this was before i got my glasses so my vision was basically shit

Game Over (Games and Piercings Part 4) Finale

Thank you so much for all your love and support through this series. I care about you all so much and you’ve showered me in so much positivity and love. I truly feel like the luckiest person alive! And thank you especially to my friend @ohwhataprettypinkhat who heavily inspired this series and helped me through out it with their first prompt and sticking with me through all the new parts and developments! You rock!

Without any further of my emotional blubbering, please enjoy the fourth and final part of Games and Piercings; Game Over.

           It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to go home. Meet his new baby niece. See his mother and his father again. His siblings. He was supposed to be one of the groomsman at his brother’s wedding. Be the man of honor at his sister’s because fuck gender roles. He’d look great in a dress anyway. But no. Here he was, in a prison cell. Tied up to the teeth with chains and restraints. Unable to move really. Unable to escape.

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I Told You So

Pairing: Bones x Reader

Word Count: 2383

Warnings: injury, swearing, minor angst 

A/N: Based on anon request: What if reader gets injured or sick in some way and Bones has to treat them but he’s mad that they’re hurt (because he hates to see them hurt) and he’s kind of rude about it? And reader is anxious and doesn’t like doctors/being yelled at and he goes to apologize after but reader isn’t ready to accept and says they need some time to think about it?? Surprisingly not as angsty as I originally intended, but I hope you still enjoy it!!

“Told you so,” Bones gloated, running a dermal regenerator over the burns of your hand.

“I wouldn't’ve gotten hurt if Keenser could’ve held his sneeze two more goddamn minutes,” you grumbled. “‘It’s the last time you’ll see me for a week. Promise.”

Bones snorted. “You’ll be back in two days tops.”

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anonymous asked:

What about a stozier au where the first time they meet it’s because they share a room in the hospital. Like maybe richie is there because he managed to break a limb badly enough that it needed surgery and they want to keep an eye on it or something until it’s healed. Stan could be there for the obvious reason or something else, idk my brain is tired right now. At first stan doesn’t like richie because of how loud he is but obvs it doesn’t take long for friendship and feelings™ to happen

ok so i literally took this prompt and fucking ran with it so thank u sm for sending it in!!! i did choose to go with the obvious reason so tw: suicide attempt; as usual ur girl made a lil accompanying playlist that you can listen to HERE … sry for any inaccuracies last time i stayed extensively in a hospital i was a kid so !!

  • richie comes to on thursday at 10:43 am. his vision is blurry, his head is fuzzy, and he hears comical gagging sounds coming from somewhere to his left
  • “shut up, eds” he says without thinking just as an unfamiliar voice says “you’re just jealous!” and he stills because … whom the fuck is that?
  • richie rubs his eyes but he still can’t see (why can’t he see? the three fingers he holds in front of his face meld together into one fleshy blob. why can’t he see?) and another unfamiliar voice says “fido’s awake!”
  • who are these people? the room around him is a blurry, white mess. where the fuck is he?
  • richie starts panicking and rips the covers off of him, but they get tangled around his feet and he nearly tumbles out of bed but unfamiliar arms catch him and say: “be careful, man, you coulda ripped your IV out!” and steadies him back onto the bed, feet dangling over the edge
  • “i can’t see,” richie says helplessly. the dark blob person in front of him holds a hand to his shoulder and says “wait right here, okay? don’t get up again,” before he gets up and leaves the room.  behind him, in another bed sits another blob. it’s massive and two headed before his foggy brain catches up to tell him its two people, not one
  • “who are you?” richie asks and one of the blobs introduces himself as ben, says he’s sorry if he was being too loud and woke richie up, says his poetry submission to the new yorker was accepted and the second blob speaks up and says “you’re welcome” and ben the blob tells richie “stan’s dad basically owns the new yorker but it’s still an honor, you know? because they get a lot of submissions,” and richie tries to nod but his head is killing him so he squeezes his eyes shut and holds his head in his hands
  • “you pissed on the floor three times” the second blob, stan, tells him, just as the third blob returns with a nurse in tow who takes richie away with her for Immediate Medical Attention
  • she asks a lot of questions and he gives a lot of answers. it goes something like: “how do you feel, richard?” “with my hands, m’am” “when’s your birthday?” “february 23rd” “what year?” “every year!” 
  • richie finds out he’s been in the hospital for four days and he just missed “his short angry friend,” who they told to go home since they didn’t think richie would be waking up anytime soon. apparently, he had engaged beverly in a snowball fight at bill’s end of semester party, slipped on a patch of black ice, and fell backwards smacking his head on the curb hard enough to split his skull and bruise his brain. 
  • he feels the row of stitches on the back of his head and asks if they at least shaved a cool design into his newfound undercut. the nurse responds by giving him an eye exam. she says she’ll bring up his glasses soon; they’ll be ready by the evening. she guides him back to his room and tells him to take it easy.
  • the room’s empty now; the only blob left is the one in the bed he’s assuming was stan, because ben had looked like he was standing, and the other blob wasn’t in the room at all for the conversation.
  • “what was his name, your friend that got the nurse?” richie says, hoping stan’s awake
  • “mike” stan replies. richie hears the flip of a page.
  • richie takes some painkillers and when his head isn’t as foggy, he remembers what stan said before richie had been taken by the nurse. “you said i pissed on the floor three times”
  • stan snorts “yeah, i thought eddie was going to have an asthma attack on the spot”
  • “you know eddie?” “i met all your friends while you were passed out; beverly didn’t believe anything the nurses were telling her and kept asking me if you were alright” “bev was here?” “yeah, and bill. they’ve been here every day. eddie left right before you woke up. he was three seconds from headbutting your nurse” “yowza” “i know”
  • stan tells him that the only stirrings of consciousness richie exhibited since stan was placed in the room with him two days ago were the three times he pissed on the floor. apparently, he’d gotten up three separate times, taken a piss on the floor, and crawled back into bed without acknowledging eddie scolding “richie NO!”
  • richie tells him why he’s been admitted and he also tells him he can’t see shit. it’s because he banged his head hard enough. he’s worried he’ll need glasses forever. stan shrugs and says “you’re alive, aren’t you?” and richie stops complaining for a moment
  • he starts complaining almost immediately after that his head hurts “then take your pills” his eyes hurt “then close your eyes” hes bored “try counting back from a thousand” and that stan’s mean “it’s new york, richie” and that’s how he finds out he’s at lenox hill hospital, on the opposite side of the island from NYU, and he asks stan if he goes to NYU
  • “no, columbia”
  • “do you speak spanish, senor?”
  • “eat shit, richie”
  • richie decides he likes stan ten minutes before the nurse drops off his new pair of glasses. he puts them on immediately; they feel foreign on his face, big and bulky, and he hopes he doesn’t have to wear them forever. how’s he supposed to get in betty ripsom’s pants looking like a massive fucking geek?
  • shit he had a date with betty ripsom tuesday night so he can kiss that blowjob goodbye
  • richie finally gets a good look at stan; he doesn’t look like his voice. he has a head of dark blonde curls and that’s the most color on him at all. his skin looks unnaturally pale, like it’s meant to be tan but isn’t healthy enough to retain a glow; it’s sallow, greyish in the contours of his cheeks and collarbones. the circles under his eyes are purple and veiny, and his eyes are a deep, storm grey. they almost look black.
  • (something in richie’s chest twists anyway; a low humming accompanies it and richie disregards it as his appetite. it isn’t.)
  • “what the hell happened to you?” richie’s mouth says before his bruised brain can attempt to censor him. it always nearly fails anyway. it’s the adhd.
  • “knocked out by a flying squirrel riding my bike on 59th,” stan replies easily. “only a minor case of serious brain damage. i can only count to fifteen now.”
  • it takes richie a second to realize that stan’s joking; stan’s humor is monotonous and deadpan where richie’s is vibrant and obnoxious, but he finds himself  grinning anyway.
  • “is that why you wanted me to count back from a thousand? you forgot how?”
  • “are you speaking spanish?” stan retorts and they’re smiling at each other now. richie forgets that his head hurts. 
  • richie falls asleep mid sentence later that night; he’d been drifting off all day between his and stan’s banter and the channels they flipped through, but he only comes to again about thirty minutes after to see a nurse hunched over stan’s bedside.
  • “there we go, all better,” she says and stan thanks her. she tells him to call in case he feels lightheaded or if the bleeding gets worse or if his pain increases. richie shuts his eyes just as she turns around and feigns sleep.
  • “i told him he pissed the floor” “what’d he say to that?” “that he was marking his territory” richie hears the nurse and stan laugh and his ego inflates because they’re laughing at his joke and because stan remembered it. 
  • he falls asleep in the next thirty seconds; he can feel the humming in his heart pushing up against his rib cage and how his bones tickle because of it.
  • the next day he asks stan again what he’s in for and this time stan tells him it’s for eating some non-kosher street kebabs on the upper east side. stan tells him that the power of the Hebrew spirit within him was punishing him for it and he was considering an exorcism. richie laughs. the humming gets louder.
  • they spend the day talking, getting to know each other more between banter and hospital food. stan tells him about how he’s an eagle scout and he “goes birding” a lot and richie dogs him hard for that until a nurse walks by the room and stan starts faking gagging sounds and she rushes in to ask him what’s wrong and richie says “oh he’s just jealous of my massive wang!” and she rolls her eyes and gives stan another pudding cup and richie a pointed look
  • stan eats the whole thing and makes fun of richie the entire time; the humming gets louder.
  • some nurses come in and take richie for another MRI and some physical therapy; he gets back right as stan’s parents are leaving
  • stan’s quieter than usual and richie knows something’s wrong, something’s very wrong, so he starts oversharing
  • “i don’t know where my parents are,” he starts and he gets into it, gets into how his parents were successful musicians and socialites and they used to be happy but then they both cheated and hated each other ever since and richie doesn’t know why they never just got divorced and why they decided to marry the bottle instead; he tells stan that his mother lives in a townhouse in greenwich village and his father lives in a lot of different cities now and neither of them probably even know that richie’s in the hospital at all; he tells stan how the kids at school called him bucky beaver and he’s telling stan all this infused with his obnoxious humor and he’s doing voices for every person he introduces and eventually, eventually, stan has to wipe his eyes because he’s crying with laughter and the tension’s gone now.
  • the tension’s gone but it’s been replaced by the loudness in his chest; what starts as a low whir has steadily increased into a humming so loud richie feels it deeply in his bones. 
  • him and stan are making jokes back and forth and richie has to keep saying “what?” because he can barely hear over the humming. stan keeps saying “what?” and richie wonders if he can hear the humming, too, or if it’s just richie’s bruised brain sending out a distress signal.
  • two days later, the night before richie gets to go home, richie sits on stan’s bed and stan tells him what he’s in for
  • “i took a bunch of pills and walked out onto the brooklyn bridge,” stan says, and it sounds so loud in the quietness of their room. “i was going to jump off but i wanted to jump off the other side instead. i got hit by a car.”
  • stan shows richie the gauze under his shirt; it was changed while richie was in the shower and had spots of yellow and brown seeping through it. he tells richie that when he came in, it was a six inch long gash that exposed his ribs. he tells richie that he told them he took a bunch of a drugs at a party and it was believable because he’d been taking drugs for a while now to forget that he wanted to kill himself. no one knows, not ben or mike or his parents, and richie’s the first person he’s told.
  • richie doesn’t say anything at first
  • and then he leans over and takes a long, theatrical whiff of the gauze and says in his best spanish accent “doesn’t smell like caca to me, senor” and stan stares at him and then he laughs and neither of them are sure who grabs who’s hand but they’re holding hands now and laughing and the humming is so loud it tickles and richie’s laughing even harder
  • the humming is so loud he doesn’t hear himself say “i like you like breathing.”
  • and stan says “what?” and richie repeats himself and stan says “i just told you i’m suicidal and you’re hitting on me?”
  • and richie intertwines their fingers, holds their hands two his heart and says “you had the audacity to woo me while i’m in the hospital” and stan says “we’re both in the hospital, dickhead” and richie says “see? we already have so much in common!”
  • stan still has purple circles under his eyes and hollow cheeks but the smile he gives richie is the most beautiful thing richie tozier has ever fucking seen.
  • he tells him: “your eyes look like the ocean at night, when there’s sharks and monster in there.”
  • a year later, stan doesn’t have purple circles under his eyes anymore. richie’s still wearing those thick, bulky glasses. richie still feels his bones humming when stan kisses him at midnight on new year’s at bill’s party.
That Voice (Jared Kleinman x reader)

[Soulmate AU where the voice in your head is that of your soulmates until you meet! My own idea but tbh it’s probably been done before lmao. Also this wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be I’m sorry -Fiona]
FYI: Mild swearing, drinking

You were 6 years old when you asked your parents why the thoughts in your head were a little boy’s voice. They smiled to each other before sitting you down and telling you about soulmates. Somewhere out there was a boy that you were destined to spend your life with. His voice is the one you hear in your head telling you your every thought. And when two soulmates find each other, the voice in your head becomes your own. As your mom said - it’s like you have a part of the other, and when you meet you give it back. Hurts like hell though apparently.

It took you a while to get used to this voice. You decided very quickly that the boy who this voice belongs to, never takes anything seriously. Even your darkest thoughts had a hint of sarcasm or humor in them. Sometimes that helped to make you smile, sometimes it pissed you off even more.

Around the age of 13, this voice started to go funny. This was probably the happiest time of your life so far, mostly because you giggled a lot whenever the voice broke. Poor boy must be going through The Change , wherever he is. Thankfully it wasn’t too long until the voice settled into a lower register than what you’d heard for the last 14 years.

But you were 17 when you and some of your friends were invited to the biggest part of the fall. Honestly, you weren’t so keen on going but you knew a lot of people there so you thought you’d at least show your face for an hour or so. There was a school-famous DJ and her obnoxiously large music equipment you had to climb onto a podium to get to. You only had one drink, because you knew your limit from bad past experiences. With all this in mind you didn’t expect to enjoy yourself, but the party was actual okay and you ended up staying longer than you originally intended.

Around 11pm you were standing next to the DJ’s station watching your completely drunken friends dance. A crowd of boys entered the room…actually staggered is a better word. They all seemed to be surrounding someone, begging them not to go, you couldn’t see who. You heard, in the center of the gathering, a loud and conspicuous laugh,

“I know, guys, I’m sorry! But I gotta go!”

You froze, your legs start to shake and your hands became clammy. Because you knew, you knew that voice. That voice was speaking in your mind that very minute. He’s here. Your soulmate is here.

“Kleinman, you’re so boring!”

“At least I can walk in a straight line, pal. Sobriety is the key to basic bodily control, my friends.” That voice again! Jesus Christ, this was actually happening.

The group of guys started to break and he became more clear. But all you could see was the back of his head, and he was walking towards the front door. He was leaving, shit! There were too many people in your way, you’d never reach him in time.

Well then, you’d just have to get his attention some other way.

You climbed onto the DJ’s podium. In your peripheral vision you saw the front door open, so you pulled every plug you could see until the deafening music cut off.

“STOP!” You yelled across the now silent room. The boy turned around. A chorus of annoyed and confused teenagers rose until the DJ got the music going again, not before giving you an earful for “touching her tunes”. But that didn’t matter, what mattered was the boy in the doorway was now staring at you with his mouth slightly agape. He knew, and you knew he knew.

The next thing you felt was the sharp pain in your brain, you held you head in your hands and stepped down from the podium. Through your strained, half-closed eyes you saw the boy steadying himself against the wall, clearly in pain too. At this point some kids nearby had noticed and were asking if you were okay. Then you heard a droning in your skull, the hurt died down.

You felt a hand on your arm.
“Look up.” A voice in your head told you.
A different voice.
Your voice.
You look up and meet his eyes.

“Jared Kleinman.” He said over the noise, with that voice you knew so well, you recognized his tone from every time you ever felt nervous. He wasn’t much taller than you, the front of his hair hung down his forehead, just above his glasses that framed his face perfectly.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You replied once you found the breath. Surprisingly, he laughed giddily then took your hand and pushed through the crowd until you were standing outside.

“Say that again.” He said, the excitement spilling out of him.

You held back laughter through your words, “Jared, my name is Y/N!” You announced dramatically.

Jared cackled and ran his hands up your arms, “Jesus, that’s so weird! I’ve been hearing that voice all my life and now there’s, like, a person behind it.” You both laughed again, hysterically, “I’ve always felt sorry for the poor soul who’s had to hear me in their head for 17 years.” Jared said, suddenly sheepish.

Then you remembered everything your parents told you as a child; there’s a connection almost instantly, five minutes of knowing your soulmate can feel like a lifetime. They were right. Suddenly you could hardly remember life before Jared Kleinman.

“Kiss!” A new voice shouted. You and Jared looked back at the house to see a crowd of drunken teens had formed at the window. One boy hit another in the arm,

“Didn’t you hear, jackass?! They’re soulmates! Don’t make it weird!

You looked away, hoping no one saw you blush. Jared was visibly holding back a laugh.

“Do you wanna get outta here?” he asked you, nodding his head towards the multiple peering eyes on you.

You smiled widely, linked your arm in his and walked together away from the cheers being called behind you.

great comet 8/5 matinee

so first of all, great comet was amazing, not that i was expecting anything less, but still. i saw the matinee on 8/5, sat in the front mezzanine (house left, row A seat 3. 10/10 would recommend this view) and pretty much everyone was the usual cast except anatole was blaine alden krauss, sonya was ashley perez flanagan, and mary was courtney bassett. and they, and everyone else, totally killed it

so here’s some of the stuff from the performance i saw (under a cut because its A Lot):

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Not As Good As Her

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Hello! This is a cheating fic about Josh Dun x Reader. I am an angst whore, so this is really angsty. This is only my second top fic, so go easy on me! There will be a second part!

If you don’t like angst, you can check out my other fic Unknown Number.

You had fallen in love with Josh Dun, the drummer of twenty one pilots. How you ended up with him was a mystery to you, because he was way out of your league, but for some reason, he had feelings for you too, and you had been in a relationship for a year now. He had been on tour recently and had just came home. He had been acting weird ever since he got back. You were a little worried that you had done something wrong, and you decided to try and make him feel better, or make up for whatever you had done.

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Professor Dixon - Merle Dixon x Female Reader

Summary: Professor/Student AU. You’re failing class but Professor Dixon has something special in mind for you to improve your grades.

Warnings: Smut, Oral, Fingering, Bondage, Cumshots, Explicit Language, Rough Sex.

“So, what do you think of the new professor?” your friend Jennie whispered as she leaned into you.

“He’s alright, I guess,” you shrugged with a dry expression on your face, not wanting to reveal just how attractive you were to the man.

“Oh c'mon, gurl! He’s sexy as hell!”

You felt your face warming from her words and started scribbling evasively on the paper in front of you. Jennie was about to say something else when the door to the classroom flung open and professor Merle Dixon marched inside. You let out a breathe of relief but it was soon replaced with a racing pulse as you watched him take of his leather jacket and hang it over the backrest of his chair. Underneath he was wearing a simple, black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a few buttons popped open in the collar. The shirt was tucked inside a pair of black slacks held up by a brown, leather belt.

Oh, the things you had imagine him doing to you with that belt…

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Right in Front of Your Eyes - Part 2

Originally posted by thealextheshipper

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, all the feelings
Summary: After your parents were murdered mysteriously, you move in with your godfather Tony Stark, along the way your normal life will be turned upside down, due to a Mr Parker and being hit by a bus. It will all make sense eventually.
A/N: Basically, you are Jessica Drew but with your name and a slight twist. BTW you’re British, you’re welcome 😉
Word Count: 1800+

Intro | Part 1 |

I hate hospitals. Well, not the idea of saving people’s lives, but mainly the smells and people. The smell of antiseptic, death and misery is not something you can get used to, not being able to move from the waist down sucks, even more, I cried two days straight after I found out. Thanks to that bus I’m now paralysed from the waist down, but according to the doctors, Tony made it just in time with the news that he may have a solution. By that I mean, secretly he’s been trying to replicate Peter’s Spider-Man abilities to form some type of serum, yes, I know Spider Man’s identity, I sort of put two and two together, makes me feel slightly giddy that Peter’s girlfriend only thinks he’s working with Tony for a grant, and that I know more about Peter than she ever has done; what a shock that will be. Peter has been at the hospital with me from the start, I don’t know why, he says that we should ‘bond’ and now that I can’t walk, he knows I won’t run away. It’s funny really, he apologised straight after saying that, but I was in hysterics. Anyway, back to the serum; Tony asked me if it was okay to inject me with it, I said yes straight away before he could even tell me side effects, or even what would happen. I mean what else can I lose? (I really shouldn’t jinx myself, I mean I’m a disabled orphan for Christ’s sake). So, plans were made, which brings us to now. Looking at the clock I have 10 minutes until my life is going to change – again – For better or for worst.

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Before the Line (Prequel) Part 4

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: When Clint enlists the help of a former SHIELD agent to help during Civil War, will a new friendship blossom or will it become something more?

Warnings: Fluff, Language

Words: 1499 (yeah not really a drabble)

A/N: Trying to get back into the grind of writing. Also, I didn’t edit so pardon the errors. Hopefully y’all enjoy this!

Part 3

Originally posted by weslehgibbins

As everyone leaves to suit up, I stay behind already in my fighting gear and waiting for everyone to return. I hear heavy footsteps behind me and I turn around to see the reason why I am here. Bucky Barnes. He’s dressed in an all black attire and a ski jacket which just so happened to be missing a left sleeve, exposing the terrible gift HYDRA bestowed upon him. He makes his way over to me but keeps his distance, almost as if he’s afraid to  get close to anyone, physically or emotionally, in fear of inflicting harm.

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Creepypasta #1295: What I Saw In Iraq Terrified Me

Length: Medium

Back in 2007, I was a United States Marine. Back then, the war was still going pretty hard, and my unit, 3/3 India, deployed to the Al Anbar province in Iraq. It was my second deployment, but since my first one was in Japan, my second deployment was basically a “real” one where I was actually in danger of dying.

Now, the Marine Corps through and through isn’t bad. When you’re not deploying, most of the time you’re getting fucking hammered and either beating the living shit out of your friends or fucking random ass girls (For me I was stationed at Hawaii, so it was beautiful). Of course, with anything, there is a lot of bullshit. You get treated like a child, fuckin’ hazed for a year (in my case), and things like field day and other such monotonous bullshit really takes away from the whole pride thing, boot as that may sound. However nothing really fucked me up like what I heard that night.

Like I said, I was part of India Company, Third Battalion, Third Marines. We deployed to some fuck-shit outpost in the middle of bumfuck, Al Anbar, Iraq. Also, this just so happened to be far as ass away from all the other command outposts, which was more or less just boring.

Regardless, I was put in a piece of shit plywood little box, with a door to my right. In order to, uh, not fucking die, some thick glass from a humvee was plastered on top.

There wasn’t much to do. I had night duty, from about 6 PM to 6 AM, and let me tell you, for the desert, it was cold as tits. There wasn’t much to do, either. iPhones weren’t really out yet, and there wasn’t that much else to do but really just sit there. You couldn’t use a lighter to read or anything like that, because the light would attract sniper fire, and that’s no bueno.

We also had night vision goggles, but since our outpost faced the city of Baghdad, you couldn’t turn them on for too long because of the light.

Basically, nothing to do.

So around 1 AM, I’m freezing my ass off, bored shitless, when I hear a little plink against the glass. It was light, like maybe a pebble; Throw a pebble at some glass and that’s the noise it made. At first, I was like “The fuck?” but after a little bit I just decided it was the rain or some shit and went back to being bored.

Maybe five minutes later, though, it started back up again. Plink. I didn’t see it, but since it was dark out I figured that one of two things was happening.

1) My buddies were fucking with me. 2) Some insurgent is pulling some shit.

Up until that moment, I had never really fired at a hostile person, more or less I got shot at and fired at fuckall, so the aspect of actually coming face to face with an insurgent in the dark scared me.

Another plink hit the wall and shook me out of my thoughts. I grinned, that nervous ass grin, and muttered, “These fuckin’ assholes, I’ll get ‘im now,” and leaned out of my command outpost. 

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You Don’t Work Here Anymore

Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader

Genre: Romance, Drama

Summary: You’re a barista in New York City, and a cute new customer has started coming to your coffee shop to work on his drawings. You begin to develop a connection with the man, who you discover his named Gerard…….but, then, tragedy strikes. 

You’d just started working at a cute, mom-and-pop coffeeshop in the big city. You loved the smell of beans roasting and bagels baking in the morning when you walked in. It was kind of hard to learn how to make all the different kinds of drinks, especially when you always had a long line. But, so far, you still thought it was a pretty cool job. You even got free coffee once in a while.

You watched the man at the furthest table from the counter out of the corner of your eye as you prepared a cappuccino. He was handsome, with long, dark hair and hazel eyes that you wished would glance your way. He’d started coming here almost every day recently, ordering a single latte and then sitting in the corner for hours, bent over his sketchbook. You were curious as to what he was working on, but you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed really shy, and the last thing you wanted to do was make him anxious.

“Hey, Y/N, can you go wipe the tables while we’re not busy?” your boss asked. “I’ll finish that cappuccino for Mrs. Benson, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” you nodded, and grabbed a rag. The rush was going to start soon, and so this was the only time today you’d have time to do this. You started at the first table, wiping away donut crumbs and spilled espresso. Most of the tables weren’t that dirty, so it didn’t take you long. Soon, you were at the table beside the one where the raven-haired man sat.

You craned your neck as you scrubbed, trying to sneak a peek at his drawing. He didn’t seem to notice you were there. He was completely absorbed in his work, tongue sticking out of his mouth slightly as he inked over a pencil line with laser-like focus. You saw that the sketch depicted a cartoon monkey eating pancakes.

“It’s so cute,” you said softly, unable to resist a smile.

The man jumped at the sound of your voice, clearly startled. His knee knocked the table when he bolted, sending his latte tumbling to the floor with a splash.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” you gasped. “Let me get a mop and clean that up for you!”

“It’s ok, it’s my fault,” the man said quietly, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser and bending down to wipe up the spill. “I, uh, didn’t see you over there.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you apologized. “I just thought your drawing was really good.”

“Oh, well, um, thank you,” the man blushed. “I actually work at Cartoon Network, and the sketch is part of some concept art for a show idea I’m about to pitch to them, called The Breakfast Monkey.”

“That’s so cool!” you beamed, impressed. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“I’m Gerard,” the man introduced. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you smiled. “Listen, I feel really bad for making you spill your drink. I can get you a new latte on the house, if you want.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Gerard waved his hand.

“I don’t have to,” you agreed. “I want to.”

“Are you sure you won’t get in trouble with your manager?” Gerard asked.

“Yeah, it should be fine,” you assured him. “I’ll go get one for you right now. And good luck with your pitch!”

“Thanks,” Gerard smiled, playing with a lock of hair nervously. You found him even cuter now that you’d have the nerve to talk to him.

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The Right Wrong Choice - Chapter 5 (Eric X OC)

Rating: M (swearing, violence, smut - everything you’ve come to expect from me :* )

Genre: General/Humor/Drama/Eventual Angst

Thanks everyone for the re-blogs and support!!! IT IS SO AWESOME!!!

@emmysrandomthoughts@beautifulramblingbrains @iammarylastar @tigpooh67 @bookwarm85 @mom2reesie @elaacreditava @badassbaker @captstefanbrandt  @treeleaf @pathybo @beltz2016 @lilu46  @girlwith100names @gaia25 @readsalot73  @slayer0507 @stone-met @lostinthebeans @lauraaan182 @letmagichappen @girlslovestorys @tonyt1995 @lacy-love @littlesouthernrebel @fuckthatfeeling  @sparklemichele @vitaevandal @shaunarcanine @jojogoo65 @micolegg @frecklefaceb @jaihardy @equalstrashflavoredtrash @bookgirlthings @queenara4 @sterek-foreverandever


The next week is…..fuck, I can’t even. Eric ignores me and is a colossal prick to absolutely everyone. Punishments are thrown around like candy at a parade, and no one is safe. Fortunately, the day I get called out, so do four other people and we make a sorry sight dragging our asses around the track, only after an Erudite girl, Megan, pukes and passes out does he irritably tell us to piss off.

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Richonne One Shots Chapter 36: Election Night 2, a Walking Dead FanFiction
Part Two of Election Night is a prequel. Rick and Michonne meet from opposite sides...

Originally posted by erinjustyceforall

“Look alive, Grimes. I’m not paying you to stand around looking pretty.” The sardonic southern accent bit at Rick’s ears, immediately rubbing him the wrong way. The man from whom the voice emitted completed the image. Over six feet tall with unnaturally perfect hair, Philip Blake was the picture of conservative family values to his potential constituents. Those who worked with him knew better.

Phillip Blake was an asshole.

Rick swallowed thickly, biting his tongue for presumably the hundredth time this morning. His boss took his silence as compliance, already moving along on his list of people to verbally abuse.

“This Michonne, she’s gaining in the polls,” Philip’s southern accent was far less polished behind the scenes.

“She’s a novelty, sir,” Blake’s assistant, Milton, a mousy man with rectangular glasses, piped up on queue. “They’ll grow tired of her. My numbers—”

“Are bullshit,” Blake finished. “I’m not taking any risks. Find me something I can use against her.”

It took every ounce of self-control for Rick not to roll his eyes. Philip Blake would have made an excellent dictator in another life. His hatred for his opponent burned bright. Rick suspected that the fact that a Black woman had the gall to run against him burned the hell out of Blake’s chaps.

“She’s a problem,” he clipped out, pausing to adjust his hair and tie in the mirror backstage. “She needs to be dealt with.”

Rick’s eye twitched again.

“She’s young. Unseasoned. You have the support of the party—” Milton tried again.

“Find something I can use,” Blake interjected, acting as though his assistant hadn’t spoken at all.

“I will,” Milton was doing the stuttering thing again. Rick almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Where the hell is my wife?” Blake turned his attention elsewhere, eyes sweeping for the platinum blonde. Rick hadn’t exchanged a word with her in the month since he took this gig, and he didn’t care to change that. Mrs. Blake was just as unpleasant as her husband.

“I’m here,” she appeared in a click of heels and a cloud of perfume and bad attitude, her waves of hair seemingly glued around her head. She took her husband’s arm. At once, their scowls melted into smiles that could have graced a Colgate ad. Rick watched them sweep onto the stage, happy to retreat to his place with the other bodyguards just behind the curtain.

He spotted Abe, an old colleague, standing up ramrod straight. The redhead caught his eye, grinning.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Abe started in immediately. Rick felt his mood improve marginally.

“Abe,” he nodded.

“Shane hook you up?” he asked, shaking Rick’s hand.

“That obvious?” Rick took his place beside him, facing the pulpit. His clients had emerged to raucous applause. Rick’s stomach turned.

“Politics ain’t really your scene,” Abe snorted lowly.

“And they’re yours?” Rick scoffed. He couldn’t imagine a more politically incorrect person than the man beside him.

“I at least served old Uncle Sam,” Abe grinned. “You couldn’t cut basic training.”

“It’s good money,” Rick shrugged slightly. This was his daily mantra.

“Better you than me,” Abe’s eyes locked onto the Blakes. “Ain’t never seen a bigger pair of assholes.”

Rick held in his laugh and his agreement. “How’s your girl?” he asked.

Abe’s smile widened. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the arrival of the client in question.

“Excuse me,” a lilting voice drew Rick’s attention. His eyes flickered momentarily to the woman walking out on stage, head high and shoulders back.

Rick dropped his jaw. He’d seen pictures of her, clips on the evening news. None of them did her justice. He hadn’t seen a person look less like a politician. Her dark locs were fixed back from her forehead in a simple but striking updo. Her skin seemed to glow under the stage lights, dark like polished bronze. She swept past him in a swirl of vanilla and sandalwood, her heels clicking as she took her place on the podium. Rick stared in shock.

“Is that her?” Rick whispered under his breath. He wasn’t looking at the Blakes at all anymore.

“That’s her,” Abe smirked knowingly, his eyes never leaving his client. “Michonne Bechet. Atlanta Councilwoman. Might be an Obama in the making.”

“Holy shit,” Rick’s statement came out almost as a gasp. “I’m going to kill Shane.”

Abe chuckled, arms folded in front of him, the hint of amusement playing beneath his facial hair. “Walsh did you a favor.”

“How do you figure?” It damn sure didn’t feel like a favor from where Rick was standing. From where he was standing, it looked like Abe got to guard the gorgeous, progressive candidate while Rick got stuck with Philip Blake.

“He knows you, man. You couldn’t handle her,” Abe’s lips barely moved as they muttered quietly to one another.

Rick didn’t answer. There were plenty of ways he suddenly wanted to handle the woman in front of him, none of them professional. “You might have a point,” he admitted.

Abe grunted his agreement.

Rick wasn’t one for politics, but he paid close attention to the debate that night. He’d heard Blake’s stance a million and a half times, but Michonne’s words stuck with him. She had vision, she had panache, she had charisma, and she was a hell of a looker. Michonne faced the jeering crowd without so much as flinching. If Blake’s sardonic insults affected her, she didn’t show it. She answered the debate questions in a clear, high voice, outlining her point until even the crowd seemed to silence before her.

Blake hated her.

“Find me something on her,” he reiterated that night, taking a break from his hooting and hollering and cursing to address Milton. “Before this gets out of control.”

By debate number two, it was clear that the situation had long since gotten out of control. Michonne was gaining in the polls. Blake couldn’t maintain his polite façade. Their meeting at a charity ball quickly divested into petty remarks. Rick reddened behind his boss while Michonne took the insults on the chin.

“Asshole,” Abe was angrier even than Rick, his eyes burning holes into Blake as he sipped champagne and schmoozed with donors.

“Dick,” Rick agreed, fighting the urge to knock his employer in the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

“Abe,” they were interrupted once more by the dark horse candidate. She looked stunning in her little black dress, her hair pulled up in a bun.

“What do you need, darling?” Abe came to attention at once. Rick resisted the urge to step forwards towards her.

“I’m tired,” she announced this with the air of one discussing the weather. Only the weariness in her eyes betrayed her actual feelings.

“All right,” Abe nodded, mobilizing her people at once. Rick was left standing there, staring at her, anger burning in the pit of his stomach at the way this woman was treated. She glanced back, her expression mildly curious.

“Don’t let him bother you,” Rick’s mouth was moving before he even realized it. “He’s scared of you.”

She looked surprised for a fraction of a second, then her expression changed. Her laugh, clear and melodious, got him through the rest of the night, even as Blake snarked at everyone around him.

“Thank you,” she told him as Abe swept her off, throwing Rick a knowing look from beneath his bushy brow.

Rick and Michonne met again at a community center groundbreaking. She was just as stunning in jeans and a blouse as an evening gown. She smiled at him this time, greeting him kindly as she passed. Rick ignored Blake’s burning glare to smile back.

“Maybe you’re not useless after all,” Blake mused later, unaware of how close he was to getting punched squarely in his face. “She’s likes the working class type. Talk to her next time. See what you can find out.”

Rick seized the opportunity. He found her a week later, sitting at the bar, her ankles crossed, her hair hanging freely down her back. He beelined for her.

“Rick,” his name sounded regal coming from her lips. “Should you be talking to me?” she seemed amused. Her hand cupped her chin as she stared up at him, her confidence burning bright.

“It’s my day off,” he told her. This was true. Both candidates were stationed in the same hotel. He bumped into her at the bar downstairs. He’d come down to meet Abe for a drink, but changed course the moment he spotted her.

“Blake gives you those?” she quipped, sipping prettily from her beer.

Rick laughed. Behind them, Abe watched, amused. Rick caught his eye, silently begging his friend to leave them alone.

“You owe me,” Rick read Abe’s lips from across the bar. Rick happily sent over a drink to keep him occupied.

“How do I know you’re not a spy?” Michonne questioned lightly a few moments later. There was something underlying in her tone that let Rick know she was not joking.

“You can ask Abe what I think of my employer,” Rick didn’t miss a beat. Truth was, he hated Philip Blake. Work had become the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

“What do you think of me?” she asked, taking another draw. Rick’s eyes flicked to her lips. He swallowed thickly.

“I might vote for you,” he told her, taking a gulp to steady himself.

“Just might?” she sounded so incredulous that for a moment Rick feared she was serious. Then she smiled around the mouth of her bottle. Rick grinned back.

“Learn anything interesting?” Blake asked the next morning.

Rick had learned her favorite drink, her cat’s name, that she loved action movies, and got into politics to fight for the voiceless.

“Nope,” Rick answered. Blake glared. Rick did not flinch. Blake eventually moved off.

“Are you making a move on my client?” Abe asked later, when both of them were stationed behind the scenes of debate number 3.

“I’m thinking about it,” Rick did not hesitate to answer. It was all he seemed to think about.

“You’re going to get fired,” Abe rolled his eyes.

“Might be worth it.” There was no might about it. If Rick had half a chance, he’d take it.

“I’m going to regret this,” Abe sighed, then pulled out his phone. “She asked me for your number.”

Rick punched it into Abe’s phone at lightning speed.

Her first text came the following Saturday afternoon. Phillip and his wife were drunk at the pool and Rick was bored to tears.

“What’s it going to take to get your vote?” the question blinked up at him under the bright light of the afternoon sun.

“Want to talk about it over dinner?” he text back, waiting with baited breath while the three dots flashed at him.

“It can’t be public.”

Rick’s heart jumped. Trying to contain his excitement, he text back. “I know a place. No one will bother us.”

Her response took a full five minutes, but eventually it pinged in.

“Sounds great.”

Rick read her message, sitting contently and grinning while Blake yelled at Milton from across the pool.

I’m working on a Canada Day fic, but in the mean time here’s a new recruit!AU probably no one is interested in! :’)


The problem is that nobody on base really knows Pharah yet. Fareeha keeps to herself: sticks to the hangers, her dorm, the town, and hasn’t really talked to anyone– well talk, talked, she sometimes says greetings in passing and commands during missions over comms (both short and often terse, but probably not intentionally).

Hana blows a bubble in her gum until it’s about half the size of her head and then sucks it back in; there is music in the hanger that comes from speakers placed high up in the four corners of the garage space. It is turned down relatively low, but the bass cords of the rock song still rattle Hana’s eardrums and make the sticky candy quiver when she blows it out. She’s watching Fareeha bob her head to the rhythm as she tightens a bolt on the Raptora – hanging on metal chains draped over a steel bar – and then she turns back to her handheld and the game displayed on screen. (Hana’s already beaten it, now she’s just picking up collectables and upgrades she didn’t care about during the campaign.)

This is how they sometimes spend Saturday evenings; in here, in the gym where Fareeha teaches Hana knew techniques through sparring, in Hana’s room playing videogames (poorly, in Fareeha’s case) or out on the null behind the compound sipping tea or pop from thermoses, eating crap, and chattering about things. Hana misses Korea sometimes, Fareeha misses Egypt and the reputation she made for herself there, though she’s only brought it up once and maybe, maybe, Hana had a minor breakdown her first month here, and maybe, maybe Fareeha was the only person that seemed to notice or care. So they’re friends. Or at least, Hana’s pretty sure they’re friends.

So if Hana gets a bit annoyed when others on the team talk during lunch about how Fareeha seems a bit standoffish because she hasn’t joined them in the mess it’s only because none of them know her at all and nobody is even making the effort to try.

“-Hana,” Fareeha says, cutting into her game and thoughts, Hana hums absently, “will you hand me that screwdriver by your foot?” Hana looks over the handheld to see a screwdriver resting on the top of the tool cabinet her feet are propped up on and grabs it.

“Catch,” she says, and tosses it to Fareeha, who catches it easily. After a moment, Fareeha’s back to her again, Hana sits forward a bit in her swiveling mechanic’s chair.

“Hey,” she says, “you should come to dinner in the mess tonight.” This stops Fareeha, she doesn’t turn instantly, but she does rub the back of her neck with her free hand, smearing grease across the base of her neck.

“I don’t … think that is a good idea,” Fareeha says evenly, and turns.

Fareeha should be a pretty intimidating presence. She stands like a soldier, she’s tall, she has eyes which dare you to lie and she never looks down – Hana’s noticed. When Fareeha thinks, she looks to the side or up, and when she talks to Hana, it is only with eyes which flicker to meet hers; Fareeha Amari’s chin is always held high – despite this, there’s a softness to her confrontations and Hana never feels like she is any lesser.

Sometimes, the older members of Overwatch try to make Hana feel younger than she is; unready for the burdens of war. Hana doesn’t mind reminding them that she had been her country’s first line of defense against total annihilation and she can handle herself, but it’s still tiring. Fareeha never make her feel like anything less than what she is: a soldier … probably because Fareeha spent a lot of time trying to prove herself, too.

“Why not? It’ll be fun,” Hana pouts. Fareeha chuckles at her frown and sets her screwdriver down on the tool box beside Hana.

“What fun things are constantly happening at dinner?” Fareeha asks, humoring her. Hana rolls her eyes.

“Well, for starters, I’m there and things are always fun when I’m involved.” Fareeha looks skeptical. Hana groans, “… Have you even talked with anyone since you’ve been here? It’s been like three months. Do you even know anyone’s name?” Hana doesn’t mean for the bite in her tone, but she can hear it as she speaks. If Fareeha is hurt by it, it doesn’t show. Fareeha sighs softly, and sits down beside Hana in another swivel chair. Hana spins to face her and doesn’t miss the way Fareeha’s eyes flicker to the far corner of the room, her hands folded around each other rest between her legs as she leans forward, her elbows on her thighs.

“I grew up around most of the people here, Hana,” Fareeha tells her after a time, and looks briefly at her, “and I have read all the files. So yes, I know everyone’s name.”

“You’re going to have to explain to me why you don’t want to make friends,” Hana grumbles, “I don’t get it.”

“I’m not opposed to making friends,” Fareeha tells her with a light chuckle, “and I know most of the recruits to be good people, but you must understand: I will always be my mother’s daughter to the returning members of Overwatch,” at Hana’s confusion Fareeha rubs her shoulder and continues, “I did not come here to measure up to my mother and I did not come to rehash the same conversation with the heroes of my youth. I joined to make the world a better place.”

“So you’re just going to ignore everyone?” Hana gapes. “You could be such a badass.”

“I am not ignoring anyone,” says Fareeha, “and I do not need to prove myself. I am a good soldier; I know my value.” Hana rolls her eyes, but raises her hands in a mock show of surrender, just the same.

“Fine, fine,” she says, a pause, and then: “for the record, I think you’re pretty cool, too.” When Fareeha laughs it is a remarkable genuine sound. She closes her eyes, covers them with her hands.
“Thanks,” she says.

“I am astonished that you even managed this,” says Dr. Ziegler, an undertone of wonder beneath her exasperation. Hana shrugs through the pain of both her dislocated shoulders and debates telling the good doctor that it happened when Pharah pinned her into the mat during sparring, but decides against it. Hana Song isn’t a snitch.

Dr. Ziegler sighs heavily and places her palm just above Hana’s right collarbone.

“I’m afraid this is going to hurt,” she says. Before Hana can ask what the doctor means, Angela’s other hand is bracing her neck and with surprising force she rolls the younger girl’s shoulder back into place. Hana screams and responds colorfully in Korean. There are few pains Hana has experienced more excruciating than what the doctor has just done and Hana’s head spins a bit with the rolling aftershock. Here, she thought mercy was a description, not some creative anti-name … like some harry, raging, devil dog being named Cupcake.

“Perhaps next time you should be more careful,” Dr. Ziegler says without remorse, “now the other.” Hana scrambles back a bit on the examination table, to avoid the doctor’s hands, the protective paper bunches under her thighs as she moves and makes a rustling noise which breaks the tense sterile air around them.

“That’s okay, doc, I think I’ll leave this one,” Hana grins, pain shoots through her arm even as she says it, but for the sake of not reliving that particular experience, she hides it well enough.

“Nonsense,” says Angela and deftly pulls Hana forward. With fluid motions much too quick to be entirely human the other shoulder pops back into place as well and Hana curses again, much louder this time (the pain is substantially worse) as the doctor lets her go. Everything is sore and unpleasant; the room is spinning; fuck doctor visits. When the stars leave Hana’s vision, she’s able to blink up at Dr. Ziegler with what she hopes is an accurate expression of the betrayal she feels. Whether or not Angela sees it is hard to tell, as she makes no move to comfort or acknowledge Hana’s decided discomfort.

“I advise you refrain from physical activity for a couple of weeks and apply ice when you inevitably become sore,” Angela tells her, her voice professional and distant, “wait here,” Hana watches as Angela moves about the confines of the med bay. From a cooled cabinet at the far end of the room she pulls a vial of something iridescently yellow, and from a box beside it, a sterile syringe. “This should mend the fracture in your left shoulder and reduce the swelling and pain,” Hana nods in resignation as Angela fills the syringe. She sterilizes the skin of Hana’s left shoulder and applies the shot with steady hands, made sure by a lifetime of practice. Hana feels the relief almost immediately and wonders for a moment at the miracle of nanobiology technology as Angela disposes of the syringe, removes her gloves and stores the vial once more.

“Now,” says Angela, turning on her. Her entire body language seems to change; gone is the cold indifference of a doctor to her patient. She’s got the look of a mother, Hana thinks. That quiet disapproval and earnest expression – let me help you. Hana bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she doesn’t want to. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Hana lies. Angela slips her glasses off her nose and sets them down on a table beside Hana’s bed.

“Really?” Angela responds, unconvinced.

“Just a little accident,” Hana tells her. Angela sighs, crosses her arms and looks vaguely at the door; Fareeha’s out there, her silhouette leaning up against the frosted glass of the med bay wall. Hana’s not talking, she’s already decided, and Angela must see it too because she steps back a bit and shakes her head.

“Hmm,” Angela finally hums, seeming more tired than she has since Hana first entered the room. Hana knows why, of course she does, Hana knows basically everything. Hana knows that while Winston might be the instigator of the recall, it is Dr. Ziegler who is attending conferences and world leader affairs and client meetings – and healing the recruits (though now Lucio’s around to help, and that guy’s basically a godsend so soon Dr. Zielger should shoulder a bit less of the burden). “Overwatch’s budget does not allow for such potentially detrimental … accidents. I’ll inform Winston that you’re to be taken off the mission rotation until you have fully recovered, but please be more responsible.”

“Thanks doc,” says Hana, and then belated, as she stands: “It won’t happen again.” She flashes the D.Va smile; the one that has gotten her out of all sorts of messes in the past. Dr. Ziegler smiles faintly back at her.

“I am sure that it won’t.” Angela watches Hana open the door, but just before the younger girl can slip out she calls: “And Hana? Please have Captain Amari come in.”

Hana is caught off guard. She looks from the doctor, now vaguely flipping through some papers on her desk within the room, to Fareeha, leaning casually, arms crossed under her chest, against the wall just to the right of the med bay entrance. Fareeha raises a brow in confusion and Hana shrugs back at her, mouthing ‘I don’t know’. Fareeha pushes off the wall and glances into the room before looking back at Hana. Lightly, she pats Hana on the bicep.

“I’m glad you are okay,” Fareeha tells her, and: “I will see you later.” Fareeha glides past Hana into the room and Hana watches her until the glass door slides shut behind the Egyptian woman, before she decides its best to not stick around.


This is Fareeha’s first time in the Overwatch med bay. She is scheduled for an entrance physical in a couple of weeks – Dr. Ziegler has slowly been making her way through the recruits – but without the binding element of mandatory examinations, Fareeha makes it a general practice to avoid medical facilities when possible.

It is the smell, she has decided: the smell of bleach, stale air and stagnation. Like purgatory.

The automatic glass door hisses shut behind her, and Fareeha looks for a moment around the room. She takes in the white walls, the cleanliness of the examination bed and the stand beside it. The area where Angela sees patience is remarkably bleak - professional, efficient - an incredible contrast to the desk in the corner, three computer monitors mounted to the wall and small mountains of paper on and surrounding the space. Fareeha cannot begin to imagine what they are all for, and is not sure she would understand even if she asked. There’s a photo there, too, among the papers, of the younger Overwatch members, right before the fall – Jesse and Angela, Genji, Winston and Lena. Fareeha had wanted to be a part of that, but having been barred by Ana, had opted for the Egyptian armed forces instead. She doesn’t regret it, not at all, but if there is lingering bitterness she cannot shake, well, so be it.

“Captain Amari,” Dr. Ziegler says, looking up from her papers. It’s been ten years since she has seen Angela Ziegler, and it is almost as though nothing has changed.

“You fractured her shoulder.”

“It was an accident,” Fareeha responds lightly, roaming the room, reading the info-posters hung sporadically about the walls as a buffer.

“So I’ve been told.”
Black & Blue (One-Shot)

Originally posted by as-valentine

Anonymous request: Could you do a one-shot where Bucky finds out reader is in a abusive relationship and he saves her from it?

Warnings: angst, violence, psychological abuse, swearing

Word count: 2127

Italics are reader’s thoughts

You had just arrived back home from work, and you weren’t surprised to see your ‘lover’ passed out on the sofa with a vodka bottle in hand. You scoffed and rolled your eyes, did you expect anything less? Brock was always an asshole when he was drunk, and he was drunk all the time. Alcoholic. 

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Oath | Ch.17 | Jungkook

Genre: Angst | Mafia!AU

Members: Jungkook | You/Reader | Yoongi | Taehyung | Namjoon | Hoseok | Jin | Jimin |

Summary: What if one day everything you ever wanted is taken away and your whole world comes crushing down? If you were to forget today, who would you be tomorrow?

Originally posted by berry852

| Previous Chapter | Chapter List | Next Chapter |

Word count: 2464

Your heart was beating fast. Where did he come from? Why was he so angry? You did not do anything to bother him, why all the fuss? You were afraid he found out about your plan and was about to ruin everything. Taehyung was not around, there was nobody to save you now. You saw his clenched jaw and almost cried in pain as your wrist was basically being smashed in his hand. Your eyes met his, and for a second time stopped. His dark pupils gave you chills. But they did not seem like a stranger’s. What was that? He examined your face, his eyes widening in shock as your features reminded him of his lost love. Y/N? He could not believe it. This could not be real. He was hallucinating. He wanted to bring you closer, to take your mask off but it was too late. The whole room became pitch dark. That was your cue. As soon as you felt his grip loosen, you broke free, running towards the door.

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Reach and Flexibility Pt. 1

ME2: A conversation taking place post Normandy Crash Site mission. You know the one.

Shepard rocked on her heels in front of the main battery, savoring the delayed, dizzy sway that echoed in her inebriated head. The lights in the hall had been dimmed to help facilitate regular sleep cycles. Behind her, the mess was dark and deserted. She glanced back at the black windows of the medbay and wondered how Chakwas was sleeping.

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Operation Foxtrot (Bucky x  Reader) - Part 4

Summary: New to the compound, it almost feels like you and Bucky have a connection you can’t quite put your finger on. With Hydra still a threat, how will that affect you?

Word Count: 2073

A/N: fighting, swearing. some slight angst but mostly just fluff. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Originally posted by thespoilerwitchblog

Bucky walked into the living room slowly, analyzing where to sit. He chose next to me, on the other side of the L-shaped leather couch.
Now it was my turn to be nervous. I felt my heart stutter as he sat next to me, thigh brushing against mine, he didn’t even bother to conceal his annoyance. He glanced at me, my eyes trained on the movie. He sat back, folding his arms across his chest and then pulling his hair into a bun. Stark began to chuckle.
My eyes flicked over to him, mortified of the trouble he’d start. Bucky glared at him, trying to tell him to shut up with his eyes. Tony didn’t get that.

“Barnes, are you jealous?” Stark said through breaths. I felt Steve tense up next to me.

“No, why would I be?” Bucky countered, eyes never leaving the screen.

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Souyowrimo Day 15

Prompt list here, rest of my November fics here.

This one got out of hand. Like, way out of hand. Also even though I’m now pretty far behind, I’m hoping to get some writing done during the Thanksgiving holiday, so maybe I’ll be able to catch up by the end of the month? We’ll see.

Day 15 - Shadows

When he saw the TV in the back of that truck, Yosuke was, in a word, horrified. What kind of a sick fucking person was Namatame, to kidnap a child, put her in so much danger in the real world and then mercilessly throw her into the TV world? He heard the others telling Souji that it was too dangerous to go into the TV from here, since they didn’t know where it would lead. He heard that, and he decided he didn’t care. Namatame needed to fucking pay, and someone needed to save Nanako.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he was hopping into the back of the truck and flinging himself at the TV, not even stopping at his friends’ horrified shouts for him to stop. He soon found himself surrounded by the usual TV world fog, but fortunately he had a habit of carrying his glasses with him at all times. They all did, really. If they could have gotten away with it they would have carried weapons with them too, but those are quite a bit harder to hide and not to mention, pretty illegal. But Yosuke wasn’t concerned - he had Susanoo, after all. He’d be fine, as long as he didn’t go picking fights with any really tough Shadows.

Although, speaking of picking fights –

After just a minute or so of walking, Yosuke found himself at what looked like a large, brightly lit gate of some kind. He didn’t take the time to examine it too closely, because just inside the gate he spotted two figures, one taller and the other shorter and looking to be struggling against being dragged away by the taller figure. He broke out into a sprint, the fog seeming to peel away from his vision thanks to the glasses, and he could clearly see that it was that bastard Namatame trying to drag Nanako further into the structure.

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The One Where You Keep Him Safe

Pairing: Isaac Lahey x Reader

Summary: You and Isaac had always ignored each other despite being neighbors your entire lives. When you get paired up with him in class, ignoring him is no longer an option, especially when you can hear his crazy father hurting him next door.

A/N: finally another isaac imagine for those of you who have been asking!

MASTERLIST, MOBILE MASTERLIST (you can like it and save it for later!)

“Mum, where’s the coffee?” you call from the kitchen, pulling open the cupboards above the sink before finally noticing the empty jar sitting in the trash, “Great,” you mumble to yourself.

Your mum bounds down the stairs, slamming ten dollars on the counter, “Get yourself something on the way to school.”

She was fleeing out the front door before you could even complain about nearly everything in the house having run out. Your eyes travel to the empty box of cereal on the counter. Everything.

You slip the note into your pocket, slinging your bag over your shoulder. One last look in the mirror at your black jeans and oversized sweater; not much of a fashion statement but everything else was in the laundry. If you left now, you could stop by the café near the school and get a muffin. Only problem was, your mum had taken your car which left you stuck with your dad’s old motorbike. You pull one leg over and turn the key in the ignition, holding the handles firmly and trying to remember the last time you had rode it – it had to be like riding a bicycle, you tell yourself.

The engine roars to life and with half closed eyes, you find yourself going down the street. You finally open your eyes fully, suddenly wondering how awful your hair would look on the first day of school once you took this helmet off. You pull up next to the kerb beside the cafe, and stay still for a moment, looking up at the sky and it lets out a low rumble. Great.

“Hey,” a voice interrupts you, tapping you on the shoulder, “We’re going to be late,” he says, climbing onto your bike. You sit still, unsure of how to react and as you open your mouth to speak, he groans, “Please hurry up, I don’t want to be late for the first day.”

You move your arms from the handles to take your helmet off and as you do, he turns the key, twisting the handles and kicking off from the ground.

You let out a high pitch scream before grabbing the handles yourself, steadying the bike.

“You scream like a girl,” he laughs. You look at his face in the mirror and try to place it. And then it clicks; Isaac Lahey. The boy who lives next door to you.

When you pull into the school parking lot, he stretches his arms over his head, looking at you expectantly as you sit, half shocked, on the bike.

“You coming or what?” he laughs.

You slowly pull your helmet off, watching his eyes widen in surprise.


“You know my name?” you ask in surprise.

He furrows his brows together, “You live next door to me,” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I thought you were Scott – you have the same bike,” he apologizes. You feel embarrassed that he could’ve mistaken you for a male. He seems to pick up on it.

“Really, I just wasn’t paying attention, I’m sorry – really!” he laughs nervously.

You stand up, kicking the stand out before turning to him, “Its fine, Isaac. Really.”

“Hey Isaac, where were you?! I waited for you at the café-“ Scott yells as he walks over before pausing at the sight of the two of you, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, turning back to Isaac, “I’ll see you around.” With that, you walk towards the front doors.

“Who was that?” Scott asks, both him and Isaac watching you disappear into the crowd.

“My neighbour,” Isaac mumbles.

“Well, what did you say to her? She was embrassed… I could smell it from across the parking lot.”

“I – I thought she was you and got onto her bike,” he sighs, his own cheeks flushing pink.

Scott’s eyes widen, “You thought she was me? And then you got onto her bike?”

Isaac buries his head in his hands, “Let’s just go inside,” he groans, clearly wanting to talk about anything else.

“Hey you,” Tracy sits down beside you, “You look lovely in your homeless hoodie,” she nudges you lightly.

“Shut up,” you grumble, “We ran out of laundry powder so all my clothes are just sitting in the hamper.”

“Still. Coming in your knickers would’ve been a better option than that,” she laughs.

“Best friend or not, I’ll kill you if you make me feel any worse,” you nudge her back and she giggles, making a zipping motion against her lips.

The teacher walks in, “Pair up,” she calls out, “With the person behind you.”

The class let’s out a collective groan. You, however, feel your breath hitch in your throat at the sight of Isaac sitting behind you. He takes Tracy’s vacated seat.

“About this morning,” he begins. You turn to him with a forced smile, “Really, it’s no big deal.”

“Good,” he smiles, “Won’t be awkward if I run into you when I take out the trash,” he laughs awkwardly.

“Yeah,” you shrug.

“I saw your mum this morning – she always seems to be in a rush.”

“Being a surgeon keeps you busy,” you reply with a line your mum told you for as long as you could remember.

“Still, it must be nice to have the house all to yourself.”

“And you,” you blurt out before feeling profoundly embarrassed.

He just nods silently. It was an unspoken fact that you knew about how abusive his father was. Neither of you acknowledged it despite having been in most of the same classes since freshman year. Isaac seemed to like it better that way, secretly hoping you didn’t know about it at all.

Isaac just smiles, nudging the container toward you, “I have no idea about science stuff so you’re going to have to take the lead on this one,” he whispers.
When you got home, your mum was still at the hospital and had left a voicemail that she had left her credit card on your bed for you to go get dinner and had come home at lunch to leave you the car. Your big house seemed even bigger when it was empty and every sound echoed.

It was 8:30 when you finally finished your homework and sat down in front of the television. It wasn’t long before the sound of yelling from next door made the TV inaudible.

You walk towards the window that let you see into the Lahey’s kitchen, pushing the curtain aside slightly so you could look without being seen. You had been at home for two of their more serious fights but your mother had basically locked you in your room and insisted you do nothing. She wanted nothing less than to live quietly, in peace, since your father had gotten locked up for the same reason Mr. Lahey should have been – you didn’t blame her – but at times you felt guilty for not barging in there and stopping Mr. Lahey.

You watched him yell at the top on his lungs, while Isaac seemed to cower away though he was not at fault. You flinched each time his father moved, afraid he would throw something or hit him.

“DOWNSTAIRS!” you heard him yell, after throwing a plate that hit the wall beside Isaac’s face and shattered. Isaac seemed to look more afraid at this than he had when his father had picked up a glass salad bowl to throw at him.

You watched as he cowered, walking towards the staircase before disappearing from your field of vision.

You pull your jacket over your shoulders, walking outside through your back door. You fumble hesitantly at the fence, your mother’s words echoing in your ears. But you couldn’t just leave him, not again. The other times your mum had been there to make sure you kept put, but there was nothing stopping you this time.

You hoist yourself over the fence into their backyard, landing on the wet grass with a thud. There was a long window that you were sure led to the basement and a back door. You slowly walked to it, turning the handle but it jammed halfway, locked. The window was your only option.

You slowly pulled the lever, “Thank god,” you sigh in relief, finding it open. You weren’t sure which would be more effective: going in arms or legs first. What would you even do if you went in there? You wouldn’t put it past Isaac’s dad to knock you out and throw you outside if he had to.

You lie down on your stomach, putting both legs though and sliding until you were hanging by your arms. You look over your shoulder, making sure there’s nothing underneath you before dropping down. You find yourself behind a pile of stacked storage boxes and slowly walk around it, turning the backlight on your phone on. There was no one here. Where had they disappeared to? You had seen them go down the stairs.

There was a low thud that echoed around the room followed by Isaac’s voice, “Please,” you hear him cry.

“Isaac?” you whisper, shining the light as you turn in a circle. He wasn’t anywhere. Another thud.

You turn in the direction of the sound, your eyes landing on a white freezer.

“Shit,” you whisper. You could hear the sound of his nails raking against it, his cries growing louder. You scour the shelves until you find plyers and walk over to the freezer, trying as quietly as possible to break the lock.

You could hear Isaac’s hands slamming against the top and your hands work faster, your breathing heavy. You feel tears in your eyes, worried for him and disgusted by his father.

“Fuck,” you croak, struggling with the lock. A few seconds later it falls to the floor and you slowly unravel the chain, making sure it doesn’t drop to the floor.

The lid flies open and Isaac jumps out pinning you to the floor, his hands around your throat and his eyes glowering.

“Isaac,” you choke. He was growling. He was definitely growling. You reach for your phone, shining the light between the two of you, “Isaac, it’s me!” you hiss.

There was a creak above you and his head snaps upwards. When he looks back at you, his face is familiar and he scrambles away from you. You hold back from coughing, clapping a hand to his mouth when he opens it to speak.

You press a finger to your lips as you move your hand away, “Follow me,” you whisper. You both walk towards the window and you wait for him to go up first. He offers a hand to you and pulls you up and you both proceed to jump the fence. He lands, stumbling backwards onto his back and remains there. You finally let out a cough, collapsing beside him.

“Your dad is out of his fucking mind,” you sigh.

“You’re telling me.”

You turn to him, studying his face which was still wet with tears and try to make sense of what you had seen down there. His eyes, his…fangs?

He turns back to you, sucking in a deep breath before blinking hard and looking back at you with glowing golden eyes.

You stare at him, unable to move.

“You’re not crazy,” his eyes flicker back to normal, “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“W-what are you?”

He gives you a look as if to say he couldn’t say any further before his lips curl into a small smile, “Thank you. I don’t know anyone that would’ve been brave enough to do what you did – and Jackson lives across the road.”

“Yeah well Jackson is an asshole,” you huff.

“Oh yeah, the two of you dated.”

This time you turn to him and give him a look that undoubtedly said ‘shut up and don’t remind me’.

Isaac chuckles, though there’s a certain sadness behind it, “Thank you,” he repeats.

“Don’t thank me,” you sigh, “I should’ve done it earlier.”

“Better late than never,” he says standing up. When you stand up, he wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder, “Thank you, y/n.”

You rub his back lightly, “You’re safe now.”

He pulls away, shaking his head, “I have to go back. When he notices I’m gone he’ll go looking for me and next time it’ll be worse.”

“Wha – No! Isaac, you can’t go back there!”

You study his face that was cut up in a few places by a plate his father had thrown, “You can’t go back,” you say softly, your hand reaching out to his cheek.

“I have nowhere else to go, right now.” He thinks about staying with Derek, but Derek had problems of his own right now. As for Scott, he couldn’t ask him again knowing how much his mother was struggling for money.

“Here. You can stay here,” you nod toward your house, “I’m not letting you go back.”

“Your mum-“

“Is never home. And she’s been through the same thing, Isaac. She’ll understand.”

He finally nods, his shoulders slumped, “Thank you,” he sighs, again.

You smile, leading him towards the back door by his hand, though it did feel more like you were dragging him, “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Are you hungry?”

He shakes his head and you look down at your own stomach as it rumbles loudly, “I take it you are,” he laughs.

“Mum left her card to get takeout,” you mumble, “I guess we could order in,” you look at him, not wanting to leave him alone. As if reading your mind, he stands up, “Don’t be silly. I see far too many pizza boxes hanging out of your bins.”

You retrieve your mum’s credit card before taking the keys off the counter and walking outside only to be halted by the sound of Isaac’s dad running from his lawn to yours and coming to a stop on the driveway.

“ISAAC!” he bellows, looking between the two of you, “Come home at once,” he lowers his voice though his face seemed to be shaking with anger.

Isaac steps protectively in front of you but you pull him back, slipping your hand into his, “Isaac and I were just going to get dinner, Mr Lahey,” you say calmly.

“Was it you?” he snarls, “You broke into my basement and took him out? I could call the cops!” he yells.

You step forward, leaning in, “But you won’t,” you step back again, returning to Isaac’s side, “And if I’m being honest, I have no clue what you’re talking about. Sounds to me like you’re implying that you had locked Isaac away somewhere and I had broken him out,” you narrow your eyes, “Which would be ridiculous because that’s abusive, Mr Lahey, and were I to call the cops, they’d lock you away.”

His face had grown red.

“It’s a good thing it’s just a misunderstanding, right?” you raise a brow.

You walk around him, your hand still in Isaac’s and unlock the car, waiting for Isaac to climb in before you sit behind the wheel.

Isaac was staring at you.

“It’s not over yet,” you mumble, turning the engine on and watching in the rear-view mirror as his dad began to storm towards your car. When he was a few meters behind the car, you shifted into reverse and slammed your foot on the accelerator, watching him scramble away, tripping over and landing on his ass before you shifted back into drive and sped off. Isaac was laughing, tears forming in his eyes, “You’re crazy, you know that right?!”

You were too filled with adrenaline to even reply, your knuckles gripping the wheel from holding on so tight. You finally catch your breath, “What do you feel like eating?” you ask him.


You nod, driving in the direction of a diner you knew. When you pull up in the parking lot, your breathing is still heavy and you begin to laugh, leaning your head against the headrest, “This is so far from my plan to eat Chinese takeaway, alone, in my pyjamas tonight,” you giggle.

“I like this plan better,” he grins at you. You realized your hand was still in his, resting on his lap. His eyes land on it too. When you begin to pull away, his grip tightens, “You make me feel safe,” he mumbles.

You turn to face him, “You don’t have to be scared anymore. I won’t let him anywhere near you.”

“If you had said that to me an hour ago, I probably would have laughed but y/n… you are a total badass.”

“Badass,” you repeat under your breath, holding your other hand out, “I’m shaking.”

“Still,” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “You’re brave.”

The air finally settled between the two of you, your breathing returning to normal and then slowly he leaned in as he listened to your heart race.

You slowly lean in too, pressing your lips to his, letting the heat of the moment consume you. You could feel his fingers tangled in your hair as you held his shirt, bunched up in your first. Isaac slowly pulls away, “As much as I’d love to keep doing this, the sound of your stomach rumbling is very distracting,” he chuckles.

You were sure it hadn’t been that loud but perhaps you had been so distracted that you didn’t notice. You nod in embarrassment, “Yeah, I should eat.”

You slowly release your belt and as you pull the door handle Isaac’s arm stretches out and pulls the door shut again, “Maybe it can wait another minute,” he whispers, leaning in again.