Appelsin



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.

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    03 May 2026

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    They gravitated towards Zuko whenever the temperature dipped even slightly. At night, he often woke to someone pulling their bedroll towards him, or slipping under his arm, or turning over in their sleep and colliding with his shoulder.

    It alarmed him, at first. It had never been a good thing when someone woke him in the dead of the night.

    It was strange, then, that he was on the run without Uncle, officially a traitor to his homeland, and for the first time since his mother left, he woke in the night sandwiched between bodies, feeling safe.

     

    (Zuko becomes the group's heat-pack.)

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    01 May 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    [Time passes oddly. Between one second and the next, Sokka has the Fire Lord pinned to the wall with his hands around the bastard’s throat. Golden eyes (one gold eye, his mind whispers) widen in shock.

    “Sokka?” he chokes out. And then he smiles.

    What the fuck?

    “Sokka, I—”

    Sokka slams his head against the wall, once, twice, and the smile wipes off his face. Good.

    What,” Sokka bites out, “have you done to my sister?”]

    Or:

    An injury leaves Sokka with amnesia. His last memory is of the failed invasion, of leaving his father behind in enemy territory on the Day of Black Sun. Of hopelessness. Rage.

    But then he wakes up, and the war is over. Suddenly, he must come to terms with the fact that years have passed, and that he's somehow the Southern Water Tribe Ambassador to the Fire Nation. He is also supposedly friends with banished-Prince-turned-Fire-Lord Zuko, of all people. Close friends.

    Yeah, nah.

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    30 Apr 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Ilya glances at Shane, at the way the dying light is catching in his hair, refracting. At that spiderlily mouth, slightly open and curling coyly, two teeth peeked through the dark gap like an American Girl doll. At that shoulder, bare and pale and close enough to touch if Ilya just leaned forward, if he just reached out and took another liberty.

    To touch another person is to say: I know you will die, and I am doing this anyway.

    His mother used to say something like this. About painting.

    Every portrait is an act of faith, Ilyushenka. Faith and futility both.

    contrary to personal preference, ilya gets a roommate.

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    08 Apr 2026

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    Sherlock Holmes never expected to live a long life, but he never imagined that it would end like this.

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    06 Apr 2026