February: The fall starts easy. I took baby aspirin, and a rusty spoon to my head, and smoked the stale weed my brother left in a broken vase before he left for college. Night comes fast, and tells the creation story. I ignore her this time. I don’t give a fuck about how I was made anymore tell me how I fall apart.
March: Nobody can ever find the raw spot on their leg until they start itching. I remember 6th grade when the mosquito bit my calf. Larvae and laps on the soccer field in early spring. He is oozing into my shoes with the mud.
April: My mother buried my rusty spoon, and took my brown hands. the clothesline was dripping carbonated orange soda sun, the wind was soft, the mice were sleeping warm beneath the floorboards; she spread my tarot on the floor with the forever broken and gnarled thumb she stuck in a blender when she was 5. That spring I walked home alone some nights, the heatwaves followed me like the labored breath of drunk men who don’t take no for an answer, I turned over The Devil and someone dropped a wine glass next door, she gasped, white eyes, the mice began to scrape and scream, the heatwave killed their children like it split my shoulders open and ate the youth inside.
May: The month of falling out of trees, junior high was gonna shipwreck any day now. There is a fast food place where the milkshakes taste like cough syrup and the skater kids cheat death on 3 feet of concrete stairs. There is a crack in the sidewalk in front of it, and he kick flips on it to break the back of the mother who left him at 13, he breeds violence between his fraying vans and then something in his ankle snaps, my oxygen goes tar black. He bleeds, he. Makes this sound. Like a dog when you step on its foot. I want to hold him, put a butterfly on his cheek, give him a band aid, something, God, something. He looks like he’s in pain. I want to. I don’t know. Help.
I walk away trembling and put my head between my knees behind a dumpster full of shitty milkshakes.
June: The neighbors fuck like rabbits while I’m trying to cry to joy division. I pray for a lightning strike. This type of poetry is for pretty girls, anyway.
July: my birthday flies into the glass of my bedroom window and breaks its neck. mom said the only things you can grow in summer that won’t die are grapefruit and hair, and I made a garden, I cut my chest open for Demeter each full moon. These locks were watered with gulf stream sea spray. I fed them bludgeoned daydreams. I threw my head against church doors trying to send Jesus some red flowers for his funeral, or maybe his birthday, doesn’t really matter, we celebrate both.
August: I got kicked out of high school knocking myself out on my desk. People carved hearts into the enamel, I carved my heart out of my chest and turned it in for my midterm. I slam dunked my skull into the bleachers on game day, and when the bleachers fell, into my history textbook, and when the book was mushy with blood, into the track field. I’m grinning ugly, dancing to the 80’s synth in an empty gym after homecoming, with a nosebleed dripping love songs down my yellow teeth, like words on old gravestones: here lies a moontoothed lover who will never rest in peace, every night she claws her grave and hears the call of western waves.
September: I’m high on concussion flavored car races in a stolen low rider, bluebirds fly in circles around my head after we crash, I wrote a song on a 5 dollar bill called blunt force trauma and it is about skater boys with broken noses, snarls of shaggy Jew fro his friends make fun of, and hands. that graze los angeles highways while he rides asphalt waves, slam his locker, and give the finger to the education system he keeps tripping over like untied shoelaces. he pricks those hands sewing together the lackluster parties private school kids throw. he puts his dewy rose bud lips to the jack daniels bottle, and kicks the drum kit over, gives it mouth to mouth, pump his fists into someone’s chest, gives it a pulse again. hands big enough to steal grapefruit with, the size of my swollen heart. I didn’t know it could get that big but he bumped into me, buzzing like a light saber, sky walking out of the grocery store with a grapefruit. with my heart.
October: do you have a girl do you? have a lover? Jupiter is orbiting around whatever this emotion is called, the rollercoaster one. when you look at me. We spend Halloween turning into werewolves at the library, you were moshing in the kids section, bleaching your hair in punk rock, I was banging my bruised and knuckleheaded love poems into a paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet, brushing my hair with broken glass. That was the first day the blood on our hands was not our own, she shushed us and we laughed. High on Shakespeare and Jupiter gas, we dug our fangs into the dewy decimal system. You ask me my name, I tell you, you smile. We had matching bruises and I floated home.
November: You make me. Feel. You make me feel like I can speak to snakes. You make me feel like my hips have a purpose besides balancing bins of laundry, and bowls of fruit. You make 17 stop feeling like a suicide note no one will read. you make me banshee scream and lick like fire against young pines, when you. dance. when you. kiss her, let her ride your double dutch hips, and your skateboard. She is a new coin, tangy on his numb tongue, and he tucks her in his pocket, his lucky penny. I’m the bubblegum he scrapes off his sneakers and throws into a storm drain.
December: I still cower into my pillow and smile a crooked smile, and go red at the cheeks, you. You put the red in my cheeks. I’m here, I’m exploding, why can’t you see me? Just put the bottle down, take your hand from your eyes, I won’t ask you what happened to your face, or how you got that scar, I will just like you and like you. we can buy angels wings in Hollywood, make an apartment out of crumpled homework pages at the bottoms of our dirty backpacks, we can drop out of high school, I will like you and dissect your sadness like frogs in freshman biology I am used to the rotting smell in your ribcage, I reek of it too. I will like you. until I know how to love you.
January: I switch schools, I cut my hair, bleach what little is left. It makes my mother unhappy, she thinks my spirit world is severing ties, she thinks my planets are discordant. I ask somebody back home about him, she says he dropped out and started working on cars.
I come down. Softly.
February (again, again, again): He was born to a rabbi and a beauty queen. I was born to a chemist, and a witch. Ammonia, bleach. Don’t mix them unless you want someone to die. Blood, adolescence, summer saltwater. Don’t mix them unless you want to make somebody wish they were dead.
Pairings/Characters: Bucky Barnes x
Reader, Steve Rogers
Warnings: TWS Bucky,
Summary: No one knew how
they used to control The Winter Soldier back in the day but Steve thinks he has
finally found it.
Word Count: 2613
A/N: I missed writing
so I finished this and I hope it’s alrightttt! Thank you for being patient as
fuck while I’m on my hiatus and HOLY FUCK THANK YOU FOR 700+ READERS!!!!!! Thank you so much to @stevette60 for requesting this awesome fic!
Makkachin runs away and Yuuri just happens to be the person who finds him
The rain pounds.
Yuuri bows his head and pulls his hood farther up to try and protect himself, but it’s to no avail. The ink on the pages that he is holding streams down the paper and, realizing that he’d been too caught up in covering himself to cover his precious cargo, he shoves the pages inside his jacket and zips it up. They’re covered in images of a poodle with the words “FOUND POODLE” written in bold, black lettering, but as the water blurs the letters, they become less and less legible.
There goes all of the money he’d spent printing the posters.
He finds shelter underneath an awning outside of a cafe. He’s not far from home, but it feels like a failure to go home with a soaking wet jacket and posters and no progress having been made to find the lost poodle’s home.
child au boys reaction when their new "mom" pats their head and praises them for the first time?
Admin Mawile: (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡ Awwww~
-For all the hours he’s spent endlessly working and studying, the amount of praise he’s received for those efforts is very low. He doesn’t understand why you want to praise him when he hasn’t done anything to deserve it, but the attention is so nice he’s not going to bring that up.
-His eyes get very, very wide, and his hands clench so tightly on the book he’s holding that the pages crumple and tear. He brushes off the praise with a callous remark, but you can see how his hands are shaking, and how he can’t quite focus on the words in front of him.
-He’s so shocked he actually freezes up for a moment. Some empty boast about what he’d accomplished dying in his throat from the surprise. Once he recovers, all you’ve done is encourage him, and now he’ll be convinced that whatever he did is the way to get your affection.
-Any affection is likely to end in him glued to your waist, practically pleading for more, and praise is just as effective. He’s so starved for attention that even the most off-handed compliment feels like the greatest honor in the world, and you won’t be leaving without him in your arms.
-He’s a little more used to attention, but the genuine praise still affects him more than he’d like to let on. It’s not smart to let adults know how he really feels, but he can’t help the tiny, natural smile forcing its way onto his lips, nor the look of real joy that escapes for a moment.
-You can’t really mean it. You have to just be pretending to get something from him. He never does anything that good, not good enough to deserve this. He’s shaking a bit, and won’t look you in the eye, delighted, but sick with the worry that there’s going to be some cost.
-The memory of his parents doing the same thing hits him sudden and hard, and he’s sinking to his knees and sobbing before he can think. The memories feel fresher than they have in ages, raw and aching with the reminder of what he’s lost, only helped by the kindness he has now.
-When your hand first reaches out to him, he flinches, jerking back like he fully expects you to hit him. Some coaxing later, he lets you pat his head, still shivering a bit and acting like he wants to lean up into your hand but can’t quite find the courage to do it.
-It sort of feels like someone has done this before, but the memory won’t quite match up… The attention is still nice, though, and he can’t help but squirm and flush under the praise. He’s noticeably happier for a while, still floating on the joy of his most important person being pleased.
-He instantly leans up into the touch, eyes wide and almost sparkling. Any time you pay the slightest bit of attention to him is wonderful, and the praise makes him feel almost dizzy, light-headed with joy and slowly pressing up against your chest so you can’t let go.
-Outwardly, you hardly see a reaction beyond a very slight widening of his eyes. Inside, he falling apart a little over what may very well be the first genuine praise he’s received. His father wasn’t one for giving compliments, and actual affection is a sadly new concept.
-Of course you’re praising him. The arrogant line he gives sounds a little shakier than it should, though, and you catch him eyeing your hands like he hopes you’ll do it again. He’d never admit to being so needy and pathetic, but he can’t help but hope for more praise.
Request: Hello! I can say without a doubt that I love your writings!❤ I also was wondering if you could do a newt x reader where she goes missing and when it gets too long everybody loses their hope except for Newt. Later on he finds her being tortured, saves her and it’s a grand and really fluffy reunion?:) Sorry, I just crave for angst and fluff😂
Warning: Allusion to torture
Word Count: 3,095
Pairing: Newt x Reader
Requested by Anonymous
Requests are currently open! Feel free to send one in
Pickett crawls from the pocket of Newt’s discarded vest, top leaves drooping from exhaustion. Stumbling forward, the tiny creature pulls itself up by the bed’s legs and hops onto the mattress. Gripping the headboard’s bars, Pickett inches past the pillows and avoids Newt’s hand when it jerks forward.
Once he’s in range, the bowtruckle reaches forward and tickles Newt’s nose. He jumps back, slipping off the mattress and swinging wildly when Newt smacks at his face.
Pickett’s still swaying off the bed when Newt jolts up, rubbing his forehead with one hand and reaching for you with the other. “I had the worst nightmare, love. Love?”
His terror peaks for the third night in a row this month when his hand only hits empty sheets and a cold half of the bed. He opens his mouth to shout for you before he remembers: you’re gone.
He takes in two shaky breaths before he hears Pickett’s squeals. “Pickett, what are you doing up here? You should be asleep.” He lifts the bowtruckle from the front of the mattress and slips out of bed, carrying him to a tree. “Yes, I know you don’t want to be here, but this is where you’re staying. Do you want to stay in that tree? I didn’t think so.”
He peels Pickett from his hand and places him on the tree before turning back into the bedroom and closing the door.
Careful to step over the clothes, crumpled up pages, and overturned pots of feed, Newt crosses the room and slides out the desk’s chair.
The two of you had decided to place a small bedroom in the case for any situations where you needed to be ready to respond to a creature at any moment. For the most part, it had been used when one was about to give birth, but more and more often, you and Newt had been spending nights down there after long hours of work studying a new creature.
Newt drops his head in his hands as he stares at the pages scattered in front of him. Notes that mean nothing at 3 in the morning fill the papers, but Newt still rifles through them, furious with the tears dripping down his cheeks. He has no time to cry. He has to find you.
Request: Winn is trying to propose but keeps getting interrupted until he finally had enough and just kind of yells out loud that he’s trying to propose and be romantic for once in his life. Words:
“you’re destroying yourself,” he told her. she didn’t reply. “you can’t live for just your mind and nothing else. you’re human, for god’s sake. you need love, affection, you need all the things that all of us need. please. you’re destroying yourself.”
she didn’t look at him. her fingers turned the page. her eyes read. her lashes flickered shut, just a second, before she drank the words on the paper. more information. more data. all the connections and causes the world had to offer.
he reached for her, touched her shoulder. “please,” now he was begging, “you’re not a machine.”
“but I wish I was.”
“you can’t be.” he spoke gently now, hope rising up. maybe he could reach her. “you don’t have to be. it’s okay not to know things. sometimes there are no answers, or a problem that even you can’t solve. there are things bigger than any of us, and you can’t do anything to understand them.”
she froze under his touch.
he let go. he took a breath. “it will be okay. you’ll get used to it. come on.”
“no,” she said.
he opened his mouth. she turned to him, and the shine of her eyes spoke not of life as it used to, not of curiosity nor the yearning for knowledge that had made her the most brilliant creature he’d ever seen.
“who are you?” he whispered it, stumbling, terror in his voice. she was brilliant still, and it had made her -
“i am my mind.” she didn’t blink anymore. her fingers were curled around the book, a page crumpled up under her palm. “i was nothing before i could think like this. before i knew. before i could connect all the information, make nets and theories and new ways. don’t you see?” her smile spread over her lips, hesitating then, shying away from her wide black pupils.
he pressed his back to the wall. his body trembled. “you are more than this.”
“no!” she hissed. her fist crashed into the book, tears springing to her eyes. “you don’t understand, stupid, stupid! my mind could be perfect! it could be brilliant, better than anyone, it could make me special. it could make me more than just another…”
“human?” her swallowed. moved. came closer, just a step. “you don’t want to be human?”
“no. yes. I want…”
“it’s okay. you don’t have to be extraordinary, you know? it’s alright to be enough-”
“I want to be more.”
he took all the courage he had and went back to her. when he stood in front of her, silent, she touched her fingers to his chest.
Request: None it’s just a “Decoy Bride” au- aka Lin just wants to get married but when his wife-to-be disappears, his friends need to find a temporary stand-in while they look for her (I like this trashy romcom too much to not write an au)
The boat bumped against the rock as her owner tied her to the roughly-hewn wooden post that served as a docking point. You looked out of the rain-spattered porthole windows and over the seemingly endless soggy fields. At your side, your suitcase seemed too small too be carrying everything you owned.
You were coming home.
Ever since you and your mother had moved to the tiny island off the Scottish coast, you had wanted to escape. You had dreams to follow and you sure as hell weren’t going to achieve them on an island where you knew the whole population by name.
You had tried countless times to leave- to go to university, to live with your boyfriend, to work a job that had promised you connections. But you always ended up on the ferry back, your suitcase getting more battered every time, packed to move back into the Bed and Breakfast your mother owned- the only accommodation with rooms to rent on the island.
“There you go, lass,” the grey-haired captain leant you a hand as you stepped off the boat and onto the muddy path. You thanked him as he passed you your case and stepped off the boat after you. It was raining hard and you had forgotten your umbrella.
Tugging your case through the wet mud and then gravel was hard work, and the walk to your home gave you more than enough time to second guess yourself. You had left your boyfriend- an abusive dickhead if there ever was one- and run. But you had left your dreams behind- again- in New York when you had taken the first flight to Edinburgh and with every step they felt farther away.
You opened the door and walked in, hoping to have a moment to compose yourself. But your mother was standing in the hallway, ironing. “Oh!” she gasped, then looked abruptly serious, “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” you said bravely, but at the sight of her concerned expression everything seemed to crash back down onto you all over again and you let out a hiccoughing sob. “Fine.”
Your mother looked you up and down and set down her iron, rushing to pull you into a tight hug. “Come on,” she said quietly, “let’s have a cup of tea and warm you up, shall we?”
Prompt: Reader has to interview Lin last minute and has no idea who he is.
Author’s Note: I fell in love with the idea that Lin’s dad will only refer to him as ‘Lin-Manuel’? I have no idea why? Lots of dialogue cause…you know…it’s an interview thing. Also…this is the 13th fic I’ve written for Lin…whaaaaatttt.
Warnings: Cursing. A baby I decided to name ‘Elizabeth/Eliza’.
Toothbrush in mouth, keys in hand, purse thrown over your shoulder, you descended the stairs of your New York apartment building.
Of course Chris was sick. Of course you were the only one who could fill in. Of course you had no idea who the guy you were interviewing was.
To top it all off, you were late picking up your niece from your sister’s place.
You found yourself pushing her stroller as she sat excited, glancing upward at any person who passed by and happily waving at them. Most waved back.
The cafe was closed. The lights were on, but it was quite early to be open. You knocked twice.
“Sorry, we’re not open until 9.” The barista said, taking in your disheveled appearance and the child you were pushing along.
“I’m here to do an interview. Lin-Manuel Miranda?” You self-consciously adjusted yourself.
“He’s here.” She held the door open as you struggled to fit the stroller through the entrance.
He stood as you approached him. He was nothing like the pictures you had quickly glanced at on google. He was clean shaven, short haired, and wasn’t dawning a period costume.
“You’re not Chris.” He stated, offering his hand to shake, “And neither are you.” He knelt down to your niece’s level. She waved at him, he happily and enthusiastically waved back.
“Chris had to cancel, but I have his notes.” You held up the giant packet you had to print this morning, “This is Elizabeth.” You slammed the packet on the table before moving her from the stroller to the highchair the barista had offered, “And I’m Y/N.”
You quickly ordered before you both took your seats, him sipping the coffee he had already been served and you frantically shuffling through the papers Chris had supplied.
“Do you know who I am?” There wasn’t cockiness, there was a genuine curiosity. You winced at the question.
“No?” He beamed at the answer, sitting up in his seat.
“May I?” He glanced at the notes in your hand. You hesitated. “Trade you?” He fished in the pockets of his coat before pulling out a gently used notebook. His personal notebook.
You considered it for a moment before agreeing, pushing the notes across to him. He took them, pushing his notebook across to you.
“Off the record?” He asked before you could get your hands on it.
“You know you don’t really have to say ‘off the record’? Your publicist approves everything before it goes to print.”
“I know.” He smiled, letting his notebook go, “It just seemed like a cool thing to say.”
You flipped through a few pages, his handwriting was large and scattered, as if he was trying to write faster than his mind out of fear the words would disappear. You glanced up at him for a moment to see him frantically scratching away at the packet with a pen. Sometimes his eyes would skim down a page and crumple it up, throwing it to the side.
Elizabeth begins to stir, preparing herself to cry. Before you could move, Lin offers her his hand, and she completely stops her fussing to tug at his fingers. He hums quietly, a song you couldn’t place, but comforted her enough for her to settle back into a calm state.
You didn’t comment, just ducked your head back into his book.
“Alright.” He finally said, pushing back what remained of the packet. “Ask me these questions.”
The questions he left you with only took a few minutes to get through, leaving you with nearly an hour left over. You set aside your notes, but continued recording.
“What do you do with your time now?”
At some point during the interview, Elizabeth had begun to stir again and Lin acted out of instinct, lifting her out of her high chair with your permission and began to walk in paces from wall to wall of the cafe with her tucked close to his chest.
You turned your chair and sat on it backwards to take in what he said in a hushed voice.
“Anything. I went on vacation, which is unheard of for me. I wrote a show on never wanting to leave my fucking neighborhood.” You also learned he cursed like a sailor, “If you could go on vacation right now, where would you go? Just hop on the first flight there with no consequences.”
“I don’t know, maybe I’d just hop on the first flight period. See where it takes me.”
“See, I couldn’t do that! The uncertainty…it’s insane. It’s consuming! I don’t know why it exists, probably that whole fear of death thing? Pretty crazy.”
And there it was. A completely different person than the person who had answered your pre-prepared questions. No longer scripted, and with a baby in his arms, he was completely open.
“Fear of death?” You pressed on.
“Everyone has it. Nobody likes to admit it. Every time you’re driving up a hill, too close to the edge don’t you think ‘Hey, what if I drove off?’. Everyone does it, I probably do it way too often.” He turned his attention back to Elizabeth, “Is she yours?”
“My sister’s.” You answered, “I’m not married, don’t have any kids.” You added before you could stop yourself.
“Good.” Was all he said as he settled Elizabeth, who he now fondly called ‘Eliza’, back into her stroller.
“Alright.” You mused, “You’re like, a pretty big deal, right?”
“Eh…” He answered, shrugging his shoulders and taking the spot across from you.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Impress me.”
“What? Like, rap? Something from Hamilton?”
“If you think that’ll impress me.” You challenged, nonchalantly brushing dirt off your pants.
“Alright.” He smirked back, making your confidence waver for a second. He pulled his phone out, quickly unlocking it and opening the contacts app, “Who do you want to call?”
He slid out of his chair and took the seat next to you, allowing you to hover over his shoulder as he scrolled through.
“You have Jennifer Lopez in your phone as ‘Jenny From the Block’?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Have I mentioned you’re kinda a nerd?” He beamed as he continued his scrolling. “I know who I want to talk to.” He hummed, and you almost changed your mind when he passed Robert Downey Jr, “I want to call your father.”
This certainly took him by surprise as you happily snatched his phone away in search of a contact labeled ‘Dad’. When it came up with nothing, you remembered who you were sitting with and instead found him under ‘Mi Padre’.
You hit ‘Call’ before he could stop you and put the call on speaker as the two of you huddled around the phone. He prayed his father wouldn’t say something too embarrassing. You prayed that he did.
“Lin-Manuel, why are you calling me in the middle of the day? Some of us regular people have jobs.”
“I already love him.” You whispered to Lin.
“Padre, I’m doing an interview. I said she could call anyone on my phone and she picked you.” There was a pregnant pause, making you think for a moment you had scared him off.
“I would have called JLo.” Was his answer, causing you to laugh nearly loud enough to wake up Elizabeth. “Is that her?”
“Yes! Hello Mr. Miranda! Sorry if we’re interrupting something.” You prayed you hadn’t, not wanting to make a horrible first impression with him
“Lin-Manuel she sounds beautiful! Have you done something stupid yet?”
“Not yet.” Lin giggled, proud of himself.
“Well, it’s only a matter of time.” Lin’s smile immediately fell. “I have a meeting, I’ll call you after I get out. Ask the beautiful woman out, Lin-Manuel!” Before Lin could chime in, the connection was gone.
You imagined Mr. Miranda happily strolling into his meeting with a shit-eating grin.
“You had to pick him.”
“Let’s call your Mom next!” You snatched the phone, sprinting out of your chair, scrolling for any sign of ‘Mom’ in his contacts. Before you could get very far, hands were at your waist, stopping you from getting away. You tried to keep the phone away, wiggling into the cafe wall, but his reach was too long for you.
You attempted to wrestle it back, but he held it high over your head, leaving you pinned against the cafe wall, glaring up at him.
He smirked down at you before locking his phone and pocketing it, not moving away from you.
“So, should I take my father’s well-meaning advice?” He fidgeted under your gaze, suddenly appearing nervous, “Should I ask out the beautiful woman?” You hesitated for a moment, allowing him to fidget more.
“Fine. But I get to call Jenny from the Block next time.” You placed one finger on his chest, pushing slightly so you could move past him, ready to collect your things and to get Elizabeth back home.
As you sauntered on, you heard a grunt and a crash. You whipped around to find Lin had attempted to follow you, only to trip over himself and fall straight onto his ass.
“My dad did warn you it was only a matter of time until I did something stupid.”
And after too many written letters on crumpled pages,
She began to see herself.
Somebody out there will see her the way he never did,
She began to forget.
Her words will never again, will not always be his,
She began to realize.
Out of the woods she is, In the clear she is,
She began to find herself.
And for the last time she wrote, for the last time she did,
She began to accept it all.
Her words, her heart; slowly, they’re falling back,
She began to write, not for him, but for more important things–
She began to write for herself.
This is a “one-shot” as zey say, that I started a long time ago. It’s roughly inspired by the film “Magic in the Moonlight” if ya couldn’t already tell hehe ;) In this story, the reader is a magi-astronomer! :)
I hope you enjoy!! <3
You gasped in horror at the seemingly booming voice slicing through the silent observatory tower. Turning around, you took sight of the visitor behind you. His bashful, apologetic smile hidden between the lights and shadows of the glowing night.
“Oh! Goodness, I’m so sorry!” he apologized nervously, his hands held in surrender on either side of his body as he slowly made his way into the observatory’s wide space.
A/N: Lines borrowed from Season 11 episodes “Don’t you forget about me.”, “Red Meat.”, and “The Chitters.” are in Bold.
“The lies we tell others are nothing compared to the lies we tell ourselves.” - Derek Landy
Dean ran down the hall and careened into her room. “Y/n?” He stared at the perfectly made bed. He took another step forward picturing her that morning, the sheets twisted around her and her head shoved in the pillow. Why didn’t he say more? Why didn’t he urge her to come?
He scanned the room and his gaze froze on the notepad sitting on the desk. His heart dropped into his stomach. He walked over and picked it up then looked in the trash can. Two water bottles and some scraps of paper but then he dropped the notepad and grabbed two balled up pieces of paper.
He placed them on the desk and flattened the first one out. Her writing was sloppy, slanted, and she had scribbled over it but it was still legible. He remembered that night before. The things he said echoing in his head like a pickaxe as he read her scrawl.
Pros and cons of loving Dean Winchester, of staying in the shadows with Dean Winchester, standing in his shadow.
Alfred didn’t even notice it at first. It was normal for him to want to make his friends laugh, and he was regaling them all with a tale of how he’d drenched himself in jalapeños and cheese when he happened a glance over at Kiku.
The Japanese had gravitated toward the edges of the group as usual, but Alfred could see his shoulders shaking even as he hunched over his food. His first reaction was ask what was wrong, but the problem was solved for him when Kiku let out a giggle.
Dates ~ Mycroft x Reader for Sherlock VDay Challenge
Mycroft crumpled yesterday’s calendar page and threw it in the wastebin next to his desk. He stared at the date underneath. February…14th. Hmm. There was something about that date. Board meeting? No. Terrorist attack? Election in a foreign country? Phone call from a world leader? Nothing fit.
He got up, mind humming, The room presented itself to him in small, precise snapshots. Corner of desk. Window pane. Fake plant.
He looked back at the calendar. February 14th.
Just then, the door to his office burst open. You stopped short, trying hastily- and to no avail- to hide the fact that you were carrying a heart shaped box of chocolates with a very cliche, very unMycroft Valentine’s day card taped to the front.
“Oh. Um. I.”
You started to back out, then hesitated, face burning, completely torn.
Mycroft’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Ah. Valentine’s day, that’s it. Whose office were you looking for?”
He gave you a ‘go on’ look. “Come on, whose office, I haven’t got all day.” He let out an exasperated sigh, and muttered in a voice you were sure wasn’t intended for your ears, “Why would you want to celebrate a holiday created specifically to boost sales in the greeting cards and candy industries?”
You colored even further, more embarrassed than ever now, but determined to deliver the gifts as intended. “…Because I love you?”
Mycroft turned around, stopped short when his eyes landed on you. For a moment it looked as though you might’ve actually rendered him speechless. He parted his lips as though he were going to say something, but instead only managed, “Oh.”
You tried not to look at his perplexed expression. Doubtless he was just going to reject you out of hand. You darted forward, placed the chocolate and card on his desk, and then practically ran for the door.
“Y/N…wait-wait a moment.”
You paused, not daring to believe it. “Mycroft?”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Does…dinner tonight suit you?”
You turned to look at him, almost not grasping it. “Are-are you serious?”
The nervous demeanor melted away and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course I’m serious. Dinner? 8?”
He held her close and hard and inside himself he said goodbye and then goodbye and goodbye.- E.H (The Garden of Eden)
“Sebastian grabs ahold of your torso angling your body so that it would align with his. You see the look on his face and how it’s drawn with a severity of emotions. Looking down he finally took notice that you were watching him. His mouth gradually yet so eloquently formed into a smile.
Sheepishly smiling back at him you watched as he resumed grabbing your foot so that your leg would carefully extend. Holding you be the ankle he started kissing above your ankle continuing up to your leg. Leaving a trail of wet kisses, going alongside your inner thigh.
You were no longer capable of keeping your eyes on him. You placed both of your hands across your eyes. Pressing your lips together because you tried to suppress the girlish giggling. Suddenly feeling him hover over your body, your hands were removed. Sebastian kept your arms outstretched with your hands pinned underneath his. You could feel that every part of his body was touching yours.”
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. You didn’t bother picking it up to answer or silence it, because that meant you would have to talk. Instead you stayed in the same spot on the floor looking at the same pile of books over and over again. It was like trying to figure out a puzzle and only having a few pieces. You kept picking up different copies and flipping through the pages like it would help refresh your memory. The only problem was you had none. Nothing about this made it feel normal.
Frustrated you tossed the book aside on the floor with the rest but it landed on its pages. Feeling a little contrite for not wanting to damage literature, you picked up the book so the pages wouldn’t crumple. As you picked it up a square thin sheet of paper fell out from between the pages. Taking a closer look you noticed that it was a Polaroid. Turning it over to see the picture you slowly sink back down to floor.
It was a picture of Sebastian covering the lower half of his face with a book. On the bottom of the picture written in black it writes:
FOUR MONTHS, THREE WEEKS,ONE DAY.
Rushed with a hurricane of emotions filled with anxiety. Not knowing what to do or who to talk to ,you get up from the floor and rush into your room. Opening up the closet door you reach up for a shoe box. Once you have pulled it off of the shelf you sit on the corner of your bed going through it. You realized you owned a Polaroid camera and you kept all of the pictures in that box. Riffling through the pictures you see only candid shots you remember taking. Not even knowing what you were looking to find exactly you set the shoe box beside you getting up from the bed feeling hopeless. Until there was a loud knock at the door.
Startled you jumped a little because you were alone and wasn’t expecting anyone. Though with a day like today who knows who it could be. Walking back to your living room entrance you stood behind the front door. Carefully trying to hear who it could be.
“Who is it?” You called out with a timid tone. There was a pause before anyone answered you. You didn’t have a peephole on your door and you weren’t about to open it for anyone.
“Woah! Steady yourself there.” You heard a familiar voice say on the other end of the door. You quickly opened it when you recognized it was the man who worked in the lobby. He was holding onto what appeared to be a heavily intoxicated Sebastian. You didn’t know how to react. “What is going on?”
“He was seen stumbling around not too far from here so I went out looking for him. I figured you would know what to do with him considering your relationship.” He was panting for dear life.
“Relationship?” You asked so fast making your eyes widened.
“My legs feel so fucking numb.” Sebastian’s words slurred together and he couldn’t keep his head up.
“Let’s bring him in.” You say as you toss his right arm around your neck lifting up with your shoulders. You both guide him over to your couch. Easing him down you caught a whiff of him and he smelled of nothing but alcohol.
“I’ll leave you to it then."
"Wait!” You say stopping the elderly doorman. “What am I suppose to do with him?"
"He is in no better hands than yours (Y/N).” He says with a reassuring smile.
“But I don’t understand I just met him.” Your voice was shaking and your vision was starting to get clouded with tears. Reaching for your hand, squeezing your fingers and patting the top of your knuckles he lets them go.
“My heart breaks for you.” He says as takes his hat off and closes the door behind him. Hearing the door shut the tears come flooding down your face because it was time to face your reality.