Day 6 → How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard / it’s okay, I’ve got you
For this I imagined Leo thinking about Guang Hong when they had to say goodbye after a competition, so he started listening to the songs that made him remember of their moments together and how much he wants to see Guang Hong again
Cassian stills. And then slowly, very slowly, he lifts his lips from Jyn’s collarbone.
A long pause.
“I don’t hear anything,” he murmurs, his stubble prickling at her skin. The hand that’s inched its way beneath her shirt shifts upwards, calloused palm rough against her lower back.
“Footsteps,” Jyn insists, swatting at his head with the hand that had been formerly tangled in his hair. “Someone’s coming.”
“Ah. And you don’t want to be seen together?”
Any attempt to sound wounded on his part is mitigated the slow swipe of his tongue up the column of her throat.
Jyn rolls her eyes. “Not with your hand down my pants, I don’t.”
“My hand’s not down your pants,” says Cassian, reasonably.
He chuckles, bites at the skin below her jaw.
The footsteps—she knew she’d heard them—grow louder, and even Cassian must hear them now because he lifts his head entirely, eyes trained on the supply closet door as though prepared to leap away from her at any moment. (Jyn rather wants to point out that he could just step away from her now and save them all the drama, but she’s too busy listening. Well, listening and staring at the sharp line of Cassian’s jaw, clenched in anticipation.)
But then the steps are fading; whoever it was must have passed them by.
“Okay,” Jyn breathes, tugging at his jacket. “That was lucky.”
Cassian turns back to face her, tilts his head to the side. She thinks, unbidden, that she’ll never get tired of seeing that smile: crooked and sharp, like a flash of light.
“I have a room, you know,” he says. “That locks.”
She gives him a look. “We have, what, ten minutes before the meeting? But if you want to relocate—”
“No, no.” He’s laughing when he pulls her closer; she can feel the rumble of it against her chest. “Sorry. Forgot I was on the clock.”
“Be quiet,” she grouses.
“Hear someone else out there?”
“Cassian, just—” she presses to her tiptoes, slips her arm around his shoulder. “Be quiet.”
I don't normally do these prompt things, but “I don’t mean to sound paranoid but I’m pretty sure you’re a serial killer" sounds really interesting. No pressure!
Bucky watches from his window as the guy who lives in C107 climbs up the fire escape in about five steps. He pauses when he sees Bucky and gives him a little smile and a salute. Bucky forces a smile back.
Because, despite the guy from C107’s blond hair, charming smile, and generally pleasant demeanor, Bucky’s pretty sure that he’s a serial killer.
C107 moved in three weeks ago during the middle of the night, because that’s what serial killers do. They come in the middle of the night, murder everyone on their floor, and leave before anyone can find their bodies. It doesn’t matter that C107 smiles shyly at him in the mailroom or helps the old lady in E202 with her groceries; Bucky knows what’s up. He knows that C107 sneaks out almost every night and doesn’t come back until morning, and never through the front door. Once or twice, Bucky’s seen him covered with blood.
So the guy’s a serial killer, and Bucky’s not sure what to do about that.
There’s a knock on Bucky’s door.
Bucky texts Darcy: It’s the serial killer and I’m going to die.
Darcy texts back: have fun!
It’s not a helpful answer.
Bucky takes a deep breath and walks towards the door. It’s better that he just opens it up and accepts his fate. It’ll be hard enough for the landlord to rent out his apartment again after everyone finds out that a murder took place; he may as well not make any messy clean-up bills by having the serial killer knock down the door or something like that. Makes things simpler in the long run.
He opens it.
C107 is standing there, shirt covered in blood. “Hi,” he says with a bit of a sheepish smile.
“Oh,” Bucky says, then promptly passes out, because if there’s one thing that Bucky isn’t good with, it’s blood.
He wakes up on his couch, underneath a blanket, and with the fluffiest pillow in his apartment beneath his bed. He does not wake up in Heaven (or Hell, if all of those fire and brimstone ‘homosexuals are killing America’ preachers are to be believed) because C107 killed him.
Bucky blinks a few times, then hears C107 on the phone. “No, that’s not… I don’t care if he knows who I am! That’s the point!”
Bucky closes his eyes again. It’s not worth it. He’s going to die.
“Well, what was I supposed to do, Tony? March into his apartment in my Cap uniform and commandeer his laundry machine?”
“No, no, I’ll… I don’t want to wake him up! I’ll talk to you later, Tony.”
Bucky opens his eyes again, just to be a little sneaky, but of course C107 is already looking at him. “Hi there!” he says, far too perky for someone with a shirt covered in blood.
“Uh, hey,” Bucky says, pushing himself up.
“Easy now,” C107 says, rushing over to the couch. “Don’t force yourself,” he says.
“Why would you care?” Bucky asks, a bit hysterical as C107 reaches out to touch Bucky’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Since you’re here to murder me, and all.”
C107 drops his hand. “What?” he asks, incredulous.
“I’ve seen you! Crawling through the window at night! You’re going to kill me and honestly? I’m not prepared for it. I have… four things to live for. At least. Maybe five.”
C107 just stares.
“Six?” Bucky offers. “I’m not sure I can list more than six, to tell the truth.”
“I’m… I’m not going to kill you,” he says.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I have a hard time believing that.”
“No, no! I’m… I needed to borrow someone’s laundry machine and I saw you were up. That’s all.”
Bucky blinks. “You have your own in your unit.”
“It’s busted,” C107 says.
“Because you put bloody things in it all the time?” Bucky asks.
C107 snorts. “No, because the last resident and their partner had relations on it and busted it.”
“Go Kevin,” Bucky says.
C107 laughs. “Anyhow,” he says when he’s done, “I’m not here to kill you.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I mean, I have killed people before,” Bucky’s eyes go wide then C107 says in a rush, “but most of them were Nazis.”
“I’m not following here,” Bucky says, throat dry.
C107 sighs. “Okay, it’s. I’m. Captain America?” he says, wincing. “And I was just wondering if I could borrow your washing machine.”
Bucky nods. “Alright, okay, that’s…”
And it’s a good thing he’s already on the couch, because he passes out again.
with the recent news of a dancing magnus in 2b I'm really craving a scene of him dancing on his own and then maybe with alec? either like upbeat in a club or slow dancing together, magnus teaching him or something? I know that's a lot of scenes to ask for but like... just think about the masterpiece it would be
take a moment to imagine him in the loft, with a drink in hand. there’s some music on playing softly in the background, maybe jazz or could be anything really and he’s been rearranging his bookshelves, trying to figure out where he wants everything to be. but after the last drink he’s just not as focused anymore and he starts shifting and swaying and it evolves into dancing, by himself, not really that structured just dancing. he’s been through so many eras and has certainly learned and experienced so many different kinds of dances all over the world and it’s not coherent, but it is beautiful
his necklaces swing with every step, his heels turning on one of the rugs, his eyes closed and the music taking him this way and that. and then he pauses as the song starts to dwindle down, leans against one of the pillars and finishes his drink, still humming and moving his shoulders, still lost in that feeling.
i would give anything to see something like that, just him by himself, enjoying himself and the music.
and i would also give anything to see him and alec wrapped up in each other, swaying and shifting to a slow song, any slow song, their fingertips pressed into each other. maybe it wasn’t even the intention. some music was put on and at first it was a couple of kisses, and then they just started holding each other, and then swaying and before long alec was laughing really quiet as magnus started to lead and their feet got tangled up. but it wasn’t long before they were just moving with the beat of the song. everything would go heartbeat slow, wind brushing by outside mingling with the music, magnus humming under his breath, his hands pressed into the small of alec’s back. and alec would pull back after a second, kissing down along his jaw as they danced, not losing the beat because they were so close and moving so easy at that moment.
“i love you.” whispered at the corner of magnus’s mouth. and magnus would just smile, turning his face to press their lips together.
okokok i need to come up with something better how's. this. "Here, take my coat, you look cold"
Sankt Petersburg is cold. This is not unusual. What is unusual is Victor’s miserable state. He’d left his coat at the rink, and it was probably completely closed now. While he did have his wallet on him, his keys to his apartment (and the rink) as well as his phone were in his coat.
Not to mention Sankt Petersburg is cold, and now he’s cursed himself to going home in this miserable weather. He jogs as quickly as possible, trying to keep himself warm. His breath puffs out into the air almost like steam, and he can’t hold back a shiver as he waits at a crosswalk.
Suddenly, there’s a tap on his shoulder. “Here, take my coat. You look cold,” someone says in English.
Victor turns around in surprise, the first thing he registers being a fluffy-looking burgundy coat. “Pardon?”
The coat is lowered, and Victor is taken aback at the man offering it to him. Short black hair, brown eyes, clearly Asian features. His English sounds flawless. “I think you need it more than me,” he says.
“I can’t possibly-” Victor hesitates, of course. He’s more used to the infernal weather than this foreigner, surely. “That’s very kind of you, but…”
The pedestrian light signals to walk.
“I have a ride waiting around the corner, so I insist,” the man says. “Please, take it.” He drops it in Victor’s hands and walks past him onto the crosswalk.
Victor shivers again, hesitating still. He follows after him. “How will I give it back?”
“You can keep it.” Once they’re on the other side of the street, Victor watches, at a loss, as the man walks in a different direction from him now.
“At least give me your name?” Victor calls. He wants a name to put to this kind Samaritan.
He sees the man pause, a smile on his lips when he turns around. “Yuuri!” he replies. He looks immaculate for some reason, in that moment. The lightly falling snow contrasts with his dark hair and dark outfit, and the smile transforms him in a way that makes ‘He’s beautiful’ cross Victor’s mind.
He opens his mouth to give Yuuri his own name, but he is already gone.
Victor ends up donning the coat on the way home. It stops him from shivering, and smells the way that all clothes do when they’re freshly laundered. Comforting. He manages to show the doorman his ID to be let in and get the building manager to open his apartment for him.
Yuuri stays on his mind the whole time. Victor knows it’s foolish to think so much of a random encounter, but few people give away their coats so easily. Especially ones as nice as this one. He remembers the smile, the offer, the gentle way he’d spoken. The kind insistence that Victor take the coat.
What kind of person is Yuuri? Did he like dogs? Why was he in Sankt Petersburg? From Japan, or America, or where?
Deep down, Victor wants to meet him again. Return the coat, maybe ask him for a coffee and get to know him better.
He wants, and it’s silly, but he can’t help it.
The next day, Victor wears the coat on the way to the rink. If he looks around for Yuuri on the way there, well, only he knows that.
Yakov berates him for leaving his coat and everything at the rink last night — as well as Yuri for not noticing before he had left and locked up. Victor hardly notices, too light on his feet about Yuuri and his kindness.
It takes Mila shaking him while he’s tying up his skates for him to snap out of it. “Victor, you didn’t have your phone last night, right? Then you haven’t heard of what happened to Politician Duma.”
Victor frowns. He cares little for politics and politicians. “No, what happened?” he asks anyway.
“Someone blew up his residence!” Mila steals his phone and unlocks it, tapping in something before shoving the screen in Victor’s face. “Everyone’s talking about it though because it was some internationally wanted criminal, and no one knows the motive.”
The face that looks at Victor is blurry, likely from some low-res security camera shot, but a jolt of recognition goes up his spine. The person has slicked-back dark hair and pale skin, and the collar of a black shirt pokes up from their burgundy coat.
“He’s called Eros apparently. This is the best picture they’ve gotten of him, so it’s being televised everywhere.” Mila pauses. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” Victor says. “Nothing at all.”
The burgundy coat burns a hole in his awareness now. The pockets had been empty when he had checked, not a single sign of the owner’s identity. Had Yuuri even been a real name?
As Victor gets on the ice, he feels his hopeful fantasies crumble. Was it really kindness, or did he want to get rid of coat to throw authorities off his track? Was I just convenient? he wonders.
If his skating has a heartbroken tint to it that day, no one dares to comment.
I saw your prompt post and I was thinking something along the lines of this: "You spilled nachos all over the front of one of the most famous people of this day and age, and you didn't get in trouble?" "No, actually, I got a date."
Oh my god, I love this! Such a Stiles thing to do, haha. Hope this fits what you had in mind! Thank you for the prompt!
Peter was quite pleased with himself, having ditched the ‘bodyguards’—namely,
his niece and nephew—Talia insisted he bring with him everywhere to make sure
he was never overwhelmed by the public. But just because she was his sister—and
publicist—didn’t mean she could just step into his life and start making
decisions like when he’d be allowed to be alone. Peter had always had a high
need for alone time and like hell was he letting his sour-face nephew or ill-tempered
niece intrude on that.
He smirked to himself, adjusting his sunglasses and smoothly
blending into the crowds around him. It was nice just to get out, mingling
without being harassed by paparazzi and reporters wanting to know what roles he
was considering or hunting for a new piece of juicy gossip. He didn’t really
care where he was if it meant he didn’t have to deal with them, but truthfully
he’d been to a few renaissance fairs when he was younger and was looking
forward to seeing the joust that was in an hour. Plus, it was hard for people
to spot the celebrity in hiding in a crowd where people were wearing stilts and
jester costumes, royalty regalia, knight armor, and any other mixture of odd
Peter paused to look at some of the leatherwork at a display
table, honestly impressed by the suppleness of it. He considered grabbing a
card from the vender for future reference when a solid force hit his back and
sent him stumbling into the table, knocking off his glasses and almost bringing
the whole thing down.
“What the…” he growled under his breath, pushing his arms
under him and looking over his shoulder to glare at whoever had run into him.
He froze when he felt a hot liquid creeping under the collar of his shirt and
oozing down his back.
“Ooooooooh my god,” a voice spoke. “I am. SO sorry! I just!
Dude, I’m so so so sorry, ohmygod, I didn’t—”
“What exactly is
sliding down my back?” Peter asked tersely, almost afraid to sit up as the viscous
liquid slowly seeped further down his spine.
“Cheese,” the voice squeaked. Suddenly there were napkins
thrust into his face before the hands scrambled to wipe off his back.
“Cheese,” Peter echoed. His mind was whirling around the
word like a loading webpage, trying to process what had just been input in it.
“Yeah, like from nachos? Oh man, I’m really so sorry.” The
man continued trying to clean off his back, which Peter feared was a lost
“Yes, you shou—” Peter finally got to his feet, ready to
serve this idiot a scathing diatribe of just how stupid and oblivious a person
could be, when he actually looked up to see who he was talking to. Then it was
like the air was stolen from his lungs as bright whiskey eyes met his, looking
genuinely repentant, perfect pouty lips grimacing in preparation of what the owner
knew was a well-deserved lashing. Peter worked with beautiful people every day
and he’d never been so enraptured.
“You shouldn’t worry about it,” Peter finished somewhat lamely,
caught off guard by the sudden rush of desire. Desire to know who the man was,
what made him tick, what were his passions, what would he sound like in Peter’s
The man’s eyebrows raised at that. “Really? Because I feel
like you were about a kill me and then changed course at the last second there,
dude.” His eyes sparked as he said this, teasing. Peter wanted to lick his way
into that smart mouth and introduce him to another, little, death.
“It’s just a shirt,” Peter waved off, no longer concerned about
The man’s lip twitched, like he was fighting a smile. Peter
wished he wouldn’t. He wanted to see him smile, laugh, in the throes of passion.
“Well I’m still sorry. I should’ve been paying attention. I
don’t suppose you’ll let me make it up to you somehow?” The man shuffled a
little closer, under the guise of clearing the walkway just a bit more for
people to get by, but Peter wasn’t complaining.
Peter smirked. “Perhaps we could go get a drink and find
someplace…quieter? For you to make it up to me, of course.”
The man grinned, delighted. “Yes, please.” He paused and tilted
his head to a side adorably for a moment, forehead scrunching curiously. “You
do look kind of familiar, though.”
Peter laughed. “Just one of those faces, I guess.” Stiles shrugged,
letting Peter grab his hand and lead him away from the crowds.
Peter was slammed against the side of the wall, not that he
cared as he clutched at the other’s hair, dragging him closer as they both
tried to get air without separating their lips.
“By the way,” the man murmured, mouthing down the side of
Peter’s jaw to his neck. “My name’s Stiles.”
“Peter. Peter Hale.”
“Mmmm, Peter,” Stiles hummed, nibbling lightly on Peter’s
neck, before he jerked back and stared at Peter with wide eyes. “Peter Hale?!”
“You spilled nachos all over one the most famous people of
this day and age, and you didn’t get in trouble?” Lydia sent him an unimpressed
“No, actually, I got a date.” Stiles grinned unashamedly. “It
I will never get over how smiley and flirty Magnus and alec were on their date
it kills me all the time when i think about the soft focus lighting, the laughter and their smiles. there was such heavy sweet flirtation in that let’s play moment that just echoes still. it was so god damn them and seeing alec’s face light up like that when he knew magnus was playing him, how much he loved it. imagining that warmth and the hum of the bar around them, sticking close to each other but not close enough to touch, slow smiles and i think in between all of those fairy lights and all of the warmth, it was just filling all that charged air. this deep pulling attraction, but more than that a sense of potential.
until that conversation happened it was just something fucking else. i just keep imagining the little details we missed. both of them finishing their drinks and magnus asking if he wanted another, somewhere in the middle of the game of pool. alec nodding although he held up a hand.
“just… not another beer.” and he said it kind of quietly, but with a little bit of a smile. the way magnus would look at him and then raise a brow, laughing softly.
“not another beer,” magnus would say, with a nod. “i knew you hated it.” right before he walked back to the bar.
when magnus got back alec took his martini glass and rolled his eyes, soft laughter. “i didn’t hate it, i just want to try something else.”
but the way magnus was staring at him and smiling at him, his eyes sparkling, catching all of the light around them, it was clear there was no judgement there. there was however, a lot of fondness. “of course, alexander.”
then after the game concluded, alec leaning back against the pool table and watching magnus over the rim of his glass. the look he had in his eyes made magnus feel like something was sparking in his chest, frayed connections knitting themselves back together and burning electrical as those hazel eyes appraised him.
so he breathed in, needing to do something with himself, turning to the jukebox and picking out a song. that was enough time to relax himself, if only a little bit. but the thing was it was pulling at his mouth because although it was a lot, it was good. this feeling was good, in the warmth of a bar he frequented so often, alec existing in this place he loved in a way that was so easy. it felt a little bit like a possibility of the future.
Lucy slid out of Kara’s hold the moment they were on the ground. “Thanks, Kara.”
She smiled. “Anytime.”
“Don’t you ever do that again!”
Lucy raised an eyebrow as Alex and Maggie jogged up to them. “You’re one to talk, Miss ‘I’ll be outside.’”
Alex hesitated, Maggie was instantly curious, and Kara was laughing.
Lucy nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“How do you even-”
“As co-director, I helped J’onn go through the cameras after the invasion. We were looking at how to improve things with the security teams.”
“What did you do?” Maggie asked Alex, suddenly aware she had no idea how Alex got out of the DEO.
“I, well, the floor was full of Daxamites so-”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “She jumped off the balcony. With Kara still enroute.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow at Alex. Alex fumed, rolled her eyes, and muttered under her breath. Maggie shook her head. “The BOTH of you need to stop, anyway. I’m going to end up with high blood pressure.”
Lucy smirked and started to say something, but Kara interrupted her. “Please don’t say anything sexual about my sister.”
“Only because you’re a smoother flyer than Clark.”
Kara preened. “So. Day is saved, and since this wasn’t an official DEO mission, that means no paperwork. Can we get potstickers, like, right now?”
Alex nodded, amused at her sister. “We can get potstickers right now.”
Dan has done a lot of weird shit. He likes to experiment, with and without Phil.
But lately, Dan is changing. Or-not changing, exactly. Dan is the same old Dan Phil’s always known. He’s just letting out this other part of himself, a part he was afraid of, or unsure of.
Phil’s proud of it all. The nail polish, started over two years ago and finally let out into the world. The different clothes, softer and looser and more Dan-like, somehow, even though the other ones were just as much. The delicious ripped jeans, constantly worn in public to torment Phil. And the hair.
Dan has complained, burned his fingers, sometimes shed a few tears over his hair. No matter what he says about “fashion trends” or curly hair being “in style,” Phil quietly sees around his carefully crafted walls. He doesn’t say anything, really. He leaves Dan to explore himself by himself, only complimenting and enjoying.
This was a bit unexpected, though.
Dan has walked into the lounge, picking at the hem of his shirt. It’s his new Alexander McQueen jumper, the black and white one he wore to Wimbledon. Phil thinks it makes him look grown up in a way he still isn’t used to.
The shirt is tucked into a skirt. It’s black, has three buttons going up the side. It’s pleated a bit, falls in soft waves over his pale thighs and stops before his knees.
Dan is looking at Phil almost challengingly.
Phil swallows roughly. “When did you buy that?” It’s not the right thing to say. Dan’s face clouds over. Even after all these years he still feels criticism (real or not) so strongly. “It’s…” Phil trails off, staring at Dan’s thighs. “It’s sexy,” he manages. His cheeks have gone warm. He probably looks like an idiot.
Dan’s lips quirk. His shoulders slowly go down. “That’s good, then.” He moves closer to Phil, a bit. Stands a little straighter. “It cost a fuckton of money, someone should like it.”
“You don’t?” Phil asks, watching Dan carefully. This is untouched territory. Dan wore a dress once, years and years ago at a convention. If Phil remembers right everyone thought it was a joke. Himself included. He regrets that, now.
Dan shifts. “It’s weird…and breezy.”
Phil’s eyes widen. “You aren’t wearing pants?”
Dan rolls his eyes, moves passed him. The skirt brushes Phil’s bare knees. Phil swallows again. God damnit.
Dan sits next to him, looking at Phil with curious, amused eyes. “Don’t you start.”
Phil huffs. “I’m not doing anything.” He can’t stop looking at Dan’s thighs, it seems. Did he shave?
“Really?” Dan asks sarcastically. “Then stop eye fucking my thighs.”
Phil flushes, shoves Dan. “It’s distracting!”
Dan hums, rubs a hand down his smooth skin. “I guess?”
He doesn’t look convinced.
Phil touchs the bare skin, tentatively. It’s surprisingly soft. He smells vanilla, faintly. Dan must have used lotion. Christ.
Dan frowns, watches Phil brush over a few hairs he missed on his knee. “I don’t know if I’ll do it again,” he says, back to defensive.
“That’s okay, Dan,” Phil says softly, looking him in the eyes. Chocolate and worry. “I like smooth Dan just as much as I love hairy Dan.”
Dan sighs. “Smooth Dan sounds so bad, Phil.” His eyes are crinkling, mouth twitching in that way he does when trying not to smile.
Just Dan. Not smooth or hairy or young or older. Just Dan.
“One question,” he says, suppressing a smile.
“Yes?” Dan asks, already looking annoyed.
“The skirt is short? On purpose?”
Dan scoffs, hooks a leg over Phil’s thighs and rests on them, pushes Phil into the cushions. “Yes,” he says, glaring down at Phil, eyes darkening. “It’s short because I know you.”
Have you ever met one of those big dogs that think they can fit on your lap? Well Prescilla is a small dog that thinks she can do big dog things. (Also note how she is taking partial credit for carrying the dog despite her obvious lack of being helpful). I guess the moral is don’t date Prescilla she’s too much.
Have you ever thought about writing a fic in which Voldemort went after the Longbottoms instead of the Potters?
If Voldemort had chosen the pureblood boy, not the halfblood, as his opponent? This Neville would have had graves to visit, instead of a hospital. He’d still have grown up in his grandmother’s clutches, tut-tutted at, dropped out windows absentmindedly, left to bounce on paving stones.
Let’s tell this story: Alice Longbottom, who was the better at hexing, told Frank to take Neville and run.
She died on the braided rug of their sitting room floor. Frank heard her fall from where he stood in front of the cradle. He did not have time to run.
When the Dark Lord climbed the stairs and saw Frank, he laughed at the small man in front of him. Frank had crooked teeth, a mis-sized nose, big fingers and small, watery eyes. Voldemort looked at him the way children would look at Neville, in almost a decade, at stubby fingers around a rememberall, a wrinkled brow and a stammer. “Move aside,” he said, the way a different Voldemort had once offered a way out to Lily Potter. That had been for the sake of another man’s love, and this was for his own contempt. “Just let me have the boy. Did you really think you could–”
When Neville met Voldemort again, in his fourth year, when Luna’s advice, his own gillyweed knowledge, and Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex lessons had gotten him through the Triwizard Tournament he’d never signed up to enter, there would be a bubbling scar on Voldemort’s sunken left cheek. His father had had time for one curse. Frank’s love had saved his son, marked him, but his hate had been enough, too, to scar Tom Riddle through every rebirth and transformation he would ever have.
Harry Potter would have grown up as James’s oldest son. I think Lily, who missed her sister, and James, who had found three brothers at school and loved them more than life, would have had more children: a little sister who James taught to fly (little Tuney’d be Keeper to Ginny’s Seeker, in a decade, and gossip terribly about Harry), a baby brother Lily fervently talked James out of naming Lupeterius. Harry would have grown up spoiled and loved, magical, with toy broomsticks and playdates with the other Order kids– stumbling Neville, the Bones girl and the rollicking Weasley bunch.
If the Potters were never the main targets, never hiding and frightened, I don’t think Peter would have turned when he did. Not enough gain. Not enough tail-tucking fear. Peter would have limped through to the end of the war, whiskers shivering in his soul even when they were popping champagne on the night Neville Longbottom’s parents died.
They raised delicate glasses that had somehow survived all the first war, laughing, in Godric’s Hollow, to the Boy Who Lived. Augusta Longbottom planned her children’s funeral and wondered if her grandson’s forehead would scar like that. Lily danced in the living room with James, on the garish rug that Sirius had bought them as a joke and that they had kept just to spite him.
But this was a story about Neville now–it would always be a story about Harry, somewhat, because it had never been the scar that made the boy. When Draco Malfoy stole Neville’s rememberall, this Harry would still jump on a broom; when Hermione, weeping in the bathrooms, didn’t know about the troll, Harry would still run to tell her–that instinct was not something even having loving parents (especially these parents) would have kept from him.
But this had always been a story about Neville, too– unscarred Neville, Neville with his pockets full of gum wrappers, this had always been the story of his rise and his steady soul. But this time he was marked from birth, a scar on his forehead and hands that weren’t any better at holding a wand. This time, his grandmother had even more reason to look at him with disappointment when he spent all his childhood looking powerless.
Neville was not the disappeared savior who they whispered about. Halloween was still a celebration of Voldemort’s fall, but Neville was a lucky object, not a small hero, because where there had been a vacuum to fill when it had been Harry Potter, to fill with wonderment and thanks, here Neville toddled down Diagon Alley and held his grandmother’s hand. The whole world knew this boy was probably a squib, with pudgy fingers and a slow stammer, who didn’t learn to read until it was almost time to go to Hogwarts.
When Neville got his Hogwarts letter, the whole wizarding world was very politely surprised. He got told congratulations from strangers in the street, who in different universes would be shaking Harry Potter’s hand and swooning. Neville was far above smart enough to recognize than none of the other children got congratulated for the victory of being asked to attend school.
He asked the Hat for Hufflepuff and it gave him Gryffindor. He hoped they did not expect him to learn how to roar.
This was a Neville scarred. This was a Neville who would still get a rememberall and still forget it in his room two days out of five, who would eat a Weasley treat and turn into a canary, who would take Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball and not once step on her toes.
This was a Neville who had had long conversations with the garden snakes in his backyard as a child and who had snuck them bits of his breakfast, kept track of which little serpent liked soft boiled eggs and which would dare to try a bit of sausage if he wiggled it properly. When he first got to Hogwarts, lonely, a lion in lamb’s fleece, Neville hid out behind the greenhouses and made friends with the snakes who curled on the warm rocks there.
Oh jeez, I didn't actually think I'd win. Okay, uh, if it would be okay, the big four skelebros finding out that their s/o (humanoid) actually had like, huge feathery wings, +they wore a big cloak to hide them? They can fly w/ them, and all that jazz
(i do love that about raffles - chance is a fickle thing, but wonderful at the same time! this is an interesting prompt - i haven’t spent too much time considering the implications of such a person in the undertale/au worlds, so i’ll interpret it as best i can as my mind tends to very naturally consider the implications thereof.)
(in any case, congrats on winning the raffle - i hope you like it! <3)
You shouldn’t underestimate someone like the classic Sans.
Truth be told, your wings were aching for how long you had been hiding them - nearly two days straight now, without a moment of being able to shake them out of your cloak. Thankfully it had it’s own magical properties that completely sealed in your wings, even for a passing gust of wind that may lift it - but the sensation was pins and needles as time dragged on, and if you could feel every feather in them every one of them would all be aching. But at last, Sans had fallen asleep in the field near on the blanket laid out for you and your friends’ picnic, and the others had disappeared in the forest, looking to play a game or gather wood - or both.
Your shoulders were on fire, your wings just longing to catch an updraft and stretch out, just for a minute, then you would be good to tuck them away again.
… Sans has been a light sleeper for a long time yet, though.
So when he felt the strange hitch in magic near him, even something so low and nearly unnoticeable, it woke him up. He would’ve ignored it… if not for the sudden soft fwump of your unfurled wings catching that first beat of free air.
His eyelights disappeared as he watched you spiral into the sky, effortless and joyfully light in your movements.
Granted, you nearly fell out of the sky when you looked back down and caught him staring at you, but still.
He has so many questions, and while he may wait until a more private time to ask them, you won’t get out of them for long. In the end, he’s intrigued, and once he guarantees all is well, he’ll realize his infatuation has grown only stronger. It won’t be long before you’ll find yourself figuring out how to take him out on flights in secret, both of you feeling the most free you’ve ever been while gliding under the clear night sky.
If you're still doing prompts, I have 2. Choose whatever you wanna write. I love your writing btw! Okay. Negan's newest wife, loosing her virginity to him. OR. Rick going on a date- on a run- that can turn either smutty or fluffy with a beautiful woman after things didn't work out with Michonne.
I’ve been waiting for a prompt like this. I’m going to do the first one just
because I only really do Negan and Daryl prompts. (I don’t feel like I can do
Rick much justice). Thank you so much! xox
Warnings: 18+ ONLY (seriously.), oral, lots of smut, language, etc.
Word count: 3654
Send me a Negan or Daryl prompt!
was the last thing you’d been expecting when you came here.
marriage proposal, from a man with five other wives no less.
the most shocking part was your acceptance of his offer.
you’d be a fool to say no. The man was sinful handsome, like walking sex, he
oozed confidence and demanded respect. He offered you the chance to become a
wife, unlimited points, giving you a free pass to anything you wanted, within
reason. You were his and his only, his play thing, his little doll to display,
another one to add to his harem. But morals weren’t exactly high on your list
was just one problem.
like expected, had an extremely high sex drive. You could practically smell the
testosterone the moment he walked into a room and although he hadn’t tried
anything with you yet, you knew it wouldn’t be long.
wasn’t that you completely lacked experience…it’s just you’ve never
were a little over twenty and you’d never had sex, it was something you’d
avoided telling Negan. You weren’t embarrassed, well that was until you’d
agreed to become a wife and expectations were sort of thrust upon you.
he’d requested for you to join him for dinner and if the other wives knowing
looks were anything to go by that wasn’t the only thing you were in for.
wasn’t like this wasn’t what you wanted, far from it. Negan definitely knew
what he was doing so you knew you’d be in good hands. And it wasn’t exactly
like you hadn’t fantasied about your ruthless leader since the day you came
slipped on your little black dress Negan had got Dwight to give to you that
afternoon. You’d decided to pair it with a matching set of red laced underwear
you’d found in commissary a few days before, a pair of glossy black heels to
top it off. You spent an hour or so curling your hair, applying a decent amount
of makeup, trying to paint on some of the confidence you were currently
finally turned up to retrieve you just as you finished your lipstick, a low
wolf whistle escaping him.
girly, ya clean up nice,” he chuckled, ushering you to come with him.
rolled your eyes at him with a smirk, your heels clicking against the concrete
floor as you followed behind him.
knocked for you once you reach Negan’s quarters, the rumble of his low voice
enough to make your thighs clench together.
opened the door, popping his head in to speak to Negan.
your girl up,” he said, pushing the door open to reveal you stood behind him,
your hands fiddling with the hem of your dress.
grinned with that famous wolf smile of his, dismissing Simon, ushering you in.
strode over, shutting the door behind you with a leather clad hand pinning you
between the door and his hard body.
fucking hello there, sweetheart,” he drawled, letting his eyes slowly take the
sight of you in.
Prompt: 'Do you think we should go on a date?' Trini didn't mean to voice her thoughts. The girl on the floor next to her looked up from her book. 'W-well I meant like... like go to Krispy Kreme or you know we could invite the boys to the movies! We can go as a group it doesn't have to be a date. Like just us two.' Kim laughed at the shorter girl's rambling, a sound that made Trini go weak. Good thing she was already sitting on the bed. 'I'd love to go on a date with you Trini.'
Trini has been curled up on Kimberly’s bed for what seems like forever when in reality it had only been about two hours. Time just seemed to move differently when she was around her crush. “I think we should go on a date,”
“What was that?” Kim asks, looking up from the book she had been reading all afternoon.
Trini’s brow furrows slightly, wondering if she’d really vocalized her thoughts. “I just…I mean, w-what if we went to Krispy Kreme or you know…we could invite the guys to a movie,” She says lowly, biting her lip a bit. “We can all go as a group, it doesn’t have to be like a date or anything…”
Kim smiles slightly, amused by the other ranger’s ramblings as she sets her book off to the side, scooting closer to her friend. “Trini, are you asking me out?” She chuckles softly, the sound making Trini weak.
“I-uh-well…yeah?” Trini mumbles, never more grateful to be sitting down than when Kimberly grins at her. “I mean…it doesn’t have to be like a date, we could just…get food or something,” She trails off a bit, glancing at the bedspread.
She can feel Kimberly move closer, but keeps her eyes on the sheets below them until there’s a finger under her chin, tilting her head up until she’s staring into those whiskey eyes she’s come to love. “I would love to go on a date with you, Trini,” She says softly and the yellow ranger is sure she’s dreaming.
“You’re sure?” Trini asks despite herself, closing her eyes when Kimberly’s hands move to cup her cheeks.
“Of course I’m sure,” The taller girl replies softly, leaning in until she can brush their lips together. “Gotta start somewhere, right?”
There are many things to celebrate in my blogger’s life… the return of Broadchurch, the 2 year anniversary of this silly blog, and the fact that almost 600 (when did this happen?) of you amazing people are following my ramblings.
In order to celebrate I am kicking off the official “Chibbers Read The Fic” Bingo. Clearly, Chibbers has been spying on all of us fic writers and is attempting to put as many Broadchurch fanfic tropes into the show as possible (this is a scientifically proven fact - fight me on it). We shall use this splendid opportunity to play bingo. I created a set of bingo cards with common fic tropes which show up in actual fic (i.e. Ellie calls Hardy an insult, they hug etc.). We will be watching the show and marking all the tropes we find.
Here are the rules:
Players must be following this obsessive Alec Hardy enthusiast
To participate reblog this post and I’ll message you the image of your card
Watch Series 3 (all episodes including 1), enjoy, and mark all the fic tropes you find
I will be keeping track myself and make posts with the tropes identified after every episode
If you get 5 in a row, column, or diagonally, tell me (I will check your card) and you’ll win
THERE ARE PRIZES (Alec Hardy mugs from @jem-scribbles Redbubble store and/or a medium length prompt fic from me) (must be willing to give me your address to get the mug)
Alternatively you can use it as a drinking game if that’s your thing (lol)
THANK YOU ALL FOR BEING OUT THERE AND SO SUPPORTIVE. LOVE YOU ALL!!! I hope you enjoy the game.
29 w/ jason (bonus if reader is a vigilante too !)
“Hoodie has feelings!” Jason yelled at you.
You roll your eyes continuing to move Jason’s hoodie, quite viciously from off the couch. “Oh I’m so sorry that your ratty hoodie’s feelings come before anyone else’s.”
He reaches down from the couch and grabs the hoodie from the floor from where you threw it, “I’ll have you know that my favorite superhero, Wonder Woman gave this too me,” he tells you.
You put your hands on your hips like you do when talking to a young child, “Oh really,” you say sarcastically.
“Yeah she gave this to me the first time I met her when I was still boy wonder,” he looks at your expression that clearly says that you don’t buy it, “well you clearly want me to explain. So it was my first team up with a superhero and like we were in like Greenland and it was crazy cold and I forgot my winter outfit. So Diana gave me hers.”
“You know that makes no sense because why wasn’t Bruce there? And why how could you forget your winter costume?” You tell him.
He throws his hands up, “Believe what you want. I’m tried from patrol and I want to cuddle,” he tells you giving you puppy dog eyes.
“Oh and you expect me to help you with that,” you tell him.
“Well yeah. You gotta make up from hurting hoodie somehow and don’t tell me you don’t like this hoodie because I’ve seen you wear it more than one occasion,” he tells you.
You give in and sit next to him on the couch he puts his arm around you, “I never said I didn’t like it,” he looks down at you, you continue looking at the television, “I think it’s” you look into his eyes, “charming.”
He smiles at you and kisses you.
A/N: I hope you liked and the prompts for these will be closing tomorrow so hurry up.