#genre: au

[fine-nephrit]

🥏 TXF Fic Rec #27: "Five Years and One Night" by Shalimar

Today’s fic is an angst-ridden, plotty, gripping story dealing with the fallout in “Emily”. It starts with Scully transferring to a position in LA after a post-“Kitsunegari” fight, and six months later, Mulder shows up at her door. The revelation of Scully’s stolen fertility and Mulder’s concealment of truth from her in "Emily", something never properly addressed in canon, is satisfyingly explored here.

This fic ticks many of my favorite angst boxes: reunion after a bitter rift and separation, jealousy, electric UST leading to hot smut, posing as a married couple, hopelessly in love but it’s complicated with baggage (including a baby tossed in the mix), and a well earned happy ending after enduring loads of hurt. The momentum of the plot is engrossing, and the tension doesn’t let up till the very end. My eyes were glued to the screen throughout this wild ride.

---

🥏 on Gossamer 🥏 audio version on @audiofanficpod read by @stephr1026

length: novel, 83,000+ words season: season 5 pairing(s): M/S UST to RST tags: AU, action-adventure, angst, episode-related, Emily arc, jealousy, rift, separated/reunited, baby fic, pretend couple, Scully-pov rating: explicit/NC-17

[swsapphics-ao3feed]

by WhiteravenGreywolf

The campaign against Thrawn has been disastrous, but not all hope is lost. By hijacking a spell from the Great Mothers, the team can send someone back to stop Thrawn from ever returning in the first place. Shin volunteers.

Thrust back into her body during Elsbeth's prison break, she surrenders to the New Republic, hoping to speak with Hera and Ahsoka. Most of all, she wants to speak with Sabine.

Words: 2198, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English

Fandoms: Star Wars: Ahsoka (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F

Characters: Shin Hati, Sabine Wren, Ahsoka Tano, Hera Syndulla, Jacen Syndulla, C1-10P | Chopper, Huyang (Star Wars), Ezra Bridger, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Baylan Skoll

Relationships: Shin Hati/Sabine Wren

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Fluff and Angst, Pining, Let's do season 1 but different, magick, Shin Hati Needs A Hug

[blueandgoldoffice]

Sorry for how vague this is. All I remember is that Betty and Jug are roommates and at some point she breaks her leg. I don't think it was an angsty fic either. Just two friends falling in love.

I don't think this is vague at all, I got you! Enjoy!!

Ooof. It might be time for me to hang up my fic searching boots. Thank you for finding the correct fic, @bughead-bones - again, I'm so sorry for the blunder. 💙💛

Together, Tomorrow by @sunshinebunnie (21/21 - E)

Summary: Jughead Jones winds up in need of a new roommate after his current roommate, Joaquin, decides its time to move in with his boyfriend, Kevin Keller. Betty Cooper has recently moved to NY for work and wants to stop living on Veronica's couch.

[myfanfictionrecs]

by ToAStranger on archiveofourown (Humor, AU | 4,673 | M | Billy/Steve)

“Mr. Hargrove,

It has come to HR’s attention that you have, once again, used company property incorrectly. Please refrain from using the break room as a work out facility during your lunch hour. If you are in need a gym recommendation, I'm happy to provide you some. Remove your weights from the lower cabinets at your earliest convenience.

Regards, S. Harrington”

This isn’t the first ridiculous email Steve has had to send to Hargrove, and Steve sincerely doubts it will be his last.

[cryptocism]

You think just anybody can qualify for a crush on Superboy? There's a vetting process. You have to submit an application to the board.

I continue to draw the silly bits of Frequency (this one is from Chapter 5, if context is a thing you like to have)

[exactlaptime]

Max Verstappen post qualifying & Charles Leclerc in Podium post race at F1 Grand Prix of Australia (photos by Mario Renzi & Mark Thompson)

[blackkatdraws2]

The Main Character.

[Blank Scripts AU]

[lionfission]

Initial rescue didn't go as planned, had to try again 2 weeks later...

2/3

Part 1 / Part 3

[justlemmeadoreyou]

boyfriend!harry headcanons

-> Every day starts with Harry's sleepy face pressed into your neck, his breath tickling your ear as he mutters "good mornin', lovie." He steals kisses between yawns, his warm hand tracing patterns on your back until you're both giggling, tangled in the sheets.

-> He knows your perfect cup of coffee, the one that makes you smile like sunshine. He surprises you with it in bed, accompanied by a plate of fluffy pancakes or French toast, shaped into hearts, of course.

-> He pretends to scoff when you put on a chick flick, but you catch him stealing glances at the screen, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile. He hums along to the cheesy soundtrack, his voice husky and low, sending shivers down your spine.

-> One minute you're planning grocery shopping, the next he's whisking you away to a hidden beach for a sunset picnic, complete with a spontaneous bonfire and stargazing. He lives for creating memories that make your heart skip a beat.

-> He believes in you more than you believe in yourself. He cheers you on at work, celebrates your victories (big or small), and holds you tight when you doubt yourself. He whispers encouragement in your ear, his voice laced with unwavering faith.

-> He leaves little love notes tucked in your purse, on the fridge, even in the pages of your favorite book. He hides tiny trinkets for you to find – a seashell from your first beach trip, a vintage postcard with a romantic quote, a single, perfect rose.

-> He pulls out your chair at restaurants, opens doors, and insists on carrying your groceries. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk to shield you from the rain, and offers his jacket when you're cold. It's the little things that make your heart melt.

-> His hands wander under your shirt, sending goosebumps erupting on your skin. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear, promises of forever and endless love. He makes you feel like the only person in the world, cherished and adored.

-> He strums your favorite song on his guitar, his voice husky and soulful, just for you. He pulls you close, swaying to the rhythm, his gaze never leaving yours. He turns any room into a dance floor, his laughter echoing as you spin, lost in your own little world.

-> He's your rock, your confidant, your safe harbor. He listens without judgment, offers advice without pushing, and celebrates your individuality. He loves you for who you are, flaws and all, and that's the most beautiful love story of all.

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

jealous!harry headcanons

let me know if you like this! you can tip me here!

please like and reblog, it may seem stupid but it actually helps a lot! ♡

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

taglist:@freedomfireflies @gurugirl @thechaoticjoy @styleslover-1994 @gem1712 @ellaorchard @bxbyysstuff @opheliaofficial07 @rafaaoli @tchlamqtsgf @the-mouse27 @indierockgirrl @vrittivsanghavi @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @drewrry @babyiamperfectforyou @me-undiscovered @tbsloneely @whoreonmondays @kathb59 @avalentina @kittenhere @speedywritingharrystylesjudge @mypolicemanharryyy @theendx888 @ladscarlett @daphnesutton

[babydarkstar]

im smh everyone implies that harrowhark nonagesimus would listen to death metal and grindcore and all these super gritty music genres and imlike….shes literally a teenage nun raised in a religious cult by people who have long suffered from a death rattle. sugar water is too much for her. she cannot even handle salt in her soup. she is both the most intense and most pathetic human to live. babygirl is not listening to anything with rhythm but the clicking of her bone rosary and the sound of her own breath. and if she ever starts listening to music you can bet your ass it’s obscure 2hour gregorian chant with binaural beats on a portable cd player that she rewinds ad infinitum and plays on the lowest possible setting so as not to interrupt her racing thoughts

[hedgehog-moss]

French TV journalist having a hard time trying to get woman in the street to comment on Macron's latest speech yesterday

Protesters organised casserolades (aka banging on pots and pans) in front of city halls across the country at 8pm, when Macron was speaking, to symbolically drown out his voice. Later that evening, Macron was filmed singing a song with some 'random people' in a street in Paris, trying to show he can go out and meet people and have fun because protesters don't exist. The people he was singing with (members of a choir, some of whom are 'alt-right-leaning') were using a folk song app created by far-right activists that was criticised a few months ago for hosting a Spanish fascist anthem & Third Reich military marches.

The government's response was that the President "couldn't know the background of the people he met that night." Maybe if he wants to avoid being associated with the far-right (that's a big if, I know), Macron should keep in mind that with the kinds of strategies and positioning his government has adopted lately, people in the street who welcome him with open arms and are proud to be filmed with him have a higher than average likelihood of supporting fascism.

[fine-nephrit]

🥏 TXF Fic Rec #23: "You He Did Not Fail" by extraordinarily_ordinary

Today’s fic is a novel-length casefile with a lot to love. It goes AU after the cancer arc in season 5. Scully abruptly leaves the X Files and Mulder to take a new position in LA without explaining why. Two years later, they unexpectedly meet again on a case (dun dun duuun!).

There’s intense relationship angst aplenty, featuring a lovesick, tortured-puppy Mulder, no less. The author sets the scenes with evocative California coasts that leave a lasting impression on me. The casefile is well orchestrated, with suspense driving the plot forward like a freight train. And it’s not often that a fic has an array of nicely fleshed-out OCs that you will actually care about. A keeper!

---

🥏 on AO3

length: novel, 85,000+ words season: season 5 pairing(s): M/S UST to RST, Scully/Other tags: AU, casefile, angst, cancer arc, jealousy, rift, separated/reunited, kidnap/hostage, good OC(s) rating: explicit/NC-17

[swsapphics-ao3feed]

by Lost4Girl

Soulmate Wolfwrein AU In a technologically advanced insular nation resides Sabine Wren, a girl who dreams of being an artist but is forced to work in a bar. Upon turning eighteen, instead of the red thread of soulmates, only a scar appears on her left pinky, signaling a bad omen.

On the other side of the planet, in a vibrant and culturally rich nation, young Shin Hati seeks refuge in technology with the limited resources she has. Carrying a scar on her pinky, a result of a childhood accident, Shin questions her place in the world.

( Another fanfic of opposite soulmates because the writer is obsessed with Wolfwrein, but still doesn't know how to write synopses :))

Words: 1744, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of STAR WARS

Fandoms: Star Wars - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F

Characters: Shin Hati, Sabine Wren

Relationships: Shin Hati/Sabine Wren

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - No Force (Star Wars), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Shin Hati Needs A Hug, Sabine Wren Needs a Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Star Wars References, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping

[blueandgoldoffice]

Hi, I can't find the story, Jughead have nightmares s about Betty kissed Archie, and there was no King of Gargoyles... and they're engaged. I remember exactly what I read, but I can't find it. Will You Help?)

At first I thought it was this one - it’s delightful, you should read it.

The Curious Tale of the Other Betty Cooper by @bugheadsextape (1/1 - T)

Summary: At first she thought it was a dream. One of those early morning dreams where you’re half awake and cognizant enough to realize you’re dreaming.

She was climbing through her bedroom window. Well, she was laying in bed half asleep, but she saw herself climbing through her bedroom window.

How odd.

OR: Why did Betty kiss Archie Andrews? She didn’t.

---

But then I thought it could also be this one - which is also fantastic! Enjoy! 💙💛

welcome home by @riverdalenerdlol (1/1 - M)

Summary: This isn’t the first time Jughead wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. It definitely isn’t uncommon for either one of them.He sits up, his fingers tangled in his inky hair as he grips it desperately. His hands move from his hair, to his face where he feels the cold sweat under his fingertips, to his chest where he focuses on feeling the thrum of his heartbeat below his palm. Soon, his hands find something else… or rather, something else finds his hands.Betty, her eyes barely open, has turned toward him. Jughead looks down between them, seeing her soft hands in his. Her thumbs stroke the backs of his hands sweetly.“It’s okay,” she mutters, her voice groggy with sleep. “I’ve got you.” Betty says the words so confidently. He knows they’ve said them to each other a thousand times, but they don’t stop being comforting.Her hands come up toward him, then she has his jaw cupped in her warm palms. She smells like his body wash and something sweet. Ever so gently, Betty pulls him down. He’s met with her eyes opening wider so he can see her glowing green irises.“What is it?” she asks softly. “What happened?” OR: B*rchie is just a nightmare

[deantfwinchester]

Hands

Pairing: No-Outbreak!AU, Joel x Teacher!Reader as usual (let's just assume these No-Outbreak Joels are all the same couple tbh), established relationship

Summary: Friday nights are reserved for sweatpants and relaxation, of course. But when Joel's work week leaves his hands a bit worse for wear, the night may need to include a break for a little extra attention.

Warnings: extreme fluff once again. expect it at this point. i'm a one-trick pony, i fear.

A/N: finally got around to putting one of my many bulleted notes-app idea fics into paragraph form again! Will we get another one before the year's out? It's anyone's guess! -_-

——————

Friday nights are your favorites. No dinner to cook or rattling rolodex of tasks to come in the next twelve hours give you both a little room to breathe — to gently unwind from yourselves and into one another. It’s typically quiet, and when it isn’t, the volume is born of laughter from games or stories the three of you share.

Joel comes home from an exceptionally long week. You know he’s been on site every day—the whole team has—working longer and longer hours to wrap up the latest project before the client’s deadline. You’re pleased to hear his keys rattle in the door not long after five o’clock, and relieved because the air’s rapidly cooling earlier each night. Daylight Savings time is coming to an end, and today he barely beat the sunset getting home. 

You know the hour means little, however, and are less than astonished at the weary grin he bears on catching sight of you and Sarah on the couch when he walks in the room. She’s already got her purse on her shoulder, eager to head out when her friends arrive, and she’s excitedly recounting the events of the trailer for the movie they’ll be catching tonight. He stands idly in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the two of you chat. You make brief eye contact and smile back, assuring you know he’s there. Neither of you wants to interrupt her avid storytelling.  

“Well don’t you sound excited?” he says when she pauses to catch her breath. You both turn to greet him, and he moves more quickly toward you as you attempt to rise, gesturing to you to remain seated. He’ll come to you both.

He plants a kiss on top of Sarah’s head before leaning down to kiss you as he does each night. You place a hand on his chest and pause when he pulls back to get a good look at his face. You see the fatigue in his droopy-eyed smile, but can’t say anything to him. You already know it’s mirrored in your own expression.

The doorbell rings before either of you can speak again, and Sarah jumps up to head out the door. You wish her a good night, and he follows her to the door, checking for a familiar parent in the driver’s seat and seeing her off. You see him hand her some cash to go with his reminder to make good decisions, and he hugs her. You can’t help but giggle when she takes it with a wide smile.

He turns to you laughing when he sees she’s in the car, and shuts the door.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowed in confusion, but amused at the sound of your laughter.

“Smart girl. I gave her a 20 before you got home,” you grin back at him. He stills in understanding and rolls his eyes. 

“You couldn’t tell me that two minutes ago?” he asks you in mock exasperation.

“But it’s so much funnier this way!” you add, giggling again. You both know he’s wrapped completely around her finger, though she so innocently does not. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him. One of the first reasons you fell in love. 

He shakes his head fondly, and places a hand on his stomach, which begins to grumble softly at him. You raise your eyebrows and meet his gaze. “Any thoughts on dinner?” he asks, and you grin back at him in amusement.

“Handled. Pizza’s already on the way,” you respond and he feigns relief. 

“You’re brilliant.” he says, walking up and grabbing your hand on the back of the couch. You run your thumb in little circles on the back of his hand and give it a light squeeze.

“Duh. Now go get changed! It’s do-nothing time starting now,” you respond, patting the top of his hand in encouragement.

“You read my mind,” he says, leaning down for another quick peck before heading off into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. Naturally, you’ve been in sweats for over an hour now, shedding your own outfit immediately, peeling the school day from your skin. The unspoken uniform for these Friday nights is extremely specific.

The pizza arrives before Joel can even return from the bedroom in a feat of incredible timing. You’re gathering plates and filling glasses with ice when he emerges ready for the night. He moves forward to help you grab the dinner, but you shoo him away to the couch. 

“Nope, I got this. You sit,” you say, lightly shoving his chest away. You leave no room for argument. He grumbles a bit and raises his hands, backing away to the living room. You follow behind him with the pizza and plates, and return once more for the drinks before settling next to him on the couch. He sits on one end, and you sit in the middle, leaving little room between you.

You lean forward, putting pizza on one plate you pass to Joel before grabbing your own, then settle back against the cushion, both sinking in so comfortably a nearly audible sigh fills the room. The comfort in this relief is palpable, and the decompressing can begin. You grab the remote and put on the series you’ve been binging together recently, more for background noise than anything else. 

A few slices and sitcom episodes deep, you’ve set your plates down on the coffee table. With your bellies comfortably full, you’ve somehow slumped deeper, though Joel into the couch and you into his side. His arm is draped over the back of the couch behind you, and you’re nearly laying on him, head propped against his shoulder. 

You hold his free hand in both of yours and absently play with his fingers for a second when you notice the aggressive wear this week has lent his hands. They’re a raw, angry red at the knuckles; his nails are cracked in some places and peeling in others. Moving your fingers gently down toward his wrist, you focus more directly on the state of his, catching sight of a few hangnails and stretched cuticles that can’t be comfortable. He looks down as you begin to worry them beneath the soft pads of your own fingers, and you meet his gaze, brows furrowed as you look between his face and hands. 

“Keep doing that, please,” he says with a sigh before closing his eyes, “I wait all day to feel your hands on mine. They’re so soft.” He lifts your hand to his lips before pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. He loves the delicate, reverent way you play with his hands, like they’re small, fragile things in need of tender attention. You take his hand once again into both of yours and gently rub it between them, looking back up at him, concerned. 

“How do yours feel? They look like they’re hurting you,” you gnaw a bit at your bottom lip in thought, and he tries to assuage your worry.

“I’m alright, darlin’. Nothing worse than I’m used to,” he says. He knows from your deepening frown that you’re less than satisfied with this response.

You couldn’t care less if he’s used to it, he shouldn’t be. You know the protective callouses forged there don’t mean those hands are unfeeling in the slightest.

“Wait there. I’ll be right back,” you say, rising from his side and hastening to the bedroom. It’s his turn to frown now, both in confusion and at the sudden draft that’s appeared at his side.

You return not a minute later with a small tote around your wrist, and hands filled with half the manicure items you own. You sit down next to him and unpack, laying clippers, files, cuticle oil, and two different hand creams — a lotion he’s seen you use regularly, and a jar that must be a new addition — on the coffee table in front of you, along with the selected polishes and remover you had in the tote bag. You’ve been meaning to do your nails, anyway. 

Joel looks incredulously at you, unsure where this is going. Not that he’s a stranger to nail polish — he raised a little girl on his own long enough to have worn the rainbow on his fingers, but tonight? 

“Sorry, no color for you today, honey. Certainly not before these are healed,” you say. He’d chip half your handiwork away by Monday afternoon anyway the way he’s been working lately. Facing him, you cross your legs on the couch and smile, holding your hand out expectantly for his. He raises his eyebrows at you, but places his palm gently in your own. 

You grab the clippers and get to work on the hangnails first. Any peeling skin or cuticle right there at the nail you clip as gently as possible, making note of the reddened and slightly swollen areas at the base of his nail from which they protrude. Those will need careful attention at the end. He doesn’t squirm or react in any way, but you know they’re more sensitive than he’s letting on. 

Next, you clip back any breakages and unevenness in the nails themselves. You’d never find Joel Miller with dirty hands — he gets them clean as soon as he gets home, but all the scrubbing it takes to keep them that way takes its toll. A little trim at their length might help reduce the need for so much each day upon his return. 

After clipping, you grab his first hand again and rest it gently in the palm of your left while your right files steadily to even any rough edges left behind and prevent further injury. It won’t take much, but you’re sure to get them smooth so they won’t catch on anything or bother him later on. 

The cuticle oil is next. He looks at it questioningly, clearly a bit skeptical, only having seen it a few times when you or Sarah used it. He’s never ventured so far himself. While you brush it gently onto each of his nails, you explain its purpose. 

“This’ll just help your nails get a little stronger. It’ll get them hydrated a bit, keep ‘em  from peeling so much when your hands get dry. It’s kinda crazy how much better this stuff is for your nails than even water is. Water’ll make the peeling worse, actually. Weird, huh?”

He just nods along, listening to you, content to learn something new as always. Finger by finger, you massage the oil into his nail and nail bed. After the first round you go back through to massage again, both to make sure no oily feeling is left behind, and to prolong the rapidly concluding process. He could use the attention, anyway.

Finally, you pick up the jar he identified as a new addition: a canister of a hand repair cream labeled for “Healing of dry or cracked skin.”

“Never seen that one before,” he says, reading the label, “What d’ya need this for? Your hands are never dry! I think they’ve been soft every time I’ve held 'em since the day I met ya,” he smiles at you, and you bashfully brush off the compliment. 

“I don’t need it. I use the other one,” you say with finality, opening the jar and pulling the first of his hands into yours. You don’t grab a large dollop of the stuff. You don’t want him to feel a disconcerting weight, grease, or stickiness from this unfamiliar formula, so you get a little and begin. You add a bit more each time you reach a new spot on his knuckles, palms, wrists. 

You take your time, gently massaging into those roughened, tender hands far more than a simple healing salve. He understands why you have the jar now, looking at you knowingly, and you smile back. No words need be exchanged.

Once you’ve finished the last finger and the last stroke on his hands, you squeeze the one in your own, then pat it gently with your other, “There. Gotta feel better now, yeah?”

Joel stares at you like he just watched you reach up and place the moon in the sky, if for no reason other than to light his path. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Thank you sweetheart,” he says, squeezing your hand back and smiling reverently at you. You blush beneath his gaze and look away, unsure what to do with the admiration rolling off of him in waves. You lean back against the couch, file in hand as you start going at your own nails. 

“Good. Don’t let 'em go that long again, either. Where they start hurtin’ ya? Maybe we oughta make this a weekly thing. Manicure night? Been needing someone to do my right hand,” you grin, wiggling the corresponding fingers at him. He smiles back at you, then reaches over and pulls you toward his side, back to your original position laying against him, head resting once again on his shoulder.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says fondly into your hair, planting a kiss to your head in the process. You get comfortable once more, foregoing any plans to do your own nails tonight. You both know those “manicure nights” will be for him — and you’ve got Sarah to do your right hand already, when you do hers.

You grab the same free hand once again and admire your work, then lace your fingers between his own, and rest your twined hands on his leg. You’re satisfied knowing the hand behind you on the couch is comfortable now, healing from the week’s toils and melting into the comforting haze of the early autumn evening.

[keikakudom]

i am not above objectifying my own design to get past creative blocks