writes for fun

theexitgarden  asked:

Can I request a drabble, pls? :3 I have this hc that when Yuuri and Viktor clean their house together, they always put on some music and at some point Yuuri always grabs Viktor and starts to dance with him, in the middle of their chores.

Saturday; it’s always a ‘clean up’ day at the Katsuki-Nikiforovs’. Out with the dust, no more clatter, vacuum all the floors and carpets, spray and scrub the bathroom and the kitchen spotless. Do the laundry. Do the dishes. Put everything back in order, all the while making sure Makkachin doesn’t get in the way too much. (Don’t lock her in the bathroom, that’s just inhumane.)

They hate Saturdays.

…but they also love Saturdays.

No matter how many chores they have to do, it’s unmistakably their time. No need to hurry anywhere when Makka doses in her corner of the living room as Viktor dusts the shelves and Yuuri puts music on. It’s Yuuri’s turn to choose the songs this week.

When Viktor hears the first notes of Stammi Vicino, he pauses for a moment and smiles to himself. Yuuri always goes for their skating routines.

So predictable. Viktor loves it.

And Yuuri knows. “Keep moving,” he teases with that glint in his eye. He wipes the tiles on the kitchen walls with a wet rag. “The dust won’t clean itself.”

Smartass, Viktor thinks and shakes his head, amused, when Yuuri scoffs - like he knows exactly what’s going through his mind.

They work in comfortable silence, far from each other, sometimes closer, sometimes shoulder-to-shoulder, other times moving around each other like they’re of one mind. Sometimes, one of them hums along to the song; sometimes, their movements become graceful and in tune with the music.

And sometimes—just like this time—they stand next to each other by the kitchen sink, washing and drying the dishes to the rhythm of Viktor’s old, gold-winning junior free skate. Yuuri bumps his hip against Viktor’s and laughs when he’s sprayed with droplets of water in return.

The track changes, and they both freeze when Yuri on ICE starts playing, almost like they’ve forgotten that it’s there, too—almost like they haven’t been waiting for it since the very beginning.

The water is still pouring over the dishes in the sink and Viktor’s hands are wet, but when Yuuri pulls him away from the counter and close to his body, he goes willingly.

Step by step, on they go. Step by step, forward, to the side, back, side again. Yuuri scoops him up into his arms at one point and turns with him several times and Viktor laughs with how carefree he feels; and when he’s on his feet again, he twirls Yuuri as many times as he can, only to dip him on his arm and kiss him soft and long and loving.

The music slows and so do they, swaying in each other’s arms. Yuuri has his face pressed against Viktor’s neck, Viktor smiles at how dark hair tickles his nose. Their hearts beat as one, laughter turns to fond quirks of lips, to temple kisses, to foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling together, noses brushing.

The music picks up softly, and so Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand into his own and leads him in a faster dance, pulling him all over the living room floor, laughing again when Makkachin joins them and tries to get between them. They jump out of the way and step forward, to the side, back, side again, and turn and twirl and try to dip each other at the same time, which only ends with them falling to the floor, gripping their stomachs with one arm and hooting with laughter.

As the final notes sound around the room, they turn their heads towards each other and look into each other’s eyes, beaming. Viktor takes Yuuri’s right hand to his lips and kisses his wedding ring first, then all of his knuckles. Yuuri pulls their hands to himself and mirrors each and every action.

They love Saturdays.

Day 20: Owls

Sorry this is so late, I was super busy! So instead of a drawing, I’ll write another short one shot for the theme today. Happy Fun Kiss Friday! For @drarry-halloween-fest

——————–

Harry Potter walked into the dark Owlery, determined to send his special package for his friends. They had gone to the Burrow to celebrate the Christmas holidays, and so Harry was hanging out with Draco, who wanted to stay at the castle rather than go back to the Manor. He was just done wrapping their presents and tying them to Hedwig when a blond diversion by the name of Draco walked in.

They had been friends since first year, and were in the same house, Slytherin. Although they were also friends with Ron and Hermione, who were in Gryffindor, the two were inseparable. The war was over, and all was well. Well maybe except for the fact the Harry had a huge crush on Draco.

“Hey Harry,” Draco said, offering him a small smile. “What are you doing up here?”

“Presents,” he said, smiling, but feeling an odd stirring in his stomach knowing that Draco would never like him back. “You?”

“Sending a letter,” Draco replied and turned to his eagle owl.

They worked in silence, a comfortable one, and after he had sent Hedwig on her way, he turned to see an eagle owl holding out a letter. He smiled, and pulled the letter off of the owl’s foot, and opened it. His heart seemed to stop there as he read the four words.


Can I kiss you?


Harry didn’t know what to do. This could finally happen, all he had to do was say yes. He turned to see a blushing Draco staring at the table, and smiled. Draco was worth it, he decided.

“Yes,” he said, and Draco’s eyes shot up to meet his, the blush darkening further, a blooming pink.

Carefully, Draco walked towards him, slowly, and Harry thought his heart might burst.

“I like you, Harry Potter,” Draco whispered, lips mere inches away from Harry’s own.

“And I like you too, you prat. But are you going to kiss me or not?”

Draco moved, or Harry moved and their lips brushed together, leaving tingles all over Harry’s body. Then Draco pulled back, and leaned in to kiss Harry harder, groaning as he pulled away.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Draco said, smiling widely.

“I think I do,” Harry said, smirking and leaned in for another kiss.

They’ve been in the papers almost non-stop since the fall of Fittes House. Lockwood, well-suited as always for the spotlight, enjoys the prestige and publicity of it all. Lucy just enjoys how happy it makes him. And, when warranted, she also enjoys teasing him for it.

Today, for example. They’re on the sofa in the living room a little after noon. Lockwood’s got his head in Lucy’s lap as he reads a feature piece titled A.J. Lockwood: The Man Behind the Mystery. For her part, Lucy is supposed to be writing up last night’s case. Instead, she’s watching Lockwood read and running the fingers of one hand slowly through his hair. He’s all but glowing with satisfaction today, making it difficult for Lucy to focus on anything but him.

She suspects this was his plan all along.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Eva x mc please, your work is so amazing😊

Dearest anon! Thank you so much! 😊  Hero fanfics are still a new territory for me so bear with me please.

Uh, I assume this is for the kissing prompt ask correct? Since you didn’t give me a number, I’ll just choose one I haven’t done yet!  Still open to do more kissing prompts! (if anyone is interested). Hope you enjoy it anon!

2. Early Morning Kiss - A kiss that’s a wake up call, its barely even lips touching, more like they’re kissing your chin because they’re so tired in the early morning haze.

-

You’re Different - Eva x M!MC

If Adrian had woken up a few minutes later, he would have missed the beautiful dark-haired woman entirely. 

He remembered most of last night; the rush they’d been in to strip each other, barely able to contain their moans when they were finally skin-against-skin. Her quick hands and all the scratches she left behind  because he knew they had more to do with her and less to with their tousle with crime a few hours prior.

Adrian smiled thinly to himself, savoring the last bits of the pieces coming together inside his head before a sound had jolted him from his sleep. The images disappeared as he sat upright in bed; wincing slightly until his eyes searched for her.

She was across the room, back turned towards his door while her hands hastily moved to get dressed. Her wiry muscles bunched together as she slipped into her tank from last night, and he watched those hips of hers sway as she wiggled into her jeans. 

She was in the middle of leaving.

Keep reading

Birthday

It’s Karma’s birthday!!! To celebrate this occasion I wrote a short drabble ;) An AU drabble! The first meeting of the two lovebirds, if Lucette had met karma as the prince of Burguntia! Enjoy :D


Klaude had waited months for this day to arrive. He carefully adjusted the mask he had chosen for himself, rose-red with an intricate design that almost seemed to girly but fitted his general aesthetic. It suited him, framed his cheekbones and made his green eyes sparkle with pure delight. His reflection was mesmerizing  to watch, the coat that was made was a luscious burgundy lined with golden stitches, the blouse and the pants black as the night. His mission had been to look mysterious for this masquerade, a celebration for his 18th birthday. A day that had been in preparations for months now and the day was finally here! Hundreds of invitations had been sent to the local nobles and to foreign royalty as well. The masquerade had been his idea, for not only was this a celebration of his birth, but this was the first time he would actively look for bride. Nothing would be final, but at least Klaude would know what his selection could look like.  The quiet knock interrupted his musings, as a servant announced that the time had come to begin the festivities.

She had caught his attention the second she entered the ballroom. Her hair seemed so soft and voluminous, even though she had chosen a more subtle hairstyle than the rest of the noblewomen. Her eyes glowed like copper, whenever a candle hit her and her white mask accentuated her face. Her blue dress, made her skin glow and the cut only added to the innocent charm she exuded. Klaude had watched her silently for the last hour. Watching her dance with one nobleman after the other, but even though she seemed engaged in the conversation, polite and friendly. She never smiled.

“May I cut this dance short,” he seized the moment as she danced passed him, with a partner that definitely didn’t know what he was doing. Her eyes seemed to stab his heart as her gaze gently wandered up and down his body. Judging him it seemed. “I’m certain the Lady would enjoy a partner that didn’t ruin her shoes.” The Lord seemed appalled but gently voice cut through the tension like butter. “A change would be much appreciated my lord.” She offered him her hand and he pressed a small kiss on it before he swept her away.

“Such a fine dancer, only deserves the best partner don’t you think,” Klaude grinned and he could feel how the girl wished to roll her eyes at his arrogance. “I do not think of myself as a talented dancer my lord. I grateful, for all the wonderful partner this evening has to offer.” A very diplomatic answer. A lady of high standing, a princess maybe? Definitely somebody who was taught how to handle such a situation with pure grace. Klaude twirled the girl around and gently tucked her closer to his body. They were in sync with the music, their dance full of elegance and poise. The music swirled around them and Klaude could almost forget where he was, who he was, what was expected of him. Holding her felt right… “May I ask what your name is my lady. My heart needs to know who is captor is,” and finally a small smile graced her lips. “You may call me Lucette.”

School Saga: Imagine your brotp being together so often that the entire school knows them as a pair. If Bro A doesn’t show up to school, the rest of the kids ask B where they are, and vice versa. People don’t dare try to walk between A and B as they walk from class to class. And everyone knows if you want A in a group project, B comes with them.

escape is a myth

sometimes, stan feels as if he’s not really there. his friends seem as if they have recovered, at least for the most part: they laugh, they smile, they are able to be happy. they are able to exist. for stan, though, it doesn’t feel that easy. when he passes a storm drain, he shudders; when he glances in the mirror, he feels a dull ache, terror so suppressed it can only whisper its screams, deep in his gut. he smiles, he laughs, but the feelings of happiness, however valid they are, are quick to fade, replaced again by blurry nothingness. sometimes, to stan, it feels as if the blurry nothingness of his heart is becoming an everything; it leaks into his mind, into his eyes, into his voice, and suddenly, a nothingness becomes all. when it happens, he can only sit and wait; whether he waits for seconds or years he can’t tell. when it passes, he remembers the first time he felt the nothingness, when jaws and pain closed upon his face and all that there was to be seen were the lights. he remembers how the nothingness had closed around and framed the lights, and how when it was ripped away from him, the nothing had been crashed down with terror, pure unadulterated terror enough to catapult his mind and rip it just barely enough that it could dig its teeth in. and when the nothingness passes, the terror is able to return again, and he curls in upon himself, shaking and sobbing and trying oh so desperately not to make a sound. when he cries, he wonders if this was how all of the children felt, all of the children who had been taken and killed and devoured by It, all of the ones who had been lost. those kids had floated, floated from light to dark, hidden in the sanctuary of an abomination. in the end, though, their bodies may have stayed in the dark, but their souls had been freed, returned to a good light. stan’s body may have escaped, but his mind still floats in the sewers.

anonymous asked:

Phoenix Stan au number 9 please

9. “Quit it or I’ll bite.”

Send me a number and characters and I’ll write a drabble!


               Fiddleford poked his head into Ford’s study and sighed.  

               “Stanford, leave that poor bird alone,” Fiddleford scolded, marching over to Ford.  Ford looked over at him.

               “Fiddleford, it is crucial that I collect data.  Once these phoenixes have healed, who knows when I’ll get a chance to examine one next?  Pele and Prometheus will no doubt return to their sylvan lifestyle upon regaining full health.”

               “You named ‘em?” Fiddleford asked, aghast.  

               “I felt awkward referring to them exclusively as ‘male’ and ‘female’.”

               “Yer a scientist.”

               “They didn’t seem to appreciate being referred to by their sex,” Ford amended. Fiddleford looked at the phoenix Ford had been examining, the male.  Like usual, the male phoenix looked grumpy.  “I thought it apropos to give them fire-based names, and it was a happy coincidence that the names began with the same letter.”

               “Swell,” Fiddleford muttered.  His eyes widened.

               “What?” Ford asked.

               “I- it looked almost like the male rolled his eyes at what ya said.”

               “Really?”  Ford peered closely at the male.  The male phoenix took an agitated step away from Ford, hissing softly.  “Prometheus, do you not enjoy the name I assigned you?” The male phoenix, Prometheus, let out another hiss.  “If you could tell me your given name, I would call you that.  But I don’t know your given name.  To be honest, I’m not sure if you have one.”  Prometheus ruffled up his feathers angrily.  The female, sitting in the large bird cage Ford had bought last week, squawked.  “Pele, I’m afraid you’re in a similar boat.”

               “I wonder if we could teach them to talk,” Fiddleford murmured.  “Like parrots.”  Pele and Prometheus stared at him.  “They’ve obviously got some degree of sentience.”

               “I agree,” Ford said with a nod.  Prometheus let out a squawk.

               “So, what have ya learned from examinin’ Prometheus today?” Fiddleford asked. Ford looked down at his notes.

               “He’s healing very rapidly.  He should be able to fly soon.  It would not be for the best, however, since he is still limping.  His leg needs more time, and trying to land on it could set him back at the beginning, in terms of the healing process.”

               “Fair enough,” Fiddleford said.  “When his wings ‘re healed, maybe we clip ‘em?”

               “That’s a good idea,” Ford said.  Prometheus squawked.  “It is, Prometheus.  I know you won’t be happy about it, but you can’t agitate your injuries.” Prometheus squawked again.  

               “What are yer plans, fer once they’ve healed?” Fiddleford asked.  

               “Let them loose,” Ford said simply.  “I’d hate to remove two creatures from the wild, particularly given that I don’t know their ecological niche.”

               “Have ya examined the female yet?”

               “No.  Prometheus refused to let me get close to her this morning.”

               “Yer a good mate, ain’t ya?” Fiddleford asked Prometheus.  Prometheus puffed up his feathers proudly.  “Ya keep yer lady safe.”  Prometheus let out a self-assured crow.

               “I wasn’t going to harm her,” Ford protested.

               “I know.  But the phoenixes don’t,” Fiddleford said.  Still locked in the bird cage, Pele chirped loudly.  “Want me to get Pele out?  She seems to prefer me, so far.”

               “Yes, thank you,” Ford replied, turning a page in his journal. Prometheus cocked his head at Ford’s notes.  “These are the results of examining you and your mate, Prometheus,” Ford said.  He tapped a pen against his chin.  “It’s odd, actually, what I’ve been seeing from you two.  According to tradition, mating season starts in March.  We’re ten days from April, however, and I have yet to see any mating behaviors from the two of you.”

               “They’re injured,” Fiddleford said as he put a leather glove on.  “They’re prob’ly waitin’ until they’re at 100% to dance the goat’s jig.”  Prometheus let out a sort of stuttered hiss.  Ford and Fiddleford stared at the phoenix.  “Was that a laugh?”

               “Sounded like it,” Ford said softly.  Fiddleford shrugged, then walked to the bird cage and opened the door.

               “Here ya go, beauty,” Fiddleford said sweetly, holding his arm out.  Pele hummed and took a dainty step onto the glove. “Gosh, yer so dang gorgeous.  I know I’ve said that ‘fore, but it’s true, darlin’.  And yer a sweetheart, too.”

               “Not to me,” Ford muttered.

               “Even birds have favorites, Stanford.”  Fiddleford scratched the crown of Pele’s head, eliciting a contented trill from her.  “This is the good spot, ain’t it?” he cooed.

               “Your experience in handling birds doubtless helps you,” Ford said.  

               “True enough.”  Fiddleford carefully deposited Pele on the stand next to Prometheus.  She immediately sidled to her mate and nuzzled him.  “Aw, look at ‘em.  They’re so cute.”

               “Yes, yes, they’re very romantic with each other,” Ford said dismissively. “Kindly remove Prometheus, however, so that I can examine Pele.”  

               “Are ya sure?  Seems like they want to spend some time together,” Fiddleford said, watching the phoenixes snuggle.  

               “They’ll have ample opportunities to do so, after I’ve checked on how the female is healing,” Ford said.  Fiddleford sighed.

               “All right.  Yer the boss.”  Fiddleford reached for Prometheus.  Prometheus hissed fiercely at him.  “Don’t be like that, sir.  This is what has to happen.”  Prometheus let out a loud screech.  Fiddleford blanched and immediately took a step away.  

               “Fiddleford, he’s just posturing,” Ford said.  “You told me yourself that he would act like he would attack, but not make good on the promise.”

               “I can tell the difference between posturin’ and a real threat,” Fiddleford said.  “That was Prometheus sayin’, ‘Quit it or I’ll bite.’”

               “I doubt that.  They’ve been behaving incredibly well, particularly for a pair of wild animals,” Ford said.  He reached for Prometheus.  Prometheus snapped at Ford, his beak coming together a millimeter from Ford’s hand.

               “Good behavior or not, they’ve been through the wringer lately,” Fiddleford said.  He shook his head.  “Bein’ injured, then wakin’ up in a strange place, bein’ poked and prodded by folks they don’t know…these birds need a break.”

               “I do have to examine Pele,” Ford insisted.  

               “Try doin’ that after they’ve relaxed a bit,” Fiddleford suggested. Prometheus began to preen Pele’s feathers.  “Let’s give ‘em some alone time.”

               “This is my study,” Ford said. Fiddleford nodded.

               “But it’s also where ya set the birds up.  Come on, it’s lunchtime, I’ll whip us up somethin’.”

               “Fine,” Ford sighed, following Fiddleford out of the room.  Fiddleford smiled.  

               “Thank you, Stanford.  And maybe we can call Angie and Stan, while the phoenixes decompress.  Haven’t heard from those two lately.”

archiveofourown.org
Fractured - Kyluxtrashpit (ApostateRevolutionary) - Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapter 7 of Fractured is now up!

This one’s got a little bit of everything in it. Angst, graphic depictions of caretaking, feelings, some smut, etc.

I also want it on record that I manually calculated the approximate mass of the Finalizer for one minor sentence lmao

Idea for a Superman origin movie

built around two solid points:
1) Lois Lane is the lead character; and
2) The audience dose not know who is playing Superman going into the movie.

So the movie centers around a young Lois, who’s desperately trying to get a job as a reporter at the Daily Planet, despite a hiring freeze as the printed journalism business struggles to keep up, and despite the fact she has no prior journalism experience (at least, not outside of an expensive degree that has yet to start paying for itself). Even though no one at the Planet will even return her calls, she barges in in the middle of a work day, trying to get an interview. She bounces off a lot of people (a number of them tall guys with dark hair and nice eyes who she barely notices) until she tracks down Perry White, who tells her, sarcastically, that he’ll hire her on the spot if she can bring him a properly sourced article revealing the story Metropolis’s new hero, who just yesterday stopped a runaway train with his bare hands. 

She gets to work. Her friends tell her she’s crazy. Her sister bails her out of jail at least once (maybe a montage of times). Her father, General Lane, threatens disownment and/or military arrest. This “menace” broke a muggers arm last week, and is wanted for vigilantism. If she really does find out the identity of this man (who’s been gaining notoriety with every feat) and brings it to a newspaper before the military, her father would have to take action. (This country is his family, after all.)

But the more Lois looks into this ‘super man’, the more she likes what she sees. It’s hard without credentials, but she’s been collecting eye-witness reports for months trying to find the pattern to track; the pattern that everyone’s been looking for. She has dozens of interviews with police, and store owners, and caught criminals, but it’s in the interviews of the regular folk that she finds the pattern:

This man is kind. 

Every headline is about a larger-than-life figure who catches falling statues, wins chases with cars, and stops bullets with his pecs. In the words of the innocent people of Metropolis though, is someone else. Someone who flies broken cars to the shop from the highway during rush hour. Someone who takes a sobbing child from the scene of a bike accident and drops off a smiling one with their parents. Someone who’s been spotted leaving flowers by the headstones of the ones who didn’t make it out of that train crash. Someone who sits in a secluded corner of the park and plays chess with the old woman who’s husband can no longer leave the house. Someone who literally pulled a dog out of a river and a cat from a tree. 

So, to find the Man of Steel, Lois searches for kindness - and she finds it everywhere. She finds all the coats freely shed for someone cold. She finds all the grocery carts paid for by the previous customer. She finds lonely veterans offered a seat at the family table in restaurants. She finds hate symbols painted over with cute cartoons and symbols of love. She finds dozens and dozens of volunteers who help clean up and serve food and rebuild after train crashes and car wrecks and robberies. 

She finds Superman.

And then she finds a man in the park.

He’s not doing much, just sitting on a bench with his head in his hands. The copy of the Daily Planet on the bench next to him speculates on the dangers of super humans, as it has every day for the last two weeks. Some have even suggested that the Man of Steel is an alien, though those theories have only barely broken into mainstream. Whatever this man is worrying over, whatever weight is on his shoulders, seems much heavier than a newspaper, though. Lois hasn’t worried herself with the same issue’s as her prospective employer, either. Thoughts still on the group of teens she’s just passed, each promising to beat up on some boy for their friend, are still fresh on her mind, and she takes the spot next to the stranger on the bench.

He’s not a stranger, though. Lois recognizes him. She doesn’t know his name, but she saw him that day at the Daily Planet months ago, and she’s seen him across the police tape at scenes she’s investigated. He wrote today’s front page article: “Man of Steel, or Menace of Steel?”

He’s politely flustered when she sits down, and she promptly tells him that everything about his article - she’s already read it, of course - is absurd. She doesn’t care who “made him write it”, the entire thing is just plain wrong. She finds herself repeating stories she’s read and re-read at all hours of the morning. Stories of regular people who’d told her how they’d been inspired by Superman. How they’d taken leaps of faith toward recovery and new lives thanks to Superman. Teenagers have chosen to live because of Superman. She quotes sources, and sources of people, including herself, who have said that the city of Metropolis - maybe even the world - was so much better because of Superman.

“Superman?” the reporter asks.

“It’s just something I’ve been calling him. He’s got that big S on his chest, right?”

The reporter laughs. He hasn’t smiled the whole time, only looked at her with wide eyes. His smile is… nice. His glasses are dumb though.

“Yeah,” she admits, “it’s a dumb name.”

“No,” he says. A weight has fallen off his shoulders while she was flipping through her notebooks. He sniffles a bit. Lois had just torn into his article with all the fury she could muster, is he crying about it? No, he’s smiling, still. “I really like it. Have you written all this down?”

Lois Lane writes it all down. Her new friend (who proofread the hell out of it because Lois is driven as hell but can’t spell) Clark Kent turned it in to his boss. The newest headline reads:

The Story of Superman -by Lois Lane


She’s getting paid more than Clark in under a year. He just seems to be so distracted all the time. Maybe she should look into that…
Heroes of Olympus as popular text posts
  • Percy: ''Fun drinking game: Take a shot of water every couple hours to make sure you’re healthy and hydrated.''
  • Annabeth: ''Do you ever have the urge to tell someone to shut the fuck up even when they aren’t talking?''
  • Jason: ''If you ever feel bad about yourself remember that one time i didn’t understand that my waiter was just trying to give me my change so i fist bumped him instead ''
  • Piper: ''People always shoot down my ideas and I’m sick of it. two sentences in and everyone’s already shouting “what the fuck that’s illegal” or “you can’t do that” let me talk dear god''
  • Leo: ''Back by unpopular demand: me''
  • Hazel: ''I watched my brother drop a remote on his foot and the only thing he said was “i am so sick of being alive”''
  • Frank: ''Listen, I’m a nice person so if I’m a bitch to you, you need to ask yourself why.''
  • Nico: ''Gayer than intended: an autobiography''
  • Reyna: ''Girls aren’t playing hard to get… They don’t want you.''
Just say yes 🥂

“Fancy meeting you here.” Harry watched amusedly as Malfoy whirled around in surprise and almost dropped his champagne flute.

“Potter.” He sounded breathless, caught off guard. “I thought you were in Egypt on some mission.”

Harry cocked his head to one side and gave Malfoy a quizzical glance.

“I see you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“That’s not-” Malfoy’s cheeks turned rosy as he quickly looked away. “Your name is always all over the paper.”

“This was a secret mission,” Harry replied, trying not to snicker.

“Yeah, well… It’s- it’s hard to escape you. People talk about you everywhere. Everywhere!”

“Sure,” Harry said, taking a sip of champagne.

“Auror Potter! Auror Potter!” A small, middle-aged man behind Malfoy began waving frantically at Harry, almost jumping up and down in his excitement.

“Oh no,” Harry muttered. Malfoy took a look over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

“Auror Potter! We didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” the middle-aged man said, clasping one of Harry’s hands and shaking it vigorously.

“Mister Franklin,” Harry said, barely able to hide his annoyance.

“You were on a mission I presume? Was it undercover? Did it go well?”

Harry sighed and briefly closed his eyes.

“Mister Franklin, a gala is hardly the place for an interview, is it?”

Mister Franklin chuckled and clasped Harry’s hand even tighter.

“You know how it is with us reporters, we never rest.”

“Oh yes, I know,” Harry said. “However, I am currently unavailable for a statement.”

“But Auror Potter-”

“If you will excuse me, Mister Franklin,” Harry interrupted him, freeing his hand from the other man’s grip and placing it on Malfoy’s back. “I have important business to attend to.”

He ignored the incredulous looks Mister Franklin and Malfoy were giving him and pushed through the crowd. Harry noticed how Malfoy’s body twitched under his touch. It made Harry’s stomach flip. He hadn’t planned to be so bold but escaping a reporter from the Daily Prophet always took priority.

He hoped Mister Franklin wasn’t following them. But even if he left them alone, almost every other person in the room was sure to assault Harry sooner or later. But he couldn’t leave yet. He had promised Kingsley he’d stay at least two hours. And now, after bumping into Malfoy, he had another reason to stay.

When Harry spotted the double doors leading to one of the balconies, he let out a sigh of relief. That could work. He gently pushed Malfoy outside, who was completely flustered at this point.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, slapping Harry’s hand away and smoothing down his robes.

“What? I really didn’t want to talk to that reporter,” Harry said shrugging.

“But why did you drag me along with you?” Malfoy studied him suspiciously and Harry noticed how he was clutching his champagne flute.

“I wanted to keep talking to you,” Harry said, surprised Malfoy had to ask.

“And what gave you the impression I wanted to keep talking to you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Harry said, knitting his eyebrows together. “Feel free to go. It wasn’t my intention to bring you out here against your will.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he turned and walked to the edge of the balcony, resting his elbows against the railing.

It took Harry a moment to realise Malfoy wasn’t leaving after all. He was waiting for Harry to join him. Harry made sure the goofy smile had somewhat vanished before he stepped up beside Malfoy, mimicking his pose, and looked out to the garden below.

“It’s a little bit like Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?” Harry said, relishing the sudden quietness around them.

Malfoy let out a snort and Harry was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes.

“For that you’d have to be standing down there, you knobhead.”

Harry blinked.

“I didn’t mean… I just meant the setting reminds me of-” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’d want me to be standing down there, serenading you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy muttered. But Harry had the impression his cheeks were getting pinker by the second. “Besides, Romeo didn’t serenade Juliet.”

“He didn’t? Huh. I thought he did,” Harry said frowning. “Well that’s good I guess. I’m rubbish at singing.”

There was a long silence after that and Harry wondered what Malfoy was thinking about. He heard him take a deep breath before he finally spoke again.

“I guess we are a bit like Romeo and Juliet.”

Harry looked at him in astonishment.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, our families weren’t exactly enemies but I have often wondered what would have happened if my father hadn’t- if it weren’t for my father…maybe it wouldn’t have been impossible. Or forbidden.”

“Forbidden,” Harry repeated dumbstruck. “You mean to say…”

“I’m not saying anything,” Malfoy said quickly, clamping his mouth shut.

“I think you just did,” Harry insisted, giving the other man a toothy grin. “I have to admit, when I saw you tonight I didn’t think it would lead up to this.”

Malfoy didn’t reply and just stared at the fountain in the middle of the garden below them.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Harry said quietly. “We could still… well, how about we start with dinner?”

“Dinner?” Malfoy sounded skeptical. When he gulped down the rest of his champagne, Harry couldn’t contain a snicker.

“Dinner.” He turned to Malfoy and bit his lip. “All you have to do is say yes.”

When Malfoy didn’t say anything, Harry tentatively moved his hand down the railing and placed it on the other man’s.

“Just say yes.”

Harry watched as the corner’s of Malfoy’s mouth twitched and his body gave a little shiver.

“It’s that easy?”

“Yes,” Harry said. Malfoy cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the garden while his lips stretched into a smile.

“Is that a yes?” Harry asked. Malfoy turned his head to look at him, his eyes shining brightly.

“Yes, you twit! It’s a yes.”


Inspiration

Kiwi

Originally posted by fearless-man

Inspired by Harry Styles’ song ‘Kiwi’. Just an one shot without any connections to other stories I’ve written. Hope you enjoy!

Warning: Smut

She’s driving me crazy, but I’m into it, but I’m into it
I’m kinda into it
It’s getting crazy, I think I’m losing it, I think I’m losing it

Keep reading

Itch

Well, you wanted it, so, I wrote this like ten minutes before I took a shower.

I gave up my shower for you. @sweetpopcornkat

Disclaimer: Voltron doesn’t belong to me. 


There’s an itch.

It’s a familiar itch, the one that urges him to touch, stroke and caress gently against a pale skin. Lance doesn’t fight, not anymore, he allows himself to let go and sigh pleased when his fingers find Keith’s mop of black hair and he stats running them through it, carefully and gently in hopes of not waking up the sleeping teen on him.

It’s sight that he thinks he will never get used to and he’s more than okay with that, because he doesn’t think he will ever get tired of his heart fluttering excitedly as he catches Keith’s soft round cheeks covered in a faint blush with a ghost smile lingering on the corner of his lips.

He hums quietly under his breath, an old song that his mama used to sing to him before bed, sometimes right after a nightmare, and he smiles fondly when Keith’s form snuggles closer to his chest, a soft sigh leaving his mouth.

It makes him chuckle, untangling himself from his boyfriend’s grip carefully before he slips out and leaves the room. There’s a rumble inside him that tells him that food is necessary and when most of the time he would ignore it, something tells him that it’s heavily important at the moment.

He comes back not even fifteen minutes later with an extra plate of food goo and the new sight that greets him is accompanied with a sleepy smile from Keith and a held up hand towards him.

“Hey there,” Keith whispers, low and still heavy with sleep, hand still reaching for Lance, “I missed you.”

Lance shakes his head in amusement before he drops the plate on the drawer next to the door. “I was only gone for like, ten minutes, babe.”

Keith’s seems to ignore him, because he only repeats himself. “I missed you.”

Lance frowns. “Keith –“

“I miss you.” Keith whispers, features changing, smile dropping and eyes wide.

“Babe.” Lance says in concern, taking a step forward, hand reaching to hold Keith’s but after two steps, the hand is nowhere closer to his own and Lance’s breath hitches, “Keith –“

“Lance,” Keith mumbles, sad and desperate, “Lance, please come back.”

“I’m – I’m trying –“

“I miss you.”

“Keith –“

“Come back.”

He gasps, the air around him not enough to fill in his lungs and something gets stuck in his throat as he tries to take a deep breath. The lump makes it hard to swallow, sudden and sharp, but Lance does his best to slow down his breathing, mouth open in hopes to ease it.

He opens his eyes, blinking owlishly. It takes him a few ticks before his eyes are clear, adjusting to the sudden darkness that surrounds him, but he can easily recognize the dark purple glow on the edge of his vision.

The floor of his cell is as dirty as the day he got locked up, half eaten meals and broken pieces of his armor being the only thing decorating the small space. How long as it been since he got captured? Hours? Days? Months?

How long until his team comes?

How long until he realizes and accepts they won’t?

He takes a deep breath, ignoring the painful tug in his stomach when he tries to sit up and then he’s leaning against the wall, staring that the purple glow on the right corner of the cell silently and his insides twist unpleasantly when it doesn’t resemble the kind of purple he aches to see. The kind of purple that only comes at dusk back on earth or the one that will always appear in Keith’s eyes when the blue glow of the Castle’s light will hit them just right.

It doesn’t resemble Keith’s dilated pupils when Lance would be caressing his cheek lovingly before dropping a kiss against his lips, breathing in the small gasp of surprise that would escape the teen.

It doesn’t resemble anything from home and Lance doesn’t even try to hide his tears.

The itch comes back, but there’s nothing for him to reach out anymore.

grand-duc  asked:

Fia, fia! regarding Palpatine's increased fury at the leaks and Darth Vader's inability to stop them, imagine, Vader, in a fit of defensive frustration in the middle of a meeting with Very Important People "They cant have escaped without inside help! Unless they grew wings and flew away!"

This is absolutely amazing, and even more so if Palpatine is present himself, because Anakin’s basically proclaiming “It was me!” twice in a row.

“They can’t have escaped without inside help.” (The inside help was me.)

“Unless they grew wings and flew away!” (Like some kind of sky-walker or something. Huh.)

Also, as you pointed out in messenger, Kadee literally can fly.

*

And on that note, I think Anakin gets a lot of grim pleasure out of basically telling Palpatine “Hello yes the traitor is me” in as many oblique ways as possible. There’s the smugly bitter satisfaction of rubbing it in his face and knowing he still won’t get it. And, yes, there is a bit of a thrill to it, too, because there’s always the chance that maybe this time Palpatine will somehow pick up on it. But he never does.

So there’s the bouquet of disdain. There’s comments like this. There’s brazenly framing a man like Moff Pirus, who came to Vader to expose Pooja as a traitor, as a traitor himself. There’s the multiple times he’s tried to track down the spy Ekkreth without success. There’s strongly implying to Palpatine that Obi-Wan, the man Vader just killed, was in fact Ekkreth. There’s the slowly but steadily growing list of people Anakin’s extracted by “killing” them, and afterwards assuring Palpatine he’s “taken care of” the traitors. And, of course, there’s his code name, Ekkreth, which is literally just his name.

Honestly Luke is  probably going to spend the rest of his life being endlessly amused that people think his dad was some kind of super spy, when in fact Anakin basically spent 20 years spelling out “MY NAME IS ANAKIN SKYWALKER AND I’M PLOTTING TO DESTROY MY MASTER” in blazing neon lights for anyone who knew how to read the script.

whatever you do, don’t imagine richie and bill getting together. but, plot twist, stanley is secretly in love with bill.

don’t imagine bill and richie holding hands while they’re out with the group and the entire group awhs at them while stanley puts on a fake smile, joining in on the cooing.

don’t imagine stanley listening to bill gush over richie as stanley holds back tears.

don’t imagine stanley going over to bill’s house only to see polaroids of richie and bill scattered across his desk.

don’t imagine stanley realizing that bill and richie have been together for over seven months.

don’t imagine stanley going to beverly’s at two in the morning, in the middle of a breakdown, and tells her how he’s been hurting for seven months.

don’t imagine stanley putting his friend’s happiness before his.

don’t imagine bill breaking stanley’s heart, and bill not even knowing.

don’t imagine stanley being heartbroken.

He’s usually not this emotional, not this irritated and annoyed and unjustly angry, but today proves otherwise. 

And this morning he woke up and Yuuri wasn’t by his side like he usually is, and he knows Yuuri just had to go the bathroom, but waking up and feeling the slightest of panic that Yuuri is gone is not the way Victor likes to wake up. 

He’s being overdramatic. As usual. 

He coaches now. And his tenth anniversary is coming up in three weeks, and fuck, he’s old, isn’t he?

On his way to the rink, he spills his coffee on his shirt. 

Figures. 

At the rink, his skaters are particularly annoying today, two of them even having the audacity to show up late, giggling as they hold hands. 

(Victor knows he’s being a hypocrite. He and Yuuri used to do that kind of shit all the time. They still do. But Victor is annoyed today. And he isn’t that young anymore.)

He yells at them for being late, and he feels a slight pang of guilt when they both look down, ashamed, and unlock hands. 

(Damn.)

But he’s annoyed. His coffee spilled all over him, they were late, and Yuuri wasn’t by his side when he woke up. 

All stupid things, he reasons. He knows he’s being much too emotional for a man who’s almost, fuck, forty, but he can’t care today. 

He goes home irritated too. 

And his overdramatic ass slams the door shut as soon as he does. 

“Victor?” he hears Yuuri ask, and then there his husband is, confusion written all over his pretty face. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. 

Yuuri frowns. “What’s wrong? What’s… what’s on your shirt?”

“Coffee,” he mutters, walking past him. 

Yuuri is silent for a moment and Victor sighs. 

He goes over to their couch, plopping himself down. His back hurts for some reason. 

Probably because you’re getting old and ugly, he thinks, resigned as always when it comes to his fate. 

Yuuri’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders. 

“You’re tense,” he says, massaging for only a few brief seconds since Victor immediately leans forward.

He doesn’t have to look at Yuuri to see the hurt on his face. 

(He just didn’t want Yuuri treating him like… like he’s old.)

“Victor, what’s going on?” Yuuri asks, coming to the other side of the couch. 

Victor doesn’t respond and glares at the ground. 

Victor.

What do you want?!” Victor suddenly hisses, surprising both himself and his husband. 

(Fuck. Now Yuuri hates him.)

“Why are you being an ass today?” Yuuri says, not backing down. 

Victor looks up, meeting his gaze. Yuuri’s glare is somehow a mixture of irritation and worry, and that irritates Victor even more. 

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“You’re my husband, Victor.”

“And when I’m old?” 

(And there it is. Victor’s stupid insecurities. His insecurities about his hair receding and the wrinkles he’s getting. His insecurities of Yuuri still looking like a damn model and leaving him for someone better.

He didn’t use to be this insecure.)

Yuuri’s glare turns into slight confusion, worry, and then finally, understanding. 

Victor looks down when his expression softens. 

“Oh, Victor,” Yuuri says. 

Victor hates this. He hates feeling like this. And he wants so badly to say something something something, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

“This is about you turning forty, isn’t it?”

Yes,” Victor mutters, petulant. 

Yuuri sighs, but doesn’t say anything as he sits down next him. 

When Yuuri puts his head on Victor’s shoulder, something seems inevitable. Victor just feels like something is going to happen and it’s going to be inevitable, and Victor tenses up in fear over what that might be. 

He turns his head to look at Yuuri who’s still resting his head on his shoulder. 

They don’t say anything for a few minutes and Victor takes the silence as a time to reflect on how immature he’s been today. He takes the silence to realize that his husband is leaning against him right now rather than saying anything to let him understand that he acknowledges Victor’s fear, but is with him regardless. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor finally says, heart heavy in his words. 

Yuuri hums softly before pulling his head up and gazing at Victor. 

“I know you’re worried about aging, Victor. Frankly, I don’t see how since you’re still as gorgeous as always and you have a good stable foundation as well as a job that you love doing. But–”

“I’m worried you’ll leave me,” Victor admits. 

Yuuri doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, you’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“You’re. An. Idiot.”

Victor’s heart is racing racing racing and he feels that inevitable moment coming up he feels it he feels it it’s so close. 

“Victor, marrying you was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. I love being with you. I love you. I love you so much, Victor, and there hasn’t been a single day where I’ve regretted marrying you. I don’t think, no… I know, I never will. If you think something stupid like you getting older is going to stop that, you’re wrong. In fact, I fall in love with you more every day, idiot.”

Victor stares at him, tears welling up in his eyes against his will. 

Yuuri smiles at him, leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips. 

This is it this is it this is it this is that inevitable moment, Victor thinks. 

“Victor, would you leave me because I’m getting older?”

Victor frowns. “Of course not.”

“So why would you think I would? You’re it for me, Vitya.”

And then Victor truly does understand and he laughs as he wipes away his tears. 

“I love you. I’m an idiot. I love you I love you I love you, fuck, Yuuri, I love you.”

They’re inevitable.