#and i'll write a microfic

[thatmexisaurusrex]

You know what? Sure. Send me asks of some of your goofiest BuckTommy prompts and I'll make lil microfics. I feel like writing ridiculous Tommy takes off his mask and reveals himself to be a spy bee all along microfics.

[thisfrailheart]

prompt: cheat + liar | august 3 + 5 | rosekiller au | teen and up: language/swearing - "fighting" | word count: 292 | @rosekillermicrofic

***

"No! Don't talk to me!" Barty brings his hands down on the kitchen island with a bang.

"Darling, please…" Evan tries. Pleads.

"Don't call me that! Do not call me that!"

Evan sighs. "Alright. I won't. But please listen to me—"

"Listen? Why would I listen to you? You're a fucking liar!" Barty screams, red-faced and shaking.

Evan leans back against the cupboards, rubs his hands over his face as Barty continues yelling at him.

"You're a liar and a cheat! I'm done!"

Evan gasps. "How—"

"How did I know?" Barty laughs and it's a horrible sound. "Please, you're not exactly subtle. Working late? Yeah, right."

"Please let me explain—"

"No."

Evan makes his way over, reaches out. "Sweetheart, please! I—"

"Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me," he says and moves out of the way, starts walking. He's not screaming any more. "I'm done. Done! Once we're home, I want you to pack your shit and get out."

Evan runs after him, tries to keep up. Tries not to break. "Don't do this, please. I'll do anything! Darling, please! Please! Sweetheart!"

He keeps begging, Barty stays silent.

They make it halfway across the parking lot before the giggles start. By the time they're in the car, they're having a full-blown laughing fit.

"Did you see that one woman's face?" Barty chuckles, buckling his seatbelt.

"I did! She looked so scandalized! What do you think was more upsetting for her, us fighting in public or us being men?" Evan asks, wiping at his eyes.

Barty breaks again, holding his stomach as he laughs. "Both probably! Oh, we need to do that again!"

Evan looks at Barty, takes in his flushed face, his grin. Leans in for a soft kiss. "Anytime, love."

[dracognition]

for @drarrymicrofic; royalty

"Is this a joke?" asked Harry.

"I'm afraid not." Hermione was so stone-faced an onlooker would assume she was delivering a death sentence: which, as far as Harry was concerned, it might as well be.

Malfoy preened. "Everyone knows the Malfoy line has illustrious members," he boasted, mouth curved into a sharp white smile. "But we all assumed the King Arthur thing was just a rumour." He paused. "Not that I'm surprised, mind you."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Now everything about you makes sense. Royal inbreeding must be worse than regular pureblood inbreeding."

Malfoy made a rude gesture. Harry made one back. Hermione said, "Look, there are... he needs a bodyguard, and you're the best in the department."

Harry glanced at Malfoy, who'd mastered the art of looking down haughtily before anyone knew anything about royal lineage and was employing it now. He scowled, bowed mockingly, and lifted his head to meet Malfoy's eyes. "My lord," he said, which was meant to come out sarcastic but ended up sort of—rough, or low, and suddenly Malfoy's haughty gaze looked a bit nervous.

"My knight," he replied, an eyebrow arched, but his voice was soft and off-kilter, and Harry realised this job was about to be much worse or much better than he'd thought.

[raiynnah]

Fairytale

@wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 358

Sirius pulls his red hood over his eyes, fingers straining at the grip he has on his basket. When his mother had sent him out into the forest on the full moon, he knew he couldn’t refuse her. He also knew that it could potentially end in his death. Sirius knows why he’s being punished so harshly of course, sneaking into the ball had been an incredibly impulsive decision. It wasn’t even really his sneaking around that had her fuming, but the way he danced with the prince all night, giggling at his jokes and draping himself over the prince’s chest—taking the attention away from Regulus, the chosen target for the prince’s affections. No matter that Regulus had his own thing going on with the shoemaker’s son.

Sirius’ eyes dart around watchfully, making sure not to stray off the path as he rushes to his grandmother Irma’s house, when suddenly his eyes latch on to a canine figure peering at him through the dense bushes. He freezes when it approaches him, shaking off the leaves as it pads slowly forward. The wolf is huge, each clawed paw sinking into the soft dirt of the forest floor, with glowing gold eyes; the same gold of the prince’s crown, Sirius thinks with a pang. From its monstrous mouth are two curved fangs, thorn-sharp and ivory white.

“Um, okay then,” Sirius whispers to himself, sounding half-choked even to himself. The beast wanders to his side and then, startlingly, sits at his feet, looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes. “Well,” he tells it, “if you’re not going to attack me then I suppose you can accompany me to my grandmother’s house.” Strangely, it seems to nod.

They continue the journey, side-by-side, the wolf growling in warning at any threats that watch from the shadows, which Sirius really appreciates. He wasn’t looking forward to dying. “You’re just a cute, protective puppy, aren’t you?” he says, patting its monstrously large head. When they arrive it’s almost morning, the moon descending under the horizon once more.

His grandmother is quite shocked to see him, not only alive, but with a prince by his side.

[starboy-sirius]

may 1 | animagus | @jegulus-microfic | 1.1k words

Prongs roams the Forbidden Forest, his flank heaving from the long run he just completed. He’s walking slowly now, allowing the breeze of the night to waft around him and past his snout, all the different scents of the night intriguing the animal within him.

He’s alone tonight, the moon shining down upon him as a waning gibbous, and as he looks up at it he can’t help but think of Moony. Remus is resting tonight, he and Sirius curled up in the common room together sharing a smoke, and the thought causes his tail to wiggle. It’s much like Padfoot gets around them. 

Remus and Sirius finally got their shit together a month ago and James couldn’t be happier, because it means that he doesn’t have to deal with their mutual pining. James being the kind of man desperate to help his friends with any inconvenience, ended up getting both ends of their quiet yearning.

Of course he was very happy to be a shoulder for the both of them, but he can’t say that he’s not relieved now that it’s over. A whining Sirius can be very hard to deal with, mainly because he clings to James and refuses to do anything else.

So James is out here alone because his best friends are happily lounging together on the sofa in the common room, sharing cigarettes and kisses as Remus no doubt reads Muggle literature to Sirius, who sits with his back to Remus’ chest. And he’s happy for him, of course he is, but there’s also a part of him that feels incredibly and indescribably lonely. 

The sharp crack of a twig broken under someone’s foot is what snaps him back to Prongs and the current situation. He sniffs the air, trying to pick up a scent and is pleasantly surprised by what he finds. He slides into a trot, wandering through the trees and bushes until he gets closer to the edge of the forest perimeter. He’s coming up to the glen of pretty flowers that bloom no matter the season. When James is out here on a full moon his priority is making sure that Moony doesn’t get too close to the edge of the forest, knowing that Remus doesn’t like to chance anything. It means that he doesn’t get the time to appreciate the pretty places that the Forbidden Forest has to offer, which is totally okay because James knows that the main reason in his own little furry ability is to help Remus with his. 

In the middle of the crop of flowers, surrounded by tall, imposing trees, is Regulus Black. 

He’s standing in what appears to be silky pyjama bottoms with his Slytherin jumper thrown over the top. It’s a mild Spring evening, so James isn’t particularly worried about him being cold. Merlin knows that Regulus wouldn’t like it if James were to badger him about wearing a coat. 

James is fairly content to stand at the edge of the trees and watch the pretty boy pluck the colourful flowers from the ground, collecting them in a bunch in his other hand. He watches the way his long fingers reach out, flexing as they decide which flower to pick, and then as they clasp the stem and pull. He watches the way his dark curls fall over his face and block the view of his steely eyes, the ones that flash at James whenever he dares to flirt with him. When he’s out of Sirius’ range, James gets rather shameless with his flirting and delights in the way that Regulus explodes like a bomb, firing insult after biting insult at him. 

He stalks forward, trying to observe from a different angle and is stopped in his tracks by Regulus’ head snapping upwards. James is rewarded by the view of his grey eyes and lets out a puff of breath that he’s sure would be a fond, dreamy sigh if he wasn’t in his animagus form. 

Regulus stares at him like he’s seeing one of the seven wonders of the world, eyes twinkling like the galaxy resides there, and it spurs Prongs forward. Regulus doesn’t move an inch as he stalks towards him until they’re metres apart, and Regulus takes a cautious step backwards. Prongs whistles in disapproval and Regulus freezes, his eyes never leaving the large stag in front of him. 

“Good, uh, deer?” Regulus mumbles, looking embarrassed. 

Prongs makes a noise closely resembling discontent. Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Not a deer?”

Waving his head back and forth, Prongs tries to show off his majestic antlers so that Regulus can identify him properly. He seems to understand, clever as he is. “Ah, not a deer, then. A stag, perhaps?”

Prongs hops around him, strutting as he does so and Regulus lets out a happy, quiet laugh, watching him all the while. James thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “Very impressive, indeed.”

Trotting back over to Regulus, Prongs stops much closer than before and brings his muzzle down to the top of Regulus’ head, burying it in his curls and huffing contentedly. Regulus stays very still as he does so but allows him to sniff and nuzzle him. Very carefully, he brings up a delicate hand and begins to stroke at his neck. 

“Oh,” Regulus makes a surprised sound. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be.”

Prongs releases a pleased hum and steps closer to Regulus to encourage more petting. Regulus laughs that sweet, quiet laugh once more and continues to massage Prongs’ neck. “You know, you remind me of someone I know. He’s a bit needy like this, too. Always following me around and bothering me.”

Prongs makes a disgruntled noise. The thought of him actually bothering Regulus with his presence makes him feel worse than he did when he originally came out here to clear his head. Regulus seems to read into his sudden mood change and says, “Don’t worry, secretly I quite like it. But that’s our secret.”

He lets out a happy little bellow and hops a few times, careful not to tread on Regulus’ feet. The two of them continue to stand in the glen for a little while longer, Regulus talking to him in hushed tones as he explains why he’s picking flowers. Prongs makes affirming noises here and there, wanting to let Regulus know that he’s listening. Regulus stares at him when he does this, pausing in the middle of his speech to stare openly at him like he’s trying to read him. 

James thinks he might be on to him, but then that’s ridiculous. Who in their right mind would think oh, that stag is paying undivided attention to me, must be James. No one, that’s who. 

When the night starts to get a bit too cold, Prongs is nudging at Regulus’ side and the boy relents. “Okay, okay, I’m going. See you here tomorrow night?”

James wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

[a-round-of-robyns]

05/03: glow; wc: 365; @jegulus-microfic

“You’re going to absolutely glow tonight, Prongs.” Sirius said as he finished dusting highlighter over James’ cheekbones.

“Yeah, Reg won’t be able to take his eyes off you.” Peter commented from across the room where he and Remus were playing chess while waiting for the other two to finish getting ready.

“Can you not bring up the fact that James is dating my baby brother please?” Sirius asked, an exaggerated look of disgust on his face.

“I thought you supported them Pads” Remus said, a glint of mischief in his eyes

“Yeah Sirius, I thought you supported us?” James joined in.

“Watch it Prongs, I can always take back my blessing-”

“No you won’t, Regulus would kill you.”

“AND, I do support them, I would just rather not be reminded of it all the time.”

“Whatever Sirius, let’s go before Mary drags us down by our ears again.”

All the boys suppressed a shiver at the memory and filed out the door to go down to the common room. As soon as the door opened, they were hit with a wall of sound that had previously been blocked out by the silencing charms on their dorm. Once James reached the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the room for Regulus.

His eyes caught on his boyfriend who was standing right across from him on the other side of the common room. The side of Regulus’ mouth quirked up when they made eye contact. James was overcome with the need to kiss Regulus, and so made his way over, never taking his eyes off Regulus.

“Hi baby.” James muttered, arms circling Regulus’ waist, brushing his lips over Regulus’.

“Hi Jamie.” Regulus replied, “You’re looking very sparkly tonight, did Sirius finally bully you into letting him put you in makeup?”

James beamed down at him, “Do you like it? It’s something called highlighter.”

“You look very pretty, darling.” Regulus said, leaning up to kiss James properly.

James responded very enthusiastically, arms tightening around Regulus, whose hands had somehow found their way into his hair.

He pulled back slightly, nosing at Regulus’ neck. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now come back here and kiss me.”

[major-toast]

Forget Me Not - Épilogue

Bones cannot talk, but Sirius desperately wishes they could. Just this once.

It is done. This is the end. The link to the very last chapter can be found here. I am still in denial it is done.

[birdgirltits]

A girl made of porcelain loves you and trusts you, and puts her safety in your hands and she's oh-so-fragile. You shatter her into hundreds of pieces. She is scared. her head is fine. and she is mostly left in a disabled state. You assure her that... she'll be prettier when you're done.

Methodically, over many hours, you mend her body wonderfully, repairing every crack and tracing every part of it with gold. Eventually, she's back together. She's the same, but so much different. You and her have spent hours together. Your hands have changed her, fixed her and returned her to something like what she was. All her scars are visible. All her cracks visible. But they're beautiful. She hugs you close after you're done, and she cries.

There is a closeness in fixing someone that neither of you can truly articulate, but you love each other. Anyone who looks at the two of you together can tell what you've done, but nobody can deny how lovely she looks now. Your hands are dry and calloused, and your mind is filled mostly with thoughts of her shattered body splayed out before you. You were changed as well, but it's hardly so visible.

Even if she leaves, she'll look at the gold sealing the cracks in her body, and she'll think of you. A visible, beautiful love.

[bimoonphases]

@wolfstarmicrofic September 11 - prompt 11: Apparition [word count 725]

There was so much pain. Every joint, every part of her skin felt as if it was on fire, a fire that worked its way from the inside out. There had been a time, only a couple of months before, where she had been able to crouch down in pain, but she didn’t even have the strength for that anymore. She could barely move, and opening her eyes was the only thing she forced herself to do still, her eyes wandering around the wood-paneled room, its dark green velvet curtains shut against the brightness of the day outside.

“Mistress is in pain,” the familiar voice croaked somewhere near her ear. “Kreacher will fetch Mistress her medicine.”

Feet scurried away, leaving her in the silent knowledge that not even the medicine the house elf kept under lock and key for her was of any help now and the complete silence over the whole house. Over her life. The war had ended, the Dark Lord defeated along with all her hopes for her family’s rise in power by his side. Something about never trusting a rat, Mulciber had hurriedly told her that night, flooing in before trying to disappear as the Aurors swept the country. She had heard he had been captured and sent to Azkaban after a fast trial, along with her niece. Her other niece had managed to persuade the Minister of Magic in person her dear husband had been under the Imperio Curse for the duration of the war and he wouldn’t take a loving man from his home and his toddler son, would he? Despite not being exactly close with Narcissa, who had always taken a backseat to the war, Walburga approved and admired her quick thinking. She would’ve done the same to protect her own family, had she had anyone left. Her brother Cygnus had been found dead at his desk the day after the fall of the Dark Lord. And Orion had been dead for more than a year. He had quickly wasted away after Regulus’s disappearance and his presumed death. He had always been his favourite. Sometimes she thought she saw him, standing at the foot of her bed, a waning apparition, still looking around for the boy he had held in his arms, the boy she herself had always deemed too soft for life. She had been right in the end.

Pain shot through her chest once more, and when she managed to open her eyes again, another apparition was standing by the bed. Even her heartbeat felt painful as Walburga looked at her firstborn. Sirius had always been her favourite. He was strong, he was stubborn, he was as determined as she had always been. He was her son, only a sprinkle or his father in him. She detailed the apparition, as the waning Sirius looked away from the bed. He had gotten older, a beard adorning his chin, multiple tattoos peeking out of the collar of his t-shirt and from under the sleeves of his leather jacket. He still had her long, elegant fingers, a silver band etched with moon phases on his ring finger. He smiled and held out his hand. She hadn’t seen him smile in way longer than a decade, and that hurt even worst than the burning sensation as she desperately tried to reach out for his hand. But another hand appeared out of nowhere, scars across the back and a silver band etched with stars on the ring finger, and Sirius threaded his fingers through those. She forced herself to look at the second apparition, a tall young man now wrapping his arms around her son’s waist, Sirius’s smile even wider now as he caressed the other’s face before catching his lips in a kiss.

Walburga couldn’t look away, the pain now like flowing lava through her veins. Her son, her firstborn, the love of her life she had lost to his stubbornness was an adult now. He was alive, he was happy, he was loved. He was probably married. He surely still hated her like she still hated him for rebelling against the family.

When Kreacher hurried back into the bedroom, the medicine and an ornate spoon on a silver tray, his mistress was still looking at a precise point by her bed. But her open eyes wouldn’t see anything anymore.

[ehlnofay]

Travelling with Martin the second time is more an ordeal than it was the first.

There’s the Blades tagging along with them, now, with their elaborate plans and zealous concern; every time any one of them takes a step they rattle like tin cans, so loudly that if any of the cult is trying to track them down it’s a wonder they’re not all gutted already. Then there’s all the extra bits the Blades insist on – like tents, which Pax is by no means opposed to but slows them down ridiculously, always needing to be set up at night and taken down first thing in the morning, or the horses, which speed them up but Pax resents, all the same. (They always need breaks to rest or eat or what have you, and riding for too long sets them aching to hell, their legs and hips and stomach all quavering with exertion. Pax rides the same horse they found halfway through their first journey with Martin, and she is getting more familiar than she ever wanted to be with its little snorts and stomping gestures. Martin keeps patting it on the nose whenever they’re down on the ground again. Martin rides the paint horse, too – it’s two to a steed, plus bags, which Pax knows would be enough to snap their spines like dried-out twigs but of course the Blades have spelled saddles. Feathered, Martin says, like Pax has any idea what that means.) They all spend as much of the day riding as they can without the horses withering away and dropping dead, unable to divert at all from the roads without riding face-first into a tree branch, the Blades getting all serious and severe at any passing glimpse of another traveller, or the edge of a town, or a suspicious-looking boulder. It’s fucking exhausting. Maybe if they’d dressed Martin in something less impractically fancy, and left their glittering armour behind, they wouldn’t all be so conspicuous. Pax is the only one here with any sense.

In Blackwood, the trees don’t sprawl so low down; you can ride horses well off the road as long as you’re careful of the muck. For the first leg of the first trip with Martin, they didn’t have horses at all – they both just walked, past razed fields and empty buildings, the span of land around Kvatch near entirely abandoned, scrounging what they could and sleeping wherever they wanted. They couldn’t proper restock on supplies until they hit Skingrad – certainly didn’t have tents or armour that reflects every whisper of starlight so bright it blazes, and they were fine. It all feels unnecessary. And annoying. This close to the end, all the little extra things to pay attention to make Pax want to jump out of his skin.

Because they are close to the end. They’re in the denouement, now.

The Blades set up a watch routine, too – everyone crawls into their superfluous tents and leave one person up to keep an eye out, until they wake the next person for their turn, and so forth. Pax hasn’t done watch shifts like this since he left Blackwood. (It doesn’t really work, when you’re alone. Besides, he wakes easy, and he goes to sleep quick. Martin’s bad at it, so swapping watch back and forth when they were together just would have left him confused or lethargic the next day. Not worth the bother.) Pax gets watch shifts, most nights, set in the dark hours just before the sun rises; Martin, though he asks, doesn’t get any. Pax usually wakes him up, instead of whoever else she’s supposed to. It isn’t like he has anything he needs to be especially well-rested for – just sitting on a horse in an enchanted double saddle, same as the rest of them, his too-long hair getting in his face, careful arms loops around Pax’s middle. He won’t even take a turn to direct the bloody thing, because he still hasn’t learned how – the fact that he’s never managed to fall off is a damned miracle, honestly.

So she wakes him up, if the Blades won’t – and she doesn’t usually go back to sleep, right after, because there doesn’t seem all that much point. They both stay up, around whatever burnt-down firepit was constructed in the night, the small tents arrayed around them; the leaves of the trees rustle, flickered through by some small animal, owl or bat or squirrel living in a hollow. Crickets chirp, loud and endless.  It would probably be peaceful, if it could be, but Pax is keyed up, taut as a bowstring ready to snap, and he can’t really remember how to feel peaceful anymore. They’re getting ever-closer to the capital and the temple and the end of this whole strange, terrifying thing, and he wants it over and done with instead of lurking in this strange in-between space. They’ve all done so much to fix this and none of it will feel like any kind of accomplishment until the fires are lit and the Gates closed and sealed beyond reopening. It’s almost, almost, almost done – but it’s not the end yet, and in the quiet night all there is to do is waiting, and Pax, antsy, irritable, is very, very bad at waiting.

Martin’s better at it. Which isn’t to say he’s not nervous – he’s all nerves, even more than normal, which is really saying something – but he’s patient, and doesn’t complain, even though Pax knows he wants it over just as much as they do. Probably more. (Definitely more.) He just sits, in the dark and the dew, all quiet and watchful in just his undershirt and warm wool trousers, and even those are fancy, all fine-sewn and slippery as water to the touch. They wear oddly on him. He keeps the Amulet tucked under his clothes, cold metal setting against bare skin, and the red gleam beneath his shirt makes it look, at certain angles, like his heart is glowing.

The fire is well out; no owls call. Pax lies, in their own much less swish sleeping-things, in the dirt and grass, all of it wet so thoroughly with dew that it soaks the back of their tunic. Through the silhouettes of leaves and branches, they can just make out the lustre of the stars.

The old Emperor talked an awful lot about stars, when Pax met him; she wonders, vaguely, what he’d make of these ones.

There’s a shifting, up nearer the firepit; and, “Pax?” Martin whispers, sound half-swallowed by the still, drifting night. “Are you awake?”

“It’s sopping wet,” Pax replies. He props himself up on his elbow and turns his head; Martin’s got a lantern lit, and it’s just enough to make out his face by. “Even I’ve got my limits.”

Martin exhales; Pax knows he’s smiling because they can see the dim white gleam of his teeth. It’s not too cold a night – they’ve travelled far enough from Bruma to be clear of its sodden snow and ice and winds – but it’s not warm, and the wet fabric plastered to their back is chill enough to make them shiver. The stars, up above, shine cold and clear.

“I was wondering,” Martin says, voice still hushed; his eyes flicker up to the snatches of sky between the tree branches, too. “What will you do, when all this is done?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question; Pax realises, quite abruptly, that doesn’t have an answer. She sits up, shuffles awkwardly over the dewy grass. “I don’t know,” she says slowly; she shrugs. “Go back to the roads, I s’pose. Get some venturing work. Join a guild, maybe, if I get bored.”

(They haven’t thought about it; they’ve been busy. A part of them – quite a large part, if they’re being honest – kind of wishes the Crisis would never end, one way or the other. Wishes it would keep on in this sort of suspended state forever. But it won’t, and it can’t, and it would be ridiculous to say as much. Just – they’ve never done anything this exciting, before. And they don’t really know anything that could measure up, once it’s done.)

(Pax has never really been one to plan for the future. Back in Blackwood, he didn’t have to; he knew he’d just run with the same crew he always had, and he learned only from them. Learned letters and archery and what dregs of mage-craft he had any aptitude for – learned to scamp on the roads and crack locks reasonably well. And then he left, and became a hero, and that’s a good occupation in itself, but it’s not going to last forever. He’s not sure what his other options are – he could try to work square, but he doesn’t think it would last. He’s not one suited to an apprenticeship, or an honest job, or much of anything, really. The only thing he really knows is this.)

In the lanternlight, the shadows are so stark that Martin’s face looks creased with ink. “Oh? What guild? Fighters? Thieves?”

“Thieves’ Guild wouldn’t take me,” Pax tells him loftily; they wriggle a bit closer, goose-pimples rising on their shins. “They don’t like independent operators, and I’ve been one since I was born.”

Martin clucks his tongue. “You can’t say things like that around me, Pax. I’ll have to have you arrested.”

“Like you could,” Pax tells him, grinning, and leans over about as far as she can reach to elbow him. She has to lever herself back up, afterwards. The watery-pale stars are winking at her.

Martin is looking up at them again. “There’s always work for a hero, I’m sure,” he says, and waves a hand. “You’ll have endless people to save and feats of derring-do to perform. Perhaps you could write an autobiography.”

“Ha.” Martin’s received their letters, sent on longer stretches away from Cloud Ruler; he’s read their writing, their chicken-scratch hand and the less than delicate way they pick their words. Pax is fine enough as a communicator; they get to the point quickly and clearly. But metaphor and flowery prose is rather beyond them. And they’ve seen the speech Martin gave in Bruma, the endless editing of his drafts, debate over this word or that. “You know you’re the better writer of the two of us, Martin Priest. Reckon you should pen our book.”

Martin tips his head further back. “I wasn’t even there for most of the interesting parts,” he points out, “and I’m sure to be far too busy, besides.” His eyes are closed. Pax shunts themself another bit across the grass.

“Oh, I’m sure you can take a half-hour every evening to scribble out a few paragraphs in your four-poster bed and your kingliest pyjamas,” he says, unsympathetic, and flicks him in the shoulder. “With a silk canopy, and duckling-down blankets, and a pen nib of solid gold.”

“All right, all right.” Martin opens his eyes; they look grey, in the dim light, the orange lanternlight flickering off their whites. He reaches out an arm, and Pax rolls his eyes but shuffles damply into it all the same. “I suppose I have no choice.”

His arm, settled around their shoulders, is heavy-warm. Pax leans their shoulder into his ribs, under his armpit. This close, they can see the faint gleam of the Amulet through his undershirt. Quiet, they ask, “Still nervous?”

Without missing a beat, Martin replies, “Excruciatingly.”

He’s always nervous. But on this, Pax can’t even really make fun of him for it – if someone told her that she was the heir to the whole Empire, and tried to thrust her into court to take it all over, she’d tell them to eat shit. If the fate of the world depended on it, though, that wouldn’t really be an option anymore. And Martin’s too nice, most of the time, to tell anyone to eat shit. And Martin’s too nervous not to take every bit of it so painfully seriously. Not just the world-ending bit, but all the etiquette and legalese, too. Jauffre gave him some books to read to try to acquaint himself with it all; none of them seemed to help much.

“You’ll be fine,” Pax says, and leans their head on his shoulder, the post of their earring jabbing into the skin behind their ear. They gesture out at the silhouetted tents. “You’ve got all this lot, and the Elder Council – they’ll help you out. If they won’t let you take a piss by yourself they’ll definitely be there to assist with the stuff that’s actually important.” Martin exhales; it’s almost a laugh. The earring is beginning to hurt quite badly, so Pax lifts their head. “Besides, you’re trying. You want to get it all right. That’s more than some would do.”

“Thank you, Pax,” Martin says, and then they’re both quiet.

The stars above look watery-dim. The silhouettes of trees have slightly more dimension. Martin is pressing his palm, fingers splayed, to the smooth-cut bump of the Amulet under his shirt. Pax is still shivering, a bit – lying her whole back down in the dew was a bad idea. Now she’ll have to wear her one other tunic and hope this one dries out in time not to wet everything else in the bags.

“I hope,” Martin says, voice silver-soft in the dark, “that when you’re out roaming, shocking everyone with your valour and intrepidity, you’ll come to visit a great deal. You won’t have the excuse of being out saving the world anymore.”

Pax leans her shoulder harder into his ribs. “Only if you’re not boring when I’m there,” she replies. “You won’t have the excuse of saving the world either.”

“No,” Martin says. “I’ll be running it instead.”

Already, the stars are beginning to snuff themselves out, like candle-lights; in half an hour or so, the sky will start to lighten properly. The Blades will all wake, springing up like little clockwork puppets, and the tents will be packed up, and the horses saddled – they’re tied on slack ropes to trees down the other end of the clearing, and now, if Pax squints, he can just make them out – and then the day will begin, the timer trickling down.

Pax wets his lips. “Three more days,” he says. “Thereabouts.”

Then they’ll reach the city.

Martin breathes out, slow. “Then I’ll really be Martin Septim.”

The Amulet glows under his shirt, royal-red, rising and dimming like a heartbeat. If Pax hadn’t been arrested, that day – by chance, for one of the few robberies they actually didn’t commit – then they wouldn’t have been taken to the gaol, dribbling blood all over the floors, antagonising the guards trying to mark them down in the records, and they wouldn’t have ended up in that dust-coated cell with the shitty neighbour across the way, and the old Emperor would never have glanced at them twice, and the door never would have opened, and they wouldn’t be here.

Pax is not one for gratitude, generally, but they have never been so thankful to be falsely imprisoned in their life.

“My census name’s Camilla Patesco,” he says.

He’s looking at the first watery dregs of dawn in the sky, not at Martin’s face; but he can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “I won’t tell anyone.”

[thatmexisaurusrex]

SamBucky Summer Ficlet Prompts

Thought I'd start a little fun prompt spiel in honor of @sambuckylibrary's SamBucky Summer Bingo ending soon 🥰 So, send me an ask with the prompt you'd like me to do and I'll make a ficlet! Reblog if you want to do this too! And you don't have to do a ficlet like me. You can do edits or graphics or art or whatever you want to too 🥰

Vacation

🌊 Beach Day

🌈 Pride Parade

🎫 Long, Separate Vacations

🚣‍♀️ Meanwhile, on the Boat

🥘 Cookout

😎 Summer Camp/Lifeguards AU

✨ Stargazing

🌳 Hiking

Mission

🛏 Only One Bed

🏠 Cabin Fic

🩹 Hurt/Comfort

🕶 Undercover

🌃 Madripoor

✈️ Cap Quartet 2.0/Thunderbolts

🦅 Redwing

🌎 Multiverse

Loving

👑 Royalty/Celebrity AU

🚪 And They Were Just Roommates

💒 Summer Wedding

❤️ Enemies/Friends to Lovers

🚙 Meet-Cute/Meet-Ugly

🌧 Angst with a Happy Ending

🌙 Date Night

☀️ Summer Fling

[thisfrailheart]

prompt: fist | august 2 | rosekiller mx au - rivals to something | M: language/swearing - someone gets punched in the mouth (blood mention) - licking blood - making out - implied sexual content | word count: 585 | @rosekillermicrofic

***

Barty's barely got his feet back in the dirt but Rosier's already on his ass. He's taking his helmet off and misses part of what's being said but the few words he does catch are enough.

"—ucking kill me, Crouch?"

Barty rolls his eyes but there's a jolt of electricity zapping up his spine when he turns and sees Rosier stalk towards him. He rips his helmet off and gets right in Barty's face. Hair is sticking to his sweaty skin, his cheeks are flushed. Barty's heartrate spikes.

"The fuck were you thinking, cutting me off like that?"

Barty shrugs. He hadn't really thought about it before he did it. And he doesn't really want to think about it now. The way Rosier's pulling off his gloves with his teeth is a lot more interesting. The words fade into the background as Barty's mouth goes dry.

"—should have you kicked off—"

Rosier tucks the gloves into his helmet, eyes blazing. Loosens the straps on his chest protector. Barty can't help but notice how long his fingers are.

"—fucking menace—"

Rosier takes the protector off, starts packing up and Barty snaps back to reality. "You're leaving? Come on, it wasn't that big of a deal—"

"Not that big of a— fuck off, Crouch! You wanna die here? Fine. Fucking break your neck in the dirt. I wanna get home in one piece."

And it's not like Barty actually wants to die, he just wants a bit of excitement. And Rosier does anger so well - perfect bonus. Barty starts taking his gear off, too. "Why? You have someone waiting at home, ready to get on her—"

"She's my fucking sister!"

Barty doesn't really know why he said that. He'd seen her at the last meet. Spoken to her. There's no reason to talk about her like that. Or him, for that matter. But when Rosier stalks over, growling, and punches him right in the mouth? He can't help but think it was worth it. Pain explodes in his lip, pleasure in his stomach. He stumbles back, drops his gloves, helmet. Catches himself before going down.

Barty glances at Rosier and he doesn't look the least bit sorry. In fact, he looks like he'd do it again. His knuckles are bleeding. He'd cut them open on the stud in Barty's lip. Rosier glares. Barty shivers as he leans in.

"Fucking. Stop."

"Or what." Barty grins. His lip stings and he can feel Rosier's breath on his face and he feels giddy.

Rosier balls his hands into fists then seems to think better of it. Rolls his eyes and turns away. But Barty isn't done. He wants the storm. Wants to feel the static in the air, on his skin. He grabs Rosier by the wrist, draws him back in. Rosier stops struggling the second Barty brings his fist up to his mouth and laps up the trickle of blood. The metallic taste blooms on his tongue.

Rosier's breath hitches and then he grabs Barty by the neck and pulls him in. Smashes their lips together. It's violent, the way they're kissing. Biting at each other. A punishment. And it makes Barty ache. Rosier's teeth dig into the gash in his lip and he moans. Rosier pushes harder, fingers tightening in Barty's hair. They stumble, grab each other harder.

Barty pulls back, gasping for breath. "Still want me to stop?"

"Shut up," Rosier whines, pulls him back in.

"Make me."

And Rosier does, right there in the dirt.

[ecstarry]

microfics for you < 3

I reached a number of followers that makes me so so happy, so I wanted to do something to celebrate? appreciate everyone? I want to write a microfic 200 words or less for the first 10 prompts on my asks or comments here ✨🌟

I want to keep doing it everytime I reach a milestone here. Send your prompts, it can be a word, a trope, a setting, anything! 🤍

[raiynnah]

Beast

@wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 827

In a world of black and white, starkly split between burning light and voracious darkness, there are only the gods and the god-fearing. With the inescapable tragedy of childhood as his shadow, Remus understands all too well that there are no shades between the sinless and the sin. There is no fall when there is an inherent corruption that ripples through his features, reflecting his soul and physical being. Like two mirrors facing each other in judgement, infinite depictions betray him through his looks.

Remus gazes into the water, which is pure and true and most importantly honest, his eyes cutting over the monstrosity that stains the river reflection like oil, forever separate. 

In a world of monsters and gods, the beast does not notice the deity behind him, caught up in his cage. Instead he sighs, defeated, not snarling at his prison like his nature deems he would.

“Careful,” warns a voice, sweeter than the honey that kings delight in, sweeter even than the ambrosia the gods hoard. “We don't want another Narcissus, do we?” Remus startles, confused at the spoonful of genuine conversation offered to him when he grew up licking any sweetness off knives. He knows the sweetness of pain, of the ache in his muscles and the blood in his mouth when he bites his tongue, and not much more.

“You must be blind if you think that to be currently possible,” Remus answers bitterly. A delighted laugh erupts from the person behind him.

“I see more than you ever will, mortal.” Remus stills, thoughts freezing over, and turns to face the stranger.

There stands the shape of a man, blurry at the edges like light when it fades out, tall, proud and amused. Leaning on one foot, arms crossed, with a smile on his face, he looks human. But it does not distract Remus’ attention from the way that impossibly black strands of hair—the colour of the distance between stars—spill delicately over his shoulders, curving like the familiar blades of enemies or Remus’ hands around water as he scoops it up to drink. His skin glows like the moon; smooth, pale, and as cold-looking as marble. He is beautiful, made up of contrasts of death and life.

“I am no mortal, my lord.” Without a name, Remus treads carefully, relying on a title he’s unsure of. The god tilts his head the way dogs do, yet his stare remains that of a wolf.

“You are no god either.” It’s not said like a question but rings faintly like one anyway.

“I am cursed by one of your own, my lord.” The silver in the god’s eyes as they narrow reminds Remus of his father’s swords, displayed proudly to visitors, and the coins his mother counted after each fight, leaving behind a frustrated opponent that promised to win next time.

“Do you not know who I am? As much as I find it pleasant to be called yours, I have a name like most others.” When he winks, Remus thinks he must have slipped into the realm of dreams unknowingly, because surely this could not be real.

“I…apologise,” he starts, scratching the scar on his skin self-consciously. “I have not been allowed into temples since I was four. My name is Remus Lupin.”

“Sirius, god of souls.” Prince of the Underworld, guide to the dead when he leads them into his father Orion’s domain. It clicks into place in Remus’ mind so easily he wonders if the knowledge comes from him or Sirius. “What did you do wrong at four to be cursed?”

“Be born to a woman who married a man whose hubris had no limits.” It’s not a unique story, a son punished for his father’s mistakes, so he does not go into detail of his father’s strength in battle and weakness in wisdom. “So now I am a monster, inside and out.”

“I know monsters, Remus. I am even fated to marry one, or so they say. Trust me on the fact that they may know appearances but I know souls. They may paint you as a beast but a painting is a reflection of the artist, not the subject.” Remus is quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his words stolen by the wind. Sirius smiles, somehow still having heard it.

Sirius goes to sit next to Remus, eyes never leaving the river. When their reflections shudder with the current, he wonders what Sirius sees. A monster and a saviour? (Sirius sees a man glowing faintly, animalistic features fading in the warm light, next to empty space, but he will not share that for many years, not until the titles my mortal, love, and soul become a daily blessing. Gods have only appearances and divinity.)

“Your soul is purer than mine could ever be, Remus Lupin.” It sounds like an apology and a promise, it sounds like the rustle of hands as the fates weave two strings together.

[theheartofthestar]

Prompt 24 - Modern AU

@wolfstarmicrofic - April 24th, 208 words

Unknown: Heyaa

Unknown: 6pm sounds ok?

Unknown: tmr

Unknown: Here

Unknown: Has sent a location

Me: Hi! I think you've got the wrong number

Unknown: ??

Unknown: Prongs sent me ur num

Unknown: Told me to remind youu to bring snacks

Me: Prongs?

Me: I'm not sure I am who you think I am

Unknown: James

Unknown: James is prongs

Me: Nope, not a clue, sorry

Unknown: Awn :(((

Unknown: Are u cute? u sound cute

Unknown: Wanna come by tmr at 6 either way?

Me: Are you inviting a stranger over because you think I might be cute? I might be a murderer

Unknown: Well are you?

Me: A murderer?

Unknown: I meant cute lok

Unknown: Lol*

Unknown: If youre a murderer then too bad

Unknown: You already got my address

Unknown: That might have been a bad call

Unknown: Welppp

Unknown: So yes? We're watching The Godfather

Me: Good soundtrack

Unknown: NO SPOILERS

Me: wym no spoilers ?? It's been out for 50 years???

Unknown: NO SPOILERS

Unknown: IM NOT AFRAID TO BLOCK YOU

Me: you haven't watched the godfather??

Me: Man I love that movie

Unknown: Awn gonna enjoy watching me watch it for the first time then

Me: Is this you flirting?

Unknown: Depends, is it working?

Me: You do know I'm a guy

Unknown: I was counting on it ;P

Unknown: What's your name?

Me: Remus :) you?

Unknown: Sirius

Unknown: So

Unknown: You'll be here tmr, yeah

Unknown: ?

Me: What kind of snacks should I bring then?

[spikybanana]

@wolfstarmicrofic - prompt: dark/key - hello folks happy chinese new year. which means they're chinese today :) [cw: talk of food]

Harry pushes open his godfathers' front door to the sound of Remus shouting up the stairs.

"Sirius! Sirius? Oh, hello there Harry" Remus waves at Harry with a rolling pin in his flour-covered hand, and chuckles. "Didn't even hear you come in. I really thought we aren't old enough to be deaf yet."

"Alright Moony?" Harry finds his lips twitching up, accepting a flour-less pat on the back.

Remus gestures vaguely at he roof. "Want to see what your dogfather is up to up there?"

"I thought he'd gone out."

"Well no, there's his key on the wall right there."

"Ah, he must have forgotten it then. I bumped into him at the store." Harry says, dropping the bagfuls of fruits on the kitchen counter, "He was determined to get the right kind of vinegar for the dumplings."

Remus snorts. "He likes to pretend he can tell the difference. You know, I think Tesco's plastic bottle works just fine. Did he take the bike, then?"

"Ye. I saw it parked outside the shops."

"You never see him forgetting his bike keys." Remus shakes his head, and Harry laughs. "More likely he's not even locking it anymore. I keep saying, nobody here would bother stealing it. The moment anyone sees someone other than a crazy old man on that thing, they'd know something's off."

As they speak, the living room window slides open, and Sirius pokes in his head before he proceeds to climb through the window. "Now who are you calling a crazy old man?"

"Oh my dear lord." Remus mutters, though his voice is fond. He shoves the rolling pin at Harry, hurries to take the bags off Sirius and helps him through. "Don't remember the door bell?"

"What's that? Never heard of it." Sirius grins, blowing a strand of silver hair from where it fell out of what Remus has dubbed the drunk McGonagall bun.

"You're not a day past seventeen in your head."

"Have patience, we're a few years off from seventy yet— oh hello Harry, pass me the rolling pin?" Sirius says as he weaves fluidly through the room, "besides, Moony-dear— the man who refuses to retire has nothing to say about ageing gracefully."

"Oh, maybe next year." Remus waves a hand dismissively, and Sirius and Harry snorts at the same time because he's been saying the same thing for a decade.

Then, they get to task, descending upon the pile of half-rolled out dough and dumpling filling on the living room table. They've been doing this for two and a half decades, every Chinese New Year's Eve, ever since the end of the war. If you asked Remus or Sirius, they'd no longer agree about why this started. Sirius says that Remus missed hope, and Remus says Sirius wanted to replace what he hated about his family. But Harry remembers that first year, how they barged into Harry's miserable apartment and chased him out of bed, shoved a cabbage into his hands claiming they've dug out Remus' mother's recipe. It had been such a mess, none of them quite knew what to do and Hope's instructions said little more than "proved dough, no yeast; pork filling; boil". It took them all day. In the end, all the dumplings came out precariously shaped and half of them disintegrated in the pot. But as they packaged some of the less malformed dumplings to Ron and Hermione's families, Harry thought— that was the most any of them had laughed, since the war.

After that, it just kept happening, year after year. Harry would bring along his friends and then his kids, and they banter through the afternoon into the night, while making an amount of food that could give Molly Weasley a run for her money. Every year, they tell the story of how Hope once taught James' whole family how to fold dumplings, and they laugh about how Sirius would religiously stick to Hope's preferred brands of seasoning. Every year, they try to put up the state-run celebration programme, only until Sirius inevitably turns it off in anger. They've never made it to the New Year's countdown.

"Merlin's bloody balls. How do I always forget what narrow-minded bigots they all are." Sirius would say, throwing down the remote that may or may not be vaguely smoking.

"Not all of them," Remus would reply lightly, "Ma had loved the traditional operas, back in the day."

And now, after all of Harry's kids have grown out of the firecrackers, it's quiet again. But they're still here, the three of them.

"It's not yet dark out. The days are getting longer." Remus says, as he starts kneading the second batch of dough.

Sirius hums, leaning back and watching Remus' forearms appreciatively. "Weather's beautiful out there. 'S bloody cold, though, I miss when I could stave through a winter with the leather jacket. At least the night will be clear."

Remus snorts, shares a side glance with Harry. "See what I mean, Harry? Old man still thinks he's a teenager."

"We balance out perfectly. Not all of us have been old men since we were a teenager."

"To be fair, Remus, he's right. You've dressed like this for as long as I've known you."

"Oh no darling. Moony's been dressing like this for as long as I've known him."

Remus calmly flicks pieces of dough at Sirius, who's laughing roaringly. And Harry thinks only about how it means more than the world, that these two men, after their whole lives, could have this easy warmth and happiness with each other. He thinks, no, he wouldn't give this up for the world. He'd be right here year after year, helping them through the frankly ridiculous amount of dumplings they still insist on making and mailing out. And after he leaves for the night, Harry just knows that they'd be out in the garden, arm in arm under nothing but stars. Remus will pretend he can recognise anything beside Sirius' namesake, and Sirius will pretend he's looking at the stars at all, and the new moon is kind, as will be the year they begin at each other's side.