It was time to let go when I realized that you checked your phone all day yet rarely replied to my messages. It was time to let go when you told me that I looked better with long hair and when I was ten pounds thinner. It was time to let go when we’d argue and you’d shut me up with a kiss. It was time to let go when I told you that I missed you and you said that you’ve been busy. It was time to let go when I first doubted that you loved me, because now I’ve spent so much time spilling love that I am half empty yet here you are, still drinking from it. But don’t you worry, I am freeing myself from you today. You will never taste a single drop again and your thirst will stay unquenched, because nobody will ever love you like I did.
Note: @campaignofmisinformation graciously shared some of the prompts
she’d been sent, and I jumped on the chance for some outside inspiration.
To the original prompter: I am so sorry you got me instead of
The Prompt was:
mango, the color blue, jump. setting: unremarkable house, sometime in
This is set
post-Home Again, because I love to pick at wounds until they bleed.
* * * * * * * * * * *
You had not planned to go to the house. But at the grocery
store, you absentmindedly put all of his usual grocery items in your cart; even
though you had left (had to leave, chose to leave) him two years ago, grocery
shopping is muscle memory after you’ve lived with someone for so long.
Coffee—bold beans—but also whole milk, sugar to sweeten the bitterness.
Cereal: he is the only person you know who likes raisin bran. You
distractedly wonder if he still likes teriyaki salmon. One summer, he had
put it on the grill almost every night. Surely, he must be sick of it by
now, but you put it into your cart anyway, just in case. You grab a mango
from the produce section. It is not quite summer yet, the mangoes are not
quite in season, but they will be soon.
You do not cry in the middle of the grocery store.
Your mother is dead. It is, strangely, a sentence you
never believed you would say. A long time ago someone had told you that
you were immortal, but it was your mother who had always remained standing
while everyone else around you had fallen.
Even Mulder had left you many times: left you to pursue hunches, left you in random
police stations, had died, been buried, had come back to life, had gone into
hiding. Had returned, only to leave you
again when he retreated into his own mind, the one place you could not find him,
no matter how hard you tried. (You never
blame him, though. It has never been
that black and white, that polka-dotted life of yours.)
Your mother had never left, but now, somehow, she is gone.
You suppose that may be why you end up driving to the outer
border of Virginia.
* * * * * * * * * *
The house on the outer border of Virginia had once been your
home, too. It was nothing to look at and
it was nothing like anywhere Mulder had ever lived; his family was wealthy and had
always lived in beautiful homes. But he
was the one who found it in the real estate section. He had excitedly suggested that the two of
you go to see it.
The shingles were broken, it seemed like every door frame was
low and crooked, the wood floors were uneven and full of splinters and would
definitely, definitely have to be pulled up.
When you went to see it, the house was painted bright blue.
Mulder, you had told him, the color blue of the house borders on
He had laughed; you bought it together, in cash, to minimize the
paper trail; it was home right away.
People always assumed that you had gone into hiding somewhere
far away, across the country maybe, that you had changed your names and died
your hair blonde and that he had lost ten pounds to disguise himself. But you were still Dana Katherine Scully, he
was still Fox William Mulder, you were still a doctor, your hair was still
red. You let your hair grow long and he
grew a beard but it was only because you were both finally free, or so you
And for years you lived together in that ordinary house. You went to Home Depot together, spent hours
laughing, trying to find a paint color even uglier than the blue. You’d finally settled on white: classic,
unassuming. You’d let the wood panels on
the side of the house go untreated.
Mulder painted the house during the day while you were at work
at the hospital. At night you would come
home and put food on the grill together and eat ice cream on the floor and read
He still loved those terrible sci-fi movies. Secretly, they had always creeped you out a
little bit, but it turned out that when you watched them together in bed they weren’t
Pairing: Daphne Greengrass x Percy Weasley Setting: Law school moot court module AU Word count: 1664 words Written for:provocative-envy‘s birthday Notes: Happy early birthday, Envy! You’re an Actual Inspiration #yelling xxxxxxx
Percival Ignatius Weasley can recite the headnotes of every case
that has been on his reading lists for the past two years. He can name every
lord benched in the Supreme Court, the Privy Court, and the fucking Senior
Courts of England and Wales from 1993 onwards. He can, upon given a set of
facts, reason the judgment out the exact way that the leading judgment did it
(albeit only about seventy two per cent of the time, but that’s still a pretty
decent hit rate).
Tl;dr: Percy Ignatius Weasley knows a whole lot.
What he doesn’t know,
however, is which forgotten but
definitely evil deity that he might have offended in order to have landed Daphne Princess Greengrass as his
partner for this moot court module. This only
five people out of forty get As module. This doubles as the selection trials for the Jessup team module.
This Daphne is probably taking
because it involves a field trip to the Hague module.
I truly believe our society operates on a currency of women’s insecurities. Multibillion dollar industries thriving on like just, “Make them feel like their bodies are just unacceptable, and then like sell them some shit”. Look at any magazine! “You’re amazing, but you need to lose like ten pounds”. “Love your body, love your hair. Whatever you’ve done is wrong. You look like a sea monster”. Everything’s got like a weird mixed message with a whore-y undertone. Like, “Be a bad girl, own your sexuality, but if you fuck more than one dude, you’re a whore!” Like everything’s wrong.
apart from such great heights,
i doubt i’ll be posting any new fics for a while because i actually need to
finish something, but in the mean time i just wanted to share a long
preview of another niall thing i’ve low key been working on because i love niall hehe so enjoy
sits herself down at a table just inside the cafe, dumping her duffle
bag down on the floor beside her. She grumbles under her breath as she
pulls her phone from her pocket, only to find she’s got merely five
percent battery left. Fucking great.
Baz Pitch… How do I begin to explain Baz Pitch?
Baz Pitch is flawless.
I hear his hair is insured for ten thousand pounds.
I hear he does vintage car commercials…in Kent.
His favorite hamburger is a Big Mac.
One time he met the Mage, and the Mage squinted at him suspisciously.
One time he sneered at me. It was awesome.
Mike came into the house with a giant box. Ginny looked up from her place on the couch, arching an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about throwing out your back old man?” She asked, unsure what he was doing. He held up a hand, silencing her before walking back out to the garage. Coming back in with another box, he grinned.
“Fresh off the press.”
Ginny covered her face. “You didn’t.” She groaned, getting off the couch and shuffling over to him. Mike cut open the box and pulled out the latest issue of Sport’s Illustrated. Ginny sighed. “You can’t be serious.”
Mike smirked, looking down at the cover. When Ginny had been first asked to be on the cover of the SI swim suit issue, she and Amelia had shot it down immediately. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her body, it was that the body issue shoot had been about empowerment. This, Amelia had insisted, was for objectification. So they’d passed on it. Two years passed. Mike retired from baseball and became a sport’s commentator. He and Ginny got married. She had pitched the first no hitter the Padres ever had. She was chosen Athlete of the Year by Sport’s Illustrated. At the meeting with the magazine’s representatives, they revealed they still wanted to have Ginny be on the swimsuit issue. Amelia was ready to walk out when Ginny asked a simple question.
They’d explained that they wanted to show power and femininity. It wasn’t the first time they’d used an athlete on their cover. Ginny had leaned forward, drumming her fingers on the table. “There’s something you need to know before you push for this cover.” She said. After hearing her, they’d still wanted to go through with the cover and even Amelia had been swayed by their suggestions for her shoot.
Mike was tracing his fingers over the cover. Ginny shook her head. “Should I leave you alone?” She asked.
Mike looked up and leaned his head into her side. She put her hand on his head, looking at the magazine. She was sitting butterfly style in the sand, sparkling blue waves behind her. Smiling down at a pile of sand in front of her, she had no makeup and was wearing a simple white two piece. And, at the time of the shoot, she’d been 5 months pregnant.
“I’m framing this.” Mike said. “I’m framing it and mounting it on the wall.”
“Do we have space in your Ginny Baker home museum?” Ginny laughed as she motioned to the hall where Mike had framed every major photo shoot she’d done. “You know some people might see this pattern of obsessive behavior as a warning sign of a deeper problem.”
Mike scoffed. “Hey, how many years did you have my poster on your wall?”
“The statute of limitations for using that excuse ran out after the second magazine cover you framed on the wall.” Ginny muttered, fondly running a hand through her husband’s hair.
Mike looked up at her, grinning. “This is going to be our holiday card.”
“No.” Ginny said, putting a hand to her back and walking slowly back over to the couch. Sinking down, she huffed, running her hands over her swollen abdomen. “Little Mike is punching me in the intestines.”
“Why is it always little Mike when it’s hurting you?” He grumbled. “But little Ginny when it does something cute, like move to a song you like?”
Ginny smiled, yawning. “Call it motherly instinct.” She said. Mike sat next to her, looking at the magazine.
“This is nice.” He said, looking at her, “but the real version is better.”
The next day Mike walked into the studio only to be met with guilty looks and hushed conversations. He glared around him as one of the camera guys shoved a magazine behind his back. He gritted his teeth. He’d been less than enthused about the idea when Ginny had told him she was considering taking SI up on their offer and while he really liked the cover, this was the part he’d been dreading. Ginny had shut him down. “Mike, it’s insane that men can be obsessed with every part of the process of making a baby except dealing with the actual pregnancy. Honestly if they can’t handle seeing a pregnant woman, they have no business being near women.” Mike squared his shoulders and sat at the desk, smiling as the make up artist came to put powder on his face. Though as long as it was only idiots being jerks in private, he was fine with it…he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Ginny was settling in to Mike on TV with her latest crazing, popcorn covered in melted cheese and chocolate sauce. She ran her hand over her stomach. “That’s daddy.” She said. “It’s your favorite show.” Strangely, the baby seemed to recognize Mike’s voice on TV and would move every time he spoke. Ginny smiled at the screen, noting that Mike’s beard seemed to be even bushier on the panel. “Gotta remember to make a joke about the camera adding ten pounds to facial hair.” She mumbled. “You’ll remind me, right?” She asked the baby. It moved, pressing against the side of her stomach. “Yeah you will.” She said. “You’re your momma’s child.”
The discussion had begun. It was the usual; recaps of games and player stats. Ginny eat her popcorn, smiling every time Mike got particularly excited about something. Then it happened. The host turned to the camera to make his usual end of show wrap up. Ginny frowned and looked down at her phone. It was way too early for this part of the show.
“Finally today, we close with something slightly more informal.” He grinned at the camera. “Now this is a special time of year because, even in the cold of winter, we get to warm up a bit.” He looked across the table at Mike, who was frowning. “Now Mike’s probably no stranger to what I’m about to show, but the cover model of this year’s Sport’s Illustrated swim suit issue is…”
Ginny dropped her bowl of popcorn, sitting up and feeling ill. Mike’s eyes had narrowed and he was breathing heavily.
Even though she’d been expecting it, the image of her photo splashed across the screen hit her straight in the gut. The camera cut to Mike leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and Ginny could tell he was grinding his teeth. It was a bad habit he’d gained after having to take out his gum for shows.
“So, Mike.” The host was grinning. “This is a very um…different cover photo.”
“How so?” His voice was soft, angry.
“Well…I guess we now know why she’d been sitting out most of the games of last season.” He said. “I’m just curious how you could have let her do this.”
Mike coughed. “Let her.” He repeated softly. “Oh that is…” He ducked his head, laughing. “Let her.” He looked at the camera. “Let me tell you something about Ginny Baker. No one let’s her do anything…she just does.” He shifted frowning. “And there’s nothing different about this. She’s pregnant, women get pregnant, women go to the beach, and wear swim suits while doing those things. My wife happens to look damn good in a swimsuit, pregnant, and on the beach.” He growled.
“I’m just saying, some people aren’t happy.”
“Yeah, well they can come and find me.” Mike said. “Because for every butthurt pervert who’s pissed because he’s faced with the reality of how babies are created, there’s a ton of women who are looking at this and relieved that finally someone is acknowledging that…” He broke off, turning to look at the picture splashed across the screens behind him. “She’s an athlete on the cover of a Sport’s magazine.” He glared around the panel. “And honestly, any man who can’t handle seeing a pregnant woman, has no business being around women.”
Ginny grinned at the screen.
Mike came home about an hour later, slamming the door and storming over to the refrigerator, tugging his tie down. “Stupid….jerk…fucking…asshole…”
“That was a great show, Mike.” Ginny said, watching him from the couch. He looked at her and was across the room in seconds.
“You saw it?”
“Hmmmhm.” Ginny said, shifting so he could sit next to her. “I especially liked the part where you said that thing about men and not being able to handle seeing pregnant women…” She put her hands on the sides of his face, pulling him in for a kiss. He leaned forward pushing her on her back.
“Well, I’d heard it somewhere before.” He said, capturing her lips.
“You know, the guys are posing in speedos in solidarity.” Ginny continued. Mike groaned, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Sal and Duarte both texted me pictures.” She grinned, “Wanna see?”
Mike shook his head. “Nah, they sent me even more risque shots.” He winced. “I think its payback for everytime I flashed them in the locker room. And no-” He cut Ginny’s response off. “You cannot see them.”
“Thanks.” she said, running her hands over his shoulders. “For standing up for me.”
“Hey, I made a promise til death do us part.” Mike smiled. “It’s a job I take seriously.”
Ginny grinned. “This might not be the moment to tell you that the camera makes your face hair look even bigger.”
CS rockstar/actress AU. Killian Jones, lead singer of the band Crimson Flag, has been burned in the past by love and turned his heartbreak into a hit album, Hook. But with his new single, I Still Do, he’s ready to proclaim to the world that he still believes in love. All he needs is an actress to appear in the song’s music video and he has just the one in mind - TV star Emma Swan.
If there was one thing Emma Swan was good at, it was packing. Her suitcase for the Aruba trip was ready and waiting by the door as it had been for a week, full of T-shirts, tanks, flip flops, lightweight skirts, and the new bikini she had bought on impulse at the boutique that had just opened up two blocks away from her townhouse. It had cost a ridiculous amount of money considering it was just a few square inches of fabric, but she managed to squelch the little voice in her head that almost screamed out loud at the price tag, the voice that still counted every penny and worried about how to both make rent and buy groceries in the same week. She wasn’t that broke (and broken) teenager anymore, fresh out of prison and struggling to make ends meet without a college degree on crappy minimum wage jobs, she was a successful actress, the lead on a network TV show with a paycheck to match and she could afford to splurge on a bathing suit if she wanted to. Her credit card was firmly pulled from her wallet and handed to the sales clerk, and she even let herself get talked into adding a pair of designer sunglasses to her purchase too.
But, like a childhood spent hurriedly packing all her worldly possessions in ten minutes flat under the bored eye of the social worker waiting to take her to the next foster family or group home, old habits died hard. The shopping bag sat unopened on her coffee table overnight and she had to rip up the receipt into tiny pieces and throw it in the trash to stop herself from returning them both the next day.