if-he-writes-them-anyway

6

*throws knb stuff at you* lately there’s so much aoka and takao on my dash all my feels are suddenly back o<-< rip my soul

I think Yuuri knows how to play the piano!

“Hm? Is that a piano?”

Yuuri looks up from where he’s sorting out his laundry, a sock in one hand and a shirt in another. He puts the sock to one side and begins folding the shirt, Victor’s shirt that he keeps forgetting to give back. “Oh, that? I got that keyboard a long time ago—before I went to Detroit, even.”

Victor tilts his head from where he sits on the bed, feet stretched out before him. Blinks and looks at Yuuri. “Do you still play?”

“Sometimes.”

“Play for me?”

Smiling, Yuuri sets aside one of Victor’s scarves and stands. “Any requests?”

“Your song,” the Russian says decisively after a heartbeat of thinking. “Yuri on Ice.”

“Hmm. I never learned it,” Japan’s top figure skater admits. He shakes his head and pulls out the keyboard from where it sits propped against his closet. “But I can try.”

“You can do that?” Victor asks. The words, You’re that good at playing? go unsaid.

Yuuri shrugs, plugs the keyboard into the wall and turns the machine on. “Sure,” he answers, fingers running over scales like water pouring from a fountain. The sound is crisp and clear, and Victor finds himself pleasantly surprised. He wonders why.

“I’ve skated to this song so many times it’s practically engraved in my head,” the brunet continues, moving into arpeggios and rhythmic exercises. The keyboard moves slightly as Yuuri presses into the keys, the device pushing into the yielding mattress. “Just give me a second to warm up.”

As Yuuri’s fingers drift over the keys, Victor swings his feet back and forth. “How did you start playing?”

Yuuri’s fingers don’t stop, unheeding of or perhaps disregarding the conversation. Yuuri turns to look at the older man and hums. “I saw a video of someone playing the piano and decided to learn.”

“Did you take lessons?”

“For a time, yes.”

“How old were you when you started?”

Yuuri huffs a laugh from his nose and tests out various chords. “Is this an interrogation now?”

“Well, I never knew you could play. Is it so wrong to want to learn more about your boyfriend?”

“Mm.” Yuuri pauses, looking down at his hands. “I started when I was relatively young. Six, I think?”

“That is young.”

“Well, I stopped being so serious about it when I began taking ballet lessons. And then skating took up most of my time after that.”

“But you still play?”

“I still play.”

Yuuri begins then, starting with the sixteenth note triplets, and Victor closes his mouth and just listens. It’s lovely—reminds him of when he first listened to it, half asleep and with Yuuri excitedly leaning over his lap. Reminds him of his former student, of his lover before they became lovers.

“You’re very good at this.”

Closing his eyes and letting himself visualize the music inside his head, Yuuri leans back and feels his lips quirk into a half-smile. “I’m not the type to let a skill atrophy without practice.”

“That’s not you, no,” Victor agrees.

And they both listen, then, to the music pouring out of the cheap keyboard roused from its sleep. He times his breathing to the swelling of the melody, to the rise and fall of the notes, to the cadence of the moment. Victor leans against Yuuri’s shoulder and Yuuri leans back, the two of them content to relive their memories through the passage of sound.

It’s a peaceful moment filled with peaceful feelings. Victor tells himself to ask Yuuri to play more music for him from now on.

Prompt: For a moment, Naruto wondered if this was really Hinata. But he’d never seen her drunk, so instead he just played along.
A/N: Personally, this certain brand of drunk!Hinata isn’t in any of my headcanons, but I love it so much and it was literally SO much fun to write I couldn’t exist. Hope you guys like it! Again, another thank you fic, this time for brownie-and-art!

As he watched Hinata stumble and laugh and smile and twirl, there were two things that Naruto was certain of.

First, was that he’d never seen anyone look so beautifully carefree in all twenty years of his existence. The smile on her face, with the addition of the light pink dusting on the top of her cheeks, made her appear almost radiant. Her laughter tonight was downright contagious and he couldn’t help but follow her around, perhaps looking much like a puppy, as she spun and danced and giggled.

The second thing he was sure of, was that he’d never seen anyone as drunk as Hinata was at that very moment.

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10

2016 Bones Challenge

Day 2: Favorite Character: Temperance Brennan

Temperance Brennan is honestly one of the most extraordinary characters I’ve ever had the pleasure of “meeting” on television. The casual or infrequent viewer may write her off as cold, awkward and unfeeling. But she has one of the biggest metaphorical hearts of anyone. She truly cares about people. She cares about her friends and family, and would go to the ends of the earth for any of them. But she also cares so deeply for the victims of homicide. And also for the loved ones they leave behind. Because she knows what it’s like to be left behind. She fights for justice for both the living and the dead. She is brilliant, beautiful, and so kind- and sometimes she can even be amusing (she’s always amusing to me). She was the first character who really made me understand that I don’t have to change myself for anyone. She makes no apologies for who she is. She knows her strengths and weaknesses. She may not be great with the living, though she has grown leaps and bounds over the years. But the people who love her know exactly what kind of person she is. And that’s enough for her. She is so strong. There was a time when she ran away from her feelings- any feelings of love. She had to protect her heart. But she finally took the risk, and slowly let down her walls. She’s a survivor. We’ve always known that. She doesn’t need anyone. She knows she can survive on her own. She’s fine alone. But she gradually learned how to open her heart to others. She didn’t need to be impervious anymore. And she now lives a full life. She doesn’t have to change for anyone. She never has. And she sees that now. She is so happy with and fulfilled by the life she is living. Seeing Temperance Brennan in pain devastates me to my very core. She deserves the world, and more. But seeing her deliriously happy makes my heart soar. Because she is an astonishing woman. She is, and always has been an inspiration to me.  I am so thankful I started watching Bones because I have grown along with this character. And I learn from her every episode. She is flawed. She has been broken at times. But she made it through it all. And now she is flourishing. She can handle absolutely anything that comes her way. And she will fight for her happiness. She is my hero. And it has been a privilege and and an honor to embark on this journey with her. 

interlude: what are you wearing?

jikook / 1,178 words / rated T for suggestive themes and drinking / AO3
i actually decided to write this


“What are you doing?”

Jimin furrows his eye brows and pulls his phone away from his face just to check–yep, Jungkook is calling him at four in the morning, asking him what he’s doing. “I’m sleeping. What do you think I’m doing? What are you doing?”

“I,” Jungkook pauses, “I’m calling you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jimin says. “At four a.m.? Are you still in the studio with Yoongi-hyung? Are you guys okay?” He’s tired and kind of annoyed, but if Jungkook is calling him and being weird this late, Jimin doesn’t want to hang up on him in case something’s wrong.

“Yes! I’m great!” Jungkook says. “Super. What are you doing, Jiminnie?”

“You already asked me that,” Jimin grumbles, looking suspiciously at his phone. “Kookie, are you drunk?”

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10

guess who still has Kuga x Nayuki feelings

bonus:

talking about the children

holy hell, never ask me to draw ezra or design an outfit. i’m sorry u two.

ANYWAY i was thinking: you see a lot of ezra-corrupted-by-maul stuff (WHICH I LOVE) BUT rarely the other way around? ezra’s a good egg and i want more aus where he drags maul kicking and screaming into the light (or somewhere in-between the dark and light b/c lbr, maul is p. much surviving on pure dark side spite these days).

So I wrote a thing.

Untitled ficlet, Harry/Louis, PG, canon.


Harry sends him an issue before the photos even leak, by courier, as if he’s afraid Louis might not see it soon enough. Louis knew he’d been working on something, because Niall told him, but he had no idea the scope was so big. “A special document curated by Harry,” the magazine cover proudly proclaims. On it, Harry stares at Louis through a spiderweb, but it’s hard to pay attention to Harry’s eyes when Louis’s gaze keeps coming back to the collar around Harry’s neck. The bottom of the picture is obscured by text, but Louis’s quite sure there’s a leash dangling from the collar.

It’s admittedly not what Louis had been expecting.

Louis watches the cover for a long while before he flicks the magazine open at random…

… and falls on an ad.

It only takes him two more tries before he methodically rips off every page that isn’t to do with Harry, barely looking at the ones that do feature him, until there’s a pile of paper at his feet high enough for him to throw a good kick into it, scattering them everywhere.

This time when he opens the magazine, it’s to find Harry sitting on a trashcan. He looks so young that for a second Louis assumes they’ve used old pictures for the article, but the shot is quite obviously recent, even if Harry’s hair looks nothing like on those Dunkirk pics (which Louis only saw because Liam sent him some, it’s not like he trolled the #dunkirk tag on twitter or anything).

Louis flips back a few pages, stops on a picture of Harry sitting on a kitchen counter in the most hideous jumper Louis has ever seen; it looks like someone’s killed a muppet and made a sweater out of it. It should look ridiculous, but Harry looks beautiful, with his lips curled imperceptibly down into a bored pout, his slender fingers pressed against his chin, his eyes half-lidded.

Another picture shows him holding a pint, looking too young to be allowed to drink its contents. He looks like the Harry Louis met six years ago, like the Harry Louis used to call his best friend before they were driven apart… by the rumours, by fear, by time.

Louis loses himself in the pictures and the words, sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of his hallway, fingers stroking the glossy pages. He knows every word and every photo has been carefully chosen, knows Harry has only shown precisely what he wanted to show, but he still gets fooled into believing he’s being made privy to the deepest corners of Harry’s soul.

Once upon a time, this wouldn’t have been an illusion. The memory only makes the deception more potent, and more painful.

Harry is baring his heart out for the whole world to see and he apparently wanted Louis to see it so badly he made sure Louis would get a copy.

When Louis types Harry’s name into his phone with fingers that are definitely not shaking from nerves, the autofill feature remains silent. There are no previous messages saved. He doesn’t actually remember the last time he texted Harry.

He doesn’t know what to write, so he goes for the expected.

Artsy, are we? he sends, not expecting any reply. He’s barely pressed Send that a happy little bubble pops up at the bottom of the screen to indicate that Harry’s writing back.

Did you like it?

He should lie.

He cannot.

Yes. he types, then adds, against his better judgement; It’s amazing.

Good.

He doesn’t ask Harry why the fuck his opinion suddenly matters. But he does something much worse.

Are you in town?

His treacherous thumb presses Send before he can stop himself and Louis looks at his phone, horrified, but there is no turning back. He doesn’t even know why he wrote this. He doesn’t even want-

Yes.

It’s like he doesn’t have any control over his fingers. They fly over his screen, while his brain desperately tries to hammer some sense into them, in vain. Louis knows every letter he types is a mistake, but the magazine in his lap is opened on that picture of Harry standing tall and long-haired, his naked torso framed by the lapels of a ridiculous red jacket, and Louis can’t think.

Dyou want to come over?

Harry’s answer takes ages to appear. It’s definitely for the best. Louis doesn’t even know why he asked, doesn’t know what he would do if Harry agreed. They have been strangers for too long now. There is no mending what fame has undone.

The answer pops up just when Louis’s managed to convince himself that he never wanted Harry to say yes.

Come to my place. Easier.

And just like that, Louis’s off.

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So I can’t stop thinking about Metatron infusing Cas’ brain with the knowledge of endless stories, books, and movies. Beyond being a dick move, as he will never experience these stories as he should, as we all do, there was greater purpose in this happening. Now Cas has all that knowledge at his disposal, we even saw Dean surprised in the end that Cas understood a Star Wars reference. He has pop culture knowledge, and while it is something I would have liked to see him slowly indulge in over time, it is something that will allow he and Dean to relate to each other on a completely different level. Now he will, finally, understand that reference.

OTP Christmas Challenge Day five- Buying the tree

“So Sammy,” Gabriel starts, suddenly standing right behind the couch. Sam jumps a few good inches and drops his book, but the angel carries on, stepping smoothly over the back of the couch to sit next to the hunter. “Since we’re talking presents… Everything okay there?”

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They met in a Washington diner. It wasn’t a classy place, but then, neither of them was classy.  Trip was alone at one end of the bar, picking halfheartedly at a plate of greasy fries, waiting until he was needed at the arena.  At the other end of the bar sat Ig, nursing a short glass of something amber.

He didn’t know why, but Trip was interested in the guy his age drinking whiskey at 1pm on a Wednesday.  What was his story? Trip slid off his stool, red vinyl creaking, and hopped up on the one next to Ig. He smiled, more of a tightening of the lips than anything, and shrugged his narrow shoulders up a fraction of an inch. He rarely talked, but he was usually understood.

Ig returned the gesture.

archiveofourown.org
too natural to you - Lexie - Emmerdale [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

When Robert looks up again, Aaron’s face has lost some of the red colour that was starting to suffuse it. He looks tired. Robert loves him. He doesn’t want to make him look like that. He never means to hurt him. “Rebecca means nothing to me,” he tells Aaron, low and intent. “It’s you. It’s only you.”

Aaron snorts. “Heard that before, haven’t I.”

aka: I speculate like hell about next week’s spoilers. (while avoiding the initial confrontation because I am terrible at conflict; why do I watch soap operas, help me)

Fluffcannon 5

Nice Cream guy sells nice cream in the winter and it makes BP really uncomfortable because it’s a cold thing to have in the winter. Nonetheless, BP likes eating them anyway because of the cute notes he writes in the wrappers for him.

-Admin StormMelody

fanfic idea: rory invites jess to the super duper secret midnight l/l wedding & by the time l/l get back from their honeymoon, j&r have run off on their own adventure

the end

ps. any child conceived is not an unwelcome idea like 37 or so chapters in

amethystluna06  asked:

writing prompt: dragonfly

They’re not his memories, but he remembers them anyways.

Theo recalls the day he went missing, years before he was born. He recalls his father’s garden, nestled safely within the stone walls that curled around their land, overgrown wisteria draped along it.

As children, they spent hot days like this gathered around a rocky pond behind their house, his father’s sage, mallow, and rye growing in lazy bunches around the water. They played in the shallow parts of the pond, trying to scoop up huge dragonflies that were such a brilliant color of green, Theo hardly believes they existed.

There was one, on this particular day, unlike the others. It was shoddy looking, strips of leather cut and pinched into a clothespin so as to mimic the form of a dragonfly. It had the glitter of the spell, and Theo is baffled to find that the magic doesn’t deter this other, younger version of himself. It was such a curious toy - surely made by his parents, or someone from the village - that he doesn’t heed his siblings’ warnings, and disappears beyond the safety of the wall.