#Yes the weird ugly green patch for the inside of his ear is made out of Tony’s jacket

[d1sapp01ntm3nt]

new Dr. Rabbit design I’m cooking…

based on this post nobody saw me make

[alilbihh]

heliophile

masterlist

pairing: hoseok x reader

summary: helio·phile, noun (plural heliophiles)

A lover of the sun.

(or: You turn to look at him and find him already looking. He's stealing cherry-like fruits from behind the counter top and slipping them into the most bafflingly ugly pouch you've ever seen.

You engage in a silent staring contest that lasts approximately four long seconds before you speak. "Yo.")

genre: alien!hoseok, space!au (?), fluff

words: 2.3k

When you step out the space craft, you'd expected the air to be cold and frigid but it's not. It's warm, like if you were to look up, you'd see the blues and pinks of the horizon, the sun peeking just slightly behind the clouds.

You're on an odd planet whose name you can't pronounce, with too many consonants and not enough vowels and maybe, like, three F's. Too many F's. Too much everything.

The pilot is a prickly old man with grey hairs and crooked teeth, but you think he looks happy when you smile in his direction. The void between planets doesn't leave much room for anything but years of self-reflection, pinpricks of destinations, no place to call home. It must be lonely for him, you think.

Someone bumps into you and it's then you realize you're standing still and the people behind you are stepping off, and you breathe breathe breathe before doing the same.

You think it feels like an airport before you stop to think that it kinda is. The walls are a stark white and everyone is carrying around their luggage and it's-- weird. It's weird.

You'd done mild research on the place before leaving Earth, but it all still feels odd. Out of place. Like the whole three days on the space craft had been a fever dream. Like you'd woken up in your bed back at home and suddenly the sky was a light purple and there were two moons.

There are patches of green on the ground that look like grass but not quite. You step over them and continue your trek.

You pass by people with antennas and lurid pink skin and black filled eyes before you reach the outside and realize you're the only human. Or maybe you're an alien to them, too.

(You wonder if they also feel like outsiders.)

It's your seventy third day on the planet and you're milling through the market, trading ores for valuables like water and groceries. You haven't quite gotten over home yet. Still wake up hoping the sky will be blue when it never is.

Someone taps on your shoulder, and when you turn they're vaguely human-like, except when he speaks it's in the planet's mother tongue. It's an ugly language, with a slick, hissing enunciation that sounds like a secret. You hate everything about it, no matter the being that speaks it.

"You look like you're looking for something," He says, and you pick up on enough words to understand what was said. Tourist guides on the language can't help you forever.

The sky isn't blue and the language is ugly and you haven't heard your mother tongue be spoken for a bit too long, but this is meant to be your home. Even if you feel almost too untethered to yourself in it.

So you say, “I'm not. Thank you.” And that's that.

As a kid you dreamed of becoming an explorer, whose name was scrawled on storefronts and whose discoveries were put in museums back at home.

You still dream, sometimes, of places you've never been. Of tossing pebbles over streams that bleed pink, dipping your toes in the shoreline, of trying to decipher the poetry etched onto moss covered rocks, of running through the greenhouses on Mars, biting into the red-speckled fruits. Of trying to find a place to belong.

Your sleeps are dreamless these days.

(There are approximately fifty seven Earth-sized planets in the Milky Way alone.

Before, it made you feel full to bursting like an overripe cherry for the galaxy and its endless mysteries.

Now, it makes you feel small.)

It’s day one hundred and something when you're watching the condensation pool around your drink, making small talk with the holographic bartender and failing miserably when a man sidles onto the stool beside you.

"Do you want a tip?" You're saying, then realize holograms won't have a use for money, but slide a crumpled bill over the wooden counter anyway. It's Earth currency, just something you had in your pocket when you left, climbed into the nearest space craft and didn't look back. You're light-years away from where it could serve any sort of purpose, but maybe the hologram will want it anyway.

"Lifeform detected," it says, flickering blue like static. Not even acknowledging your money, the bastard. "Status: Earthling. What is your language of preference?" It starts cycling through all of Earth's languages when you don't respond and you just let it, try to guess which language it's speaking before it moves on to another.

The man is still sneaking interested glances at you, which you know because he's wearing gloves and a scarf and, like, three sweaters while cramped inside a bar made entirely of heat and sweat, even if you're sure it was warm outside. It's weird and bizarre.

You turn to look at him and find him already looking. He's stealing cherry-like fruits from behind the counter top and slipping them into the most bafflingly ugly pouch you've ever seen.

You engage in a silent staring contest that lasts approximately four long seconds before you speak. "Yo."

There are billions upon billions of languages this man could know, billions upon billions of different planets or stars he could be from, but he still smiles and says--

"Hey."

You swallow. "You were looking at me just now."

The man only hums. Tosses a cherry into his mouth, stem and all. "That I was."

He's wearing this awful yellow wool sweater over what could only be several other sweaters underneath it, and he's smiling something big when his mouth makes this heart shape that you hadn't noticed before because you weren't really looking but now you are looking and it's. Devastating.

"Well." You cough, then clear your throat. Take a sip of the drink you'd just remembered was still there. "Cool."

"Yes." The man says, skin tinted honey and gold. You've seen many skin colors, all from different colors of the rainbow, seen horns and pointed ears and too many eyes. And maybe his is the closest thing to human, but at the same time it's-- not. It's different. Too pretty to be human, like he's lived on the sun his whole life.

He's still smiling, something careful and charming, because apparently his mouth is incapable of resting in any other expression.

"What's your name?" You say because he's been staring for what could only be beyond what's socially acceptable, and then his grin gets impossibly wider, cheeks crinkling at the edges.

His name is Jung Hoseok and he was born on the sun. Visited Earth, once. Visited the whole Solar System, stayed in a humble cottage on Pluto for two years before moving because something was twisting in his gut, apparently. Something that screamed go, move, leave.

He left and left and left, found solace in the nothing of space. (Or maybe he didn't. If he's anything like you, you don't think he did.)

His name is Jung Hoseok and he's had the same froggy green underwear for the last four years and he has a small tattoo on his hip, a little sun, and when he presses you to the mattress he's warm warm warm, tastes like the honey gold of his skin. Like the sun.

His name is Jung Hoseok, and you haven't felt this warm in a long time.

You feel kind of like you're walking on the deck of the Titanic as it sinks, the room tilting slowly on its axis, all off-kilter.

Next to you, Hoseok sits in bulky winter wear and it's kind of funny. It must be hard to be constantly cold, but you think he manages.

You don't know what you're doing here, still doing here. But then an old steam train whizzes by and you feel-- strangely nostalgic. Like someone from the eighteenth century, plucked straight out of a Ghibli movie. You hadn't even known this was on the planet. (Maybe you never cared enough to look.)

Hoseok gets up, offers an elbow. "Well?"

So you follow him inside the train, sit on a plush red seat by the window, watch as the scenery paints itself blue then green then pink. You pass by a sunny forest one second then a snowy one the next. Hear laughing children and spot a mother with kind eyes and laughter lines.

Then suddenly everything fades and you're running on water and the sky is a light light purple that fades into a not-blue. An almost-blue. Blue.

You look away from the window and find Hoseok staring at you. Wonder if he ever looked away. Simply say, "Blue."

He smiles something tender and soft. Fond. "Blue." He agrees.

"S'blue, where I'm from." You look at the window again. The sky is starting to become more purple, but you think you like it. You hadn't before, wonder what changed. "The sky, I mean."

"I know." He nod nod nods, doesn't say anything else.

You both get off on a stop where you don't know where you are, and you lead Hoseok to a nearby farmhouse where the horizon line is burning against the tips of the wheat, setting the world on fire.

You blast through the blazing gold and when you collapse on the ground, no closer to the sun than when you started, Hoseok runs to lie beside you on the soil, brush a finger over the tips of the wheat leaning over him.

Your heart is beating so hard against your ribcage you think it might burst.

"How long are you staying?" You say, tilt your head to watch him.

"Hm," he hums, "Not long. I just crashed here for, like, supplies."

"Oh." Something claws at your chest, squeezes your lungs, takes over when you then say, "Are you looking for a co-pilot?"

Hoseok startles, turns quick, smiles something slow slow slow and then he's grinning. His eyes are wide and pretty and honest.

"We'll travel a lot."

"I know."

"We'll have to leave this place. Won't settle down any time soon."

"Yeah. I know." You breathe.

"Do you even know how to fly a space craft?"

"Uh," you stammer, "no."

You hear more than see the grin when he says, "You're in."

"What does this button do?" You ask, finger hovering over a red button that looks incriminatingly dangerous.

Hoseok hums, not taking his eyes off the monitor, and simply says, "Self-destruct."

You pull back immediately. "Are you being serious right now?"

"No." When you turn to look at him, he's grinning. You punch his shoulder lightly as he tumbles over in laughter, takes a hold of your hand softly. Doesn't let go even though you're sure it's faster to type with two hands.

Hoseok is a constant, you learn quickly.

You and Hoseok travel long stretches of nothing and get off on stops where neither of you know where you are. Sunken cities and civilizations built through secret, languages of clicking and hissing and too many rolled out R's, the setting of a blue sun on an unnamed planet.

Hoseok is always there, there to look out for you and guide you and sometimes, when he looks at you, you catch him smiling something soft and relieved. Almost as if to say ah, there you are.

The in-betweens are a big part of it, you think. Sitting back between destinations just to this, this constant. To Hoseok dancing in the living room to no music at all and to him clicking away at the monitor and sometimes, when you're lucky, to the stars filtering through the blinds and a hand around your waist when everything is warm, warm, warm.

"This is nice," Hoseok says on a day where everything feels slow, like the world is hanging on a drop of honey. An arm is looped over your back, the monitor clicking behind you in a comforting white noise, and there's a steady line of a heartbeat mirroring your own.

Hands are tugging at your face, pulling you in, sun-warmed lips meeting yours halfway.

"What's nice?" You murmur as you trail a hand down his face. You trace the crease between his brows, the slope of his nose, the apple of his cheeks. The dip between his lips.

Hoseok kisses the pads of your fingers. "Just-- sometimes, I used to go months without saying anything out loud, saying anything at all, so this is just. A nice change. Really nice." He trails off, sighs into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there, just because he can.

"Oh." You breathe. When you lean back to cup his cheeks, his eyes are half-lidded and honest and so impossibly fond, and you look and then really look, find traces of the sun.

You press your lips to the crown of his head and just breathe. The mood has softened and you're okay with that, okay with him lifting you up and bringing you to bed, pinning you in place, murmuring something soft that you don't catch.

You stay like that for the rest of the afternoon, soft and still. Hoseok must fall asleep at some point and maybe you do too, but when you look through the glass the outside is still the long black-blue stretch of dusk that it always is. You turn and your nose brushes over Hoseok's, and he looks so beautiful your heart stutters for a terrifying moment.

It's day three hundred and.. something. You're not sure anymore, stopped counting a while ago. Find that maybe you don't need to, not anymore.

(Once you'd run away from your planet, snuck onto a space craft and didn't look back until you realized how lonely it was out there.

And now-- now... Now you've realized that maybe it's not as lonely as you thought. That maybe home was never a place at all.)

a/n: y/n, sitting on the pilot seat of hoseok’s space craft: kowalski, analysis. hoseok: what

[devilrising]

Fallen Draco, Pt. 3

This story follows a prompt by @mymindsmadness

Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.

Word Count (Pt. 3): 3119

Word Count (Total): 9032

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic)

***

31st March, 1998

I watch as the clock next to me ticks over to midnight. Tuesday. Potter is still looking at me pointedly, waiting for me to pick up the robes. They are black as night, the perfect cover for me to slip under. For him to break me out of St. Mungo’s. My stomach clenches, knots riddling inside of me, tangling up. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to put myself in danger once again, susceptible to my Father’s demons. But I can’t stay here. I’ll be found, caught. And then I’ll be back right where I left, but I imagine it would be a lot worse. What am I doing?

Potter sighs heavily before backing out of the room. In the doorway he whispers, “It’s fine if you don’t want to. I just thought-”

I cut him off by leaping out of the bed, clutching at the long robes. He gapes as I rush to remove my hospital clothes and throw the black fabric over me. I pull the oversized hood on, letting it fall onto my head. Potter smiles for a second before realising what exactly we’re doing.

He hurries to cast a cleaning charm over himself, removing all the blood and dirt that was caked on thick. Pointing his wand at his face, he then casts a Glamour. His scar vanished from sight, replaced with a pale patch of skin. I watch as all of his flesh slowly fades as well, leaving behind skin just darker than my own. Then he waves his holly wand above his hair, and it starts shortening and fading. What’s left is startling unlike him. The mop of black hair is now a cropped sandy-brown cut, and he looks rather strange. He conjures a small mirror to judge his disguise, and nods.

Turning to me, Potter raises his wand to my face. I instinctively flinch, before forcing myself to relax. A sorry-almost-pitying expression crosses his features, his emerald green eyes creased, and he quickly starts moving his wand as a distraction. I feel nothing changing, and I can’t see anything from beneath the thick cover-up I’m wearing, but Potter spends ages redoing his work. Making sure I’m completely unrecognisable. When he spins the mirror to face me, I almost gasp. My skin is still pale, but now it’s cool toned and covered with freckles. Red tinges poke through at odd places, and one particular patch draws my attention up to my hair. The neat, platinum blond is gone, replaced with strawberry blond tresses curling at the end. My eyes are no longer grey, but rather a pretty silver, the colour I’ve always wished for.

The nose and mouth resting on my face are different as well. Both are thinner, the nose is shorter and rather like McGonagall’s. My lips have changed colour and are now an odd orange instead of a pale pink. There is nothing familiar about my reflection, and I feel detached from the person I look like. Potter is inspecting my face, checking that it still disguises me. I purse my lips and turn the mirror away, passing it back to him. He waves his wand again and sicards the conjured mirror. He straightens the bed sheets out with a charm and quickly scribbles a note onto a scrap of parchment. He spello-tapes the note onto the back of the door and I catch a glance at it.

‘Mr. Malfoy has been relocated to another ward for his recovery. Do not follow up on his injuries, and mention him to no one.’

A warm feeling trickles up my spine, and I’m reassured. For the moment. Maybe Father won’t be able to find me. Potter is watching me again, and I nod at him silently. He pulls up his own hood (when did he get those robes?) and grabs my hand. I open my door and we walk out into the corridor.

***

St Mungo’s looks rather sad behind us. Instead of the bright hospital that’s inside, the exterior is another story. The red-bricked department store “Purge and Dowse, Ltd.” looks like it’s stuck in the 70s. It’s tiny, dark, and cramped. It’s perfect. The muggles passing by don’t pay it any attention, pretending that the monstrosity of a building doesn’t exist. Potter is still holding my hand, and I yank it away. He says nothing, continuing to walk through the criss-cross of messy London streets. I have no idea where we are, or where we’re going, but he seems to have a clear picture in his mind.

Potter trudges through various streets, all of which are quiet and seemingly unused by the public. When we accidentally come across a well lit, busy street, a chill races within me. The man next to me groans and grabs my hand. Before I have time to complain he leans in close to me, mouth to my ear. “We have to pretend, Malfoy.” I open my mouth to ask what exactly he means by that, when it hits me. We are teenagers in Muggle London, at midnight, wearing robes. Potter is holding my hand tightly, gripping me to him. Here, we are together. Questions won’t be asked and we will be able to slip between people relatively unnoticed. Boyfriends. It’s a brilliant idea, but I don’t quite fancy it.

I twist to him, about to argue, but I never get the chance. I’m suddenly being pulled across a street. Lights of red are on either side of me, with a bright green one in front. The green matches Potter’s eyes, and I feel slightly dizzy. The ground beneath me is striped with white, and a purring sound surrounds me. Of course. Muggle London. The odd, curved, shiny metal things carrying people are ‘cars’. My head swims, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Inside the cars, there is at least one muggle holding onto a circle with shapes cut out of it. This circle seems to control which way the car moves. Before I can figure anything else out, we are on the other side of the road.

Potter doesn’t slow at all, dragging me down a path. Shops line the street, most displaying a sign reading ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’ I look into each of the shops we pass, staring past our reflections and beyond the glass. Clothes make up the majority of what I see, hung up and folded in some sort of order. These particular stores often have people look-alikes standing at the front, presumably wearing some of the clothes sold in-store. Other shops are covered in pictures of tropic islands and of Europe, buildings covered wall-to-wall with massive machines that apparently dispense money, and shops filled with antiques and gifts.

Potter ducks into another alley and releases my hand. “We’ll Side-Along.” I nod hurriedly, wanting to be away from the muggles with their weird machines and inventions. Clutching onto Potter’s extended arm, I prepare for the queasy sensation of apparating. The world goes black for a split second, everything closing in on us and squishing down. And then it’s stopped, and we are standing on yet another street. This one seems quiet but still in use, and dingy houses dot the ground near the road. It’s a suburban street. The streetlights are dim, not emitting enough light to see clearly by, but I manage to notice that the houses look mostly abandoned. Potter walks forward and I let my arm drop back to my side. I watch as he walks up to two of the houses, looking expectantly at the seam. He notices that my arm is gone, and grabs for me again.

As he takes my hand, I see what he’s looking at. Another house is emerging, forcing itself out from between the two next to it. Instantly I know why I couldn’t see it.

“A Fidelius Charm…” I whisper.

“Yes,” Potter confirms bluntly. He leads me up the steps and draws his wand. I flinch at the holly length but release a sigh when he merely points it to the door. He murmurs something I can’t hear and pushes the battered door open. A long hallway comes into view, and I scrunch up my nose. The carpet is dirty and wearing thin, and the wallpaper is literally peeling off the walls. Serpents decorate the corridor, all of which are rusty and dull. I sweep my gaze up and down again, and spot a particularly ugly umbrella stand that’s made from a troll leg.

“I know, it’s hideous,” Potter deadpans.

“It’s the Black house.” It’s not a question, I know what it is.

“Was. It’s mine now.”

“You can keep it,” I sneer, “its revolting.”

“Gee thanks.”

I nod at him and start to pace up the hallway. Portraits hang off the walls, each of them depicting a different relative of mine. They are clearly well done, but a layer of dust coats the paint. As I move through the ground floor, I take everything in. I’ve never actually entered the house. My parents thought, rightfully so, that it was an embarrassment that shouldn’t be mentioned. Spider webs cling to the ceiling, and I shudder as I pass under them.

“Want something to eat?”

I turn at Potter’s awkward attempt at small talk. “No thanks.”

“Look. I know this place is dingy, but nothing I try fixes it.” He pauses, glancing down to the doorway at my left. “Besides, you have to eat at some point.”

I scoff loudly and enter the dining room. It’s a long room with a massive table in the middle, easily as big as the table at the Manor. Light fixtures hang from the ceiling, glowing faintly. “This room is better,” I say. The amount of dust is dramatically less than in the entrance, and the furniture isn’t crumbling to splinters. I still don’t particularly want to stay in it for too long though.

“Thanks Malfoy,” Potter replies. The git actually sounds pleased.

I exit the dining room and continue down the entryway. There is a stone door at the very end, and I hesitantly push it open.

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”

“How come?” My voice is steady with a hint of judgemental.

“It’s worse than here.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I drawl. “What’s through there?”

“Technically it’s the basement, but the kitchen’s there too.” Potter has the sense to look sheepish at the fact that his kitchen is revolting and grimy, so I decide I’ll do as he wishes and look somewhere else.

I turn around and start going up the long flight stairs. I screw up my features at the House Elf heads stuck to the wall and keep my eyes down. When I reach the first landing, I gratefully step away from the stairs. This floor is much cleaner than the lower one and I gaze around, intrigued. There appears to be at least one bedroom, a bathroom, and a drawing room. I make a beeline for the latter, hoping to find somewhere to sit down. Instead, I halt immediately. There is a massive tapestry on the walls, covered in names and faces. It’s the Black family tree. My eyes rake over everyone, saying the names I know off by heart. I don’t recognise some of them, all of which are beneath a black, burned circle covering someone’s face. It seems I haven’t been taught about the people who disappointed the family.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot my mother’s name and face, and walk over to it. My hand lightly caresses the tapestry, and I feel a pang in my chest. Where is Mother? Potter said she was safe…

“She’s in a room upstairs, sleeping deeply.” His voice cuts through the silence and startles me. “I saw you looking, thought that’s what you might’ve been thinking,” he shrugs at me. I narrow my eyes at how easily he figured my thoughts out, but decide it’s ultimately not worth pondering over. We have always paid lots of attention to each other.

“Take me to her.” I swallow heavily around a lump in my throat as I’m led up another flight of stairs. This landing is smaller, but has more bedrooms. The second door is shut, and I walk carefully up to it. The gentle steps don’t stop the floor creaking, but it must help. I glance at the rooms next to it, and nearly barf at the state they are in. I close both of the doors on either side of the middle one and lock them to deal with later. I push open the door to my mother and step inside. The bedroom is clean and plain, lacking all of the decorations in the others. Potter has clearly cleaned it out in preparation for her. There is a table with potion bottles sitting on it, as well as a cup of water and some food under stasis charms.

I make my way to Mother, and my heart momentarily shatters. She looks so fragile, lying there. Her grey hair is fanned out on the soft white pillow, her eyes shut tight. I walk up and take my spot next to her. I reach out and take her sickly-pale hand into my own. My eyes burn and for a second I think I’m going to cry, but I don’t let myself. She isn’t gone. Not yet.

***

1st April, 1998

Potter has put me in the bedroom on the first floor. I hated it for the first little while, sitting in the uncomfortable bed sulking. But then I decided that I should do something about it instead of wallowing. So I did. I started with cleaning charms to remove some of the dust and debris, but quickly realised that it was doing nothing. After that revelation, I had started doing it by hand. Moving the rubbish and old furniture into the corridor was easy enough, most of it being deceivingly light. The dust, however, was another story. It was fairly simple to sweep it into multiple little piles, but what to do after that I had had no idea.

Eventually I had realised that I could just shove it into a bag and throw it out, so that’s what I did. I looked around the room and was quite happy with my progress. And then the walls had caught my attention. I remember scowling so hard my face hurt, before viciously ripping at the paper. By the time my disgust had worn away, most of the wallpaper was scattered on the floor. I also swept that up into a bag, and then removed the rest civilly with the help of some water and a lot of patience. All the while I was doing that, the carpet under my feet was starting to fall apart. The soles of my feet had hurt and I was growing tired. I took a break for a while, moving downstairs and finding something to eat in that truly horrendous kitchen.

I was refreshed when I paced back up the stairs and into my room, so I decided to tear up the mouldy carpet. While doing so, some wooden floorboards appeared. They were old and stained a disgusting warm tone, but they were better than the carpet. I hauled all the scraps out into the corridor next to the bags of dust and the debris, before Vanishing the lot of it. Now the room resembles more of a box than a bedroom, but it is much better than when I started. I still hate it, mind, but at least now it’s cleaner.

“You should order some paint and stainer.”

Potters input scares me, and I wonder how long he’s been standing in the doorway. “Weren’t you at the Ministry?”

“Yep. Left hours ago, decided to meet with ‘Mione and Ron in their hideout.”

“Oh, ok.” I pause, looking him up and down. His clothing is filthy, blood-stained and muddy. Why is he always covered in blood?

“Have you been doing this all day?” Potter asks curiously.

“Guess so…”

“Like some help?”

“From you? No thanks,” I insult. “You’d probably make it worse than when I started,” I joke.

“Probably,” he replies absently.

We lapse into silence, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. I take this time to really look around at my work. The walls are stripped bare to reveal an off-white colour beneath, the removed carpet showing floorboards that are in a fairly decent condition despite their age, and the lack of dust and debris makes the room seem bigger and brighter. The only current problem needing fixing is that there is no bed.

“I should go get some furniture,” I utter awkwardly.

“No!” Potter cries. “You can not leave this house!”

“Why not?!” I yell, indignant.

“It’s dangerous Malfoy!”

“How so?”

“Your father is most likely tracking you down right this second, Voldemort will be beyond it with rage, and they both have a whole army of Death Eaters at their finger tips! Not to mention that the public would be more than likely to turn you in!” Potter reasons.

I stare at him. His Glamour is long gone, and his tan skin is flushed in anger and desperation. I sigh loudly and nod, accepting my fate. It is just too risky to leave, and I would probably be killed instantly. But something is itching at the back of my mind. “If the public wants to turn me in…” I start, “why haven’t you?”

Potter’s expression falters, his posture tightening. He closes up from me, crossing his arms in front of his chest. For a second, I don’t think he’s going to answer me.

“Because.”

“That’s hardly a response,” I roll my eyes.

“Because,” he sighs, “I’ve always been oddly aware of you. I couldn’t bear to have you killed.”

I freeze. Oddly aware. Couldn’t bear to have you killed. It sounds like he’s some sort of friend, not my enemy from since we were eleven years old. I contemplate his confession, and realise that I feel the same. I have always noticed random things about Potter that others miss. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t torment him, make his life miserable. He’s been such a big part of my childhood, making his life miserable was my favourite hobby. And despite everything, he saved me.

I slowly feel the tension drain from my body, and I turn my eyes to Potter. I take in his expression of ‘what did I just say?’ and ‘it was true anyway’ just as a blinding white light hits me. Pain sears up my body and I feel my back threaten to split open. It’s happening…

***

A/N: I am so sorry this has taken weeks to get up! I have been extremely busy with university, and have had no time to write. This should now be back to its normal schedule. Please let me know if you want to be tagged. Xx

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[somewhereapart]

The Adventures of Dave the Dog (Wings-verse)

Author’s Note: For OQ Fix-It Week Day 6, Roni day. Yes, this is super cracky. Yes, there will be more. Yes, we will eventually find Snow.

Of all the ways he could have been cursed, David has to admit this could be worse.

The meals are pretty terrible, he’s not used to having hair this long and shaggy, and he has an itch he can’t quite move in a way that he can easily scratch. But it could be worse.

Twenty eight years in a coma was definitely worse.

At least the company here is good.

Case in point: As he twists and stretches trying to get at that itch, failing and only managing to vigorously scratch right nearby it, Robin reaches over and gives him good scratch right where he needs it.

David would sigh if he could, leaning into the touch with a happy thump of his tail.

“How’s that, boy?” Robin asks him kindly, scratching for another moment and then rubbing his hand over David’s ruffled fur. “Did I get it?”

David drops his head back down next to Robin’s leg on the couch and thinks to himself that it’s not ideal, waking up one morning as an Australian Shepherd on the floor of an unfortunately-very-cursed Robin’s apartment. But at least this time, he knows who he is.

.::.

He needs to find Snow.

She’s here somewhere, she has to be. David looks for her constantly, feels her in the neighborhood, somewhere. Feels that pull of her presence as he always has.

She’s nearby, she has to be. She’s here with him, somewhere, and he will find her again.

He enjoys walks – not only for the fresh air, but because they give him a chance to look for her. To sniff her out. Literally, as weirdly gross as that is. But the whole world looks different now, feels different, smells different. Everything is more . The trash smells trashier, the flowers in the windowboxes smell sweeter, and there is dog scent everywhere .

It’s weird, and kind of gross, but also… kind of cool, if he has to be honest. He’s been around animals his entire life, and he’s always wondered what it was like to live like they did. To run full tilt across a meadow (the dog park is a pale comparison, but he’s done several good laps around it, has played and wrestled and rolled in the dirt with other dogs until he was panting and thirsty), or to spend all day in a sunny patch of the apartment floor, to have someone scratch lazily at that spot on the back of his neck for awhile. (Robin wouldn’t be his first choice for that, but he certainly could have done worse – just think if he’d ended up as Gold’s pet.)

It reminds him somewhat of being a child. Of being back on the farm. Of rolling down the hill near their home until the world spun when he sat up, and he stumbled like a drunk up the slope to go careening freely down again.

And it’s temporary, this curse, being stuck in this form. He knows it is, it has to be. Somewhere, Emma is working to save them. Somewhere, he’ll find Snow and they’ll share a True Love’s Lick or something, and the curse will break. He knows that.

So for now, he’s going to run around that dog park, and wrestle with a beagle, and bound across the grass toward Robin when he gives out a whistle, and shouts, “Alright, Dave! Time to go home!”

He lets himself be clipped into his leash, and wishes desperately for a drink as they head home. His tongue is lolling, his breath heavy, and he’s so distracted by how thirsty he is that he almost doesn’t feel it at first.

But then he does, all at once.

They turn down a different street than usual, and David feels her. Somewhere in his middle, somewhere in his heart, he feels Snow. She’s nearby, he just knows it.

His ears perk up, his nose tipping a little higher toward the sky as he looks frantically around the block, hoping for a sight of her, of another dog, but he doesn’t see anything. Just a sandwich board propped on the curb under a neon sign that says Roni’s .

Maybe she’s not a dog here, he thinks. Maybe she’s human, and it’s only him who’s the dog.

Still, he feels that pull, that inexorable tugging at his middle, and he leads Robin down the street anyway. It grows stronger and stronger with every step – she’s nearby, she must be .

“Come on now, Dave, where’re you going?” Robin grumbles, tugging a little on David’s leash as he practically drags the man behind him.

By the time he reaches Roni’s, David’s heart is thudding hard with that familiar feeling, and he drops to his rump just outside the door and looks up to Robin with an imploring whine. He’s not above begging if it will get him in the door. Snow is on the other side of it; he just knows it. He can feel it in these borrowed bones.

“You in need of a pint?” Robin asks him, teasingly. David just looks at the door, then back at Robin, offering up some pleading eyes for good measure. “I don’t think they’ll allow pets inside, Dave,” Robin tells him, and David lets his tongue loll out, panting a little harder. Robin won’t let him go thirsty for too long; David knows that.

The former Prince of Thieves is good with animals; David’s been stuck like this for three weeks now and he’s yet to go hungry or thirsty for too long. He has plenty of toys, gets plenty of walks, plenty of rubs through his thick fur.

It’s a little weird, having one of his friends give him a rubdown, but it feels nice. And besides, he’s a dog , he’s supposed to enjoy being petted. Just like he’s supposed to employ every adorable weapon in his arsenal to get his way – like another whine, another pitiful glance.

“Oh, alright, buddy, but if we get kicked out, you’re paying the tab,” Robin tells him, pushing open the door that will hopefully reunite David with his true love.

What he finds on the other side of the door is almost better than the cursed wife he’d been expecting.

Regina.

Of all people, Regina Mills, former Evil Queen, mother to Henry, and – most importantly in this particular moment – soulmate to the guy holding David’s leash, is standing behind the bar, with curly hair, gold hoop earrings, a skin-tight black top, and a temper.

She looks… not herself, not like any version of herself that he’s ever met (okay, there may be the hint of an Evil Queen in the way she’s berating one of the few customers in the place for, from what David can tell, getting fresh with one of the waitresses), but David doesn’t much care.

He’d have preferred Snow, certainly, but who knows what kind of shape she’s in (literally). Under the circumstances, he’ll take dragging two people in love to their first meeting – and potentially getting them all out of this mess when the two of them inevitably fall for each other. They always do, right? Every version of them has made it work, somehow, eventually.

It’s that “eventually” that gives him pause, rearing its ugly head when Regina tells said guy at the bar to take a hint or take a hike, and then turns her temper toward himself and Robin. She frowns down at him, and says, “That better be a service dog, or I can’t let him stay.”

Robin grimaces a little, and shrugs, says, “Sadly, no, but I think he’s parched. He practically dragged me in the door. I don’t suppose you could spare a thirsty dog a drink?”

Her frown softens a little at that, and then Regina is sighing heavily, and pointing to a table on the far side of the nearly empty bar.

“Take him over there, I’ll get him some water,” she orders, adding, “But if I’m watering your dog, you better order something.” David hears her muttered, “Someone better order something, or I’ll be feeding the chicken fingers to my cat…” but he’s pretty sure it’s low enough that Robin misses it.

Either way, they head over to the table she’d pointed out, one in a little recessed area, with a sofa for seating. Robin settles down into the cushions and reaches for the menu propped on the low table; David settles dutifully on his rump beside him and waits for Regina to bring him some water.

She’s back a minute later, a little bowl filled just for him. It’s cool and fresh and David laps it up greedily.

“Oh, come on, can you not get water all over my floor?” Regina sighs, and David looks up to find her staring down at him in a way that is more recognizably her than anything else in this place.

He forces himself to drink a little less sloppily, careful not to let drops of water splash all over the floor, and he hears Regina say, “Huh,” and “Smart dog.”

“He’s brilliant,” Robin says, dropping a hand down for a quick pat between David’s shoulder blades. “Sometimes I think he’s smarter than most people. And I swear he knows how to work my remote.”

Regina laughs softly at that, one of those sort of scoffy disbelieving laughs of hers, and David thinks this is good. They’re flirting. Or Robin is, anyway, and Regina is letting him. This bodes well.

With any luck, they’ll have this curse broken in no time, and he’ll be back with Snow and Neal. (He tries not to think about Neal, tries to tell himself that he’s safe with Granny somewhere, or protected by Blue and the fairies. Worst case scenario, he’s somebody’s puppy – hopefully somebody kind.)

“I mean it,” Robin says, still flirting. “I come home sometimes and he’s parked on the couch watching nature documentaries.”

Regina lets out a little snort, then crouches in front of David and asks, “Hearing the call of the wild, are you?”

He is, to be honest. This place is too urban. Too much concrete, and too few green things. He misses the forest, misses the smell of fresh air and pine. These days, the closest he gets to pine is Robin’s woodsy aftershave.

She’s watching him, tilting her head a little, and David lifts his head to peer back. She’s definitely cursed, Regina. There’s not a hint of recognition in her eyes, and everything about her is just wrong. She moves differently, and her voice isn’t quite right. She’s in skinny jeans, and he can count on one hand the number of times he’s ever seen her in denim.

But she still smells the same, he notices – can’t help but notice, dog senses and all. A sweet, fruity shampoo (apples, he thinks, and that’s awfully fitting), and a sort of warm, expensive-smelling perfume. It’s familiar – one of the few things during this curse that has been – and he finds it oddly comforting.

She reaches down to the collar around his neck and peers at his tags, one brow lifting as she looks over to Robin and asks, “Dave? Please tell me that’s your name and not the dog’s.”

Robin laughs, and tells her, “It’s his; mine’s Finn. Yours?”

She tilts her head toward the door, looking at him like he’s maybe very slow, and tells him, “Roni.”

“Ah,” Robin says. “Should have known. Well, Roni, if it makes you feel any better, he was a rescue. The name came with him.”

She Mm s, and mutters, “Well, Finn , then I suppose I’ll reserve my judgment just this once…”

Regina gives David a good scratch behind the ears, and murmurs, “His coloring is gorgeous,” and then she’s pushing herself back up to her feet with a little grunt, and a creaking crackly sound he can hear in her knees. “If I was a dog person, I might like this guy.”

“Not a dog person?” Robin asks, feigning dismay. “Now I’m not sure I can trust you.”

She smirks, and shrugs, telling him, “I work a lot. I don’t have the time to take care of a dog. And they’re sweet, but I’m not sure I trust anything that loves that easily. Love is for suckers – suckers and puppies.”

Ah, there’s the jaded, closed-off Regina he remembers. Damnit. This whole curse-breaking thing might be harder than he’d thought.

“Ah, so you prefer standoffish and aloof?” Robin flirts (thank God for his persistence). “A cat, then?”

“If you must know, yes,” Regina tells him. “She was a Christmas present to myself a few years back. I thought she’d make things… a little less lonely at the end of the day. And she does, but I always thought cats were low-maintenance.”

“Aren’t they?”

“Oh, not Princess Snow,” she says and David almost chokes on his own tongue. Snow! Snow is with Regina . “Which is what she gets called when she refuses to eat the cat food I buy her, and instead wants to steal my sushi. Or when she refuses to use the litter box and insists on using my toilet instead.” Regina pauses for a half-second, giving a little half-frown of concession and adding, “Although that one’s not so bad to be honest – until I forget to leave the seat up and she pees in my bathtub.”

Robin chuckles again, shaking his head, and grinning at her and saying something about that being truly unfortunate. Their eyes meet, lock, and linger in a way David has seen time and time again.

Regina breaks first, sucking in a shallow breath and glancing away not-quite-casually (David remembers that, too, from that year they spent trying to pretend they didn’t like each other in the Enchanted Forest). She recovers, though, snaps back into her bluster and asks, “So are you going to order, or am I going to have to berate you for stealing my water under false pretenses?”

“Water isn’t free?” Robin asks cheekily, glancing down at the menu again.

“Not for our furry friends, no,” she drawls, still waiting expectantly.

“I’ll take a dozen flaming buffalo wings, and a Sierra Nevada,” he tells her, “And thank you – for watering the dog.”

“You got it, thief,” Regina smirks, softening just a little to add, “And you’re welcome,” before she saunters away.

Robin watches every step of the way, and thank God, because David knows his best chance of seeing Snow again – of reuniting their families, all of them – is for Robin to keep coming back to this bar long enough to realize he’s stupid in love with the woman who owns it.

When she’s disappeared out of sight, Robin leans down close to David and whispers, “Thanks, buddy.”

If dogs could grin…

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