me-cubedcoffeecake  asked:

“Love is overrated.” (:

I don’t think there was any direction for me to take this except aro ace Drarry so I hope you like that :)

17. “Love is overrated.”

“Love is overrated,” Draco said and let himself fall back onto the bed, right next to Harry who was reading one of his kitschy romance novels.

Harry raised an eyebrow, a habit he had annoyingly adapted from Draco just a few weeks into their friendship. “Is that so?”

“Mhhm…” Draco hummed and lay his head down on Harry’s thigh, so he could read along with him. “At least romantic love.”

Harry chuckled. “Says the guy who supplies me with romance novels whenever there’s a Hogsmeade weekend and reads them alongside me whenever he gets the chance.”

“They’re entertaining,” Draco pointed out and pushed Harry’s fingers aside, so he could read the sentences they had covered. “But I’m still annoyed whenever there’s even just a sentence in one of them insinuating romantic love or even sex is an important part of everyone’s happiness.”

“Fair enough,” Harry said. “But what about platonic love?”

“That’s underrated. And I love you. Was that what you wanted to hear?” Draco said sounding almost bored.

“You read my mind,” Harry said smiling brightly and ruffled Draco’s hair.

“Good. And now turn the page, they’re this close to kissing for the first time.”

“What brought this on?” Harry asked a few minutes later when they had reached the next chapter.

Draco didn’t even have to look at him to know he was wearing his soft smile that signalled he didn’t expect an answer from Draco, like he’d only thrown out the question for Draco’s consideration.

Draco rolled his eyes but when nothing intriguing happened in the first three sentences of the new chapter, he said, “Greengrass tried to flirt with me again. She only backed off when I told her I was… unavailable.”

Harry nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t say anything. Draco appreciated that easy acceptance much more than any platitudes people who didn’t know him as well as Harry did might have given him. He let a small smile tug on the corners of his lips and adjusted his head a little before he continued reading, trusting Harry to know how much he appreciated him and the bond they had.

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Send Me A Dialogue Prompt

Longing

Yo!

Sorry for not posting the rest of the IR Month prompts, but I’ve been either busy or uninspired. Well, never fear, because even if I just literally skipped several prompts, I bring you today’s story, finished exactly like five minutes ago.

I hope you all like it as much as I liked writing it. 

For added effect, listen to “Sen No Yoru Wo Koete” by Aqua Timez.

(Btw, IchiRuki is honest to god one of the most slow-burn ships out there, so everything, except for the last part, is set in canon.)

Prompt: (mutual) pining/slowburn

Summary: The five times Ichigo almost told Rukia he loved her. (And the one time he did).

One

Ichigo thought he knew what love was.

Love was his father grinning every time he saw his wife approaching him.

Love was his mother returning said grin and leaning in to give her husband a soft kiss on the cheek.

Love was the wistful look his father always got when he looked at the poster he had hung up of his wife after she had long since passed.

Love was Yuzu getting up earlier than everyone, even on the weekends, to prepare breakfast for all of them.

Love was Karin distracting their father when his words upset Ichigo in a way only she could understand.

Love was washing the dishes for Yuzu, playing soccer with Karin, not arguing with Isshin when he was feeling sick.

Love was his mother sacrificing herself so he could live.

That was love.

Or so he thought until he met Rukia.

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Times Fox Mulder Cried: 9

I wrote these vignettes when I was a baby Tumblrino with no followers. I will be writing an eleventh one shortly, just to round off the series - I can’t leave it dangling! Sorry if you’ve already read these - feel free to scroll on by.

Tagging @today-in-fic which wasn’t around back then and the very sweet  @i-gaze-at-scully  who asked to be kept up to date. Read Season One Season Two Season Three Season Four Season FiveSeason Six Season Seven Season Eight


Those first nights on the road they were too wired to sleep, to eat, to make love. Mulder thought it was like being in a snow globe. Some cruel god had trapped them beneath the glass and shaken their world, scattering memories, touches, words, cases, emotions, fears and dreams so they fell soundlessly around them. Neither of them had any understanding of what had happened, of what would happen. They just sank into lumpy mattresses and clung to the other as though their very biology would sustain them. He told her it was like they had given up on their own bodies. He told her they were too fatigued, too fragile to trust their own bodies to do it alone, so they depended on the breath, the beating heart, the sweat, the desperate clutch of fingers of the other to survive each night.

But the days turned into weeks. The fear, at first magnified by each red-and-blue light in the distance, by each unexpected rap at their motel room door, by each raised voice, softened at the edges to become an underlying hum that kept his senses focused rather than sharpened. The sick weight of being fugitives lessened to become an occasional wave of nausea that passed through him when he woke, drenched, fighting the ghosts that haunted his nightmares.

With each new town, Mulder felt the story of their recent history becoming more bizarre and less likely. Red roots had started to show in Scully’s now-brunette air. Her jaw, so tense when they set out weeks before, had softened and she complained less of headaches. He saw her smile this morning, when she watched a toddler trying to pick up a ball and throw it in the park across the street from their latest motel. His eyes burned at that - her softest, gentlest, most maternal smile. The one she’d used for Emily, for Theresa Hoese’s baby. For William.
Thunder rumbled and wind screeched. The family in the park ran for shelter as rain pelted down.
“Scully,” he called, as she closed the drapes.
She turned to him, still wearing the ghost of the smile. “What?”
He placed a hand on the bed, “I need to hear you breathing.”
She cocked her head. “I’m still breathing, Mulder. This is real. This is our life now.” She walked across to him and sat on the bed, running her hand over his shoulder. “We need to make some decisions.”
“I know. I know,” he nuzzled his face into the warmth of her side. “I’m just…”
“Just what, Mulder?” She ruffled his hair and bent forward to kiss him.
“I haven’t told you how grateful I am.”
She pulled back, an odd look on her face. “Grateful? For being here, with you? You think you have to be grateful to me, Mulder?”
“Scully, you’ve lost everything because of me. How can I not be grateful that you’re still here?”
She stood up. “Mulder, I don’t need your gratitude. I just need you to understand that everything I’ve done has been my own choice, and not done out of some sense of loyalty to you. You haven’t made me do anything I haven’t wanted to. I love you. I want to be with you. I haven’t lost any more than you. In fact, I’d like to think that on some level we’ve both gained something through all this.”
Her speech reminded him of that hallway scene, from what seemed like lifetimes ago. She had been tired then, he remembered, picturing the circles under eyes, the way her voice had sounded, laced with fatigue and defeat.
He shook his head. “What have we gained, Scully?”

When Skinner had told him about William, the adoption, the flare of anger in his gut was white hot. He hated her for an instant. But more, he hated himself that he’d put her in that position. He had lost their family.
“Our son, Mulder. I gave him up.” Her tears wet his cheek but he couldn’t cry, not then. He vowed he would tell her, confess that it was his fault. Those would be his last words, so that she didn’t have to live with the burden she’d placed on herself for the rest of her life without him. But then they broke him out, his friends, his bosses, his ghosts.

She didn’t bother to stop her tears. “We’ve gained more than most people, Mulder. We’ve got the chance to start anew. We can be whoever we want to be. We can go wherever we want to go. We can write our own future.”
His Scully, his skeptical, rational, logical Scully was giving him a lecture on hope in a motel room while rain lashed at the window. That was his role in this loop of their relationship, wasn’t it?
“Scully, what future do you want?” What future is there, without our son?
“Whatever it holds, it will be with you. That’s what I fought for, Mulder. That’s why we’re here now.”
“And William?”
She walked forward to him again, tears still tracking down her face. She sat on the edge of the bed again, picked up his hand in hers and placed it against her breast and then against his. “He’s here with us. He always will be. He’s safe here.” She kissed his knuckles.
He unclasped their hands and pulled her over him. “I’m sorry, Scully. I’m sorry. I never told you. I thought I was protecting you, him, but in the end I lost him.”
Her lips were soft against his jaw line, his neck, his ear. “You didn’t lose him. I didn’t lose him. We didn’t lose him. We made him, we loved him… we love him still. He’s safe. He’s going to grow up happy and healthy and make people laugh and annoy them and be a friend and a lover and anything he wants to be. And that’s because of you and because of me. And we can only live if we believe. And if we can’t live then what is the point? William will lose. I can only do this if that is the truth. Do you understand?”
He blinked, unable to form words. He gazed at her as she hovered over him, her eyes filled with an immutable conviction.
She kissed his quivering lips. “You can let go, Mulder. Don’t hold them back.”
And each tear he shed, she kissed away until they were back in the snow globe, with their memories, touches, words, cases, emotions, fears and dreams filing back into their minds to savor and sift through in the future they had yet to write.

Pink Blanket | Crameron AU | Drabble

A/N: Something quick I wrote based of this post about Cracker’s blanket because it somehow fitted with the AU me and @togatenine have! It’s called kindergarten au and it’s mostly pearlet, if anybody’s curious, it has two little drabbles from my side already, you can read them here and here. :D

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archiveofourown.org
How to Survive the Apocalypse: A guide by Cry baby, Fashionista, Handicapped and Super rich - Chapter 1 - BrightStarWrites - South Park [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, major character death
Relationships: Clyde Donovan/Bebe Stevens, Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Characters: Clyde Donovan, Bebe Stevens, Token Black, Jimmy Valmer (Craig and Tweek are too, but they only appear briefly in chapter. Please read part 1 of this series for their story, which can be found HERE.) 

Chapter Summary: It started like any other day. Clyde and the rest of Craig’s gang excluding Craig and Tweek decide to spy on Craig and Tweek on their date. Whilst spying on their favourite couple, the group see a falling meteor. After seeing their friends kidnapped the group decide to get to safty. Will they survive the meteors impact? Will they learn to survive the new world if they do? And will they ever see Craig and Tweek again?

Also, happy birthday Bebe, my favourite girl

Special thanks as usual to my amazing beta reader @shinyvapor26

Tagging people who were tagged in part 1 posts. Please send an ask if you don’t want to be tagged again.

@southparktrashblog @kennythespaz @itz-sarah05 @goodolcartoons @muilshipper3566 @trixie8264 @thewonderfulships @bubbletea-bitchh @wickerstars @sweet-liss @marshyqos @p-aurisan @dorkycoryart @hithereisthisagoodusername @chadlikespasta @believejiminnie @chocowolfrail @marionneziva @sandymm97 @echotheadalisk2001 @crow-walker @thechocolatepants @emzzy @ab121500 @awildfoxygrandma @temelboi @humanitys-funniest-timelord @cartmanbrah @clor65 @meganpotter @nenerevolution @shyryla @chrischin8120 @kellythekriller @akane950 @bekkablue2002 @mcboyyo @wehedgehogbald @shiraonizaki @oliviaspanda @shinoko-arts

Google Drive Fic Folder Snapshot

Right now I’m actively working on ch 9 of “The Magic Transcends” and the Older!Gababel fic. But as you can see I have lots of ideas…too many ideas and too little time! If you’re interested in a brief summary of any of these, feel free to drop me an ask. Maybe the interest will respark the creativity on some of these fics I haven’t touched in months, haha!

I wrote a thing. I played around with the Marvel Timeline and completely ignored IW. Have some Ironstrange and Spiderman and Supreme Family. I regret nothing.

Originally posted by deadpooli

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2

#1. The Family Business: Under New Management: A New Beginning 

This story is about Dean and Castiel’s children (yes i know. very unrealistic) but this is where imagination comes in! anyway, Dean and cas have two kids named Johnny (Boy) and Cassiel (Girl) this is their story along with Daddy Dean , Papa Cas and uncle Sam!

Each drawing to the title “ The Family Business: Under New Management “ adds more and more to the story (if that makes any sense! please ask questions on “ask me”) this is my very first drawing to the story of John and cassie’s story! i hope yall are interested! 

this story will be more active on my Twitter: https://twitter.com/i/moments/1021988720487084032

Anthony Edward Stark, commonly known as Tony, has never bought into the whole ‘soulmate’ thing.

Scientifically speaking, he knows that it’s a biological and chemical component that’s tied with another person’s (or people plural) brain structure.  After all, the brain is a computer, and biology in and of itself is wild sometimes.  Not to mention that Tony’s pretty sure that there’s probably some magic shit involved, but he’s never taken the time to actually research it because he hasn’t any interest in the subject.

He’s seen soulmates together – his parents included – that have crap relationships, because biologically and chemically perfect or not, people are still people, shaped by personal triumphs and traumas and mundane life experiences.  It takes work to have a healthy relationship, even with a bond, and that’s not really something Tony’s ever been interested in.  He’s been perfectly content in his life with one-night-stands and reoccurring flings, and while he had tried with Pepper (he still swears she’s the love of his life), the long-term relationship thing hadn’t worked out.  He’s just not cut out for it.

Tony’s incapable of shelving Iron Man, and he’s too damaged and traumatised to really be fully there in a relationship.  He’s grown used to the fact that he’s probably blown it with the only person who could possibly truly love him, and in a way that’s a good thing.  At least that way he’s not going to leave a significant other and two-point-three children without a husband and father, because if he’s honest, Tony’s probably going to go out in a fucking blaze of fire and pain considering his lifestyle.

It doesn’t change the fact that Tony still has a soulmate though.

He ignores the Other as much as he can, and for the most part it’s fine.  Whoever they are, they’re pretty low-impact – he remembers the feeling of his soulmate being born when he was four (like he had been a ghost that had suddenly been brought back to life, every atom in his body lighting up like a galaxy), and remembers feeling bursts of pain and fear occasionally during his formative years, but ultimately the Other has been pretty mellow, both physically and mentally as far as Tony can tell.

Well, until about two years ago, that is.  He had been working on his nanotech suit in his lab when suddenly Tony had felt blinding pain in every bone and muscle of his body, collapsing onto the floor in a dead faint.  When he’d come to, it had been two days later, and despite the lack of pain in his body (and considering the agony before he’d passed out, he figures he can attribute that to morphine), he had felt such an unimaginable grief and anger that it had kept Tony in bed for another week.

It was the first time in forty-four years that the Other had been distracting.  For months, the desperation and depression and pain (all over his body, and then finally just in his hands) had been constant, until it had abruptly switched into pure awe and wonder about seven months after the Other had…gone through whatever they had gone through.

The awe and wonder hasn’t gone away – sometimes there are sudden bursts of it, just as poignant and distracting as that first time – and the pain in Tony’s hands is a tingle that he easily works around, though the sensations are weakened in a bond so the Other is likely suffering much more physically than Tony is – but mercifully the Other has been fairly quiet since that period of depression had lifted.

Tony can’t help but feel a bit…sorry for the Other.  Not just for the last two crazy years of the Other’s life, but also because they have to deal with Tony and his shenanigans.  Tony gets pummelled and thrown off buildings on the regular, and he’s been tortured a few times since Afghanistan, and that’s not even bringing in the countless years of substance abuse, depression, PTSD, anxiety attacks—well, Tony comes with a lot of issues, and God knows the Other has felt a muted version of all of it over the past few decades.

Poor sod probably hates Tony, even if the Other doesn’t know who he is.

Tony puts down his tablet and rubs his thumb across the black initials on his left wrist.  S.S.

Tony’s always been cognisant of the fact that if he meets his soulmate, his biology is going to take over his brain and he’ll be enslaved to another human being once he touches them. Because of that, Tony doesn’t touch people skin-to-skin without knowing their names (and won’t touch someone with the initials S.S. period), doesn’t like being handed things (the possibility that he’ll touch his soulmate before learning their name is too high, since Tony does a lot of schmoozing around the world), doesn’t like taking chances with his freedom.

He doesn’t think he’ll survive another Pepper.  He loves her to this day, so very much, and while they’re still close friends and it had been for her own mental stability, it had nearly killed him to let her go in that way.  If he opens up to another person and he’s forced to let them go for their own safety and their mutual happiness, he knows that he’ll actually lose it.

He can’t lose another person that he loves.  He can’t.

He’s probably not going to be able to stop it though.  Not with the life he lives, as Iron Man, and isn’t that just a shit situation.  Pepper will always be somewhat of a target, because of her being the CEO of Stark Industries as well as being close to Tony (bait-bait-bait).  Happy is paranoid and trigger-happy (pun somewhat intended) and goes rushing into trouble to protect Pepper, so he’s always going to be in danger as well.  Rhodey and Peter…fuck, those two are going to be the death of Tony without a doubt.  Rhodey’s an Avenger and a fucking Air Force colonel, and Peter’s constantly getting into trouble in the city, though he’ll be an Avenger himself once he’s older and ready for it.  Bruce is god-knows-where, though Tony can’t see the green machine dying before Tony does to be honest; Tony’s fairly certain that the Hulk will live forever just to spite Bruce.

Tony’ll be surrounded by death and pain until the day he kicks it, and that’s just the fact of it. The best he can do is survive until then and pray to whatever mythical gods are out there that he can keep the collateral damage relatively low.

Easier said than done.

Anyway, Tony’s never bought into the soulmate thing.  He refuses to accept biological slavery, genuinely doesn’t believe that he’s capable of a truly healthy relationship, and therefore it’s easier to just disregard the whole thing as something that belongs in faerie tales.

And then he meets Stephen Strange.

Tony knows what Stephen is the second he steps out of that portal in Central Park.

It’s hard to explain, because his body doesn’t recognise him as much as his brain itself, but a hint of awareness in the back of his head has sparked to life at the arrival of the wizard-sorcerer-whatever; when he introduces himself as Doctor Stephen Strange, Tony realises that he’s so screwed, both because the initials match and also because there’s a severe graveness in Stephen’s expression that echoes the severe graveness he can feel in his mind.

Tony looks at Strange’s hands, sees the scars, and just knows.

Judging by the lingering look at Tony’s reactor and the brief flash of phantom pain that crosses his face, Stephen is just as aware as Tony is.

They’re careful not to touch each other, to Tony’s relief.  He’s always imagined that the Other would feel the chemical bond and rush to touch, to cement the connection to the billionaire genius Anthony Stark, but Strange has an air of weariness about him, eyeing Tony critically.  It’s almost…comforting, really, knowing that the sorcerer is on the same page as him regarding their bond.  Of course, they disagree on the Time Stone and what to do with it, and that fucking cloak is cheeky, but neither one of them makes the move to verify what their brains are telling them.

Tony hates him for a few minutes, and then hates himself because fuck Stephen Strange is a salty bastard and Tony’s always felt attraction to the salty ones.  As much as he wants to tear that doom necklace off his neck, bury it in the centre of the Earth, and then call Strange a dumbarse, their back and forth is exasperating and yet entertaining.  Combined with the fact that physically-speaking Strange is absolutely Tony’s type, Tony wants to launch himself into the atmosphere and scream at the injustice of it all.

Of course, they don’t really get the chance, because Manhattan is invaded by two overpowered aliens insistent on taking the stone, and Tony finds himself on a goddamn spaceship trying to rescue both the stone itself and the soulmate he wishes didn’t exist.

It’s an accident, touching him.

Strange falls after his weird, green meditation thing, and Tony instinctively catches him.  It would’ve been fine had Tony’s helmet been on – instead, Stephen falls forward and Tony curls inward, Strange’s slightly damp temple pressed against Tony’s throat in what might look like an embrace.

They inhale in unison, both at the feeling of rushing, hot fire running through their veins as well as the stinging pain from their wrists.  Tony doesn’t have to look at the initials to know that the two letters are transitioning to gold, just like he doesn’t have to look at his own or Strange’s skin to see the red lines tracing every vein in their bodies.

Neither one of them give any other indication that something’s changed, but Tony hears Peter breathe out “Wow, Mr Stark…wow” and Tony realises that any possibility of hiding it has disappeared.

Tony pulls away, sees the bond – his bond – come to life with his own eyes for the first time with an awed and terrified roll in his stomach, and then focusses on Strange.  Strange doesn’t look awed or terrified himself, almost resigned in a way, but there’s an underlying distress in his glasz eyes that Tony can feel echo in his mind.

Tony doesn’t understand why until he hears Strange say with heavy foreboding, “Only one.”

When Strange dies, Tony feels it in every atom in his body.

It shudders through him like a wave of black, toxic sludge, seeping from his pores and choking him in his lungs, and Tony’s whole world goes blindingly white from the agony that races through his pores.  He’s heard stories of soulmates dying, about the inconsolable grief and anguish and pain, but he’d never thought he’d experience it first-hand.  It’s completely consuming, enough to bring tears to his eyes and bring him to his knees, the silence of the broken planet around them devastating.

And then it gets worse, because Peter.

Tony’s not sure how he survives the devastation of Titan.

The destruction of the bond is physically worse – the vivid red and purple lines that spider over his skin, the near-constant vomiting and muscle cramps, the fever and shakes and copious sweating, the lethargy and chemical grief that fogs his mind – but emotionally, Tony grieves for Peter most of all.  He had barely known Str—Stephen, but Peter’s always been the closest thing to a son Tony ever had. Tony loves that kid and his stupid, endearing pop culture references, his unfailing optimism, his love of tinkering with Tony in the lab.  Losing Stephen physically destroys him, but losing Peter destroys him emotionally and mentally, and combined with the sickness he feels, the anguish nearly kills him.

Tony thinks the bloodthirsty need for revenge is the reason he goes on, and it’s not just for Thanos: he hates Quill for fucking up the plan when they were so close to getting the gauntlet off, and honestly, despite being his soulmate, Tony hates Stephen too for giving Thanos the Time Stone. Tony would’ve happily given his life to have Peter safe and happy in Queens with his aunt and friends and crime-fighting escapades and Tony just hates.

He hates.

He doesn’t comprehend the gravity of Stephen’s choice until he discovers the secret of interdimensional travel.

It’s then he realises the frankly absurd amount of trust Stephen has placed in him, despite barely knowing him outside of the tabloids, because out of 14,000,605 possibilities, only one had meant an acceptable win, which meant that Stephen had trusted Tony to make every right decision in every single moment over the past seven months in order to win.

He had put his faith in Tony, even if Tony was notorious for fucking things up, and like hell Tony’s going to spit on that sacrifice.  Tony just hopes that Stephen’s trust is warranted, that Tony hasn’t already fucked things up, because even the slightest deviation from the plan means that Tony will fail.  He wishes that Stephen had outlined the plan or magicked a vision into Tony’s brain that showed him the way forward or some sort of goddamned clue, but Tony understands why he didn’t.  It hadn’t even been five minutes since Thanos had disappeared before everyone was dying, and there just hadn’t been enough time.

Tony still abhors that he’s essentially flying blind, with no way of knowing if he’s even following the parameters of the one future they succeed with utmost precision.

He’s terrified.

He finds Peter halfway between transiting to his flat in Queens from Brooklyn.

The inboard sensors in the nanotech locked onto Peter the second he had rematerialised, since Tony had built that suit and had embedded it with tracking devices (always-worried-always-present-always-watching); he’d moved from the beaten and dying Thanos instantly, not willing to stay behind for clean-up (there are other Avengers for that) because his son is back and he won’t waste a second to see him again.  There’s a blur of red and blue, shining brightly in the mid-afternoon son, and the suit hones in on it instantly.  The suit, the Spider-Man suit, is flying through the streets and swinging around buildings, on a fast-moving beeline to Brooklyn, but it diverts immediately towards Tony’s Iron Man suit with a single-minded focus.  The gauntlet on Tony’s arm, over the armour, is heavy and unyielding, covering the propulsion system in Tony’s left hand and making flight treacherous but he doesn’t care; it’s melded to his arm anyway and he’ll need to get it amputated and a new arm developed, so there’s no point in taking it off.  It’s probably the only thing keeping him from bleeding out, the flesh and bone and muscle crushed and impacted by the power Tony’d channelled through it.

They collide in mid-air, and they’re falling-falling-falling, and Tony can’t stop crying – violent, agonising sobs that are just as much from relief that Peter’s alive as they are from pain and the trauma of the past year. Everything is over-bright and deafening, and he doesn’t even register that they’ve hit the ground safely because he’s squeezing Peter with as much strength as he can manage in his aching, exhausted body.

It goes on and on, Peter’s tech snapping back from his face, and they’re both sobbing, attracting a crowd in the middle of a devastated Brooklyn, despite the screams and weeping he can hear from reunited friends and family in the borough.  He doesn’t care, because he’s done it, and Peter’s safe, and he can feel Stephen in the bond, whole and alive and radiating pure pride and joy into their connection.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Tony weeps, and tries to hold himself together just a little bit longer, just a little bit longer.

When Tony sees Stephen for the first time since the end, he rages.

He gets why Stephen did it, why he had banked the entire future of the universe on Tony’s weary and beaten and forever slumped shoulders, he does, but that doesn’t erase the suffering, the uncertainty, the fear, the pain.  It doesn’t take away the legitimate experiences he’s had to push through: grieving for his son, his precious Peter, mind shattering to pieces in its wake; grieving for his makeshift family, his friends, for the world he couldn’t save until they had already been taken away ruthlessly from their own lives; grieving for Stephen, body literally tearing itself apart inside and his shattered mind fracturing more than the human spirit can survive.

Tony is broken.  He doesn’t remember a life without anguish and sacrifice, doesn’t remember what it feels like to be happy or content, doesn’t remember how bright and promising the future could be with the right attitude and confidence.  He is broken, irreparably and totally, and can’t remember what it feels like to be alive.

I’m sorry, Stephen says softly, as shaking hands wrap around Tony’s torso, even as Tony beats at his chest with weak fists, furious and splintered and desperate to make Stephen feel even a portion of the pain he’s suffered in his heart.

I’m sorry, Stephen says softly, as Tony grips handfuls of Stephen’s worn hoodie and weeps, soaking it with his tears, mourning for the naïve innocence and optimism he’s lost since he was tortured in a cave and watched a friend die.

I’m sorry, Stephen says softly, as he runs his fingers through Tony’s greying hair, Tony’s head buried in the stubble-rough skin of Stephen’s neck, breathing and smelling in the scent of the equally traumatised man pressed against him.

I’m sorry, Stephen says softly, as Tony’s mouth desperately connects to Stephen’s own, tongues dancing and hands roaming perspiring bodies, stealing his breath and making his broken heart beat again despite all conceivable odds.

I’m sorry, Stephen says softly, as Tony presses his fingers into Stephen’s naked, sharp, scarred body, breaths loud and heart racing, relishing the warmth of him against Tony’s skin and watching as Stephen’s frame arches and shudders with life.

I’m sorry, Stephen says softly, as Tony lowers himself onto Stephen, fingernails digging into Tony’s tense thighs, embracing the burn of Stephen’s magnificent, lube-covered prick and the heat of those lips against his chest.

And when Tony comes, so intensely that his muscles spasm violently and tears run down his face, and when Stephen whispers against his damp hair, I’ve loved you for fourteen million lifetimes and I will love you for one more, and I will always be sorry Anthony Stark, Tony feels like he can breathe again.

It’s not perfect.

There is a lot of baggage between them, and a lot of missed moments.  They live in separate cities and have separate lives and have separate responsibilities; they don’t go out to dinner or spend nights talking about their day, nor do they sign prenups or go on romantic vacations.  Hell, more and more frequently they’re not even on the same planet or dimension.  They’re so fundamentally fragmented inside – they’ve lived and suffered through too much, and they’ve been alone for far too long, and their obligations are so different, and it was never going to be a fairy-tale romance that would be penned down by the writers of history.  After forty-plus years of independence, of tragedy, of war, they can’t mesh their lives together in that vital way that most well-adjusted people can.

But when they steal those rare and precious moments, shirking responsibilities and stiff-arming their makeshift families, it’s simple, natural, every moment profound and beautiful.  They’re too old and too damaged to push for anything more, and they have their own lives to live: Tony’s tied to his duties as Iron Man and the face of the New Avengers, saving the people of Earth from the physical, whereas Stephen’s tied to his duties as the Sorcerer Supreme, saving the people of Earth from the mystical.

Tony Stark may be enslaved to another human being, but Stephen’s his, and he’s Stephen’s.  Perhaps it’s not perfect, and perhaps it’s not ideal, but at the end of the day, it’s theirs, and it works.

It works.

anonymous asked:

For a nsfw writing prompt.. what if Viktor and Yuuri were ahem netflix and chilling but then Viktor suddenly got invested into the movie 😂

(omg anon, this is the cutest prompt ever, thank you)


The Netflix and Chill session was Victor’s idea, of course. Though he’d claimed he just wanted to unwind for the evening and enjoy catching up on a few anime episodes with Yuuri, they both knew what he was really after. So it didn’t come as a surprise when Victor went in for a kiss before the opening theme-song of the show even got underway.

Yuuri ended up straddled on Victor’s lap, his fingers tangled up in impossibly gorgeous silver hair and mouth opening eagerly to his fiancé’s every demand. It wasn’t often that Yuuri felt quite as daring as he did that night, but the bottle of wine they’d shared during dinner had done a fine job of getting him in the mood. As Victor’s hands slid up the back of his shirt, Yuuri let out a quiet gasp that soon turned into a moan. Victor’s own shirt was completely unbuttoned, and his hard, flat stomach moved between them with every breath.

But little by little, Yuuri noticed his partner wasn’t responding as quickly to his advances as he would have liked. “Victor…” Yuuri pouted between kisses. “Touch me.”

“Hmm?” Victor murmured, clearly distracted.

Suspicious, Yuuri drew back and glared when he saw Victor’s eyes glued to the TV screen. Geez. Had he been watching it the whole time they were making out? Yuuri placed both hands on Victor’s face and forced him to look at him instead. “Are you even paying attention to me?”

Victor smiled sweetly up at him and clutched Yuuri’s body tighter against his own. “Of course, I am. How could I not, looking the way you do?”

This appeased Yuuri somewhat, and he let his eyes drift shut as Victor moved to kiss his neck. It wasn’t long before Yuuri was melting in his arms. Finally, they were getting somewhere. But all too soon, he sensed Victor getting distracted again. Yuuri’s eyes flew open, and he pulled away to look at Victor, who was once again zoned out and staring at the anime on the TV.

“Hey,” Yuuri said, snapping his fingers in front of Victor’s eyes. “Weeb. You’ve got the real thing right in front of you, you know. Pay attention to me!”

Victor blinked several times before focusing on Yuuri. “I am! But it’s just…” Biting down on his lower lip, Victor moved his head to the side so he could see the TV past Yuuri’s shoulder. “That character there kind of reminds me of you.”

Yuuri turned to look at the anime on the screen, which he hadn’t paid the least bit of attention to before now. The character Victor was referring to was actually an animated talking piglet, who wore glasses and blushed every time someone talked to him. Yuuri’s mouth fell open in horror as he watched the piglet trip and fall to the ground before bursting into tears. “Victor,” he gasped.

“Oh, my God,” Victor gushed, squeezing Yuuri tight against him. “He’s just so precious. Yuuri, I want one.

Party Gone Wrong (Jealous!Loki x Reader Foursome Lemon/Smut One-Shot)

Summary: Tony throws a party. He decides to spice things up with “Truth or Dare.” Thor asks you to give Cap a good time. And this again doesn’t give Loki a good time. He gets furious… really furious… and decides to show you who you belong to…

Warnings: Explicit Sex, Oral Sex, Fingering, Rough Sex, Foursome (let’s just pretend Loki’s clones are palpable), Literal Porn

Originally posted by littlejenner

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love is not a victory march

a/n: feelin’ some kinda way recently, the silver lining of which means i’m back on my angsty bellarke bullshit ¯\_(ツ)_/¯


“You left him to die.”

Clarke did not look at Murphy, just stared into the candlelit darkness of the room that had been her home for six years. Her home, and Madi’s. They had won it back, but at almost too high a cost. So many casualties, so much blood on the valley floor. Heaven, turned hell, and no way to make it clean again.

“I left him to save Madi.” She wasn’t surprised Bellamy had told the rest of them what had happened back at the bunker, but she was surprised at how much Murphy’s words stung.

“Seems like the hobbit is pretty capable of taking care of herself.”

Shooting him a glare, Clarke frowned. “She’s a kid. She shouldn’t have to.”

We had to, and look at how well we turned out.” His grin was a sharp thing.

“She’s my family,” she snapped, voice razored to match his. “I put her first, just like Bellamy put his family first.”

“He’s annoying like that, isn’t he? Always doing the right thing.”

“You should be grateful, that someone is there to watch your back.”

Murphy scoffed. “Like he doesn’t have yours?”

“Not anymore.”

She wasn’t his family, not anymore.

The silence was heavy, taut. It prickled against Clarke’s skin, as did Murphy’s sudden, piercing stare.

“A little lonely, Clarke?

She ground her teeth.

“Aw, don’t worry. Being stuck on the outside of that happy circle isn’t so bad, take it from me. Maybe you and I can even form our own little loners club.”

Clarke shot up out of her seat and strode towards the door. She was going to see Madi, to check on her mother, to make sure the battle hadn’t sent Diyoza into labor. Anywhere that wasn’t around Murphy and his venom. Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again.

“Losing you almost broke him.”

The anger in his voice was tempered by resentment. As if he didn’t want to be telling her this. As if it was her fault that he so very obviously cared that she understood what the last six years had done to the rest of them.

“He was a fucking mess, Clarke. For years. If I’m being real fuckin’ honest, I didn’t think he’d ever get over losing you. Then he and–well, he started putting himself back together, and fuck if that wasn’t worse to watch because I knew he hated it. He hated that he was starting to realize that one day, he just might get the hell over his guilt about your martyrdom. The others ignored it, because he was smiling again, but I saw it. It’s what I do best, seeing the cracks and weak points and providing leverage. And his fault lines, they were a mile-fuckin-wide when it comes to you. Still are, actually.”

Eyes stinging and chest aching, she had to fight through the thick anger clogging her throat to get her reply out. “Point, Murphy?”

“He never stopped loving you, and you left him to die.”

Her hand balled into a fist, but her feet wouldn’t move. She half-turned her head, seeing Murphy through the blur of her tears. “I know.”

The words were hard, hateful. Murphy stared at her for a beat, cocked his head. Then his eyes went wide.

“Damn,” he whispered, knowingly. “Damn, you both are a fuckin’ piece of work.

And then Clarke fled, because it was too much. He had said it himself: finding chinks in armor was his specialty, and tonight, in that room where she had used to feel so safe, he had seen right through her. He had seen her own fault lines, had discovered they ran in mirror-image parallel to others he had seen.

Murphy had said losing her had almost broken Bellamy, but now he also knew that finding him again had broken Clarke.

anonymous asked:

30 for Drarry, please?

I already did this prompt once before here but I felt inspired so here’s a completely different take on it :)

30. “You don’t see me.”

“I feel like something is bothering you,” Draco said when they had both sat down on the couch in their flat after an afternoon spent with their friends. He had noticed it a few days ago already, but it had taken him until now to find the courage to ask Harry about it.

“I just… I feel like you don’t see me,” Harry said and it broke Draco’s heart because of course he saw Harry. It was hard to see anything else with Harry so present in his life. But this wasn’t about him, Draco reminded himself. This was about Harry and if he didn’t feel seen, Draco would do his best to remedy that.

“What makes you feel like that?” he asked gently and reached for Harry’s hand.

Harry took his hand and sighed before he answered. “It’s not all the time. But when we’re out with our friends I often feel like you treat me the same as you treat them, as though your relationship with them is the same that you have with me. Do you know what I mean?”

Draco looked away from Harry and swallowed hard because yes, he knew exactly what Harry meant.

“I do,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”

“Apology accepted,” Harry said and squeezed Draco’s hand once. “But… can you tell me why you do it?”

Draco sighed. Harry deserved to know of course but that didn’t make it any easier to say. “I… don’t like openly showing affection when I’m in public. It makes me feel vulnerable and… I feel like this intimacy we have should be kept private. But also… I don’t think I would be able to pay attention to anyone or anything else if I allowed myself to kiss you or even look at you for more than a second when we’re with our friends.”

“So… It’s more a case of you not allowing yourself to see only me?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“You could say that, yes.”

Oh,” Harry said like a lot of things had fallen into place in his head just then and a small smile spread on his face. “Is that also why you sometimes get clingy after we’ve been out with others?”

Draco blushed. “Maybe?”

The giggle that fell from Harry’s mouth at that sounded relieved. “In that case, you can keep doing it. I love it when you get clingy.”

Draco sighed. It was good to know they were all right and Harry didn’t mind his preferences.

More Like This

Send Me A Dialogue Prompt (that moment when you have to install a new browser to link one small thing -.-)

The Shrine

Pairing: Shiro/Lance

Summary: Lance forgot that his teenage self had a massive crush on Shiro before they’d ever met. He gets a grim reminder when he invites Shiro to stay with him for a week. 


“Mama,” said Lance, throwing his arms around his mother, who clutched at him like a dying person to a life preserver. “I’m home. I’m safe.”

“Oh, mi hijo,” she sobbed. She rocks him from side to side. “You have no idea how much I missed you!”

“I missed you too, Mama.” He kissed the side of her head, then gently pried her away. Taking a moment to collect himself, he side-stepped and gestured toward Shiro, the other mopping his eyes. “Mama, this is Shiro. He was our leader. Got us out of more trouble than I can count.”

“It’s very lovely to meet you, Shiro,” said Mama warmly, mopping her own sodden cheeks. “Oh, how very rude of me. Come in! Make yourself at home! Lance tells me you’ll be staying with us for a while?”

“Um, yes, pardon the intrusion,” said Shiro, bowing a little. 

“No, no, there’s no intrusion! Lance, go show Shiro where he’ll be staying.” She grinned, putting her hands on her hips. “And I hope you’re hungry, Shiro; I’m preparing a feast almost fit for a king!” 

“Oh, yes, I-I am hungry,” said Shiro. 

Lance snorted. It was ridiculously endearing to watch him flounder in the face of Lance’s mother, of all things. Big, scary Galrans? No problem. Haggar? Bitch, please. But Lance’s five-foot-four mother asking him if he was hungry was what threw off his equilibrium. Endlessly cute. 

“Alright, come with me,” said Lance. He winked. “You’ll be staying in my room with me, hope you don’t mind.”

Shiro shot him an impish grin. “Definitely don’t mind.”

They had been dating for six months. Due to Shiro’s asexuality and aversion to being seen naked due to his scars, they hadn’t had sex yet, but they shared the same bed every night, and the cuddles were to die for. To Lance, hugging Shiro was the equivalent of hugging a stuffed bear. So, so comfortable.

They got to Lance’s bedroom. Lance threw open the door and stepped back so Shiro could enter first. Honestly, he could hardly wait to spend this week with Shiro, relaxing on the beach, doing absolutely fuck all. No commitments, no nothing. Honestly, it was almost too good to be–

“Oh my god,” Shiro choked out.

“What?” Lance hurried inside. “What’s–OH MY GOD NO.”

Tacked to the wall above his bed was one giant poster of Shiro he’d bought when the Garrison had been doing their press releases for the Kerberos mission. Surrounding that, there were smaller pictures tacked up from articles he’d found in magazines and newspapers. Some of them he’d even printed from the Internet. 

How could he have forgotten about the fucking shrine?!

Leaping onto Shiro’s back, he slapped his hands over Shiro’s eyes and yelped, “You saw nothing!”

“You have a shrine!” Shiro wheezed, trembling with laughter. “Dedicated to me! Oh this is too good!”

“I was fourteen!” shrieked Lance. “You can’t judge me for this!”

“I’m judging so hard.”

“I will make you sleep on the floor!”

Shiro tumbled forward onto the bed, rolled, and pinned Lance to the mattress. Red and breathless with laughter, he was the most beautiful person Lance had ever seen. He was so close to leaning up as much as Shiro’s grip would allow, desperate for a kiss–until Shiro spoke. 

“Did you worship me as your god and offer up sacrifices in my name, too? Were you going to start your own religion? I mean, you already have a shrine, what’s the next step up?”

I’m going to kill you!”

Crush

@moxieties VOR MDUDE I GOTCHU

me, seeing this prompt: oh :)) time to write a small, little drabble :))

me now, 2791 words and 3 hours later: :’)))))

summary: Virgil is terrified. Patton is excited. And they both love each other very, very much.

pairing: moxiety

warnings: a bit of a panic attack at the beginning, nothing too bad??? honestly this is just one big fluff pile i dont think theres anything bad in it sdhfdsk

enJOY



Virgil had a problem.

Well, technically, he had lots of problems. Overwhelming, never-ending problems, far too many to count. But this problem… it was different. This problem stole the breath from his lungs and the floor from beneath his feet, set his face on fire and locked his sleep up somewhere where he could never find it. This problem was a red blush spreading across his cheeks and a battalion of butterflies in his stomach, a deluge of feelings ready to ensure his downfall.

This problem wore a light blue shirt and an adorable cat hoodie and a face full of freckles and a smile as bright as the sun and —

Virgil groaned, burying his red-hot face in his hands and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. His groan melted into a soft, lovestruck whine as Patton’s face appeared in his mind, beautiful brown eyes and fluffy golden-chocolate hair and a smile like no other, a smile that owned his heart and soul and —

He began to pace again, even faster, worrying the hem of his hoodie anxiously. The room around him was dark; he’d been pacing for hours, since before sunset, and hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights once the world had grown dark around him. It didn’t feel dark, anyway — not when his heart was filled with light, not when his mind couldn’t move past soft, angelic giggles and a smile meant just for him and chocolate eyes filled with warmth and love —

“Stop it!” he hissed when his thoughts refused to stop swirling, refused to realize just how much of a problem these feelings were. He heard a faint noise from outside the door and froze, his hair moving to cover his mouth. What if it was him? He couldn’t face him right now, oh no, his face was too red and he couldn’t think straight (ever) and oh no, oh no

“Excuse me?”

Roman pushed the door open and poked his head inside, his eyes bleary and his hair a mess of purple-and-brown atop his head. Virgil let out a heavy sigh of relief, absently running a hand through his hair as he resumed his pacing.

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Malfoys Don’t, Potters Do

Holy shit, it feels like yesterday that I reached 500 followers and now there are already 600 of you? How?

anyway, this is for all of you (and thank you to @assassinsdragons for helping me choose which fic to publish :)) I hope you like it.

Fun fact: this has exactly 600 words bc I’m a nerd.

(Read on ao3)


Draco was sitting curled up on the sofa reading one of the Muggle fantasy novels Harry was so fond of, not because he had been intrigued by it but because it had been lying around and- all right, yes, because he had been intrigued by it. So far he hadn’t regretted his decision, the magic system used had made him roll his eyes for the first few chapters but now that he had accepted it as part of the world he was starting to at least appreciate it. It was a creative take on magic if nothing else.

He only noticed Harry come into the room because he had just reached the end of a chapter and looked up at the noise but by the time Harry asked him a question he had already been pulled into the story again and paid him very little attention. His subconscious had apparently still registered the question though and prompted a reaction which he only noticed when he had already shrugged. He froze, and his eyes filled with horror.

“Potter!” he exclaimed horrified. “What have you done to me?”

Harry looked more confused than anything by Draco’s sudden outburst, so Draco sighed and said frowning, “I just shrugged, Potter.”

“So?” Harry asked, apparently completely unconcerned by Draco’s drastic change of behaviour.

“Malfoys don’t shrug,” Draco said. It should have been a sufficient explanation, but he should have known Harry would once again be the exception to the rule.

“Well, in that case, maybe you should become a Potter,” Harry said without hesitating and before Draco could even blink he had gotten down on one knee and now presented Draco with an ancient-looking ring he had pulled from only Merlin knew where.

“Marry me?” Harry asked when Draco could only stare at him for several seconds.

“As long as I don’t have to adapt any other of your deplorable habits,” Draco said once he had found his voice again, doing his best to look calm while he almost burst with happiness.

Harry smiled at him. “You don’t have to. But I also wouldn’t mind if you do.”

“In that case, yes, I will marry you,” Draco said and only then let one of his rare full smiles stretch his lips and brighten his face.

Harry’s smile grew to match Draco’s. Then Harry slid the ring onto Draco’s finger and admired it for a few seconds before he got up again and leaned down to pull Draco into a kiss that was at least forty percent sappy smiles.

Two months later, just a few days after Harry’s 25th birthday, their wedding took place on a beautiful sunny day in the rose gardens at Malfoy Manor with all their friends in attendance.

“Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, want to take Harry James Potter as your lawfully wedded husband, to love and to cherish forevermore?” the marriage officiant asked.

Draco did his best to keep a straight face, already looking forward to the reactions he would surely get and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

The reaction to his words couldn’t have been better if he had planned it. Throughout the whole wedding party there were surprised and even some outraged faces. Harry was smiling brightly at him, though, and that was all that counted.

“I need a more definitive answer than that, Mr Malfoy,” the marriage officiant said frowning. Draco should have known inside jokes didn’t have a place at a wedding ceremony, but he hadn’t been able to resist.

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep a smile off his face when he said, “Yes, I do.”

Happy early birthday to @sheilatakesabow! Here’s a little Victuuri ficlet for you. (official artwork above by Mashiro Aizawa… not me)


The text message read: Still awake, love? I’m outside your door.

Setting his phone aside on the nightstand, Yuuri climbed out of bed and padded across the hotel room floor wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs. He hugged himself against the chill in the room as he glanced through the peephole of the front door to make sure he recognized the person standing on the other side. Then, smiling with gentle fondness, Yuuri unlocked and opened it.

As Victor slipped inside his room with all the hurried grace of a criminal on the run, Yuuri noted his fiancé had found the complimentary hotel slippers in his own room down the hall, as well as a calf-length robe made of rough, white terrycloth. Knowing Victor, he was probably wearing very little underneath. Or perhaps nothing at all.

Yuuri shouldn’t have opened the door to him. He’d promised Victor he wouldn’t do any such thing just a few hours ago when they’d kissed each other good night after the rehearsal dinner. But Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. Not when Victor was looking at him like that as he stepped forward to gather him up into his arms.

“Mmm…” Victor nuzzled his face into the side of his fiancé’s neck, breathed deeply of his scent, and released a sigh that washed over Yuuri’s skin in a warm rush. “I feel better now.”

The knot of Victor’s robe dug into Yuuri’s bare stomach, inspiring a little gasp of want. “It’s only been a few hours,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Victor squeezed him and whispered, “I know. But I missed you too much to fall asleep.”

“Missed you, too.” Yuuri’s fingers combed through the silk of Victor’s hair, which was cool and slightly damp from a recent shower. “But you’re going to be mad at yourself tomorrow. You’re the one who made up the rule that we can’t see each other before the wedding.”

“I can keep my eyes closed. And you’re not wearing your glasses, so you can’t see anything anyway.”

Yuuri considered this. “Fair enough.”

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