#anyway go read doge's fic

[raskies456]

Gift fic for @dogebode and sequel to her work Beneath (read it!!!!!!)

Summary: Stanford Pines has let things go on for too long. Now he has his regrets.

Genre: Gen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort (well…not really comfort? idk), Angst with a Happy Hopeful Ending, Platonic Sibling Bonding, Oneshot

Chars: Stanford and Stanley Pines

Warnings: a LOT of self-loathing, mentions of alcohol, insomnia, feelings of intense guilt, anxiety, mild disassociation, briefly implied suicidal ideation, implied ideation towards self harm (this is mildly graphic), generally unhealthy mindsets

Wordcount: 4036

It was the beginning of January, and the expanse of the new year stretched long and foreboding before Stanford Pines. He sat in the darkened kitchen, one six-fingered hand curled around a glass of scotch, and yet he couldn’t quite find it in himself to dare a sip.

Come morning all of this would be forgotten—his brother would rise, well rested and happy, happier than he’d been for over thirty years, longer even—but not tonight. Tonight Stanley was down in the basement with his dreams broken and the one thing that kept him going for all that time stolen, and he was truly and utterly alone.

Not that Ford suspected he could do anything for him right now, confused as the man as, asleep—but that was a poor excuse for abandoning him—after all who knew what Stan might take it up in his head do? But Ford couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t bear to see the damage he had wrought, and as always was only thinking of himself and his own hurt rather than that of his brother.

Thirty years. It never really sunk in, even after the apologies were exchanged, even after Ford truly meant his thanks. The magnitude of spending almost eleven-thousand nights beneath the earth, task turning to habit turning to nature until it could no longer be disentangled from the man’s mind. Until Stanley Pines became nothing but getting his brother back. Nothing, which was just how Ford had treated him.

Because Stanford had been watching for months. Letting him go crawling about down in that basement, doing god knows what—writing, translating, rebuilding—all without breathing a word of it to him. Curiosity perhaps, or fear of Bill, drove his reticence, but no, it was more than that—Ford had wanted his own chance at being the hero, wanted to be the one to save his brother for once, wanted to receive, to earn, to deserve some praise of his own, and how better to do it than like this? Be the only one to suspect that the demon had survived and drive him once and for all out of Stanley’s head?

Oh he said he had learned his lesson, that he was okay with being the hero’s brother, but like everything, it was a lie. Not so much to Stan, though Ford had deceived him as well—add it to an ever growing list of sins—but to himself. Because he could not accept that he was jealous, petulant. Because he wanted to be good enough to be humble.

But Ford was not a good man, and perhaps never would be. Left his brother alone to mourn because he was too afraid to face the consequences of what he’d done. Wallowed in his own self-pity instead of trying to help. Gave up in the face of the impossible—what Stan did was impossible, impossible and costly and good—and while Ford had finally come to thank him for it he was not without that twinge of envy, a hint of resentment in knowing he would never be so heroic. Because for all of Ford’s mistakes the only thing Stan had done wrong was in thinking him worth saving. The only thing he had done wrong was mourning him now.

And he was mourning, no doubt about it—there was never a look more heartbreaking than the one Ford had seen last night, except perhaps that sad face staring up at him from the street all those years ago, abandoned, asking for one last chance…Ford had turned him away then, in his selfishness and anger, and yet the man had given up everything just to get him back. It was something, he felt, he could never truly apologize for, no matter how sorrow he felt, no matter how sincere he was—and perhaps he wasn’t even that. Because if he was sorry, truly sorry for who he was and what he’d done, he would have not let things go this far. He would not have considered letting them continue, and continue they might—what were the odds that Stan would return to the basement the next night, start building the portal up once more? That he’d forget its destruction, or worse still, remember? And what were the odds that Ford would let him do it all over again, stand aside and watch until tonight came once more? Over and over—work, hope, loss. Tragic, but allowably so—Stan was happy enough in the daylight hours, and could always be taken far to sea—wasn’t that enough? But Ford knew well enough these were only excuses, and his true motives were all too clear. He was afraid of intervening. He was afraid of doing the right thing. He was afraid—because it would mean telling Stan.

In the end, as with all things, Ford did it for himself. Decided he must tell Stanley, but only because he realized he could no longer deal with the lie. Could no longer cope with all the jokes and the grins and the forgiveness, because they weren’t meant for him but for the man he pretended to be, and that was a lie he couldn’t bear. So he confessed—not because Stanley deserved the truth, but because Ford deserved the blame.

The sun was beginning to melt the snow, big white sheets sliding off the roof with a thump—and Ford still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t even dared a sip of his scotch, glittering gold in the morning light. He heard the floorboards creak as his brother began to stir—never one for moving softly, even when trying to creep. The man’s climb up from the basement a few hours past had been loud enough, and in the faint shafts of moonlight Ford had caught the glint of tears upon his face…

He didn’t look up when Stan walked in now, though he could hear the man’s footsteps come to a sudden halt in the doorway. And then they were thumping purposefully across the kitchen floor, stopping only at the the other end of the table. Stanley’s shadow cut off the light playing upon the scotch.

“What’s eating you?”

It was good perhaps that Stan was so quick to see that something was amiss, could spy in his manner that hint of despair—it spared Ford the trouble of broaching the topic, watching the good humor melt from his brother’s face. And yet he couldn’t help but feel just a hint of chagrin—now there was no way out, no use in pretending he hadn’t just gotten up early to pour himself a drink.

And suddenly there was a silence filling the room, a pressure—it seemed ready to make Ford’s ears pop as he desperately recited the words in his head, staring all the while down at his glass. His hand, curled around it, looked strange—a little too wide—and for one second it didn’t quite feel like his own.

Neither did his tongue, stuck dry to the roof of his mouth, as he struggled to keep his voice steady, and even this sounded somewhat off, as if heard from a distance.

“Do you know,” he said haltingly, “about something called…somnambulism?”

Stan’s reply was immediate and loud, broke the pressure and made Ford start from his seat. “Somnambahoohaa?” He scoffed. “What are you—“

“Sleepwalking, Stanley,” Ford snapped, more suddenly and harshly than he would have thought possible. “Sleepwalking.”

“So what?” Ford gave a start as Stan plopped down in the chair across from him. “You’ve been walking around at night—it’s not your fault if you have bad dreams.”

Ford could only stare at him, though he almost felt like laughing. Almost, if the thought of finding humor in such irony didn’t twist his stomach into knots, make the skin around his neck prickle and jump. “Not me,” he said finally, though not without some bitterness. “You.”

Stan was silent for a brief moment, then shrugged. “Well it’s probably nothing, just a little restlessness, or—“

“Months, Stanley,” growled Ford. “It’s been going on for months.”

Well that certainly caught the man off guard, startled him into shocked silence, and Ford? He couldn’t help but feel slightly satisfied—he had managed to check his brother’s insouciance, prove his own fears right. Because even now Ford still felt that need to assert himself, to make clear that he was the one that knew more—after all, knowing things was the only thing he had left, and he was no longer even secure in this: Stanley had more than once surprised him with his understanding of physics, hard won from rebuilding the portal, and where Ford should have been proud he had merely turned to choosing larger and larger words to express his thoughts. More lies in a sense, more jealous deceit.

“Do you think it’s…him?” Stanley’s voice was quiet now, worried—maybe even afraid. But it was hard to tell—Ford’s understanding of the man was limited, and whenever he thought he had him figured he always found himself surprised, failed to grasp some unexpected depth of emotion.

“I thought so at first,” said Ford, shaking his head, “which is why…” He trailed off. Why I kept it a secret? It was an excuse, the same excuse he had told himself each and every night: that he wanted to avoid alerting the demon. Well he was afraid of Bill; but he was more afraid of the truth, more afraid to admit he said nothing because he wanted to finally solve something on his own.

“It’s the portal,” Ford continued, cutting off his own train of thought. “You spent every night for thirty years trying to run the thing—you really think there weren’t going to be consequences?”

“Like what, Ford?” snapped Stan. “The end of the world?”

“No—! I mean yes, but”—he searched desperately for the words—“that’s not what I’m saying.” Ford shook his head. “I just meant that it was a dangerous thing for you—“

“I know what you meant.”

Ford might not have been the best at reading Stanley’s emotions, but there was no missing the hostility in his tone. And for what? Did he really think his brother was going to lecture him on how foolish he had been? After all they’d been through? Ford felt indignant, attacked—his fingers squeezed the glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t shatter in his hand—but the feeling passed as quickly as it came.

Of course Stan was going to expect insult and ingratitude—after all they were the only things that Ford had ever really given him. Because that was all Ford was. Even now, even trying to tell the truth, he expected nothing but patience and understanding—as if he deserved it! Look how quick he was to anger, to play the injured party, to place his brother in the wrong. Look how much he thought of himself. Nothing had changed at all.

There was a look on Stanley’s face that night—not last night, weeping on the floor, but the night before. A gaze so full of hope and joy and love…for him. For the man whose first move was to punch his savior in the face. For the man who never said thank you. For the man who even now could only muster the urge to tell his brother that he was wrong, wrong to care so much. If only Stanley had left him in the nightmare realm to rot.

“Stan,” he said softly, not sure if he could be heard. He was not even sure if the man was still in the room—at some point Ford had gone back to staring at his glass, and could have missed his brother’s exit, lost in thoughts as he was. “Stan,” he said again. “You spent so long trying to get me back…so long that you’re doing it in your sleep.”

Silence. Dead silence, stretching long before him until he was certain he was completely alone. And then a soft voice. A question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

If the force of Ford’s stare could break glass, his hand, trembling around his scotch, would have been torn to shreds. He almost wished it, to have the glass explode and splinter and most importantly end this conversation, all those little shards cutting through the tension like so much blood and flesh. But though his knuckles began to blanch nothing happened, not so much as a crack.

He took one breath, then another, hated how he could hear each and every rasp and quiver of his throat. It was difficult enough to maintain composure when lying, even harder to keep it when telling the truth. And he could not back out of it now, not when his distress stood so clear—any non-answer, any dodge would be suspected—why be so nervous if you were only going to say you didn’t want to alert Bill? But the inevitability of confession didn’t calm him, rather, he felt terribly exposed, powerless…perhaps almost as vulnerable as he had been when at the demon’s mercy.

“I…” Ford started, and it was hard enough to do as much, with his words dying in his throat. “I…thought I could handle it.” He found himself surprised at how much he had to fight to keep his voice from trembling—he was not one to cry, though now he was perhaps on the verge of it, even saying as little as he had. No, he had perhaps suggested a hint of overconfidence, and the shame of admitting defeat, but nothing more. Didn’t say that he valued his pride over his brother’s safety, or never appreciated Stan’s effort in bringing him home. Didn’t say that he regretted saying something now, or that he left the man down there to mourn. And certainly he didn’t say that two nights ago he had torn down the portal not only for reasons of safety or even concern, but because he had been just the slightest bit curious in seeing what would happen— whether the cycle would be broken or begin anew, and perhaps, just maybe, he had wanted to see how much Stanley would have missed him.

“And?”

Ford started in his seat a little—he had gotten distracted, caught in yet another spiral of out of control thoughts. It was altogether too easy too lose himself in guilty confusion, especially when it was preferable to speaking, because speaking was real, real and happening now, and real was more terrible than a thousand possible words.

Whatever he said now was made true. It could not be taken back. So he did his best to choose his words carefully.

“You rebuilt the portal in your sleep,” Ford began, measured, even. “And you” —he paused for a second—“finished it.”

These were just facts after all, presented with emotional distance. Without need for justification. There should have been nothing difficult in it—as easy as saying the sky was blue.

“So I took it apart.”

Silence. Stanley clearly expected him to go on, explain what had happened next, but Ford simply couldn’t. As much as he wished to admit his mistakes, whether for justice or merely because he could no longer live with them, the fact was he could not do it, could not even say he had seen his brother cry—made his brother cry, to be more accurate. It was a physical resistance, a tightening in his throat and a burning in his head, but most of all it was the utter conviction that if he dared speak, even move, the sky would rain down the hell, hell more terrible than all the nightmare realm.

Stanford knew, of course, that this wasn’t true, much as he felt it was. There was a part of him still rational, watching this all unfold, and it was the part he wished he could make speak. But his tongue belonged to the self that was terrified, and perhaps for good reason—because both halves of him knew well enough that he could not utter the next word without bursting into tears.

His lip was trembling even now—he caught it between his teeth, almost hard enough to draw blood, but why? What, after all, was so terrible in crying? Perhaps it was in appearing weak—Ford had his pride, his terrible selfish conceit that couldn’t even say thank you for fear of admitting he had needed help. And crying—well the man he pretended to be, that stoic, brilliant hero—would never have cried. He did not allow himself even the idea he might be vulnerable, or worse, reveal it to someone else.

But no, it was not merely a matter of pride. Losing face was one thing, but being pitied…The thought of inducing sympathy through his tears, the idea of being loved despite what he had done—it was all too much to bear.

After all he wasn’t here for forgiveness. To ask for pardon would be to add insult to injury, and accepting it would only go to show he hadn’t changed in the least—it was a cheap way to get out of his guilt, to tell himself he had done no wrong. He would be taking advantage of his brother’s desire to have them happy. He would be tricking Stan once more, and to do so was criminal.

So all Ford could hope for was anger. Mockery too, for crying, but genuine anger. Like it had been before, before he had erased all of his sins from his brother’s mind. The man Stanley knew now, after all, was built up from stories rather than truth, cast in too positive a light, a tale told by a liar. Ford had tricked him into thinking he was a friend, a person worthy of trust, someone there to help, perhaps even something of a muse…

“Stanford?”

“You missed me,” said Ford, and then there it was, a lifetime’s worth of regret come bubbling up through his throat. “And all I ever did was leave.”

Ford was the sort of person who talked, and he knew it. All the words would come gushing out of his mouth in a torrent and no one had the power to stop it. It would often be hours before he would slow down enough to notice how the eyes of his audience had glazed over, or, more often than not, that he was alone. He would then slink off, bitter, chalk it down as more proof that he was an under-appreciated genius, but more likely he had just been showing off as always, and people were merely giving him his due.

Well he was talking like that now, powered more by emotion than anything planned, fearful that if he dared pause he would lose himself in tears and become unintelligible. He quite possibly already was, judging by Stan’s lack of response, but maybe that was shock, horror at all the things he was saying. That he had allowed him to sleepwalk for months, out of curiosity and pride. That he had not spoken of it until the damage was done. That he had never truly appreciated what Stanley had done—scorned it even, out of jealousy and resentment. These things an more—he was not quite sure what he was saying or where he was going but the general trend of it was that he was bad, having done all these things and thought all these thoughts. So it took him a while to finish speaking, and when he finally stopped it was rather for choking on tears than truly running out of words.

All of this hadn’t make him feel better, at least—certainly there was no sensation of lifted weight—everything felt all the more heavy for being dragged out into the open air. If he had spoken from the selfish need to absolve himself, and he was certain he had, he had failed in this, and so much the better—at least he had enough of a conscience left to feel guilty at what he’d done.

Mostly, however he felt physically ill—his ears rang and his stomach squirmed ominously, his face lay slick with mucus and sweat. He had managed to flop over the table at some point, failing even to keep sitting upright, and he lay there blubbering for a good while.

What Ford was was pitiful, and it terrified him. More so that Stanley had not yet passed his judgement—the uncertainty hung low in the air, oppressive. Anxiety raised the hairs on his neck, set the skin of his back tingling, but it stayed his tears. He waited, felt the silence pressing down upon him, heard the faint shudder of his heart. Forgiveness or retribution. Sorrow or anger. Love…or hatred.

“Well Sixer,” said Stanley, “you’ve always been a drama queen, but this is ridiculous.”

Ford lifted his head in confusion. His brother certainly wasn’t trying to forgive him, but neither did he seem upset—not once had Stanford considered any other possible reactions and now he had been caught completely off guard, unprepared for whatever was happening now—he couldn’t quite get a grasp on it.

“You’re not…upset?” he whimpered, more in puzzlement than anything.

“About what?” huffed Stan. “Sure you can be a pain in the ass sometimes, as if that’s news.”

He pondered this for a second. He pondered it long and hard, but he simply couldn’t understand what his brother was saying—was he angry or not? The words were harsh yes, but not uncharacteristically so, certainly nothing out of the ordinary. But if Stanley wasn’t upset than he must be forgiving—and yet he had brushed Ford off with a casual insult.

“So you didn’t tell me about the sleepwalking or whatever,” Stan continued. “Would’ve been nice if ya did earlier, but…” He shrugged. “I think you might have even said something about it anyway, if my memory’s to be trusted. Even if you didn’t, well, it’s certainly nothing to cry over.”

“But…” Ford trailed off, understanding, but not really comprehending. For all his fearful thinking, all that time he spent with his mind running over each and every outcome he could imagine, spinning out all the ways this conversation could have gone, he had never once considered the possibility that Stanley would not consider his transgressions severe. Because they were severe—he was certain of it, they must be. How could someone possibly look at him and all he had done and not loathe him, or at least not see that he was inherently bad? Perhaps Ford had managed to trick his brother so thoroughly that even in the face of indisputable proof Stan saw nothing ill in him—perhaps Ford was taking advantage of him still. The man desperately wanted reconciliation, wanted to be happy, wanted the brother he deserved…he was in denial, that was certain—Ford had used him like the monster he was. That was definitely the case, surely must be the only explanation…

“So what are we gonna do about it?” said Stan, still unbothered, casual. “Got any nerdy solutions to the whole solemn-nap walking thing?”

“Well, not really, but…” Ford stammered for a second as he realized his brother had switched topics, and he had been only happy to go along. But the matter remained, it had to be dealt with.

“You really don’t think I…?”

Stan sighed. “What do you want me to say Ford, that you’re a bit of a dick?” He shrugged. “So you might’ve not told me something you should’ve. As for the rest—you really think I don’t know already? Most of it’s just human nature and only an overly-dramatic asshole would worry himself over it.”

Ford might have raised his voice to protest again, would have, if he could, but his words caught on an all too familiar lump of the throat—he sniffed and his vision began to grow blurry.

“Are you gonna drink that scotch or—“ Stanley paused. “Aww fuck,” he said. “You’re not gonna start crying again, are you?”

[marrys-dream-world]

If we’re bound to be something, why not together? (chapter five)

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Notes:  I know I'm late, but consider: I've been having a bad time. It's going to get better from now on, probably, so I'll be able to post as often as I was before. Thank you all for the lovely response this fic is getting. Day 5: Milk. @ladynoirjuly

After Friday, joint patrols became a regular thing once again.

“It’s convenient.” She told Alya, the day after they agreed to it. Chat Noir had been really excited, the voice coming from the communicator cheery and bouncy. “We need to meet, anyways, to talk about the grimoire and- shut up, Alya.”

“What?” Her best friend said, not even trying to hide her grin. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know you were thinking it.”

“Thinking about what? Your weekly date with Chat Noir?”

Alya was so busy laughing that she didn’t doge the pillow Marinette threw on time. 

Their next joint patrol is a shorter one, but just because she needed to go over some information she managed to piece together through various discussions with Wayzz and looking at the grimoire until her eyes felt like bleeding. Per their study session, Chat Noir had shown himself very focused and managed to find details she didn’t catch herself (his high productivity may have been factored into how low hers was because of… distractions). So, as she picked up the hidden notes she left on their favored rooftop, she heard Chat Noir click his tongue.

“Y’know, my lady, I don't think we should do this here.” He said, crossing his arms. “It’s too out in the open and, honestly, my back was killing me last time we did something like this.”

“What do you suggest, then?” She asked, trying to not sound snappish. Running around town to find akumas was tiring and school hadn’t been easy, either. But none of that was her Chaton’s fault and her back had hurt too.

Chat Noir grinned. “I know just the place.”

“The place”, as it turned out, was the bar of the Gran Paris Hotel. 

Her partner was all smiles as he led her there, dragging her to the counter with a hand on her limp wrist. The place was mostly empty, just a curly-haired lady sitting by the large widows who didn’t even do a double-take as she spotted them. She watched, wide-eyed, as the bartender greeted them with ease, only seeming slightly surprised at seeing her.

“The usual, Mr. Noir?” The man asked, as if he was not about to serve a drink to an obviously underaged superhero. 

“Make it two, please.” Chat Noir said cheerly and her mouth hung open. “Catching flies, bugaboo?”

“Don’t call me that!” She said, voice sounding weak even to her. The bartender brought out two glasses.  “I just… didn’t expect that of you.”

Her partner frowned. “Expect what of me?”

Before she could answer, Chat Noir was handed a glass. Her shout of protest died on the tip of her tongue as she saw the liquid he was starting to sip.

“Is that… milk?”

“Yeah.” He said, placing it on the counter. “What else would it be?”

“Nothing.” She said quickly, taking her own glass and sipping the cool liquid. Maybe cold milk was what she needed after a rough day, maybe Chat Noir had a point. 

“It doesn’t look like anything.” He said suspiciously, before his green eyes lit up. “Could it be… my lady thought I was going to drink alcohol?”

“No!” She half-shouted, turning red. It certainly sounded as unconvincing to his ears as it did to hers, if his smirk said anything.

“I can change that up if you want.” He raised his hand. “Mister, can I get a-”

“Stop that and I’ll bring cookies to go with the milk next time.” Ladybug said rapidly before her partner did dumb stuff to prove a  point. She would know, she was the queen of doing that. 

Amusement danced in his eyes. “Deal.”

She huffed. “Why do you come here just to drink milk, anyways?”

“I like the change of scenery, makes me feel like a grown cat.” Chat Noir said, taking a sheet of paper from her binder and looking over its contents. “It’s not like I can actually drink anything else here, not that I want to. Besides, I like drinking milk whenever I am-”

He cut himself off, glancing at her before turning his eyes back to the paper.

“So yeah, I like it here, it’s quiet, too.”

“Whenever you’re what?” She said, tring to catch his gaze again.

“I’m sorry?”

“You like drinking milk whenever you’re what?”

Chat paused for a second, before sighing. “Lonely, I guess. I like drinking milk when I’m feeling lonely.”

Hitting her chest with a hammer would have been kinder, less hurtful. Ladybug couldn’t stop looking at her partner, the usual life of the party and detainer of all eyes wherever he went, now hunched over and avoiding taking his sight away from the paper in front of him. It was weird for her to think of Chat Noir as someone who could get lonely, all her images she had managed to come up with about his civilian life filled with friends and family. And more recently, though she didn’t say it proudly, of him and his mysterious girlfriend. 

“He said it was your usual.” She pointed out softly, wanting him to deny. Wanting it to not be true.

Chat Noir laughed, humourless. "That 's true.”

Well, that wouldn’t stand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

He shook his head. “Sorry, my lady, but it’s identity-sensitive.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

Her words slipped out before she could think them through, nothing new. Chat Noir turned to her, his shoulders now straight as if he had been given an electric shock and cat ears standing up, too. The piece of paper he had been holding fell from his limp clawed fingers. 

“My lady… are you saying?” Chat Noir started, breathless. 

“Not now.” She said carefully, wincing as the hope faded from his eyes. “But maybe soon? I have the akuma charms now and Tikki has been saying that I should trust myself and- ugh.”

Ladybug groaned. Why did she have to ramble so much? Her partner’s conflicted doe eyes didn’t help. 

“I want you to know, Chat Noir, you’re my partner.” She said, honestly and watched as a slow smile spread on his face.

“My lady…”

“So if you say anything that gives you away, it’s okay. I mean, I think we should go slow, but it’s not that serious. Secret identities aren’t more important than you, anyways.”

“I… Thank you.” He said and she thought his eyes were shining a little more than normal.

“You can talk about your problems, then, if you want.” Ladybug said kindly and he sobered up, quietly wiping at his eyes. 

“My mother is, er, gone. She’s gone.” Chat Noir stumbled in the beginning, but his tone ended up somber. “And now my father’s best friend, who I see a little like a mother too, is very sick and I don’t know when she’ll get better. When I can see her.”

“Oh, Chaton.” She said, throwing away any inhibition and hugging him. He responded immediately, clinging to her. 

“My father is really stressed about that. It’s not his fault, really, but I wish he wasn’t so… angry all the time. I feel like I can’t talk to him.” He continued, voice wet. Suddenly, he jerked away. “Sorry, you probably don’t-”

“No, of course I do.” She said, looking him straight into the eye. “You can tell me anything, anytime, Chaton. If you ever feel like that again, send me a message right away, I’ll find you as soon as I can.”

“My lady…” He started, eyes watery. Chat went back into her arms, burying his head into her neck. “Thank you.”

She didn’t answer, only hugged him tighter. They didn’t study much that day. 

[shijjii]

Did you know?

currently taking a break from a fic that I just want to post (I keep editing and reediting it, and yet I'm still not satisfied. So I have decided to take a break from it and write something else for some time) Anyways! I hope you enjoy this err this thing?

Sirius stormed inside the dorm room that he has been sharing with his brothers for almost seven years now, and sees Remus sitting on his bed, reading a book with a cup of tea on his bed side table

He plops down on the bed and tried to get Remus' attention by making noises, this continued on for a couple of minutes until finally, Remus sighed and glanced up from his book to give the gray eyed boy some attention

"what?" Sirius gave a small smile, shifting in the bed to get a better view of Remus before telling him what was up with him "well, Moony moon of mine, did you know that Rosier and Dearborn slept together last Ravenclaw party?" Remus raised an eyebrow at him before turning back on his book, by the looks of it, Remus was not interested in the gossip

"Yes, someone from the Ravenclaw house did tell me about that the day after... I also happen to know that Diggle saw Dearborn fucking Rosier, and so he broke up with him" he responded, not even looking up at Sirius but he does hear him huff in annoyance "You always know shit before I do" The brown haired boy clicks his tongue and puts his book down beside his cup of tea before turning to the annoyed Sirius Black, who was now sitting on his bed crossed leg, with his arms crossed and a pout on his lips

"It's not my fault people want to gossip with me" Sirius glanced at him to see a smug smirk plastered on his lips and Remus' dual colored eyes glimmered with mischief as he observed Sirius' pout

"yeah sure, gossip" Sirius rolled his eyes "I bet you don't know everything that's happening" Remus hummed at this and completely lies down on the bed, closing his eyes

"I know Vance and Jones are together" Sirius shuffles on the bed "What?! Since when?!" Remus chuckles under his breath, just imagining the face Sirius was making

"since last month.. I also know Fenwick and Doge kissed last week" finally, Remus opened one of his eyes to see Sirius was gaping at him

"what? Want to know more? Podmore and Bones got detention yesterday because they were making out in an empty classroom" Sirius throws his hands up "isn't that common knowledge?!"

"but it's not common knowledge that Bones likes Rosier and that he made out with Podmore so he can forget about Rosier" Remus closes his eyes again, smug smirk not going away

"you can't know everything" He hears Sirius mumble

"try me, cariad" Sirius glanced at Remus who was so relaxed, laying down on the bed, his breathing slowed down and if Sirius didn't speak up, he'll fall asleep

Remus hummed to get Sirius' attention "what? Say anything, any gossip. Since you vehemently believe that I don't know everything" Sirius hummed back but didn't speak up, he kept looking at Remus' relaxed face

his curly hair, gently cascading on his forehead, the scars that have lightened and the freckles that spread all over his face and his pretty lips

"did you know..." he trailed off, not sure what he was going to say

"what?"

"did you know that I love you?" this made Remus snap his eyes open and quickly sit up on the bed, Sirius had his elbow propped on his knee, covering his mouth with his palm, he was looking at Remus' surprised eyes

"I love you too, Pads. You're like my brother" Remus smiled. There was a lump in his throat as he said it, he was sure that Sirius meant in a platonic way until the teen sighs and looks away "I mean, love, love you."

"oh..." there was a long silence between them, Sirius didn't look at Remus so when he heard him sniff, he sees the teen crying

"Damn it, Padfoot" Sirius didn't know what to do at first, the stinging feeling in his heart became more prominent. Being rejected and be loved as a brother hurts but seeing Remus cry hurts him more.

He comes close to Remus and hugs him. Running his hand on Remus' back, he was about to speak up when Remus cut him off "don't you dare apologize for your feelings"

"but you're crying"

"I'm crying because you're right, I don't know everything because if I had known that you love me then I would've-" Remus cuts himself off, feeling like he didn't have to talk about it and just show Sirius what he means, kissing him hard on the lips

He felt Sirius kiss back after a moment and when they finally separate, all breathless, he sees Sirius look at him through his eyelashes, gray eyes shimmering

"do you-"

"Yes, I love love you too" there was a beat before they both snorted and fell on the bed, legs tangled, hands intertwined, just feeling each other's heat

[delightfulstarlightparadise]

Imagine Reader/Katsuki Bakugo

It has been a long time since I last watched or read BNHA but I have found myself really wanting to write some of these because of tiktok. So, please, forgive me if I take some stuff out of the anime context. Also, there has been a long time since I last wrote something in English. Forgive me if I make some mistakes.

Context: You are a new student in class, your quirk is regenerating (just like Deadpool) underneath the school chlothes you always wear a special long sleaved shirt with turtleneck that fully covers your body, because it is full of scars from the regeneration.

Your personality is a defiant one.

From enemies to lovers kind of fic

Everyone is wondering where did you come from in the middle of a semester, but you can't reveal this secret. You have been keeping it to yourself and everytime people try to approach you, you make up an excuse to quickly leave.

Until this day, in which your P.E. class demands you to go through a very dangerous obstacle course. Everyone has done it and you are the last one. Nobody has ever seen your quirk in action so everybody is anxious to see how you go. Bakugo pretends not to be interested, but he watches you out of the corner of his eyes.

Aizawa approaches you and tells you not to disappoint him. You nod and go ahead. Nobody can barely see your movements, you are too fast for any of the obstacles to hit you, even the big logs that hit most of the students. "So fast!" you can hear Denki saying while you hop from obstacle to obstacle. That is how you learned to be, because using your quirk is just a last resource to you, once it always leaves you scars.

In the las obstacle you notice that you miscalculated and a log is going to hit you right in the chest. You hear everybody screaming as you hug the log and let it take you with its balance. You can feel your insides crush and spit some blood on top of it.

Iida and Midorya try to hush to help you but Aisawa stops them from doing it. It seems like he knows your quirk (of course, he is the teacher... or is there something else to it?)

Even Bakugo is now watching deeply impressed as you hop on top of the log and backflips from it to the finish line. Your uniform is kind of wrecked but your blouse is intact, so is your chest. "Wooooooow!!!!" You hear them screaming as you wipe the blood from your mouth. Momo, Mina, Sero and Denki run towards you, excited to hear how the hell did you do that, Midoriya comes through the middle of them telling you that you NEED to tell him about your quirk, he has a notebook in hands. The others are clapping. Except for Bakugo, he has crossed his arms over his chest and has a repressed angry look.

"What's up with that? That was not impressive at all."

"Ahn... you tied in time, bro" Kirishima answers.

You hear a big explosion, and somebody screaming "WHAT THE FUCK?!", everyone around you is pushed down to the sides and now the only view you have are those raging red eyes amongst the smoke coming towards you.

"I WANT A REMATCH, NOW!" He screams with a finger pointed right to your face.

You feel kind of impelled to accept, he is looking at you, chin up, as if he is better then you. Who the hell is this boy?

Actually the way he always acts like he is better then everyone else has already caught your attention in these recent days. You see how awfully he treats his friends, he is always so loud and curses all the time. Yeah, you definately don't like this guy.

You are about to say yes, but you feel Aizawa's cold look at you. Damn it!

"I am not interested." You answer, hitting his finger with a smack.

Bad choice. You can feel the heat coming from him increase as he seems ready to jump on top of you and blow you out of existence.

"BROOOO, calm down" Kirishima comes between you. "Aizawa is not diggin' it, bro."

Bakugo stares at you as if he is going to sunddely jump over Kirishima's head and kill you with his bare hands(he probably could, you can feel it), but you stare back at him and even show your teeth a little. He gets kind of impressed with it, but gets back to his angry expression. He turns to the side and goes away stomping his feet and almost literally exploding with rage.

"Hey, ahn... y/n... that was really amazing! Don't mind him, this is his way to show he was impressed" says Kirishima with the most friendly smile, before going after him.

"Kaachan is really that way you will get used to him." Midoriya says. You can feel he is ashamed.

"Who does that motherfucker thinks he is?" You say as the others around gasp.

"You don't let him hear you say that." Denki says in the thinniest voice.

You leave, also stomping your feet, that boy made you angry. Everybody stares, as they did not expect you to react like that.

...

A few days go by. Every time yours and Katsuki Bakugo's sight cross people can hear both of you growl.

You have been competing in every single activity you face: from who gets better grades to who arrives first for lunch.

There are romours going on about your quirk around the school. Some say you might have invincibility, others, that you have some sort of superspeed. No one is right. You are as misterious as when you arrived, but now people know that you really hate Bakugo. And he hates you back.

"I didn't think he could hate someone as much as he hates you." Kirishima says to Midoriya as they watch you and Bakugo have a desagreement on who arrived first at the vending machine.

"What? Kaachan doesn't hate me... was that how it looked like when he was picking on me?"

"That what it WOULD look like if you fought back." Tsuyu answers.

"Listen here, you brat, I was already choosing my drink, you can't just come and put your money ahead of me!" You say as you punch the vending machine.

"What did you just call me?! Anyways, you were TOO SLOW, I wouldn't wait." He smirks at you, pressing the number of the last Coke in the machine.

"This Coke is mine!" You answer, infuriated.

"There is some Pepsi, still."

"Son of a..."

You lean towards him to take the Coke from his hands. All of a sundden the can bursts and the drink spills all over your face as Bakugo laughs.

"Ok, it is all yours." He says, cleaning his hand in your already sticky uniform.

"Ok, that is it!" You say, and jump onto him, punching his face as you both fall on the floor.

"OH SHIT!" You hear someone scream as you punch Bakugo as hard as you can, alternating hands.

You hear people coming towards you, but you don't see them arrive, as Bakugo explodes you from off of him. You fly to the other side of the common room, falling on a table that breaks with the impact.

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, ASSHOLE" you hear him screaming from the other side of the room.

You smell burnt meat. It is you, he hit you right on the chest, your shirt is ruined (if you are a female or wear a binder, it is not burned, don't worry, no tiddies out). There is a huge burn that goes from your chest to your chin. You stand up cracking your wrist and putting yourself in a fight pose.

"That is it, you fucker." you hear everyone gasp when they see the burnt slowly desappearing under a brand new skin layer. "You're dead."

You pick up a foot from the broken table and run towards Bakugou, he makes two explosions agressively on you, but you don't care. Half of your face and your hips get burned in a deep flesh wound and are quickly healed by your quirk. You hit him hard in the face with the wood. He bumps into the wall and falls sitten.

"What the fuck?!" He exclaims, watching you finish your healing process.

You are about to hit him once again, and he is about to explode you one more time, but nothing comes out of his hand and you feel the piece of wood being taken away from your hands.

"Ooooh, shit..." you hear the others saying and see them stepping away.

Aizawa is standing behind you, his eyes are furiously shaking and he is holding your piece of wood. You probably woke him up, as he is in full pijamas.

"Oh shit." You say slowly stepping away.

...

Being responsible for washing everyone's P.E. uniforms and cleaning the room for a whole month didn't sound like too much of a punishment for breaking the common room and almost killing a colleague. But... you had to do it with HIM.

"Are you gonna sweep or what?" You complain when you see he is barely doing something to clean the classroom.

"You are the one used to using a piece of wood" he says leaning against a desk you had just put in position.

"You will see where I am gonna put this piece of wood if you don't help" you answer putting the broom over your head in a threatening way.

"Let's see how many times I need to blow you up before you die!" He answers opening his hands wide besides his hips.

You are ready to start a fight when you remember Aizawa talking to you: "you should not be so fast in disappointing the last family you have." You put the broom down and sigh.

"Quitter." Bakugou says, leaning against the desk once more and putting his hands in his pockets.

"Aizawa is my uncle, you know." You say, getting back to swapping. "This is why I got to come to the academy in the half semester."

You notice he is shaken by the news, but he plays it cool.

"Why are you telling me that?" he says.

"Cause this is the only reason I don't beat your motherfucking ass." you answer.

"Ha, as if." he says smiling in a maniac way. "It took me 200 explosions to beat the shit out of Kirishima. Your quirk is similar to his in a certain way, there must be a limit. Of explosions you can take."

"I can do a whole lot of damage before my quirk starts to wear off." You answer, putting the broom aside. "But I tend to doge attacks, because..."

You open the shirt of your uniform, making Bakugo step back surprized, even more so when you open the zipper of your special suit. Bakugo's face turns from a bright red to a pale white as he lays eyes on your body full of scars. You have all kinds of them, big, small, one specially big that goes from your hip to the beginning of your neck.

"What the f..." he seems to swallow his mean words. "So... things leave scars on you."

"The more I use my quirk, the bigger is the possibility of leaving scars."

"I bet you get into lots of fights." he says, opening smile with the side of his lips.

"Those are mostly from the accident when my parents died." you say, head down with a frown.

Bakugo stares at you kind of embarassed, not knowing what to say. He takes a step fowark, slightly reaching to you.

Then, you start to laugh.

"I'm kidding, dumbass!!!" You say, bending foward, cleaning tears from your eyes. "Yeah, I get into a lot of fights."

"You... you..." Bakugou is startled, but also angry. He doesn't know how to react.

"You should see your face! You were totally soft over me."

"I WAS NOT SOFT!"

"You were totally soft!"

Bakugou threatens you with his hands wide open, but you keep laughing at him.

That is when the door opens.

You and Bakugo turn to see professor Mic, absolutely atonished. At first you both think he has gotten you about to start a fight, but then you realize, what it actually looks like. Your shirt is open, Bakugou's hands are aiming at your chest.

You both scream. Professor Mic also screams.

Part two here:

[alexandralyman]

Any chance of a WIP update for Valentine’s Day? Or more sneak peaks? I just miss your stories.

Now, obviously this ask came in over a month ago and I was going to post a sneak peek for you at the time, Anon, but then it got me inspired to start writing something set during Valentine’s Day for BH&H, since I’ve written a bunch of extra scenes set during holidays like Christmas and Easter, but hadn’t tackled that one yet. 4,300 words later, it turned into a somewhat longer scene than I was planning and it’s now the next holiday and Valentine’s Day is long over, but I don’t have a St. Patrick’s Day fic so I’m posting this anyway.

                            Ordinary Time (Between Heaven & Hell)

Read also on AO3 here and on FF.net here

Summary: Demons don’t celebrate the feast days of saints, but on the day dedicated to lovers Killian Jones is willing to make an exception. As long as that exception takes the form of Emma Swan, that is. Will his angel answer his prayer on a cool February eve in Venice, Italy?

Rating: M

                                                      ….

No one did revelry quite like Venice.

Old-fashioned lanterns turned the famous canals to rivers of gold, music filled the piazzas from dusk til dawn and the citizenry moved with ease from formal, black tie balls in ancient family piles to after parties held in underground clubs where the dress code was definitely less is more. High fashion models rubbed stylish elbows with counts, new money flirting with old nobility, tourists came from far and wide as they had since time immemorial to gape at the splendour and over every graceful stone bridge and behind every famous church a dark alley beckoned, where purse snatchers slipped away with their ill-gotten gains and prostitutes of both genders fell to their knees to offer their own form of worship, for a price.

Venice dazzled all the senses, but there was a dark underbelly hidden in the floating city build around the stolen relics of one of the holiest of saints, sin and salvation linked as two sides of the same coin.

Killian flipped a gold piece over his knuckles with a dexterity no mortal could hope to achieve and into a medieval fountain. It was a round pool topped with a statue of an angel rising from a platform in the centre, stone wings unfurled against the late afternoon sun and one hand outstretched over the water, the delicate, carved fingers just out of reach to anyone standing below. The coin was a scudi that was as old as the fountain itself,from the days long ago when the doges ruled over Venice as kings in all but name. It was rare and valuable, a collector’s dream (that some would even literally sell their souls to obtain) but he let it fall into the water without a second thought with a flash as it caught the light and reflected it back for a heartbeat before sinking down to disappear into the pile of more humble copper pennies at the bottom. He slipped his hands back in his pockets and glanced up at the angel, a wish wasn’t all that different from a prayer after all and the blank-faced statue must have heard innumerable requests over the centuries from the many who passed through the city and stopped to make an offering at her marble feet.

Would his angel hear him, and finally grant what he wanted above all else? Only time would tell, and he had even more of that to spare than he had gold coins.

He strolled the narrow streets for a while, alone with his memories of the old days while the city teemed around him, packed even more to the gills than usual. It was a day dedicated to lovers, and as the sun set and the stars rose above doey-eyed couples giggled in arched doorways and held hands over bottles of wine, making eyes and making love (not in public, at least not mostly, those dark alleys were playing host to more than just paid trysts tonight) although, strangely enough, the lust he could feel hot in the air was tempered with something else, something that his demonic senses instinctively shied away from and made him want to retreat back into the shadows until it was safely gone again. Still, he meandered on, past stalls selling trinkets like carnival masks and blown glass ornaments that had stayed open late to take advantage of the festivities (avarice, he approved of that), pausing here and there to examine the wares and plucking a single red rose from a bouquet dangling from the hand of a young woman with her arms around her paramour’s neck and her eyes closed into his kiss. Neither one noticed the tiny theft, too wrapped up in each other to see the danger that lurked so close. Killian could have used his unholy influence to spark a sudden argument, insert some disharmony into the romantic tableaux as he was meant to, bound to, stoking the flames of jealousy by turning the man’s head towards a winsome young signora instead of his beloved or greed in the desire for a much more lavish gift than mere flowers, but he stayed his hand and continued on a path only he could see, following his own map through the ancient city of mariners like the pirate he had been, once upon a time.

At the end there was a treasure much more valuable than gold, a light amidst the darkness, one that had always enticed instead of repelled. Rose in hand, Killian waited patiently in a small piazza ringed with packed trattorias and bustling wine bars. Venice’s climate was fairly mild in the winter, but his unusually warm breath turned immediately to fog as soon as it hit the cooler air, forming a cloud of twisted serpents that writhed and slithered away into nothingness with each measured exhale. As he bided his time his attention focused on a pair of young men on the other side of the square who were chain-smoking cigarettes and cat-calling every woman who walked by, clearly full of both too much machismo and too much liquor. He watched the flecks of burning ash fall to the ground with each careless flick of their wrists, the glowing tips turning the crimson of infernal fire as they took deep drags and filled their lungs with thick, noxious smoke. Their voices got louder and more lewd as his influence washed over them, drawing a demon’s attention was never a good thing and Killian’s lips split in a rictus grin of amusement while he fanned the flames a little higher, a little hotter. They were unaware of his presence, but it loosened what little inhibitions they had left as his corruption spread like the smoke and filled the spaces between every dark impulse, every forbidden desire, letting them run riot until nothing else was left.

A distinctively feminine figure appeared in the misty haze and started across the piazza, the heels of her boots making no sound on the cobblestones but drawing every eye nonetheless in an instant and Killian could feel the sinful anticipation rolling off the two men in waves at the sight of her. Long blonde hair fell down the back of a leather jacket the bright red of heart’s blood and it was like waving a matador’s scarlet cape in front of a bull to the two idiots who were about to discover the sword hidden underneath instead. If Killian’s attention was dangerous, hers was even more perilous for mortal souls, especially ones puffed up like peacocks on their own arrogance. He idly twirled the rose back and forth between his fingers and drew his thumb across the velvety petals, his own anticipation for what was to come a pleasant hum under his skin.

“Did you miss me?”

Emma accepted the gift he offered with an innocent smile and a hint of a bow, his manners impeccable and beyond reproach while her own expression was caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. The two cat-callers were still there, but the busy piazza was considerably more quiet now than an angel had descended from the heavens and rendered them both completely mute with nothing more than a look. They were literally struck dumb, opening and closing their mouths with nothing coming out while passersby stared at them curiously, unaware of the role the damned and the divine had played in the little bit of street theatre and that Heaven and Hell both were present only a few feet away in the form of a dark-haired man and a blonde woman, the lone raven and the graceful dove.

But then again, mortals were usually blind to what went on right under their own noses.

“Ciao, Killian,” she said with a roll of her eyes, sidestepping his question but he didn’t really care, his name on her lips was a summons that fanned the flames within and made him burn even hotter under his own black leather jacket. Steam rose from the ground from the heat he was generating, Venice was eternally sinking into the sea and the ground was perpetually damp as a result. He was unable to resist a direct summoning and when she turned he followed, away from the lights and the laughter and into a quieter, residential section of the city where the music faded away and the shadows cut deep. Red leather met rough stone when he backed her into a wall, his taller form easily concealing them from any prying eyes, the raven enfolding the dove and pinning her fast.

“Beata angela,” he breathed hot into the shell of her ear, fingers teasing just under the edge of the leather at her waist. “Did you miss me?”

Her own small hands toyed with his belt buckle for a moment before dipping lower and his eyes slammed shut at the feel of her palm sliding over where he burned the most.

Or second most, but he refused to acknowledge the dull ache in the left side of his chest.

Emma gave a little squeeze that almost made his knees give out and teased right back. “It feels more like you’re the one who missed me, Damnate.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to play dirty,” he muttered, unable to stop the desperate rock of his hips into her welcoming touch.

“And demons aren’t supposed to celebrate the feast days of saints, even if everyone else has forgotten what this day originally was,” she shot back. “You’re not the only one who breaks the rules.”

Killian lifted his head and matched her wry smile. “Point taken.”

He had broken more rules than he could count because of her, what was one more? Their foreheads touched and they just stood like that for a moment, the saint and the sinner, angel and demon, come together in a city barely tethered to the earth and caught eternally between falling below and rising above with each roll of the tides.

                                                     …

                                                     …

The small pensione where she had a room for the night had one been a convent, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the demon next to her with eyes the same shade and sharpness as Ceylon sapphires. He silently read the inscription on the faded plaque next to the door that described the building’s illustrious history with a raised brow while Emma waited for the inevitable smart-ass remark.

“Inviting the fox right into the henhouse to play, are we?” he said at last with a grin.

“More like il gallo, I think.”

Killian understood both the Italian word for rooster as well as the double meaning behind it at once and he chuckled while she unlocked the iron gate that had been intended once to guard the lives and the chastity of those within and keep predators of all stripes out. But the nuns were long gone and her room was not a Spartan cell with only a single cot and a crucifix that the sisters had made due with to keep their vow of poverty, it was comfortably appointed and had come with a bottle of red wine and a heart-shaped box of chocolates for the holy day that had become a secular celebration of romance, clearly meant to be consumed by two. Times certainly had changed, the previous residents would have been completely forbidden from enjoying such decadent luxuries as feather pillows, high-thread count sheets and imported confectionery, let alone from being encouraged to entertain a man in their chambers.

Emma saw him eye the pair of glasses that had been left with the bottle, a hint of uncertainty crossing his handsome face in sharp contrast to his usual confident swagger.

“I do hope I didn’t interrupt any other plans of yours tonight, angel.”

Jealousy. She could see that as well, in the flush on his neck and the darkening of his eyes, a wisp of deadly sin rising between them in the room. Their affair had never included a vow of fidelity, but he always kept the promises he made and there were some things that were best left unsaid, they were too different and he wouldn’t understand. So she didn’t answer him with words, but in the press of her lips to his, a benediction in the soft slide of the kiss that had him stiff-backed and resistant for a moment with his arms at his sides until he relented with a low noise in the back of his throat that rumbled through her and did delicious things between her legs. Hands found her hips, large, dexterous, flexing along the curve and trailing along the strip of bare skin just above the waist of her jeans, under her jacket. His touch was always warm and it shouldn’t make her shiver, but they’d always been a contradiction, the demon who prayed, the angel who sinned. In a deconsecrated convent where celibacy had given way to passion they defied all the rules like the martyred saint for whom the day was named, clothing falling to the floor in a mingled heap.

“Don’t burn my jacket,” she said in between kisses, trying to get it off to join his before Killian’s usual impatience got the best of him and he scorched it into ash.

“Don’t worry, I like the red leather jacket.”

Emma laughed, “Really?”

A kiss was placed into the little dip in her shoulder as the jacket was peeled back that made another shiver down her spine while he murmured against her skin.

“Red leather…black lace…silky little unmentionables, I like them all very much on you. Let’s go shopping tomorrow, I’ll buy everything your heart desires.”

There wouldn’t be tomorrow, couldn’t be, there could only be these few hours stolen from eternity when the world above and the world below were both shut away outside the door. Clothes shed without any casualties, Emma stepped out of the pile and pressed herself to him boldly from shoulder to shin, nipples tightening and feeling the ripple and flex of the muscles up the ladder of his ribs as she ran her hands along them. The heat blazed, enough to fog the mirror hanging above the chest of drawers, antique Venetian glass turning to smoke and blurring their reflection as if it was also hiding them from any divine or damned scrutiny on the other side while they tumbled down to the bed. Killian knelt above her, his blue eyes taking on a wicked gleam that immediately told her he was up to something. There was a ripple in the air and she felt another small weight settle on the bed by her elbow, when she looked down she saw it was the box of chocolates. Killian wound the pink satin ribbon tying it shut around his finger and gave a slight tug, pulling it off and lifting the lid to peer inside.

“So tell me, is this how one is meant to feast in honour of a saint?”

He held up a chocolate between his fingers and it immediately started to melt, dripping onto her chest in a warm drizzle while his grin turned wolfish like the predator he was and clearly, she was the wayward lamb. His dark head bent and that silver tongue flicked out, capturing the drops that flowed down the valley between her breasts and tracing the sensitive curve underneath before going up the slope and wrapping around the taut peak of her nipple. Emma ran her fingers through his soft hair, arching up into the sensations as he carefully licked up every stray drop. The next piece had some kind of caramel filling, swirling in a sticky ribbon down her stomach when the chocolate coating broke apart. That too was caught by his mouth, the ache between her legs increasing with each lash of his tongue and scratch of his beard against the delicate flesh while he moved lower and lower, blue eyes glancing up from beneath those thick black lashes. Finally, finally, the chocolate was forgotten as he started to feast on something else in earnest, spreading her thighs apart and burying his face between them with a muffled groan that Emma echoed with her own cry at the sheer, unbridled pleasure being drawn with each slow and deliberate swipe and stroke. The supplicant kneeling at her altar, Killian was well-versed in this intimate rite and and a liturgy of sighs and moans spilled from her lips at his eager worship while she tightened her fingers in his hair and felt her back arch up off the bed and the strain of her wings as they longed to unfurl and let her take flight. His hands on her hips were an anchor that kept her from flying away until she was falling instead, a moment forever frozen in time as the angel in ecstasy.

Killian sat back on his haunches with an infuriatingly smug look, naked, his erection standing thick and proud and ready but he appeared to be in no particular hurry to use it, reaching over to take another chocolate out of the box and popping it into his mouth instead.

“You hate sweets.”

The smugness only increased as her voice came out laboured and unsteady, while her skin was flushed as red as the rose all along the path that his mouth had wandered. The marks he had left would quickly fade, leaving her unblemished and uncorrupted once more when he was gone but the echo of them would linger on, reminding her that uncorrupted and incorruptible were not the same things and playing with fire could end in a nasty brand.

“True,” Killian agreed after he swallowed the piece. “Most are too cloyingly saccharine for my tastes, but some are more palatable than others, especially when paired with the right accompaniment.”

His lustful gaze wandered over her and left little doubt as to what type of accompaniment he was referring to before he went back to the box and carefully perused what was left, selecting something that Emma couldn’t see at first. The box vanished in a shadow and he revealed a flat, ebony disk that he flipped like a coin, drawing her eye to the movement long enough for him to unfold from his seated position and strike with serpentine speed. He loomed over her in less than a blink, a deadly viper in the form of a man. But instead of venom, his bite was full of the bitter taste of dark chocolate, pressed between their lips to dissolve on her tongue in a swirl of cocoa tinged with hints of cinnamon and spice. It was incredibly decadent, so rich that it was almost too much, velvet smooth and far from sweet.

It was utterly delicious.

The chocolate melted away and it was just Killian, only Killian, always Killian, the one temptation she could never resist and there was no resistance when he pushed inside, she was still pliant and slick and they moved in a languid dance, slow and unhurried. He braced himself on his forearms and rocked his hips in a steady rhythm, his body aligned with hers from the rub of his nose against her own when he dipped his head down for another kiss to the tender press of her breasts against his chest, their legs in a tangle and each slide of hard, male flesh sheathing deeper and deeper within her with each stroke until he was buried to the hilt, fitting perfectly with no space left between them. Darkness and light had once been one, in the beginning, and they were again before the inevitable separation that awaited them.

“Emma.”

He lifted up, her infernal lover, his eyes deep pools of midnight while inky hair fell over his forehead. She scratched her nails lightly down his chest and left a golden trail of blessed light, flickering like the tail of a falling star.

“Yes?” she asked, knowing what he wanted but unable to resist teasing him just a little first. His jaw clenched and his eyes fell shut as the sensation ripped through him, making the cords on his neck stand out while he let out a deep groan that rumbled right through his chest and into her palms. A mortal man would have given in completely at such a jolt of divine ecstasy, Killian was more impervious. His eyes snapped open again and narrowed to a focus that would both thrill and terrify an innocent nun in equal measure. Emma felt him shift his hips, the thick drag of his erection hitting almost just the right spot with the movement and making her clench around him. He was focused on finding the angle that would make her fall utterly apart, thrusting shallowly for a few strokes and then sliding in deep. Her toes curled like petals and her hands clutched the muscular curve of his ass when he found what he was looking for, a dangerous grin spreading across his lips in response.

“Emma,” he repeated, a clear note of command in his tone. “Say. It.”

Speak of the devil and he doth appear. She knew what he wanted, more than just sex, he wanted her to name him and acknowledge his true form, the demon in her arms, inside her, to give him that power and give in to him completely. Unseen flames licked at her skin the same way his tongue had traced every inch, coaxing and cajoling, while his voice was the only one she heard, command turning to a fervent plea that drowned out everything else.

“My blessed one, my angel, say my name. Say you want me, only me. Please!”

It came out like the peal of a ringing bell, clear and sweet, the sacred wrapped around the profane. “Killian!”

Light flared incandescent, divine radiance meeting infernal fire and creating a conflagration that engulfed them both. Killian let out a near howl of triumph, bucking hard against her for the handful of thrusts it took to send them both spiralling into white hot bliss. His name spilled over her lips again and again, the broad shoulders shuddering in response to each while his face was buried in her neck. His inhuman pace faltered and finally went still, his limbs slack although something else remained stiff even as her voice turned to a feathery whisper and the fire slowly died down to embers. That too softened at last, and they cleaved apart once more.

“Lent is early this year.”

He said it casually, as if he was just making idle, post-coital pillow talk. He used to smoke cigarettes afterwards, but that had stopped at some point years ago. Emma rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her palm.

“I know.”

Ash Wednesday was only a few weeks away. Unlike the fixed dates of other feasts like the one currently being celebrated with flowers and candy it varied every year and on this particular liturgical cycle it fell early on the calendar, marking the start of forty days of fasting and repentance among the faithful. Emma was among them, forsaking earthly vices like chocolate and caffeine (and a blue-eyed demon who was the hardest of them all to give up) for six weeks and doing penance in hopes of absolution.

There was a resigned sigh from above and the arm he had wrapped around her bare back tightened a bit, holding her in place for a moment until he relented and loosened his grip.

“Well then, I suppose that just means it’s over sooner.”

They lay in silence, the minutes ticking back as time marched inexorably on even for two immortals. He had been gone over Christmas, departing as he usually did in late November just before the start of the Advent season, and Lent loomed just ahead of them in early March. The brief stretch in between was Ordinary Time, a reprieve from it all when she could pretend to be just Emma Swan and not an angel of the Lord.

For a little while, at least.

“I did, you know.”

She lifted up slightly on her elbow and met Killian’s confused look.

“You did what?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

“I missed you.”

The smugness was gone and there was surprise instead, a boyishly pleased smile blooming like the rose across his face at her simple confession. He was even more dangerous like this,

when he asked for nothing and she wanted to give him everything.

She didn’t do penance during Lent for herself. Giving everything else up was easy, which was precisely why she had to sacrifice him.

“And I know you were goading on those two morons back in the square,” she added, poking him in the ribs.

Killian didn’t bother trying to deny it, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “I had some time to kill and as you pointed out earlier, it’s the feast day of a saint. Had to introduce just a little discord into all this soppy romanticism, I do have a reputation to maintain, blessed one. Besides, I knew you could handle them before they got too out of line. I had faith.”

She made a non-commital noise at that and rested her head back down on his shoulder. The two men had thought they had the upper hand, seeing only a lone woman to tease and torment and nothing more. At least at first. She had given them a glimpse of her divinity and not held back, a halo forged directly from the light of a star, wings that were twice the height of a man, revealing her true form in all its Heavenly glory. She wasn’t just Emma Swan and he wasn’t just Killian Jones no matter what the season or the date on the calendar.

Emma felt his fingers thread gently through her hair and the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, closing her eyes while he pulled the blanket over them. They could never be ordinary, but they could be like this, at least for a little while.

[ao3feed-jily]

Call You Mine

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2LM3qVb

by pineappleyogurt (musicforlife101)

Doe: He move in?

Padfoot: Yup just now

Prongs: Why

Moony: Because my place is a shithole and Sirius said no

Prongs: That’s it? He said no

Padfoot: I literally did First thing I said when I saw it No *** In which Remus Lupin doesn't go to Hogwarts, but he and Sirius find their way to each other anyway. Their first year living in their Soho flat, attending university, and drinking with their friends. Told through love, sex, full moons, and far too many ridiculously named group chats.

This fic is told through a standard narrative style with added group chats. It's not solely texting, but there will be quite a lot of that.

Words: 7467, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, Peter Pettigrew, Mary Macdonald, Sturgis Podmore, Gideon Prewett, Fabian Prewett, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, Minerva McGonagall, Fleamont Potter, Euphemia Potter, Hope Lupin, Lyall Lupin, Amelia Bones, Edgar Bones, Gilderoy Lockhart, Severus Snape, Emmeline Vance, Frank Longbottom, Alice Longbottom, Benjy Fenwick, Hestia Jones, Caradoc Dearborn

Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Mary Macdonald/Peter Pettigrew, Euphemia Potter/Fleamont Potter, Hope Lupin/Lyall Lupin, Alice Longbottom/Frank Longbottom, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Remus Lupin Never Went to Hogwarts, Texting, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff, University, Fluff, Smut, kind of a lot of it, Sirius really likes sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Consent, explicit bisexual representation, Bisexual Sirius Black, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Bisexual Lily Evans Potter, Bisexual Marlene McKinnon, Lesbian Dorcas Meadowes, Bottom Sirius Black, Top Remus Lupin, Switching, Sirius Black as Padfoot, Werewolf Biology, Werewolf Culture, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Indian James Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting, Past Child Abuse, Teasing, Past Relationship(s), Minor Original Character(s), I discovered that I love Sturgis Podmore while writing this, Overuse of group chats, Pop Culture, Pop Punk Sirius Black, Public Display of Affection, Social Media, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Falling In Love, Love at First Sight, Lust at First Sight, I'm a sucker for Sirius being a good boy, Love Bites, Possessive Remus Lupin

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2LM3qVb

[grindellore]

fanfiction: and when he falls (chapter 2)

Fandom: Harry Potter | Fantastic Beasts Pairing: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald, Ariana Dumbledore, Bathilda Bagshot Rating: M (raised for a WWI vision of Gellert’s and for an explanatory end note)

Summary: Second chapter of my Summer of 1899 Grindeldore fic.

Also available on my AO3 (see the link in my profile).

“So ... what is this mysterious project for which you need to conduct so much historical research?” Albus asked as he entered the second room to the right that had temporarily been transformed into Gellert’s chamber. Its ceiling was so low that Albus needed to duck his head while Gellert was just barely able to stand upright.

The room had always been intended for guests, as it seemed, with a comfortable bed to the right and a dressing table underneath a window diagonally opposite to the chamber door. Directly opposite, there was a beautifully carved wooden desk with two boards above it that Gellert used as bookshelves.

“I think it’s best if you see for yourself.” Gellert went to the desk, took some neatly stacked sheets of parchment from it and two books from the shelves, and handed them all to Albus. The other boy took them wordlessly and kneeled to the floor, spreading the parchment all around him so he could better examine it. Gellert took a book he hadn’t perused yet and flopped down on his bed, but he couldn’t focus on reading. Instead, he watched Albus who seemed to have forgotten all around himself, completely absorbed in the texts he was reading. His long, straight auburn hair was shimmering in the afternoon air, hiding half of his face.

Strange, Gellert thought. He had half assumed Albus would broach Gellert’s reaction to the green carnation again, but he seemed to have dropped the matter completely. Written words were apparently much more interesting to him than witty banter—if it was indeed witty banter Albus had aimed for.

Gellert suddenly realised that what he felt was disappointment. He wanted Albus’s attention; craved for Albus to make him the target of his wry humour again.

“I don’t think your book will read itself to you while you keep staring at me.” Albus hadn’t even so much as looked up, but he had apparently sensed Gellert’s eyes on him.

Gellert winced and opened his book, but he still found it difficult to focus on reading. As he bowed above the pages and tried to make sense of the words in front of him, fatigue from his travels by Portkey settled in. He caught himself reading the same sentence over and over again, struggling with sleepiness. His position on the bed didn’t help to keep his eyes open either.

He woke up from the scent of old paper and an uncomfortable pressure on his nose. Blinking, he registered that he had fallen asleep with his head on top of the book and his nose literally poking into the pages.

Gellert rolled to the side, wincing and rubbing over the back of his nose. Then he realised that the sunlight had turned golden. It was evening.

He looked around in his room. Albus was gone. The parchment sheets had been shoved into an untidy heap. The two books Gellert had given him were closed, but there were now several small parchment strips in between the pages.

There was also a third, much smaller book now, positioned right on top of the other two. Gellert picked it up. A single piece of parchment was slipped between two pages. Gellert opened it at the marker.

The book was written in runes, but Gellert had learnt how to read them in Durmstrang. He recognised the title of the story Albus’s marker showed to him immediately: The Tale of the Three Brothers. And someone—no, not someone; Albus—had drawn the triangular symbol from the Peverell grave at the top of the page: The sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Gellert seized the piece of parchment, certain there would be some explanation; some clue that would tell him if Albus thought he was just a dreamer...

Gellert—

This book belongs to my sister. It is a first edition, so please treat it with care.

Albus

Gellert stared at Albus’s words. That was not the kind of information he was interested in. But what if... Acting purely on intuition, Gellert pointed his wand at the piece of parchment and muttered: “Aparecium!”

Sure enough, more words appeared on the parchment slip:

PS: Let’s talk about the Hallows tomorrow. You clearly need some rest, but I do hope you will find a better position. Sleeping with your head on a book doesn’t look very comfortable.

Gellert’s gaze fixated on the first words of Albus’s postscript: Let’s talk about the Hallows tomorrow.

Let’s talk. So Albus was still willing to put up with him. Regardless of whether Albus thought the existence of the Hallows was humbug or if—Gellert could dream, couldn’t he?—Albus was a believer himself, Gellert would be given the chance to explain himself further. He would also get to see Albus again, and very soon: Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Gellert chanted inwardly as he picked up the heap of parchments from the floor and carried it back to his desk. Tomorrow he would show Albus—infinitely fascinating, spirited, bookish Albus—that he was worthy of his attention; that Gellert could keep up with him, Durmstrang expellee or not.

When Gellert woke next, it was pitch black outside. All excitement of the evening before had left his mind. He was struggling to free himself of the blanket that had twisted around his body, trying to push the images out of his mind.

It was no use. They kept coming back: Images of men with insect-like masks on their faces and guns around their shoulders, running in muddy trenches or seeking shelter in mountainous caves; men without masks lying in the dirt or on rocky surface, surrounded by some sort of vapour, staring upwards into an obscured sky with unseeing eyes; more bodies, but those were shredded to pieces, barely recognisable as human anymore; sirens, hissing sounds and detonations...

Gellert focused on closing his mind; on detaching himself from the horror he felt at the sight of those images and the vague fear the effects of that vapour instilled in him... It took an effort; it always was an effort, but eventually he only saw velvet darkness when he closed his eyes. His racing pulse slowed down and he was finally able to breathe more freely.

A long time passed until he was able to sleep again. When he woke for the third time, it was from the scent of Aunt Batty’s freshly made sandwiches, just like it was meant to be.

Gellert was shifting around on his seat while he ate breakfast, earning himself a raised eyebrow from his great aunt until he mentioned that Albus had suggested to continue Gellert’s research with him today. That was when a benign smile appeared on Bathilda’s face.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed. “I’m glad you and Albus seem to be getting along! You see, I’ve been so worried for the poor boy when his mother died. He had been so looking forward to this journey for the Continent with little Doge... You know, his schoolmate; the one who had had dragon pox.”

“Yes, I remember.” Gellert had already heard the extended version of the same story the day before. He wondered fleetingly how tall “little Doge” actually was. Probably smaller than Albus, but certainly not meriting the epithet “little”... Then again, his great aunt would probably continue to address him as “darling” for as long as they both lived.

“If you go over to the Dumbledores’ now,” Bathilda said into his thoughts, “perhaps you’d like to take some of yesterday’s cake with you? I know it’s not afternoon yet, but the boy is so thin anyway and Ariana also seemed to enjoy it a lot.” Gellert grinned. That was the good thing about Aunt Batty: She was always willing to feed you.

“Thank you, Auntie, that’s a wonderful idea!” he replied enthusiastically. “I’ll just take it from the kitchen then!” With these words, he was out of the door. The chocolate cake was floating behind him as he walked to the neighbouring house, dutifully hidden from stray Muggle eyes behind a glamour.

When he knocked at the front door of the neighbouring cottage, nothing happened for a while. Then the curtain of a window close to the door moved slightly, and only after that, it opened. Albus peeked out, the front of his purple robes blotted with something that looked suspiciously like apricot jam.

“Oh, Gellert, hello!” he said in an exhausted voice. “I’m afraid I have to see to it that Ariana eats her breakfast before we can talk about anything else...”

“It’s alright,” Gellert assured him, pushing past Albus with the cake trailing faithfully behind him.

“Is that yesterday’s cake?” a young, female voice said from the kitchen. Gellert barely recognised it as Ariana’s because it was lacking the shyness he had heard in his great aunt’s house.

“It is,” he said with a smile, beckoning the cake into the kitchen. He noticed Ariana tense for a second, but she relaxed as she realised who he was.

The cake settled softly in the middle of the kitchen table that was half splattered with jam. Gellert settled down on the chair next to Ariana where Albus had been sitting.

“If I give you a piece of cake instead of that sandwich”—he gestured to the two torn slices of white bread on her plate—“will you eat it?” She nodded. He cleaned her plate and the surface of the table with a flick of his wand.

“Do you have a dessert fork and a cake knife, Albus?” He didn’t need to turn around to know Albus was watching them from the door; he was able to sense his presence.

The cutlery he had requested appeared with such abruptness in front of him that he almost flinched. He shot Albus a confused glance, but he couldn’t make sense of the look the other boy was giving him. It was ... troubled, almost hurt? Gellert blinked.

Then he refocused on the task at hand, cutting a piece of cake for Ariana without magic, but allowing it to hover to her plate so he couldn’t accidentally overturn it.

“Thank you!” Ariana smiled at him and started to eat. Gellert smiled back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was worried about Albus’s reaction.

“Would it be alright if we left you alone for a little while?” Gellert asked her gently. “We won’t be leaving the house, so you’d just need to call for us and we’d be with you at once.” Ariana nodded and started to eat her slice of cake. Gellert gave her another reassuring smile before he left the table and went to Albus.

“Can we go to your room ... or some sort of living room perhaps?” he asked.

“My room is best,” Albus replied, sounding distant. He turned on his heel and strode to a wooden flight of stairs that was a bit wider than the one in Bathilda’s house. Gellert had difficulty to keep up with his pace.

The interior of Albus’s room was similar to Gellert’s; only the arrangement of the furniture was a little different and there were more bookshelves. Albus’s desk, however, was littered with papers and overlapping open books. Sweet wrappings and quills were strewn across the desk, and there was a large bowl of sweets to the left of the desk. The shelf on top of the desk didn’t hold any books but several strange instruments: One of them looked like two silver globes connected by a number of cog wheels; the next one was a bronze disk with several flat plates on it and what looked like watch hands in the shape of flowers; a third one was a silver orb that seemed to be a globe but what it showed resembled no landmass Gellert recognised. He knew it couldn’t show the moon either since he would have recognised the shapes of the lunar craters.

Gellert didn’t allow himself to take the time to admire Albus’s strange objects and dwell on their potential use. Instead, he focused on the disapproval he had sensed from Albus as he had given Ariana the piece of cake.

“I’m sorry, Albus,” he said before the other could say anything. “I should have asked you if it was alright to give Ariana a piece of cake for breakfast. It’s probably not good for her health...”

“No,” Albus said, stopping Gellert with a wave of his hand. “No, that’s not it. It’s fine by me if she eats cake for breakfast...” He paused, looking down as he worried his lower lip with his teeth. Gellert sensed that he was fighting yet another fight with himself. At last, Albus decided to speak.

“You see ... sometimes she eats just fine, and other days ... other days, you hardly get her to nibble on anything. My brother is really good at persuading her to eat, but ... when I’m alone with her, I—I...” He broke off, frowning.

Gellert acted on impulse. He crossed the distance between them, putting his arms around Albus. The other boy tensed. His first impulse was to raise his arms between their chests in order to keep Gellert at distance. Then Albus’s arms fell down, not exactly endorsing the embrace but allowing it to happen. Gellert drew back before Albus could decide to change his mind for another time.

“Thank you,” Albus said to Gellert’s surprise. “I suppose I needed a hug.”

“I suppose we all do sometimes.” Gellert scratched his head, feeling awkward.

“And I suppose you haven’t come here to hear me complain about Ariana’s eating habits,” Albus said lightly, but the small, self-deprecating smile on his lips gave him away: His difficulty to interact with his sister clearly troubled him. In spite of that, Gellert decided not to press the matter. He knew the other boy not nearly long enough to intrude himself into Albus’s sibling relationships.

“You’re right,” Gellert therefore said, taking Ariana’s copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard from a small pouch at his belt on which he had placed an Undetectable Extension Charm. “I came to hand this back to you.” He took the piece of parchment with Albus’s letter out of the book. “And because of this.”

Now Albus’s smile was genuinely amused. It reached his eyes and made them sparkle in the way Gellert felt so drawn to since the first time he had seen it.

“I take it you found the postscript, then?” Albus said with a smug grin. In that moment, Gellert decided to play his game.

“Well, you didn’t exactly make an effort to hide it,” he replied. “A simple Revealing charm was all it took me to make your message appear. I didn’t even need to use Revelio, let alone come up with a more challenging technique to uncover your message.” His own grin mirrored Albus’s smugness.

“Oh, you want a challenge?” Albus’s gaze held his. Gellert felt a strange flutter in his stomach. “How about a duel? Purely playful, of course; just to try each other’s hexing abilities.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” Gellert replied, leaning back against the low chest of drawers next to Albus’s door in what he hoped was a duly confident posture.

“Back on our high horse, are we?” Albus raised an eyebrow. “Interesting that the prospect of a duel makes you calm whereas a little flower suffices to make you nervous.”

“It doesn’t make me nervous.” Gellert shrugged as if he could brush off the lie he had just uttered. “I was merely surprised that any man in England would still have the chutzpah to put a green carnation on his clothing. Then again, you didn’t exactly wear it on a high street where Muggles could see ... your wardrobe...” He trailed off. It was only now that he realised Albus still hadn’t cleaned the apricot jam off his robes. A look at his own chest confirmed his suspicion that there was now jam on his waistcoat as well. Sighing, he flicked his wand, cleaning the jam from both their clothes. Albus actually laughed at that; a warm, bubbling sound that seemed to reverberate deep within his body. Gellert shot him a sullen look.

“You’re right,” Albus said with sudden seriousness. “It wouldn’t be advisable at all to wear either the carnation or my long robes in plain sight of Muggles. While nobody in Diagon Alley would subject another wizard to the Muggle jurisdiction for a stray flower on his clothes, it would certainly draw looks from everyone who takes even the slightest interest in Muggle affairs.”

“You don’t seem to me a person who would care about drawing looks,” Gellert pointed out. Albus inclined his head to a half-nod.

“Your observation is quite correct,” he admitted. “Yet I would prefer to reduce the amount of looks I draw to a necessary minimum. It is one thing to draw them because I prefer traditional, colourful wizard’s robes. It is an entirely different thing to give people unnecessary occasion to invade my privacy and start discussing about things that are none of their business.” He threw Gellert a calculating glance. “But I will answer truthfully if asked directly.”

Again, Gellert could feel his blood pulse at his throat. If asked directly. That meant he only needed to muster the courage...

“Then are you?” Gellert brought himself to ask. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Am I what, Gellert?” There was an amused smile on Albus’s lips. Gellert suddenly felt annoyed.

“Are you a...” The words the Marquess of Queensberry had used in his accusatory note to Oscar Wilde sprang to his mind. “Somdomite,” he said with an almost predatory smile. Albus laughed.

“If you define the term ‘sodomy’ from the legal perspective of Muggle jurisdiction in this country, the answer is actually ‘no,’” he chuckled. “But if you take it in a broader sense to imply that you think I’m romantically and sexually interested in men, you are quite right.” Something within Gellert dislodged at these words; it felt like falling from a great height. Albus glanced at him curiously. “And unless I’m much mistaken, so are you.”

“How did you know?” Gellert was aware that his words were effectively a confession, but he had decided the time for hiding from Albus was up.

“Oh, I only know now that you admitted to it,” Albus said, smiling indulgently. Gellert rolled his eyes; this was exactly what he had expected.

“But I had made an intelligent guess. My intuition is quite good.” Albus shot him another curious glance. “It was the way you looked at me when I smiled. Your gaze lingered—as if I was beautiful. People don’t look at me like that.”

“They should,” Gellert heard himself say. “Because you are beautiful.”

“That’s very kind of you, Gellert, but I know exactly what I look like,” Albus brushed off his compliment.

Gellert wanted to reply with how shiny Albus’s hair was; how a genuine smile transformed his whole face; how his eyes seemed to sparkle when he smiled. But then there was a crashing sound from downstairs, and Albus rushed to the door.

“Stay here,” he said firmly. “Don’t come down. Please.” Then he was gone.

Gellert wouldn’t have obeyed if it hadn’t been for the “please.” He started to pace in Albus’s room. A part of him—perhaps the same that had reacted so violently at the sight of the carnation—was almost glad the moment had been over before he had been able to disclose too many of his thoughts on Albus. Another wished with vehemence that Albus would come backright away just so he could continue to talk to him, no matter the subject.

Notes:

Did you notice that Gellert practices Occlumency to contain his visions of the Western and Alpine fronts of WWI?

The three astronomical instruments Gellert describes but doesn’t name are an orrery, an astrolabe and a celestial globe.

I suppose the Marquess of Queensberry’s misspelling of the word “sodomy” is a thing no Oscar Wilde biography ever skips over. From the legal perspective of Muggle jurisdiction in the United Kingdom, to take up the words I put in Albus’s mouth, the charge of “actual sodomy” was restricted to anal sex at the time.

Truth be told, I had quite a lengthy internal debate with myself whether I should use Gellert’s more tongue-in-cheek reply or have him use the word “homosexual” that was coined by Karl Maria Kertbeny (1824-1882), a Hungarian with Austrian and German roots. Kertbeny argued from the point of view of classical European liberalism that what two individuals consented to do with each other in their private lives was none of the business of the state and should therefore not be legally persecuted.

[kairi-chan]

“you’d look better with those clothes on the floor.” Borusara, try to doge this haha

Title: Guess Where

Rating: T

Genre: Romance / Humor 

A/N: A fourth wall fic for Chapter 8 of Functions and Feelings. 

He slinked through the halls of the studio with his hands in pockets and a strawberry flavored lollipop in his mouth. He shifted the candy in mouth from side to side with his tongue, casually nodding at the crew and staff who passed by him. 

Boruto didn’t even know why he was at the studio today. He wasn’t scheduled for a shoot until the following week, neither did he have a fitting or briefing. 

Why was he here? 

Ah, right. Because Sarada was scheduled for fittings today, and he wanted to see her. 

He smirked to himself, quite proud of how he even found out. It was all too easy, really. Just a simple text, asking her out to lunch. He was rejected, of course. When he whined and pushed further, he successfully irked her, which led to a long winding speech about how busy she was, and how her schedule was full for the week. He simply poked a little further until she ended up sending him a screenshot of her planner. 

His eyes went wide when he saw it: Tuesday, 11am, FnF gown fitting. 

Now that was a sight to see. 

Boruto knocked on the door a few times and waited. Now, he wanted to see her, but he wasn’t rude. His mother taught him better. He heard shuffling and a few quick steps until the door opened. He came face to face with the head costume designer. 

“Ah, it’s you.” He blinked down at the small woman with thick glasses, graying hair that was pulled neatly back into a clean bun. 

“Heya, oba-chan, Is Sarada–” 

“Of course she is, this is her dressing room,” the old lady replied curtly. 

His eye brow twitched. “A-ah. Of–of course.” 

She rolled her eyes and left the door open as she made her way back into the room. Boruto hesitantly let himself in. He walked cautiously, and looked around. There were racks of clothes neatly lined up the wall. Her vanity sat at the corner near the bathroom. He sat himself down on the couch, not daring to walk further and cross the dividers. 

“Who was that, Sami-san?” Sarada asked. 

“Oh, just one of your fanboys. Now, come here. Let me see how I can tighten that up on your bust a bit more.” 

“Oh, really? Ah-sure.” 

Boruto blushed. One of her fanboys? Suddenly, he felt his temper rise. Her fanboys were able to reach all the way to her dressing room? What the fuck was security doing? No one was allowed this deep into the studio without proper clearance. He grimaced. 

“How does that feel, dear?” 

Boruto heard fabric swishing around before Sarada finally responded. “Much better… gosh,” Sarada sounded breathless. “This is such a beautiful dress.” 

“Perfect for the next Hokage,” Sami-san declared proudly. “One of my best works, too.” 

“Do you think I can borrow it?” Sarada asked. “Maybe… Maybe I can wear it to Function and Feelings’ closing night. What do you think?” 

“Already thinking about that, huh? Still have a few more to shoot, don’t you think?” 

Boruto shrank on the couch. That’s right, he thought. Only two more and Functions and Feelings would be coming to a wrap. He felt quite sad, this was his first big break with Kairi’s stories, after all. 

“Well… we were already briefed how it would go…” Sarada mused. 

“Oh, you were? What did you think?” The old lady teased. 

Boruto felt his heart flutter. They hadn’t scheduled the shoots yet, but he was quite excited for it. Some of the scenes were just… out of this world. Something he had never done before. He took a peak at one of the studios being specially set up for one of the scenes, and it only enthralled him, making him far more anxious than ever to shoot. 

“I–well…” Sarada stumbled for words. “I–I don’t know. I just hope I can do it justice. It’s an important story, and a lot of people are waiting on it…” 

“I guess, so,” the old lady replied. “Well, Sarada, I’m all done here. Just hang up the dress on that rack. I have another matter to attend to.” 

“Okay.” 

Sami-san started walking and spotted Boruto on the couch. She smirked. “You have a guest waiting for you, dear.” She then turned to him and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t ruin my dress!” 

Boruto squeaked and nodded vigorously. Seriously. Sami-san could be scary.

“Huh?” Sarada emerged from the dividers, and her eyes widened as her gaze settled on her visitor. 

His lips parted, and he forgot how to talk. His heart forgot how to beat. Hell, he even forgot how to breathe. 

Sarada looked beautiful. 

She blinked a few times under his gaze, and her cheeks were tinted with pink. “Wh-what? Why are you looking at me like that? It’s not polite to stare, you–” 

“You look gorgeous,” he breathed. Upon realizing what he said, his cheeks colored, stumbled back, and flailed his arms around. “A-ah. What I mean is–you don’t usually wear a gown, and like, it’s just different, ya know? I didn’t mean like– yeah!” He forced a loud laugh, and choked on the lollipop in his mouth. 

Sarada was still watching him with her eyes wide, but then eventually started laughing. 

Once he recovered his breath, he straightened up and scratched the back of his neck. Boruto loved seeing her dark eyes twinkle with joy, and listen to her laugh. He could do it for the rest of his life.

“Hey, is that a lollipop?”

“Hmm? Ah, yeah.” He pulled it out of his mouth and grinned. “Want it?” 

Sarada scowled. “That’s disgusting, Boruto.” 

He laughed and ran his eyes down her figure. “Sure, but that dress is really something. You look… you look really pretty, Sarada.” 

“Th-thanks.” She looked away and fidgeted with the hem of her dress. 

After a few moments, Boruto smirked. “But you know, you’d look better with those clothes on the floor.” 

She gasped and hit his shoulder. “You pervert!” 

Boruto laughed and placed his arm around her shoulder. “Oh, come on. You know it’s true.” He winked. 

“You’re lucky Papa isn’t here.” She grumbled. Though her cheeks were still pink. 

He grinned and kissed her temple. “Sure.” Boruto placed the lollipop back in his mouth and said, “anyway, wanna grab some lunch?” 

Sarada gaped. “I told you, I’m too busy. I can’t leave the studio.” 

“Who said we were leaving the studio?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “I made some arrangements on a certain set.” 

She quirked her eyebrow up but then it hit her. “W-wait. You mean you set up lunch in…” 

Boruto grinned. “You know it!” 

“How did you even–” 

“Let’s just say I gave up half my dignity to let the team let me borrow it for an hour,” he laughed nervously. 

Sarara squealed in delight. “Sure, just let me change.” 

“Sure, I’ll watch.” 

“Shannaro!” she screamed. “Get out of my dressing room!” 

A/N: Sorry I haven’t been posting, you guys. Been super busy at work and I really need to get my life together, ya know? Here’s a little something. Remembering FnF is about to end really pulls at my heartstrings, ya know?    

You can read more of my stories in my master post, or visit my FFnet!

[nottswitch]

What's the weirdest harry potter fic you've ever read?

Wow, I actually have an answer to that, because Lord knows I’ve read a lot of shit in my life. The fic I’d like to tell you about is from a Russian fanfiction site and it’s not only the weirdest but also the most disgusting thing I’ve ever read, and I’ll explain slowly from here.So, the plot evolves around the Weasleys having a curse on their family, according to which, whenever there’s a girl born, when she ages to 17, she needs to lose her virginity to her father and all her brothers need to fuck her afterwards. See where it’s going? Very, and I’m saying extremely detailed, this fic describes every single night in Ginny’s life after her 17th birthday. But it’s not over after a week, no, this fic has around 20 parts, really long ones. Then Elphias Doge gets involved, and other characters, I don’t remember who exactly… Fred and George are fucking predators in this story, I’m telling ya.Anyway, I read this nightmare from the very first word to the very last and I wish I could erase my memory… It was horrible, it truly was, and it’s was a torture to read it. I wanted to vomit during the whole process.

Upd: I’ve just checked and it has 37 parts. Daaaaamn…

[foxfiregalaxy]

Let Your Heart Be Light

Summary: 

Dipper and Wirt have waited until a week before Christmas to put up all their decorations.

How will they survive the cold weather, the endless anticipation of waiting for the kettle to boil, and the dozens of mistletoe hung around the house? 

Time will only tell.

”Remind me why we waited until the week before Christmas to start decorating?” Dipper grumbled. He was stood on top of a ladder, stringing Christmas lights on the house while Wirt assisted him from below. They had both agreed that Dipper was less of a fall risk then Wirt.

“Because we have no concept of time.” Wirt chuckled, amused. He was rather fond of the view he had of his husband from the ground. Dipper just looked all strong and tough hanging their cutesy Christmas lights. He was all for making this last as long as possible.

“At this point, I don’t know why we even bother. It’s just the two of us for Christmas day anyway.”

“Hush,” Wirt said. “Don’t ruin our Christmas spirit. Besides, Mabel and Greg would be upset if we didn’t have at least a few lights. Sure, they won’t be here for Christmas day but you know they’ll still complain if we don’t even have a tree up.”

“I suppose,” Dipper said, hanging the last of the lights on the roof of their porch. He climbed down the ladder and stood back to admire his work.

“Looks wonderful, love,” Wirt remarked. “I have to admit that I did have ulterior motives for putting up Christmas decorations though.”

“Oh really?” Dipper wrapped his arm around Wirt’s waist. “Enlighten me. Did you just want to see your husband suffer while he lugged a giant tree into the house?”

“That may be a part of it,” Wirt smirked and wrapped his arms around Dipper’s shoulders. “Honestly? I love this time of year. I get to snuggle up with my husband under blankets on the couch. And maybe, just maybe, I can convince him to dance with me to our old records.”

“Hm, quite the romantic aren’t you?” Dipper kissed his rosy cheek. “Dancing with the Christmas tree in the background and the fireplace on sounds absolutely perfect.”

“Doesn’t it? Also, I’m not the only romantic in this relationship. I’m sure you had some ulterior motives too; Or is the excessive amount of mistletoe around the house just a coincidence?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dipper replied. “Now let’s go inside, I can’t feel my fingers.”

Wirt chuckled and helped Dipper put the ladder back in the garage. As they entered their house, Dipper stopped and nonchalantly gestured to the mistletoe above the entrance. Wirt sighed exasperatedly but smiled and leaned in for a kiss. He would endure this at least twenty more times before they even made it to the living room but such was Wirt’s life. Sometimes, he would doge the mistletoe every time he spotted them but the pouting and whining were too much for his heart. It was all teasing though, Wirt could never get enough of Dipper’s kisses.

Once they made it to the living room, both thoroughly warmed up, Dipper went to turn on Christmas tree lights. Wirt went into the kitchen to make them both some tea.  He pondered over what mugs to choose. He decided on the two with sweater-print pine trees on the front, a combined gift from Greg and Mabel. They would be visiting for just three days, but Wirt was excited to see them nonetheless.

Humming to himself, he waited for the kettle to boil, when he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, you.” Dipper squeezed him. “I missed you.”

“I didn’t go far.” Wirt laughed.

“You deprived me of cuddles. Sounds like abuse to me.”

“How could I be so cruel?” Wirt turned in his arms to face him. “Guess I’ll have to make up for it. Just let me finish the tea and I’m all yours.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you became all mine about a year ago.” Dipper lifted Wirt’s left hand and kissed his wedding ring. “I suppose I can wait until the tea is done. I may die of loneliness before that happens though.”

“Don’t be overdramatic,” Wirt giggled and kissed his nose. “I’ll be here forever. You know ‘in sickness and in health’ and all that jazz? I’m pretty sure I meant all that. You’re welcome to help me if you feel so deprived of my attention.”

“I think I can manage that.” Dipper kissed his hand again before going to their tea cabinet. He decided on the peppermint tea and placed a tea bag in both their mugs. The electric tea kettle clicked off once it finished boiling the water. Wirt poured a generous amount into each mug and set the kettle aside. The two made their way to the living room with mugs in hand and settled onto the couch. Dipper sat next to him then decided against it in favor of sitting with his legs on Wirt’s lap. He took a sip and sighed contently.

“Happy now?” Wirt chuckled and rubbed his feet with his free hand.

“Definitely.” He wiggled his toes. He was wearing slipper socks clad with kittens that Mabel had made him for Christmas last year. It felt a little ridiculous to wear them but it was too damn cold to worry about fashion.

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the couch. They sat in peaceful silence until Wirt started humming. Dipper recognized the tune immediately and smiled. He sat his mug on the coffee table and with a wiggle of his eyebrows at his husband, he went to their record player in the corner. With a little rummaging, he found the one he wanted and put it on.

Wirt watched Dipper curiously, he blushed at the music playing from the record player. So he really is going to dance with me. Dipper turned to him and smiled. He offered his hand and said, “May I have this dance?”

“You may.” Wirt smiled and set his mug next to Dipper’s and took his hand. Dipper wrapped his arms around Wirt’s waist as Wirt wrapped his around Dipper’s shoulders. They swayed slowly with the Christmas lights twinkling in the background. Wirt hummed along and eventually began to sing softly.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

From now on our troubles will be miles away

Dipper hummed with him and softly spun him, making Wirt giggle. He pulled him closer and if it was even possible, he fell even more in love with him. Wirt’s blushing face and carefree giggles made his heart flutter. He wanted to keep him close forever. He rubbed their noses together then sang softly into his ear.

Through the years we will all be together

If the fates allow

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And have yourself a merry little Christmas, now

Wirt’s eyes began to tear up at the words. He knew every day that Dipper loved him. Sometimes, though, he could feel the way his heart beat heavily. It was almost as if Dipper couldn’t control his love for him and it made Wirt want to cry. Dipper’s love was staggering and Wirt felt that same love for him in return. He was incredibly blessed, lucky, gifted. There were not enough words to describe his feelings so he merely held Dipper closer.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

So, have yourself a merry little Christmas, now

“Merry Christmas, my love.”

“Merry Christmas, love.” Wirt kissed Dipper soundly underneath, yet another, conveniently placed mistletoe.

Authors Note: Happy Christmas! Happy holidays! Happy day off! Happy just normal day of the year!

I hope you find a bit of peace this holiday season and look forward to the new year. I know I do, I need a fresh start (*´∀`*). Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this little Christmas fic. This carol is my favorite and always makes me feel calm and happy.

Pinescone makes me feel calm and happy too but you probably gathered that. Until next time ヾ(＾∇＾). (You can read my other Pinescone fics on AO3 under EmpatheticFox.) 

[ao3feed-snape]

Call You Mine

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2LM3qVb

by pineappleyogurt (musicforlife101)

Doe: He move in?

Padfoot: Yup just now

Prongs: Why

Moony: Because my place is a shithole and Sirius said no

Prongs: That’s it? He said no

Padfoot: I literally did First thing I said when I saw it No *** In which Remus Lupin doesn't go to Hogwarts, but he and Sirius find their way to each other anyway. Their first year living in their Soho flat, attending university, and drinking with their friends. Told through love, sex, full moons, and far too many ridiculously named group chats.

This fic is told through a standard narrative style with added group chats. It's not solely texting, but there will be quite a lot of that.

Words: 7467, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, Peter Pettigrew, Mary Macdonald, Sturgis Podmore, Gideon Prewett, Fabian Prewett, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, Minerva McGonagall, Fleamont Potter, Euphemia Potter, Hope Lupin, Lyall Lupin, Amelia Bones, Edgar Bones, Gilderoy Lockhart, Severus Snape, Emmeline Vance, Frank Longbottom, Alice Longbottom, Benjy Fenwick, Hestia Jones, Caradoc Dearborn

Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Mary Macdonald/Peter Pettigrew, Euphemia Potter/Fleamont Potter, Hope Lupin/Lyall Lupin, Alice Longbottom/Frank Longbottom, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Remus Lupin Never Went to Hogwarts, Texting, Slice of Life, Domestic Fluff, University, Fluff, Smut, kind of a lot of it, Sirius really likes sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Consent, explicit bisexual representation, Bisexual Sirius Black, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Bisexual Lily Evans Potter, Bisexual Marlene McKinnon, Lesbian Dorcas Meadowes, Bottom Sirius Black, Top Remus Lupin, Switching, Sirius Black as Padfoot, Werewolf Biology, Werewolf Culture, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Indian James Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Walburga Black's A+ Parenting, Past Child Abuse, Teasing, Past Relationship(s), Minor Original Character(s), I discovered that I love Sturgis Podmore while writing this, Overuse of group chats, Pop Culture, Pop Punk Sirius Black, Public Display of Affection, Social Media, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Falling In Love, Love at First Sight, Lust at First Sight, I'm a sucker for Sirius being a good boy, Love Bites, Possessive Remus Lupin

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2LM3qVb

[toomuchfreetyme2]

So Many Questions

Rules: answer all questions (that you can), add one question of your own and then tag as many people as there are questions 

I was tagged by @thetruthofyourdespair Thank you~!

1. coke or pepsi:Coke

2. disney or dreamworks: I refuse to choose..... but probably Dreamworks.

3. coffee or tea: Coffee!!!

4. books or movies: Both are wonderful, but it’s easier to consume movies than Books.

5. windows or mac: Windows. 

6. dc or marvel: DC 

7. x-box or playstation: Playstation!

8. dragon age or mass effect: Dragon Age~!!!

9. night owl or early riser: Night owl

10. Cards or chess: Cards probably. I like Gambling during the holidays with the fam.

11. chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate~!

12. vans or converse: Boots

13. Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash, or Adaar: LAVELLAN

14. fluff or angst: Fluff; it make me so giddy.

15. beach or forest:Forrest

16. dogs or cats: Doges 

17. clear skies or rain: Rain (I relax more on rainy days)

18. cooking or eating out: Eating out. I don’t like doing the dishes after prepping a big meal. 

19. spicy food or mild food: Mild 

20. Halloween/samhain or solstice/yule/christmas: Halloween~! I get to walk around with my swords and no one bats an eye. 

21. would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot: Too hot. I stay indoors most of the time anyways soooo....

22. if you could have a superpower, what would it be: Lighting powers!!!

23. animation or live action: Animation

24. paragon or renegade: P-Paragon?

25. baths or showers: Showers

26. team cap or team ironman: Iron Man

28. do you have three or four favorite quotes, if so what are they: (not in order)

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.” T-T Riza Hawkeye; fma brotherhood

“Believe it!” (I was a Naruto nerd, leave me alone)

“When ever you’re in pain or troubled by something, I hurt too!” Also a botched Naruto quote. 

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, it’s not going to get better. Its not.” Dr. Seuss

 “I wasn’t a coward for not wanting to go. I was a coward for going.” A really botched up quote from The Things They Carried. A Book that changed my opinion on a lot of things. I recommend it!!!

 29. youtube or netflix: as of late, Youtube.

30. harry potter or percy jackson: Fuck. Now you listen here! I READ the Percy Jackson Series but Watched the Harry Potter Series. How am I supposed to choose?! 

If I had to, I guess Harry Potter since it has a fandom that refuses to die and continues to grow and add new ideas to the world that keep it fresh. (But I loved the PFATO series)

31. when you feel accomplished: When I get praised. 

32. star wars or star trek: Star Wars 

33. paperback books or hardback books: Hardbacks. 

34. to live in a world without literature or without music?: Fuck that, I’m out.

35. who was the last person to make you laugh?: Allison posted something earlier that had me cackling.

36. sour or sweet candy: Sweet

37. dawn or dusk: Dusk 

38. piercings or tattoos: Tattoos. They’re so pretty and piercings scare me. 

39. girls? HOT?????: yes

40. snow or fog: Snow is a myth, and I would love to see some.

41. do you sleep facing the wall or the room? Ceiling but I wake up to the wall.

42. TRC or AFTG: ummm... my minds blanking here. 

43. horror or drama: Drama.

44. ocarina of time or majora’s mask?: Both is good?

45. would you rather live in an area of more nature or city?: Tuff. I live in a small college town with a lot of nature and  I love it, but I do miss the luxuries of the city. (Like foreign food.)

46. what’s your addiction right now?: Art and Movies that Robyn recommends. (Shes becoming my new go to) 

47. what languages can you speak?: English. I’m not very linguistic 

48. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?: I honestly don’t know. 

49. sun or moon?: Sun

50. potato bread or banana bread?: BANANA BREAD

51. are horses good?: Very good.

52. Edward Elric or Alphonse Elric?: Alphonse

53. Logan or Deadpool?: Logan; I’ve known the character all my life. 

54. Pokémon or Digimon?: Digimon :D 

55. One-shots or lengthy fics? Depends on whose writing it. 

that was a lot of questions. I tag: @hawkeyedflame @tumb1rprincess @paperchildren @yoruokami @acephoenix1 @the-heart-alchemist 

@ all my followers and mutuals? :3

(Or not up to you)