AU set in Cannon Victory Tour. There aren’t any Hunger Games, only the Panem Games, where Peeta and Katniss meet and fall in love.
WARNING: M for SMUT…unbetae’d all mistakes are mine
The steady beat of the train drove Katniss crazy. They were passing through a storm in a remote area and the train had to slow down. They were on their way to the Capitol. She punched her pillow it wasn’t hard enough. It was too soft. The other pillow was too hard, it wasn’t soft enough. Nothing was good enough.
Katniss hated leaving home, hated having to go on this victory tour. She hated the idea of having to be half of ‘The Star-Crossed Lovers,’ she had to be the sweet dutiful girlfriend of Peeta Mellark as part of the game-winning strategy. A plan he cooked up to get her the prize money for the competition back when they’d been something more. “Stop it Everdeen, don’t do that to yourself,” Katniss murmured to herself.
She slipped from her bed and padded across the floor to the door. She couldn’t sleep, and she hated admitting why. She needed Peeta. No bed, no blanket, or pillow compared to being in his arms. Something she’d been bereft of for months since they’d come home from their win.
Straightening her shoulders she opened the door to her luxury cabin and slipped quietly down the hall toward his room. Her heart pounded in her chest, as she knocked on his door.
I know you might hate me for this if
you are still around, but I’m going to change your prompt a little
and only write for Saeran and make it a ficlet instead. I think the
whole prompt just fits him the best with the flowers – since he
knows the language – the silent pining for MC and the revenge!
really hope you still enjoy it, even if it’s just Saeran :3
Fandom: Mystic Messenger Rating: Teen and Up Warnings: A tiny bit of smut at the end but not really Categories: F/M Relationships: MC x Saeran Word count: 2225
in love had never been something Saeran had considered for himself.
In fact, his entire life had been a row of events proving him over
and over that he was entirely undeserving of it. Not just being
loved, he’d never known what that even felt like, but the notion of
falling in love.
in lovewas something
for good and pure people to experience. He was neither. Tainted by
his dark past and filled with rage and hate for the world and
himself, Saeran didn’t dare hope that he’d ever get to experience
such a feeling.
When the pain of loneliness threatened
to crush him, he convinced himself that he loved Rika. The symptoms
were there – at least from what he read in books – and when he
was with her, he didn’t feel like he was drowning within himself. Of
course he loved her. Or so he thought.
The moment you stepped
into his life, Saeran realized just how wrong he’d been in that
assumption. It had taken him years to so much as warm up to Rika and
yet all it took you was your sweet, sincere smile and those heartfelt
words he felt burn into his chest.
Loving you made him forget what it felt
like to hate himself. It made his steps a little lighter and his
laughter a little brighter. The center of his entire world shifted
onto you and he would have done anything, anything at all, to
be make you happy.
That is how Saeran learned the difference
between devotion and love. He would have followed Rika’s last
command, going as far as to read it from her lips. He would have died
for her without thinking twice about it. For you he wanted to live.
What Saeran hadn’t anticipated, however, was just how all
consuming love could turn out to be. All his life he’d mocked V for
his blind devotion to Rika, his pathetic attempts to return to her
when she’d shunned him in every way humanly imaginable.
wasn’t until you announced your engagement to another man that he
grew to respect V. It felt like his entire world had shattered to
pieces, all purpose ripped from him. How V had managed to survive
that feeling remained a mystery to Saeran.
It was nothing
short of a miracle that he was capable of doing the same. Dreaming
about seeing you in a wedding dress, overjoyed to begin a new chapter
of your life – even if it was with a man other than him – was his
saving grace as much as it was his downfall.
The year leading
up to the wedding passed by in a blur. While Saeran was present for
most of the important decisions and planning none of them really
registered in his mind, not with him around. It felt too much
like one of his nightmares he was still waiting to wake from.
worst part was, he hated no one more than himself. Not even the groom
to be. He was charming, handsome and well off. The man could
offer you all those things Saeran couldn’t. He’d never been good
enough for and it was his own fault for allowing hope to bubble
It wasn’t until he saw you in your wedding dress
for the first time, mere hours before the ceremony, that reality sunk
in and Saeran felt like he was drowning once more. You were the most
beautiful creature he’d even laid his eyes upon and he was giving you
away to another man.
Saeran had never wanted to die as much as
he’d wished for it in that moment. Until you turned to him, cheeks
heated and lip worried between your teeth, shyly asking him whether
you looked good or not. Despite how nervous you must have felt you
were radiating joy.
The murmured of the guests waiting for
the wedding to begin could be heard. You rested your delicate hand on
Saeran’s arm, ready to walk down that aisle and marry the man you
thought to be the love of your life. For a few short moments, all was
All was good…until Zen came rushing
in surprising the both of you. Saeran noticed the strange look in his
eyes long before he was the flowers and that disgusting note he would
have loved to have burned to ashes right then and there.
had always thought he’d experienced all the pain there was to
experience in the world. He’d felt it all, had his entire world
shattered and every hope destroyed. He was wrong. Seeing your
world shattered hurt a million times more.
Your fiancé had
decided to leave you and on your wedding day at that. He’d send a
bouquet of black roses and short, painful note explaining that he’d
run away with another woman. Saeran promised himself that he’d make
the dramatic asshole pay.
The events that followed once again
turned into a blur, but for entirely different reasons. Saeran made
sure that everything happened fast, trying not to draw it out and
thereby minimize your pain. Well, minimize it as much as he could in
the face of such tragedy.
He told Zen to inform the RFA.
Jumin informed the guests and Jaehee escorted them out. Yoosung,
Saeyoung and V cleaned everything up and Saeran somehow managed to
get you home safely, staying by your side throughout the entire
The worst part was how little you cried. It would have
killed him to see you cry but he would have gladly comforted you for
however long it took you to smile again. You holding back and feeling
numb was something he wasn’t equipped for.
You changed after that day. Your steps
became heavier and your smiles dimmed. It was like someone had turned
out the bright light that had shone within you. Saeran didn’t know
how to turn it back on, but he knew how to make that person pay.
And making him pay Saeran did…in every way non-physical and
provable. Technically he could have tortured the asshole, he still
had all the means to it, but Saeran knew that deep in your heart you
still cared for the man and wouldn’t appreciate it.
he opted for ruining his business by leaking the right information to
the right people. Saeran also seduced the little wench the man had
taken off with, effectively taking her from him as well and then made
sure that his fortune was given to less fortunate people.
took everything from the man and it still didn’t feel like it was
enough. Not when you hadn’t logged into the messenger in a month. Not
when you barely ate anymore. Not when your smile didn’t reach your
eyes anymore. Not when you were still so broken…
realized, that revenge wasn’t the answer. Not for you, at least. You
weren’t Rika. You were good and pure and deserved all the love in the
world to make up for everything that scumbag had taken from you.
Saeran understood then, that it was time to return the favour.
visited you every day from that moment on. He made sure that you ate
at least two full meals, three if he managed to convince you. He sat
beside you as you stared at the wall for hours, expression blank. He
hugged you tight when you started to cry eventually.
brushed your hair when you couldn’t motivate yourself. He helped you
clean when you finally suggested it to him. He tugged you in every
night and woke you up when the nightmares came. He became the anchor
you’d once been to him.
A couple of weeks passed like that
and step by step you started to open up again like a flower after a
storm. Your nightmares ebbed away and the tears didn’t last anymore.
You started to sing in the shower again and eat three meals you made
Saeran felt so happy his chest could have burst.
Seeing you laugh at a joke he’d made after such a long time of sorrow
would be a memory he would cherish for the rest of his mortal life
and maybe even beyond. Making you happy was truly his
However with joy often came sadness and while Saeran
knew such thoughts were selfish, he was disappointed to note that you
no longer needed his help. You were finally strong enough again to
stand by yourself and he would only be dragging you down.
he didn’t expect was to find you standing in front of his door a week
later, wet to the bone from the horrible rain. You were shaking, skin
almost sickly pale. He instantly rushed you in and wrapped a thick
blanket around you before getting a towel to dry your hair
You sat there silently, eyes wide as you looked at
him as if you were seeing him for the very first time. It was a
strange feeling, being stared at like that. Saeran’s hands slowed
before coming to a stop still resting on each side of your head with
the towel hanging down your face.
“It’s you”, you
whispered, slowly reaching out. You carefully cupped his face, thumbs
brushing over the soft skin of Saeran’s cheek. You watched in awe as
his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into your touch like he was
starving for it. It broke your heart.
“The entire time you
were right before my eyes and yet I didn’t see you at all”, you
continued. “I’m so sorry, Saeran. So, so sorry.” His eyes flew
open, surprise written all over his face. He shook his head, turning
it so he could press a kiss to your head.
“No, it’s my
fault”, he replied, instantly continuing when he saw you were about
to protest. “I loved you from the moment you smiled at me for the
first time but I was too scared and broken to tell you as much. Well
now you’ve fixed me and I am no longer scared.”
locked for a long moment, searching for a reason to stop. When
neither of you found one Saeran finally closed the distance between
the two of you. Your lips met in an agonizingly slow kiss, the
sweetest torture Saeran had ever experienced.
Both of you
were tentative, slowly allowing yourself to explore each others
mouths. You could feel Saeran’s tongue trace your lips and you gladly
parted them, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He happily obliged,
claiming your mouth in the most gentle of manners.
tell he was holding back, almost as if he was scared you would push
him away. You did quite the opposite, burying your hands in his hand
as you climbed into his lap. You’d doubted many things in your life
but not this. Never this.
The two of you kissed for a long
time, bodies grinding against one another as arousal began to rise
within you. You could feel the beginning of an erection poking
against your long wet sex, a low moan falling from your lips only to
be swallowed by his.
He stopped the kiss then, only for the
briefest of moment, before lifting you up and carrying you to his
bedroom. There he put you down on the bed, spreading you out like a
piece of art. He hovered over you, devouring you with his hungry
Never had a man aroused you as much simply by looking at
you. Luckily, Saeran wasn’t done. Instead he undressed you, taking
his time and admiring every bare inch of you that was revealing to
him. He did not take as much time shedding his own clothes.
night, Saeran took you apart. With his eyes. With his words. With his
mouth and his body. He claimed you as his, whispering all the things
into your ear he’d never dared to say before. He took you apart,
worshipping every inch of you until both of you found your final
Hours later he was lying awake as he watched you
sleep peacefully, Saeran was utterly blissful. He didn’t want to
sleep, no matter how sated his body and heavy his lids might have
been for reality had finally turned out to be better than even his
It was during those tranquil hours of
the night that Saeran realized another thing about love: It is
dangerous. It makes you vulnerable. It opens your heart and your
chest, allowing someone to march in and mess you up.
the person is right, the reward will be worth all the pain you might
have endured beforehand. For every time you felt like you were
drowning you will feel like you are soaring. If the person is right,
you’ll learn what it truly feels like to love and live.
FLASH FICTION inspired vaguely by one paragraph in The Wind Here Sings by Eddaic and by a post I saw once (author forgotten, sorry) which analyzes Spock’s reaction to the “happy” feelings he experienced with Leila Kalomi– that post’s opinion about his clinical and indifferent perspective on happiness is rather different than mine.
Spock considers happiness frequently in light of his experiences with Leila Kalomi. He considers it as a Vulcan should– or he attempts to; he isn’t quite sure he achieves the proper detachment. Happiness is a state he was once not intimately familiar with. Now he is. Its absence should not be a matter of note. A full Vulcan (a true Vulcan, a real Vulcan, his mind whispers in the voice of his childhood bullies) would not find its current absence a matter worthy of concern.
Kaiidth. What is, is.
Spock externalizes his improper concerns with happiness by directing his gaze abroad to others. What is this thing? Do all humans experience it? How frequently? How much is enough?
“It isn’t a god damn equation, Spock,” McCoy protests when queried. “You can’t solve a human for ‘happy’ like you can come up with the value of a mathematical constant. People don’t work that way.”
Perhaps they do not. Spock observes some people are happier, or less happy, than others. Perhaps McCoy was a poor choice of respondent; he seems less happy than many of Spock’s human crewmates. But McCoy is his… friend… and thus he was a logical choice.
A Vulcan should not see the absence of happiness as problematic, but humans clearly do– and thus it begins to bother Spock that McCoy is obviously not happy. Unhappiness may even have deleterious effects on his health, and thus on his professional function– which makes it Spock’s business to be concerned, after a fashion.
Spock begins to plot McCoy’s happiness like the trajectory of a parabola– it turns out to be a very irregular parabola, really more of a random set of data points, events connected only by the fact that they make McCoy smile or lighten his demeanor.
Spock acts subtly to influence events, when he can, in small and judicious ways that may suffice to make McCoy happy. Occasionally he succeeds– upgrades to medical facilities, conceding a point in an argument, conspiring with the doctor to ensure Jim’s well-being. Betraying a flicker of highly inappropriate emotion can do it, in the right circumstances. But he can never compete with the big things: a call from McCoy’s daughter. Jim’s gift of a big bottle of Saurian brandy on a random date when McCoy seems particularly depressed– the anniversary of his divorce, Spock learns later.
Evidence that Jim cares.
He procures a modest amount of tree-grown fruit and presents it to McCoy on the date of his birth, as per human tradition– provoking not the hoped-for smile, but an acerbic, defensive sputter complete with derogatory references to the color of his blood and the shape of his ears. Spock is nonplused, even dismayed– until McCoy turns away with the little parcel in his hands, and Spock realizes the doctor’s step is light and springy, his shoulders lifted, his voice bright and energetic.
Spock stays long enough to hear McCoy begin to hum before he leaves, suppressing the temptation to let his own lips curve upward.
The equation may be insoluble over the long term, but for this moment, Spock has succeeded. McCoy is happy– and that, in turn, gives Spock a pleasant sense of contentment that he now recognizes, though he would not have done so before visiting Omicron Ceti III.
Titled repost of a Random Ficlet Award ask. This is where Sten first appears!
One morning, somewhere near midday, you have a knock at your front door.
Who on earth could that be? The phone had rung a few times, but you weren’t expecting any visitors today.
You swing open the door, and gawk in wonder at the being standing there.
“Okay, so… I’m, uh, not at all sure what I’m supposed to be doing,” the insectoid being says, the translator device barely disguising his native language, a sort of purring clicking. He fumbles a bit with a piece of paper in his hands, and you notice it has your address on it.
“That’s you and me both,” you say quietly, standing dumbfounded at your front door. You’d heard about the possibility of native goodwill ambassadors hosting some of the newly discovered allies, but you’d never though you’d be one of them. And you hadn’t even known the paperwork was done being processed; you’d just applied last week. You’re suddenly beginning to wonder if you should have checked those messages…
Nevertheless, here you were: in your pajamas with messy hair, the news on in the background talking about the newly signed treaty with the Inserrians. And here was one standing before you. You look up at them.
They were a lot bigger than you’d thought they’d be.
Derek pinned the latest postcard to
the fridge with the rest of them. Stiles had been sending them for months. The
selfie he’d taped to this one was ridiculous, Derek thought he might be upside
down for some reason. But it was the message he’d written that really had him
“See you soon wolfboy. Miss you lots.” Derek
smiled at the name. Stiles had called him that for the first time when they
Stiles had been 5 at the time and he’d
seen Derek wolf out one night. He’d run his fingers gently across Derek’s face
and then up to his ears and he’d looked up at him with those big doe and
breathed out, “You’re a wolfboy.”
He’d put his fingers on Derek’s
cheeks, pushed them together, and made a raspberry sound. Then he’d giggled and
“Wolfboy! Wolfboy! Derek is a wolfboy!”
he’d yelled that over and over and over until Derek had chased him and tackled
him gently to the ground. Both of them giggling in a pile of limbs on the ground.
Once Stiles had calmed down and stopped laughing he’d looked at Derek for a
long time, leaves stuck in his hair.
“You’re my wolfboy. My cute, furry,
wolfboy. Right Derek? You’re my wolfboy aren’t you?” he looked so concerned. Like
he was worried that Derek would say no. Derek nodded quickly.
“Yeah. I’ll be your wolfboy.” Derek
said, and then Stiles was smiling brightly at him and giggling again. Derek
smiled back and then they were both running again. Derek letting Stiles have
the lead. His mother always told him not to let people call him names,
especially names that had something to do with his wolf. But Stiles didn’t say
it mean. The way Stiles said it made it seem like a good thing. Like it was
good that he was a wolf. The way he said it made Derek feel like he liked the
wolf part of him just as much as the rest of him.
He’d made Derek feel like that pretty
much the entire time he’d known him. And Derek had been missing him while he
was away on his trip. He’d been trying to work up the courage to ask Stiles
out. Like on a date. He’d tried before he left for his trip but his knees
wouldn’t stop shaking and his palms wouldn’t stop sweating and he’d chickened
out. But now Stiles was on his way home. Derek was determined to ask him. He
could do this. He was a grown man. No matter how many times he told himself
that he still felt like that little wolfboy chasing Stiles around the yard all
those years ago.
So imagine after the war, Draco’s friends are thinking okay, Draco was only obsessed with Harry Potter because they were arch enemies but everything will go back to normal now. And then eighth year starts and nothing changes?
Draco is still staring at Harry Potter over the other side of the Great Hall, at breakfast, at lunch and at dinner. He still talks about how the great Harry Potter gets this or the boy who lived gets that. And the Slytherin are like ??? Why are you still obsessed with Harry? And Draco’s like ??? I’m not. We’re enemies remember? And his friends have to tell him no not anymore. You’re on the same side.
So Draco’s very confused for a while, not sure how he should be acting. And then he realises, even though he no longer hates Potter’s guts, he still wants to stare at him every meal. He still wants to find excuses to talk about him to his friends. He still wants to make snarky comments to Potter every class…but only because it’s the only time he gets to talk to him.
Despite all the warnings, it still hits Draco way too abruptly when he realises he’s in love with Harry Potter. He’s in the middle of a potions double when his eyes, completely of their own accord, latch on to Potter turning his head and laughing at something the Weasel said. Draco stares and stares as the realisation washes over him. He keeps staring even long after Potter has turned his head back to the front of the class and all he can see is messy black hair.
Pansy works it out first. Even before Draco’s potions epiphany. Although for once she understands the importance of keeping her mouth shut. So when Draco comes to her with his revelation, she is not at all surprised. And she is here to help. She convinces Draco to cool it with the snarky comments and work up the courage to actually talk to Potter.
And so - with plenty of encouragement - Draco does. At first it’s just small things like asking Potter for a spare quill in class, or saying excuse me politely as they pass rather than pushing into Potter. And then one day Draco works up the courage to say good morning to Potter when he runs into him in the Great Hall during breakfast. And Potter says good morning right back, albeit with a puzzled expression on his face.
Soon, Potter no longer looks puzzled. When Draco greets him, he returns the sentiment with a smile, that seems to grow with each day. It’s that smile which gives Draco the push he needs to approach Potter in the library one night and ask if he might like to share his table. An enthusiastic yes from Potter lights a small spark of hope in Draco’s pining heart.
Studying together becomes a habit most nights. It starts off silently, Draco happy to share his space with Potter but too nervous to think of anything further to say past a simple greeting. Thankfully one day it’s Potter who starts the first conversation. It’s one of those awkward small talk type conversations about the weather but it leads in to an animated discussion of Quidditch that keeps them talking well into the night, ignoring several reprimands from Madam Prince for being too loud in the library.
And so Draco and Harry - he’s no longer Potter - become friends. And Draco’s happy. Happier than he’s been in a long time. And his friends know. Not just Pansy. All the Slytherins. It’s obvious. Because despite spending most of his free time hanging out with Harry Potter, and professing to have no remaining hate for him at all, Draco still stares at him across the Great Hall, at breakfast, at lunch and at dinner.
And so Slytherins, being Slytherins, begin planning, with Pansy at the lead of course. They already know how Draco feels, they only need to get Harry Potter to realise his own feelings too, which they suspect match Draco’s. Because he might have his head down in the Great Hall but they’ve seen Harry stare at Draco during Quidditch games for far longer than strictly necessary.
And so they do something that Draco would completely disapprove of, solely for Draco’s own good. When they know Harry will be walking by the Quidditch lockers after a Gryffindor practice, they plant two of their own at a nearby bench and have them talking far louder than normal conversation requires.
“It’s really rather embarrassing. Draco’s been pining for ages. I’ve never seen anyone who had it so bad.”
“But who do you mean? I’ve only seen him hanging out with Potter.”
“Exactly. Potter. It’s tragic isn’t it? He’s in love with the boy who lived. He should probably queue up like all the other groupies just to get his autograph.”
While the two younger Slytherins continue their staged and poorly acted performance, (Pansy will have words with them later) Pansy, safely hidden with a disillusionment charm, watches Potter’s reaction closely and is not displeased. At the sound of Draco’s name, Potter stops immediately to eavesdrop which is telling in itself. When his own name comes into play, a blush creeps slowly up his face. And when Draco’s love for him is revealed, an involuntary smile appears on Harry’s face very very quickly. Pansy knows now they only have to wait.
Sure enough, at dinner that night, Harry Potter makes his move. Always one for dramatics, he walks right up to the Slytherin table and plants a short but deliberate kiss square on Draco’s face before Pansy even has time to let out a wolf whistle.
Draco sits there, mouth agape, pale face not so pale for once, until another Slytherin gives him a nudge on the shoulder. He looks up and blinks at Harry Potter who is smiling down at him. Once more Harry’s smile brings him courage. He stands up to meet Harry, conscious of every eye in the Great Hall on him, and kisses Harry Potter right back.
And it’s the Slytherins who lead the cheers that erupt across the Great Hall. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. At last.
Titled reposting of a Random Ficlet Award story! The origin of Andros.
Sigh. It was always raining when they weren’t around. Granted, it was actually just raining all the time, but you only really noticed when they weren’t with you.
The neon lights of the bar district reflected in the puddles around the plaza, colors swirling and blending as the raindrops hit. It makes you feel slightly dizzy, so you look up instead. A quiet rumble of thunder rolls in the distance, signalling more rain to come. You sigh again and stare down at your coffee, the cream swirling quietly.
You always waited in this cafe for their shift to end, and it was the waiting that was the worst part. Time in this station didn’t mean a whole lot, but it still passed, nonetheless.
In addition, he was far later than normal. You sigh again and bring you coffee to your lips.
“Blaise,” Draco fumed, storming into the living room, “what happened to the chest of drawers in my room?”
Blaise looked up from the paper he was reading and grinned at Draco.
“Do you like the new one? You’ve been whining about it so much, I thought I’d just replace that awful old-timer.”
“What did you do with that old-timer?”
“I sold it,” Blaise shrugged.
“You sold it,” Draco repeated flatly.
“Who did you sell it to?” Draco asked frantically.
“No idea,” Blaise said. “I didn’t get a name. Two people came by to pick it up. I think they were Muggles.”
Draco felt like he was about to faint.
“Did you take everything out beforehand?”
“Of course! What do you take me for?”
“Everything?” Draco insisted.
Blaise raised an eyebrow at Draco’s tone and studied him.
Draco took a step closer and narrowed his eyes.
“Even what was under the secret false bottom in the second drawer, nobody but me knows about?”
Blaise paled and his mouth opened.
“Oh,” he simply said.
“Yes, oh,” Draco growled. “Great, now I have to hunt it down. You’re a lousy flatmate.”
“Hey, I just wanted to do you a favour,” Blaise said defensively.
“You better hope they haven’t found what’s inside it, or I’m going to kill you.”
Doing the locator spell was easy enough. Draco had feared it wouldn’t work, but it seemed there were no wards guarding the flat the chest of drawers had ended up in. Draco apparated to the flat, his heart hammering as he knocked.
When the door opened, Draco was sure he had to be dreaming. Of all the people in the world. Of course. Of course.
“Malfoy?” Potter seemed stunned. He was holding a toothbrush and was only dressed in a green t-shirt and pants. “How did you find me?”
Draco shook his head, willing his mind to work properly again.
“You have something of mine,” he said curtly.
“And what might that be?” Potter responded, a grin beginning to form on his lips. It took Draco off guard for a moment.
“Can I just come in and check something?”
Potter stepped aside and gestured for Draco to come in. Draco wasted no time and quickly found the chest of drawers in the corner of Potter’s bedroom. He opened the second drawer and took out the little book he had been so desperate to get back.
“What’s that?” Potter asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Nothing of your concern. It shouldn’t have been in there,” Draco huffed.
“Hmmm,” Potter hummed. “You know, I never would have thought you kept a diary.”
Draco blushed, quickly hiding his hands behind his back.
“It’s not a diary,” he said lamely.
Potter nodded, but he had a mischievous smile on his face.
“You want a drink?” he asked, turning around and heading back into the living room. Draco blinked and tried to find his voice again.
“Um, no thank you. You were obviously getting ready for bed. I won’t disturb you any longer,” he said hastily.
“You sure? It might be a great opportunity,” Potter grinned. Draco gave him a quizzical look.
“I don’t know,” Potter shrugged, “after two Firewhiskeys you might get the chance to run your hands through my incredibly infuriating, magnificent head of hair.” Potter tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t suppress a snicker. “I might even let you touch my strong and marvellous jawline.”
Never had Draco wished more the ground would open and swallow him up.
“You read it,” he said through gritted teeth. “You had no right.”
“True,” Potter replied, nonchalant. “I’d let you read mine in return, but I don’t keep a diary.” He stepped closer to Draco, studying his face intently.
“You look rather cute when you’re flushed.”
Draco made a sound that was something between a weird gurgle and a high-pitched squeak. Whatever it was, it was highly embarrassing.
Potter chuckled, coming to a halt right in front of Draco.
“I mean, I could just show you what kind of fantasies I’d be writing in that diary,” he said in a low whisper.
Draco gulped, not quite grasping what Potter was saying.
“Like what?” he breathed.
“Hmmm.” Potter’s eyes flickered down to Draco’s lips. “Like how I want to grab you right now and kiss you until you can’t breathe.”
Draco’s mouth opened involuntarily. Breathing was already hard with Potter standing so close to him.
“And then,” Potter continued, deliberately breathing on Draco’s lips, “I’d want your hands on the most delicious and perfect arse you have ever seen in your life.”
Draco groaned loudly. This was just too much. But then again, Potter really seemed to be teasing him in a rather flirtatious way. Trying to conceal his nervousness, he raised his chin and fixed Potter with a glare.
“These better not just be empty promises,” Draco said haughtily.
“Oh, they’re not,” Potter smirked, his eyes gleaming as he started pouring their drinks.
Does everyone else here agree that Draco Malfoy is the biggest sap of all
time and probably has Mr. Draco Potter written all over his textbooks? And
he surrounds them in little love hearts that he has enchanted to animate so
they pulse like mini beating hearts. And he thinks nobody knows, because just
the thought of him and Potter is utterly ridiculous. Who would think such a
thing? But it’s so OBVIOUS. Because we’re talking every second page of EVERY
textbook he owns.
And Pansy has to take him aside one day and be like, “You need to calm the
fuck down on the hearts or at least cast a disillusionment charm on them before
a Gryffindor sees and tells your lover boy.” And Draco, blushing like a
motherfucking fire engine, gets so embarrassed that he throws all his books
down the toilet (because a vanishing spell just isn’t dramatic enough for Draco
My father will hear about this
Malfoy). But he forgets his old friend Myrtle lives in the s bend, and isn’t so
fond of being hit in the head by heavy textbooks.
So, she gets her revenge by delivering all of Draco Malfoy’s wet textbooks
to the very person he never ever wanted to see them: Harry fucking Potter. At
first Harry’s a little skeptical of the pile of dripping books left on his
bedside table, but being the curious fool he is (and Hermione not being around
to remind him the books could easily be cursed), he opens the first one to find
Mr. Draco Potter written in elegant,
cursive hand surrounded by a tacky (but adorable) beating heart. And the same
thing in the next book. And the book after that. And every book there after.
Draco is minding his own business in Potions the next day when none other
than Harry Potter sits down next to him. Which is surprising but nothing compared
to what he does next. “I think you misplaced this,” he says and hands over a Potions
book. Draco looks at it and horror and then up at Harry Potter’s face. Which is
smiling. And not in the way that could be construed as teasing. But perhaps a
genuine smile. Which is not possible.
But Draco is too embarrassed to look at Potter any more so he diverts his
attention to the textbook in front of him. It’s his, alright. And looking
pretty worse for wear after its trip down the s bend. His only hope is that
perhaps this book isn’t as bad as the rest. Perhaps Potter didn’t even see any love
hearts. Perhaps…well, Draco doesn’t really believe it but he’s desperate. He
has to remind himself how bad the damage really is, so he opens the first page.
And there, underneath Draco’s neat scrawl, in the most hideous handwriting
Draco Malfoy has ever seen, is Mr. Harry
A fluff story featuring Beau and Rin from The Hurricane!
“I don’t know about this,” Rin says as you grab the box from the shelf. His golden eyes stare at the package you hand to him. “I’m not sure that I like this color, and will it even take?” You giggle and take the box from him as Beau grabs a different color.
“Now, this’ll be the color that’d look good on ya,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, that really would look so good on you!” You hop a little in your excitement. “It would really set off your eyes,” you say, nodding. Beau grunts his agreement. Rin stares at the box: it’s a rich, bright red. He looks between you and the big dragon-faced boyfriend and sighs.
“Okay, okay; I’m apparently outvoted. When I mentioned the idea, I didn’t necessarily mean immediately,” he says with a huff. You and Beau high-five; this was going to be awesome!
During his move to Washington, DC, Stiles made a number of realizations about life, the most prominent of which was that it was amazing what kind of hobbies a guy could pick up when his days weren’t packed full of running for his life from various supernatural horrors. Like trivia nights, for example. Stiles had a regular team and the entire bar groaned when they walked in because they knew they were about to get creamed.
Or the tabletop gaming club he joined, where everyone was just as competitive as he was, and punches had been thrown on more than one occasion.
Or like, Stiles jogged now.
Through the National Mall.
Like Captain America or some shit.
And with these hobbies came a sort of routine, and though most were on hold during the summer when his trivia team and gaming rivals were back home, the running stuck. It was calming and got his mind off things, gave him a chance to think about any papers he had to write, or de-stress about his FBI internship when it got a little hectic.
It was a good routine.
So every Saturday morning, Stiles got up a little earlier so he could get in his longer route, and left his dorm for his jog through the National Mall. On Saturdays, he took the path that went through the war memorials, down into West Potomac Park, and over to the Jefferson Memorial. It was his favorite place to take a breather because that early in the morning, there were rarely any tourists, and other joggers left him alone. It was nice and private, with a great view of the city across the water.
Stiles leaned back against the front steps and glanced around him casually, making sure there was no one too close before pulling out his little burner flip phone.
He had an old school drug dealer flip phone. His dad would be so proud.
There was only one number the phone ever called, so there was no need to save it under a name.
He waited for a few minutes, biding his time until the clock hit 7:15am, and then he called that number.
On the third ring, Derek picked up.
“Morning, sunshine!” Stiles greeted, already wide awake from his jog. Derek grunted back. He must’ve had a late night at the bar. “Any leads?”
Derek yawned loudly. “Still no werewolves with triskele tattoos, still wanted for murder.”
Viktor Nikiforov has lived his international life getting ferried places by Yakov, exploring with world-savvy Christophe Giacometti, and being led around on the arm of rich sponsors who wanted to take him out for a night.
Yuuri, on the other hand, has spent several years in Detroit– not quite the crime capital of the USA, but close.
This shows when the Katsuki-Nikiforovs start taking more vacations.
In Rio de Janeiro. “Why can’t we just take a shortcut?” Viktor asks, peering down a narrow and dark alley. “We’d make it back to the hotel faster.”
“Vitya, no,” says Yuuri.
In Chicago. “Yuuri, that was such a nice man, and his dog was the best dog, besides Makkachin.”
“Good dog,” Yuuri says, grabbing Viktor by the lapels to pull him in for a kiss, and to tap his cheek with Viktor’s leather wallet. “Terrible pickpocket. Don’t worry, I got it back for you.”
It even shows when they’re traveling close to home.
“This is my favorite restaurant in Sochi!” Viktor chirps. “Their shades are closed, so paparazzi can’t see in. They’re all fans, and always ask me about skating, but they never bother me for pictures with them! So discreet! It’s like my own little escape, so I wanted to share it with you. Do you like it?”
“It’s wonderful,” says Yuuri through gritted teeth. He grips Viktor’s hand tightly throughout the entire experience, and every time Viktor pitifully tries to ask, “how is the borchst?” Yuuri just smiles grimly at him and scoots closer.
“Darling,” Viktor pouts once they’re back in their hotel room, “I’ve told you that if you’re anxious we can always leave, but you never gave me the signal we agreed on–”
“Vitya,” Yuuri says, and sits him down. “Vitya, that restaurant is very clearly a cover for the Russian mafia.”
“Oh,” says Viktor. “Um.”
“I’ve always thought it was a miracle that you were alive,” Yuuri sighs and snuggles down into his husband’s lap. “Now I’m realizing just how much of a miracle it is.”
In London. They go out for a pub trivia night with Yakov and Yurio. Their team– carried completely by the living legend– destroys the rest, even though Viktor is tipsy and has been chattering with both the French family at the neighboring table and two Germans at the bar in their native tongue. Facts? Viktor knows them all: 18th century literature. Obscure historical references. Chemical compositions. The exact words Beyonce tweeted 3 months ago.
“What the hell,” says Yurio. “This idiot introduced himself to me five times when I first came to the rink. He can’t remember what he ate for lunch. What. The hell.”
“I think I love him,” Yuuri blurts. They have been married for two years, and his husband is showing the Germans his belly-button. “We have to protect him.” Yakov just smirks.
His father’s voice sounded strained, almost like a scared whisper. He hesitantly stretched out his arm, his hand balled into a fist. Draco swallowed hard as several heads turned towards him, watched him. He was sure they all expected him to walk across the courtyard without hesitation. It was where he belonged after all.
All these years he had done as his father had said. He hadn’t defied him once. But now, everything in him screamed to stay where he was, not to go to his father. It came too late. What was the point in defying him now?
Harry Potter was dead. There was no hope left.
Draco’s eyes darted to his mother. Her voice rang through him and immediately found its way to his heart, squeezing it violently. She took a step forward, smiling at him almost sadly.
Hesitating only a second longer, Draco started moving, his head bowed. He didn’t dare to look anyone in the eye.
Harry Potter was dead. What was the point in fighting?
Draco’s body went rigid when the Dark Lord enveloped him in his arms.
“Well done, Draco,” he whispered into his ear. Draco thought he was going to be sick. Silently, he made his way to his parents, avoiding his father’s waiting arms and grasping his mother’s hand instead.
He tried to suppress a sob when his eyes fell on Potter’s lifeless body, held tight by the half-giant. It made him want to scream, to sink to his knees and beg the heavens to return him. What were they supposed to do without Potter now? What was Draco supposed to do without him?
For the rest of his life, he would be haunted by the knowledge that the last time he had seen Harry Potter alive, the Gryffindor had saved his life, had saved him from the Fiendfyre. And what had Draco done? He had simply grabbed his wand when it had fallen out of Potter’s hand and had made a run for it.
His hand tightened around the wood, making his knuckles go white. It didn’t even feel like his wand anymore. It only reminded him of what he had done. It disgusted him.
He could barely listen as Longbottom stepped forward and told them it didn’t matter that Potter was dead. His heart gave another violent squeeze. He wished he could go back in time. Draco doubted it was in his power to save Potter, but he should have at least told him that he… that he…
Draco saw something sparkly out of the corner of his eyes when suddenly chaos erupted. Longbottom was holding something; it looked like a sword. Draco looked around, taking in the shocked faces of the Death Eaters. That’s when he finally saw it; Potter, jumping out of the half-giant’s arms. In this mere second, Draco’s whole world shifted. It was as if time was standing still. Potter was crouching on the ground, his face full of determination.
Draco’s mind was completely blank. He didn’t think, he didn’t question it when his feet started moving of their own accord.
“Potter!” His voice was choked, desperate. The feeling only intensified when their eyes met. Draco hadn’t thought he’d ever see those eyes again. It made him shiver. He didn’t think about repercussions, about what his parents would say, what the Dark Lord might do to him. How could he, when Harry Potter was alive?
Without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his arm above his head and threw his wand with all his might. His heart hammered wildly against his chest as he watched Potter catch it mid-air.
They were saved. He was saved.
Even though relief flooded through him, at this point, Draco really didn’t care what happened to him anymore. He had experienced what it meant to lose
Harry Potter was alive and that was all that mattered.
So, quick intermission because there’s this song you could listen to real quick. Yes, this was indeed inspired by a song originally sung by the Backstreet Boys lol. BUT can you honestly listen to it and tell me this is not one of the most drarry songs you’ve ever heard? I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed before! So, with that in mind, the story continues…
It was quick, fleeting, but it made Harry stop dead, the air completely knocked out of his lungs. Grey eyes, hesitant, sad, locked with his.
Someone bumped into him, breaking the eye contact. Harry whirled around, the shopping bag in his hand hitting the wizard beside him in the back.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. He quickly turned his head back down Diagon Alley, searching for grey eyes but there were just too many people.
If you wanna write a ficlet based on the tags you put about Derek not being good at receiving compliments so stiles compliments him always I can guarantee you that I will 100% read it and reblog it and comment about how much I love it :D
Well how can I resist that??
The first time it happened, Stiles didn’t think anything of it. Standing over the smoldering remains of the creature that just tried to kill them, he said “nice job”, gave Derek a friendly slap on the back, and suggested they go out for celebratory we didn’t die today milkshakes. He was pleasantly surprised when Derek both agreed and paid, and he dipped fries in both to see if they went better with his strawberry or Derek’s chocolate.
(The answer was chocolate, and Derek didn’t even get mad when three of Stiles’ fries were lost in his shake.)
The second time, he was marveling at the obscure text Derek managed to track down and said, “dude, you are literally the best, I’m buying you pizza!” And shockingly, Derek let him, and even told him what toppings he wanted. That might not seem like much in the grand scheme of things, but Stiles had spent years watching in silent judgment as Derek picked off half the toppings from the pizzas he ordered for the pack, as if he couldn’t get another for himself that he actually liked.
Stiles told him he liked the way he rearranged the loft, and Derek sat through the entire extended edition of The Fellowship of the Ring on his new flat screen.
When he mentioned liking the fancy pasta dish Derek made and asked for a lesson to make it, Derek agreed. He showered compliments on Derek’s meticulous overhaul of the bestiary and Derek let him borrow three books.
Derek never let anyone borrow his books, they never left the loft.
These events were all spread out enough that it took a while to click, but when it did, it was both a revelation and incredibly depressing: Derek had no idea what to do with even the most casual of compliments.
Sarcasm was no issue, Stiles knew that much—he’d personally thrown out enough nice martyr complex, jackass and the like to figure that out—but anything that was even remotely sincere?
He started paying attention after that, to the way Derek would stiffen and his eyes would widen a bit before his face closed off again. He would go quiet, maybe nod, and quickly agree to pretty much anything just to get the focus back off himself.
Because Derek was actually embarrassed by compliments.
Sterek AU: After the death of Claudia magic becomes a taboo in the Stilinski house hold. Everytime Stiles wants to show his dad his magic, to help his dad with his magic John lashes out. Not knowing what to do with the gift that he got from his mother, Stiles represses his magic - doing nearly unrepairable damage to himself.
Years later Derek returns to Beacon Hills to find that the Alpha that killed his sister is far from the most dangerous thing in town.
Draco first hears it on the Hogwarts Express. But when he enters the offending compartment, he finds Harry Potter with a Weasley. Which can’t be right.
Later, he hears it at the feast and begins the first of many extended stares across the Great Hall to the Gryffindor table. Potter doesn’t notice yet.
As the years pass, Draco is always seeking that sound. Even sometimes when it’s at his own expense. It is always worth it.
When Voldemort curses the dark mark on his arm, it’s the sound that consumes his thoughts and distracts him from the excruciating pain. A barrier between him and the darkness.
It’s the only thing that gets him through sixth year, even as he follows the orders of a man he despises. And it’s a distorted high pitched version of that sound he hears when Harry Potter slashes his chest wide open and he thinks he might die.
After that he doesn’t hear it in his head anymore. And Harry Potter doesn’t return to Hogwarts for their seventh year.
When the war is finally over, Harry Potter doesn’t seem to make that sound anymore, or even smile. Every picture in The Daily Prophet shows a grim, solemn face.
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy meet again when they bump into one another at Diagon Alley. For a moment they just stare at each other, both uncertain what to say after so many years and with a history like theirs.
Until Draco sticks out a hand and says “The name’s Malfoy….Draco Malfoy.”