what's really illogical is how they can speak with their mouths closed

Ghost Stories, part one

“You’re not what I expected at all,” muttered Peridot.

Pearl paused mid-weld.  It had been a few days since Peridot’s meltdown, since she’d contacted Yellow Diamond only to have her faith in the Homeworld hierarchy shattered.  Garnet had spent a day calming her down, and they’d returned to working on the drill, so things were sort of back to normal, but Peridot had barely spoken to Pearl since.  No smug superiority, no plaintive whining about her ideas, no backhanded dismissals of her ability (which had actually been few and far between since the robot fight, to Peridot’s credit.  The little gremlin was trying, and Pearl appreciated that.)

No, Peridot had just…stared.

Not while she thought Pearl was watching, of course.  As soon as Pearl glanced in Peridot’s direction, she’d pretend she’d been completely engrossed in her work, but nobody had ever taught Peridot how to be subtle.  It had really started to grate, but Garnet had asked her to give Peridot time to adjust, and so…well, she had.

But now Peridot was talking to her again.


Well, might as well.

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Drunken Confessions

Originally posted by jimiyoong

(Disclaimer: Gif belongs to rightful owner.)

Yoongi x Reader (I think I have a problem. XD)

Genre: Best Friends to lovers, light smut, !CivilianYoongi

Warnings: Mentions of sexual acts, language

Description: One drunken night led to drunken confessions. What happens from there after your best friend admits to masturbating while thinking about you? A game of cat and mouse ensues and maybe something more will grow out of it.

A/N: Am I the only one that can’t stop writing about Yoongi? Like, I have all these other ideas for other members but Yoongi just won’t stop invading my head. I swear I have no bias. I SWEAR IT.

Anyways…uh…enjoy? This was meant to be a drabble but yeah..it isn’t.  Forgive me.

Word Count: 3.4k

“I’ve thought about you.” your best friend casually said as if it was no big deal.
You stared. Blinked, then took one sip of your vodka orange juice before staring at him again.

“You what?” you blurted. What else could you say? How often do you hear one of your best friends confess about jerking it with you in mind?

“This counts as a confession to absolve me of my, uh, …sins? Just so you know.” he raised his beer to you as if making a toast to make it official.

“I was talking about your ex! How the hell did this evolve into you confessing about your spank bank material?” your cheeks heated up, most likely from the alcohol and not from the flattering information that your hot best friend thinks about you while he masturbates. Wait, did I just say ‘hot’?

“It’s one of the reasons she’s now my ex. I think I said your name like, once…hundred..times-ish, in my sleep.” he chuckled to himself.  

“Oh my god, no wonder she hated me.” you slapped him on the shoulder when he laughed at the look of your dumbfounded face.

When he wouldn’t stop laughing, and you suspect it was because he was already half way drunk, you thought it was a good idea to put in a few more punches so you could distract yourself from the random images of him touching himself flashing through your mind. It doesn’t help with the buzz that went straight down to your core though.

“Holy shit, woman, will you quit it?” he tried to sound pissed, but the slur in his words made him sound nothing more than an irritated drunkard, making you giggle. He grabbed onto your hands and pulled you close to him for a spontaneous side hug, and you quickly fit into his side with his arm around you.

“So, you’re not grossed out?” he gently bumped his head to yours.


“Shouldn’t you be?”

“Probably.” you shrugged, and Yoongi only hummed in response.
Once the two of you fell into a comfortable silence, you started thinking about things. Things that you shouldn’t be thinking about or even admit. As if you were on auto-pilot, your mouth did that thing you hated the most; speaking without thinking.

“I’ve thought about you too.”

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Brighter Days Ahead

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Y/N tries her best to fight an ongoing battle with her mind.

Warnings: Mentions of depression and anxiety.

A/N: I’ve not been in the best head space this past week. That, ontop of school has pretty much kept me from posting, but I wrote this a while back and wanted to share it. Enjoy.


Getting out of bed isn’t the hard part of the day.

Not really. There’s a lot of other things that seem more tedious of task. Getting dressed in clothes you don’t want to wear or forcing food you’d rather let rot down your throat; talking. Talking seems exhausting. Breathing, even. All of it. A chore.

Y/N glances at the alarm clock on her bedside table. The room is dim, save for the light streaming in through translucent curtains. It’s enough for her to read the blinking red numbers that tell her it’s been twelve hours since she left her bed, and it’s enough to make her stomach wrench even more. She sighs. Her eyes hurt, so much as just blinking seeming ten times harder as she rolls onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.

All of it….And yet nothing.

Nothing can make her feel; not the sound of birds singing outside her window or her favorite show releasing a new episode; not pancakes with honey and orange slices like she used to have for breakfast. Not Dean. Her Dean.

When the thought wanders into Y/N’s mind it is almost painful; she clenches her eyes shut and tries to steer it away along with the burning. Dean…he’s been trying. The medication helps make all of this a lot easier than it should be, slows down the rapid bouts of anxiety and sadness and somehow manages to shutter the darkness (for a little bit. And then it’s back.)

When Y/N thinks of Dean and her depression and the shackles it has put her in, she feels a hole rip open in her chest. When she thinks of how she can’t bring herself to eat or speak or even brush her teeth more bits of her shrink and die away.

She sleeps for the rest of the day. Through lunch and Castiel dropping by to ask about the case their handling. Through Sam and Dean watching Die Hard and doing research. The hours float by, all blurred by the blackness around her, drowned out and scraggly and white-noise, everywhere, everything.


She stills. At the sound of a voice, lain on her back, her eyes flutter open and drift to the door. It’s gotten dark out, but the light pouring in from the hallway, cast against a recognizable shadow tells her Dean’s back to check on her.

Y/N swallows. Mustering as much strength as she can, she wordlessly sits up.

Dean’s hand rests on the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

A nod.

He enters, shutting the door behind him and bathing them in eminent blackness; out of the void she can only make out the shadows and contours of the elder Winchester as he crosses the room and sits down beside her, taking her hand in his.

Warm and calloused. Dean’s. All Dean’s, right there. Y/N gulps and lets him stroke it.

“Hey,” He says softly.

Y/N tries to smile; even that feels stilted and un-authentic, so she stops before she even starts. “Hi.”Her hand goes lax in the elder Winchester’s as he draws little tentative squiggles on the back of her palm.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, gaze set on her fingers. She shrugs. The silence is enough of an answer for him, and he finally brings himself to look her in the eye.

And it is strange, but even in pitch-black darkness—in the face of nothingness, an abyss she has dug herself into— she can still find it in herself to make out his eyes.

Those eyes….Those pools of green and gold and everything that is good. They dig into her own relentlessly, swimming with sympathy and hurt. Y/N fights back tears. She knows this is hard for Dean, too, seeing her like this. Not being able to do anything about it kills her more than the lethargy itself.

Voice lowered to a whisper he calls to her, so gentle, so intimate it feels like anything less will shatter them.


“Dean…” Her voice wobbles. Tears prickle at her eyes. Swallowing, she shakes her head slowly, resolve, the last thing the depression hadn’t eaten away, crumbling.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Don’t…Don’t apologize. It’s okay, I know.”

And he does, doesn’t he? He knows the paralytic nature of anxiety. The long nights spent purging her emotions, the two of them wrapped around each other, vulnerable and pushing for some sort of release; he knows scars on her thighs and the story they tell, a tale of her teen-hood she shared when they just started dating.

The secrets of this disease are nothing furtive to Dean. He knows depression like an old friend and he knows Y/N and this kills him.

Night draws on and the elder Winchester surrenders research for an evening beside her, slipping under the sheets and pulling her into him, head rested right above his heart. They lay there, in the quiet. Dean’s hands tremble as he holds her. He tells her tales of home, of his childhood, smiles at her through glassy eyes whenever something he says earns a chuckle.



Y/N feels the silent question dangle over them. A gust of wind sneaks in through the vents, chilling enough for her to draw her feet further under the blanket, tucking herself further into the elder Winchester’s side.

“I’m sorry you have to do this with me all the time. This whole…suicide watch thing.”


“It’s true— that’s what it is, isn’t it?” She looks up to him, meeting his gaze.

“It’s not suicide watch,” Dean argues. “It’s being a good boyfriend.”

“It’s unnecessary. You don’t have to do this.”

“God, even when you’re down you’re still stubborn, huh?” He finally looks down at her. It’s too dark to make out the emotion in them, but she knows it’s anything but anger or frustration; he is patient with her. He always is. Probably why her neuroticism hasn’t broken them up yet.

Eyes set on hers, the elder Winchester opens his mouth to speak but halts. He sighs, shaking his head. “I wanna be here. Do you want me to be here?”

When she nods, the conversation eventually dies out. Soon enough their back to basking in the silence.

But even with Dean’s dismissal of the topic, the question still lingers in the back of her mind; the lamentation of the half-life he’s living with her, the thought that she is for the Winchesters. And sure, they all have baggage—it’s a packaged deal when it comes to hunting—but she is the only victim of the breakdowns, the pill taking, the therapist sessions that make her feel even less like anyone else.

Y/N feels tears prick at her eyes from time to time, battling them away to keep Dean from finding out, but her sniffles are what give her away. When he notices she’s crying, he’ll just wrap his arms tighter around her and pepper a kiss on the crown of her head.

And maybe it’s ridiculous and illogical, but that alone is enough to bring her tears to a standstill.

Sniffling, she rubs at her eyes and rests her hands on his chest.

“I…it’s…it’s a bit easier when you’re around.” She admits. Waits. The silence draws on, accentuated by the hoot of an owl and the shallow breaths of the elder Winchester.

She feels him shift beneath her and soon enough he finds her hand, bringing it up to rest on his chest.



Dean licks his lips, chest rising steadily beneath her ear. “I love you.” He manages. There is a poignancy to his voice that makes her heart wrench, but Y/N choses to hold herself together long enough to reply.

“I love you, too.”

“A lot. And I’m sorry that you have to go through this kind of crap….Trust me, if I could, I’d take the pain away. I wish I could.” A sigh leaves his lips as he cars a hand through his chestnut hair. “Sometimes….I don’t know….I feel really useless.”

“You do take the pain away.” Little bits of it—hell, before Dean joined her in bed she could barely even bring herself to drift off into a slumber, eyes dulled by the darkness of the room—and now, with him here, heart beating right beneath her, close enough to brace through the storm, there is a calm that settles over them. She can finally breathe a little better; see a little clearer, just enough to glimpse up and catch sight of the elder Winchester’s clenched jaw and strained expression as he watches the ceiling.

Head tilted up, she watches him. Something brews in her chest. Something warm and steady and sitting over her heart, making a home out of her ribcage. The light silting into the room bathes Dean in a silvery glow, and Y/N, feeling tears well in her eyes, reaches up and touches his face.

Her hand caresses the coarse stubble on his cheek. He doesn’t move. Shuts his eyes. Exhales. Some of the tension dies away at the touch of her skin and she scoots in closer, just enough for her face to hover over his.

“Dean…” Her fingers explore the constellations of freckles across his face; on the bridge of his nose onto the apples of his cheek, right down to his jaw where a little splatter of stars sits right at the juncture. “Please don’t ever think you’re useless to me, okay? Never. It’s hard—no shit—but…Damn it, Dean…” A hoarse laugh leaves her, sardonic and wet and wobbly. Y/N sniffles, shaking her head. “…you’re there, always…and I don’t know what I’d do without you. Okay?”

Dean nods stiffly, a smile playing at his lips. Sad. Strained. “Okay.”

“Never leave me…” Y/N finds his hand, holding her pinky up to his and linking them. “Promise me?”

Her glassy eyes meet with his, and he chuckles, the rumble reverberating onto her chest, drawing a small smile from her too. “Okay. I promise.”

It’s an oath, a vow that he has made to her over and over and in that moment, staring into his eyes, Y/N thinks of her therapist; of multi-colored pills in her bathroom cabinet, of all the promises and support of friends and family that have driven her this far in the journey…

And that is enough of confirmation of the brighter days ahead.


Thank you for reading! Likes, reblogs and/or follows mean the world. Requests are also open, so feel free to shoot me a message xX

Bound By Chains - Chapter 21

Pairing: Eric/OC
Fandom: Divergent
Rating: M

She’s bound to a monster. And he has personality issues.

A/N: Thanks to everyone still following the story. There’s only 1 more chapter left! Can’t believe we have come so far already! Grab yourself a cuppa and get comfy for this emotional ride!

I just want to say a huge thanks to everyone who has helped and listened to me ramble on! You’re all stars!

Tags: @dauntlessmetalmom @equalstrashflavoredtrash @badassbaker @red-diary @pathybo @murmelinchen @insertamazingwords  @feminamortem @halefiresurvivor @suchlonelymuchsoul @elaacreditava @lauraaan182 @synnocence @jcause @glittergiirlgg @platitudinise @frecklefaceb @mimigemrose @sparklemichele @beltz2016 @ariwolff14 @queensoybean @impalalala6799 

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anonymous asked:

If you're still taking prompts how about FS+ 34) things you said in your sleep please. Love your writing!

Aww, thank you! Normally this type of prompt would lead to 100% angst coming from me, but instead here’s more fluff than I ever thought possible. Shoutout to my husband for brainstorming with me for this, even though his ideas were terrible. Just truly awful. But it did lead to this haha!


Jemma wakes freezing, goosebumps dotting her skin. Fitz has rolled away from her at some point in the night, taking the blanket with him. She frowns, grabbing a corner and attempting to pull it back. She’s certainly survived much worse sleep deprivation before, but at fifteen weeks pregnant she’s gotten a bit prickly about having her sleep disrupted. It doesn’t help that in about three hours she’ll be sick, like clockwork.

Fitz has the blanket wrapped all around him somehow and her gentle tugging only causes him to twist further away from her. She groans in frustration.

“C’mon, Rosie,” he mutters. Jemma’s mouth drops open as she gapes at her still-sleeping husband. So first he steals all of the blankets, and now he’s dreaming about another woman? She’s going to kill him, she really is. She just needs to think of an appropriate punishment.

She waits for a moment, holding her breath, but he doesn’t say anything else. Suddenly inspired, she leans over until she’s hovering right over him, whispering into his ear in a way that always makes him shiver when he’s awake. “What about Jemma?” she breathes, placing a kiss to his earlobe. “Won’t she find out?”

He shifts, burying his face in the pillow. “No,” he mumbles. “We’ll keep…secret.”

Jemma snaps from annoyed to devastated in half a second. She bursts into tears before she’s even aware of what’s happening, and she hates herself for it. She’s always kept careful control over her emotions, but the pregnancy hormones flooding her system have brought everything to hover just under the surface, ready to push through at the slightest provocation.

Her wracking sobs startle Fitz awake, and he rubs at his eyes groggily in a way she normally finds adorable but which only serves to splinter her heart even more.

“Je-Jemma?” he asks, face lit up with concern. “Jemma, what happened? Are you okay? Is the baby okay?” He stumbles over his questions and the blanket, trying desperately to reach her, but she just holds her hands up to stop him.

“We’re fine,” she spits, “not that you would care.”

He looks so hurt that she almost takes it all back. She knows she’s being illogical. She also knows that Fitz would never, ever cheat on her. It’s not like he can control his dreams, and just because she’s never once dreamt of being with anyone besides him doesn’t mean he’s done anything wrong. Maybe he has certain desires that his subconscious brain enjoys exploring. Maybe…maybe he’s feeling different, now that her body is changing. He never looks at her with anything but his usual reverence, but still, it’s a possibility.

She knows all this, but it’s three in the morning and she can’t forget how easily he had told someone else they’d keep whatever happened a secret from her. She and Fitz don’t have secrets, not anymore.

“Please,” Fitz whispers, holding his hands toward her placatingly. “Jemma, what happened? You’re scaring me.”

Jemma grabs a pillow and hugs it to her chest, a poor substitute for her husband. She leans forward and inhales his scent as she shudders through more sobs, and she feels a hand on her back, hesitantly rubbing soothing circles beneath her shoulder blades.

“Did you have a bad dream?” and it’s the sweetly protective way he asks, as if he would fight to banish her nightmares, that breaks her.

“How could you?” she cries. “And who’s Rosie?”

His hand stills suddenly against her back. “Uh…wh-what?”

The fact that he doesn’t immediately admit to anything burns. “I heard you,” she says. “In your sleep, I heard you.”

Fitz doesn’t say anything, and when she’s finally brave enough to look up, he’s staring at her with wide eyes and he’s…blushing?

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Act my age - part 2

You’re still fifteen minutes early when you arrive at your workplace and Commander Spock isn’t around. You decide to use the time wisely by replicating a cup of coffee your brother can’t steal.

There is only one Replicator in his part of the Science Lab and it looks like it’s only seldom used. Weird. Either the Science Crew isn’t so keen on staying in the Labs during lunch break or they treat their Replicator better.

You choose a cup of coffee and because you need strong nerves if you have to talk to Mr. Scott in the evening, something sweet. The machine whirrs to life, but the quiet noise is soon interrupted by a loud clanking, a coughing sound, and some rumbling. The few lights die down and all you can think is “Oh, shoot, I broke the Replicator.”

You decide to try the one trick your brother has taught you. Hit it to show him who’s the boss.

You kick the Replicator once and it rattles, the lights going back on. Phew, that was a close call.

Then there’s a hissing sound and you jump back just in time, avoid being sprayed by boiling hot coffee by a hairsbreadth.

The floor and the closest desks are not so lucky. You stare in shock at the dark liquid that stains everything that was clean and white when you stepped in when the door opens and a young Arcadian woman steps in.

“I didn’t do this!” You whelp, “The Replicator… I…”

She opens her mouth to say something when the Replicator coughs again and produces what you assume should have been your requested pastry: A big, gray lump.

It drops to the floor with a heavy thud, indicating that its texture shows more resemblance to a stone than to edible food.

You look from the rocky pastry to your future co-worker who’s now laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes.

“I’m P-tra,” she tells you with a smile while you work together on cleaning up the mess, “I heard about you. The New Vulcan studies, right?”

“Right.” You give her an awkward smile. Everyone knows about you now, thanks to the New Vulcan studies you had the opportunity to lead. At least everyone in science.

“My own studies are more focused on the physiology of animal life,” P-tra explains, “But I read your dissertation about the topography of Sinar. I like the way you think. Pretty outside the box, if you ask me.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, unsure how to respond to the compliment.

On New Vulcan, you had been one of a few chosen human scientists among Vulcans. And yes, you had been successful, but that only led to compliments like “Your sense of logic is quite unlike the average human being.” or a, in Vulcan standards, passionate “You do seem more Vulcan than human after further inspection.”

Maybe that’s why you looked forward to working with Commander Spock. If you could manage to not embarrass you further until he arrived.

And as if you had called him by thinking of him, the door opened and Commander Spock stepped in. He stopped short right at the door, looked at the Replicator, the not yet fully cleaned Lab and then at you.

“I assume that Lieutenant Y/N has tried to get the malfunctioning Replicator to work?”

“I am afraid so,” you answered promptly, before P-tra could get a word out, “I was not aware that it wasn’t properly functioning and as I was coming in early to get a head start, no one was here to warn me.”

He raises an eyebrow and keeps quiet at that.

When lunchtime arrives, everyone knows of your Replicator mishap. One eager co-worker takes the trouble of getting you a cup of coffee from a working Replicator and blushes when you thank him for it. Everyone is welcoming and friendly, but also very nosy. When it’s

time to take the first break on your first work day, you haven’t gotten any actual work done.

“Aren’t you heading towards Mess Hall?’” Commander Spock asks and steps into the Turbo Lift with you.

“Oh, no, I will get something to eat from the Replicator in cargo bay 5.”

He raises his eyebrow at you, a gesture that looks and feels so familiar to you. At times like this, it’s weird to remember that the Spock you have worked with on New Vulcan is not the same you’re working with here and is still the same person.

“The computer told me that my brother is currently working on a Jefferies tube there and I want to ask him if he could do something about the Replicator in Lab 3.”

The Turbo Lift halts when you finish your sentence and the door opens for a dark-skinned Communications Officer in a red uniform.

“I have notified Engineering of it weeks ago,” Spock tells you, “Mr. Scott promised that they will take a look at it, therefore it is illogical to press further.”

He’s reprimanding you, but kindly so. The woman still raises her eyebrows at the two of you.

“Aren’t you a bit hard on her?”, she asks the Commander, who sends you a thoughtful look.

“I do not think so,” you disagree with the female Lieutenant who speaks so familiarly with the Commander, “However I do not think that taking the matter into my own hands will be illogical. I will wait patiently when I am sure that there is nothing I can do myself.”

As anticipated, Spock lifts his eyebrow, questioning your comment, but the Lift stops in cargo bay 5 and you step out of the lift.

“And if the team will continue to question me about my time on New Vulcan after lunch break, we could arrange a separate meeting for discussion, so I can use my work time for work? I am more accustomed to the Vulcan way of working, I am afraid.”

Spock nods in understanding, while the woman next to him sends you a questioning look. She doesn’t speak, though, and the lift closes again, leaving you with silence and the task of finding your brother in one of the Jefferies tubes.

“Hey, Mister Beardless, I brought food,” you call into a Jefferies tube. There’s the clanking sound of tools being dropped and then your brothers head pops out of the dark opening.

“I heard the word food.”

“Yeah, but did you hear your PADD beeping? I sent you some messages.”

“I was working,” he says, not in the mood for a joke when food is so close, “Is that coffee?”

“Yes, and it’s mine.” You take a sip to emphasize your point but as soon as the cup leaves your lips it is taken away from you.

“Not anymore,” he empties it with three big gulps, before taking the sandwich from the plate you brought him. You roll your eyes.

“Well, at least do something for me in return.”

“What do you want?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth open, you pig. Our replicator is broken and we need to fix it.”


“Well, I am asking you and you will do it.”

“Why would I do it?” He snorts when you pull a face. “Seriously, I have a list of sixty things that need to be repaired this week and your replicator isn’t even on it.”

“Do it in your free time then.”

“What’s free time?” He asks back and ducks his head when you throw your apple at him.

“If you’re so serious about that damn replicator go and ask Mr. Scott. He might have time to do it.”

“I can’t just bother him with a broken Replicator when Commander Spock has told him about it already. It’s illogical and it looks pushy.”

Your brother’s answer is picking up the apple and throwing it back at you.

“But you can illogical push me?” He asks when you catch the apple and take a bite.

“You’re my brother, you’re supposed to be pushed.”

“I’m going to push you into the Jefferies tube if you say the word push again, you push-over.” He sticks his tongue out at you and hops over the edge and into the tube when you try to hit him.

“You should be nice to me,” you yell into the darkness of the tube, “I still have the pictures from your potty training.”

“Just go and ask Mr. Scott,” he yells back, “It will give you an excuse to check out his beardless face.”

“Will you just drop the damn topic?” You snap back.

You can still hear him laugh when you walk out on him.


You step into the Turbo Lift and check the time on your PADD. If you go back to work now you’re almost half an hour early. You could start working on the schematics and get a good head start. But if knowing Prime Spock is any indication, the young Spock will ask you how your discussion regarding the Replicator has worked out. You need to talk to Mr. Scott before you get back to work. Or at least look for him so you can convincingly say that you haven’t had the opportunity to talk to him yet.

But you really don’t want to talk to him and find out that you’re still crushing on him. Not in the middle of your workday. Work days are for working.

The turbo lift starts to move and you panic for a moment until you realize that someone must have called it a few levels ahead of you.

The door opens to what must be the engine room and the head of the engineering department himself.

“Mr. Scott,” you squeak in shock and he looks up from his PADD.

“Ach, Lass, I told you to call me Scotty.”

The voice in your head that is responsible for your ability to speak as formal as a boring old librarian is lost in an endless circle of “oh no, oh no, oh no,…”.

He looks even better without a beard.


tagged: P-tra @engineeringtrashcan , @starmission , @impalaanddemons , @eufeme , @anotherotter

therebewhaleshere  asked:

OH My gosh, please write 12 for Spirk!

12. We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way

hoo boy

It was Jim who had the idea. The old man was sick, and dying slowly, Jim had said. It would be logical to give him some peace and act like he’s succeeded in getting us together, Jim had said. 

Spock had been inclined to agree; there was nothing his older self missed more than his Jim Kirk, Spock knew that. So, when they were invited to spend two weeks leave at Selek’s house, Jim had made the suggestion and Spock had, for some reason even he couldn’t name, agreed. It started out innocent enough, Jim told Selek to just give them one room instead of two and when they ate dinner together Jim sat closer than usual and bumped his knee against Spock’s. Selek had been overjoyed. 

A week into leave, Spock wished he had stayed on the ship.

Vulcan kisses, contrary to popular belief, were not so innocent. They were… well, they were personal, and special. Jim’s way of doing those was messy and warm and gave Spock a strange tingling sensation in his gut. Maybe those were what had done it, made him get addicted to Jim’s touch. 

He’d dreamed (dreamed, ugh) of Jim’s hands last night. 

This morning, as he sat in meditation with Selek, he had to work to keep his focus on himself. Jim was disrupting his meditation now. Great. 

“I must say,” Selek was saying “It pleases me to see that you are so comfortable around Jim at such a young age. He is- was- always illogical when it came to displays…” The old man smiled the tiniest bit “I always felt them unessesary, at least when we were young. You have become quite tempered to them however.”

“Jim is a very tactile person.” Spock muttered, and Selek made a noise not dissimilar to a chuckle. “Agreed.”

Selek was, at the end of the day, not a fool. Spock had a feeling he wasn’t as convinced as Jim thought. 

But Jim was happy. And Spock, for some reason, cared about Jim’s happiness perhaps more than his own dignity. So the first time Jim grabbed him by the collar and kissed him on the mouth, Spock kissed him back. 

Selek was pleased.

That evening, they went to their shared bedroom. Spock had offered to sleep on the floor, but Jim had insisted that they just share the bed. Jim was warm, Spock slept well, and no one suffered. 

well, Spock did. But Jim couldn’t know that. if he deveolpoed romantic feelings for his very straight very your a pointy eared bastard captain, it was none of Jim’s buisness. Mostly because Jim would probably have him court martialed. 

They left Vulcan, Spock got his bed back, and the feelings did not go away. Spock felt a little sick. he was dstracted, and afraid. he wished he could call Selek, but it would ruin their act if Spock called his counterpart and said we lied to you but now im not lying Jim makes me feel things help me. 

He manages to keep his work up to standard, despite the fact that Jim is right there feet away from him and Spock knows what his lips taste like now and he’s like an addict craving his second hit. 

Perhaps that’s why he requests to join the next landing party even though the planet is cold, because he just needs to be away from Jim for a while.

Three days in a jail cell, and he supposes he’s gotten his wish. the three other landing party members are dead, having been unable to survive the torture. They were being punished as invaders, and the aliens didn’t speak english. Through a haze of pain, he waits for the Enterprise to come for him or death to come for him. 

Another torture session, and Spock is back in his cell. His ears are ringing. 

He swears he hears engines, and phasers.

he’s probably dreaming when he feels those hands that he dreams about constantly now hoist him up. he knows he’s dreaming when he hears Spock Spock Spock please I need you to stay you have to stay please wake up you have to be okay Spock Spock please Bones help him-!

He’s on a shuttle, but it doesn’t look like one of the ones from his ship. It’s close but not exact.

“Oh good, your awake.” comes a voice, and Spock turns his head-

Jim Kirk has hazel eyes, and his uniform shirt is a different shade of yellow from the Jim he knows. He smiles a bit “How do you do, Mr. Spock?”


“Sh. don’t try to talk. Save your strength. you’ll need it when you wake up again. To answer your question; no, your not dead. Only mostly dead.”

Spock blinks, and Jim grins “The princess bride? No? fine. thanks for taking care of my husband, I was worried about him when he came to your universe.” He sighs then “that kid loves you, you know. your captain. You two have a shot, and you’ll get more years than me and my Spock got so…” His eyes were sad “Don’t waste it? please? and tell Spock- my Spock- that I said hello. And that i miss him. And that I’m waiting for him.” He grins again “Say there’s logic in the universe, He’ll get it.” 

Spock nodded once, closed his eyes, and he swore he felt Jim Kirk kiss his head before he

Jim was sitting next to him, chin on the edge of the bed. Spock blinked when he turned to look at him.

“you’ve been in a coma for 17 days and 3 hours.” Jim mumbled.”I counted them all. Don’t do that to me.”

“I think I might be in love with you” Is what Spock says “Since we pretended for Selek. Since you kissed me. I think I enjoyed it.”

“Oh. good.”


“… Can I do it again?”

“That and more, please.”

Jim grinned “It took you long enough.”

He vulcan kisses him in that messy, warm, scandlous way that would make his grandmother cringe, and Spock is content/

Despite being old and sick, Selek lives another few months. When Spock recives his things, there is a small note in the box.

I knew you two were lying. It says I appriciate the effort. I hope, more than anything, that you find true happiness with him. I will be in my true happiness, with Jim.

There is logic in the universe, young one.

Spock reads the note twice, closes the box, and goes to find his husband for Jim’s birthday party.

this got really out of hand sweet christ enjoy lissy

Stressed Illogic

Bones, Jim, Spock

Summary: Jim shows Spock what tickling is… on Bones.

A/N: Based on this prompt. I hope you like it!

Words: 1 064

Of all the things Bones thought he would hear come out of the mouth of the Vulcan nuisance, a question about what tickling felt like wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t even remotely close to one of them.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another, observing Spock and his ever-present serious frown. Not that he would ever be able to, but he couldn’t find a single sign that he was messing with him, but then again, Spock wouldn’t ever crack a joke anyway, so his musings had to be earnest.

Bones cleared his throat. “Why do you ask?”

“I happened to come across the verb during my research of the human culture-” Bones really itched to ask why he was researching that when he could’ve just asked him or Jim, but he kept his question to himself. “-and I came to the frankly surprising realization that I do not know what the sensation of tickling feels like, nor have I ever witnessed it, and therefore I come to you in the hopes that you can provide me with an explanation.” He took in Bones’ bewildered expression. “Purely because, as a medical officer, anatomy-”

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goramidiot  asked:

Iggy stress baking while stuck at home waiting for an important phone call!! Adoption? Talcot? Give me all the Fluff

I kind of dropped the ball on this whole fluff thing. And made it a letter instead of a phone call. Oops? 1700 words. 

There is a letter waiting when Ignis returns home.

Letter does not seem like an appropriate word, however. The envelope is over-sized, large enough to easily contain several sheets of paper, the thick card stock construction strongly hinting at its official contents.

“It’s from the adoption agency,” Noctis reads when Ignis offers it, pushing back familiar feelings of frustration at not being able to discern the return address himself. Noctis tries to mask the note of concern in his voice, but Ignis has spent too many years interpreting the emotion that lingers behind the other man’s indifferent tone to miss it now. “You want me to stay until Prom gets back?”

Ignis shakes his head gently, “No need. I have work to do, after all.”

He can feel Noctis’s hesitancy as he lingers in the lobby, debating whether or not to press.

Ignis smiles gently, a gesture of reassurance he isn’t sure he truly feels. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“Don’t let Gladio hear you say that,” Noctis replies with some humor, and Ignis indulges him a small laugh. The feeling of Noctis’s hand settling on his shoulder does little to chase away the anxiety that has settled in his chest, but he finds that he misses it’s reassuring weight when it’s removed a moment later. “Try not to worry too much.”

And he does try, attempting to focus his thoughts on anything but the letter that remains clutched in his fingers even after he’s entered the apartment, removing his shoes and flipping on all the lights in a series of familiar, automatic steps. For a brief moment, he considers calling Prompto, but the thought is quickly chased from his mind. No need to cause any additional stress.

He frowns, placing the envelope gently on the kitchen table before leaving the room.

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anonymous asked:

84,,, 70,,, 17 pls mOtherrr ily

Prompt 17: “I ran here in the rain, this is how much I love you.”

Prompt 70:  “I hate school and everyone in it.” “Even me?” “You’re an exception.”

Prompt 84:  “You’re art.” “But I’m nothing like your art.”

Shane is twitching as he waits for Ryan to arrive, counting his breaths and his steps as he paces. He watches the rain fall around him and doesn’t think about the fact that Ryan can’t drive yet, just waits for him. It’s a Saturday, so they shouldn’t be coming to the school at all, but Shane can’t make himself show Ryan his art when the rest of their friends are around; they’ll make a bigger deal of it than needs to be made, and Shane is anxious enough. When Ryan arrives, he’s soaking wet but still smiling, unzipping Shane’s hoodie and burrowing into a hug. Shane is not unfamiliar with this situation, but his eyebrows draw together anyway.

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~ Why Worry? Be Happy! ~

Originally posted by bonesy-mccoy

Originally posted by all-ive-got-left-is-my-spones

Prompt: “I got you infected.”

Words: 2772

Warnings: Sadness, mentions of breakdowns and an abortion.

A/N: This is my first imagine. I don’t really know where it came from, but I just went along with, so it I hope you enjoy it nevertheless! 
English is not my first language (so there may be some upcoming spelling and/or grammar mistakes in my next imagines), but for this one: Thank you very, very much @outside-the-government for your help!  

Bones slumps down the wall beside the transporter pad, sighing and letting his head fall onto his chest. There are dark circles under his eyes, proof of his lack of sleep in the last few days. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s exhausted from pacing around the med bay all day long, with nothing do to other than to stand by and wait, relieved from his duties for the time being. As much as he hates himself for breaking down so easily and letting his duties wait, he knows that he would not be able to concentrate, not with your life on the line.

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Character(s): all of the main ones + scholar
Plot: In a world where vampires are a very real threat, Scholar accidentally finds out the identity of one.
Warnings: Scholar is a girl

Note: this is purely fan work so none of the characters belong to me, just like their personalities may or may not be canon, i don’t know. 

(this is just a quick scenario i made because sudden inspiration came to me. it’s not complete and it’s not going to be continued unless you guys want more, then i’d gladly write a full fanfic out of it ^^ thanks for the amazing help, @ellliebean! @mcldrabblesforyou i believe you like to be tagged on things like this? :0)

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What if: Tsuna grew up under Alaude’s care?

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tsuna is seven when he meets his Mist. Well, one of them anyway.

It’s spring break, he’s received decent grades in all his classes (although Alaude still despairs of his arithmetic skills, even if Tsuna did pass it), and Alaude’s already taken him stationary shopping for the next semester.

Tsuna’s never been anywhere but Namimori. He loves listening to Alaude’s stories of Italy, of France, of Russia and China and Singapore and Egypt, all the places Alaude’s been, for both work and leisure, but it just isn’t the same. Tsuna wants to go to all those places and see them for himself.

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Poison and Wine: A Sherlock x Reader Fanfic

Chapter 16: Say Something

You were only focused on getting back to your apartment as quickly as possible. You kept your head down, knowing that tears were still sliding down your face. You fought to keep your breath even. You glanced up at the street signs, seeing that you were nearing your flat. You forced your legs to move quicker, knowing that your bed would welcome you gladly.

Suddenly there was an arm around your stomach, pulling you into an alleyway. Instantly you feared the worst and began kicking at the person. The person pushed you against the wall, allowing you to see their face. There, holding you against the brick wall, was Sherlock. His eyes had turned a shade darker of blue, and he was glaring at you. You immediately turned your gaze downwards so he wouldn’t see your tears.

”Bit dramatic, aren’t you?”

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anonymous asked:

“Our co-ed dorm has this weekly movie night and we sat beside each other at the first one and made fun of the cheesy plot so now we seek each other out each week to sit together.” AU with any pairing you want :-)

(This prompt has been combined with mr-mcshipper’s prompt of “stydia movie night.)

She started wearing makeup to movie night after only four weeks.

The first time, Allison had insisted that they dress down because “dresses don’t go with popcorn.” Lydia’s argument that she didn’t like popcorn anyways, because she enjoys having a face not slicked with oil, had been shot down by Allison immediately. Apparently, movies are incomplete without popcorn with m&ms shaken into them, and anybody who says differently is kidding themselves.

Lydia’s new roommate is strong-willed, sure, but luckily, Lydia is too. She had given into the pajamas, but she hadn’t eaten any popcorn.

Which is how she’d ended up meeting awkward, sarcastic, and strangely sweet Stiles Stilinski when she was wearing pink pajama shorts and a white camisole with a sports bra underneath it. Surprisingly, he had liked her anyways.

She hadn’t liked him at first. At all. Allison had noticed his roommate and made a beeline for him, smiling sheepishly at Lydia as she introduced herself. And then they had started talking, and Scott asked Stiles to switch seats, and that’s how Lydia ended up halfway through the first Avengers movie with an absolutely obnoxious boy crunching on popcorn in her ear. He spent the entire movie going back and forth between whispering the lines and whispering sarcastic things about the lines, and it has taken more than half of the film for Lydia to realize that he was making her laugh pretty consistently.

The next week, she wore a skirt. Stiles, on the other hand, wordlessly plopped into the seat next to her with bright red cheeks and Star Wars pajama pants. He let her wipe her eyes on the sleeve of his white shirt when the dad died, under the condition that Lydia wear pajamas the next week. She suspected, as he quirked an eyebrow, that he would let her use the t-shirt regardless of whether she agreed or didn’t agree. Which is what makes her put her pajamas on the next week and head down to the small auditorium where movie night is held once a week, and what makes her spend extra time on her hair so that she will look glamorously ready for bed.

By week four, she’d bought new pajamas in the hopes that he’ll ask her to watch a movie anywhere but in an auditorium filled with 200 teenagers on their phones. And by week ten, he has yet to do so.

This is the slowest play of Lydia’s life.

She has spent ten weeks hunkered down in a chair next to Stiles, letting him make the stupidest and most perfect comments in her ear and laughing even at the ones that shouldn’t be so funny but somehow are to her. Maybe it’s because their senses of humor mesh so well together. Or maybe it’s because he smells so good that she wants to claw his shirt off every time he leans over.

Either way, Lydia is frustrated.

Tonight, they are sharing a bowl filled with starbursts and throwing the wrappers into another bowl. Stiles seems to find this vigorously entertaining. Lydia is pretending to pay attention to the movie instead of him, but it’s far more entertaining to watch the sour face Stiles makes every time he accidentally eats one of the pink candies.

On the screen, Natalie Wood looks hopefully up at her Tony and says, “When you come, use the back door.” Stiles almost spits a red starburst onto the floor in his eagerness to say, “that’s what she said!” In the most crazed, excited voice Lydia has ever heard him use.

“Juvenile,” she responds.

“Juvenile,” he repeats. “Huh. Any more juvenile than believing in love at first sight?”

“It’s a musical theatre retelling of Romeo and Juliet,” Lydia whispers back, throwing an orange starburst at his head. It falls into his lap, and he unwraps it and pops it into his mouth. “What do you expect?”

“I expect at least six years of character development before these two crazies can get together.”

“That’s illogical,” Lydia says. “You can only have two and a half hours at the most.”

“Hey, you know what else is illogical? Love at first sight.”

She definitely does not believe in love at first sight. What she does believe in is ardor at first sarcastic comment. There’s a very clear cut difference.

“Well, you’re about to be horribly disappointed, because they get fake married in a few scenes,” Lydia says casually.

Stiles actually groans out loud, making several people shush him.

“You wanna get out of here?” He asks, face illuminated only by the light of the screen.

“Sure,” Lydia says, heart quickening because she’s barely ever heard him speak above a whisper. Stiles nods and begins gathering up his things, standing up to reveal superman sweatpants and his ever-present white pajama top.

He’s not what Lydia usually goes for. Doesn’t have muscles or perfect teeth or blond hair. But this is college, and she isn’t going to be the same girl that she was in high school, and when she follows him out of the small little auditorium and watches his ass as they go, she decides that whoever she was in high school doesn’t matter. She’s here now. She got into this school.

She got here, and now she’s going to get what she wants in a whole new way.

“Where did you plan on going?” She asks, padding after him in her flip flops. They echo across the pavement on the quiet, empty sidewalk.

He checks his watch.

“The Dining Halls are probably still open,” he says. “Doesn’t Jefferson close at two AM?”

“Mhm,” Lydia confirms.

“Cool. I’ll show you how to make a coffee milkshake. Top secret recipe.”

He starts walking without asking her if she wants to follow. For a moment, Lydia stares after him. Then she follows anyways.

“Is that a breakfast food or a dessert?” She questions, grabbing his elbow briefly to stay caught-up with him. He walks quickly, blue blanket tied around his neck and trailing behind him like a cape.

He looks like a fucking idiot. She really, really likes him.

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”

“Okay, ghost in Harry Potter. Pipe down.”

“Damn, do you think we could convince them to do a Potter marathon?” Stiles ponders, tilting his head back towards the auditorium. “Man, that would be so fucking fun, I swear I haven’t marathoned those movies in, like, for-”

“Are you ever going to ask me out?”

He stops walking and blinks at how shrill she is.

“Uhh… What?”

“I have been waiting and waiting for eleven weeks, Stiles. For the love of god, the semester is basically over at this point! Are you going to ask me on a date or not?”

“Wait, wait.” He shakes his head like he’s a dog trying to shake water from his hair. “Are you asking me to ask you out?”

Lydia’s eyes turn to slits.

“You’ll find I don’t usually repeat myself.”

He swallows, hard. Ah. There’s the Lydia Martin she loves to bring out.

“So, um, you… You want to go out. With me. Like a date.” Stiles looks so paralyzed with disbelief, trying to find the catch, that there’s nothing Lydia can do but lurch forward, tug him down by the shirt collar, and press her lips against his. “Lydiawillyougooutwithme?”

He asks it in a rush as soon as she’s pulled away, swiping some of her lip gloss off of his upper lip as she pulls back.

“Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Um, okay,” Stiles replies, still seeming shell shocked.

This time, it’s Lydia’s turn to begin walking, leaving him to trail behind her.

She waits for him to catch up. When he does, he has taken his cape blanket off and proceeds to wrap it around her shoulders, hands a little shaky.

Lydia bypasses the cafeteria and heads straight for her dorm. Because, yeah. He’s a keeper.

Pull the Thorns From Our Ripped Bodies

So I had a lot of 2x11 feels. I still have a lot of 2x11 feels. I’m not sure what this was supposed to accomplish but…I just have a lot of feels. 

Also nothing says OTP feels like Snow Patrol so the title comes from the song “Make This Go On Forever.”

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anonymous asked:

18, souharu?

“Things you said when you were scared.”

I know people wanted more mer!haru and cop!sousuke so have Haru saving his boyfriend.

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this, Sousuke thinks, as he struggles for breath.  He gasps as he tries to keep his mouth above the icy water.

He’s cold; so cold it’s a struggle to even to move his body at all. He stopped being able to feel his limbs minutes ago, and his vision is slowly growing more and more blurry.  He knows he’s going to lose consciousness soon, and that will be it…

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