#I MEAN LOOK AT THESE LOVELY PEOPLE SHARP WOULD NEVER MATILDA WOULD NEVER and black's cord is of chocolate eclair

[superconductivebean]

#596: wright has accidentally destroyed hp timeline but doesn't know it yet

ancient magic is no shit

[this-forest-within-me]

I write fanfic, and I’m actually really proud of it! I’ve been writing for many years, and have poetry accounts on Facebook and Instagram, but my main ambition has always been to write fiction novels.

Funnily enough, Robin Hood BBC gives me oodles of inspiration to do just that. This is a short story I wrote for my friend, Michelle, a huge Gisborne fan, for her Secret Santa gift. I hope you like it.

** It is aimed at Gisborne fans only - no outlaws are involved in the making of this **

Third Chances

The end was nigh. Sir Guy of Gisborne, once the Master-at-Arms and evil henchman to the Sheriff of Nottingham, black knight supreme, and killer of Lady Marian, his one true love, was dying. Stabbed by Vaisey, the sheriff himself, in a fight to the death, he lay on the ground in the tunnels beneath Nottingham Castle, and thought about the life he had lived. About the mistakes he had made, and the people he was leaving behind.

Robin Hood, formerly his sworn enemy and love rival but now his brother in arms, held Guy tightly as his breathing slowed, and then, the black knight was gone and Robin laid him gently on the ground.

He was left alone, his lifeless body, swathed in black leather, resting on the cold, stone floor, his black hair fanned around his head. And, when the castle exploded above him, he didn't notice a thing.

***

Two days later, after a full day and night of torrential rain which had doused the raging fire in the castle, leaving a smouldering, blackened pile of stone, the salvage team was sent in. Made up of various villagers from Nottinghamshire, as well as bounty hunters from further afield, their main aim was to recover bodies, along with any valuables that hadn't been destroyed in the explosion, caused by Robin Hood's final arrow, aflame, hitting a barrel of Byzantine Greek fire.

There wasn't much hope for survivors. The Byzantine fire had decimated the castle keep, and there was barely anything left of the imposing fortress. Only rubble and death.

Michelle of Clun was part of a small team who had been sent below the castle, into the secret tunnels that had connected the castle to Sherwood Forest. Unused for many years, they had recently been the scene of a bloodthirsty battle between Isabella of Gisborne and Vaisey, former Sheriffs of Nottingham, and Guy of Gisborne and Robin Hood. The battle, that had been coming for many months, had ended with the death of everyone involved, apart from Archer, the illegitimate brother of both Gisborne and Hood, who now lived in the forest with Robin's outlaw gang.

All that should remain in the tunnels below the castle was the body of Gisborne, which Archer had requested be removed and receive a Christian burial.

Michelle felt a degree of melancholy as she descended into the tunnels depths. Although she hadn't known the imposing black knight in person, she had seen him around, and had admired his dark good looks from a distance. She had also sensed the yearning deep in his soul, for it mirrored her own.

She wasn't looking forward to seeing such a great man reduced to nothing more than a corpse, but the pay for salvaging was handsome, and she needed the money. It had been a difficult year. She only hoped that the sight of Guy of Gisborne's body wouldn't make her openly cry.

There was rubble all around, and, as Michelle and her compatriots scanned the area, she worried that they would not find a body in one piece. Setting out alone, she moved further into the cellar, coughing a little as she disturbed piles of dust. Holding her lantern above her head, she glimpsed a flash ahead of her and recognised the muted shine of a leather-clad arm, and a motionless hand. As she drew closer, she realised a wooden beam had fallen diagonally, wedging itself between the ground and the ceiling, and causing the rubble above it to pile onto the wooden beam. Beneath it lay Gisborne's body, protected.

Michelle called out to her workmates and fell to her knees beside the body. In repose, Guy's face was pale and austere, beautifully handsome. His leather jacket was a bloodied mess, and she tried not to look too closely. She felt a pang of loss. Although she had never even spoken to him, he had felt like a kindred spirit, yet his life had been snuffed out so early. Before she had even had chance to say hello.

She reached out a gentle hand to brush the dust from his face, and it barely registered that he was still warm before his bloodshot eyes snapped open, staring at her uncomprehendingly.

She shrieked, and Denton, one of the other salvagers, reached her first, placing his hand on her shoulder.

"Michelle, are you alright?"

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "It's Gisborne. He— he's alive."

The rest of the gang joined them, and Guy was briefly and inexpertly examined. He was alive, but in a bad way. He had lost a lot of blood, and his wound was deep and jagged. It was unlikely that he would survive, but Michelle was suddenly galvanised into action.

They fashioned a makeshift stretcher and lifted Guy onto it. He cried out in pain, but his words were delirious and made little sense. There was no room to take him to the upper levels of the castle, so it was agreed that he would be transported further along the tunnel and into the forest. From there, Michelle intended to take him to her home nearby, where she would call for the wise-woman, Matilda.

***

It took a while to manoeuvre their way out of the tunnels, but, eventually, they reached Michelle's modest cottage in the village of Clun. They laid the knight out on her mattress.

"What will you do with 'im, Michelle?" Rose, one of the other salvagers, asked, and Michelle shrugged.

"I don't yet know, but I have to try to save him," she replied.

"Just be careful, Michelle," Denton warned. "He was never a nice man. I'd hate for yer to get hurt."

They left to return to the castle, and Michelle covered Guy with fleeces and ran as fast as she could to Matilda's forest dwelling. The wise-woman was tending to her herb garden, yet gathered her things together and followed Michelle, sensing the urgency in her friend's words.

Once in Michelle's cottage, she stopped and stared at the figure on the bed.

"My dear, dear 'Chelle. Why are yer wasting yer time on this scoundrel? I reckon 'e deserves to die, more so than my poor Robin did."

"Maybe so," Michelle replied. "But he's alive, and I can't allow him to suffer."

Matilda shrugged. "Very well. We will need hot water, and rags. Oh, an' a sharp knife so I can remove these leathers. I need to get to the wound," she added to a wide-eyed Michelle.

Matilda worked long into the day, removing Guy's clothes, cleaning the deep wound, and stitching it. Guy cried out in delirium and stared about him, although he never saw them. He muttered to himself and shouted, speaking to Robin and Marian and Archer, crying for his mother. Michelle did her best to hold him down while Matilda worked on the wound, and it wasn't difficult for he was very weak.

Once the wound was sewn and covered, they attempted to feed him with broth. He took a little and drank deeply when offered water. Matilda added something to the cup, and, eventually, he slept.

Michelle stayed with him almost constantly. His sleep was restless, and his skin burned with fever. He called out constantly, and pawed at the bandages. Sometimes, he cried, speaking Marian's name, begging for her forgiveness. Other times, he shouted for his mother, his voice forlorn and lost. Michelle tended to him, cleaning him constantly, and ensuring he was comfortable. She slept in short intervals, alert to Guy's needs, always on hand to serve him. She was exhausted, but the desire to nurse the knight back to health was paramount. He deserved a second chance; everybody deserved a second chance. Even a third chance.

On the seventh day, Guy's fever broke, and the knight slept peacefully, at long last. Exhausted yet pleased, Michelle pulled blankets around herself and curled up by the fire, falling into a deep sleep.

When she finally awoke, she had no idea where she was. She was facing the stone hearth, and her slumber had been so deep that she was, for a moment, confused. But then, it all came flooding back; entering the castle ruins, finding Guy's body, bringing him home, and nursing him through the worst of his fever.

She rubbed her eyes, sleepily, and stretched. Behind her, the mattress creaked and a tentative voice broke the silence.

"My— my lady. Please tell me where I am and why I am here."

With a gasp, Michelle whipped round, clutching the blankets beneath her chin. Guy was awake, watching her in bewilderment. His gaze softened as he regarded her startled countenance.

"I don't mean to alarm you. But," he looked around the cottage. "I have no recollection of getting here. What happened? And why am I," he looked downwards, appearing embarrassed. "Why am I naked?"

Michelle blushed and scrambled to her feet. It had been easier to keep him unclothed while she tended to his needs, including his bodily functions. She couldn't deny having admired his body while she worked, and she hoped it wasn't written all over her face.

"My lord," she stammered. "I apologise. I found you in the castle, close to death, and brought you to my home. You had been stabbed and everybody thought you were dead."

She watched the puzzlement on Guy's face turn to realisation as he recalled the events that had lead to him being stabbed. He looked stricken.

"Robin?"

Michelle shook her head, regretfully, and his expression fell. "What about Isabella? The Sheriff?"

"The castle exploded," Michelle explained, gently. "They both died."

A tumult of emotions passed over his features before they settled on grim satisfaction. He nodded, stonily. "They got what they deserved."

Unsure of how to reply, Michelle fell silent, and, after a short pause, he looked up at her, hopefully.

"I'm hungry and thirsty. Is there anything to eat?"

Glad of something to do, Michelle fetched him broth and cooled boiled water, and he drank both, greedily, and asked for seconds. Once he was full, he asked for clothing.

His leather outfit was ruined, having been cut off his body by Matilda, who had commented bawdily on his emerging body parts. Cringing slightly, Michelle told him that his former outfit was not suitable to wear anymore, and he shrugged.

"Leathers were the old me. I need something new."

Enthusiastically, she left him consuming more broth and ran to her neighbour's cottage. Robert was tall and built similarly to Guy, and he presented her with clothing suitable for the black knight. Returning to the cottage, Michelle found Guy sleeping again, and she lay the outfit, roughly-made leggings and a loose black tunic, out on the mattress beside him, before setting to work filling the water supply and collecting firewood.

He awoke much later and dressed, gratefully, before attempting to rise. He was too weak, though, and Michelle had to help him, wedging her shoulder under his armpit and guiding him outside so he could relieve himself. Although she turned away to preserve his dignity, he remained unembarrassed in her presence.

"I don't even know your name," he said to her, once they were back in the cottage, and he was eagerly spooning more broth into his mouth.

"It is Michelle," she said, shyly.

He nodded. "Of course. A beautiful name for a beautiful person."

"Oh, I don't know." Michelle avoided his eyes, directing her gaze at the floor, modestly, but he reached out to put a finger under her chin, raising her head until her eyes met his.

"I tell the truth," he said, softly, looking into her eyes. "I owe you my life. You have selflessly nursed me back to health, even though you didn't have to. I don't know how to repay you."

Michelle smiled, faintly. "I'm just glad that you are recovering, my lord."

"It is Guy," he told her, firmly. "You can call me Guy. I am no longer lord of anywhere."

"You will always be a lord to me, Guy." Michelle looked at him, unable to hide the adoration in her eyes, and he stroked a finger across her cheek.

Michelle could feel herself falling for the black knight, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Indeed, the longer he resided with her, the less effort she put into hiding it. She hoped against hope that he would eventually feel the same way, and sometimes, she thought that he did. It was in the way he watched her when he thought she didn't know, in the way his hand lingered on hers when she helped him to move about. It was in the way he spoke her name, like it was the most precious, exotic word he had ever uttered. Maybe he was just grateful to her, but Michelle hoped it was more, because she was mad about him.

The day that she was dreading finally arrived. Guy was finally well enough to return to his home in Locksley. His wound had almost healed, and she couldn't blame him for wanting to leave her small, humble abode for the opulence of Locksley Manor.

She could barely contain her grief as he prepared to leave. He seemed reluctant about something, and hadn't spoken for quite some time, which sent Michelle spiralling into a depressed silence. He had no need for her anymore; this was obvious.

She busied herself about the small cottage, attempting to convince herself that his leaving was for the best, and that she could get back to normality once he had gone, when suddenly, he was by her side.

"Michelle," he said, urgently, and she looked at him in surprise. Next minute, he took her in his arms and began to kiss her with a desperation that astonished her.

Sensing her reluctance to respond, he released her quickly and backed away. "I'm sorry. I overstepped the mark."

"No, no." Michelle reached out for him, then stopped herself. "You surprised me, is all. I didn't think you felt the same way."

"You mean, you have feelings for me?" It was Guy's turn to express surprise, and Michelle nodded.

A genuine smile spread across his face. "Then, may I kiss you again, my lady?"

"Yes, please," Michelle said.

A long while later, they parted and he smiled, taking her by the hand and leading her with him to Locksley. They paused on the edge of the village, looking across at Locksley Manor, Guy's former home. The outlaw gang were waiting in the courtyard, a shadow of their former self. Archer saw Guy and moved a few steps in their direction, a hand raised in greeting.

Autumn had Sherwood in its grasp, and the trees surrounding the small village blazed with russet and gold and brown, the ground coated with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. Locksley was in mourning, for the great Robin Hood was dead, but, as Guy and Michelle walked through the village towards the manor house, hand-in-hand, Guy realised that not everything had to end in the fall, and that new beginnings were always there if you wished for them hard enough.

The end.

[devolympian]

Argo, chapter 1

As the bright blue sky began to give way to the soft orange light of dusk a cold ocean breeze ran across Jasons neck.

Sweet dripped down the young mans head and soaked the wool shirt that was under his bright gold armor. The blood seeping out of the cut on his forehead blinded his left eye, while the poison in his right leg made it extremely difficult to stand properly.

Before him, resting in a tall oak tree, was the item he had sailed across the world to obtain. The golden flees; the skin of a ram, born by the god Poseidon who had taken the form of a ram him self in order to lay with the nymph Theophane.

Jason had gone through hell and back for that fleece. He had fought storms, monsters, and even gods just to have a chance to claim the golden ram skin as his own. To show it before his home of Iolcus, and prove to them that he was the right full king. The king they deserved and the one who would lead them to prosperity.

However, before him was his last challenge. 

Wrapped around the tree, its violet scales glistening in the sunset, was a long serpentine creature. A black tongue pocked out of its mouth, which was lined with dagger like teeth dripping with venom, and its orange eyes glared at Jason. Its upper-body rested on the ground, with its long, razor sharp claws digging into the grass.

The dragon was ready to end this farce of a battle, clearly having grown tired of Jasons endless attempts to steal the flee away from it.

The feeling was mutual, and with a heavy sigh, Jason prepared him self to deliver the finishing blow.

He clutched his sword firmly in his hand, and from his hip, drew a bronze dagger decorated with rare gems. 

“The gift which my beloved Medea has bestowed upon me shall be your undoing beast!”

And with those words, the captain of the Argonauts charge at the dragon who responded by launching its self right back.

However, Jason was ready and, after dipping the tip of his dagger into the wound on his forehead, flung his own blood in the monsters direction.

The taste of warm blood was to much for the dragon to resist and it tilted its body ever so slightly, just to feel the drops on its long, black tongue.

Jason took the opening, and plunged his blades into the dragons neck. 

He ignored the pain coming from his leg and forced himself forward even farther, screaming as he ran his weapons along the serpents entire upper body.

Blood and entrails spilled from the monster, staining Jasons hands and body a deep red and decorating the ground in gore. 

With one last grunt, Jason pulled his long sword from the creatures body, and swung it down, lopping its head clean off.

For a long while, the dragons body shook and slithered on the ground, its blood still spilling out of its body as it lay dying. 

Jason watched as it suffered, not wanting to be taken by surprise by the monster. However, it did not rise from the ground and eventually, it stopped moving all together, finally succumbing to its death.

With a heavy sigh, Jason proceeded to limp towards his prize.

He was beaten and bleeding. His whole body acted with pain, and he could no longer see out of his left eye, the blood forcing him to close it. 

Jason knew he looked nothing like a king, no one had to tell him this. However, how he looked right now didn’t matter. All that mattered, was the fleece.

He stood at the foot of the tree, his eyes growing wide as he beheld the golden skin he had fought so hard for.

Dropping his weapons to the ground and with hands shacking, the prince reached up towards the fleece and-

“Boo!”

I let out a loud yelp as I fell forward onto the pile of books I was suppose to be stacking, the copy of Jason and the Argonauts being thrown out of my hands.

Trying my best to look less like an idiot then I already did, I turned around on the floor and looked up at Zee flashing an ear to ear grin at me.

“What’s wrong blondie” he said, his playful smile still glued to his face, “reading a ghost story?”

“N-no” I stammered, “I’m, uh. . . reading a golds story.”

Dang it, that sounded way better in my head.

“Come backs work better when the other person knows what your talking about dude.”

Taking my hand, Zee helped pull me off the ground as I wiped the dust off my skirt and sweater.

“It was Jason and the Argonauts” I told him, while picking up an arm full of books to put on the shelf, “the version where Medeas dagger is charmed by her.”

“Oh yeah”, he said, picking up the book I head been reading, “a fearless prince sets sail on the great Argonaut, determined to claim the item which will seal his destiny as king. You do know the real one screwed over Medea and his friends right?”

“Well, yeah, but that version’s super depressing.”

“Fair enough.” He flipped the book neatly onto the shelf, and began to do the same with the others that had been strewn across the floor.

“O-oh, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, the sooner this is done, the sooner we can hang out.”

And with that, Zee jumped up, grabbed the shelf, and shoved a copy of the hunch back of Notre Dame between our copy of Victor Hugos other books, Hernani and Les Miserables.

“Just think of me like your fairy godmother” he said, hanging off the shelf, “but instead of living in a rodent infested house with a step mom who should probably arrested for child abuse at the very least, you’re working at a library with some guy calling himself a fairy godmother.”

I let out a small giggle with out really meaning to.

“If you’re my fairy godmother shouldn't you be in a pretty blue dress?”

“Blondie, you know I’d rock that dress. I’ve got the legs for it.”

He then reached up and tossed another book into its place. Which caused the book shelf he was hanging on to fall forward and bury my fairy godmother in a pile of old books.

After about an hour or so of us stacking books and telling, extremely lame, jokes to each other, we made our way to the front of the library.

While I personally wouldn’t say our library was big, it wasn't small either. With two  floors, a large child section and computer room, as well as five study halls on the second floor, I’d say it was about the size of your average public library.

At the center of the library were two large desk, curved into a circle and with an opening between them so as to allow us to get in and out as we pleased.

My boss, Matilda, sat at the desk facing into the library, her brown hair tied into a neat little bun while the computer screen reflected in her olive eyes. She was busy typing up all the fees and check outs for the day and hadn’t noticed us yet.

A small knot formed in my tummy as I prepared to speak.

I had thought she’d be done with her work by now but she was still working so diligently. It seemed wrong to interrupt her by asking to leave.

My brain began to rock back and forth with words that I couldn’t seem to get out and I began to debate on how to approach the situation.

Should I just ask her to leave? But, she said I could go as soon as the work was done.

It’s possible she just meant my work, but what if she had meant her work as well? What is she still needed me to stay a little longer and assist with other things that need to be done before anybody left?

Oh, I know, I’ll ask if there was anything else that needed to be done. If she said no, I’ll be able to leave. Simple, right?

I swallowed heavily, and prepared to speak. It was the moment of truth.

“i-is there anything else you need done?”

There, I asked. But, it didn’t exactly come out as words. It was more like a squeak. Like, the squeak a mouse makes. In other words, to quite to hear and Matilda continued on, not noticing me in the slightest.

“Yo, Matty” Zee basically screamed, “Works done!”

That got her attention, and my boss looked up from her computer.

“Oh” she said, finally registering that we were in front of her, “heading home then Skye?”

There was a small pause as it took me a second to remember my own name.

“Oh” I stuttered out, hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt, “y-yes. . . if, there’s nothing else you need done.”

“Nope, you’re free to go.”

“Freedom” Zee cheered, as he raised out the door.

“O-okay” I said, fallowing after him, “sorry.”

“No reason to apologies Skye” she reminded me for the umpteenth time, “have a nice night.”

“Right. . . sorry.”

Unsurprisingly, outside the marble floored building which served as my place of work, and personal stash of awesome books, the streets were filled with people either rushing on home or simply to their next destination.

Zee wasted no time in getting into a festive mood and began swinging around on a nearby street light, his spiky black hair casting a surprisingly large shadow as the summer sun hit it.

“Ah” he exclaimed in a rather over dramatic fashion, “the fresh air, the freedom, the realization that you have no money to do anything. Don’t you just love summer?”

“I’m fairly certain you’re not hurting for money” I told him, pointing to the obviously expensive motorcycle which he had parked next to the curb.

“Skye, I’m hurt. Just because I make lots of money, have great health, a cool ride, and several game consuls doesn’t mean that I don’t suffer. It means I have terrible spending habits.” 

He then picked up the extra red helmet, which we had decorated with cat stickers and a picture of Squirtle from Pokemon, and threw it in my direction. 

I, did my best to catch it, but the helmet just sort of landed at my feet.

“. . .really glad I never joined a sports team.”

“Hey, on the bright side, if you had joined foot ball, you’d get the record for how many fumbles a person could get in one game.”

“Well” I responded as I picked the helmet up, “I’m very glad my poor athletic ability can be acknowledged in a hypothetical situation. When should I expect my award?”

“Sorry” He said, scooting up to give me room to sit, “the school district can’t afford to buy plastic any more, budget cuts and the principle trying to support their gambling habit by taking out of the funding and selling sports equipment and plastic trophies meant for crappy football players. How about Dinner instead?”

“You put way to much thought into what a fictional principle would be doing if she had a gambling problem.”

“I personally think I put very little thought into that hypothetical and just said the first stupid thing that popped into my head. For example, alligators make terrible house pets.”

“Very insightful buddy” I told him, finally managing to get my unnecessarily long hair to go under my sweater, and strapped the pretty red helmet on my head, “let’s go ghost rider.” 

With a quick rev of the engine we zoomed away from the curb and into the heart of downtown.

It wasn’t really a long drive, about ten minutes if that, but the extra traffic made it a little more difficult to navigate the street. 

I didn’t particularly mind the slightly longer drive, I really liked riding on Zees motorcycle. Even though I couldn’t drive to save my life, last time I tried my moms car ended up in a tree, but simply riding side saddle on this motorized bike was enough for me.

It gave me an odd feeling of independence. Like me and my friend could go any where and do what ever we’d like with being looked at as strange or judged for what we enjoyed.

Plus, the engine made my voice all vibraty, so I kind of sounded like a robot whenever I talked. 

What I didn’t exactly care for was. . .

“Hey Zee” Someone called out over on the side walk.

Within seconds, a group of at least five people had gathered onto the other side of the street, all calling Zees name and waving at him. a lot of them pulled out their phones and took pictures or started recording videos.

Like always, Zee glued a big grin to his face and waved back to his fans.

I, tried to wave as well, but no one really cared.

Once the light turned green, Zee made sure to loudly rev the engine before shooting forward, making the small crowd cheer with excitement, and forcing me to cling to him out of fear of falling off.

We stopped a few more times after that, with a different crowed developing at each stop.

Some were smaller then the first, some where three times the size, but they were all pretty happy to see Zee.

And, with each stop, Zee made sure to put on a show with his bike. Along with wasting more then half his tank of gas.

Now, with my heart permanently relocated to my lower intestines, we pulled up to the best restaurant in our town.

Burger Boy!

Just the thought of their juicy warm meat paddies, stacked delicately on top of one another with a piece of melted cheese adorning both of them. They would both be settled between two soft buns with the perfect balance of mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise guarding the enticing beef.

On their right would be a large blue and red container, which would hold a golden treasure. Fries, cooked to perfection, with a crunchy outside, but a soft tasty inside made of the best potatoes in the world.

To their left would be another treasure box containing ten bronze chicken nuggets. I could just picture the steam flowing out of them, and the chicken meat warming my mouth as I gobbled them up.

Tying all of them together was the heart of this quartet. A large cup with little droplets of water slowly creeping down it, which you could endlessly fill with the drink only gods should be allowed to consume. Cola!

The image of this culinary combination made my heart race with excitement and my stomach scream with hunger.

And the best part?

For the past two years they have had a deal where, for just ten dollars, you can get a 50 burger big boy meal. Small coke included.

I am personally proud to admit that I have had the honor of enjoying this noble privilege on more then one occasion. I just wish they'd put more burgers in the bag.

With my memories held safely in my heart, I armed myself with the mental image I had just painted, and boldly charged for the glass door of the fast food joint.

Unfortunately, the fates have deemed it necessary to only allow the worthy into this holly domain and have sent a challenger to test me and Zee.

"Excuse me" a deep voice boomed out behind us, "are you Zee?"

We both turned around to find a large being looming over us.

They stood several heads taller then us with bright orange hair covering their eyes, while also casting a shadow over their green skin.

I could see four long fangs sticking out of either side of his mouth, and two small horns resting on the sides of their head.

Even with out being able to see his eyes, I knew the troll was looking at us. Mostly because he was standing right in front of us and had more or less yelled Zees name, but still.

I felt a large lump form in my throat as my brain began to recognize the situation we were in and form a strategy that we most insure our survival.

We couldn't ignore this opponent, however it would be impossible to take him on head on.

It was also impossible to pretend we hadn't heard his challenge do to our poor choice of turning around.

I came up with twenty four more possibilities when Zee, with no concern for his own safety, stepped forward and bravely spoke to the troll.

"Well I ain't Ab Lincoln, or the dude on the penny" he said, smiling happily at our challenger, "what's up ma dude?"

There was silence after that.

A deathly silence which consumes your soul and can drive one to madness if they were to drown in it to long.

Then, the troll reached his massive hand into its pants pocket and drew from it, his phone.

"Can I have a picture with you?"

"Heck yeah!"

The little boys green face became covered with an ear to ear grin of joy as he nervously positioned himself around Zee.

To mach the kids height, Zee floated off the ground and hoovered so that they were shoulder to shoulder together and he happily held the phone for the nervous troll who’s joyful smile seemed to grow with every second.

Their goofy grins glued to their faces, the two of them took several pictures together

Most of which were just them being goof balls.

It looked like a lot of fun.

Eventually the little kids mom called for him, a green woman with chocolate brown hair and who was twice the height as her son.

Reluctantly, the troll said goodbye to his personal hero, but not before Zee handed him a small scrap of paper with his signature on it.

With tears of joy streaming down his face, the little boy wrapped Zee in a bone crushing hug and ran to his mom with his new prized possession in hand.

Zee gladly waved goodbye to the family as they drove off, his award winning smile never leaving his face.

"Nice kid" he said before floating back down to the ground and turning in my direction, "now, shall we dine at this fine establishment filled with grease and several health violations."

"Yes" I responded, as I felt my stomach begin to devour its self out of hunger, "let's eat, right now. Like, right now, right now."

“Dude, you’re talking like you haven’t ate in days.”

“I’m a growing girl. I need my burgers.”

“Well, you’re growing in some places.”

“Thank you. . . hey!”

“To the fast food!”

With his playful smile still glued on, and avoiding my annoyed glare, Zee pushed the door open and the aroma of deliciousness that filled the air made my mouth water, and my eyes tear up from the beauty. That, or it was the pollen in the air. 

In a few minutes we managed to place our orders, with Zee paying for it because working at a library didn’t net me much in the way of money, and we made our way to the booth we’d always sit at. 

It sat snugly in the corner where there were no windows and was kind of unnoticeable. All things considered, it was rather small and cramped and a little far away from the exit. Still, it was our little slice of heaven.

We plopped our selves into the plastic seats and sat our number onto the table. The restaurant was noticeably busier then usual with several, now high school graduates, taking up most of the booths and tables.

The poor over worked elves and demon who regularly ran the registers looked ready to faint out of stress.

I slumped onto the table. impatiently waiting for our meals to get to us.

“Why did they have to be busy today?”

“Cause it’s the second day of summer and the need business.”

“Yeah. . . but does that really mean that so many people need to be here?”

The more I looked around, the more I realized just how packed it was, and the more I just wanted to hide under the table so that nobody could see me.

It didn’t help that, about every ten seconds, someone would come up to Zee and talk to him. And, every time, I didn’t know what to say or do with my self.

Once, I managed to squeak out a hello. . . which sounded more like a catatonic kitty cat dying of hunger.

Shoot, I just made my self sad with that. Poor kitty.

Eventually, the amount of people dyed down, and Zees fans seemed to leave us alone.

“Hanging in there alright blondie?”

“No” I responded to his teasing, feeling physically and socially drained, “it’s been hours, where’s our food?”

“It’s been twenty minutes.”

“Still, that’s a long wait.”

My eyes lit up as I suddenly remembered something important and I sat straight in my seat.

“You remembered to get Clair something right?”

“Apple pie and a chicken sandwich. She should be here soon by the way.”

I sighed with relief and slumped back into my seat as the guilt I felt was somewhat lessened.

We had originally made this plan without talking with Clairabell, and just kind of assumed that she would be to busy. Turns out, she had already been out for summer and had just been waiting for us to call her.

“So” Zee said, pulling his phone out for a second, “how much you wanna bet she’s gonna talk to you about what classes you should take together?”

With that, another wave of guilt washed over me as I remembered the application Clair had given me for the college she was transferring to up in Europe. And, how I had to hide it from my mom who was already telling me how great the local schools were.

“Oh, well, I’m sure she’s not that serious about it.”

I tried to let out a giggle to ease my conscience. It didn’t work, I was still a trash human being.

Zee responded with a confused look.

“. . .We’re talking about the same vampire right? The one who has spent almost every waking moment finding us a place to live that’s near campus?”

“Yeah, but still.”

I tried to find the best words that would justify what I had said, but nothing came to me. 

There wasn’t really a right way to tell him that I probably wouldn’t be going to the same school as him and Clair. Not with how excited she had been when she told us that we could all go to the school together again.

Almost on cue, the door to burger boy opened and in stepped a tall young woman with caramel brown hair, and violet colored eyes. She looked around, almost as if she were a wild animal searching for her pray.

Soon, her eyes fell onto our booth and. . .

“Guys” she cheered before running towards us and leaping into the booth.

Not wasting any time, Clair promptly wrapped her arms around Zees and planted her lips against his.

“H-hi Clair” I managed to stammer out, feeling kind of like I should give them some space.

“Hi Skee-skee” she said with a warm smile, “so, what have you two been up to?”

“Oh you know” Zee said, apparently not bothered by Clair pressing her body against him, “driving around, fighting evil, summoning giant monsters, talking like batman.”

“You know ” I added, “the usual stuff.”

“You two really need to work on your comedy act” she responded, still smiling, “oh, by the way.”

She let go of Zee for a bit and reached into her tan purse.

“Ta-da” she said, proudly holding out some papers to me, “I managed to get the class list for next semester.”

“Oh” I said, the guilt settling in again, “th-thanks.”

“. . .what’s wrong?”

I lifted my head, and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Nothing. Just super hungry.”

“Gods” she said, a little disappointed, “they are always so slow here.”

“Hey” Zee said, “it takes time to fry up horse hooves and pig guts.” 

“You know” I said, “if they hear you talking like that, they’ll probably spit in your food.”

“Ooh, yum, spit.”

This continued for awhile. Each joke becoming worse then the last, until, finally, our food had found its way to our table.

Before me was the delicious meal I had awaited a half an hour for. 

The burger, fries, and chicken nuggets were all so tantalizing, with the sweat sent of each of them teasing my nostrils so much so that I had no idea which to bite into first.

Clapping my hands together and unable to get rid of the smile on my face, I thanked which ever god had blessed me for this delectable gift and dived into the feast.

Two minutes later, I was downing my soda to wash down the remainder of my meal.

Meanwhile, both Clair and Zee had barely touched their food. It was fine, they've always been slow eaters.

“Skee skee” Clair said, “at least enjoy the food before you gobble it up.”

“Huh” I looked at her with confusion, “but I did enjoy it. . . hey, how much do they charge for seconds.”

Clairabell then promptly slumped her head in defeat.

“Ah, it’s not fair. How can someone look so cute but be such a huge glutton at the same time?”

“Simple” Zee said, “her stomachs a black hole.”

“Some say it can teleport you to another dimension” I chimed, “but in truth all it does is devour any surrounding matter into its empty void.”

“Hey” she demanded, “you know i can’t keep up with your science mumbo jumbo.”

It was really easy science though.

With a huff, Clairabell threw her hair back and proudly picked up her sandwich.

“Alright then, black hole stomach awaken!”

She then took a big bite out of her chicken and chewed it all up.

Then her lips recoiled and her eyes got a pained look.

I offered her my drink and she quickly used it to wash down the terrible flavor that, I’m assuming, was garlic.

“Ew” she proclaimed, “when’d they start putting garlic on these things.”

“It might be an attempt to keep you from coming here” Zee said, “that, or they screwed up our order.”

She chugged some more of my soda before and Zee cracked a few more jokes while I was reminded of how out of place these two looked here.

With her make up perfectly placed on her face, and her tan shirt and black skinny jeans hugging her body, Clair looked like a super model who had just wondered in to wait for her manager.

Zee meanwhile, with his strong jaw and muscular build and v-neck that emphasized his collarbone, looked as though he had just got done staring in a super hero movie.

In short, they looked cool.

Personally, I'd like to describe our as similar to Neapolitan ice cream.

Zee was chocolate, the one everyone goes to and loves. He's a hit at parties, goes great with everything, and is always there for you.

Clairabell's strawberry, the better second. She's sweet, pretty to look at, and has a slight tang to her that makes her endearing to everybody who meats her.

I, meanwhile, was vanilla. Not necessarily a bad flavor, just one that doesn't stand out without the other two. I'm boring to look at, only taste well for a short while, and would probably make chocolate and strawberry look better if I wasn't part of the dessert in general.

Any who, Zee and Clair headed over to get her chicken sandwich changed out, while I went to refill my sody pop.

As I watched the fizzy, dark brown liquid fill the cup, I contemplated how I would explain to them that I couldn't leave the town. How it would tear my mom apart if I went to a college were she wouldn't be able to see me.

Then, I tried to think about how I could bring up Europe to mom. My dad knew my friends wanted me to go, but we both knew how much mom wanted me to stay in town. How the community college has, more or less, every class I could possibly excel in.

Then, I thought about how my soda was over flowing and spilling out.

"Oh no, no, no, no."

I pulled the cup away, splashing soda all over my hands and the counter.

With a heavy sigh, I turned to grab some napkins and clean this mess up. That's, when I noticed the person staring at me.

They were standing by the door, directly infront of the trash can to be precise. They were wearing a large, baggy, gray hoodie that seemd to conceal their physical appearance. I wasn't even able to tell what their face looked like because it was concealed by the giant hood they wore.

The only thing I could make of them was that they were rather short.

I'm sorry for how that might sound but it was the only thing I could think of that could describe them.

For a while, we both just stood there not saying anything.

I tried to think of a way to approach the sittuation. How I should great this total stranger who was just staring at me.

My heart began to raise and a giant not started forming in my stomich.

I wanted this to end. To crawl into a hole and wait until this person stopped looking at me like some strange anomaly which didn't belong in this world.

"Skye?"

I turned around so fast to meet Clairs voice that I tripped over my own feet a fell flat on my butt.

"Are you okay" Clair asked, kneeling down to make sure I wasn't hurt.

"Y-yeah" I stuttered out, "I'm f-fine."

She continued to look at me with concern clearly not believing what I said.

"S-so, what are we doing after this?"

". . .we were going to go to the arcade. But, we could just call it a night-."

"Let's go."

I hoisted my self off the ground, hoping that I didn't look as freaked out as I actually was.

In doing so I accidentally placed my hands in the sticky soda mess I had made. So, there was also that.

"Oh, okay."

She kept looking at me with a worried look even as we made our way outside.

"Alright" Zee said, "who's driving, who's riding, and who's drinking? I'm doing all three."

He then promptly pulled out a flask and started chugging.

"Zee!"

"No worries, it's sprite. I ain't an alcoholic just yet."

I was about to step forward and hop onto Zees bike, but Clair quickly grabbed my shoulder and turned me in the direction of her bright red corvet.

[nevillelongsbottom]

neville discovers conspiracies and the meaning of life (a journey in two seasons)  pairing: neville longbottom x newt scamander x credence barebone wc: 5195 for: @hptriadsnet holiday challenge playlists: getting lost with newt scamander, a float on the canal

Neville’s never been fond of trains, but taking one on his own is somehow even worse: he can’t find his seat, forgets that he has to pay money for food, compulsively checks his phone to make sure that they definitely aren’t about to approach his stop even though he knows he’s not due to arrive for another four hours or so, and drops his suitcase on his foot as he’s trying to heft it out with far too much desperation considering it’s another twenty minutes before the train even pulls into the station. He really wishes his Gran didn’t think he was this mature; sometimes he thinks he’s going to hit his twenties and have bills to pay and somehow forget them all, because it sure is in his nature.

He embarks with a gulp, hefting his slightly too small suitcase behind him, bulging awkwardly at the seams. He can see the town in the distance, and he double-checks his printed-out map, complete with written directions and arrows following the winding labyrinth of roads that make up Pinetree. It seems nice, he thinks: the sun is beating down on him, the beginning of summer showing its happy face, and he can even see the river that runs through the town. It’s like something from a quaint British TV show, he thinks, and with the onset determination that he’s sure he can’t get lost because he has everything written down, he sets off.

(He gets lost.)

It’s not intentional, but Neville’s directionless, and he doesn’t know how many feet he’s meant to walk before he turns, and the street signs are too high on the French balconies for him to read feasibly, so he doesn’t even know if he has made it to Birch Street and simply failed to recognise it from the glimpses he’s seen on the Internet, and his arm is starting to hurt from dragging his suitcase, and the seams are starting to look precariously taut. Even the seams on his jeans suddenly seem tight.

“I’m sorry, are you lost?”

Neville wonders if he’s accidentally gotten off in the wrong country, and he turns to the owner of the beautifully British accent: it’s a teenage boy, about the same age as him (Neville’s seventeen), all gangly with too-long limbs and radiating that air of just waiting for the day where suddenly he’ll burst and become some kind of well-proportioned man. He’s wearing a denim button-down and flecked black trousers with dark brown boots, with a slightly wild mop of hair that falls in a sort-of fringe in his face, and there’s a gentle curiosity to his face that soothes Neville’s terrified heart: he doesn’t look like he’s about to pull some kind of practical joke on Neville or beat him up, and so Neville nods.

“Yeah, I’m - uh - meant to be moving in at Birch Street, but I’m not really sure where I am,” he says shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a map, but it’s not really helping…”

“I’ll take you to Birch Street,” the boy says with a smile, gesturing with his head before setting off, walking with a peculiarly rambling jaunt. “This place takes a little bit of getting used to, but it’s okay after that. You must be the new boy. I heard about you in school; people have been talking about you.”

“What kind of things have they been saying?” Neville asks nervously, shifting the strap of his backpack.

“Just trying to predict what you’re going to be like. Fred and George have ten-to-one odds that you’re going to be a thug, but I for one am rather glad to see that they’re wrong,” the boy grins, pausing to jut out a hand, which Neville shakes with some surprise; he’s never really had anyone shake his hand before - nobody ever seems to have deemed him important enough. “I’m Newt. British, as I’m sure you can hear. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Neville.”

“Birch Street is just here. You really weren’t that far - and there’s a nice coffee shop a little further up that does good donuts, if you’re interested. We could always go together. I could introduce you to my friend, Credence. I think you’ll like him.” Newt pauses just outside the apartment that Neville does recognise from the potato quality pictures, running a hand through his hair and setting some of it on end.

“Credence?” Neville frowns.

“It’s Puritan,” Newt shrugs. “At least it’s not Praise-God. Or If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned.” He then proceeds to pull off a strange smile that seems to Neville to be a repository of trouble, but trouble in the kind of trouble that stealing a cat from an abusive household trouble is trouble, and though Neville doesn’t enjoy getting into any sorts of trouble, he has a feeling that he could easily fall down a rabbit hole with Newt.

He tries to hope that he won’t, but it’s slightly difficult.

-

Neville had his head flushed down the toilet multiple times in his last school, and so immediately deems that this one is better as his head remains firmly away from the lavatories. He doesn’t find Newt until lunch-time, but people aren’t necessarily mean to him and actually bother to inquire into his previous life instead of firing balls of scrunched-up paper at him; he makes a friend in a girl with a bob called Tina who’s steadfastly determined to get good grades and writes slightly too many pages of notes in class as a result.

And, of course, it turns out that she’s Newt’s friend. Newt has more friends than he let on to Neville, if he let on at all: his group of friends take up an entire table in the cafeteria, and it’s comprised of himself, the Puritan, Tina, her slightly younger sister who is wearing the best outfit Neville has ever been graced to see, a round boy called Jacob who seems to be a dispenser of baked goods, a gum-chewing punk with eyebrows noticeable from across the room, and a neurotic-looking boy who’s wearing a tie and looks as if his own existence stresses him out. Neville is welcomed easily, taking a place in between Newt and Neuroticism. (It sounds slightly to him like a Jane Austen novel, and Neville stifles a laugh at his own joke.)

The banter across the table comes easy, and Neville joins it effortlessly: nobody stops to stare at him as if to question his presence at the table, and he even earns a few laughs now and then, managing to capture half the table’s attention as he retells the story of how he got detention for trying to replicate a scene from Matilda.

Bizarrely, Neville feels like he belongs. It’s something he’s so unused to that it almost startles him, and as Newt and Credence walk him back to Birch Street (they prompt him for directions every now and then, and he fails every time; he doesn’t mind, though), he thinks he might cry.

“So,” Newt says at Neville’s door, pinging his navy blue suspender. “Would you like to go for coffee and donuts this weekend?”

-

Newt’s right: the donuts are good, sugary and filling. They also give Neville what feels like an immediate food baby, and for a few moments he makes a mental apology to every woman who has ever been pregnant, because the stretch of his stomach to accommodate the volume of donuts he has just consumed isn’t particularly comfortable, and he can’t imagine it going on for nine months; when he vocalises this to Newt, he bursts into that half-reserved English laughter and jostles Credence’s shoulder, who stifles his own laugh, a thing that Neville’s never even heard yet. Credence is quiet, painfully so, but there’s something about his smile and the sound that escapes of his laugh that’s addictive.

“You were talking about Matilda on Monday,” Newt says as he sips his tea (Earl Grey; he’s so typically British that Neville wonders if he’s wandered out of the television). “Have you read the book?”

“Oh, yeah. It was my favourite book, and it kind of still is, if that’s not stupid,” Neville replies, flushing - he doesn’t see anything stupid about it, because he loves Roald Dahl, but his Gran and everyone else seem to expect him to have moved up, to have a higher order level of favourites, but Neville just likes to take it easy, to twist his tongue over a Dr Seuss or explore the world of the fantastical with Roald Dahl. There’s time for classics, sure, but his choice will always be what’s fun.

“There’s nothing stupid about it,” Newt shrugs, and there’s something in the nonchalance of his tone that suggests to Neville that he’s not just trying to be polite: Newt really doesn’t think there’s anything stupid about Neville being seventeen and still leafing his way through Matilda with childlike glee - in fact, it almost sounds like Newt would probably join him, or at least watch the film with him and play Send Me On My Way on Pancake Day. “Have you seen Stranger Things?” Neville nods, and is about to start gushing when Newt continues. “Okay, but - don’t you think that Matilda and Eleven are some of the most incredible female characters ever?” Neville nods emphatically. “And that their powers are cool?” There’s something very wrong with the sound of Newt’s accent reaching around the word cool, but Neville ignores it and continues to nod like a bobblehead figure. “Well, what if I told you that Credence and I both have powers?”

Neville stops.

Newt has just punched him in the gut. (Metaphorically.)

How could he have thought that people weren’t going to make fun of him? How could he have ever made the mistake of trusting people, of thinking that people liked him? God, he’s an idiot. Newt was just too smart, playing the long con that nobody at Neville’s previous school ever bothered to, because kicking him in the shin just worked so well, too.

Neville shakes his head, and reaches for the armrest of his chair when Credence leans forward suddenly, a sharp movement in contrast to his usual self: Credence is reserved, like he’s been compressed or something, all his sharp edges blurred. “He’s not lying,” Credence says loudly, which for him is a tone just above a whisper, but it’s enough for Neville to pause from his path outward and downwards into a spiral of tears and glance back up. “Look.” Credence sits back for a moment, his back slumping as he looks to his cup of hot chocolate on the table: and, just like that, and as if it’s a moment plucked straight from between the pages of a Roald Dahl novel, the cup starts to move, sliding across the table until it lands in his hand. Credence giggles, softly, as if his own powers still surprise him with their novelty. Neville’s heart feels like it’s being tugged, because Credence is cute, warm; how could he be deceiving him? And yet Neville’s seen so much deception.

“No,” says Neville. “That could be - magic. Like, sleight of hand.” He turns to Newt. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“We just want to be honest with you, Neville.” Newt sighs, exasperated, and rubs the back of his neck, watching as Credence sips his hot chocolate. “And my powers aren’t like his. I wouldn’t like to use them on you.”

“Show me,” Neville says, stubbornly, because if Newt’s trying to feign honesty, then Neville won’t be happy until he’s got concrete proof that he’s not about to be stabbed in the back, humiliated, have his pants pulled down in front of an audience of everyone in school. (It’s not happened, but it’s such a common recurring dream that he’s almost not sure that it didn’t happen.)

Newt leans forwards, and for the briefest of moments uncharacteristically locks eyes with Neville before shyly glancing away. “Your middle name is Frank, after your father. Your parents both died in a car crash when you were little and your Gran has been forcing you to live in their legacy ever since. You feel as if you’ll never be as good as they were, and you’ve been the target of frequent and almost neverending bullying. You moved away after you tried to stand up to a bully and were beaten up badly; your Gran is having to take a job here because you’ve used up all your parents’ money moving here and away, but you were desperate and couldn’t stay. You think that Credence and I are trying to make fun of you, and you feel incredibly betrayed by this because you thought I was cute, even though you also decided that you had no chance with me because I have too many friends and they’re all too nice and that I must, of course, be in love with either Tina or Queenie.”

Neville doesn’t think he can stay anymore, and holes himself up in his room for the rest of the day, drowning out the world with the Happy Mondays: he hears Newt trying to speak to his Gran, but she’s fierce. It’s one of the things he loves about her.

He watches Newt and Credence tumble along the street together, and feels lost.

Because Newt wasn’t wrong.

-

Neville is prepared for something happening, but what he’s not prepared for is opening the door at eight in the morning to Credence, who is wearing a ratty almost-suit and holding out a leaflet that proclaims ‘burn the witches’.

Neville stares slowly at the leaflet, attempting to decipher if it has any deeper meaning beyond renouncing all witches and calling for their incineration, but he finds nothing, and as he looks back up at Credence, he’s surprised to find the other boy giggling softly, a noise that sets Neville’s stomach into a whirling overdrive, because Credence is just so pretty when he laughs, his face lit up with all the colours of a summer road trip.

Neville feels a strange want to kiss him, which is in definite opposition to the voice in Neville’s head demanding that Credence be turned out on his ear. Neville tells the voice to fuck off.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says, taking the leaflet and starting as it crumples itself in the warmth of his hand, folding and crushing into a tiny ball. “I just…”

“It’s okay,” Credence says in that small voice of his, like a particularly amiable mouse. “We’re a little bit out there.”

Neville wonders if Newt will be able to tell that he’s thought this, that he feels this; does Newt know that Neville’s head is just a storm like this, or does he see clearly through to the eye? Maybe he’s wearing his windproofs - either way, Neville worries, and with the kind of reckless abandon that Pinetree seems to have instilled in his slightly overworked heart, he looks up and boldly asks Ozymandias, the question of questions:

“Can I kiss you?”

“Mm-hm.”

The response is mildly underwhelming; Neville was expecting fireworks or some kind of amateur dramatics, but Credence just smiles easily at him, and lets Neville hook his fingers at the back of Credence’s neck and kiss him in the kind of strange way that people who almost know how to kiss do, where they’re just about ready to let loose and kiss - but not quite, and Neville thinks he’s pretty fine with that. And with Credence; in fact, he’s more than fine with Credence, and more than fine with this town.

He thinks he actually might like this place; and he thinks he might really love the donuts, from the three he shares with Credence on his doorstep in the warmth of a Lionel Richie Sunday morning.

-

Neville actually starts to learn the layout of the town to the level that, when Newt invites him out to the canal after band practise (Neville has been welcomed with celebration as the school’s only double bass player, and, almost ritualistically, it had taken him three days to clean the layers of dust off), Neville finds his way there with relative ease, beaming with raw delight as he disembarks his bike (a moving present from his Gran, who decided he needed a way to get around besides his own two feet). Newt and Credence are already there; Newt is sitting on a small wooden platform floating on the water, trailing patterns with his bare feet and watching the water ripple where he moves, whilst Credence is sitting on Newt’s splayed checkerboard jacket, eyes red as he feebly sticks plasters to his raw hands.

“Neville!” Newt calls, waving cheerily. “Come over here. The water’s nice.”

Neville sheds his backpack by Credence, pausing only for a moment to ask if Credence is coming; the other boy just shakes his head and says he’ll be over later, so Neville settles onto the float with Newt, dipping his toes into the water with extreme caution only to find that Newt’s right and that the water is, surprisingly, an acceptable temperature; the float is a suntrap, and Newt is sprawled right in the heat of it, his freckled skin aglow.

“We didn’t get this kind of sun in England,” he says, sounding amused, as if there’s something hilarious about the weather; Neville’s sure that’s some kind of Britishism, so just nods like he knows. “It’s nice, if not a bit toasty.” Newt reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of large blue Aviator sunglasses that don’t suit him in the slightest, and Neville stifles a giggle, as does Newt as he leans back on the wood of the float, watching the clouds as they float by, lazy.

They sit like that for a long and comfortable moment before Newt half-turns his head to look at Neville. “You’re thinking very loudly right now, you know.”

“Am I?” Neville flushes. “What - what can you hear?”

“I’m trying not to listen. I don’t want to invade, you see, but it’s a little tricky not to hear you; it’s almost the equivalent of shouting. I can hear that you’re worried about Credence.” Newt sits up in a mildly terrifying gesture that dips the float, causing Neville a very small heart attack as his mind decides that he is about to drown. “He doesn’t have a very good home life. But he’s going to be okay. We’re working on it. My contribution is mostly just days out and donuts, but I’m trying.” Newt smiles, placing a hand over Neville’s; his hand is a little sweaty, and a part of Neville is repulsed at the same time another part is thrilled. “Am I that exciting?”

“Can you not read my mind?” Neville asks softly; it’s not so much that he feels invaded, because he knows he’s already having his privacy invaded daily by whomever it is that tracks every keystroke and Google search and stares through his mobile phone camera - it’s that he thinks that his emotions are stupid and uncontrollable and he just doesn’t want to see the mess and tangle of thoughts that lie behind his forehead.

“Not really,” Newt says, apologetically, even with a gentle furrowing of his brows. “I usually have to make effort to hear, but… not with you. You’re turned up to eleven.”

“You probably understand me more than I do,” Neville laughs, leaning in slightly to Newt’s shoulder.

“Only a little,” Newt shrugs. “Enough to know that I think we feel the same way.”

And with that, he seems to decide that he’s said to much or hit his extrovert bandwidth limit and leans back again; still, Neville joins him, swallowing his terror as the platform shudders, dipping as he shifts (it takes him a moment to convince himself that there’s not something under the water deliberately trying to push him and the float upwards). Everything about town feels new and shiny and different, but it’s comfortable, easy - and Newt is so easy it feels like they’ve known each other for years, grinning as Credence arrives, flourishing Newt’s coat over his eyes.

-

Neville takes to the canal - not only does it quickly become his framework for figuring where things are, a welcome replacement from ‘the ugly statue’, but it’s one of the town’s centrepieces: it’s home to countless boats that serve as offices or cafés or pop-up stalls, all of which Neville visits in a touristy circuit, particularly taken by a pop-up art gallery characterised half by Liechtenstein-esque prints and half by Polaroids hung on a piece of string, a record player spinning This Is The Story in the background. Newt is fond of the floating music shop, selling guitars and ukuleles and banjos and mandolins; he tells Neville that his brother Theseus used to play in a band in high school, and Newt’s no shabby guitarist either, demonstrating his talent with a riff from Scott Pilgrim on a dark blue Fender (“Theseus taught me,” he says modestly, “I’m no good, really”).

Newt’s also an enthusiast of all places food-related, and they stop often to have a coffee and a cake, his treat. Neville wonders how he stays so thin, considering his deep affection for sweet treats; perhaps it’s all the walking and cycling - Newt seems to get around town, that’s for sure. Credence eats a little less, mostly just drinking hot chocolates despite the sweltering weather outside. Every now and then when they wander along the canal, one of their other friends joins them: Tina, for a trip to a board games café; Abernathy, on the hunt for a secondhand copy of The Catcher In The Rye; Theseus, back for the weekend from college with a wad of money from taking place in an experiment on campus. They go after school one Wednesday, and Jacob gives them a whole star-patterned bag of cookies to eat, crowded together on their little float: Newt, Neville, Credence, elbow to elbow, knee to knee.

Neville has never felt more comfortable in his skin, or more comfortable with two other people in his life; in another life, the life before he moved here, he’d be embarrassed at the idea of being caught dead with a boy with a bowl cut and a boy loudly and badly humming You Can Call Me Al, but this is a life where he joins in, a life where he finds his hand drawn to the shaved hair at the back of Credence’s head and one where he thinks it’s okay to kiss boys when he wants to.

Not that he’s kissed Credence any more than that one time, mind you, but he’s pretty sure he could go for another one and it’d be fine.

“I heard that,” Newt laughs. Neville flushes, looking over as Newt tilts his head. “What about me? Would you - want to kiss me, too?”

It’s the first flash of insecurity that Neville has been privy to: Newt seems to be so secure in his ambling walk and dazed smile that Neville’s never even stopped to think that there might be any insecurity there, any thought that wasn’t part of a happy daze. He’s not sure he likes it, this slightly fractured part of Newt beneath the surface; if he could, he would just put everybody back together, fix them with superglue or a hot glue gun, but he’s also found that he can’t quite do that - the only thing he can fix with extreme glue is his shoe.

But he knows there’s something he can do now, and that something is leaning over and kissing Newt.

Credence reaches a hand over to pull Neville away, and smiles so brightly it’s like staring into the sun as their lips touch. “I like these afternoons,” he says - and most things he likes, he likes because they give him the chance to be away from his Ma and all those old thoughts; but this, this is something that blossoms with feeling in his chest, something that he thinks is more important than everything else, a hobby for the sake of enjoyment rather than just killing time.

Not that Neville and Newt are hobbies, he thinks. They’re full time jobs that make him love to go to work.

-

The rest of the summer passes in canal-walking bliss, and the fall in a snapshot of schoolwork and activities; the winter, then, is a time for change and new things: the town is different in the freezing cold with its residents packed like sardines under their layers of puffy jackets and thermals, the boat shops closing for the season as the canal freezes over, just a twinkle in the corner of Neville’s eye as he walks to school, all thoughts of his bicycle nearly stored away until it becomes a feasible mode of transport again.

He hears the occasional whisper of news and local paper article about disturbances on the canal - people seeing something moving below the wad of ice - but Neville grew up in a conspiracy county, and he writes them off. “It’s silly,” he says round the table, tucking into the cafeteria’s idea of a ‘Christmas menu’ (some sliced turkey in bad gravy with roast potatoes, and a Yule log with cream for dessert). “People are just seeing things. There’s definitely no Nessie here.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be, since we don’t have a Loch Ness,” Percival snorts, with raised eyebrow.

Neville flinches. “I just meant that - there’s no mythical creature, or dinosaur, or anything in the canal.”

Credence shifts, exchanging a short glance with Abernathy before gently pushing his bowl forward. “Here, Neville, you can have my dessert,” he says, as firmly as his timid demeanour will allow. “I got extra cream.” Neville tries to object, but Credence simply pushes the bowl further until Neville accepts it: he does love Yule log, after all.

“Thank you,” he says eventually; Credence smiles softly back at him.

“It’s Christmas,” he says.

-

Neville doesn’t spend a lot of time alone with Credence - Newt’s his boyfriend, too, after all - and it’s strangely refreshing when they agree to go Christmas shopping for Newt together. They have a lazy lunch at a fast food chain before embarking on what can only be described as an odyssey: they don’t want to buy just anything for Newt, who is by no means just anyone, and haunt record shops and independent art stores and even stop off at a small pet store in their quest before deciding on buying him a pair of gecko cufflinks and a pendant with a tiny version of the Hunky Dory album cover on it. Neville even buys some cute gift bags for them at the arts and craft store, on Jacob’s recommendation.

“Do you think he’ll like them?” Neville asks, zipping them away into the security of his backpack.

“I think so,” Credence says with a slightly hearty nod, setting off again: they’re following the canal, walking beside it, and he watches the frozen-over surface with piqued interest. “We thought a lot about it.” He looks up to the sky, dark and twinkling: shopfronts are beginning to darken as the night falls, a curtain over the day. The moon yawns down at him, and Credence smiles slowly to himself as the ice over the canal begins to crack.

Neville stops, turning to watch as lines shatter their way across the surface before wrenching apart into a Moses ocean: and, to his starting shock, from the chasm of clear water bursts a lizard-like head of a creature blue as bruises that shrieks wildly as it shakes, its mane of Medusa tendrils trembling with its movement. He falls back, landing hard on his butt and staring wide-eyed: fuck, he thinks, because from supernatural powers to screeching beasts he’s beginning to think that the conspiracy theorists weren’t so wrong after all, and guilt swallows in his stomach at the thought of his dismissal.

A gleeful whoop emanates from in the distance. “Here he is! What a beauty!”

“Isn’t he?”

“I think we should stop admiring him and get on with it!”

“Yeah, that’s what you think, ’mione - but c’mon, let the old animal loonies admire the thing! They’ve been waiting half a bloody year for this.”

Credence helps Neville to his feet just as the voices arrive in his eyeline: Newt is at their beady-eyed head, clad in a thick blue coat and scarf and holding tightly to a beaten old suitcase. “I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you, Neville,” he says, beaming, “but you wouldn’t believe us. I just thought that it was a sight worth seeing.”

“What is it?” Neville asks, grabbing Newt’s arm as he stares; he wonders if his lunch has something in it, since the kitchens didn’t look that reputable.

“I’m not sure, but I think it might be related to the occamy. We’re going to capture it and study it. We’re part of an organisation.” Newt gestures to his companions - Neville recognises Ron Weasley, whom he’s met before, and Abernathy is standing holding several monitors, consulting them with the help of a girl with bushy hair and an intensely thoughtful stare. “And, well, if you’re going to be with us, then - Credence and I want to welcome you to our lives, fantastical beasts and all.”

Neville’s not sure what he thinks of this town, or his new life: but it’s new, it’s an experience, and it’s amazing.

And he nods.

“Righty-ho, then,” Newt says, and turns around. “Into the suitcase.”

Neville raises his eyebrows. He thinks he might be asleep, or dead, or on drugs, or all three at once if such a thing is possible.

“The - suitcase?”

Newt smiles. “Nothing’s impossible, Neville.”

-

Neville is only convinced that the entire incident wasn’t a dream or hallucination when him and Credence pop over to Newt’s house to exchange presents and the creature - or at least, its miniature - is nestled on a pillow at the bottom of the bed, squeaking curiously at them.

Life is strange, but he thinks he rather likes it.

“Is this place better or worse than conspiracy county?” Newt asks softly, giggling. They sit in a circle, on bean bags and pillows like they’re playing preteen truth or dare, but instead they pass round gifts: Newt’s jewelry, The Perks of Being a Wallflower and a new scarf for Credence (fiction beyond the Bible and his assigned reading is disallowed in his house, but Neville and Newt help him smuggle books in anyway; Credence is keen), a book on conspiracy theories for Neville as well as a small cactus to add to his growing collection of plants, big and small.

He leans forward to kiss Newt first, and as their lips touch, he realised that - strange as it may be, Newt and Credence and the canal and their powers and the creature that can’t stay one size - he loves it. All of it.

And he loves the people, most of all. If there were two people in the world he’d most want to go crazy with, it’s Newt and Credence.

So he will: he’ll follow that star, because this life is new, and it’s the life he thinks he loves most of all.

[hollygopossumlovesj2]

Swept Away, Part 1

Characters: Dean Winchester (23 years old, so preseason 1), Reader. (future x reader) mentions of John, Sam and Reader’s family.

Warnings: ANGST, Dean’s self worth problems, severe injury, canon level violence. Mention of medications for pain and anxiety. Also, abuse of John Winchester’s parenting skills. This part is PG-13 but will be at least R in future parts. (Also credit to whoever made the gif, its not mine. I found it on Google.)

Summary: John sends Dean to the mountains of Agness, Oregon alone to track a possible werewolf. What he finds turns out to be a little more than he can handle. Dean is left wondering if his father set him up to fail.

A/N: So, this was written for @mamaredd123‘s Angst Appreciation Day Challenge, Shred All the Hearts. My prompt was to use the song ‘Listen to Your Heart’ by Roxette and to rip peoples hearts out. I hope I deliver on this request. I’m late as hell and I deeply apologize. This is only the first part, but there is plenty of angst here to enjoy.

I know there's something in the wake of your smile. I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yea. You've built a love but that love falls apart. Your little piece of heaven turns too dark.

 It was a sunny, warm day in Agness, Oregon, and you couldn’t get a Roxette song out of your head. You had no idea why it was stuck on replay, but it wasn’t unusual for your brain to taunt you in this way. Wisps of thin clouds that look like they've been painted on a bright blue sky float by on a cool breeze. A promise that the temperature will drop nearly thirty degrees when the sun goes down due to the proximity of the mountains. You like the feeling of freedom that the place gives you, but you could do without the dramatic drops in temperature.

 Your house sitting while your grandparents are spending the summer touring Europe. Being a junior in college, and accepting anything that would give decent pay, you are actually enjoying your alone time. Whether you are home in Seattle, Washington or at school at Washington State in Pullman, you are constantly surrounded by people.

 Out here, in your grandparent’s cabin on the bank of the Rogue River, it's peaceful. You found yourself sitting on the deck most days, typing away at the book you've been writing for a year now. But, you can't expect much else from an English major with aspirations of publishing your many adventures one day, can you?

 You don't really want for anything out here, except for maybe a Starbucks. You drive an hour out to buy a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries and that is your quota fill of socializing. If you are feeling extra adventurous, you stop at the Olive Garden on the route back home.

 Agness is a small town, filled with mostly retired couples and the occasional tourist. From your trips into the quaint downtown to get your Starbucks fix in the form of a glass bottled Frappuccino, you’d met pretty much everyone in the neighborhood.

 The residents all treat you like you are their own grandchild, dropping off meals and baked goods regularly. There is also Dr. Marjorie Foster, a divorcee who likes to pop by after crazy days at the hospital to share a bottle of wine and sarcastic banter. So, although you are technically alone, you feel rather safe and spoiled.

 Listen to your heart when he's calling for you. Listen to your heart there's nothing else you can do.

That's probably why you were drawn to the black Chevy Impala parked to the left of the small parking lot. It was parked beneath a copse of trees, like the big black beauty could ever be inconspicuous. Add that to the silver scratches all along its side and hood, plus the flat tire that was sitting on its rim, made it even harder to miss.

 Maybe it's your insatiable curiosity that makes you walk a little closer to the damaged vehicle? It does tend to get you into a lot of trouble. You'd probably never know for sure. But you won't forget your first look inside.

 The upholstery is slashed open, bits of yellow foam and tufts of heavy cotton are strewn about. But what catches your attention is the motionless heap in the back seat that you know, just by the sinking feeling in your gut, is a person who needs help.

 You won't remember how you closed the distance between you and the car so quickly. Or your train of thought when you try to open the door only to discover it locked. You wrap your over shirt over your arm and put your elbow through the window without hesitation. You'll question your strength later.

 By now Gregory, Matilda's husband (the one who makes incredible venison stew), stops pumping gas to see what all the commotion is about. You are already digging through the seat stuffing and blankets by the time he arrives behind you.

 You faintly hear him speaking to someone on the phone, reporting in a panicked yet succinct tone to emergency officials, when you finally find bloody, pale skin. Luckily, it's attached to a person who is unfortunately torn to shreds.

 “Hey!” You don't dare move him. Isn't that one of the basic rules in case of a back or neck injury? When the final blanket is pulled back you see the sharp jaw and hint of rose gold stubble. “Sir, can you hear me?” Your only response is a growled groan muffled by the seat where he has his face buried. But, at least it's something, right?

 You take a quick survey of the inside of the car, noting used bandage papers and an empty bottle of cheap whiskey. When you climb into the car and sit down, your foot kicks an old bottle of pills. Was the man suicidal? All of this blood loss, whisky and upon looking at the label you discover that it is Darvocet. That stuff had been pulled off the market for years now!

 “Hey, you with me?” He eases himself painfully slow into a sitting position, causing him to cry out hoarsely in pain. His voice already shredded like he had already done some screaming. He's panting in loud, painfully abrupt breaths through his open mouth. Everything about his boyish face is pinched with pain. Your heart squeezes with sympathy and absolute helplessness. You should've gone to med school like your dad wanted you to. Then you'd know exactly what to do.

 You note then that his front side doesn't look any better than his blood soaked back does. It also revealed how his left leg is mangled and twisted in unnatural directions. Some of the blood is dried, making his skin stick to the seat. There’s no telling how long he'd been in this car bleeding and in pain.

 “T’ll S- S’mmy, ‘m s-s’rry.” When you finally lock onto his ghost pale face, the expression there kicks you right in the stomach with a steel toed boot. His split bottom lip and chin are quivering with repressed emotion. His voice comes out shaky and raspy because he's vibrating with shivers that you know probably mean that he's in shock. He's probably been in shock for a while.

 I don't know where you're going and I don't know why, but listen to your heart before you tell him goodbye.

 This guy, because man seemed like a bit much since he couldn't be much older than you, may very well have been trying to end it all if the pain openly displayed on his face is anything to go by. Through the black, crusted blood you can tell with startling clarity the difference between the physical and emotional pain on his expressive face.

 You fight the urge to push his hair out of his eyes, which is obviously overgrown from a short haircut. It appears that way, anyway, judging by the shaggy and uneven ends. He looks like even his hair follicles hurt, caked in crusted and congealing blood, so you refrain.

 “You're gonna tell him yourself.” You answer firmly as you wrap the scratchy, stiff blanket back over his shoulders when he shivers again violently.

 Even that small movement prompts deeply hurt, wounded noises that get caught in the back of his throat, but you can tell that he's trying to hide just how much pain he’s in.

 It makes you briefly wonder how someone who should be going to college or discovering themselves learned to be that damned stoic. “Hang in there, helps on the way. Is there anyone I can call for you?” You plead, wishing that the ambulance would hurry so that there was a way to eventually rectify the abject misery on his face. He's looking at you through his pain filled gaze as he softy answers ‘no’ and it rips your heart out. You feel inept and helpless.

 Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile. The precious moments are all lost in the tide, yea. They're swept away and nothing is what it seems, the feeling of belonging to your dreams.

 “An’ m’dad, too. T-t’ll m’s-srry I c’dn’t f-finish th’ j’b.” Liquid that has been building up in his eyes soon gives way to fat tears that tracks strange patterns through the new and old blood when he can't hold them back anymore. As he confesses what he thinks are his last words through busted, numb lips, it makes an icy shiver skip down your spine. “…’ts m’ f-fault… p-people ‘r g’nna die ‘causa m-me…” Tears progress into hiccupping sobs that make him squeeze his eyes shut against what you feel he thinks of as weakness and pain.

 You look briefly for a wallet or phone, finding the latter on the floorboard. You get two seconds to feel victorious before you discover that there is a giant tooth mark in the middle, cracking the small screen into unusable pieces. “Shit.” Just what the hell had he gotten into that would cause so much damage? “What's your name?” You look for somewhere uninjured to rest a reassuring hand but can't find anywhere promising.

 “Dean W’nchester.” You'll realize later how profound it is that he gave you his real name. That it was because all of his layers and walls were stripped down to nothing.

 You know his bottomless green-hazel eyes will haunt you for the rest of your life if he doesn't make it. There was no other ending that you can bear to imagine for him. You know it sounds so naïve, but someone with this much soul can't just die such a horrific death all alone. You feel a small amount of relief when you can finally hear the sirens of the ambulance in the distance.

 “They'll be here any second.” As you say the words you're not sure who you're trying to console more.

 There's an hour drive to the nearest hospital in Gold Beach in his future. It's a small hospital that is the size of maybe two Costco warehouses shoved together. But surely, amongst their few floors of equipment and educated staff, they can fix the broken pieces?

 In the two seconds of silence you decide that you can be positive enough for the both of you.

 “Dean Winchester?” You rest your hand lightly over the one he isn't using to prop himself up. It startles you when his cold sweat covered hand grasps yours back painfully tight. The way he clings to you like you're a lifeline make tears pool in your eyes. “You're gonna make it. I promise.”

 Dean’s POV:

I wake up suddenly, claws and massive, drooling jowls snap viciously at me from behind deep, shifting shadows. It feels like the beast is sitting on my chest, making it cave in. It's putrid, hot breath on my face. My ribs barely put up a fight before they snap like twigs beneath its weight, white hot, stabbing pains through my belly.

 I try to struggle free but my arms and legs won't obey my commands for them to move. To fight back. So, all I can do is wait for him to consume me for dinner. All I hear are growls and distant shouting that are drowning out a strange, tinny beeping noise in the background. It reminds me of the sound of its claws digging into Baby’s quarter panel as it tried to peel her open and drag me back out into the dark of the mountain. Of the liquid heat of pain as it's claws raked through my skin like I was soft butter.

 But then I hear, “Dean.” It kind of sounds like Sammy before his voice changed, soft and kind, if a little static and warped. But that can't be right. I hope that it means that the past few years were a nightmare, but it's only a slight hope. Good things rarely happen to a Winchester.

 It's probably some newly created fresh hell conjured to torture and destroy me in my last seconds on earth. The thing I was hunting was a were wolf, I was sure of it. He looked normal, all wolfed out with gray, wiry hair. But when it found me… It was like his senses and strength were beyond what a normal were was capable of.

 But it's too tempting not to answer, even if it's not real, as the tinny noise gets louder and more frantic. I'd give anything to be able to talk to Sam and tell him how sorry I am. I'd kill to tell him that I would stand up to Dad more so that we don't have to move around so much. So he can go to college close by. Anything. I can be better so he wants to come back.

 The crushing weight of remembering that I'm alone nearly drowns out the relief of hearing Sam's voice. But I'm just that delirious to believe.

 “S’mmy?”

 I gag, choking on something that tastes a lot like old blood and cotton balls stuck in my throat. I finally get my arm to move so that I can remove whatever is clinging to my face. So that I can catch my breath but something heavy slams into my forehead.

 “Dean. Hey, Dean! Please stop, you're gonna hurt yourself.”

 And just like that all the fight drains out of me, envisioning a young Sammy with his stupid floppy hair and worry bright little kid eyes that are way too smart for his own good. “K, S’mmy. M’ s’rry.”

 “You're okay. Everything's gonna be okay.” I feel the softest pressure against my temple and fingers brushing through my hair before I tunnel into nothingness.

 When I wake up the second time the beeping doesn't sound so tinny. With the way my body and head aches, it actually sounds like its right in my ear. Fuck. I hope Sam got the license plate number off the damn truck that mowed me over. We were gonna sue the hell outta that bastard.

 But what if he ran over Sam or Dad?

 At that thought, my eyes shoot open and I'm moving before I even know what's weighing me down. I manage to drag my legs over the side of the bed just as a nurse comes running in.

 “Mr. Winchester, please! Stop-“

 However, I've already got the momentum going apparently and drop like a bag of damn rocks to the hard linoleum floor just as I realize my leg is encased in a large, heavy cast and incapable of holding my weight. Ugh. I didn't even want to know what kind of germs I was sitting in!

 Belatedly, like a flame starting as a tiny spark only to turn into licking blaze-like pain engulfed me for an undeterminable amount of time. Like it had fought through the pain killers just for the joy of kicking my ass. I made sure not to panic. I had been in this headspace before, and nothing could be gained by losing my shit.

 The first thing I vaguely noticed as the pained haze started to morph into a deep chasm of an entire body ache was a strange warmth crawling down my arm and thigh. Upon further investigation I discovered that I had managed to pull out both my iv catheter and my pee bag. Just fucking lovely.

 The nurse with the pretty milk chocolate skin and curves enough to make a grown man weep had a look of deep sympathy on her doe features. “Well, welcome back to the world Mr. Winchester. Let's get you cleaned up, huh?”

 I was beyond grateful that she didn't coo or fawn over me, saving what was left of my pride. However, there wasn't going to be much left for long.

 What’s more embarrassing than getting a sponge bath from a beautiful woman in a totally not sexy way? It's having those same color rich eyes look at you with pity when you tell her for the millionth time that you don't have anyone to call while reinserting a catheter. Into your dick.

 If I was hunting with Dad or Sam it would be up to me to sneak outta here and meet up at the first motel in the phone book. But that was why I was laid up in bed, wasn't it? Because Dad trusted me with a job and I'd gotten myself taken outta the game in the recon phase. Pathetic. It kinda makes a person unmotivated to move at all.

 Honestly, I can't even remember how I got my dumb ass back to the Impala. 23 years of following my Dad around and apparently I had learned nothing from him. Even my memory was shot to hell, fuzzy and useless.

 I drifted in and out as Octavia, who turned out not to be a nurse, but a third year intern, filled me in on my injuries. I lost count of how many stitches they'd done and how aggressively they'd had to treat my wounds with heavy iv antibiotics. She wasn't telling me anything I hadn't been through before, but I nodded along like I was concerned just the same.

 Which, to be honest, wasn't all that hard because the memory of how these injuries were given to me appeared in flashes of red and black.

 It wasn't too damning until she told me about my leg being broken. Which, hello! Cast! They'd been able to put a regular bone pin in my tibia, and she assured me that I'd be transitioning into a weight bearing boot in a couple of weeks.

 Then, there was my right arm. Ha! They had to reset my shoulder (but honestly the damn thing had been out of joint at least three times already. No big deal.) there was a single break in my fore arm, which alright, no big. But it was just my luck that my trigger finger and thumb had been heavily bruised and had tiny hairline fractures on both of them.

 Fuck.

 Where was I gonna go? What was I gonna do when they inevitably kicked my homeless ass out of here? I didn't have enough money for pain meds, much less heavy duty antibiotics! And I'd be damned before I called my Dad to tell him how epically I failed at the hunt. At being a human being in general.

 How was I gonna finish the hunt?

 And my trigger finger was fucked!

 Distantly I registered that stupid heart monitor beeping shrilly. God damnit, how could I have gotten myself into this mess?

 “Calm down, Mr. Winchester.” Octavia sounded infinitely patient but firm as she adjusted the drip rate on my iv bag. I instantly start to feel calmer and I couldn't drum up enough energy to be indignant, sure that I was being given a sedative. If anything, I'd embrace the big black nothing just to not have to feel.

 After a few moments I felt my heart rate slow, a cloud of comfort falling over me and making my problems a distant memory even though I knew they were right on the surface.

 “Well, sugar, you do have a visitor. Now that you're back to your handsome self, do you want me to bring her back?” Her tone of voice was warm as she regarded me with her hands on her hips. I so wanted to say something flirty, maybe flash her a grin like I'd done to win over many a witness. I just didn't have the energy.

 Sam had called it disgusting. I'd said flirting was my super power. Then Sam had said that ‘being a manwhore is not a super power.’

 Aside from that, I couldn't figure out what she meant by visitor. Was it possible that Dad or… or maybe even Sam? But he'd have to be damn psychic.

 She must've read the confusion all over my face. I could hear my father’s voice right in my ear, ‘Need to work on that poker face, son. You're gettin’ sloppy.’ Yeah, if he only knew.

 “I would make time in this busy schedule of yours. Another couple of hours in that car and you wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for Y/N.” She was somehow stern while maintaining a kind face that I was afraid to cross. At my nod of agreement, she smiled wide. “Good boy.”

 I vaguely remembered a girl climbing in Baby and helping me to sit up. Which had caused a whole hell of a lotta unnecessary pain if you asked me. But she had spoken in a soft voice and held my bloody hand. Maybe she'd even promised that I would live after I'd sat there and blubbered like an infant.

 Still, no matter how relaxed I was, I wasn't prepared for the amount of beautiful that breezed through that doorway behind Octavia. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open when Octavia spoke to me again in an amused tone.

 “You just use that call button if you need anything, okay?” And then she was backing out with a smile and leaving me alone with… God, it was juvenile to think, but how could she be so striking? I was all for appreciating natural beauty, but her features stood out as exotic. Like she belonged in the wild with her long, wavy hair flowing behind her.

 “Hey, Dean Winchester. You look a little better than you did a few days ago.” Her smile was warm and a little flirty as her lips formed the words and I struggled to comprehend them for a moment.

 “A few days?” I managed to get out through my scratchy throat.

 The smile fell as she bit her bottom lip when she nodded to confirm my fear. “It's actually been a couple of weeks. They were worried you wouldn't wake up again. That maybe you'd lost too much oxygen to your brain and caused some damage.”

 Ha, now Dad could officially call me brain damaged! If he ever managed to find out about this little accident. Which he wouldn't if I had any say in the matter. It's not like he checked in very often nowadays. He was still brooding over Sam leaving and being stuck with the stupid son.

 In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to have sent me out on my own in hopes that I would get eaten. “Sorry to disappoint, Dad.” I muttered and felt the sardonic smile curl a side of my lip upward before I realized she was still here. “Sorry.” There was nothing left for me to do but close my eyes and feel my face flush in helpless embarrassment. Because that's just what I was. Helpless and in a medicated fog. I didn't even have the energy to pretend, not enough brain power to say ‘sorry, sweetheart’ with some kind of move to make her forget she ever saw me like this.

 “Well, anyway.” I heard her steps move closer and opened my eyes to watch her swap out some dying flowers for a fresh bundle of purple like she'd been doing this all week. Maybe she had? The renewed scent of lavender filling the room and blocking out some of the hospital antiseptic was familiar. “I'm glad you're awake and getting better.”

 She then sat down on the chair that was already perched close to the side of the bed with even more familiarity than the flowers. My mind immediately jumped to the Sammy-like voice that I'd heard before. “You were in here the first time I woke up.” I didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did, but I was horrified that this girl kept seeing me in a vulnerable position over and over.

 “Yes.” She didn't sound the least bit remorseful, maybe she was even a little defiant. “You were dreaming about being attacked. I felt so bad when they came in to sedate you, but you were gonna tear out your stitches.” She actually did look like she'd been worried and I couldn't figure out why she would be sitting at some strangers bedside wasting energy on worrying over them.

 “How are you allowed in here anyway? Isn't it family only or some crap like that?” I was clearly lashing out and defensive because I was uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean I could stop it.

 “Well, sorry to break it to you, but this place is smaller than Mayberry and I happen to have some connections.” She obviously meant that to be funny, but as the tone of my face didn't change, she straightened up in her seat. “I can go, if you want.” Why did she have to look so earnest and sweet, flashing puppy dog eyes so much like my little brothers? Only, they were the wrong shade of brown. “I actually used to volunteer here for a few summers. So, I kind of know everyone.” Her eyes brightened a little, “but that means I know where they stash the extra jello.”

 “Well, I guess you can stay then, sweetheart.” The meds were messing with me, but I did manage to flash her a grin. If I were a stronger person I would've turned her away, but just a little human contact couldn't hurt, right? My father already thought I was a failure, might as well go for broke.

 So, she stayed. Since I wasn't much for conversation, she mostly told me everything about herself. About college, what she was studying and summer break. (And didn't that hurt, thinking of Sam preferring to hang out with kids his own age instead of contacting me) About house sitting for her grandparents and what a ‘lovely’ little town Agness was.

 Despite being on the knifes edge of explicit pain, I found her voice calming. I dozed off a few times, much to my embarrassment, but she didn't seem to mind. She only picked up where she left off.

 When my first meal since I couldn't even remember arrived in the form of cream of wheat and beef broth, she got up to leave. She patted the top of my head softly, a move I would've found irritating if it hadn't felt so good. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

 I even let her get close enough to kiss my cheek before she left and it was a pattern she continued to follow. I let her smooth down my hopeless hospital hair because it felt so damn good to be touched. I didn’t trust that I would see her again. But, I did.

 Every few days she would replace the flowers without question and smuggle in extra Jello in her bag. I got used to her coming and was horrified that I looked forward to listening to her banter on without asking me 20 (painful) questions about my life.

 The one day she didn't show up was actually a little devastating. The only thing that rectified the whole ordeal was that she'd texted Octavia to tell me she wouldn't be in. Octavia was the one to sneak in an extra pudding that night. I appreciated it, even though she brought the sugar free kind.

 On top of being denied what I'd started to affectionately call my ‘candy striper time’, I was bombarded by financial services. They were looking for identification and insurance. Which I had neither.

 The white haired, plump representative lady had left very disappointed. And I started to feel even more antsy. They were weaning me off of the iv pain killers onto pills with less strength. I could still feel the hum of muted pain through my body, but I couldn't bring myself to say a word.

 The lady returned with another clip board later that day and I felt my face flush red as my blood pressure sky rocketed. She must've seen how irritated (anxious) I was because she explained immediately.

 “Well, I had no idea you were a cousin of Y/N’s!” She paused for a moment, watching me expectantly for a reaction. When I gave her none, which what was I supposed to say? Yeah, being cousins is great! Did I even have real cousins?

 She handed over the clipboard and pen and pointed out what I needed to fill out and where I needed to sign. Ha, like my signature actually meant anything! When I was finished with that, she flipped the page over and instructed me to fill out the form beneath it.

 “The Y/L/N’s are very influential around here in the West Oregon and Washington areas. You're very lucky to be a part of that family, young man. All of your medical services will be covered. So, you make sure you keep those recheck appointments.”

 I gave her an attempt at a smile, but I'm sure it fell flat. The best thing about it was that she didn't stick around for long.

 After she left, I passed the rest of my time going between wondering how Sammy was doin and why Y/N had really picked me as a charity case. Which, come on, it wasn't like she picked me for my swollen face and sexual prowess. There had to be a catch.

 It was somewhere around day 21 when Y/N came wheeling in with a wheel chair and an expectant look on her face. The days had been slipping by in a blur of all manner of people poking and prodding. If it weren’t for the open blinds on the window, I wouldn’t have a clue.

 “I'm springing ya, Winchester.”

 I'd spent the entire day in fear of those words. Where was I supposed to go? The impala wasn't moving without a lot of tender loving care and she was parked right in the middle of town. I couldn't just stay there and wait it out until I could move again.

 “Already?” I managed, my voice was still scratched all to hell. It made me sound like I was going through freaking puberty again. Oh well, just add that to the list of shit happens. “I haven’t even called my ride yet.”

 She smiled brightly, like seriously, how were her teeth so white? “I’m your ride.”

 And how could I argue with that? ‘No, that’s okay, my Dad’ll show up. I promise?’ Or maybe, ‘Hey, my brother isn’t too far south from here. He could totally be here in a day…’

 So, against my better judgement and all of my instincts telling me that this was ridiculous… I let her lead the way for better or for worse.

Tagging: @mamaredd123, @perpetualabsurdity, @maileann, @daydreamingintheimpala, @gecko9596, @gemini75eeyore, @jotink78, @dancingalone21, @winchesterprincessbride, @sandlee44, @exploratiionist, @arryn-nyxx , @littledarlinhavefaithinme, @tiffanycaruso, @boredoutofmymindstuff, @feelmyroarrrr, @raeganr99, @ruprecht0420, @anokhi07, @letsgetyourdeanon, @sis-tafics, @jensen-gal, @theoneandonlysaucymo, @27bmm, @callmesatansprincess, @hbenth, @atc74, @ryansgirl5509, @mysteriouslyme82, @notnaturalanahi, @keepcalmandcarryondean, @sea040561, @just-another-busy-fangirl, @spn67-sister, @tas898, @wheresthekillswitch, @glendagiggles, @mandymoiselle1970

If you would like to be on this list (or off), let me know! Also, I’d love if you took the time to let me know what you think so far. This story will have at least one more part, possibly two.

[thehalfbloodprincesses-blog1]

Amour Étrange Part 2

Pairing: Draco x Reader Word Count: 2,037 Warnings: bullying (”mudblood” term), fluff, almost-kiss, Malfoy being slightly aggressive (not towards the reader) Author / Editor: @magicology101 / @saxxxology​

It’s been almost a month since you and Draco sat together in Transfiguration. Since the brief study session the same afternoon, you haven’t studied together either. You’re slightly worried that it was all a joke, that the affinity you’d had with him was a lie. The only thing you can really do is remain optimistic and cling to the shred of faith you hold deep inside.

Whenever you pass each other in the hallway, he smiles at you before continuing on his way, Crabbe, Goyle, and the pug-faced Pansy Parkinson at his heels. While you don’t talk during class, he sneaks glances at you during class and occasionally winks playfully, which makes you blush a soft shade of pink as you bury your face in whatever book happens to be in front of you.

Even though he acknowledges you, you miss the conversation and wish you two would talk again. You even keep Matilda in your bag just in case it comes up again. If we ever talk again.

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and not a single student is inside the castle. Some sit by the lake, perched on the massive boulders, while others sit under the trees enjoying the pleasant weather. You decide to sit under a magnificent birch tree away from the crowds and read your worn-out copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them. Since you couldn’t enjoy the book during school hours, you decided to reserve the book for more private times, although Muggle books deepened your interest more than texts from the wizarding world.

You begin reading it, carefully absorbing every word and detail the author portrays. The creatures described in the yellowing pages, Occamy, the magnificent Thunderbird, are all incredibly fascinating. You never appreciated how independent the centaurs were from wizards and how a Demiguise could turn invisible at will. You start reading about the fairy when you notice the pages suddenly being considerably darker, as if someone’s shadow is blocking the sunlight…

Suddenly, a pair of hands that look more like paws knocks the textbook roughly out of your hands, sending it tumbling to lie at your feet. You look up to see Pansy Parkinson looming over you, her jet black hair hanging just above her shoulders.

“What is it with mudbloods and books?” she jeers, her muddy brown eyes squinting at you and an ugly smile full of crooked teeth spreading across her face. “You and that Granger girl can’t go anywhere without a book.” She steps on the book and grinds her heel into the cover, which makes you cringe. It was a library book, meaning Madame Pince would be furious if the book were to be returned destroyed or tarnished in any way.

“Can you not?” You stand, beginning to pull out your wand. Pansy notices the movement and whips out her own (much shorter, you notice) wand.

“Expelliarmus!” She shrieks.

Your wand flies out of your hands and flies straight into her hand, and she flings your only magical means of defense behind her. Great. You bring your hands up to a fighting position, deciding that you might have to resort to Muggle means to defend yourself. Pansy cackles, and it’s one of the most hideous noises you have ever heard in your life, like a hyena mixed with a dog howl.

“Don’t bother, mudblood,” she says, pointing her wand directly at your chest. “You don’t have the power.”

The world slows down as she raises her wand, opening her mouth to recite something. You raise your arms over your head, curling in on yourself in a vain effort to protect your body from harm. Just as she’s about to cast a curse, Malfoy comes up from behind her and pushes her away, causing her to fall onto her side with a loud grunt of discomfort.

“Really, Parkinson? You have to fight her?” He asks, his eyes sparking with anger. “Go find someone else, she’s done nothing to us.” “Oh, like Potter?” she retorts but in a sickly sweet voice. She bats her eyes, trying to get on his good side.

This seems to enrage him even more. He grabs the collar of Pansy’s robes and pulls her up, and you notice that he has a good six inches in height on her. “Potter deserves it. She doesn’t. Now go.”

He shoves her towards the school. Pansy, shaken up by her fellow Slytherin’s response, continues in that direction, not turning back. As you adjust your robes with trembling hands, Malfoy spots your wand lying a few feet away. As he goes to grab it, you stoop to pick up the dirt-covered book. You examine it, turning over the book in your hands to make sure nothing is ripped or destroyed.

After several moments of silence, Malfoy speaks. “Sorry about that.”

You look over at him. He’s twirling your wand, not making eye contact with you. You feel sorry for him having to apologize. It wasn’t his fault, he chose to help you out of the situation.

“It’s fine, I’m used to it,” you respond quietly.

Malfoy raises a questioning eyebrow at you. “If you are, that’s not a good thing,” he says, worry in his tone.

Your heart flutters a little. Someone actually cares, now that’s a first.

“Well, that’s my life,” you reply in a semi-casual tone. “We get picked on, it’s practically our purpose. There isn’t anything I can do to change that.” You slowly walk over to Malfoy, holding out your hand for your wand. He places it in your hand softly, his fingers barely touching your palm. Your hand closes around your wand, and you place it back in your robe as a shiver of glee goes down your spine. You nod a quick thanks, stride back over to your tree, and continue reading your book, your fingers brushing against the mark on the cover made by Pansy’s shoe.

You assume Malfoy’s left and mentally kick yourself for not asking him to join you. We could have had our study session… oh well, nevermind.

Just as you start reading, you hear a slight thud as he sits down next to you. You can already feel heat racing to your cheeks. He leans in closer to you, reading your book over your shoulder.

“Isn’t this a textbook?” He realizes what your reading and tilts his head, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his long arms around them.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t able to enjoy when we read it in class, so I wanted to read it for fun.” He’s too close, you can’t turn your head to look at him because what if he’s looking at you too and what if people see…?

He smiles tightly, letting out a sharp breath that could have been laughter. You tilt your head in confusion.

“What?”

“It’s just weird,” he laughs, pale pink lips stretching to reveal his perfect teeth. “The only other person who I’ve met that does that is Granger.”

The moment he says that you feel incredibly awkward. It’s old news that he harbors a strong, unwavering hatred for Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. It’s an honor and an offense to be compared to a person he despises. Malfoy seems to notice the way his words affected you. His face begins to show some color in the cheeks, as if he’s embarrassed. It’s kind of cute…

“Well, books are comforting, they tell you the facts and don’t judge the reader.” You state, somewhat quietly, as if you might upset him. Silence begins to spread between the two of you when a question pops into your head. “Why do you hate them so much?”

It startles Draco, but he ponders the question. It’s an excruciatingly painful wait for you, and by the time he responds, it feels like hours have passed.

“Well… I guess… it’s because I learned to hate them because of my father… and his beliefs,” he answers carefully, struggling to select each word. “He believes in You Know Who’s ideas about a pure wizarding world and thinks that Muggle-borns shouldn’t be allowed to learn magic, and hates anyone who supports them. Personally, I dislike Potter because he and his friends can break any rule they choose and get away with it - if anything, they’re bloody rewarded.” He stops to take a breath. “I also was… kind of a brat when I was younger, so...”

The both of you begin to laugh because you know it’s true. You remember when you were in your first year and how rude Draco was to everyone that wasn’t a Slytherin, especially to the famous Harry Potter, who, at the time, was simply minding his own business.

What feels like minutes turns into hours of conversation, and soon enough, the grounds slowly become darker, the sky turns a faded mixture of pink and orange, clouds yellow in the light of the setting sun. Shards of light flicker on the water of the Black Lake. It is a beautiful sight, and both you and Malfoy end up gazing at it in awe.

As painful as it is, you are the first one to suggest leaving. “We should probably head back, dinner should be getting served soon.”

Malfoy turns away from the sky, but instead of looking at you, his eyes suddenly find a clump of purple flowers fascinating.

“Is something wrong?” you ask. Your voice is shaking slightly.

Malfoy’s face lifts, his crystal blue eyes shining in the little light that was left.

“No, it’s just… there’s one more Hogsmeade visit before we leave for the summer,” he explains. “And I wasn’t planning on going at first, but I was wondering if… if you’d like to join me?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, your entire body tingling with joy. He just asked you out, Draco Malfoy, a Slytherin, just asked you out. Your mind refuses to believe his words, but the rest of you says otherwise.

“I’d love to!” you respond, barely keeping yourself composed.

Draco’s beautiful smile returns to his face, spreading across from one side to the other. “Great! It’s settled then.” he declares, the joy growing in his voice. “It’s in a couple weeks, I’ll send you an owl when it gets closer.” “I’ll be waiting,” you reply, not being able to contain your happiness any longer.

Draco rises and holds out his hand to you. You graciously take his hand in yours and he helps you stand. He stronger than you think, and his firm grip plus his strength nearly makes you lose balance. You trip over your own feet and start to topple forward. Your faces end up barely inches away from each other.

The world slows down. There’s no one else, and it’s just you and Malfoy and the ground you’re standing on. The light of the setting sun illuminates him from behind, a full body halo that casts light all around him. He’s shrouded in light, but his shadow cloaks you in darkness.

He reaches up, touches your cheek with his fingers, stroking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Without thinking, you lean into his touch, tilting your head slightly. Malfoy mirrors you perfectly, dips his head, lets his hand rest against the back of your skull. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your face, and the minty scent of him engulfs you...

“Draco!”

The shrill, nasal voice of Pansy Parkinson shatters your moment. You turn your head so sharply you feel a twinge in your neck. She’s standing no more than fifteen feet away, arms crossed, with Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini by her side. “Dinner’s starting in ten minutes, let’s get a good seat!”

Malfoy exhales sharply, stepping away from you as if a magnet is drawing him to his friends. “I…” He mutters something unintelligible before turning his back on you and walking away.

You watch him walk away with his friends, realizing you’re alone once more. All sensations of hunger gone, tears welling in your eyes, you slowly trudge back to your dormitory, wishing that they hadn’t shown up and ruined what could have been the best moment of your life.

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