char : he's meant to be with her

Candy Hearts

Requested

Based on the word “Inevitable”


Draco’s eleven.

He’s gasping lungs and cracked open ribs as he clutches the acceptance letter in his pocket and glances up at the frost laced rooftops of Diagon Alley, realizes that there’s an entire world beyond the manor walls and he hadn’t even realized it.

He’s eleven and catching sight of her through shop window reflections like crystal balls. Dragging himself into Florish and Bots because there’s curiosity, no, interest, no, enchantment, maybe, ebbing like magic through the whorls of his fingertips. And she’s in his peripheral, schoolbooks clutched to her chest and smile soft, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. Luminescent in the light filtering through the window.

Draco watches as she rolls her sleeves up to her elbows and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, strains on her tiptoes to reach a book on one of the higher shelves and –

“Here,” he says, grabs the book and slips it into her hands. Ignores the spark that catches between their fingertips and tugs, oh yes, he’s close enough to see the color of her eyes like rainbows reflected through a prism, the butterfly soft smile that traps itself against her mouth as she meets his eyes –

Says her name, “Y/N,” like wind chimes or a symphony.

And Draco thinks that it might as well be a spell.

___

Draco’s twelve.

He’s glances cast across a classroom, over his shoulder, when he hopes that nobody is looking. Fingers brushing and elbows knocking and, “Excuse me, I didn’t watch where I was going.” He did, and he’d be lying if he said that touching her felt anything less than a charm.

He’s twelve and he’s the pride swelling in his chest at his first Quidditch match when he can hear her somewhere below him, cheering his name. He tells her that she’s his good luck charm the next day, doesn’t quite catch the blush that suffuses her cheeks before he turns away.

But it’s the last day of term and she’s slipping by him in the train corridor and, “Have a good summer, Draco,” she says, hesitates, brushes her lips against his cheek.

He hadn’t quite believed in magic, until then.

___

Draco’s thirteen.

He’s Blaise’s snickering and Pansy’s knowing looks and jealousy, hot and potent, bubbling like a potion he hadn’t managed to get right in his stomach as Cormac McLagen smirks and smiles and sidles up beside Y/N in the Great Hall during breakfast one day.

He’s thirteen and he’s fucking captivated as snowflakes dust Y/N’s lashes and the wind twirls the ends of her scarf, as she wipes butterbeer from her upper lip and giggles at something that one of her friends whispers into her ear.

“I’ll help you back,” he offers, seizes a chance, when her friends have run ahead of her on the path back to the castle.

And she smiles at him, tucks an arm through the crook of his elbow. Tells him about the trouble she’s been having in Transfiguration lately and if she can’t figure it out her parents will have her head for sure and –

“I can tutor you, if you’d like,” he says, wonders if Blaise had spiked his pumpkin juice with Felix Felicis that morning. Hopes that she can’t feel his heartbeat through the jut of his elbow.

“I’d love that,” she replies.

And he can’t quite believe his luck.

___

Draco’s fourteen.

He’s library desks cluttered with books and ink blotches, Madam Pince’s furious hushing when he and Y/N forget to be quite. The way light streaks and shimmers around her, distorted as though they’re drowning in the Black Lake.

He’s fourteen and strangely, oddly hopeful as he clasps her fingers, marvels at the fit of her hand in his, shows her the correct hand motion and heart stops, starts, stutters when she doesn’t quite pull away.

“I aced my last test,” she tells him, runs towards him in the corridor, throws her arms around his neck till he can feel her heartbeat crash against his.

“I guess you don’t need a tutor anymore then,” he says. A frown is burgeoning on the cusp of his mouth.

“No, no,” she says hurriedly. “I still do.”

And he isn’t sure why he hasn’t transfigured this, them into something else yet.

___

Draco’s fifteen.

He’s the firewhiskey on his lips and the castle floor on the palms of his hands as he reaches forward and spins the bottle yes, hopes, wonders, waits as it spins, spins, lands on her, oh yes.

He’s fifteen and he’s the lip-gloss on her lips, the way they crash head on like a train-wreck, a car crash and he doesn’t have an algorithm for this: him, her, the kiss.

Because her mouth fits neatly against his and she tastes like melted sugar, like cotton candy, all soft edges and fluttering pulse points. His eyes are closed and he can’t quite believe/ only he can, he’d rigged the game.

Afterwards, afterwards, afterwards:

He pulls her into a broom cupboard and threads his fingers through her hair, tastes butterbeer on her tongue and feels his tonsils glued together because this is a secret and he can’t quite find the right words to say.

But things are different, they’re different and he holds her hands as he walks her to class, kisses her across the tabletop in Honeydukes and grabs her, twirls her after Quidditch matches. He wraps his scarf around her neck and they pass notes in class, sit at the top of the astronomy tower at night and map out the handful of constellations that they know.

It’s this: him, her, and how he hadn’t anticipated that the winds would change.

___

Draco’s sixteen.

He’s late night kisses and early morning platitudes, worried questions and, “Draco, I know something’s wrong.” The mark on his arm and the worry that’s coiled tight in his gut as he attempts to keep it covered up.

He’s sixteen and he’s breaking, the world too heavy on Atlas’ shoulders. Because he has a noose around his neck and he can’t do it, can’t, can’t, can’t.

They lose their virginity to each other the night before he’s meant to kill Dumbledore. And it’s like falling through a pensieve to a memory he didn’t know he had; soft lips and rolling hips and gasps, teeth, fingers fit neatly in the groove of her waist.

Here’s how it goes:

A girl, a boy, a tragedy. He’s Icarus and she’s the sun and it’s not her that kills him, oh no, it’s the ocean and melted wax dripping down his back.

He tells her ‘I love you’ before he tells him ‘I have to kill you’.

And there’s a green light and he’s Gatsby and he’s never managed to reach what he wanted, no, has only ever been a cautionary tale.

He’s sixteen and he’s a mistake, a heartbreak, the boy who made all the wrong choices.

___

Draco’s seventeen.

He’s the shards of a broken chandelier stuck in his mouth, his hands, vocal chords torn to ribbons as lights flash green and screams echo through the hallowed corridors of the manor. The letters he’d sent her that don’t have a reply, the ragged stitches of a heart never meant to mend.

He’s seventeen and the room of requirement is burning around him, life flashing before his eyes, flames licking at his heels. It’s her, her, her. And Crabbe’s gone, the room is charred but it’s not over yet, is never over.

There’s blood on his hands and in his throat when he sees her again. When he grabs her, yells, watches as a Death Eater’s body crumbles to the floor.

Her palm is sweaty against his, breaths ragged and tears sooty.

There’s a war raging around them and he finds that he doesn’t quite care.

___

Draco’s eighteen.

He’s the faded mark on his arm and the ring in his pocket and the happiness – cautious, unsure, new – that permeates the walls of his new home with her. Because the war is over and the world is still turning.

He’s eighteen and he’s a happy ending, maybe, a fairytale that didn’t quite end with them riding off into the sunset but ended like this instead: him and her and he thinks that that’s all he ever really needed.

My Mistake Chapter 4

Pairing: AJ Styles x OFC (Jessica), mention of AJ x Charlotte

Rating: General

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 1,863

Summary: Jessica, a stylist for WWE, has a special friendship with AJ Styles, spending most of her time with him. But after the Superstar Shake-up and Charlotte coming to Smackdown, Jessica’s relationship with AJ changes drastically. And Jessica is not sure she can handle these changes.

Inspiration: “It’s my mistake for not making you love me more. It’s my mistake for loving you more than you love me. I did not make you love me more as much as I do. It’s my mistake” - SNSD “My Mistake”

My Mistake Masterlist

That night after the show AJ head to the hotel wore out. The brutal match with Jindar taking a toll on his body, and then all this stuff with Jessica and Charlotte is mentally exhausting. He is actually thankful that Charlotte decided to ride with Becky; he needed a break and a chance to think everything over. He checks the time and sees how late it actually is. There is no way Jessica will want to talk to him now, she will be too tired.

‘I’ll just wait until tomorrow to talk to her. Let her calm down from tonight and get a good nights rest.’ AJ thinks to himself.

He sets his phone down with a sigh and then heads to the bathroom for a quick shower before bed.

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Boss With Benefits

Summary: AU: You’re Charlie’s assistant, and Dean wants you to make a move. 

Word Count: 1010

Warnings: None

A/N: I keep getting all of these drabble ideas whenever I have to homework and I have absolutely no self control, so here’s my first Charlie drabble!! 


“When are you gonna make your move?” your friend asked over the phone.

You rolled your eyes at Dean’s question and tapped your finger on the desk. Charlie—Ms. Bradbury wasn’t scheduled to be back from her meeting for at least another five minutes, so it was safe to talk about her.

“I’m not gonna make my move. Dean, she’s my boss.”

“She’s hot in that geeky kind of way that you’ve always liked. And she broke up with her girlfriend, what, three months ago? That’s an acceptable time to wait.”

“What would you know about acceptable times, Mr. One-Night-Stand?” You really hoped he would drop the you-and-Charlie thing because thinking about the you-and-Charlie thing always made you so distracted. Sure, you considered her your friend. And sure, you two joked around in ways that could be construed as flirting… but she was still your boss and didn’t think of you that way.

“I know stuff,” he answered, sounding affronted. “And about the whole boss thing… didn’t your job come with benefits?”

“Insurance and a 401(k), Dean! Not—” You lowered your voice and glanced around to make sure no one could hear. “There was nothing in the contract about a boss-with-benefits.”

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Meant to Be Yours: Mother’s Day

For the anon who asked for MTBY Mother’s Day, and for @stick-to-the-lasagna-lady who gave me the idea.

This is set ahead of where the last chapter left off, and will probably earn a mention in a coming chapter.

Apologies if this is terrible. I wrote this while I was very distracted.



A victorious little grin edges onto Henry’s face as he lays the recipe card down onto the counter, and looks at the ingredients laid out in front of him–and he can hardly contain his excitement, wishing that he could just fast forward to the part of the surprise when he got to wake her up for breakfast.

It was their first Mother’s Day together, and he wanted it to be special.

He’d planned it all out the night before–he’d made a card, drawing a bouquet of flowers on the front and writing “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MOM” in big red, bubble letters. He’d been so careful to stay in the lines he’d drawn, and when Robin called a few minutes after nine–just as he always did on the nights they weren’t all together–Henry snuck downstairs and snagged a recipe from her box. And then, he woke up before the sun was even up, quietly tip-toeing down to the kitchen–and when he reached the kitchen and turned on the light, and Regina didn’t join him, he’d let out a sigh of relief, glad to not have ruined the surprise.

He took a breath and he reached for the baking dish, and suddenly felt uneasy–he’d never cooked alone.

Well, not successfully, anyway.

Looking between the card and the ingredients for the baked apple French toast he’d decided to make, he wrung his hands together, and wondered if maybe this was a mistake…

He could barely see over the countertop but a grin stretched over his lips as he pushed two fingers down on the lever of the toaster. He smiled and turned away–he couldn’t wait to see Mrs. Termaine’s face. The night before she’d been on one of her tirades, complaining about how thoughtless Louie and the girls were, how they never did anything for her, how they only thought of themselves.

But he was different, and this was going to prove it.

And maybe then, she’d even love him.

Grinning, he opened the back door, deciding that flowers might look nice on the table–and before he could pluck the first one, he could hear the smoke detector screeching. For a moment, he froze–his eyes widening as his heart raced, and then he bolted toward the house.

Throwing open the door, he watched smoke billowing up from the toaster–and then, his eyes shifted to Mrs. Termaine. Her jaw was tight and her eyes were narrow, and he felt his stomach drop. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“Look at what you did!” she yelled–and he flinched. “Look!”

“I-I’m sorry,” he heard himself say in barely audibly voice as tears filled his eyes. “I just wanted to…”

“It doesn’t matter what you wanted! The only thing that matters is what you did!” Henry nodded as his jaw started to tremble–and wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t seem to find his words. “I don’t want to see you!” She spat as she looked away from him and forced the lever on the toaster up, pushing four charred slices of bread, in spaces that were only meant for two. “You over stuffed it,” she sighed as his tears spilled over his eyes and he offered an muffled apology for disappearing to his room…

“Henry!” Regina gasps–and his eyes widen as he lays the last slice of bread into the baking dish. “What are you doing?”

His stomach flutters a bit, and suddenly, he feels so unsure. “I… I wanted to surprise you.” His bottom lip catches between his teeth as her eyes shift from him to the slices of apple in a bowl to his right. “I… I’m making you apple French toast,” she tells her. “For… for Mother’s Day.”

Her eyes widen as she looks back to him, and a slow grin stretches across her lips. “You got up this early to make breakfast for me?” He nods as her smile brightens and she steps into the kitchen, quickly making her way to him. Her hands cup his face and she pull him to her, brushing her nose against his. “You are so thoughtful!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise…”

“Oh,” she murmurs, as she pulls back. “And I woke up and ruined it.”

“Well, no, not exactly…” He shrugs. “This just isn’t how I pictured it.” He grins. “I wanted to set the table and put some flowers in a vase and wake up and…”

“I could… go back upstairs and…”

“No,” he cuts in. “It’s better this way.” His grin brightens and he hands her an egg. “Especially because I can’t actually separate the yolks.” She laughs as she takes the egg from him, once more she leans in, this time pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,” he whispers as he wraps his arms around her neck, and pushes himself deeper into her hug.

Not Today, Erudition

The absolute horrific state of the council chambers after the epic brawl between Kerrwynn and Kurel, which had reportedly been sanctioned and encouraged by Lord Frostblade while drunk? Well, it was met quite quietly, though with a very clear message sent to all Scions in the form of their unusual morning breakfast in the lodge.  Porridge alone.  Not even salted.

 Though the council chambers themselves had been cleared out, cleaned, a neat box of books that had been destroyed versus books that were still in tact sitting outside the door with a ledger of titles of tomes needing to be replaced, any fragment of wood or drop of blood having been swept and scrubbed during the midnight hours.  The room awaited its restoration of furniture and while it didn’t smell as horrid as it had last night of sweat, blood, piss and charred remains of furniture, it did smell heavily of astringent cleaners.

 The coffee was also less than robust in flavor and the bread, fruit and cheese tray had not been laid out just yet.  From the looks of it, this was the equivalent of Maggie ‘berzerking’.


Maggie hadn’t even said a word to him that morning. He could usually hear the matron’s smile in her taunting fan-girling of ‘Cuur-ely’ and she always presented him with a heavy trey of breakfast, meant for two. Not this morning. This morning, when his jog ended in the kitchen as it always did he found himself having to drink directly from the sink rather than presented with a glass of iced water. There was a clink! on the counter beside him as Maggie swept in and then away. Not even a brush to his arm or hand to offer a good morning. 

He had become spoiled and washed in the royal living style that Erudition provided with its linen cleaners, cooks and servants. So it was something of confusion that over took him, as he failed to put the pieces together. That his fist fight with Kerrwynn– who had instigated the entire matter – which left the Council Chambers looking like the Barren’s after Deathwing’s Sunder had upset Maggie to such a degree that she was not just scolding, but practically castrating through the only means she knew how.

And it was super effective.

The porridge smelled like nothing. It could have smelled like anything and that would have made it just slightly appetizing, but the fact it had no smell what so ever, was questionable. Even the way the spoon felt through it as he stirred the slop was off putting. He brought just one bite up to taste of the smallest quantity, only to grudgingly leave it in the sink and leave Erudition.

Despite all the chaos. The impending threats of Sunspire’s complete annihilation. The murder of Celestine Winter’s in The Broken Chain. The flooding of captains and ships back to port to prepare for her defense of an invasion and the resignation of Blaque, Kurel made his way to a place he had not visited in months. The Lustrous Pearl.

It wasn’t Wednesday which meant the gallons of meat stew and vegetables was nearly a week old, but anything with a flavor– even a rotten one – was worth eating over Maggie’s cold war punishments. The Madame of the whore house was surprised to find in the nearly empty courtyard of her establishment the hornless blind captain waiting. She dipped a ladle into a deep iron pot on the counter and filled a wooden bowl. The swish of fabric her overly worn dress made alerted Kurel to her presence, before the overly salted broth was set before him.

“I was starting to believe that there were no services for me to provide for you, Trade Lord.” She said as she took a seat to the right of his chair. “You are either bored or being unjustly punished.”

Kurel smirked as he sat forward, picking up the bowl between both hands and set his focus square on the woman. “I think the unjus’ly par’ may be up for argumen’. If anythin’,” he said with a raise of his bowl in a grateful toast to her hospitality, if even that hospitality tasted like bog water. “I appreciate the savin’.” 

@sunspireport @scions-of-antiquity @kerrwynn

title: domestic issues
pairing: shizuo/izaya
word count: 5,566
summary: ten things changed when heiwajima shizuo lugged all his things into orihara izaya’s spacious, immaculate, minimalist apartment.
for @monstrux

Ten things changed when Heiwajima Shizuo lugged all his things into Orihara Izaya’s spacious, immaculate, minimalist apartment.

i. the decor

Izaya watched in hidden horror as Shizuo dropped a ragged, worn-out cow plush on his couch that was worth more than the sum of all of Shizuo’s rental payments. He regarded it cautiously and had half a mind to poke it with his foot, just to see if anything would come crawling out of it. Shizuo didn’t seem to notice; he went back to unpacking his things and despite the growing clutter around him, all Izaya could focus on was that cow. “…Shizu-chan, what’s that?”

Shizuo blinked. He straightened while holding a few paper cups and plastic utensils.

“…A cow.”

“I see that,” Izaya answered patiently. “I mean why is it on my sofa?”

“Because he’s my favorite,” Shizuo explained with a frown, challenging Izaya’s eyebrow raise with a glare. There was a tense silence as Izaya’s eyes dropped to stare at the stuffed animal again. It looked extremely old and was patched up in various places, some done better than others. It was obviously a childhood toy of Shizuo’s; based on his preference for dairy products, Izaya supposed a cow being Shizuo’s favorite animal was more than obvious.

He didn’t like it. Everything Izaya owned was practical and when it began showing signs of wear and tear, he’d throw it out. He didn’t like things being dirty or scratched and Namie had once told him he spent more on chessboards than food.

He informed her that he couldn’t just keep charred game pieces around.

She dryly instructed him to stop burning things.

However, despite Izaya’s dislike of it, he knew that it was important Shizuo. Shizuo wasn’t a sentimental type of person and his clutter came mostly from convenience and having to repurchase low quality items. So for this to be kept after all these years must have meant it was something he was fond of and Izaya sighed.

He hated compromise.

“…All right,” Izaya said at last. “Just keep it on the bed.”

When Izaya had proposed they take their relationship to the next level with Shizuo moving in, it was primarily because Shizuo’s apartment was so bare Izaya hadn’t thought his apartment would change too much. He expected, obviously, Shizuo’s presence to be more constant and was willing to allow for some degree of messiness. But as Shizuo unpacked his belongings, out came old books and journals, stuffed animals and a blanket.

Shizuo didn’t have many things, and so that was why Izaya didn’t think he’d notice Shizuo’s belongings around the apartment. But Izaya’s apartment had the bare necessities of the bare necessities and so even Shizuo’s coaster on his coffee table made all the difference in the world. Finally tearing his gaze away from the coaster, Izaya noticed crumpled tissues on the other side of his table.

“Shizu-chan? Here.”

“Why are you giving me a trash can?”

“That’s a crumpled up napkin.”

“It’s a napkin from where we had our first date.”

Izaya decided to give Shizuo the benefit of the doubt and assume that the napkin wasn’t used. Giving a slow sigh, he nodded and set the trash can down again, deciding to go hide behind a computer so he wouldn’t have to watch all of Shizuo’s things invading his personal space.

Heiwajima Shizuo brought with him a flurry of what seemed like old trash, but Izaya supposed a few memories in his apartment wouldn’t be the end.

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Optimism

Rexsoka Week — Day 1 — Captain and Commander

Characters (Pairings): Captain Rex, Ahsoka Tano, Anakin Skywalker (Rexsoka)

Era: The Clone Wars

Word Count: 1,253


“That isn’t going to work.”

“Oh, c’mon, Rex. Where’s your optimism?”

“Back with the ship,” the captain muttered.

By which, he meant the smoking, charred ruins of their handy little runner, sleek and fast and absolutely no match for the Separatist frigate that had swatted it down like a buzzfly, not twenty minutes before.

Rex hadn’t commented on her piloting skills. Ahsoka was grateful for small favors.

Knowing her Master, she’d be stuck in sim-training when she got back, anyway.

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( @lilmissginger )

char was more than happy to be back, especially since the fact that he was back meant his dad was feeling better. he never wanted to see his dad in pain ever again, it was too much for even the young man to handle. at this point chartreuse was ready to hopefully reconcile with ginger and go back to school and a normal schedule.

knocking on the door to her dorm room he smiled nervously, a colorful bracelet in the box in his pocket. “ginger, are you home?”

bitchfacestrawberry  asked:

Off to the Races- Namjoon?

Off to the Races |  A drabble about my muse thinking about their past with/about another muse.

She was the most beautiful person he had ever known.

Namjoon could never quite pinpoint who, or what she resembled, no other beautiful thing in this world ever able to compare. Like bleeding orange sunsets that pool in blazing fire upon the horizon, or pale fog weaving through the sap soaked trunks of a forest on a chilly Friday morning, or maybe rain sliding down the delicate pearl petals of gardenias just after the storm has brewed its turmoil. All such things combined could never even begin to describe her beauty, her effortless iridescence that would shine at any point of the day, no matter if the sun was soaring through robin egg blue skies or the glimmering stars were speckling a sheet of navy above.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Namjoon became jealous.

Although her eyes of sparkling moons would always belong to him, his own were never the only ones for her. Like flies caught in her finely spun web, others would always latch onto her, become trapped by her enthralling ways. He knew she never meant it, that she only ever wished to have him, but he could not help the flame that started to crackle within his chest, that slowly burned him from the inside out, turning his bones into coal, his skin charred dark grey. The envy ate him, destroyed him, had him lifting a blade – or maybe it was a remote or a thorned rose, who knows? – that he drove into her, over and over, watching her beauty pour out in streams to bury in the lines of his palms, to tuck beneath his fingernails. 

The entire time, she did not make a sound, almost like she had expected this all to happen. Namjoon could never tell if her lips were trying to twist into a scowl or a smile.

Now, he digs, and digs, clawing up dirt and despise by the handfuls, pouring it into the hole in the ground, the hole in his heart. She watches him with a slight frown, eyes glazed with something akin to curiosity, questioning as he shovels more, more – Why are you hiding me, Namjoon? He answers by covering her face, concealing the identity that he learned to loathe more than love, patting down the earth with the shovel before stepping back, admiring the grave.

Here is where the envy, the love, dies.

Namjoon takes the cigarette from his lips, almost smoked down to the filter, and he flicks it atop the pile of dirt, her, and watches it burn out completely. Only then, once the ember ceases to glow and the flame in his chest dies out, does he turn on his heel and stroll back to his car.

Idly, as he drives to an empty home, he wonders how he will clean the bloodstains out of the leather backseat, and he all but forgets about the girl who’s beauty was too blinding, so much, that he could not for a moment decipher if he was cutting the carrots on the chopping board or driving the knife through her heart.

anonymous asked:

I love your stories so much Could you please do this one? 'Take me back'.

#188 (early season 8)

AU - idek what is wrong with me

—–

I think about you like a poem.

The severe white page, the stark black words spaced out, and the tendency
to be burned
to the quick, culled and branded by a stanza, mere seared
meat and flesh, and the odor of charred type: what is in a name and
the rose did caper on her cheek and
when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d and
the red wheelbarrow, yet
there I stood a loaded gun.

I think about you like a poem.

She folds the paper and presses it against the table and knows - she was not meant to see this. A thing that fluttered like a bird with broken wings from his back pocket as he pulled out his wallet and paid for takeout for the boys, trying to ingratiate himself into the Twelfth all over again, and when she picked it up and thought about handing it over without looking, her own curiosity (no, no, her own desperate longing to have him back) made her open it.

Read it.

A poem he’s written about her with poetry, like poetry, herself the poetry. 

He’s nudging his wallet back into his pocket without looking, eye twinkling as he teases Ryan

there I stood a loaded gun

And she’s pressing the scrap of paper with its scribbled lines into her own pocket and moving forward, darting towards the break room where he’s laid out the spread, trying to entice her, draw her out, and she’s drawn, she’s enticed, but not by food.

“Castle,” she snaps, and his head comes up, caught out look on his face.

“Come with me,” she says roughly, words hard to push out past her closing up throat.

He follows, head down and shoulders hunched, all rebellious boy, scuffing his shoes if they could be scuffed, throwing Esposito dirty looks for the you’ll get it now.

Disappearing around the hall and turning a corner and it’s space enough and time-

She grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and collides. Mouth to mouth, hungry, wanting, sad (she’s grieving them even as she rages against the dying) and he surges forward into her kiss, collapsing her back against the wall and barreling his hips into hers to pin her there.

“Kate,” he growls into her mouth, ragged, wanting, another man entirely from the one who wheedled his way onto their case this morning. “Kate, I want-”

“Take me back,” she gasps, rocking against him. “Take me.”

He steps back. She drops hard to her feet on the floor, stunned.

He drags a hand down his face. “Can’t take back what I never had.”

Her mouth falls open. Her heart.

He turns his head, but his body still remains.

She swallows. “I think about you like a poem - I know by heart. And recite to myself in the darkness-”

His eyes snap back to hers. His hand pushes back into his pocket and he goes still.

She steps into him, draws her arms around his waist. “And worry over to myself, the lines I love, the parts that trouble me, the feeling that wells up-”

“Can I have you this time?” he rumbles, and his hands catch her face, hold her, pin her. “I won’t try to tame you. I’ll borrow you, like a book of sonnets. I only want to-”

“Read?” she murmurs, eyebrow lifting.

“Read.”

“I can be read.”

—–

       Ashton had been sitting on his usually spot outside, on the front steps, when he heard the front door open. Shifting, brown eyes cast back, a small smile forming on his lips.  Hey Char he slid slightly to one side, making room for her to sit if she chose to. Setting the book he’d been reading down to give her his full attention. He’d managed to save up enough money to take a few classes at the local community college campus. But that also meant he hadn’t been spending as much time at the home. 

@childcharlotte

A Dance with Dragons, Daenerys IX:

“Drogon,” she screamed. “Drogon.” His head turned. Smoke rose between his teeth. His blood was smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing. He snapped. 

“No” was all that she had time to say. No, not me, don’t you know me? The black teeth closed inches from her face. He meant to tear my head off. The sand was in her eyes. She stumbled over the pitmaster’s corpse and fell on her backside. 

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon’s long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. If I run from him, he will burn me and devour me. In Westeros the septons spoke of seven hells and seven heavens, but the Seven Kingdoms and their gods were far away. If she died here, Dany wondered, would the horse god of the Dothraki part the grass and claim her for his starry khalasar, so she might ride the nightlands beside her sun-and-stars? Or would the angry gods of Ghis send their harpies to seize her soul and drag her down to torment? Drogon roared full in her face, his breath hot enough to blister skin.

A Dance with Dragons, Daenerys X:

she picked at a broken blister. Her skin was pink and tender, and a pale milky fluid was leaking from her cracked palms, but her burns were healing.

Liara still wasn’t sure that this was a good idea. She had gone through hell to make it even possible, but she thought he deserved it enough. Though they weren’t particularly close, she’d always had an enormous respect for the Lieutenant, now Commander. When she woke up too early on the SR-1 or was frustrated with work, he’d be in the mess and offer to make her food, forgetting that the Asari didn’t need to consume as much to keep their biotics from zapping their energy. He’d come to her office to ask if she needed help with her work, even if it was just filing. He was the opposite of what she’d heard about humans. He wasn’t harsh or too extreme or aggressive. He was good, and sweet, and she also knew what Shepard meant to him.

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anonymous asked:

Prompt: Owen and Amelia's daughter has her first period, and only Owen is there to handle it

 No Longer Our Little Girl

It was supposed to be a long day at school for 12 year old Charlotte Addison Hunt, a day jam packed with lessons and extra curricular activities. She could barely focus on all her classes. Usually, she would be sitting in front of the class- taking notes and eagerly absorbing every single detail her teacher was saying. She wanted to be the top of her class, and she would do whatever it took to be the top. But today, she just couldn’t concentrate on what her teachers were saying. Their words were bouncing off the walls and falling on deaf ears.

 The cramping pain in her stomach which started since that morning certainly wasn’t helping. It was just a slight pain initially but throughout the course of the day- the pain just got worse. She remained silent the whole day, answering her best friend Kelly’s questions in just one word syllables. Usually she would be the one doing most of the talking when the both of them were together, but today the roles were reversed.

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It’s not unusual for a Disney character to end up an orphan, but it was a little weird that nothing bad happened to the guy who straight-up killed Bambi’s mom, right? Well, in an early draft, that asshole got his. Bambi was originally meant to stumble upon not only his mother’s corpse, but the charred remains of the man who killed her, burned to death in the fire he started. This was cut from the film because unless you’re his cryogenic pod, Walt Disney doesn’t think you should contain any mangled dead bodies.

6 Creepy Details That Were Almost in Classic Disney Movies

they once stood together on their mound of corpses.

the blood, the gasping last breaths, the bullet holes—
they bore that weight together, their hands clasped and shaking
they were the rubble of the stars, dirty and scorched and broken,
their jagged edges sharp and unforgiving.

but she forgave him, once,

and he tried to forgive her, too.

she twirled the bullets in her fingers,
the smoke of her gun matching the smoke of smouldering cities.
she saw the pale faces of those fallen beneath her feet,
their bones crackling under every leaden step.
she saw every charred body and every bullet wound:
she would not let herself look away.

when she finally lets go
there are only the cries of the dying thrumming in her ears
and her tar black soul to cling to. 

but is it really any wonder she crumbled?

—  for the days when earth meant life, not death 

lockedoutofheavenx-deactivated2  asked:

The girl stopped walking as she passed Gray's door and she turned bright red. She... what the hell was she meant to do right now. She could walk away, but well... she needed to get something out of the room. Char's phone was gonna die and she was waiting for a call from her mother that she couldn't miss. So she knocked and just waited outside of the door awkwardly.

It tool about five minutes before the Yorkshire boy was appearing at the door, a little dishevelled and red as he spoke, his accent seemed thicker and voice deeper. “Yes?” He muttered.