going to get some pie, babe, wanna come?”

Sam watches them walk into the kitchen, unable to stop smiling. 

Send me a 300 words or less prompt


what did you do today, natasha? i made a dress and cried in a bunning’s parking lot and i also finished the next chapter of the longfic (finally!) HERE YOU GO. ao3 link.

1 | 2 |

2. Home Truth

When Liam returned from Prodromos, Sara was nowhere to be seen. Liam wasn’t an idiot. He knew Sara hadn’t been herself lately. Still, he hadn’t expected her to simply disappear without a trace; while part of him understood why she’d done it, it caused a strong feeling of foreboding to settle in his gut. Why couldn’t she just talk to him? What had he done wrong? Had he screwed things up already? The thoughts swirled around in his mind, but they did nothing but agitate him. He wasn’t going to get answers like this, and he was torn between going searching for them or finding a distraction to throw himself in. God knew they had enough to be working on, and right now, he’d like to be doing something with his hands.

It was shortly after he found Sara’s note attached to the fridge, her penmanship all hard lines and contained angles, that there came a knock at the door. Liam pulled up the security feed, and at first when he saw bright blue eyes staring back at him, he thought it was Sara. His heart washed with relief before common sense kicked in. He blinked once, twice, before realising it wasn’t indeed Sara but someone with those very same eyes. Scott.

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These Wounds Won’t Seem To Heal// Sherlock Holmes

Originally posted by moriarlocked

Contradict my opinion if you please, but in all honesty, the best gifs from the show are the ones from The Lying Detective. There are so many different levels of the emotional spectrum in Benedict and Martin that it’s difficult not to use them. 

Requested by Anon: On the way to work one morning in the torrential downpour that is London, you happen to get into a rather bad car crash. It’s not enough to kill you, but it’s enough to make Sherlock go nuts. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

  “Hi, this is y/n. If I haven’t answered, I’m solving crimes with the worlds only Consulting Detective who also happens to be my husband. Leave a message!” 

Sherlock huffed and pressed his thumb against the pound key. “Y/n, you only left for work twenty minutes ago, and judging by the fact that you haven’t answered, I’d say you’re probably back seat driving the cabbie. You’re worrying me love, pick up the phone please.” 

You and Sherlock were newly weds, having been best friends since John moved into 221B several years before. You spent most of your time with the war doctor and the Detective, and before you’d realized it, you were falling in love with Sherlock Holmes. 

  “I-I don’t know what THIS is!” Sherlock yelled, startling you as he pounded on his heart. “Every time I look at you, my heart goes faster and my head begins to pound! I’m absolutely clueless to the stimulating response my body goes through when you enter a room-” 

  “You-” You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood on your tiptoes, your lips ghosting over Sherlocks as lightly as you possibly could. He easily sank into your embrace, his fingers tangling in your hair as you leaned backwards to get a better look at his eyes. “You bloody twit, you are in love with me.” 

  “Oh, Sherlock! Haven’t you looked down the street? There’s a car crash just another mile down the road!” Mrs Hudson chided, throwing open the window shams. The rain had let up enough to visibly see the street, and as Sherlock looked out the window, it only took him a minute to deduce that your cab was indeed one of the two that had wrecked. “Where-Where are you going?!” 

  “That’s my wives cab! She could be hurt! She could be-” Sherlock halted at the front door of the building, running his hands over his scruff as realization smacked him rather hard in the mouth. “She could be dead.” 

Mrs. Hudson snorted indignantly as she passed him his Belstaff. “Your wife is one of the most fiery women I’ve ever met in my life. Plus she was crazy enough to marry you. I can guarantee you she’s not dead-” 

But Sherlock was out the door before she could finish her sentence.

For me, just do it for me y/n. Don’t be dead.


John Watson had seen you come into the hospital when Mary was having her checkup, insisting that he know how you had obtained your injuries. Your most major problem was a broken leg from the impact of the door, but other then that you mainly had several bruises and lacerations. 

  “Has Sherlock shown up yet?” Mary questioned, leaning against her husbands arm as they sat in the waiting room. Both of them had demanded to be in your private room once they had reset your leg, but the doctors had only taken you into the OR twenty minutes before, and they were not finished yet. “And here he comes!”

John opened his mouth to respond but was met with a wave of security guards, all shouting commands at one another as they swarmed the nurses station. Had it not been for the dark black curls and scruff, he would have never known it was Sherlock demanding to see his wife. “I’m sorry sir, but patient records and information are confidential. I can’t disclose them to you.” 

  “Like you can’t! She’s my wife!” Sherlock growled, tilting his head as several of the nurses rallied behind the desk. “You slept with your boss to get you a reputation,” He moved his finger down the line and continued to point out the biggest flaws in the remaining nurses. “You do too much botox to try and please your husband, you’re far too concerned what the woman in radiology thinks, and you’re questioning your sexuality.. My God, please get a life!” 

The former war doctor muttered apologies to the nurses as he drug Sherlock towards Mary, whose face became sympathetic as she motioned for him to sit beside her. “Sherlock, we saw her when she came in here. She’s banged up, but she’ll be alright. The worst of it is that she has a broken leg.” 

Sherlock laughed in disbelief, pulling his phone from his pocket to show John the five text messages he’d sent you from the moment you walked out the door to the supposed time of the crash. 

I love you. - SH

We need something good for dinner. The head might have contaminated the frozen chicken breasts. - SH

You, my love, are secretly wearing the red lingerie underneath your dress aren’t you? Naughty girl. -SH

Can you pick up milk on the way home? Used the rest to make coffee. - SH

P.S. There’s now eyes in said coffee. - SH

  “I asked her, I asked her to bring home milk and in return, she gets into a bloody car wreck!” Sherlock exclaimed, his arms falling at his sides as Mary patted his thigh reassuringly. “How stupid is that?” 

  “Mr and Mrs. Watson, y/n has been moved into recovery.” All three heads shot up as the lead orthopedic surgeon stepped into sight and managed a wide smile. “The bone has been set successfully, so now we’ll cast her up when she’s awake and send her home. Is there someone we can call?” 

  “ME!” Sherlock deadpanned, waving his hands in front of the doctors face. “I tried to tell your nurses at the station that I’m her husband-” He lifted his gold wedding band to their line of sight and waved it back and forth out of annoyance and disregard. “But no one would believe me!” 

  “I believe you sir.” The doctor reassured, clasping Sherlock on the shoulder as he led him and the Watsons in the direction of your room. “Any man that’s so possessive over a woman is sure to be in love if not married to her.” 

Your eyes were just beginning to flutter open at the sound of voices, the morphine in your system numbing most of the pain from your injuries. “Hello?” You called out weakly. “S-Sherlock?” John squeezed his best friends shoulder and motioned for him to step into your room, giving an encouraging nod. 

  “Hello love. You nearly drove me nuts by not answering your stupid phone.” He pulled up the chair beside your bed and took your bruised hand in his own, frowning as he ran his fingers over your knuckles. “I thought you were dead.” 

  “A car crash ending me? That’s the best you can do?” You deadpanned. Your gaze softened as you realized that he was indeed telling the truth- hence why his eyes were glassy and his breathing was eradicated; nearly on the verge of a hysterical breakdown. “Sherlock, I promise I’m fine. Just a broken leg.” You patted the open space beside you and he immediately crawled into it, careful not to dislodge any of your IV’s as his arms wrapped around your thin frame, your head now tucked beneath his chin. “I was backseating the cabbie. He was a terrible driver.” 

He chuckled and buried his face in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla. “I’m not surprised. You tend to do that to all of them.” A shiver ran down your spine as his fingers wrapped around the ties on your hospital gown, ghosting over the flesh of your back. “They took your lingerie off I bought you for our wedding night. I’m quite offended.” 

  “Yes, because what male doctor throws away scarlet red hot lingerie?” You replied sarcastically. “Check with the personal items. My phone should be in there too.” Mary and John stepped into the room just in time to witness Sherlock carry your face in his own hands ever so gently, his lips pressing against your forehead as he began his search for your personal belongings. 

He didn’t even get to leave the room. 

  “Uh, Sherlock?” Your tone became urgent as your pupils dilated, your focus now on the two people in your doorway. Judging by the way Sherlock regarded them as if he knew them, they weren’t strangers. Not to him anyway. “Who are the people in my doorway? I-I don’t know them. Can they leave?” 

  “Y/n, this is John Watson.’’ Sherlock said slowly, his expression one of confusion as he set his hand on Johns shoulder. “You met him years ago when he moved into the flat with me. You call him Hedgehog because let’s be honest, he looks like one. And he’s basically your brother. Mary? She’s his wife and she’s carrying their child. A little girl. You’ve been helping with the baby shower-” 

  “I don’t know you. Either of you. Can you please leave?” Your finger hovered over the call button on the side of the bed, which was sure to alert any nearby nurses or staff. “I can get you into some serious trouble if you don’t go! Leave!” 

That smile. The one that always said “I have faith in who you are.” 

The endless nights of being locked out of the flat when Sherlock was in his mind palace.

His war stories. 

Their wedding day. The first time Sherlock had really, genuinely expressed how he felt about you despite the fact you’d been dating for well over a year. 

Everything around you- the hospital room, the sheets on your bed, the rank smell of chloro septic in the air. All of it was just so bleak. The woman had started to cry as Sherlock motioned her and her husband from the room to speak to them about whatever was going on. 

You obviously cared about them enough to draw her to tears. But there was the problem. 

Why couldn’t you remember the ones you love?

TAG LIST @charlottemalfoy @foureyedsiopao
It was Very Very Nice to Meet You

Sorry this is going up so late, I just could not figure out what to write! The setting comes from the fact that on my college campus, it seems like there’s always a blood drive happening. This isn’t my best work, but I could not get this prompt to work with me for love or money. So ah, sorry for that! And happy RobRae week!

“Um. Please don’t vomit on me.”

Dick blinked at the deadpan voice, looking up from where he’d been determinedly staring at shoes. At some point in the last ten minutes of breathing exercises, the chair opposite from him had been filled. His eyes caught for a second on the eye catching, bright purple hair it’s occupant sported, before registering what had been said.

“I’m not going to vomit.” He said, slightly confused. The girl across from him raised an eyebrow, as if silently calling bullshit. “And also, you’re like five feet away from me.” He pointed out.

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another solangelo christmas au

Here is my incredibly belated contribution to the @pjosecretsanta2016. My secret santa was @drunksonic ! So sorry it’s so late, hope you enjoy! 

“Did you tell Santa what you wanted?” Nico grinned down at his niece, “Only a few days till Christmas.”

Lucy beamed up at him, grabbing onto his hand. “He said I’m on the nice list!”

Nico grinned down at her, a full, real rare smile. “I told you so. Let’s go grab some hot chocolate before I take you home.”

Lucy’s eyebrows pushed together, and she squeezed on his hand, pulling him back.

“Zio.” Lucy frowned, “Aren’t you going to talk to Santa?”

Nico laughed, an act that was always more common around his niece. “He knows what I want.” he assured her, pulling her forward. She stayed put though, and took back her hand to cross her arms.

“That’s not the point, Zio.” She gestured back to the mall Santa, “You have to talk to him. It’s the rules. How else will he know what you want?”

Nico huffed out a frustrated breath, low enough so she doesn’t hear. Her loud voice was starting to attract attention from the other shoppers. “Luc, c’mon. I’ll talk to him later.”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, there isn’t any more time!” She hissed, her eyes going watery and wide. “Emily Huston from school said that he isn’t the real Santa.” Her voice cracked, “Is that true?”

Nico stared at her heartbroken eyes and panic began to bubble in his chest. “Of course it’s the real Santa.” His voice was slightly shrill, knowing now they basically had an audience, but only stared into her eyes.

“Then why won’t you sit on his lap?” A single tear slid down her reddened cheek, and Nico stared at the tear in horror.

Minutes later, Nico was lowering himself on the oversized sleigh, his cheeks and neck matching the bright red exterior.

The Santa was laughing loudly, “What’s your name?”

Nico sighed, his eyes glued to the ground. “Nico.”

“You have to sit on his lap!” She instructed, standing next to one of the elves, her hands clasped earnestly together. She seemed overjoyed, whispering to the grinning teenage elf who volunteered to watch her while Nico took his turn.  

Nico cursed quietly but follows her order, standing and carefully shifting his weight onto the laughing man, who had apparently heard Nico’s quiet swearing.

“So little boy.” The mall Santa tells you loudly, laughter in his voice. “What do you want for Christmas?”

Up close, he realizes how young the Santa actually is. Hell, with the youthful spark in his eyes, and the twitching grin on his face, he looks closer to his age than an old man. The flush on his skin only darkens even more in embarrassment. That just made it worst, honestly.

“A pony.” Nico mutters quietly and sarcastically, trying to balance his full weight on his feet in his current uncomfortable position.

“Are you on the naughty or nice list?” The guy asked behind his thick, plastic-y beard, his blue eyes dancing. He was totally enjoying this way too much.

“Depends on your point of view.” He answers without thinking about it much. Right now, the only thing he’s really thinking about it how he’s going to explain to Hazel that her daughter is pure, adorable evil.

The guy laughs out loud, tipping his head back and letting out the trademark ‘Ho ho ho!’ so it echoes a bit across the crowd. Lucy squealed, holding her hands together.

The mall Santa, noticing Lucy’s excited laughter, turned his voice a bit quieter. “Your daughter?”

Nico shook his head, “Niece.” Even in this situation, his eyes were fond.

“She’s adorable.” The Santa grinned, “She wants a dragon for Christmas, in case you were wondering.”

Nico barked out a laugh, shifting his weight on the other guy’s lap. “She and I do happen to have a lot in common.”

“Really?” He asked, still grinning under his beard. He had extraordinary eyes, Nico was noticing, and a healthy golden glow to his skin that Nico couldn’t help but admire. “I’ve always been more of a dinosaur kinda guy.”

Nico scoffed. “Against dragons, dinosaurs would totally lose. Like, horribly.”

The Santa seemed to enjoy that, a spark being lit in his eyes as he leaned in a bit. He opened his mouth, probably about to argue against that, but was cut off.

“Hey Santa! Photo time!” The photographer smirked, holding up the camera. “Say Jingle Bells!”

Nico sighed, turning to glare at the camera. Mostly for effort, but also for Lucy’s low giggling coming from his side.

The Santa wrapped his arm around Nico’s shoulders; a pose similar to the one Lucy had just posed with. The Santa was grinning widely though, and didn’t even wince when the bright flash briefly blinded Nico.

The elves were already ushering another family forward, their own little boy nearly shaking as he stared wide-eyed at the mall Santa.

Nico stood, taking a moment to straighten his clothes. “See you later Santa.” Nico grinned.

Santa’s eyes were twinkling, his eyes ranking over Nico a bit obviously. “Merry Christmas Nico.”

Nico paused, considering, but continued down the small pair of steps off the sleigh. Lucy, bouncing with excitement, threw herself at him and pointed to the small area where the photos were displayed.

Nico eyed the screen, laughter wanting to climb up his chest. It was truly a sight, Nico’s black on black ensemble, staring deadpan at the camera while sitting on the lap of the too-young, grinning Santa. “I’ll take the digital copy.” He grinned, picking up his niece to hold to his hip. He turned to his niece as the elf nodded, taking his card. “Your mother is going to love this.” He told her, his voice sing-song. “It’ll be the best Christmas present ever.”

“I made mom an ornament in class.” Lucy told him, tracing the pattern on his jacket.

“Second-best Christmas present then.” He corrected, still grinning.

She nodded, satisfied, as Nico shifted her weight to take the small bag from the smiling elf. He began wandering off, Lucy already starting into her childlike babble.  

“Hey!” One of the elves jogged up to them, holding a few candy canes. Her green curls exploded under her green cap, and Nico briefly wondered if she dyed them for the holiday occasional. Lucy, balanced on his hip, squirmed around so she could see their new company.

“Santa’s helpers!” She squeaked, burying her face into the crook of Nico’s neck.

The girl grinned, “Santa asked that I give you a special gift before you left.” She winked, handing one of the candy canes over to Lucy, who hesitantly took it. Her playful eyes flickered up to Nico, “And, of course, a special one for you.” She told him, holding one out to Nico’s free hand. There was a sticker wrapped around it, Nico briefly noticed, that was covered with a scrawled pattern of numbers.

Nico raised an eyebrow. “Special?” He asked, taking it.

Her grin turned a bit wicked, her eyes a bit sharp. “Special.” She only repeated, making a funny face at Lucy to cause her to burst into giggles.

Nico turned the candy around, examining the label. His name is Will it read in glittery scarlet pen, a number following it.

She grinned, flicking one of the bells hanging off her costume. “Merry Christmas!” She sang out, her colored whipping out behind her as she spun.

Lucy grinned, waving the girl off, her own candy cane already in her mouth.

Nico glanced over to where the mall Santa – Will – was still talking to the young boy now on his lap. Will laughed loudly, throwing his head back, and Nico could definitely go awhile hearing that sound.  

Lucy tucked on his collar, demanding his attention, and Nico turned to grin at her.

“Hot chocolate?” He asked, pocketing the candy, taking one last look back to the sleigh before strolling away.

Italy bros, reacting to s/o making bad puns!:

(You guys might hate me but I don‘t care. Puns are my favorite god damned thing in this world.)
Italy/Feliciano Vargas-
Italy would love this, and absolutely adore all the puns. He’d laugh heavily after each one and toss back a few of his own.  
“Did you hear about the Italian chef that died?”
“What? No I never heard of a-” It was so cute when he thought you were serious.
“He pasta away.” And he beamed.
“What do women and spaghetti have in common?”
“They both wiggle when you eat them.” The Italian blushed heavily, but you can hear Spain dying in the background.
Romano/Lovino Vargas-
You only told him jokes when he was in a bad mood. Most of the time, though he never admitted it, it cheered him up.  
“What do Italians eat on Halloween?”
“Bella, no.” He sighed, already knowing where you were going, and he wasn’t up for that trip.
“Fetuccini A-fraid-o” You got in his ear and wrapped your arms around him. While most people would think this as affection, he knew you were trapping him.  
“What do you call a fake noodle?” His eyes widened in horror.
“No.” He said, strictly serious.
“Romano.” You retorted, just as deadpan.
“No.” He raised his voice. 
“Romano…what do you caaall a fake nooodle?!” You whined, doing you best to hold him on the sofa.
“No!” He tries crawling away, but no such luck.
“What?!” You won.
It‘s an Impasta.” You whisper, knowing the soft tone would only piss him off all the more.

The Upper Hand: Jefferson x Reader {Part 2}

Part 1 

Hamilton – Modern AU (law school) 

Jefferson x Reader

1537 words 

Originally posted by jamesbahrnes

The pink watch on your left wrist tells you that it is 7:58 PM, only one minute different from the last time you checked. You take a deep breath to banish the butterflies in your stomach but it is no use. Reminding yourself again that Jefferson is just a dick, there’s no need to be nervous does nothing to calm your nerves. Your body refuses to get the message and pumps adrenaline through your body as you ascend the front steps of the library.

Despite reminding yourself over and over again that your meeting with Jefferson is merely for the project and has nothing to do with any romantic interest, you made sure to wear a nice blue shirt (Peggy said it sets off your eyes) with your jeans, heels, and a thin necklace that rests against your clavicle. You even put on perfume, which made Herc, the only Revolutionary studying at your apartment after you met the guys for dinner, suspicious.

“Y/N,” he said, raising one eyebrow as he looked you over. “Why do you look so good? It’s just Jefferson. You hate him.”

“I do, Herc, but I’ve had enough of his jokes about my hair and clothes.”

“Uh-huh,” Herc nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Y/N, is there—is there anything going on that I need to know about?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you shook your head. “I just want to keep him off guard, make sure I have the upper hand.”

As you ponder the truthfulness of that statement, you enter the library and climb the stairs to the second floor where you and Jefferson can collaborate quietly. The third floor was reserved for silent studiers while the second was for group projects and those who like to talk while they study. You spot him almost instantly thanks to his (ridiculous) signature magenta blazer and unruly curls and make your way to the table near the window he is sitting at.

“Jefferson,” you greet, your voice cold, trying not to wince as his head snaps up and he slowly looks you over. His eyes linger too long in certain areas, and you clear your throat harshly to grab his attention. “Like what you see?” you ask sarcastically.

There’s a beat of silence before he shakes his head, as if clearing his mind, and looks back down at the papers he’s reviewing. “Not my type,” he mumbles.

That statement puts you on the defensive. You look good; two guys had smiled at you en route to the library. You glared at him though his head was down and slid into the chair across from him.

“Your opinions about my looks are completely irrelevant,” you say, pulling out your copy of the case you had reviewed three times since class that afternoon. “What’s relevant is your opinion about this case.”

“Our man’s guilty,” Jefferson states. “The prosecution’s got enough evidence to convict.”

“While it is a difficult case, I think that we can give him the best chance if we focus on that one character witness that says he has a past of violent behavior.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What?” you snap at him. That character witness was the best thing you’d brainstormed that afternoon. You’d talked it over with the Revolutionaries over pizza dinner and they’d applauded you for your good thinking.

Jefferson sets down his papers and deadpans, “Disproving the character witness won’t do anything. The DNA evidence has him at the scene of the crime. We should look at it from that angle.”

His condescending tone makes your jaw set. “Though you do make a point,” you begrudgingly admit, “don’t just dismiss my idea. Alexander even said it was—”

“I don’t care what Hamilton thinks or says, Y/N,” Jefferson says, his voice a little louder than before. “This is my case and I’ll not be taking advice from a bastard orphan.”

Alexander’s past—his unmarried parents, his mother’s death from a preventable illness—was a sore spot for both him and you. You had comforted him many nights as he mourned her loss, silently crying with him.

You leaped to your feet and slammed your hand on Jefferson’s open textbook in front of him, forcing his attention to you.

“Don’t you ever dare insult my friends to my face,” you warn, your voice scary low.

Jefferson’s eyes grow dark as he rises from his chair, soon towering over you. Your heartbeat increases as you begin worrying for your safety. He wouldn’t hit you, not in the library. Intently watching his face for any tells of what he is thinking, you brace yourself to run if necessary. He slowly moves his hand near yours, grips your wrist, and lifts your hand off his textbook.

“Don’t mention them again and we won’t have a problem, Y/N.”

And then, calmly, gracefully, elegantly, he finds his seat and returns his attention to the open case in front of him. You feel your heart nearly beating out of your chest and your knees are weak. The blood rushes into your cheeks (an unfortunate and involuntary reflex to embarrassing, frightening, and/or uncomfortable situations) as you mirror his actions, sitting and gathering your case papers.

There’s a tic in your cheek that you know only twitches when you’re highly stressed. You tighten and release your hands, wishing for one of those stress balls the Counseling and Testing Center were handing out in the Student Center earlier today. Why must he be such a condescending dick? This partnership was everything you had worried about. He doesn’t play well with others; he’s arrogant, a know-it-all, dismissive of your ideas and contributions… the list goes on. You don’t know how he’s managed to stay above you in the class rankings with his lazy, nonexistent work ethic. He probably went back to his room after class and smoked a joint or two (a rumor you’d heard about him).

But that doesn’t make sense, you realize. He must have reviewed the case at least once to offer a valid, logical strategy just now. The DNA evidence idea is good, though you hate to admit it. Jefferson must actually have put some effort into this. He does not look at you or acknowledge your presence, which gives you an opportunity to study him. He isn’t a bad-looking individual. His mouth catches your eyes immediately, his full lips hiding those straight white teeth. You remember him laughing at something Madison said, his broad smile taking up most of his face, eyes crinkling at the edges. The kind of unadulterated joy and enthusiasm that shows you the goodness in their soul, that reminds you of their utter humanness. Despite his faults, Jefferson is motivated by the same emotions that you are—fear, happiness, sadness, apprehension, anger. Perhaps there is a possibility that the two of you can work together. You doubt he will be the one to set aside their ego and acknowledge the other’s strengths, so you release your pride and clear your throat to get his attention.

“Jefferson, look.” You break the silence, trying to speak calmly.

He sits back and folds his arms across his chest, his biceps straining against the magenta material of his blazer. He still looks ridiculous in that color.

“Obviously you like to work alone,” you say, resting your arms on the table and leaning forward. “But we are stuck together whether we like it or not, so we might as well accept the help and different viewpoints we both have to offer. As unbelievable as it may seem, I actually have some good ideas about defending this case. And, news flash, I’m actually fourth-highest in the class, so, though you may think I’m nothing more than a Midwestern hick who can’t even form grammatically correct sentences or count higher than the number of pigs I own, I am smart too.”

You actually manage to get him to grin because of the self-deprecating farming comment. “Smart and funny,” he muttered.

That is a good sign, so you continue: “I think we should take a couple of days to look this over and make some notes before we meet again. Friday afternoon after Washington’s class should work. And bring a rough outline of your defense with you.”

“Y/N, that is too much to do in so little time!” he protests, “I have a Civil Defense Theory exam on Thursday. I am only human!”

“I made a schedule for us to keep us on track.” You pull out a printed out Excel spreadsheet, color-coded, and give it to him. “To give us enough time to practice, we need to have our rough draft of our defense done by next week.”

The look he shot you was incredulous. “When did you have time to do this?”

You shrug. “Unimportant. Just remember Friday after Washington’s class.”

He shook his head at you and ran a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey, I will not get a bad grade on this because of your bad attitude. So suck it up and put the effort into it.” You raise your eyebrows at him to silently ask if he understands you.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I guess I better get started.”

“I guess you better.”

Day 4 - Side Effects

Arc V Anniversary!

Prompt: Aftermath (AO3)


“You’re late!” She yelled to the newcomer as soon as he got within hearing range. “What took you so long?” Yuzu asked to him tapping her foot onto the floor, he was twenty-five minutes late, her nerves were crumbling away and she was beginning to regret this decision already.

“Well, excuse me, you try to sneak out of Yuya’s house without stepping into some animal’s tail, waiting for Yuya to get out of the bathroom or being offered some refreshments as a lowly trick to get information out of you.” Sora said stocking out his tongue to her.

Instead of taking the bait, she pointed at the huge chocolate he was eating and with her best deadpan voice she said:

“Yes, I can see it was so hard for you to resist temptation.” Sora seemed to have forgotten that it was in his mouth and he quickly attempted to hide it but Yuzu took his hand and took his treat away.

“Hey! Give it back! You have no idea how much that costs!” He yelled and almost took it from her but she was quicker dangling it above his head.

Sora was not the only one going through a growth spurt.

“I know it cost you nothing, because you probably convinced Yoko-san to give it to you” Yuzu stopped to give him a knowing look at Sora, who just grumbled under his breath. “I’ll give it back to you once we’re done.”

Afterward they walked for a while to the park, until Yuzu found a relatively empty place where they could get down to business.

“Is this about Serena again?” Sora asked sighing. “I already told you everything I know about her, she wasn’t exactly outgoing and is not like the Professor allowed her to wander around all that much.”

“Is not just about her, it’s about all of them.” Yuzu said. “Is just… I thought the feeling of overflowing memories, feelings… all kinds of stuff would eventually fade, that somehow we’d just end up…” She trailed off, no knowing how finish the sentence.

“Fusioned?” Sora asked.

“That’s… one way to put it.” Yuzu admitted. “But I don’t know I feel so… selfish.”

“Selfish?” He repeated once and she knew his eyes wandered off to her wrist, empty now. “Is it because only you came back?”

“Maybe? I mean I know this is something Yuya could help me about, but… he has the dragons you know? I’ve heard him talking with them through these cards, I can’t do that it’s like this endless… banging in my mind and I can’t do anything about it and just want it stop.”

“You want your old life back.” It wasn’t a question and Sora didn’t expect an answer. “Have you ever thought about asking Reiji?”

“Reiji Akaba? What does he have to do with this?” Yuzu asked surprised, if she was quite honest she had not spared a thought about him in a quite a while.

“Dunno? Maybe that fact that Reira will probably experience something similar in the future, weren’t both Zarc and Ray inside of him now? Maybe he can even help you all to…” The way he moved his finger as if to break something would be hilarious in any other situation.

“I think it’s a baby girl now, and the Nature Cards are gone.” She reminded him.

“Whatever, do you really think the Reiji we know will have done nothing by then? Yuya created the Pendulum cards out of thin air and Reiji still found a way to make his own.” Sora asked. “If you ask him I’m sure he’ll help you, and if you ask me his family own you a big deal, you could at least ask him for some compensation you know? Then maybe we can finally remodel Yushow Duel School”

The way he smiled at saying that ridiculous thing was her undoing and they both burst into laughter, the type that made her belly hurt and her cheeks ache, before she finally calmed down.

“That’s not nice….Reiji is not at fault for his father’s mistakes.” She said after wiping her eyes.

“Tch, you take the fun out of everything.” Sora said a bit out of breath. “Hey, if you need someone to go an intimidate them with, you know you can always count with the All Mighty Teacher right?”

“I know.”