i really should be writing

Because I am absolute trash, and I saw something from another account that I wont tag cause I don’t know if they’re cool with that, but  I will put them in the tags.

Just Imagine that Vax and  Gilmore get together and get married in Whitestone castle on the insistence of Percy and Vex. Vex gets Vax out of his stinky armor for once and into nice dark blue and silver robes. Pike gives him a symbol of the raven queen as a gift and Keyleth makes flower grows for both Gilmore and  Vax.Also like let’s be real, Vex gives her brother away at his wedding and Velora is there because she’s Vax’s baby sister. She also bugged Slydor so much that he let her go to whitestone to see them.

Then just Vex and Percy’s kids have Uncle Vax and Uncle Shaun and my heart is like melting. 

anonymous asked:

I love tour fics! Especially your RPF so i wanted to ask, are you going to write more Seb/Anthony/Chris because that shit was my jam! I loved your characterisation and Seb is the my favourite bratty sub to ever sub

yes. for sure yes. F O R  S U R E yes.

Chris smirks. It’s a face that says he means trouble; Mackie’s seen it before, when he’s tried to convince them all to go out and party with him. Those nights always end messy as shit, and it’s entirely down to Chris Fucking Evans getting them a shitload deeper into mischief than they should be. Mackie knows how he is.

“Well,” Chris says, “the thing is, right. Sebastian likes to be told what to do.”

“You know, that’s something I’d never have picked in my life,” Mackie says, raising his eyebrows, “he always seemed so self-contained and all,” and Seb actually blushes. “Baby, you like to be good, huh?”

“He likes to be a brat,” Chris shrugs, “but he’ll behave. Eventually. You in, man?”

“Yeah,” Mackie says, thoughtful. “What the hell. Why not.”

The Burden of Being Left Behind

Fandom: BSD

Characters: Oda Sakunosuke, Dazai Osamu

One-Shot

Summary: Tomorrow he would move ahead; he would forge a new plan, a life, anything, as his ability to think would be back. Tonight, there was just grief.

In the aftermath of Odasaku’s death - of his failure - Dazai grieves the loss of his friend.

AO3

Keep reading

21 Mar 2017 || 

I should be writing my term papers, but I really wanted to doodle something in my bullet journal, so here’s a very general and probably highly inaccurate map of Great Britain. Forgive me for any mistakes please, it’s really just a sketch!

Kehlani

For the anon who requested the bed-sharing trope. It kind of turned out…odd. 

The original version had copied wrong onto the post, hence its deletion and this updated one. Thank you @samaykay912 for pointing it out. However, all grammar and this sorry excuse for writing is unedited and strung together last minute (Why have I not started studying for calculus yet??).



                                                       Kehlani


The timer sharply ran at ten o’clock, and Nesta plucked the micro-device out of her ear, tossing it onto the soiled Earth. Her heels crushed the piece of tech, and soon her legs stalked forward, hands holding the edges of her ruby gown swishing around her. Once her high-stiletto shoes reached the marbled tiles, she dropped the silky fabric, a slight breeze in the crisp night kissing her skin.

Rounding the corner of the castle grounds, her eyes darted over the faceless security patrols who spared her a passing glance, some daring glance over the high slit of the dress on her right leg. She merely smiled prettily, running a tongue over her lower lip, painted with blood-red lipstick. Her fingers dipped into the curve of her breasts, and she smirked at the dazed and glazed looks cresting over the younger guards marching past her. Snapping the golden embroided invitation out of her bra, she winked at the flustered males, and continued her walk. Fanning the invitation against her face, she studied the towering columns and dark, tinted windows peeking from the upper walls.

Flipping her brown strands gleaming with golden flares, Nesta Archeron stalked to the entrance, listening to the faint whispers of orchestra’s melody and courtesan’s small talks.

She considered it a shame midnight would end with cacophonies and rumors. Pressing the papyrus into the butler’s white gloved hands, she stared down the escort who stepped from the long line of males and held out his elbow to user her up the gilded stairs. The escort swallowed and she dismissed him with a sparse look, striding up and into the gleaming castle. Inside, drafts of warm currents pierced her flesh, the beating sounds of blended notes spiraling throughout the domed room with glass chandeliers sparkling from several quadrants. Low murmurs arose as she stalked through the entrance, a bland smile curled onto her face. When an arm reached out, slightly bent, Nesta gladly took it, and stepped into the lines of circles to dance. Faces turned away from her, the attention of wave’s receding lapping into the back of the mind, as she disappeared from the main sight, and the next guest walked in.

“You didn’t walk with an escort,” the male voice murmured. “Meaning your date’s not here or you want to be scooped up by some other higher ranked—more than a courtesan in the royal courts could offer.”

Nesta offered him a sharp smile, one cultivated from dancing with the viper and drowning in poisons. Her eyes turned towards the warm body offering pouring heat, and blinked at the hazel eyes intently studying her under those dark brows that framed his rough, unshaven face. Wide shoulders corded with thick muscles roped around to his arms, and the black coat hung unbuttoned across his buttoned shirt.

He dipped her low, and leaned back as his eyes skimmed over her exposed collarbone.

“If it’s the first, I frankly don’t believe you’d be stood up,” he leaned down to caress a breathe against her collarbone. “But you already look powerful enough to not need someone else. So what is it?”

They arched back up, and resumed their small circles of steps and little twirls.

A third option, she silently mused, allowing the music to bounce around them, their bodies swaying together in synchrony. Noting the guards slipping behind the curtains and hugging the shadows along the walls, she cocked her head. A distraction fit perfectly as all the royals would be dining and dancing in the other secluded areas, choosing to grace the other invitees later on in the night.

“Want to go somewhere else?” she murmured, weaving her around his chest, each step they took too precise and full of the tensions lurking beneath the luxuries exteriors.

A flash of a grin. “Anything to loosen you up, sweetheart.” A hand strayed near the small of her back, guiding her to one of the dimly lit hallways. Goosebumps flew over her skin as she felt focus slipping from her.

A hush fell over the crowd, the faint tinkling of the glorious music halting. From the opposite direction of the entrance, two goldened and darkened double doors had flung open, one shadow of a figure descending the curve of slanted stairs.

A crown of pure obsidian—no fringe of gold or silver or diamonds or rubies. Not when the King’s own phantom absorbed all darkness and riches. Not when the King’s soldiers had pillaged her own village, one lower-ranked cornering her into the barn the night her house had been set afire. Not when she’d been separated from her own sisters, and then sought her revenge for seven years.

A cold smile settled on that square face—ancient and heavy, full of curses and endurance, eliciting pulses of hatred and demise to pound through her veins and echo within the crevices of her own heart chamber.

Every shape and figure bent, bowing to the King. Nesta let out a low hiss, clenching her teeth.

The music began, sharper and faster, and clean cut blade caressing her ear.

“You still want to get out of here?” the male muttered, not bothering to mask boredom.

“I’m going to greet the King of Hybern,” Nesta said, and started to detach herself from the male’s arms.

A hand wrapped around her wrist. “This is your first time attending this type of event, isn’t it?”

“What?” she snapped.

“Talk to the King and have your head disconnected from the rest of your body.” Those hazel eyes stared down at her, contemplating more than she liked.

She arched a brow, and debated whether slipping out her opinion. She refrained.

“No one’s allowed to infect his presence,” the male recites. “Unworthy to near his space, and worthy to watch from afar.”

That complicated things for a bit. Her information briefing hadn’t been exactly accurate, it seemed.

“But if you want to catch his attention, I suggest you tug down that dress.”

Nesta shot the male a sharp glance. “Excuse me?”

A shrug. “These things get quite dull. I wouldn’t mind a little blood spilled.”

She matched his grin, and they sashayed towards the fringes of the east hall. Rolling her shoulders, she tilted her head, and watched the dark robed King stalk through the corridor, the backs of guards swallowing up his form.

She pressed her hands against the male’s chest, and said a bit loudly, “Let’s find some privacy.” Tucking her face in the crook of the male’s neck, she allowed him to guide her into the darkness and away from the glamor of the middle of the ball.

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispered, stroking her hair.
Nesta noticed the patrols closing in towards them, most likely about to command them to return back into the ballroom. Nesta wrapped her leg with the open slit around the other male’s, and kissed him fully on the lips.

A cry of protest rumbled from the male’s throat, but he quickly absorbed her lips, wrapping her around him, one hand grounding around her hips, the other pressing against the small of her back. A low growl thundered from the base of his throat as they broke apart for air, a crazed and wild look flailing within those hazel eyes, and those orbs raked across her form as if seeing her for the first time.

He leaned down and slammed her against the wall, the shadows of metal and steel streaming away from them. Nesta watched a guard retreat from them, shaking his head, and resumed soaking in the warmth of the stranger of a male. He held her tightly, emanating warmth beyond her once dreams, and devoured her. She groaned as he slowly nipped his way down, exposing the pale column of her throat. A thumb stroked lower from her waist and fingered the fabric of her gown. Her finger lashed out and she tilted his head back up, capturing his mouth within hers, and they waged their own war between teeth and tongue, soiled in the seconds of heat and devourment. His own fingers travelled up over the curve of her shoulders and down, leaving lingering sensations of desire and need erupting within every pore.

A loud crackling sound of metal grinding had Nesta peeling away from the male and mentally scolding herself. She’d gotten too cooped up in the moment, and allowed herself to become too exposed. By the cold, dark eyes of the one wearing the blackened and solid crown, the King of Hybern had spotted another prey, those fathomless eyes staring at her tousled state.

He jerked his chin at the male embracing her, dark eyes flickering. “Out,” he droned.

The hazel eyed male smoothed his hands down her back and tightened his hands on the small of her back, grasping the folds of the back of her gown. A second later, he abruptly released her and stalked into the light where the tinkering of music sounded.

Coldness flooded her once again, an emptiness settling within her core.

The King stalked towards her, and Nesta flattened her back against the wall. She knew that predatory look, the one who forged her into the pillar of ice and steel.

Her hand itched down, as if covering her slit in the dress.

“You dare disrupt my halls,” the King mused. “To lose yourself in feeling.”

Dark eyes, dark heart.

“I wonder what it would be like for a damsel to lose all sense of feelings,” the King pondered.

Nesta spotted the syringe, and danced around the first stroke.

Cold eyes, cold heart.

“You cannot escape,” the King warned, and reached out a hand, which Nesta realized was dripping with blood. “The end of this hallways lies for my…experiments. You’d do your country an honor to join them.”

Nesta knew, knew of the experiments, of the agony, of the horror, of those who walked out there, and were never the same.

Not when Tomas, her first lover of six years, had volunteered service to the King, and returned with dark eyes, a dark heart, cold eyes, and a cold heart.

Nesta unsheathed a dagger from her knife strap, and allowed the reflection of the blade to arc within the darkness.

A weapon to match that inked soul.

A sick smile. “I see,” the King said slowly, and tossed the syringe to the side, the sound clattering.

He lunged towards her, and grabbed her wrist so harshly the knife dropped. He tossed her against the wall, her head colliding with the hard surface. He reached down and ran a finger against the blade.

The strength the King possessed—but the deed had been done.

Nesta smiled, and watched the King prick his finger.

Dark to flame, shadow to madness, lunacy to bone.

Nesta stalked to the syringe and tucked into into her thigh strap securely. Then she strode the King of Hybern, who stared at the domed ceiling with criss crossing beams with an empty look. That ancient face now glazed over, the pulse at his neck fading.

Nesta leaned in. “Not so fun to be experimented on, is it now?” she whispered. “Took me six years to concoct.”

Blood gurgled from the King’s lips, the strangled sound lighting her veins.

“I know you’re going to die. Slowly. But I have to leave now. So,” she twirled the hilt of the dagger around her fingers, her red nails flashing in front of the King, “I’m going to have to speed up the process.”

Nesta Archeron drove the blade. Not through the heart where layers of armor awaited, but across.

Horizontally.

She’d practiced this move too many times for too many years.

In utter patience into utter completion, where the head flew across the spine and body and rolled across the ground, coming to a halt. The crown slithered off the black hair and crashed against stone, the sound of the rim of the onyx and ink symbol echoing through the corridor.

The King’s body crumbled at her feet.

Dark eyes lolled up and dark heart unbeating. Cold eyes ripped from this world and dark heart ceased. Picture perfect.

Footsteps neared, and Nesta braced herself.

She stared at the hazel-eyed man, who merely looked at her, and then at the body—and the head.

“Cauldron boil me,” he managed to gasp out, and crossed his arms.

Nesta waited, finding herself oddly rooted to the ground.

“What the hell?” the man snarled, and Nesta angled the knife carefully under her arm and wrist. “You killed my kill, with less blood. Damn my ego and mission.”

She blinked, and stared at the large sword in his hand.

Too obvious, yet obviously typically male.

She silently scrutinized the male in front of her, hearing the distant and clunky patter of footsteps. Slipping the knife into his free hand and damning the aghast look on his chiseled face, Nesta tossed herself against the wall, mustering one of the facades she knew too well.

“Hands up!” Large seas of coats and suits swam through one end of the hall, swords, metal, and steel pointed towards them.

A tear leaked down her face, and Nesta reminded herself to not wear waterproof mascara again. By the looks on the castle’s guard’s face, she’d successfully portrayed herself as the damsel in distress.

“He—” she hiccuped, and stared at the body and head, waving her arms frantically. “He killed the King of Hybern!”

Nesta booked it, slipping out and pushing past the guards, slicing those limbs who reached out to ensnare her. It was another maddening dance, one learned from monstrosity, and living as a corpse within.

She hurried away, away from the male and from the dead and from the memories.

Her eyes turned away from the castle as she stalked away and leaped out the entrance, the stares of many driving her away. Hitting the rendezvous point, she didn’t cast a look back at the towering, tall, and dark castle. She slipped off her shoes and unhooked the rope wrapped around the stern of a slim boat, and pushed the vessel into the river, quickly jumping in. Balancing the boat, she picked up the paddle and rowed, ignoring the beat of the drums of the peals of alarms.

She didn’t bother to catch her breathe her arms continued to move in synchrony, once to a longing beat of music and desire. The cold air kissed her skin, whispering little slivers of words and gentle caresses.

Nesta stared at the moon as she quickly rowed, hours seeming to pass by as she passed by, listening to the chirping of crickets and unidentified howls. In the wilderness, she coexisted.

The vessel hit the edge of the river, and she dragged it under the cover of mosses and overgrown leaves. Trudging up the bank, Nesta listed the edges of her gown, and slipped back on her heels.

She caught the light from the distance, and followed it, ignoring the branches reaching out with ghostly hands to chain her back. Nesta picked apart the sharp tendrils and trudged forward.

A hand wrapped around her elbow, and she jerked back to no avail, only to have her entire body encased by another towering one.

Her body flared in response to the other male’s heat.

She stopped squirming and hissed lowly.

“Kill the King,” the voice snarled. “And frame me? Whose damned side are you on?”

She shrugged as well as she could. “Saw the opportunity and took it.”

“Took what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She twirled around, not before she shot him her infamous viper’s grin, her knee flashing out.

Through the darkness, the moon shining down faint rays of shine, Nesta could recognized the hazel-eyed male.

“How’d you escape?” she bit out.

A roll of eyes—that much she could decipher. A closer look, and she saw flecks of blood coating his hands.

She walked forward, her back to him.

Nesta didn’t understand the underlying feelings running undercurrent through her, her heart vying to trust him, her mind accepting him.

She continued her trek forward.

Those bloodied hands found the small of her back.

“You wondered about the contact who gave you the false invitation?” the male murmured. “That was me. My dealings include women desiring to meet a courtesan or indulge in royalty for one night. Their fantasies fill my pockets with gold.”

The orange glow grew brighter, and Nesta picked up her pace, the male behind her easily matching her strides.

“I didn’t pay your dealer one trove of gold to merely worm into a man,” she noted.

A pause. “No. I plan on returning the trunk to you.”

Nesta faltered a step, and the male crashed into her. His arms instantly wrapped around her, and she sucked in a breath.

“Because you killed the man that killed my parents,” he murmured against her ear. “For having more balls than I.”

Nesta could make out the lanterns of the inn, and jerked her head to it.

The male released her and gave her a nod.

They stalked through the clearing, and Cassian opened the doors.

The receptionist gave them wary looks, observing the muddied fringes of Nesta’s gown and the red painting the other male’s black tux.

“A single room,” said Nesta.

“A single room for me as well.” Cassian winked at the receptionist, while Nesta surveyed the dimly lit entrance, too small for a large command of troops to search through. The back alleys had potholes to impeded vehicles, while the insides did have the array of tables and chairs to use as shields and weapons if utilized correctly.

The receptionist coughed. “I only have one spare room available. You’ll have to share.”

Nesta glared at the male next to her. He merely held up his palms and leaned across the front, winking at the receptionist. “Are you sure?” he said lowly.

The other woman flushed. “I’m sure.”

Nesta held out her hand. “I asked first. Give me the key.”

Cassian slapped a bloodied hand over her palm. “No way. You owe me.” His eyes bored into her.

The receptionist coughed, and Nesta reached out with her other hand for the key.

Cassian’s other hand went into his suit and came out with a thick wad of bills. “One night, one room. Give me the key.”

The traitorous female handed him the key, and Nesta’s jaw hardened. She attempted to disentangle her hand from the male, but he gripped her tightly.

The receptionist took out a pen, and scratched something down. “Name?” she asked.

The male looked at Nesta, full of surety. “Cassian,” he drawled out, and stroked a thumb down the back of her hand.

The receptionist cleared her throat, and eyed both of them. “The room may be single, but has a King’s bed.”

Cassian dragged her deeper into the inn, a cocky grin etched onto his face. No doubt the fate had worked in his odds.

“Release me,” Nesta snapped, but her heart snapped back the opposite. Cauldron, what was happening to her?

The male released her hand, but wrapped an arm around her waist. “You think I’d let you sleep in the wild?” he asked, and guided her up the first step of stairs. “We’re sharing the bed.”

“No,” she simply said.

“Oh really?” he arched a brow. “But who paid for the room?”

Nesta said nothing, and stalked down the hallway until he reached her, those hazel-eyes dancing over her.

“You owe me,” he repeated. “You killed the man I wanted to kill.”

“The King was not a man,” she sneered. “A monster beyond humanity.”

The male inserted the key through the last door, and pushed it open. He beckoned her in, and she pushed past him.

“I don’t see why you’re full of ire,” Nesta continued. “When you were the one who allowed the King to look at me.”

“Because I decided to have you use your feminine wiles so I could get close to him. You think I expected you to be the King’s assassin?”

“Sad you didn’t claim the title?”

Cassian leaned forward, his nose pressed against her forehead. “I’m sad that you’re going to make me sleep on the floor, Nesta Archeron.”

Her eyes flashed. “How do you know my name?”

That cocky grin. “I do make it my business to know those who request false papers, sweetheart.”

She crossed her arms and kicked off her heels. “How’d you escape?”

Cassian unabashedly started to undress himself, shrugging off his coat. “While I didn’t have a damned boat, I did have legs that walked at the same snail pace you were rowing.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

Cassian leaned down and took of his shoes, displaying the soles, beaten and reinforced with secondary material. “Once I killed the guards, I followed the trail of red, and followed the sounds of the rowing through the river.”

The male flicked the buttons of his shirt, and displayed the toned and muscular, thick skin underneath. Nesta felt her body warm up, and she took a step back when he stalked towards her.

A hand yanked the frills of her dress up, wielding the torn scraps of fabric. “The layers of your gown were my breadcrumbs.”

Nesta cursed. This was too sloppy.

Cassian seemed to read her mind, and shook his head. “Looks like you’re going to have to destroy that dress, sweetheart.”

Before Nesta could open her mouth, Cassian ripped her dress off of her.

Nesta’s knee lunged up again, but he caught her kneecap. “A cheap shot.” His hands released her knee, and he grinned. She steadied herself, and grabbed a pillow and blanket, tossing them on the floor. Within the movements, she stuffed her thigh strap within the pillow covers.

She wouldn’t risk more mistakes tonight.

“What are you doing?” Cassian growled.

Nesta stripped the remains of her gown, and yanked the complimentary bathrobe, hanging over the single chair, over her shoulders. “Sleeping on the floor.”

She laid on the floor, ignoring the cramps shooting through her back from the paddling, and wrapped herself within the blanket.

Seconds later, her body was lifted within her cocoon of warmth, and tossed onto the bed. The pillow slammed into her face a beat later. Snarling, Nesta started to disentangle herself from the blanket, but a body hovered over her.

“I will not force anything on you, if you are worried about that,” Cassian snarled equally back. “You are meaner than you demons, Nesta.”

Her name sounded seemed to be filled with more life, rolling off his tongue.

“You don’t know me,” she hissed. “Who I am, what I’ve done, or what I will do.”

The body rolled off of her, and daftly whacked her with a pillow.

She arched off the bed and crossed her arms.

The male laid across the bed, his chest decorated with scars. His eyes locked on hers. The pillow rested within his fingers again, and when he moved to whack it again, Nesta pounced, and landed on top of him.

Cassian stilled. And then slowly reached out to move a piece of hair that had fallen across her face. “Who says I can’t try to learn?” His breath fanned across her face. “I want to know the woman who can dance like hell and put a royal in hell.”

She laid a hand across his chest, and traced some of the scars, noting the rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t think—”

The pillow hit her squarely across the jaw.

“I’m trying to knock some sense into you.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating from his chest, deep and rich, and full of life. “Don’t think,” he whispered, and dropped the pillow. “Feel.”

Nesta looked into those hazel-eyes and damned her brain.

She leaned down and kissed him fully, and surely, staring into those warm eyes and warm heart that opened for her, and felt her veins spark with the sensation of desire, shivering into the heat and security in the single room with a King’s bed.

in the woods

he sets a steaming mug on the coffee-table beside her, the scent of hot chocolate curling her lips up. last night, he made them rib-eyes with spinach and mashed potatoes, used that ridiculously expensive grass-fed butter and everything; she picks up the mug, takes a creamy sip, and decides that she can summarize this weekend with the word rich. though they only have two space-heaters in this little cabin, the room feels cozy nonetheless. she lounges on the couch, the secret history on her pajamaed lap, her legs up on the cushions while he sits down at her feet, lifts her toes up onto his lap. she sets the mug back down, returns to her words while he takes one of her wool socks into his hands and rubs his thumb along her arch. yes, she thinks; rich is the correct term.

though she’s unsure as to whose cabin this is, she knows it belongs to an old friend of mulder’s, some guy whose wife or daughter or other relative had been abducted, and due to mulder’s brash heroism - she stopped listening as soon as he began the story, for she figured it wouldn’t be true or that the true version would be far less exhilarating than mulder’s rendition - and she doesn’t want to question the ownership, not when it’s ever-so-softly snowing outside and not while their little space of the adirondacks is so blissfully, wonderfully quiet. according to the true locals, this is off-season, and they’re in a portion of the state that’s been owned by a specific family for years; the lake water, apparently, is safe to drink though she made sure mulder boiled it anyway. nonetheless, it’s just them and the neighboring cabin’s occupants out here for the weekend, the nearest paved road being thirty miles away, the closest gas station probably thirty-five. 

“are we staying in today?” he asks as he rubs her feet, still tired from their past week of nonstop paperwork. to skinner on friday, mulder claimed that he would have a twenty-four hour virus starting on that coming monday, a lie that skinner grinned and bore; as for her excuse to spend the weekend away, she was registered to attend a conference in alexandria that she’d intended to attend though mulder’s mentioned it hundreds of times that, technically speaking, they’re both playing hooky. yesterday, they spent the morning snowshoeing the property and hiking the short path down to the frozen-over lake, but today, life sounds best when her book, a blanket, and mulder are involved.

glancing out the window, she watches as an evergreen folds heavily beneath the falling snow; outside, the world is silent but full of change, the gravity shifting as it does with every storm. to herself, she wonders if they might end up snowed in and finds she doesn’t mind that prospect. 

“i’d like to,” she says as he switches to her other foot. 

of course, she’d been resistant at his first mention of a weekend like this, one planned out and researched and intended for - she nearly cringes at the word - romance.

“just wait for a holiday weekend instead,” she insisted as they sat together in the basement office, as she flicked through some new file, as she remained friendly but indifferent toward him in the way she’d mastered at work over the years. though their relationship had changed drastically - in a good way, in the best of ways - since he kissed her on the first, she still needed to be professional. “i’d rather not take time off.”

“but it is a holiday weekend,” he gave softly, his eyes puppying and his gaze silently hurt. 

“mulder, martin luther king day is in january, not february.”

“yeah, i know that.”

“then what holiday are you talking about?”

and though she knew that their territory since he kissed her on the first was uncharted, and though she knew that her priorities didn’t tend toward hallmark holidays, and though she knew better than to think he would overlook such a thing, she stared incredulously at him, couldn’t remember any february holiday other than her birthday though even that one was hardly worth celebrating.

“that’s the weekend of valentine’s day,” he explained, his eyes downcast, his ribs still as he waited for the inevitable rejection. “the fourteenth’s that monday.”

and now, she’s playing hooky for the first time in her career, and she’s wearing his thermal shirt, and he made her belgian waffles for breakfast, the world beyond them is a mess of bright white, and work is the last thing on her mind.

“i think there’s a scrabble board on the bookshelf,” he says, glancing back at the dusty, faded stack of almanacs; this place, all gas-powered and wooden, looks exactly the way a cabin should look, the decor straight out of the 1960s, the mugs in the cabinet all fading shades of green and yellow, all of the furniture holding the scent of pine. if there’s a box of scrabble in here, it’ll be an old version, the rulebook fading and three or four of the pieces missing. looking to him, she smiles softly, figures that everything’s more alluring when it has a quirk or two.

“yeah,” she offers, folding her pages over her bookmark, setting the novel down on the coffee-table. then, she shimmies down against the couch, her knees falling over his lap, and motions for him to come closer. though the word of the weekend is rich, she figures contact would also suffice.

“we’re not going to fit,” he warns but leans down alongside her anyway; with his folded legs draping across her hips and his arm steadying himself around her stomach, she exhales, her mind blanking meditatively, her heartbeat slow and soft. 

“i’m sorry that there’s not much to do around here,” he whispers against her skin, his lips ghosting against her collarbone. “i should’ve planned something else. though i know you like quiet places, this might be a little too quiet.”

“no, no,” she says, shaking her head as she twines his fingers through his hair. then, she quirks a lip, says, “a calm, quiet weekend with you is a rare treat.”

“we could’ve gone to san jose,” he muses; though she’s not entirely sure, she thinks he’s joking. “i heard that there have been sightings there. we could’ve stayed up until four in the morning, looked for flying saucers, and eaten junk food all weekend.”

“how romantic,” she deadpans. 

“this hasn’t been romantic at all,” he grumbles, the statement self-deprecating, his words intended for himself only.

on the drive from some tiny rural airport in vermont to this cabin, he brought out his blues brothers cd to keep them entertained while the radio stations went in and out; he imitated the guys on npr for a certain stretch of miles, each quip being met with a smile from her. though they arrived too late on friday night to see much of the property, he offered her a ski mask and sat on the cabin’s porch with her, pointed out the seven sisters constellation and labeled it the smudge in the sky. that night, she took his sleep-shirt out of his duffel, put it on before he could, and the incredulous but deeply satisfied look he gave her for that - and the mild-mannered but insistent way he managed to get it back, or at least to let it reside on the bedroom’s floor for the remainder of the evening - was worth any backroad boredom they could’ve had. though she always knew he was loving, could discern his intelligent passion from the moment she first met him, she’s still shocked with every extraneous touch, with every unnecessary caress, with the way he’ll stop stirring risotto just so he can bring her into his arms, and she’s far more shocked with how at ease she feels with him. when he makes her dinner, when he borrows her chapstick though she insists that he shouldn’t, when he spoons up against her in bed as though he could read her mind and sense that she felt cold, she feels her mind soften, her muscles relax; simultaneously, they’re honeymooners and best friends, and as she turns her head, kisses his forehead, she whispers, “it’s been romantic.”

“but has it been a valentine’s day kind of romantic?” he asks. 

“of course it has,” she laughs. 

“really?”

“you’re asking someone who forgot about the holiday altogether.”

“so i should’ve made this year so memorable that you would never forget it.”

she closes her eyes, breathes him in, thinks of how many hours they have to themselves, just the two of them in the middle of nowhere on a snowy day, books and scrabble keeping them company, this cabin making them feel as though they’re the only people left on earth.

“i’ll never forget it,” she whispers to him. “i promise.”

dangerscully  asked:

19, 27, and/or 29 for the cuddling prompts, depending on how much you wanna make me cry!

Ok, first of all: thanks for these! I’ll do 19. at some point, but somehow 27. AND 29. spoke to me just now so here you go. I’m sorry. (And I really should be working and not writing fanfiction) 

!Warning: Character Death!

27. + 29. First and last cuddle

“Hmm, you smell good, Scully”

“Oh shhh, Mulder.” She coos, cuddling closer to Mulder’s weak, slight frame. Her hand is on his chest, making sure it still raises and falls, raises and falls in a steady rhythm. It hasn’t been steady for a while, she reminds herself; the sad reality constricts her throat as her hand caresses him.

“Hm, but you do. I can’t really… see you…but I can still smell you.” He takes a deep breath, causing Scully’s own to hitch in fear of the inevitable, and then chuckles softly. Soft puffs of air tickle her cheek. His eye sight deteriorated last week and as much as he still smiles about it, Scully knows that he is now almost completely blind. Last night, when she could no longer hold her tears at bay, watching him from the doorway just laying there unmoving, his gaze on hers, that’s when she knew. His eyes were on hers, as always, but they were no longer seeing her. Maybe in memory, or maybe in his dreams; she can only hope.

“Should have done this… more often.” Mulder murmurs against her. His voice is so raw, so weak. She’d tell him to be quiet, but she’s also selfish; before the silence takes him, and buries her, she wants to listen to him like she used to do for the last decades. Soon, way too soon, there will be only silence to listen to.

“You’re right. We didn’t do this nearly enough,” Scully closes her eyes, buries her face in his chest; still raising, still falling. Ever so gently, but still there. Still holding on. He’s always held on, always refused to let go. She’s the same, she knows. When her hand tightens around him, afraid to let go too soon, she feels his ribs poke her; there’s not much left of him, now. The disease eating away at him, continuously. “Do you remember the first time we did this?”

“Hm?”

“Do you remember, Mulder? The first time we cuddled.” Her eyes still closed, Scully wishes herself back; both of them so young, still wary of what had always been between them.

“Tell me, Scully. Please tell me.” His hand is on her back; there’s no pressure, just a reminder that he’s still there. It feels clammy, foreign almost; and Scully presses her eyes shut, to stop the flood of tears, and to keep reality far away. She’s never been one for nostalgia, that’s Mulder’s forte, but now…

“It was after Donnie Pfaster,” she begins with a soft voice, not unlike the gentle words she used once, so long ago, when she told their baby boy about his miracle conception, “After the first time we crossed paths with him. I was shaking so much. You kept your arm around me. Even when the police came to question me, you never once left my side no matter how often I told you I was fine. You knew I wasn’t. You always knew it. There was no way we were going home that night and so we went to a hotel. Remember, Mulder?” He doesn’t answer and Scully goes on, trying to conjure up the moment again, and tries to hang on to it.

“I told you again ‘I’m fine, Mulder’ and I expected you to huff, or say anything, but that’s not what you did. You know what you did, Mulder? You took me into your arms. You just held me while I cried. I don’t remember… you always remembered the little details better than I did, Mulder. I’m sure you could tell me exactly what I was wearing, how my face looked, things you and I said that night. I don’t. That’s not what this was about. You let me have the bed, of course, and I told you I didn’t want to be alone. When you held me that night, Mulder, for the very first time… I felt so safe. You always made me feel safe, Mulder. No matter what we were… I was always safe when I was with you. I wish… oh Mulder, I wish you’d remember that night.”

His chest under her face, still now, no longer raising, no longer falling. Still now, like his heart, the memory is all that’s left. Now.

maybe it’s ironic that spring and autumn are my favourite seasons. they are soft and calm and pastel and they simply give a quiet scent of their essence. a dab of perfume. the whisper of a wind. they’re light and warm and cool. the colours are those in-between ones. the peaceful pinks and soft tumbles of orange and brown. it’s light caresses from the sun and kisses from the breeze.

and yet here i am. in all my terrible glory. i am fire and ice. never something in the middle. never a grey area. too much and not enough. too big and too small. too much of one thing and not enough of the other. i’m something of a paradox. two ends of a spectrum in a violent concoction that should never have existed. i cancel myself out. the positive and the negative. until i am neutral. until i am nothing. i am summer and winter. harsh heat and burning cold. i don’t make sense. i melt what i freeze. i burn ice. i’m just a puddle on the floor. no more significant than the charcoal at the end of a fire. i’m burning myself out. i am black and i am white. i poison each side of myself with the other. i cancel myself out. until i am nothing.

—  i am summer and i am winter
Fic Updates Week Ending 3/25/17

Hello Everyone!  Another week of updates is in the books and hope you were able to catch a few as they were reblogged yesterday.  We have some seriously amazing talented authors out there…we really do!  Anyway, here’s what we uncovered last week:

Where We Can Be Safe  Chapters 17&18  by @geekymoviemom

Tending Marigold  Chapter 2  by ScarletTengu

Everything But Money  Chapter 12  by @mtk4fun

A Year of Firsts  Chapter 5  by RedHeadedFlame

Perhaps Maybe  Chapter 4 by @everllarkingnewtina (thanks to @hutchhitched for directing me to the correct blog!)

Leading Suspects  Multiple Chapters  by @katnissdoesnotfollowback

Hidden Blessing  Chapter 10 by Everlarklover1960 

Elaborate Lives  Chapter 12 by @hpfanonezillion

There are Still Much Worse Games to Play  Chapter 71  by panskiss123

Counting on Love  Chapter 2  by LitLove

New Fic

Why I Went to the Woods  by @javistg

Out of the Wood  by @notanislander

As always, If you see that a fic did not make it to the list, please send a message so that it can be added next week.  

Originally posted by unicorndotcom

Happy Peeta Sunday!  Will always be the best damn day of the week! 

Love ya!  Mean it!

Dee

anonymous asked:

no. 20 *-* maybe solangelo?

#20- “When’s the last time you smiled?”


The pen held by an inked and tight grip scratched in a way that would most likely be described as both violent and unnecessary the couple of sentences his mind managed to come up with after what seemed hours of zero mental activity, erasing them from existence, resulting in him having to resist the urge to tear the page out of the main core for it to join all of its other fallen siblings positioned around as a constant reminder of past mistakes. Nico tried concentrating in his surroundings in an attempt to keeping his emotions born out of his frustration in check, task not that promising by the mere view of the general panorama.

The scent of recently toasted coffee that slowly made its way to his nostrils, unlike any of the other past occasions, didn’t bring peace to his soul nor did it slow down the rate of his heartbeat, if anything it made his breathing faster and sharper in a way the outside world was pretty much oblivious to, not that he really was expecting that from the others living beings sitting on tables nearby: whatever he would ask or require would be way too picky and therefore would be mostly ignored.

He didn’t blame the place, of course, it was not the fault of an unmoving building that his head didn’t feel like coming with brilliant or at least decent ideas to write down nor a way to properly put his messy thoughts into words; that didn’t mean the brown eyed wouldn’t be exceptionally mad simply by the mere existence of the universe, there was only much that he could do to realize steam that would be considered as social acceptable.

Nico was pretty sure his brain cells would quickly follow the example of the boiling water inside the metallic kettle he could hear at the distance, in the hidden section of the place that laid separated by a reddish door that seemed way too bright when compared to the general softness of the walls and decoration. He wondered how much would it actually take for him to end up succumbing under the strong pressure and stress inflicted strongly by himself.

“Here’s your order.” His thoughts were interrupted by the same voice he had grown used to hearing after months of attending the rather old fashioned coffee shop that had, in a way, become his hidden lair, the spot hidden from the outside world that usually brought upon him a weird sense of tranquility that the harsh environment of the outside never allowed him to have; that said day, however, a grey cloud seemed to follow him whenever he walked by, not having enough decency to stay outside of his sanctuary.

He looked up, separating his glance from the wrinkled pages scattered on the surface of the table, his eyes not taking long to meet a pair of blue irises framed by blond locks that shone like gold under the yellowish lights hanging from the ceiling, making it difficult to pull his stare from their curly figure.

Their interactions had begun before summer season made its big, and in some cases certainly anticipated, arrival, back when the other was simply a waiter that brought a general air of unprofessionally, managing to make his uniform look anything but polished and he was the difficult client whose attitude most likely managed to scare every other employee from the prospect of asking for his order.

They had had, once would even say, a rather rocky start that got to include, to keep it short, a considerable bunch of sarcastic remarks, not so memorable comebacks, spilled brewages and a close call of someone getting stabbed with a butter knife; however, even if the brown eyed wouldn’t say it out loud, he would certainly miss the interactions with the exterior personification of sunlight if everything were to suddenly disappear. If that were to happen with the blink of an eye, it would certainly be a change, although not one Nico would particularly like.

The sound of someone clearing up their throat brought his consciousness back to real life, soon finding himself in front of a served cup of the coffee his organism had grown fond to, accompanied by a small plate that displayed a pair of chocolate chip cookies. He was about to reach for one of the sugary treats when he noticed the shadow projected over a fraction of the table he was sitting at hadn’t moved the less.

“Want to hear a joke?” Will asked unexpectedly, breaking the Italian free from the hurricane of thoughts that had been waiting for him just around the corner of his mind, making him turn his head to look at the being directing his words to him. Nico was about to protest, even though he was certain some distraction would make the arrival headache he knew was already coming get delayed, he really wasn’t in the mood for any type of comedy. “What does a barista say to their Valentine?” He raised an eyebrow slightly, a little side smirk starting to appear on his face in anticipation before answering to his own question without a hint of hesitation. “Words cannot espresso my love for you.”

Before Nico could realize, a quiet, short laugh left his mouth as he rolled his eyes, no trace of real malice visible on his stare nor on his posture but rather something close to amusement. “That was so bad, one of the worst puns I’ve ever heard.”

Will smiled brightly, his eyes shining with unspoken pride that could easily rival the light the stars displayed above the head of the world at night. “Hey, it made you laugh, didn’t it?”

The smaller boy felt the corners of his lips tug up without him passing an order or command, almost as if they had a mentality of their own; however, even though he knew the muscles on his face were the ones making every single move, Nico couldn’t help but think the expression plastered on his features was actually product of iron hooks by the way tension began to accumulate on his cheeks in a rather painful manner. “Yes, because of how bad it was.”

Silence fell upon the scene as soon as the last syllable rolled out of his mouth, outsiders and spectators forgotten alike for his mind as the pair of vivid blue irises he had somehow grown attached to focused on his face, probably analyzing his considerably pale visage, which turned into a more yellowish coloration under the lights illuminated the establishment. Nico briefly considered intervening, being the one to pronounce his thoughts out loud first, breaking the vail of awkwardness surrounding the situation when the other spoke.

“When’s the last time you smiled?” The blond waiter ended up asking much to his surprise, not really having been expecting that kind of questioning at all. The blue eyed individual apparently translated his lack of response, both verbal as well as any physical reaction that might serve as an indicator that someone is still among the living, as a cue for him to elaborate his point even further. “At the most mundane things, the silly things that life that sometimes are considered way too dumb to laugh at.”

Nico raised an eyebrow slightly, his arms crossed but his posture missing the aura of defensiveness outsiders would have immediately linked with his image. “Do you always get this deep with all of the costumers?”

“You would say you are kind of a particular case.” Will said, his blue eyes avoiding the Italian’s curious glance as if the chocolate brown irises burned his insides or were to turn his entire being into stone before he even got to blink. The rather suspicious behavior did nothing but raise more questions from the deeps of his mind and, as a matter of fact, so did the almost unnoticeable faint of red that started to spread along the other’s cheeks, bringing out the small freckles that adorned his face. “You know, we are closing in an hour, maybe after that we could talk a little more? Perhaps outside this place?” The blond asked as he absently played with a loose thread coming from his apron, a not that subtle hint of nervousness present on his voice.

“Fine, with one condition.”

Will leaned closer to him slightly, his eyes shining like just polished sapphires. “What it is?”

“No more horrible puns, I hear a joke about coffee beans and I’m out.” He answered, cracking a little side smirk which, Nico was almost certain, showed to what extend his words were to be taken seriously. The dark haired felt his face warming out when a gentle chuckle escaped from the other’s lips.

“Deal.”

omgkatsudonplease  asked:

viktuuri totinos ad: viktor is the totinos guy and yuuri is kristen stewart

“Hey Victor, where are the Totinos?” Christophe asks from the couch.

There’s a man in the kitchen. Victor doesn’t know he got there, but he doesn’t question it. He stares, silent – there’s a box of Totinos on the counter to his left. With one hand, he reaches for it, and then pauses, second-guessing himself.

“Hello,” the man says, and his hair is as black as a raven’s wings, his eyes as brown as the depths of the earth. Then, the stranger glances at the box, steps closer to Victor and picks it up. He’s wearing a black outfit with silver crystals scattered up one side. “Totinos?”

“For… For my hungry guys,” Victor explains, quiet, sparing a glance at the couch where Christophe, Yurio, Georgi, Leo, Guang Hong, Michele, Seung-gil, Phichit, and more are sitting, watching Skate Canada.

“What are you hungry for?” the man asks, and his voice is sultry, enticing.

In an instant, he’s pressed against the kitchen counter. The stranger takes the box in hand again, removes a Totino and traces it down Victor’s cheek, a smooth line. Victor watches, entranced, and then meets the other man’s lips, hand slipping up his shirt.

“What’s going on? Are you making out with somebody back there?” Christophe calls, and laughter comes from the other side of the room.

The scene fades to black. Totinos.

“I want to take a moment to talk about you and your idea, because it’s something I always need to remember.

“So, you, as a screenwriter of a story that you came up with—you are the only person in the process who will ever truly be alone with that story. You are a mother holding their baby. You are pregnant with it. It’s in your head. No matter how complicated the process of writing it, ultimately it is a piece of you. This is a business and it’s also an art. I always get kinda disgusted when people talk endlessly about the idea that their art is “part of them”—but it is! It is! It’s as part of them as the words coming out of their mouth, as the things they say to their friends, as the things you build with your hands, the food you cook… It’s all a sort of extrapolation of you.

“Even though things can get diluted and get ruined—or never sell—or never make you any money—or come out and do badly—or get torn apart by a director who you thought would be perfect and then betrays you—or get torn apart by critics—or, you know, succeed: always keep in mind that the thing you do when you’re alone, when you’re writing it, when it’s still part of you, is special. That’s special! That’s the act of creation! Not even most humans can do that! So if you wrote something—maybe it sucks. Maybe it’s great. I don’t know. I haven’t read it. Maybe you think it sucks. Maybe you hate it. Maybe you’re like “I hate everything I write!” Maybe you’re one of those people. I don’t get those people, but maybe you’re one of those people. Maybe you’re someone who’s a fanboy of their own stuff. Great! Please never forget, no matter how far you feel from the work, that it started inside you. That’s special. That’s a unique thing. And on some level you should—even if you’re just writing fanfiction for the internet—be proud of that.

Max Landis, “message to screenwriters

Home is not the Tower.

For Morna, home is on Venus, in the halls of the Ishtar Academy. That a Warlock would like wandering amongst books and files from the Golden Age comes as no surprise to anyone, and that is certainly part of it - but for Morna it is something different. She feels like she is tracing footsteps that she has walked before, that something in her memory is trying to claw its way past a barrier that only the thanatonauts could breach.

Either way, there is comfort in the old wood and the still-warm halls where once throngs of young people came to learn. She thinks she lived there, once.

She thinks, maybe, she died there.

“the last episode of the season is a two-parter, following stories of each of the rubies floating through space, the self reflection of doc as a leader, the terror of army at her friends being hurt somewhere she can’t protect them, the determination of navy to rescue her friends (as shes the closest to earth’s orbit), eyeball’s altercation with the human-rebel, and leggy lamenting her failures as a new soldier and a gem itself.”

I really liked @tiredruby’s idea so I wrote a little short sorry for spelling errors I’m on mobile!!

She can’t help but keep thinking she couldn’t get worse.
They were there! They were so close and then she bad been slammed into with her own ship and they were gone. She was so close! She was so close- maybe a bit far away but she they had been in sight! Leader. They were supposed to depend on her and look where she got them! Leader? Yeah, like she deserved that title. She ran her hand over her face, her eyes stinging irritatingly with the hints of tears starting to bud. They were her platoon- they were her friends and she lost them! She got them into this mess and she had no way to get them out now! She looked around her but there was nothing noteworthy anymore. Without missions, without them, her time had come to a screeching halt- how long had she been out here anyway? She casted a glance to where she had been, but she was long past it now. Where they even still out there? She had no right to call herself leader anymore. Earth was too big a mission for her. It was too big for them but she took it wholeheartedly instead. They were sent because they were competent, because all other missions under her guidance had been cleared with little issue! But this wasn’t like other missions. This involved something a lot more important and serious she was too cocky to look at. She let them be tricked twice! Leader? It left a foul feeling sit with her. Leader of what?

She hadn’t felt this hopeful in awhile, truth be told.
She and Navy were close now, if only by happenstance. She felt lucky knowing one of her friends was just a few feet away, knowing one of her friends wasn’t hurt somewhere alone in space.
It took them awhile to close the gap between them, it was hard to move closer. They had to be mindful of the rocks that were hurtling towards them as to not to hurt themselves while they where here, and that really wasn’t her level of expertise.
And then they were almost there! She almost had Navy’s hands in her own, and solider she was she was on the brink of crying in relief. However before they could made it, she saw Navy’s head start to turn to the side, and before she could even start to ask what was wrong she felt her body shoved out of the way, propelling her further into space only to see the ship they had taken to earth pass by without a second thought.
She screamed. She screamed and yelled and punched and kicked but it didn’t help. It didn’t do anything- she couldn’t do anything! She brought her hands up to tug at her hair as she gritted her teeth and an overwhelming sense of dread made itself comfortable around her. She looked back up just hoping, but she couldn’t even see the forms of Navy or Doc in the distance- wherever she was now it wasn’t with them! Doc, Navy, Eyeball, Leggy! They were all out there and she wasn’t with them! She couldn’t help them! She smacked a hand to her face digging her palm into it. What good was she if she couldn’t even help them!


Earth.
She wasn’t sure at first, but it was earth. She was getting closer and closer to the planet at an alarming rate. Her hopes had been dashed when she had been separated from Army, but now seeing the planet so close reignited a flame in her. This was were the rebels made their stand- where they were now. They had her platoon’s ship- her only way to save her friends. She wasn’t sure how she’d do it, how they’d react if they came across her, but as she started to feel herself plummet at the planet, getting even closer even quicker, she knew she’d do anything to get that ship back.

Alone.
Leggy had never been alone. Not like this.
Was there protocol for being stuck in space? Eyeball said there was protocol for almost anything. Space was prettier when she wasn’t stuck in it like this. Alone like this. She started to tremble as she brought her knees up to her chest, big ugly tears starting to fall. Was it because she was new? A proper solider would know what to do, wouldn’t they? She hiccuped as she thought of her disappointed platoon. They wouldn’t be here if she was smarter. It was her fault they were stuck out there. If she was a big smart soldier she could have fought them better! If she wasn’t new she’d know better! She could have been better and she could still have her platoon with her! Sobs cut through her own thoughts and she held herself tighter, the tears falling and leaving a gross feeling on her face. They expected her to know better! They expected so much from her and she let them down! They thought she could handle this but she couldn’t!
She curled in on herself for awhile. At some point the tears stopped but they left her feeling worse. Sometimes she cried and sometimes she floated there, resenting herself more and more for failing them. She had been crying again when a familiar light settled on her, and she begun to move toward it.

5

(This edition of the manga reads left-to-right).