Love Looks Like This
By the time he reached the third ring, he was getting nervous- the last thing he wanted was for his miserable, highstrung brother to be so close to talking to his boyfriend and have it snatched away from him. But thankfully Blaine picked up at the last possible second with a thick, sleepy “hello?”
“Hey, Blaine, it’s, uh, it’s Finn,” Finn said. “Uh…hi.”
“Hi,” Blaine said, sleepy and wary. “Why are you calling me at three in the morning?” Finn heard a sudden rustle, like Blaine had bolted upright in bed and pushed all his covers aside. “Is something wrong? Is Kurt okay?”
“Kurt’s, uh, he’s fine,” Finn said, glancing down at his pale stepbrother. “We’re in the emergency room…”
“Oh my god,” Blaine said. “Oh my god. Do I need to come down there? Does he need me? Oh god…”
“He’s okay,” Finn said hurriedly. “He couldn’t stop puking so Dad brought him in. They put him on an IV and stuff. I think they’re gonna do another one, though, so…”
“Oh my god,” Blaine said again. “You’re sure he’s going to be okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s just dehydrated and stuff,” Finn reassured him. He glanced at Kurt, then glanced away, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece of the phone. “But I think he really kind of wanted…you. You know?”
“I can still hear you, Finn,” Kurt said tiredly.
Souvenirs of You
A post 4x20 oneshot, written so that I could cope with the pregnancy storyline.
The first time Caroline hears the voicemail, she’s standing in the middle of her room, contemplating the call that she had missed while dealing with Elena’s humanity drama. Klaus should have no reason to contact her, from what she knew, he was off looking into some witch threat in New Orleans. Stefan had been sparse on the details but she highly doubted that whatever situation he was in could possibly involve a baby vampire in Mystic Falls.
Deciding to bite the bullet, she jams her thumb down on the ‘Voicemail’ button much harder than necessary and sucks in a breath.
“Caroline, I’m standing near one of my favourite places in the world, surrounded by food, music, art and culture, and all I can think about is how much I want to show it to you. Maybe one day you’ll let me.”
“Seriously?” Her first instinct is to scoff, but if she had paid attention, her voice wasn’t so much disdainful as it was amused. Looking up, she caught her reflection in the mirror and was almost startled to see her lips curled up in a small smile. There was no way she was happy to hear from him, was there? He wasn’t beginning to wear her down, there was nothing even the teensiest bit flattering about the fact that he had called her just to let her know he was thinking of her.
‘This is Klaus, Klaus killed Tyler’s mom, Klaus killed Jenna, he ruined our lives, I’m not giving in, I can’t give in…’
But for one carefree moment, Caroline wondered if giving in would really be so terrible. There would be uproar; she’d be severing ties with her friends for at least a while. But closing her eyes she can see herself walking side by side with Klaus through the streets of New Orleans, taking in the sights and sounds of the Big Easy. Her knowledge of the city was limited to Mardis Gras parades and gumbo, but Klaus would take her to the best parts of town, show her music, art and the genuine beauty of a city filled with history and culture. He’d pull her close, pointing out the street corners where he stood a century ago; tell her the stories of his past, his low voice sending shivers down her spine. Closing her eyes, she can feel the phantom warmth of his body close to hers and she realizes that she’s actually losing herself to a fantasy about Klaus.
Snapping her eyes open she takes a deep breath and tries to banish all thoughts of him from her head. As she tapped her phone, she hesitates just before deleting his message. Chewing her lip, she decides she can have this one little secret, and flops down on her bed to listen to the message again.
Can you write a caryl one shot were he comes back from the prison after putting down merle and carol stars asking him if hes ok and he grabs her and kisses her and things get heated but then he just breaks down crying in the middle of it if thats weird i totally understand i just feel like it would be heartbreaking and adorable?
He hasn’t been back in the prison for long but the first thing he does is he searches for her.
She’s in cell block C with the baby cradled to her chest but apart from the baby, she is alone.
As soon as she notices him, she focuses her baby blue eyes on him.
“Daryl? Are you okay?” She asks but he does not respond, instead keeping his gaze focused on her.
She seems to notice that something is off now as she places the baby in her crib and walks quickly towards him, concern written all over her face.
He hates it.
She always looked at him like that, always with concern.. as if she knew every single secret that he was hiding.
“Daryl?” She’s standing in front of him now, her hand outstretched towards him but before it can land on his cheek, he grabs it and holds on tightly.
“Daryl?” She asks again but her voice is not laced with concern anymore but instead… a hint of fear.
He does not take his eyes off her but instead pulls her towards him and smashes his lips against hers.
She flinches and for a moment, he regrets it, but she relaxes and returns the kiss.
It’s sloppy and their teeth clatter against each other for far too long before they finally find their rhythm.
He releases her arm and rests one hand on her waist while the other slides up her shirt to rest on her chest while she rests her hand on his cheek and deepens the kiss.
He cradles her breast in his hand and rubs a nipple between his fingers and can feel himself tighten against his pants at the moan that escapes her.
And that’s when he knows he can’t do this.
He backs away from her and his hands return to his sides.
“Daryl? What’s wrong?” She’s staring at him with concern once again and it’s at that moment that he realizes he’s crying.
He doesn’t answer her but the tears are enough of an answer for her.
She wraps her arms around him and he allows her to hold him.
Just this once, he wants to be held.
“Hey, Dean, c’mere. I wanna show you something.”
Dean looks up from cataloging another ancient relic, one that looks suspiciously like the shrunken head of some ancient priest. It was creepy. And gross. Dean put it down and dusted his hands off gladly.
“Yeah sure, Sam. What is it?”
Sam’s eyebrows are creased in that familiar expression as he’s looking down at a fairly thick open file on the table. A few papers have already been pulled out and he looks all too worried for it to just be another “interesting” dissertation on the mating cycles of amphibious skinwalkers.
Dean plopped down beside him. “Alright, what have you got this time?”
“I dunno exactly. But I’ve been going through these old files and some of the research that the Men of Letters have compiled.”
“Yeah, and? You’ve been doing that for weeks. What makes this one so special?”
“Well, I found this one in the back of a locked cabinet. It was the only one not labeled, so I hadn’t bothered to check inside until now.”
“Still not seeing the point, Sammy.”
“Well, every file was labeled the same thing. They’re all filled with info on one guy. And he’s— Dean let me tell you, he’s a pretty terrifying character. On basically every page, there are ‘caution, do not screw with this dude’ labels.”
“So who is this guy that’s so important his files deserve their own corner in the Men of Letters HQ?”
“There’s not really a name. He’s just called The Doctor.”
The circle of the year winds once more to its beginning. Urðr knots the thread and cuts it, then takes Skuld’s new weave from Verðandi’s hand—future becomes present becomes past, as it has since the Realms began and as it will until the Realms end, if such terms could be considered to have any meaning at all.
And Thor Odinson, firstborn of the All-Father, stumbles away from the warm glow of Gladsheim and drops to his knees at the glittering, shard-bright end of the shattered Bifrost.
It blurs before his sight, a smear of varicolored needles bleeding out into the velvet emptiness, the stars naught but smudged fingerprints in the endless black. He clutches his drinking horn tightly; warm mead spills over his knuckles nonetheless, trickles down to patter like raindrops onto the broken path.
Thor is unused to fleeing the sound of his friends’ raucous laughter. Yet, now, he can bear it no longer—not Sif’s bright ululations, nor Fandral’s high-pitched snigger, nor Volstagg’s booming mirth, nor even Hogun’s undignified snorts, bring him the joy they should. They grate, instead, unharmonious. Cacophonic. Wrong. Such noise, created by a lack all too obvious.
“You laugh so quietly,” he calls out to the void, leaning dizzily over the edge. ”Yet its absence rings louder than all the bells in Niðavellir.”
The black between the stars swallows his call. (Heimdall, standing nearby at watch, says nothing, for Heimdall is wise.)
Thor curls his free hand around the end of the bridge, gazes down where the seas fall away into nothing. His eyes burn hot.
“I know you much prefer wine,” he continues. ”But without you to stop her Sif has gone and drunk it all. I think she misses you as well. Though she would sooner die than admit it.”
(They understood one another, misfits both, bucking the reins of their positions.
Understand. Understand one another.)
The smile stretching Thor’s face feels weak, a pale counterfeit. ”So I suppose you shall have to settle for mead,” he says. ”My deepest apologies.”
His voice cracks—crumbles.
“Hail, brother.” He raises the horn high. ”My brother, my companion, my helpmeet, my left hand. When you return”—and here his voice breaks completely, his breath shuddering—“when you return, there shall be a great feast in your honor, all your favorites, anything you wish, and I shall stand behind you, so that all may see you and know that you are home.”
And Thor tips the drinking horn, pours the mead out into the expanse. It flows as freely as the tears that drip from the end of his nose.
“I will not celebrate the new when the old is not yet gone.”
OH MY GOD I HAVE NO IDEA WHY THAT WAS SO HORRIBLE BUT APPARENTLY I AM ANGST-BOT 5000 TONIGHT HOLY SHIT
can you writwritee a one shot about daryl coming back to the prison after Merle well died and carol tying to comfort him but he just keeps pushing her away until he eventually breaks?
The sun has already begun to set before she sees him coming through the prison gates.
Rick is trying to talk to him but Daryl ignores him, ignores everyone, as he walks inside cell block C.
She makes an effort to talk to him but he ignores her too as he runs up the stairs and into his own cell.
She and Rick exchange a look but all Rick can do is shake his head in response to her unasked question and just like that, she knows what’s occurred.
Slowly, she makes her way up the stairs and into his cell where he resides.
“Go away.” He’s facing the wall, his body curled in on itself, but she does not miss the harshness of his tone.
“I said… go away.” His voice has taken on more of a bite to it and she knows she’s treading on thin ice but she knows what he needs.
“He wasn’t a-” She’s cut off as he sits up and turns towards her with a glare in his eyes.
“Wasn’t a what? A good man? Yeah, I know exactly how you felt about him. I know how everyone felt about him and you know what, just fuck you!” He’s shouting at her now and getting closer and closer to her with his fist raised but she can see the hurt hidden in his eyes and she knows what he’s trying to do.
“No… he wasn’t a good man. But he loved you. He always did.” Carol whispered and watched as his chin began to wobble and his arm lowered until it fell to his side.
“…Fuck.” His voice is wobbling and he’s lowering his head to her neck and she can feel his tears as they fall down her neck.
She wraps her arms around him and lets him mourn.
Lets him mourn the only person who loved him more than she did.
“No, not that, Rose, never that. I’m just grateful you and your dad got out alive.”
“Doctor - have you noticed anything funny about Pete?”
“Well, he’s got a bit more hair than I remember. Vitex working as a hair tonic now? Pete Tyler, defending the the men of Earth - and a few women, I suppose - from the horror of bald scalp?”
He snatched up the umbrella, wielding it like a sword, and finishing up the sentence with a flourish that pressed the tip of it into her cheek. Rose batted the makeshift weapon away, giggling, before her giggles softened into a smile that darkened into a more serious expression.
“Doctor, that isn’t Pete. It’s Tony.”
“Rose,” his eyes - green this time, green and lovely and wasn’t she a fool because they already took her breath away? - widened as he took in the information, what it meant. Her little brother, a grown man - here he was looking old enough to be her father. “Oh, Rose.”
“Is that bad? Has he got a twin brother or something?”
“No, Amy. Tony,” the Doctor paused for a breath, and stood, raking his hands back through his hair in a manner so reminiscent of her husband that Rose’s stomach clenched. “Tony Tyler is Pete Tyler’s son. And the last I knew of him he was barely two years old.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means quite a few things. One, that the readings I took earlier were not quite as wibbly as I thought. It means that Rose Tyler hasn’t aged a day since I last saw her, which,” he leaned forward, running his long fingers through her hair experimentally, like he was smelling her with the pads of his fingers. “I judge to be,” shivers ran down Rose’s spine. “About thirty-two years longer than I first estimated.”
On a plane invisible to human perception, an angel screamed and vanished, sent back to heaven with grave injuries. The demons swarmed forward, taking advantage of the break in the line to fracture the angels’ assault. They couldn’t kill the angels, but they could hurt them; and if enough angels were incapacitated, the borders of hell would remain unbroken.
Even in the dark
When night is black and scary things
under our beds and trapped in our minds
we find friends
people who listen
that no one cares about
not even us
but they listen anyway
they share laughs
and rambles at 2 am
and in an endless sea
of what society tells us to be
go to college get a job have 2.5 kids retire die
who says we have to be normal
we are real
we are human beings and we have dreams
wallflowers and recluses and freaks
who tells us what to be the correct answer is we do
sexuality and gender and race they don’t matter here
you are your thoughts
a hundred billion ideas mashed into a skin society demands is us
but its not
and these people
are the best friends we’ll ever have
they teach us how to be human
they are real.
seperated by hundreds of miles
by a single wire and a computer screen
how strange it is
to be human
contact always wanted, craved
but never found
at least out there
in the “real world”
but the world out there is not real
They are real.
We are real.
This is real.
Odds and Ends
He put the coat in the car, and didn’t think about it.
He kept it wadded up in a ball along with some other odds and ends he always forgot to either keep or throw away. They were always just there, pushed into a corner every time he opened the false bottom of the trunk, half-forgotten and half treasured. The odds and ends kept the coat hidden most of the time, and he didn’t think about it.
He didn’t think about it when they were forced to switch cars. He tossed the bundle of odds and ends and one moldy, bloody trench coat from one trunk to another, again when they stole another car, and again and again. He tried not to look at the bundle as he tossed it.
He didn’t think about it when they switched cars yet again, yet by some fluke of a bumpy road the coat was now wrapped protectively around the odds and ends instead of the other way around. He didn’t think about it, he didn’t. He closed the trunk quickly, took a breath, checked to make sure Sam hadn’t noticed, then opened the trunk again. Without thinking about it, he didn’t think about it. He didn’t look at the coat as he unwrapped it from around the odds and ends and bundled it all back together, this time so that not a hint of beige showed. He didn’t think about it, and tossed the bundle into the next car in a long chain of stolen cars.
He missed his car, where he wouldn’t have to not think about it so emphatically.
He ignored the look on Sam’s face when it was Sam’s turn to unpack the trunk. Dean knew that his brother saw the bundle and what was inside it. He didn’t think about it and ignored the worry in Sam’s eyes. At least Sam didn’t say anything.
No, he wasn’t thinking about it.
He didn’t think about why he kept it. Nothing good was down that road, so he didn’t go down it. He didn’t think that maybe he should throw it away, or clean it, or acknowledge it’s existence. He never considered that maybe he couldn’t throw the damn thing away even if he wanted to. He never wondered whether he kept it as a memory, or as a hope, or as a curse. He didn’t think about it, because there was nothing to think about. It was a coat, dammit, not a person. It wasn’t- he didn’t think about it.
He thought about other things. Whatever hunt they were on. The way Sam’s eyes would rest on empty space for a moment before he remembered to press the scar on his hand. The unfocused feeling in his head accompanied by the burn of alcohol that soothed the thoughts he wasn’t thinking.
He never thought of that stupid, dirty, bloody, corrupted, long-dead coat.
He didn’t think about it- except when he did. Three times. He thought about it three times.
He thought about it when they were in Denver, Colorado, hunting a skinwalker. He was standing in line for coffee, watching the crowds go by. A busy morning. Lots of business men in coats to guard against the cold, walking past- and then he saw it. A flash of beige, the sparkle of dark blue eyes, a familiar strike. He was out the door in an instant- but then he stopped. Understood. The coat was brown, the eyes were grey, the stride was that of a stranger. He went back to the car and opened the trunk. The coat was still there, rotting from the mold and the blood. He didn’t touch it. He looked at it, then he closed the trunk, took a drink, took a breath, took several more drinks, and stopped thinking about it.
He didn’t think about it again until they worked a case in Sandpoint, Idaho. He didn’t think about it until his finger slipped while searching for Cassandra in his contacts list. The phone was at his ear, the line was ringing, the voicemail picked up, and he heard it.
“-I don’t understand. Why- why do you want me to say my name?”
He closed the phone, barely stopped himself before throwing it on the ground. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, tried not to think about it, tried- but the voice. That voice so familiar and so distant rumbled in his head and down his spine and into that pit in his stomach he pretended wasn’t there, rolling through him with a deafening ferocity until he drowned it with alcohol and more alcohol. More than usual, enough to make him deaf to the voice, enough to make him black out, enough to keep him from thinking.
He woke up the next morning clinging to the disgusting coat like a drowning man clinging to a log. He put it back in the trunk, ignored Sam’s expression, and stopped thinking about it.
He didn’t think about it.
Dean saw him.
There. Standing there. He saw him. Alive. Gone.
He saw him.
Looking dumbfounded as he stared at the dead demon. Looking lost and forgotten, because he himself had forgotten. Looking nothing like himself without that stupid coat. Looking nothing like himself, because he no longer was himself. Everything he once was, gone.
Everything except a dirty, bloody coat stuffed in the trunk of the car.
Dean didn’t want to think about it.
here, have a teaser for chapter 7, because it’s become a monster and it taking forever for me to get done. :)
“And how are you feeling, my boy?” Thorin asks softly, brushing some of the sweaty strands of hair back from the lad’s face with utmost care. He frowns when he sees that the lad’s left eye is swollen shut, and the smattering of purple along his face has turned nearly black. He quickly swallows the swell of emotion that wells up inside of him – Kili is clearly not well, and Fili is clearly worried, and it would not do for either of them to see him distraught.
Kili doesn’t react to his touch or his words, just continues whispering. “I don’t think he can hear us,” Fili murmurs sadly. “Mister Oin thinks he is delirious from the fever.”
Thorin only catches a few of Kili’s utterings, and does not find any meaning in them. “What is he talking about? Can you tell?”
“He’s telling me about his Da,” his eldest nephew replies before shifting the boy in his arms.
Thorin raises an eyebrow in surprise. “But he’s never met –“
“He’s talking about you,” Fili clarifies, his expression carefully blank.
by thediamondskies. nc-17. harry/niall.
it’s a good look on niall, he thinks: disheveled, glistening, and desperate.