The Griffin-Woods family seemingly has the perfect life, at least until Lexa’s (over?)zealousness as NYC’s top young prosecutor means she starts making some very dangerous enemies whose only goal is to remove her from the equation. By any means necessary.
Quite a few readers have been asking for more college years/early relationship chapters. A lot of people have also been requesting more social media posts. Since the fic crossed the 10,000 hit mark I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and did a social media about their college years.
This picks up right after Chapter 11 (December 2009) and it jumps forward a month or month and a half towards the end.
is isak one those people who claim there boyfriends steal the quilt yet in reality it's them and they still complain there coke even though they have a quilt underneath them, the quilt there suppose to share with there partner and then 2 quilts on top? or is this just me?....😂
Isak, the little shit, will wake up in the morning be all, “I fucking froze last night.” And Even will just give him the deadest look and be like, “You were cold? I didn’t have a blanket last night because you stole it. I had to use my hate of La la Land to fucking fuel my fire enough to keep me warm last night, Isak.” Then he’d roll over Isak and pull up the comforter which had fallen off Isak’s side of the bed in presentation.
And Isak would just glare at him and huff whatever. And then the next night Even would bring his own damn blanket from home, and yet, in the morning, he’d still wake up with frozen feet and his blanket tucked firmly under Isak’s arms. And he’d just groan because this is a fucking unwinnable battle with Isak. He’s going to have to learn to live without blankets, because God knows Isak doesn’t share them.
(It does, however, give Even an excuse to cuddle up super close to Isak in the night and when they wake up practically on top of each other, Even can shrug and be like “it was you or hypothermia, baby. And I’m too pretty to die.”
had a Good Talk with @wittyy-name today and got this Hot Tip™ for writing: make a goddamn conspiracy board. all i need now is some string and blurry photos of bigfoot. this is what writing is actually like. it’s all connected. cant u see
what you’re looking at up there is the plot of deepest shade – every event, flashback, meeting, and conversation that i know Needs To Happen so far. i’m hoping to find and patch holes so that i can write and share the best possible version of this fic with you all. it’s becoming my BFF (Big Fucking Fic) and writing it is going to be like birthing a child. i have never undertaken anything of this scope before, and i’m both excited and terrified. i’m hoping to have this bitch finished before season 3.
i hope u will all enjoy this self indulgent monster of a fic as it’s released, and humor me whining about it, and talK TO ME about it if you want!!! and thanks again wittyy, your secret ninja techniques are worKING. *rolls up sleeves* let’s go ny’all
Jyn and Cassian spring apart, so abruptly
Jyn makes a sound like a startled animal and Cassian almost falls off the pilot’s seat, as if that would be good enough to erase what Bodhi had seen when he stormed into the cockpit.
“Can you guys save this for later? Like when you have a room?” Bodhi continues, fully aware of the red rising in Jyn’s cheeks, matching the angry looking marks on her neck. He loved teasing new couples.
“Is everyone okay? I heard a lot of noise for a person delivering a status report to two peo- oh Jyn, your body temperature is rising rapidly,” Kay leans in the the doorway.
“I’m fine, Kay,” Jyn snarls.
“You don’t look fine.”
“She’s fine Kay. Bodhi, take Kay back with you.”
“You don’t look fine either, Cassian. Your heart rate is much higher than your normal resting rate, and your face is incredibly pale. Should I administer treatment for shock?” Kay continues. Bodhi couldn’t tell if Kay was doing it on purpose, but couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Kay. We’re good. Go take Bodhi with you to check the inventory. We’re set for landing soon.”
“Actually, Cassian, we still have approximately two standard hours bef-”
“Kay.” Cassian looks pained.
“Let’s go,” Bodhi says, pulling Kay by the arm, failing to hide the smirk on his face. “He knows how to get Jyn back to normal, right Cass?” Jyn looks mortified.
“I don’t think his methods would be better than mine,” Kay replies and Bodhi doubles over with laughter. Cassian glares at Bodhi as he and the droid head back to the hold.
New couples, man. Wait till Luke heard about this one.
KOMA HERE. I hear you need distraction.... and seeing as I am a master of distraction and Reader of All The Tags, if you feel up for writing, please consider doing the Tim and Damian flash fic with Damian planning on scaring Tim and being so confused when Tim firmly grasps his hand. I beg of you....
Hehe thank you for the distraction! And for reading my rambling tags :D
This exists in an imaginary universe where all the Batboys love each other and aren’t allergic to affection (except maybe Dami).
Damian vows to get revenge against Drake. For what is irrelevant. He has surely done something deserving of Damian’s contempt, and if not he surely will.
That’s why he’s here. Hiding under Drake’s bed in his apartment. Waiting for the older boy to stumble in from patrol and collapse onto the soft mattress and fall asleep. Well, Drake had done that first bit; he’s back from patrol, had fallen through the living room window almost an hour ago. But since then all Damian has heard is the gurgle of the coffee percolator and the tapping of computer keys.
He almost falls asleep waiting, but finally Drake shuffles into the room and crawls into bed. Damian makes sure to wait until he’s asleep. Drake is both a light and a restless sleeper; always shifting and turning as he acts out whatever ridiculous dream is playing behind his eyelids. He will fall asleep in the middle of the bed but roll over to the side. And that is what Damian is counting on.
He almost dozes off two more times before there’s a soft sigh and the mattress squeaks under Drake’s movement. Then a limp hand flops over the edge of the bed. Carefully, Damian slides further out from his position hidden under the middle of the bed, until just his arm sticks out into the faintly-moonlit room. Small fingers inch up the side of the bed until they find warm flesh and he grasps Drake’s hand with a soft tug - just enough to startle him into full wakefulness.
There’s no reaction for several seconds, then Drake’s grip tightens suddenly and it surprises Damian so much he jerks, bumping his head against the wooden slats beneath the bed.
There’s a soft laugh from above him. Then he’s being pulled out by his hand.
“Come ‘ere, gremlin,” Drake says, still sounding half-asleep.
Damian scowls and crawls the rest of the way out from under the bed. He tries to tug his hand free but Drake’s grip just becomes firmer and when he tugs back, Damian goes tumbling into the bed. Drake’s other hand grabs him around the waist and then he’s being wrestled under the blankets until he’s chest-to-chest with an amused Tim Drake.
“I’m going to kill you,” Damian promises.
Drake just hums sleepily and pulls him closer. “’S’at what you were tryin’ to do? Thought you were ‘n assassin or somethin’.” And then, utilising his superpower of napping wherever and whenever he wants, he’s asleep again before Damian can growl threateningly, arms locked tightly around Damian so he can’t escape no matter how much he wiggles. So Damian just sighs and resigns himself to his fate.
He knew Drake would inevitably do something deserving of his revenge, but he didn’t think it would be this.
Robert gritted his teeth in frustration as Aaron’s mobile rang out yet again, going straight to voicemail for the third time in ten minutes. The weather outside was absolutely ridiculous - it was thundering down, and Robert had started to panic when he saw the first flash of lightening.
Aaron was driving back from Birmingham after a scrap deal, which he’d normally be fine with (Aaron was a good driver, he was) but this sort of weather put a knot of worry into the pit of his stomach.
“Aaron, it’s me. Again.” Robert sighed into his mobile, glancing out the window. “This weather is insane, I’m worried about ya. Will you give me a call back so I know you’re okay before I go totally mad?”
Letting out a shaky breath, Robert continued. “Just, get home as soon as possible, okay? I love you.”
He hung up, tossing his phone onto the couch before he began pacing their flat again. Robert hated feeling like this, he hated not knowing where Aaron was, or how he was.
They were constantly in contact. It wasn’t even intentional at this point, they just were - if either of them had to drive for a meeting or a big deal, Robert would be constantly texting Aaron mindless updates on his day, and Aaron would send him a constant stream of snapchats - of the yard, of Scrappy, of whatever gross looking sandwich he’d picked up while driving.
It had been radio silence for an hour now, and it was making him feel sick.
What if something had happened to him? What if Aaron had crashed the van?
Before Robert could work himself up into a complete tizzy, he heard the front door opening, and he practically ran the length of the hallway to find Aaron there, shaking the worst of the rain from his hair, as though he was a dog.
“Aaron!” Robert exclaimed, not caring in the slightest that his husband was soaked to the skin as he threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Aaron, thank god you’re okay.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You weren’t answering your phone, and this weather - I was afraid something had happened to you,” Robert admitted, pressing kisses against Aaron’s rain damp cheeks.
“You’re daft, you know that? My phone died.” Aaron pulled him in for a proper kiss. “I’m fine, Robert. You don’t need to worry so much.”
Robert just hugged him tighter. “I always worry about you, you know.”
Arrow/LOT fic: time’s right but the clock’s wrong (O/F, OTA, 1/1)
If you like melodrama and darkness, have I got the fic for you.
Seriously though, I don’t know what the fuck this is. TW for blood and canon character death. Oliver/Felicity, OTA, Mature. Alternate ending to LOT 2x16. Title from Dessa’s “Warsaw.”
When Felicity comes to, she’s angry and scared and completely confused.
The last thing she remembers, she’d been captured and was on her knees in front of the man she’d vowed to kill. She’d been fighting pain in her legs, in her chest, wiping blood from her face, and then the lights had gone out, and she was back in the lair.
But the lair the way it used to be, before it all went so wrong.
And not only that, but that bastard Mick Rory was there holding her arm, telling her to take it easy, to look up, and that woman Sara, the one who was going to kill her, was holding the other arm, looking guilty and uncertain.
Struggling is involuntary, all instinct and reflex built over months of fending for herself, but she’s never really had the skills to make a difference. It’s a cruel irony that all her heroes are gone and that simple, useless Felicity remains.
“What the hell?”
She knows that voice. All the molecules in her body freeze at once; it doesn’t make sense, because the owner of that voice is gone, has been gone for over a year.
But it is him, somehow. “John?” she asks, not recognizing her own voice, weighed down with grief and disbelief.
John has his gun up, but he drops it immediately when he gets a good look at her, and his face goes blank. “Felicity? What…what happened to you?”
Please please say you're not going to rip our hearts out and stomp all over them by saying this is a false pregnancy or something right? This story makes me happy and I can't wait to see Bree's reaction to being a big sister. 😘
Nope, no pain in store, folks! this is an ENDGAME BAIRN! 👶🍼
Just so you know, up until a few weeks ago, I literally was going to have TEN months of trying to get pregnant.
But i was just like ya know what….? DROUGHTLANDER, bro.
The first time Mulder died, he had looked like roadkill. A full-grown fox struck dead the moment the headlights hit its eyes, flown unnaturally, only to land on the side of an abandoned road in the inky night. Bruising. Stiffening.
Scully looks at Mulder now and isn’t sure if it’s easier or more difficult to accept his death. He hadn’t stayed dead when they were being botanically digested, he hadn’t stayed dead when he had been actually dead. But he is, now. Dead.
He doesn’t look like roadkill this time. He is like a stillborn, full of possibility, and the gut-wrenching ache of loss is like William’s except nothing like it. She wishes she had the words. He would have them. It’s like he took them with him. She wonders if this is what it feels like to want to die.
She senses as Skinner places a warm hand on her shoulder, feels how he squeezes just tightly enough, and thinks back on the time when Mulder told her that their boss was in love with her, not long after he had admitted to this himself. She had refuted the possibility then, but her Mulder was always so close to the truth.
She feels the sweet, protective grip of Skinner’s fingertips and because Mulder is no longer there, decides not to argue with him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Skinner does love her. And what would happen if she let him touch her. If she moved his hand from her shoulder to her breast. Would he be able to fuck her into oblivion. Fuck Mulder’s death out of her, or even into simply wanting to live? If she was able to come, would it feel like dying? Would it be an ascension or a reckoning? Would it be akin to birthing grief? What would it feel like? Because right now the loss of him inside her feels like a pregnancy. She is laden, bloated, full of mortality.
She thinks back on how he used to fiddle with the radio as an excuse to close the distance between them in order to stroke her thigh. His failed attempt at brewing his own beer, how fermentation became a taboo word. The pleasure it gave him to watch their hung sheets flap in the summer breeze. The way he murmured her name into her hair in the mornings, in the evenings, in the middle of the night. His treasured amusement at her shoe-size. The way he looked at her when she wore a dress. The cups of coffee, the flat tires, the squabbling, the messy crossword puzzles. Again, she thinks. Give me. I beg. I want. I want it again. Everything. Again.
She doesn’t move when Skinner’s hand shifts to her lower back.
Adam is still in bed on Sunday morning after a now rare night spent at St Agnes and he’s watching as Ronan dresses for mass. It’s really the most inappropriate time and place for him to be focusing on the way the dark ink on Ronan’s toned back and wide shoulders can be seen through the thin fabric of his white button up shirt. He’ll cover it up with the black jacket, matching the neat black slacks he packed in an overnight bag, in a minute, so Adam can’t be blamed for his staring. And the warm and almost pressing feeling in his gut that wants him to reach out and touch, just to have this beautiful boy up against him, to have his hands on Ronan’s body, almost on his skin-
“Like what you see, Parrish?”
Adam hadn’t realized that Ronan was watching him too. He gives in, letting himself have this, and sits up to beckon Ronan over. He motions to Ronan’s collar where his tie hangs undone.
“Come ‘ere aond let me fix this for you.”
Ronan walks onto the low bed on his knees until he’s just next to Adam and Adam can put his hands on him. He fixes the tie neatly, just like he does his uniform every day, and smoothes it down Ronan’s chest, letting his palms take in the warmth and solidity of Ronan beneath them.
He looks up at Ronan then, and the tenderness in his look is almost overwhelming just then. It goes quickly, eyes closing in anticipation of a kiss, but Adam knows; he saw and he felt it.
Top Left: “Oops We Got Married” AU It all started with a few too many shots and ended with
Louis drunkenly betting Harry to marry him – apparently “You won’t” is enough
incentive for both of them, because now they’re at a rundown motel with a 24
hour chapel, and they’re giggling and kissing in the pews as they wait their
turn. Except Louis sort of lost his buzz an hour or so ago, but he’s too afraid
to say anything. Where does ‘marrying your best friend under false pretenses’
fall in terms of moral ambiguity? (Louis almost calls it off right then and
there, until Harry admits he’s also dead sober, but… why not go home with one
hell of a story anyway?)
Top Middle: Bachelor
Party AU Harry and Louis decided the best plan for their joint bachelor
party was a boys’ night out in Vegas. Except now Niall is missing, Liam is
drunkenly belting out show tunes everywhere they go, and Harry won’t stop
crying over how excited he is to be Mr. Tomlinson. Apparently Louis is the only
one who can hold his liquor, and he’s going to need to be the one to come up
with a plan to get the Irish one back. If only he could remember where they