“You need to stop pining after people you haven’t even spoken to,” Lydia says one day, probably because Derek—er, Mr. Hale, their boss—has just stepped through the front door of the cafe where they’re having lunch, and Stiles has trailed off mid-word to watch him walk up to the counter. In Stiles’ defense, he’s never seen Mr. Hale outside of the office before, let alone Mr. Hale wearing a leather jacket over his dress shirt. God, and Stiles thought the tailored suits were bad enough…
“Uh, I have too spoken to him,” Stiles says indignantly, tearing his eyes away from Derek’s broad back across the room. “One day I was coming out of the break room and I almost walked right into him and he said, ‘Excuse me,’ so then I said, ‘Oops,’ and he smiled at me. Kind of. A little bit. I mean, I interpreted it as a smile. There was some prolonged eye contact.”
Lydia abruptly stops stirring her fat-free latte to stare at him—one of those Oh god, it’s worse than I thought kind of looks. “That’s it?”
“au where harry james potter has a youtube channel in which he tells story times about himself and shit that happens with him and bam one day he and Draco Beauty Guru Malfoy collaborate: Harry tells a story time while Draco does his make up”- @saintdrarry
Harry James Potter started his youtube channel at the age of 18, when he moved out of the Dursley’s and into an old London mansion he inherited from his late godfather.
He goes to uni for European History (he wants to be a professor because he’s a neeeeerd) .
His first video- “Welcome to this Grim-old Place!”
Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny are constantly in his “daily” vlogs
Tbh he’s shit at being daily, it’s mainly when he can be bothered to go outside
He loves to walk around the city with his dogs, Hedwig (a Samoyed), and Padfoot (a Great Dane-also called a boarhound)
Often, they go to a small bookshop owned by Xenophilius Lovegood (who always lets animals in) and read for hours
He likes to put glasses on his dogs while the lay down and drool over “doggy books” (chew toys in the shape of books) and Instagram it
He likes to walk around the house and make up stories about the Blacks, and then ends them all by looking at the camera, very seriously, and saying, “Their ghosts will murder me in my sleep, I’m Sirius, goodnight.”
Often, though, he just makes videos at the end of the day telling about his life.
His best videos are the drunk ones at all the youtube parties-or the ones when he’s home alone
An excerpt from one such video, where he is sitting on a desk chair backwards-”you guys, i gotta be honest with you. Boys are hot as fucK
He fell off the chair during that last word
The channel gains popularity, and he has like 4 million subs by the time he turns 20
His most watched video (with like 15 mil views!!) is “My Coming Out Story
The Thumbnail is of him and Ginny sitting on his bed
The description is, “Hi im not gay. Im not straight. Im certainly not dating Ginny. Yes, I used to. No, I don’t have an s/o atm.
Luna pops up about 30 seconds in, kisses Ginny for 10 seconds while Harry very awkwardly looks at the camera, and then leaves with Ginny.
Newsflash: he’s bi af.
His second most watched video is about his mum and dad, and everyone cries watching it.
They died protecting him in an attempted robbery from a gang when he was very little
He also talks about Sirius and Remus
Sirius died by being killed by a gang member (after spending 12 years in prison for “being one”
Remus died from Cancer
Another video is where Luna, Ginny, and Hermione do his hair and choose his wardrobe for a daily vlog
He lost a bet
His hair is long, so Hermione puts it in a french braid and ties it up in a messy bun
They then spend a few minutes talking about how Hermione’s coarse hair has a different care process
Ginny chooses an orange button up shirt and faded dungarees for the outfit
Luna just elects to put glitter/stick-on jewels on Harry’s face because, she says, it will really pop on his dark skin
After that video they film a vlog in which they go to the London Zoo, which is quite near Grimmauld Place
Harry really likes the glitter, so he searched Youtube for makeup tutorials and found the one, the only, Draco Malfoy
While watching his videos, Harry always notices how clean his workspace was
Harry’s house was constantly a mess, but he always cleaned on Sundays-he really did!
Also, Malfoy was cold, hardly ever expressing emotion
He was brutally honest and loved a challenge
Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson (two other beauty gurus) often pop up in his videos
Malfoy has one video up about the racist comments he receives for his friends being, well, not white
He rants for 15 minutes about how real MUA’s should be able to do makeup on all people, not just white people
Apparently, Malfoy has his own line of makeup, called, of course, “Malfoy”
All of his videos were makeup related, but his other social media (what no, Harry didn’t stalk) shows his normal life-perfectly pristine and flawless in every way, with a hint of crude humor on Tumblr
He was never seen in public without a full face of makeup; his eyeliner could cut a bitch.
He didn’t have any pets, but his parents owned an estate with peacocks and horses
Draco had a Friesian called Atticus (After Atticus Finch, of course)
Anyways, Draco lives in London as well and goes to uni for English
One day, Harry emails Draco asking if he wants to collab.
This was after weeks of obsessing and multiple friends yelling at him to “just find the boy and snog him”
Technically, Ron and Hermione wrote and sent the email
When Draco reads it, his heart stops
Wow who knew that Draco had been low-key obsessed with Harry the whole time?
I did. I’m the author
Also, you did. This is a cliche and I am loVING IT
Anyways, back to the story.
He immediately calls Pansy and yells at her to go to his flat
They spend 20 minutes crafting the perfect respons
3 days later, a bare-faced Draco Lucius Malfoy shows up on Harry James Potter’s front doorstep.
He steps in, and Harry offers a cuppa
He accepts, and they talk for almost two hours before starting to film.
Draco sets up his makeup and hair stuff on a desk next to the camera, and has Harry sit down on a stool opposite his own
Harry decides he’s going to talk about his godson, Teddy, and tells Draco so
Draco just stares at Harry for about two minutes before bursting out laughing and informing Harry that Teddy is his cousin
Eventually, they start filming.
Draco decided a long time ago that Harry would be golden, and makes him up that way-from bright eyelids to shiny cheekbones
His lips were a matte brown nude with a shimmer on them
In the meantime, Harry chattered on about his bus ride with Teddy and how the kid’s hair was bright red, and it almost seemed pink in the sun
When they were done, Harry saw how he looked and gasped
“Don’t you dare cry, Potter, you’ll ruin everything”
After they turned off the camera, Harry worked up the courage to ask Draco out
Draco, of course, said yes, and kissed Harry softly on the mouth
“Oi, you’ll mess up my makeup” “The lipstick is special, it’s made to stay on. Anyways, I can always do it again.”
Person A is multilingual, and Person B has always found it very charming. It’s purely adorable, when Person A gets back from a long day and slips in-and-out of speaking French without realizing. (“It’s a flowy language. It just feels better for sleepy days.”)
It’s hellish, on the other hand, when Person A is sleepy because they’re sick. And Person B cannot understand a lick of what they’re trying to ask for. (“Dammit Google I’m pretty sure they didn’t just ask for a bank account”)
@zorglub410 because I saw that your blog is in French and I really appreciated your sweet words!!
“NO!” Dean shouted, seeing the tip of the angel blade protruding from Cas’ chest and feeling as though he were the one who had been stabbed. As Cas’ body collapsed to the ground, Dean felt his will to live drain out of him. And that scared the shit out of him.
Dean could feel Sam turn to look at him, but Dean couldn’t move his eyes from Cas’ body. He heard Sam turn and run to the house, probably to check on Jack. Right. Son of Lucifer and all that… But Dean couldn’t find it in himself to care about any of that anymore.
Dean felt his legs moving towards Cas’ body, slowly, as if he were dragging himself through molasses. He still couldn’t believe that this was happening. Again.
“Cas,” Dean muttered, collapsing to his knees next to the angel’s body. “Cas…” The tears were starting to flow. Dean hadn’t been able to tell him. He had never told him, and now he might never be able to…
“C’mon, man. You can’t leave me like this. Cas, c’mon. You just gotta wake up,” Dean murmured, gently fixing Cas’ hair. It was just as soft as he had imagined. But he had never imagined feeling it for the first time like this.
Dean was suddenly filled with a surge of rage.
“YOU CAN’T FUCKING DO THIS TO ME,” Dean yelled, brandishing his fists at the sky. “HAVEN’T I GIVEN ENOUGH? DO YOU HEAR ME, CHUCK? HAVEN’T I GIVEN ENOUGH? Haven’t I given enough…” Dean’s voice broke, and he dissolved into tears. Good thing Sammy couldn’t see him like this. He was so weak, so broken… The goddamn things Cas does to him…
Dean took a deep breath before returning his attention to Cas’ body. He looked so peaceful like this. It made Dean sick.
“Cas, man, why aren’t you waking up? You know damn well how I feel about you, don’t you, you bastard. You… I… I don’t want to think about what I’d be like without you. Don’t do this to me, Cas. Just… please…”
And Dean Winchester’s tears dropped down onto the ground, sizzling as they came into contact with the heat still emanating from the marks Cas’ wings had scorched into the ground.
And Dean Winchester muttered three words he never thought he’d tell a living soul to the dead body of the man whom he loved.
If you're still doing that writing thing, can you write a story about Trans Boy Keith on his period? And he has cramps but his bf(s) is helping him with it and it's adorable? It doesn't matter who the bf(s) is. I'm feeling this hard core and it might make me hate being alive less
Keith had been trying to ignore the ominous signs all week, but when he woke up feeling the cold claw of Death reaching into his abdomen, he knew it was over. Really the warning signs had been obvious; an unusually vindictive twinge of satisfaction when the subway doors had closed on some hipster douche bag, his intense craving for pistachios- of all things- and (worst of all, he barely wanted to admit it,) the extreme, burning annoyance he had felt toward Lance all week.
Lance, who had just wanted to stop and buy a gyro on their way back from class. Who had just wanted to sing along to the radio in the kitchen, who had just wanted to watch The Lion King for the sixth time that month. Sweet, beautiful Lance. The love of his life.
Lance, who Keith honestly would have choked out without a second thought.
His period was evil.
As much as he tried to have patience, Keith knew his temper was somehow even shorter during his period and Lance, bless him, had to bear the brunt of it. And yet, after all the snapping and glowering, Lance was the one hovering over his bed as Keith tried to find a position that would both ease the ache in his back and get the heating pad to hit just the right spot.
“How’re you feeling, babe?” Lance reached out, hesitating for a second before laying his hand gently on Keith’s forehead, pushing back his bangs.
Keith sighed under his boyfriend’s touch. “A bit better, after I took my binder off,” he tried to muster a smile.
Lance nodded, meeting Keith’s expression with a frown. “Well, that’s good. Are you sure I can’t get you anything else? Another heating pad? Some tea? What’s that pill you take sometimes- Mo-train?”
Keith chuckled, reaching up to grab Lance’s hand. “It’s Motrin. And I’m fine now, thanks.” He brought Lance’s hand down to press a soft kiss against his knuckles.
“Are you sure? My sister always drank raspberry tea on her period, she said it helped. I think I have some in my apartment, I can grab it-”
“-Lance,” Keith interrupted, smiling genuinely now, “I’m fine. Really. Please don’t run halfway across the city for tea.”
“Okay, I won’t,” Lance said quietly.
“But, if you want, you can climb up here with me,” Keith scooted forward in bed, careful to keep the heating pad in place under his shirt.
Lance climbed over him to nestle against his back, wrapping an arm around Keith’s waist and tenderly kissing along his shoulder and neck.
Keith sighed, trying now to ignore the hot pain that pooled in his stomach and focus instead on how Lance was hands down the sweetest man on the planet. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick this week,” he murmured, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Don’t apologize,” Lance’s chuckle was muffled against his neck, “I know this sucks for you.”
“You’re too nice.”
“I can be mean, if you want me too-”
Keith could hear the smirk in his voice as Lance pulled him closer. He turned to look over his shoulder, pouting until Lance leaned forward and met his lips once, twice. “I would hate that,” Keith breathed.
72. “Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.”
This turned into some kinda medieval au? also theres no telling how long this has been in my drafts
The battle had taken longer than anticipated, their losses heavier, too, but they had done it. They had won. Every warrior was tired, and bodies were strewn about the battlefield. Roman helped pick out the wounded among the lost, heaving them onto stretchers to go to medical tents.
Eventually, they had found all those they could, and so Roman went to the tent himself, intent on getting his own wounds tended to.
Virgil was, of course, the one to come and tend to him, herbs at the ready to make a poultice. He knew he could depend on Virgil, through thick and thin, but Roman was glad that he wasn’t there on the battlefield. Too much horror, too much danger, especially when Virgil’s talents lay in mending, rather than destroying.
“Something wrong, your highness?” Virgil asked softly, carefully easing Roman’s armour off, then the clothes underneath. His touch was feather-light, taking the utmost care to not disturb the various wounds.
Roman stayed quiet, watching Virgil’s face, studying him intently the way he had many, many times before. “Just… smile?” He said softly, fingers lightly touching his cheek, feeling the smooth skin. “I really need to see you smile right now.”
Virgil’s expression softened, and a fond smile crossed his face. Roman drank it in like a dying man, both hands cupping Virgil’s face despite the pain. “I was worried too, you know.” He said quietly. “You better make it up to me.”
“Whatever you wish for, Virgil. It is yours.” Roman’s voice was equally soft. “I wish I could promise never again, but…”
“I know, Ro.” Quick as a flash, Virgil leaned up, and Roman felt a light pressure against his lips.
Their secret safe, Virgil set about patching his Prince up.
This is what happens when I have late night conversations with @scully-loves-ruthie and we find epic gifs that just leave us howling. This also features the prompt ‘I think you need stitches’ from @frangipanidownunder and ‘Are you trying to flirt? Because you’re embarrassing yourself’ from anon. It’s just ridiculous fluff but I promised @frizzyhairedbitch85 some fluff so here it is. @today-in-fic
It’s fair to say I have seen Mulder in some fairly compromising situations during our long and chequered partnership and while occasionally his actions have left me mildly bemused as to how to proceed, the sight of my partner - a law enforcement officer no less - standing practically naked at the dessert table surrounded by an assortment of senior citizens who are staring with mouths agape as he happily washes his face with the warm brown liquid chocolate that is streaming from the fountain that is the table’s central attraction is a fucking new one on me.
But I should probably start at the beginning.
We found ourselves ensconced in this mid-size town at the edge of nowhere a few days ago, the reports of an apparition of the spectral peeping Tom variety terrorising the young female population had piqued Mulder’s interest although I’m still not completely convinced exactly which part of the case had held such appeal to him that it necessitated a flight across country before the ink had even dried on the 302.
so you know how neil is super oblivious? well I'd love if you could do a little something about how it would have gone if he went through and "warned" andrew about how for him it was more than just "hate-fucking".? if that makes sense? (if u want to)
you didn’t specify…when…so, what would have happened if Neil wasn’t quite so oblivious in ch.12 of TKM:
It doesn’t change anything.
It doesn’t change anything that Neil watches the sun-gilded lines of Andrew’s face in the back of a bus going to Binghamton like he’s a question and an answer all in one. It doesn’t matter that Andrew looks back and sees the quiet realisation in his eyes, and says, “Stop.”
Neil says, “I’m not doing anything.”
“I told you not to look at me like that.” I am not your answer and you sure as fuck aren’t mine. Neil’s inability to listen is something that Andrew despises.
“Is it exhausting seeing everything as a fight?” Neil asks, brow furrowing gently.
“Not as exhausting as running from everything must be.” Running was never an option for Andrew, but the skittish creature he’d almost broken in Arizona had looked just that.
“Maybe. I told you I’m working on that.”
“Work harder.” Andrew is the one who’d scraped Neil off the sidewalk outside the stadium the morning after his bloody birthday gift. Neil was so close to bolting then that the itch under his skin had nearly been catching. It hasn’t been long enough for Neil’s words to be anything other than wishful thinking.
“I can’t unless you let me go. Stand with me, but don’t fight for me. Let me learn to fight for myself,” Neil says softly, his chin curved over his forearm on the back of the seat. There’s an honesty in his face that Andrew still barely recognises, and isn’t sure he can trust.
He says, “I knew I’d look out for only me when the world went to hell.” He says, “I don’t want to be that person anymore.” He says, “I want to go back for you.”
He wants to go back for Andrew because his brain works in terms of how much am I worth and what can that buy me. He wants to be the soldier throwing his body on the grenade, the martyr in a crown of thorns. He and Andrew aren’t alike that way either - these days Andrew wants to live as well as win.
Andrew has to look away when he says, “Don’t come crying to me when someone breaks your face,” because he hates Neil, hates the appearance of gratitude and the way he says thank you. Hates the feeling of letting him go.
Neil starts to talk then, looking out the window with his cheek nestled in his elbow. For all his relaxation as he talks cities, talks travel, there’s a bare hint of tension nestled at the back of his throat. Whether it’s remembered or belongs to this moment, Andrew isn’t sure.
He listens, first. Then, at Neil’s prompting, talks himself. It’s nothing interesting, but Neil drinks it up like it’s water and he’s dying of thirst. Ironic, considering he already knows more about Andrew than most.
When Abby pulls over for a break and the other Foxes unload, the two of them stay. Neil watches Wymack pause and then leave without saying anything.
“I really want to know when Coach figured this out,” he says, because he clearly hasn’t realised yet how good Wymack is at seeing through people. If he had, he would be a fuck of a lot more wary of him.
It amazes Andrew that Neil can listen to him say it isn’t a this and still give his little speech about how the upperclassmen shouldn’t bet on his sexuality because the only one I’m interested in is you. Andrew kisses him because he asks for it without words, his hands so gentle around the curve of Andrew’s skull that he has to introduce teeth, to grip at Neil’s thigh a little too hard.
Neil breaks it but doesn’t pull away. Close enough his breath plays over Andrew’s jaw, sweet with the candy he accepted from Nicky but made a face over as he ate it, he says, “This is a ‘this’. To me.”
Andrew still wants to kiss him. He wants to hurt him, too - to make him take that back, to spit blood over it. To replace that touch of vulnerability in his eyes with pain, because that’s all that Andrew is good for.
Andrew’s hands are made for that, but his words can do it just as well. He says, “It isn’t anything to me,” in the voice of a man who only deals in the truth while his empty palms itch, and watches Neil’s expression close down.
It doesn’t change anything. Except that the moment Andrew releases his clutching, crawling hands from around Kevin’s throat with the truths he’s wrung out still ringing in his ears, he thinks: he’s gone into his grave with me a liar.
Sometimes, if Jack lets himself think about it, he feels guilty about dragging Rhys into the whole thing. Rhys had not been part of Jack’s plan. Jack considers himself a pretty forward planning kinda guy, but Rhys had stumbled into his life, all wide eyes and long legs and a surprisingly steady hand with a gun, and that had been that. Jack still feels guilty though, just a little bit.
The guilt comes, usually when it’s late at night, and they’re out on the road, Jack driving because Rhys has a tendency to fall asleep behind the wheel when he’s tired. Jack will glance over, look at the curve of Rhys’ jaw as he curls up against the window, and there will be that pang, that odd tightening in his chest, when he thinks about how young Rhys is, how he could be out there living his life, not stuck alongside a man wanted on three continents.
As Jack watches, Rhys stirs, as if sensing Jack’s gaze on him. He makes a little grumbling noise, the same noise he makes when Jack wakes him up, and nestles deeper into Jack’s jacket.
“Whaddya looking at, old man?” Rhys mumbles sleepily, one eye cracked open just enough to watch Jack.
“Nothing,” Jack says, and turns his attention back to the road. Not like there’s ever anything on the road to pay attention to. It’s just the road, the empty fields on either side, and Rhys next to him, breathing soft and steady as he slips back to sleep.
Later, thousands would say they saw it happen. The king, standing on the battlefield, the red-haired girl fighting by his side. Then, in the blink of an eye—or a brief glance away, or the momentary obstruction of the crowd—there is only one: King Hiryuu, the crimson dragon of legend, uniting all of Kouka behind him as he leads his armies to victory.
Hak doesn’t see it, though he’s there in the thick of it. Or rather, protecting his red-haired king, looking to them for direction in the heat of battle, feels so natural that it’s only later, standing by Hiryuu’s side as the king accepts the surrender of the Kai Emperor, that Hak realizes there’s anything to question. Then he freezes.
“Hak,” says Hiryuu, turning back to face him, his melodious voice both familiar and oh, so wrong.
“I am Yona,” says Hiryuu. “And I am Su-won. Don’t worry,” he says with a smile. “This is how things were always meant to be.”
“The red dragon will return at dawn,” Yun recites. He glances at the sky. It’s high noon now, the bright sun beating down on the dusty road home. Hiryuu rides at the head of the army, his generals following close behind. His dragons should be near him, too—Zeno is right by his side— but the others stay back, a lonely group amongst the triumphant soldiers. “I didn’t know this would happen! Ik-su never said—” Hak doesn’t reply. He remembers what Su-won did to the princess. How can Hiryuu say this was always meant to be?
The dragons, too, are silent. Finally, Shin-ah speaks. “He’s…not Yona,” he says.
“But he’s Hiryuu,” says Kija. “To follow him is the greatest, the only desire of the dragons.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself.
“This can’t be permanent,” says Yun. “Can it?”
Hiryuu smiles, and speaks to Hak as if they’ve always known each other, and Hak can’t look him in the eye. “Where is Yona?” he growls. “What did you do to her?”
“Hak,” Hiryuu says gently, “I told you. I am Yona. She and Su-won, we were always two halves of a whole.”
“Yona was never incomplete!” Many things had been incomplete. The kiss she left him with the last time they saw each other, the words he never gave her in response. But Yona was always everything she needed to be.
Hiryuu turns his gaze to the heavens. “Do you remember when the two of us looked up at the sky together?” he asks.
“No,” Hak says shortly, and storms away.
“I’m no happier about this than you are,” Ju-doh says.
“You knew it would happen.” The Sky general doesn’t deny it. “When you traded your second sword for a shield, you knew it would happen. Why didn’t you warn her?”
“Warn her?” He scoffs at the idea. “She was the one armed with prophecies and dragons. She was the one who turned up everywhere he went. Don’t try to tell me she didn’t understand their destiny.”
It’s pointless to argue, and Hak doesn’t care to try. “Then why didn’t you try to stop it?”
“He wouldn’t let me,” Ju-doh admits. “All he asked was that I help him make the best use of the time he had.”
These days, Ju-doh is no closer to the king than Hak. The dragons are the ones who stay by his side—all the dragons but Jae-ha. “I chose to follow a girl who doesn’t exist anymore,” is the last thing he says before he flies away, as soon as it becomes clear there’s no going back. Hiryuu lets him go with a sad smile on his face. Zeno clings to his king. Shin-ah seems to love him, but flinches whenever the king speaks his name. Kija has become stiff with duty.
The generals accept the return of King Hiryuu gladly, even the ones who were never believers before. Joon-gi pushes even harder for a match with his daughter, who is far more amenable to the idea than she once was. The day before their wedding, Hak leaves for Fuuga. He’s not coming back.
Two years later, Hak is visited by a yellow-haired young man who he almost doesn’t recognize as Zeno. He’s taller, and his hair is shorter, the angles of his face a little sharper. “Hiryuu came back for a reason,” he says. “Zeno thought mister might want to know.”
“…oh,” is all Hak can say to that.
“Zeno misses the miss, too,” Zeno admits. “But at least Zeno won’t be missing her for long.” For the tiniest instant, Hak hopes—and then he realizes that Zeno is referring to himself, and not to Yona.
“Zeno, are you—are you going to be alright?”
“Zeno’s going to go visit Ryokuryuu next!” the former yellow dragon replies, without answering Hak’s question.
The king is planning a visit to Fuuga. Hak doesn’t intend to be there, but at the last minute, he can’t bring himself to leave. He’s weak, and he wants, oh how he wants to see that red hair again, those deep violet eyes, Yona’s eyes, even if he’ll never see Yona again. Hak stays back as the royal party arrives in the late morning—they’ve even brought the little princess with them—and there, he’s had his glimpse of Hiryuu, and that’s enough. That’s enough for a lifetime.
He turns. Standing before him is Yona—older, a grown woman, but without a doubt, Yona. “Princess,” he says. “What—how—?”
“Look at the sky,” says Yona. Hak looks up. What he thought was just a cloud covering the sun is no cloud at all but a much darker shadow. The beginning of an eclipse. “Long, long ago, the red sun was eaten, and the world was dyed black,” Yona recites. “We have until the light returns.”
“How often do solar eclipses happen?” Hak asks her.
“Yun says it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Then just tell me one thing. Is this what you want?”
She buries her face in his chest, tears staining his robes. “It’s not,” she says, gripping the stone on his necklace tight. “Hak, I just want my family back, I want you—” She pulls away from him and takes several deep breaths. “But it’s what Kouka needs. I made this choice, Hak.”
Hak pulls her close and wonders what will happen if he doesn’t let go.
When the light returns, she’s still there with him. Hak wonders if he dare hope. They return together to the main house at Fuuga, where Tae-wu greets Yona with confusion—and Lili greets her with open arms. “Yona, isn’t this longer than you expected?” Lili asks.
“It is,” says Yona. “Lili…where is Su-won?” But the other woman doesn’t know.
Two days they wait. Hak would like to never see Su-won again, but Yona is fraught with worry. The little princess doesn’t know what to make of the strange woman who looks so much like her father.
At dawn on the third day, Ju-doh rides to Fuuga. “Su-won isn’t coming back,” he says. “Not to Kouka, not in his lifetime.” He bows to Yona. “Your Majesty,” he says, “Su-won accepted where his path would lead. He never wanted that for you.”
“And you?” Hak asks.
“I’ll join him in exile,” says Ju-doh. “I only came back to deliver this message.”
Yona bows in return. “Thank you, General,” she says. She reaches for Hak’s hand.
“Princess,” Hak begins as they watch the former Sky general ride off into the distance. No, she’s not a princess anymore. “Yona,” he says, “Yona,” he repeats her name, “Yona.” She is Yona and only Yona, and that’s all she ever needs to be.
She looks up at him. “Hak,” she says, smiling. “Let’s go home.”
For the sentence starters, "I need you to tell me the truth about where you've been." MSR obviously :)
As you can tell, I’m not really an angst writer. I tried. Set somewhere between IWTB and the revival. Tagging @fictober and @today-in-fic
Like an unexpected guest in the middle of the night, rain
starts pelting against the window, startling Scully awake. Darkness surrounds
her which means that she must have drifted off earlier; her glasses sleep
beside her like a lost child, as does her book. Her eyes glide over the neat,
untouched pillow next to her. She sighs. She swallows hard, her throat is dry. Scully
thirsts for a glass of cold, fresh water, but she doesn’t want to get up,
doesn’t even want to move. Her bones as weary as her heart, she remains there
in the bed with the rain as her only companion. It’s lost its angry edge now
that she’s awake, tinkles silently against the glass. There are no thoughts on
her mind; she’s thought about this, and Mulder, much too long, way too often.
It’s no use.
There’s the soft sound of the front door opening then
closing. Or did she just imagine it? Her heart beat picks up in hopeful
desperation. She never locks the door when Mulder isn’t here. What if he’s
forgotten, or lost, his keys on his way back to her? He’ll think she doesn’t
want him to come home this time. No. Scully locks the door when he’s here with
her. Not to cage him in or to confine him; just a gentle reminder that she’s
here, they’re safe, and that there’s no need to run away. When the stairs creak
and moan gently, she almost smiles. She was right, after all. In the haste of
her daily life, work, housekeeping, more work, she’s forgotten how long it’s
been this time. He’s been gone too long, but it’s always too long. The door to
the bedroom opens and Mulder’s shadow looms large.
“Scully.” He says and his voice sounds like the rain
against the window.
“Where have you been?” Outside the wind howls. The
window frame rattles. Mulder takes a few steps towards the bed. In the absence
of light, Scully can’t see his face. He sits down next to her in his damp
clothes. He smells like a storm, dark and guilty.
“I’m here.” He tells her and then he’s hovering
over her. Drops of water drip onto her face; there’s no telling if it’s rain or
tears. Then, in a matter of seconds, his mouth lands on hers. His lips move
against her hungrily, asking her to let him in, please. She does. Her mouth
opens under his and when she tastes him again after… how long has it been,
really? The thought evaporates as Mulder’s tongue finds hers, teases her. His
hand reaches between them and under her shirt, finding her skin hot against his
cold fingers. Scully gasps into his mouth, grabs at his arms, then his hair.
Her fingers dig into his scalp and he yelps. He breaks the kiss, stares down at
her, panting hard.
“Where have you been, Mulder?”
“I’m here now, Scully. Doesn’t that count?” It
doesn’t. Not anymore. This time it isn’t enough. His mouth comes down on hers
again, hard. Their teeth clash and it hurts for just a moment before nothing
else matters except his weight on her, their tongues and lips making love.
Scully feels herself let go, give in to him. When his hand reaches between them
again, warmer now, softer, she stops him before she loses herself completely.
“Scully, I need you.”
“No, Mulder. Not,” he licks her lips, swallows her
words, “like this.” She whispers against him.
“I came back, didn’t I? I always come back.” His
hand stills on her stomach.
“It’s not enough anymore. I need you to tell me the
truth about where you’ve been.”
“No.” He breathes against her, covering every inch
of skin he finds with tiny kisses. She’s let him do this in the past. Don’t
talk, make me feel. She’s used these words before. Not this time. How often
will she have to wake up and find him gone? Disappeared into the night without
warning, without explanation?
“Mulder, I need you to stop. I need you to be honest
“You don’t want to know the truth, Scully.” He whispers
into her ear before he softly bites into her earlobe, making her moan.
“I do, Mulder. I need… need to know.” He’s
distracting her and he’s good at that. His hand on her stomach starts moving
again, slides downward past her pajama pants and her panties. His fingers find
her mons and stop there, laying still, waiting.
“Tell me.” She pleads. “Tell me about where
you go to, Mulder. What is it that you hope to find?” But he just stares
at her. Tell me I’m not enough. Tell me it’s another woman. She knows that what
he needs, where he goes to, has nothing to do with another woman. She knows.
His hand, tired of waiting, moves upwards again, tickling her. It finds its
place on her stomach again where Mulder draws small circles without ever taking
his eyes off of hers.
“Do you know… no, how could you know…”
“Your eyes, Scully. Your eyes are so beautiful. I always
thought so. And you know what? Our son has the same eyes.” No. No, she
thinks. Her breath catches as he goes on; his words strangle her and there’s
nothing she can do. She wanted this; she wanted the truth.
“He has my height, my build. He’s tall. He’s really
tall, Scully. But he’s got your eyes. Your beautiful, blue eyes.”
“Mulder… how could you…” She wants to push him
away, off her, but instead she grabs at him to get closer. To disappear under
him, inside of him. To understand him, to know what he now knows. Tears cloud
her vision, stream down her face, settle on her lips.
“I had to.” Mulder kisses her, tastes her sorrow
and her pain, drinks it up. “When this longing gets too strong, I just… I
go see him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Why didn’t you take me
with you? She thinks. She knows that feeling; when everything inside her starts
feeling heavy under the weight of missing their son. Of missing out on his whole
life, of being his mother. Their son is not his crusade, not his holy grail; he’s
“Because I knew you’d make me stay. I knew you’d tell me
to stop. Am I right?”
“You can't…” But her resolve vanishes into the
darkness surrounding them. She knew it all this time. They’ve never been the
same, she and Mulder. She knew he wouldn’t be able to let go. She knew. Now
it’s time for her to follow him.
“Next time… you take me with you.”
“No, you don’t-”
“Next time, Mulder,” both her hands tangle in his
damp hair, hold on tightly, “you take me with you. And now, Mulder… I need
you to make me forget.” Scully drags his head down to her until their lips
“Make me forget, Mulder. Fuck me and make it stop.”
The dulcet tones of a quiet piano chimed in the far corner
of the large, open room, filled with some of the most well-dressed people
Bakugo had ever seen in his life. Inane chatter of men in business suits
carried throughout the restaurant, amassing into a cacophonous mess of insincere
pleasantries and small talk. Bakugo took one last unceremonious gulp from his
champagne flute, and set it down on a tray when a waiter walked past him. He
would have liked something stronger, but if by some chance paparazzi were
lurking in the crowd, they didn’t need to catch an up-and-coming pro hero
A pro like Deku, on the other hand, seemed to have no
problem leaving him behind to go to the bar. It had been his idea to
come to this stupid gathering, promising Bakugo there could be potential agents
willing to strike brand deals. In reality, Bakugo didn’t care one way or
another if some rich asshole wanted to throw money in his face. He had come
because he wanted to spend time with his friend he rarely got to see anymore.
Izuku Midoriya—or rather, Pro Hero “Deku”—had gained sudden,
inescapable popularity once he debuted. Men, women, children—everyone
loved him, showered him with praise, and claimed to be his biggest fan. Bakugo
knew the latter was always a load of shit. Deku’s biggest fan was currently
standing beside an over-decorated wall, surrounded by a bunch of salarymen he
didn’t know, glancing around the room to find another waiter with a tray of
With no alcohol, no Deku, and no patience, Bakugo was
starting to lose his cool.
His head turned to the sound. Midoriya stumbled towards him,
pushing his way through a sea of dull colors and receding hairlines. He then
grasped the front of Bakugo’s jacket, and pressed their bodies together. Bakugo
struggled to keep his hands from popping.
“What the hell, nerd?”
He looked down to see Midoriya staring up at him with
Without hesitation, Midoriya said, “I need you to pretend we’re
Robin hadn’t expected Regina to be awake—awake and
waiting—when he got home.
He’d fully expected to come home to a quiet and darkened
house, to put his daughter down into her cozy bassinette after a long,
emotionally taxing day, and then retire himself. He’d yearned for the warm comfort
of their bed, expecting to slide in beside her and nuzzle against her, to
breathe her in and hold her as he drifted to sleep. He expected that explanations of what
happened that night—explaining the story from beginning to end and filling in
the gaps of how the Evil Queen had ended up with his infant daughter, how she’d
cared for the tiny girl, never meaning her any harm, and how vulnerable and
lonely she’d been, and how he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. And, he’d expected that with a night’s rest
behind them, they could discuss what happened with clear and rational heads,
and he’d hoped with open hearts.
But what he’d expected hadn’t been what happened…
When he got home that night, it was actually morning; and
the darkness of the sky was beginning to fade away. When the door opened, a
thin strip of light stretched out from the kitchen and his eyes narrowed as
they adjusted to the light that grew brighter and brighter as he walked toward
it. He took a breath as he entered the kitchen, setting his daughter’s carrier
on the counter as his eyes fell to Regina.
His chest clenched and his jaw tightened as his eyes fell to
her, sitting at the counter and nursing a cup of tea that had likely cooled
long ago. Her shoulders were slumped forward and there were tear tracks on her
cheeks—and when she looked up at him, he could see that her eyes were red and
“It appears you have I have very different understandings of
what it means to be home soon,” she says in a voice that’s quiet and flat. “I
waited up. I wanted to see her, to see that she was okay, to hold and…” Shaking
her head, she scoffs and looks back down at the cup of tea. “I didn’t expect
that you’d spend the whole night with her.”
“I… I’m sorry,” he tells her, fully aware that his apology
is only partially true—he doesn’t regret the spending the better part of the
night holding the Evil Queen or allowing her cuddle his daughter; he doesn’t regret
kissing her or making her feel less alone in the world, and he most certainly
doesn’t regret loving her in spite of everything. But he does regret that those
things hurt Regina—that they hurt her other half—and most of all, he regrets
that they’re even in this situation.
“Are you?” She asks as she turns to face him. “Are you
sorry? What exactly is it that you’re sorry about?” She blinks and he watches
the way her shoulders square in defense, watching as her walls go up and she
prepares for a fight—a fight they both know will have no winner. “Are you sorry
that I spent the entire night worrying? Worrying about what she might do to
you, what she might say… what she’d do to that precious little girl…” Her voice
cracks as it trails off. “Worrying about my worst nightmare coming true?”
“Did you think at all about me when you were with her?”
“This… isn’t fair…”
“You’re right,” she tells him with a curt nod, her eyes
hardening as they meet his. “It’s not fair that you spend a night with her.”
“I… didn’t spend the
night with her,” he murmurs, somewhat caught off guard by the biting hurt
behind her words and the defensiveness in his own. “You’re making it sound like
I’m having an affair or that…”
“Are you!?” She asks again, her voice louder and her eyes
wider as her chin begins to tremble. “Is… that why you stayed?”
“I just… I couldn’t leave her.”
“Of course you couldn’t.”
“Regina, this is ridiculous.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she says, taking a short
breath as her eyes press closed, her pain more than obvious. “Are you having an…”
“She’s not someone
else,” he cuts in. “She’s not some other woman. She’s you. When I feel in love with you, I fell in love with all of you; and even though you
separated yourself, even though you tore yourself in half, and even though
everyone in your life seems to think this was a good thing for you, I will
never be convinced that it was.” He pauses for a moment, feeling his lungs
deflate as he looks at her, feeling so helpless and lost, not knowing what to
do or say. “I can’t separate the two
sides of you. When I look at her, I
just see you.”
Looking up, Regina nods. “Do you… prefer that side of me? Do
you prefer me like that?”
“Regina, this… isn’t fair.”
“Well that I can agree with,” she says, her voice suddenly
hoarse. His heart aches as she reaches up and swipes her fingers over her eyes,
pushing away the tears that began to well—and she when she looks back at him,
all he wants to do is hold her and make it okay—but he knows that he can’t, he
knows this isn’t something that he can fix. “When she told me that she was
going sit back and watch us all tear each other apart I… I… never thought that…
that this where it would start.”
“I know better than anyone how manipulative she can be. I
should have seen this coming.”
“Regina,” he murmurs again as she slides off the stool at
the counter. “Regina, please…” he says, reaching for her as she turns away,
shaking her head as she sucks in a breath and struggles against her tears. “If
“Not now,” she says as she walks past him. “I just… want to
go to bed and… forget about this for a little while.”
“Regina, we should talk out this. You can’t just…”
“No,” she says in a barely audible voice as she starts
toward the stairs, leaving him standing there, alone and helpless, and
overwrought with guilt; and he wishes, more than anything she could understand
that every part of her was worth loving.
Congrats on the follower count! How about rebelcaptain + one is on a blind date that's not going well and the other is the waiter. Bonus points if Jyn is the waitress!
Ok so I have to apologise profusely anon, because I
attempted to write this prompt in like 3 different ways and absolutely none of
it worked. I TRIED I REALLY DID AND IM SO SORRY, but since it wasn’t working I wrote you something else instead and it’s literally completely different but I hope you’ll still like it anyway. x
Please enjoy this ‘you accidentally sent me a booty text but
I’m considering saying yes anyway’ au
His phone buzzed just as he was stumbling in through his front
door with his arms full of groceries. Refusing to make the trip up the stairs
twice, he was laden down with probably more than he should have carried at once and
cursed when he started losing grip on his jacket under his armpit. Kicking the
door shut behind him, he couldn’t check the message until he had dumped all the
bags onto his kitchen counter in relief. The little messenger icon was a
familiar face so he tapped it absently as he started unpacking a bag –
– and promptly choked.
Usually if Jyn messaged him this late at night, it was because she
had found yet another thing to criticise from his latest essay. She apparently
did all her best reading after 10pm because god forbid he ever get grilled at a
decent hour, but he liked their conversations all the same. Used to their
chatting being based about their classes or occasionally straying into memes
and their favourite tv shows, he was now quite literally rendered speechless at
the photo he had apparently just been sent.
Though her face wasn’t visible he had no
doubt it was Jyn just from the sheer muscle definition that he could sure as
hell see because the only times he’d ever seen her this de-clothed before was when
they’d occasionally hit up the gym together. She was almost naked in the mirror selfie she’d sent, her arms toned, her abs rock hard… fuck. It sent everything south and he didn’t know what the hell sound just came out of his mouth, but it miiiiight’ve been a whimper. The bra she wore in the selfie was
white and lacy and the accompanying caption read:
this bra was too nice to not share
He… well, quite honestly, he stared for so long he thought he
might just be having a brain aneurysm. She had to be joking, right? Sure, this was
nothing like Jyn’s sense of humour, but it literally HAD to be a joke because
it didn’t make sense if it wasn’t. The message felt like she had sent it (the
severe lack of punctuation kind of gave her away) but it was so far out of left
field that he was almost certain it hadn’t been meant for him. No, some other
lucky bastard out there was supposed to be on the receiving end of this
message, because he and Jyn weren’t like that, and who cared if maybe he kind
of wanted to be like
that, because they weren’t and they couldn’t –
Another message popped up. This time, it appeared that Jyn was
Im so sorry
cassian shit pls ignore this PLS
It didn’t help calm his racing heart at all.
He knew he had frozen foods slowly defrosting away in his grocery
bags still, but they seemed like a minor detail in comparison to the battle
wracking his mind. Quite honestly… he’d been on the verge of throwing all
caution to the wind and playing along. Maybe sending something a little
suggestive back. It wasn’t an outright booty text, but it definitely wasn’t
innocent either and perhaps it was the way to start, a way to just flirt a
little, what could go wrong… but then he got that answer and he pressed his
forehead to his kitchen counter with a frustrated sigh.
On the days he wasn’t
kidding himself, he knew that he was an absolute fucking goner for Jyn Erso.
She was prickly and defensive and didn’t let any minor grammatical error past
her, but once she got used to you she was hilarious to be around and her smile
literally made his heart stop these days. Sometimes, on the nights they would
study together late at the library, she would linger as he packed his books
away and he got the feeling that hopefully, MAYBE, she was a goner too.
But then she said things like that and he would squash it all
Another message. He lifted his head gingerly to read it.
God cassian SAY SOMETHING DAMN IT I need to know that I haven’t
just ruined our entire friendship lmao
He stared at her words, grappling hard until eventually, he
figured fuck it.
Friendship’s overrated. I was going to say it definitely looked nice.
He hit send before he could lose his nerve and wondered if it was
a little overdramatic to turn his entire phone off for good measure. He held
himself back from adding on ‘just kidding’ and instead, forced himself to start
putting away his groceries.
Another buzz made him drop the bag of frozen vegetables.
well, good. I wouldnt wanna waste a good selfie.
Cassian bit his tongue and typed back.
Honestly selfie game is 10/10. How’d you even get that angle?
I might’ve stood on somethin to make me tall enough. also might’ve
nearly killed myself in the process
Ah the price we pay for a good selfie…
Gotta get these boobs lookin good somehow
They’ve been doing just fine before now, tbh
Fuck. That might’ve been a bit much. He grimaced, distracting
himself with his shopping for the next thirty seconds and initially ignoring
the subsequent message that eventually buzzed through. Finally, though, sheer nerves took over and he pulled up the conversation once again.
Cassian Andor, are you flirting with me?
You sent me a pic of your boobs, Jyn. He felt the need to stress this point. This was on her, she
Touché. So wanna come over, then?
BOOM. He was dead! His head had exploded and he was definitely,
100% very, very deceased.
Do you……mean that in the way I think you mean that?
HEY. I worked hard at that selfie. If I have to go through the
humiliation of accidentally sending it to my study partner, then the least the
universe could do is also throw some sex in there for me But um… hey if u want to say no, its chill. Idc its totally
fine no hard feelings
Cassian thought about it for about ten seconds. Then –
I can be there in ten
It was just as he was rushing to throw whatever the hell was left
in his grocery bags into the fridge – honestly, he literally didn’t give a shit
how it was organised at this point – when he got another photo. He rubbed his
eyes, groaning a little at the image of Jyn’s body, slightly zoomed out now. Her entire torso and upper legs could be seen and that was how he figured out that her underwear matched the
Hurry up, mate she added.
If you stop sending me shit like THAT I might Jesus lord
I'd love to read your take on what happened after the soul sword in 2x10. Like, Alec casually (or not, whatever you like) telling Izzy and Jace etc that they exchanged I love you's. Only if you want to, of course!
Hi anon! Thank you so much for the prompt! I only wrote the conversation with Jace because I felt like it might be more interesting, but feel free to come back and ask for Izzy’s too! I hope you like it :) I enjoy writing the parababros very much a lot!
There’s a small balcony on the fourth floor of the Institute – even
though balcony isn’t the right word, since there’s no door that
grants access to the small, messy, forgotten area. The only way to
reach it is through a window a few feet away and a jump; Alec is
pretty sure that if his mother saw him there she would have a heart
"What is it this week?" Christophe asks, and he purposefully eyes Victor's boner. // Victor adjusts his suit pants and glares at him. "He's wearing the Jeans(tm) again." // "He is?" Christophe asks, and glances around. "I'm surprised you're still alive."
When Victor arrives at his apartment later that night, he’s just managed to toe off his Salvatore Ferragamo oxfords when a hand tugs his tie and yanks him forward, pushes him against the wall.
“Careful, that’s Italian silk,” Victor chides. He clicks his tongue but angles his face to the side, lets Yuuri press kisses to his neck.
“Mm. Sorry,” Yuuri murmurs, not sounding sorry at all. “Couldn’t help myself.” He licks a stripe up to Victor’s jaw, then pulls away and looks up at him. “You tortured me all day,” he says accusingly, thumbing at the lapel of Victor’s sports jacket.
Victor shoots him a look of disbelief. Wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and slips a hand into one of his back pockets, applying just the faintest amount of pressure to make Yuuri squirm. “Me torture you? You know what those jeans do to me, gorgeous.”
Yuuri gives a small smile at that, a light blush spreading over his face that Victor finds irresistible. He ducks down and kisses him, licks into his mouth until Yuuri’s gasping and tugging again at his clothes, and Victor can’t even bring himself to care about the wrinkle damage that’ll leave.