A/N: THIS IS 7000 WORDS LONG, WTH! Hi babes, I know this took far too long but it’s here now. I was actually crying earlier thinking about how this is the ending, the final chapter, the last part. Thus far this is my favorite fic I have written. I wanted to thank @writing-obrien for helping me soooo much with this series. She’s always there when I need to bounce around ideas or get motivated or just talk. She is my best friend and I love her and this series would be nothing without her. I also wanted to thank everyone that has read this and loved it! I’m so grateful for you ! I think that all I have to say so thank you so much, I love you so much okay? bye !
Warning: Uhhhhh it wouldn’t be an ending without some smut right? There’s also so alcohol use so yeah.
“hey j, what’s up?, i’m beginning to feel that there is not too much time left on my clock. i’m not too saddened by that. you ask how i am going to approach death… with ease, i suppose. there isn’t much left for me here. i don’t think there ever was much of anything for me here. i’ve always awaited this moment. to most it’s just inevitable. to me, it’s exciting. it’s lovely. (death)” - a letter written by richard ramirez before his death to a penpal
this would be the Holster/Esther Shapiro 6k Valentine’s Fic literally no one asked for. enjoy <3
Valentine’s Day 2013 –
Holster doesn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. It’s some
Hallmark Holiday based on a Christian saint of some sort, and it’s an excuse to
be sickeningly sweet with someone you love, and a good day to have just dumped
your significant other the night before so you can go to the single’s bars and
get wasted. For Holster, it’s always been a day to gorge on chocolate. It
always was in Juniors and he doesn’t see any reason to change now that he’s in
“What are you doing for Valentine’s Day, bro?” Ransom asks,
buttoning one of his nice shirts and holding up a couple different ties to
judge their relative colour.
“Being bitter,” Holster says. “What are you doing?”
First of all, we’re sorry for disappearing like we did. After the Irene Adler case, we decided that we were owed a little break (read: Sherlock woke me up the morning after the case was concluded by throwing my suitcase on the bed and pulling our clothes from the closet, announcing that we were leaving 221B for a while). By the time I realised it wasn’t for a new case, we were already halfway to Sussex. Apparently, the Holmes family has a cottage here, but, unfortunately, the wifi is nonexistent.
So, here we are now, on our own, with the sea air surrounding us and the sound of seagulls as our alarm clock.
Anyway, Irene Adler. She’s… well, I can’t disclose too much information due to its sensitivity, but I can safely say that Sherlock has saved the day, yet again. When Irene showed up at our flat, she was in danger. She had faked her death and hid her phone with Sherlock, to get away from those who were out to get her and coming back endangered not only her, but her girlfriend Kate as well. That phone was the only thing she had to use to keep them safe. Page after page of sensitive information, all locked away with a code only she knew. Not even Sherlock could figure it out.
And she used it. She used Sherlock to crack a code (I can’t divulge in this further, so don’t ask) and Irene sent it on. To Moriarty. She had been working for him, all this time! And we fell for it.
It was a close call, but Sherlock figured it out. God, he was brilliant. The moment he realised what the code was, I couldn’t believe that he even real. I know we’ve both said on multiple occasions that not everything is about me… but this was. She must have changed her password when she met us, so it spelled JOHN. Unbelievable!
Sherlock was down, beaten, ridiculed and he managed to come out on top anyway. It’s over now. Irene Adler has disappeared from our view - although Sherlock does not appear too worried about her wellbeing. I’ll be happy if she stays away, to be honest.
But enough about her. That’s over and done with. On the one hand, I’m grateful to her. Without her, I never would have - well, I’m not sure how long it would have taken for Sherlock and I to tell each other how we felt without her interference. I’m currently basking in the sun, laptop on my lap, and I’m typing one-handed because next to me is an amazingly brilliant and gorgeous man, scrolling through his phone whilst holding my hand with his free one.
So… ta for that, Irene Adler. And good luck to you, wherever you are.
Summary: Dan is a robber who steals valuable objects nearly every night. When he goes into a flat decorated with plants and stuffed animals, he can’t seem to keep himself away. Dan’s not used to pretty boys stealing things of his own; especially when they steal his heart. Word Count: 3590 Warnings: stealing, breaking/entering, cussing A/N: I’d like to thank my roommate @sourmojo for giving me the idea to write this fic (based off of this song) and also @insanityplaysfics for being my lovely beta. That summary is the worst fucking summary I’ve ever written but I love this idea so much and I hope you do too! Please don’t ask me to write a sequel, i will write one if i end up feeling like it, but as of right now, it doesnt seem very likely. Read it on AO3!
It was something that Dan was proud of, as fucked up as it was. He just couldn’t get enough of everything about it; the thrill, the little prizes he got out of it, hell even the news broadcasters. No matter how hard he tried to get away from his lifestyle, he always ended up going back. His own addiction, his very own little secret. Besides, it’s not like anybody was getting hurt in his escapades. Just himself and his own conscious, but that he could deal with.
So what if he broke into houses and stole objects he found compelling? They were just objects and humans should be able to get over the loss of something so materialistic. Rings, money, antiques. Stealing those didn’t harm anybody. In fact, they should be grateful for Dan. He helped people realise that family was far more important than items.
Dan didn’t necessarily know how he got to this point in his life, where he just went to other people’s houses to steal meaningless crap, but he couldn’t be more thankful. One day he was just a silly little teenager trying to be edgy by sneaking into places he wasn’t supposed to be in, and the next moment he was a twenty-five year old man breaking and entering all to steal that new movie he’s been wanting for weeks. Some would say that he was stupid for risking going to jail just for a movie, but Dan didn’t give a single fuck.
the prompt: can you possibly do a Taeyong scenario in which you had promised to make dinner to him but you thought you were running late and hurried and cut your hand and everything went wrong and he was running REALLY late and when he came he saw you sleeping weirdly on the couch and idk about the rest.
author note: this is a lot calmer than the Jaehyun one, so please enjoy.
Soooooo Saturday I met Gareth David-Lloyd…this was quite an adventure I have to say and I just felt like I needed to share my experience and the thoughts going through my mind.
I totally knew this was going to happen. I’ve been planning this little trip to Huntsville for a couple of months now and was totally ready to shell out an obscene amount of money to meet this guy. I just so happened one day to be curious enough to see if Gareth was coming close-by anytime soon. I kind of figured it would be a stretch, but lo and behold, Gareth was coming to Huntsville. To my dismay, it was a Doctor Who convention and he was arriving as a Torchwood guest and I literally know nothing about these shows. I probably watched one episode of Doctor Who a long time ago and then tried a Torchwood episode shortly after my decent into Solavellan hell just because…reasons…
I’ve been planning this, worried because of my lack of knowledge of the Whoverse or whatever the hell people call it, unsure of whether this convention was going to be massive or tiny, and just general freaking out over getting to meet Gareth. With my print in hand, my boyfriend and I went all the way up to his grandparent’s house just for me to meet this one guy at a convention that I knew nothing about.
Unsure of how long this convention was going to take, I told my boyfriend ahead of time that he should probably be ready to wait a while. I had never been to this convention before, but all other conventions I had gone to had a lot of waiting involved. He ended up having one of his friends that were close by drive 30 minutes over to the mall where this hotel was located so that they could play card games. I walk in the front door, scared as all get out with this universe that I had no idea about.
I went up to the marked tables and literally had my badge in hand within 2 minutes. I was the ONLY ONE IN LINE. I saw people, sure, but there was like no one around. Granted, I had gotten there at like 11:30, so the con was already like halfway over for the day, but still! I expected to wait in line for at least a few minutes. I looked at the clock and saw that I had apparently prepared too much and was now an hour early before Gareth was supposed to be signing stuff. UGH!!! I thought, well, I don’t know anything about this fandom other than Daleks, the phone booth, and then that Matt Smith is apparently the best doctor (I have no idea what who this person is but I apparently know his name), but I guess since I have time to spare I may as well go to the Vendor room and Artist Alley. I went to where the Vendor room was, literally passing maybe 2 or 3 people.
This was probably the smallest Vendor room I had ever seen. There were like maybe 10 tables and was filled with maybe like 20-30 people including the people running the booths. People everywhere asking me to enter this raffle and do this doohicky and I’m just like “haha no thanks” and walked away nervously. In under 2 minutes, I had already looked at everything. In another 2 minutes, I had already looked through the Artist Alley. I still had so much time before meeting Gareth. I decided that I should at least go over and see if he was around, I could just sit there and be creepy and stare at him for an hour, worst case scenario.
I went over to the room where the signings were happening and he was already sitting down doing autographs. I felt my heart jump in my throat and walked over to him. Once again, there was no line. I literally became the second person in line immediately. I paid the lady sitting next to him, already aware that I was spending another $40 just to get him to sign my print and felt my heart start racing. Then as the people in front of me left, my hands started shaking. I started to fumble to get the picture out of the protective thing I bought and he said hi to me. Dude, you guys, I felt my face burn bro. That accent was to die for. Literally, I could have just passed out. I told him that I was actually a huge Dragon Age fan and really appreciated all the work that he had done. When I showed him the @nipuni print that I had brought for him to sign, he absolutely gushed over it. He just kept talking about how pretty it was and then quickly signed it for me. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking, but he was just so nice and then shook my hand. I told him that I had literally no knowledge of Doctor Who or Torchwood and literally just came to this convention to get his autograph. He was just so cute and I just couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
I’ve gotta do something about vibrating when I get all nervous around people I like. It’s a sickness and I have no idea what I have to do to get rid of it. It’s embarrassing and I could just feel myself turning beet red while I was standing in front of him. It was so bad!!!!
So yeah, that was my ridiculously long and stupid story about what a dork I am and all this trouble that I went through literally just to meet this adorable cutie. $100 for this like 30 second moment was well spent.
Immediately after this, I started getting sick and am still sick. Gareth got me sick by being too adorable. I’ve decided. Now, I gotta go die somewhere…
(I am on the roll this week because why not? Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and I have nothing else to do so yay for your prompts! Today, I’m going for robertafr’s request, which is: “How about their first encounter after TFP?” Hope you like this!)
A black coffin with gold embellishments greeted him as he entered the room.
Blood as red as her lips blinding him.
Breathing heavily, he found Mrs. Hudson by the door of his bedroom looking worried. If there was something that took a toll on him during that fateful experience in Sherrinford, it would be the fear that with every door opening, he would be forced to make a choice – a choice that always leads to a loss.
The vision often visited him in his sleep, some reliving memories of actual moments, and some are products of his own secret horrors. But if there is one recurring dream, it would be of The Woman.
Despite his strengthened faith in the people around him, he could not bear to talk to anyone about one of the things he feared the most during the game Eurus had orchestrated. She read through his violin piece more than he could ever admit to himself, that at every step he took at the labyrinth she created, other than fearing for John and Mycroft, he was hoping that Irene Adler would not be someone he would lose that day.
Part of him was grateful that it worked out as he hoped. But still, the dreams still haunt him.
He asked Mrs. Hudson to leave, telling her to also rest as the night was already at its peak. As she left, he reached for his phone, the clock flashing 2:37 A.M.
Without thinking too much, he let his weary mind overcome him. Finding their message thread in his inbox, he started to type.
Are you in London? SH.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of her text alert. It wasn’t until he felt his own eyes grow heavy that he drifted back to sleep.
3 days passed. His fingers were growing numb against the side of his phone, a silent cuss passing his lips every time it lights up and it isn’t her.
There were no patterns, for she is still on the run and would obviously have much better things to do, but he couldn’t help to feel neglected. Especially now that he’s rediscovered so much about his own emotions and humanity.
He almost jumped to his seat when his phone finally gave a moan that was ever so familiar to his ears.
Love is never defeated, a man’s errors are his portals of discovery. IA.
A small smile grew across his lips.
Taking a small duffel bag under his bed, worn through many of his private escapades, Sherlock left a note stabbed in the usual spot at the mantelpiece for his friends to see, and decided to head on his way.
“I should’ve sent you something harder.” he heard her say, grey eyes admiring the statue of James Joyce right in front of them.
He had just arrived in Dublin, chest exasperatedly thrumming, knowing exactly where to find her.
“John Paul II, September 30 1979:
Love is never defeated, and I would add, the history of Ireland proves it. And…” his eyes drank in her image as he spoke, “A man’s errors are his portals of discovery is from Ulysses by James Joyce. Hardly a difficult deduction. I’m much interested in your choice of words.”
The words resonated with him, true enough, as he is hear because of his own personal errors, specifically on claims that love was a dangerous disadvantage. After years and years, he may have found himself agreeing to a former pope’s musings on how love is never defeated.
He couldn’t tell why but he wanted her to look at him almost desperately, at that very moment. And just like the past, as if she could hear the musings of his mind, she smiled and turned his way.
“And why is that?” she asked, walking towards him.
“Because you somehow always know how to make me… unsure. Of myself. Or everything.” he murmured, attention still fixed on her eyes as she drew closer.
She stopped at arm’s length, almost too close for him to touch but much too far for him to…
And as if she was deliberately trying to make him weak in the knees, she gave him that wicked smile of hers that muddled his brain the first time they met. “Why were you asking if I was in London?”
“Why didn’t you answer?” Sherlock replied, frustration evident in his voice.
“I needed to handle some things… As always.” Irene said, as if to stress the obvious.
“I was… worried.” the detective admitted, wracking his brain as to where he’s getting the strength to still look her in the eye upon saying the words.
Irene’s eyebrows raised in amusement. “Are you now?”
“Yes. I needed to know your safe because…” Sherlock could feel his voice wavering, but he decided against it. He spent many nights, even before Sherrinford happened, on contemplating about this specific moment.
“Because what, dear?” Irene asked earnestly, drawing in nearer that he could feel her eyes piercing through him, making him feel vulnerable.
And for a flicker of a moment, his humanity had taken over his logic. As soon as she was close enough, he reached for her, taking her into his trembling arms, lips crushing into hers.
Her body started out tense against his own, but just like their past encounters, she had melted into him and him to her like they were always meant to be that way. She gripped him by the shoulders firmly, and his hold on her tightened like he was fighting for her to stay.
And when he finally pulled away, he saw Irene Adler’s flushed face staring up at him with an amused yet curious expression.
“Care to explain yourself, Sherlock Holmes?” she mused, stroking a curl off his forehead.
He sighed, quite bashful of his own actions, but still heavily relieved. Giving off a small smile at his own wit, he simply replied, “I believe this is what people call…emotional context.”
Pairing : Joshua x Reader Word Count : 3,534 A/N : this turned out to be an angsty / fluffy mess. and honestly, i accidentally deleted the first draft so i apologize Greatly if this isn’t up to par (i was angry @ myself n that may have effected how this turned out, it’ll get better i swear TT) also , spelling mistakes ? they’re probably there n i apologize
*** everything in italics is a flash back ***
The evening was dwindling down to nothing as the sun set over the trees in the horizon, and the decreasing temperature with every passing second stung your cheeks leaving them stained.
05.10.02.04 you read the face of your watch once more, one that had adorned your wrist since your tenth birthday, the nail of your thumb gently digging into the scratch that you had inflicted upon it accidentally when you were thirteen.
Five years, ten months, two weeks and four days.
A constant countdown that dauntingly reminded you each day that in nearly six years you will meet your soulmate.
the first time waylon spends a day at miles’ house is when it’s with the rest of miles’ group of friends all hogging the couch. they talk a lot. he’s not entirely sure what about, there’s just a large board with pins placed in strategic locations all over town, pictures of townspeople he has not met yet, and notes written in bold permanent ink detailing the reasons they are to be suspected. it takes about an hour for waylon to find his voice, and half that time to realize that miles really does think there is a conspiracy in everything. it’s endearing, all these people gathered together to investigate this or that, and waylon finds himself smiling more and more by the end of the evening.
at around midnight all the boys say their goodbyes and pile out the door. waylon doesn’t have a car so miles is the one that drove him here, which means that miles will have to drive him back. he finds himself hesitating to leave, wanting to explore every inch of miles’ house. it’s small in a charming way. the walls are a cream color, his furniture is all plush red and dark cherry wood. there are trinkets everywhere. lamps and vases and statuettes and there’s a thing in the corner that waylon cannot even describe, all of them twisted in fantastical shapes. a large grandfather clock that made no sound the entire night, a small cuckoo clock that made too much.
and there, hanging over the stairs, is a photo. a boy maybe five years in the past, and two of the most beautiful people waylon has ever seen. these are miles’ parents, waylon thinks to himself. miles is just as beautiful as they were. he doesn’t have much time to think about this though, because he’s absent-mindedly taking a seat on the couch again, unknowingly right next to miles himself. it’s not until the body beside him shifts and an arm reaches over his shoulders to wrap around the back of the couch that waylon realizes miles is close, so close. and he has to turn away before he has a heart attack.
Plot: Killian is a single father, and his daughter is enrolled in Emma’s dance class. He has nobody to watch his daughter after class, and he’s often late, so Emma usually sits and talks to the girl until she is collected from the dance school.
Summary: Based on this prompt I found in the depths of tumblr; “I’m a single parent and my child takes your dance class and thanks so much for always staying after class to watch him/her when my boss is an ass and keeps me past my off hours and holy cow you’re pretty/handsome and really sweet/kind and wow I should be late more often so we can talk. Say how do you feel about private lessons? For my kid- yea, yea, for my kid”
The raven haired little girl had been sitting alone, since all of her friends had been escorted away to buy their lunches, with the money their parents had bequeathed them for the day. Daisy, however, had been given her princess lunchbox, containing a meager lunch, by anyone’s standards. She sat with her legs outstretched before her, the box perched on her shins, as she glared in the direction of her friends with their McDonald’s and Subway lunches, while she ate her carrot sticks and hummus.
Miss Emma had been putting the last minute touches to the costumes and props when she had passed by Daisy, sitting alone, and looking not too thrilled about it. Emma had yet to have lunch and the prospect of sitting through a three-hour recital on an empty stomach made her queasy. Still, she plopped down next to the girl and gave her a friendly nudge with her shoulder. She gave the girl a moment to comprehend the situation, given her expression before the blonde had joined her. She made sure to take in everything she could about Killian’s daughter before deciding on the right conversation starter. Finally, though, Emma spoke up.
i wish you would write a fic ; where lumiere ISN'T the sexiest sandwich in the palace
um no??? i can’t??????? impossible?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Ugh. Plumette can barely feel her head; it’s throbbing, mon dieu, her eyes could fall out right now and she wouldn’t notice. One brown hand flails out toward her bedside clock and misses by a yard. Oh—ohhh—oops, no, that was too much effort. Better keep laying here until the hangover subsides.
Her face is smooshed down into her pillows, breathing in the musty scent of feathers and years-old lavender. Ugh. She turns over, with an effort—no, too much effort, again. Better just lay here looking up at the canopy of the bed without trying anymore super-human activities. Her eyes hurt, and the headache throbs.
What were they drinking last night? The Prince had gotten in some fine new vintage, he had ordered the very best, she knew it was expensive because Paulette down in the village had been complaining about the tax hike. And it never hurt anybody to just sample the wine—but, ugh, I guess it’s hurt someone now.
Where was she. Right: the wine. And the wine would have been just fine, a couple glasses clinked in the kitchen never hurting anybody, but then Chapeau (with that subtle smile of his) had silently poured a little brandy into his glass, to join the wine. Disgusting! A truly disgusting concoction—and one everybody had to try, immediately. And when Mrs. Potts declared she could drink any of them under the table, well—everyone has a competitive side, particularly on the fuller side of three glasses of wine.
Plumette’s arm drifted over her eyes.
Thank the sun his highness didn’t find us. He wouldn’t have been pleased to see his wine going to anyone beyond himself. Though, who knows—she remembered the Prince having a smiling side, once, and maybe he would have enjoyed the drinks they invented carelessly, Cogsworth mixing rum with scotch just to “make it last longer, truly just an economic measure.” Economic—hah. She wondered how the major domo was holding in his headache now.
Hadn’t he—it was hard to remember, through all the wine-colored memories—hadn’t he challenged one of the footmen to a drinking game? To see which one was truly the best? Competitiveness, yes—wait, she had already had that thought. She was repeating thoughts.
Where was she?
Right. The footmen. One of them. Drinking Cogsworth under the table with aplomb (aplomb: good word, good work, said something still drunkenly weaving behind her eyes). The older man had kept good pace at first, but then he got so far he proposed dueling instead, taking out guns and swords from his pockets, and the footman would have totally agreed (with the happiest smile in the world; forgetting that dueling could end in death, and not just be a wildly good time), if she hadn’t pulled him off. And then—wait, she remembered pulling him off the major-domo—what then? What then?
Oh right. They kissed. Because that footman—
She turns over, once more, her arm slapping down on the body beside her. He doesn’t wake. A dribble of something makes its way down Lumiere’s chin. He still wears half a face of makeup—she doesn’t remember putting it on, but it’s clearly her handiwork, little flowers and scrolls drawn on his temples with an unsteady hand. His wig is askew, his hair still drenched with powder underneath, his mouth hanging open in the most idiotic of expressions. His long nose is slightly red.
He is not—thinks Plumette, through the haze of her brain, which can’t quite pick up the words she wants it to—le sandwich au jambon plus séduisant.
Nope. Not at all. A merry idiot, slobbering in his sleep, with flowers on his forehead. Anyone else would throw him out of bed and try to forget the night before.
And yet—and yet—his hand still drapes to her waist; he still smiles in his sleep. God forgive me for loving an idiot, thinks Plumette. She takes her eyebrow pencil from the nightstand and gets to finishing her handiwork. If he’s going to have drawings on his face, he might as well have them symmetrically.
Heyya!! Your writings are absolutely stunning and I would love to request a scenario or headcannons whichever you prefer, on dazai and s/o just dancing and prancing all over the house in their underwear or just dress shirt and just goofing off till early in the morning and just pass out. Much love ~
Thank you so much for your kind words! 💜
Laughter spills from your lips and floats through the air like a melody. It was music to his ears and he spreads a smile across his face at the magical sound that puts the sweet harmony playing in the background to shame. His gorgeous set of chestnut brown eyes never leaves your dancing form as you gracefully bounce around the room without a care in the world and he chuckles affectionately when you try to follow the lyrics and failing miserably. He joins you shortly after and completely ignores the originally written song and comes up with the words of a ridiculous and cheesy love song that he dedicates only to you and no one else.
Sheer layers of sweat cover the surface of your skin from dancing around the small space of your apartment for many hours. You hadn’t realized that you and the playful, eccentric man have been enjoying yourselves far too much when you glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. It’s roughly around three in the morning and you were surprised that you managed to lose track of time. The saying time flies by when you’re having fun definitely holds true to the statement. Especially in the company of a loved one that knows how to keep the night entertaining.
As you and Dazai fall on the couch to catch your breath, he finds that his stares linger for a moment too long when he looks at you. Suddenly a thought crashes his mind and he can’t seem to remember the last time when he was this happy. The kind of happiness where he can cast a smile on his face and truly mean it. Where he can laugh with the voice of joy and spend moments with his better half that makes his life seem like a beautiful dream. He feels an eternal spring inside his chest blossom and fills him with an intensity for life that he never knew was possible. When he’s with you the sun touches him and pours their luminous rays through the tiny cracks of his darkened soul. It was easy for him to say that he fell in love with the light that shines on you, and needless to say, you saw the beauty in everything including his darkness.