#csnippets

[nugnthopkns]

hey @fuckyeahmattytkachuk here's a snippet of our himbo coffee king kevin hayes (ofc everyone else is allowed to read too🥰)

You’re almost home, only three blocks away, when you see the flashing neon sign signalling the business is still open to customers. The sign above the door lets you know it’s called Parks & Basil, and you make note of the odd name as you step over the threshold. Despite it being nearly two in the morning the store stereo is blaring punchy hip hop. Taking in your surroundings, you notice it seems like the type of hipster joint that would only play early Joni Mitchell, which makes the contrasting music choice even more appealing. As you make your way further into the storefront you notice there’s no one there, and you wonder if the sign was left on by mistake.

Suddenly, a tall man pokes his head out from around a corner. “It’s a little too early for coffee, even for myself,” he jokes, voice loud enough to overpower the stereo. “What can I get started for you?”

His accent is immediately recognizable as being from Boston, and you can’t help but chuckle at the thought of telling your Bostonian grandmother you met someone else from the city. You must have spent too much time in your head, however, because he’s looking at you strangely and waving a hand in front of your face.

“Just gonna stand there?”

You snap out of your daze then, embarrassed you were caught within the layers of your mind, and grin sheepishly. “Could I please get an oat milk latte?”

The man smiles, doesn’t roll his eyes at the thought of making a drink so basic, and turns away from the till. The store lights up in a whirl of machinery as the coffee is poured and milk steamed, but when he returns with your drink in his hand you realize you haven’t paid. You move to take out a few bills from your wallet, mentally tallying how much you need for a generous tip when he stops you with that still thick but waning accent.

“It’s on me.”

Accepting kindness has never been your strong suit though, and you shove the pile of change into his hand. Wordlessly he dumps it in the cup labelled ‘tips for Eli's college fund’, and shrugs his shoulders when you cock a brow in his direction. “Thank you,” you sigh, inhaling the smell of freshly roasted grinds before taking a sip of the drink.

He laughs, loud and carefree, and it’s then you notice that his eyes are the nicest shade of blue you’ve ever seen. The detail takes you aback and you file the address of the store away for later. You definitely want to return.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Houston.”

You’re confused by the apparent nickname. “I’m not from Texas,” you explain, though it’s obvious by your lack of accent. “I’m from Maryland.”

“Could’ve fooled me with how you were staring into space a minute ago,” he smiles, all teasing and good-natured jokes. “I’m Kevin.”

The name suits him perfectly, though you aren’t sure how you can tell, and it rolls off your tongue easily as you repeat it back to him. You give him your name, which he seems to approve of, and with nothing else to say you bid him a good night and head to continue your journey home.

Though Kevin knows your name, the knowledge doesn’t stop him from using your newly-minted nickname as he stuff a rag into the pocket of his apron. “See you around, Houston!”

[cormac-the-bamf]

song for the asking || 8.3

This is my tune for the taking  Take it, don't turn away  I've been waiting all my life 

Cormac:

If you're reading this, it means I'm probably dead. Maybe a vegetable? But I'd rather be dead than a goddmaned vegetable, so I fucking well better be dead. 

I'm not very good with words like this...I guess I should be sorry? And I am, but I'm not at the same time. It was a risk we both knew we were taking, and I've never been afraid to die for something I believe in. Fighting's in the Doyle blood. 

But I am sorry because I love you. Not sure how that happened, but there it is. We don't say it often -- I think of it as implied -- and it's fucking crazy that we ended up who we are, but it's true. I hope you know that.

You don't believe in my muggleborn "superstitions" even though you don't make fun of me for it anymore. I guess I appreciate it. Your face probably does more than I do. Anyway, I'm still going to tell you what my ma always said to me. Don't worry, and when you mourn, remember this: where I am, there's no suffering -- only the glory of heaven. If that means anything to you? I don't know. Just like I don't know if you'll meet me there one day or not, though I like to think so, but either way, don't weep for me.

Just remember. Think of my every now and then. Also let my family know. And never stop fighting.

Oona

He finds the letter while going through her things, a month or so after it happens. Even though she says not to, he weeps. Because whenever his wife wrote it, she clearly didn't know about their son. Their three year-old with his bright, inquisitive eyes asking when he's gonna see his ma again and when Cormac doesn't know how to answer. The son he must now raise alone and he doesn't know how to do it without her.

Once upon a time, they couldn't stand each other. Sure, she was a few years ahead of him in school, and he remembers her -- a fierce and determined Gryffindor girl with a lot of bark and even more bite -- but it isn't until the war that they really meet. She intimidates him and he doesn't like it, with the way he's sure she could kick his arse. She thinks he is a spoiled, arrogant, and stupid pureblood. He thinks she's stubborn, belligerent, and argumentative. Patronising, too, for being the tiny, scrawny sort.

"When are you going to get over that stick up your arse, Doyle, and fucking trust me?" he growls, angry and fed up with her. "You could've gotten us both killed."  

"When hell freezes over, McLaggen," she retorts, eyes flashing. "Now shut yer gob before I do it for ye."

Hell does freeze over, it seems, one day when he saves her life. At first she is not very grateful, but things gradually become different after that. Oona still intimidates him, but her never-back-down attitude, the fire in her eyes, and even her accent grows on him. He finds himself falling in love with a fearless, brash muggleborn Irishwoman and there isn't a thing in the world he can do about it.

Cormac learns she's from Derry -- not Londonderry -- and out of seven kids, she's the only one who is magical. Her family was heavily involved in something called the IRA for a long time, as long as she can remember. It's apparently why she's always says things like "don't let them own you, McLaggen" and has i am not broken i am free tattooed on her ribs. And why she's so ardently proud to be Irish, why she's a fighter, and why she laughs when he tells her about how his great-grandad thought himself the second coming of William Wallace.

Oona Doyle in his life is like waves crashing over him or gasping desperately for breath; it's like being set on fire; it's like dying and being reborn again every morning. For the first time in his life, he has a deep respect for another person. Cormac doesn't even care that she's got him -- hook, line, sinker.

The day he marries her can only be bested by the day their son, Killian, is born. Together, they light up his life with such brightness that it blinds him. In all his wildest dreams, he never imagined it can be this good. Between her and the war he's not the same person he used to be. A man now, yes, but one he can be proud of having become. 

So when she's gone, Cormac is plunged into the darkest, coldest of winters. He starts out angry -- how can she do this to him? If anyone should die first, it ought to be him, damnit! Forget they both led dangerous lives. The anger quickly gives way to an overwhelming feeling of how very lost he is without her. 

He still feels this way, months later, before and after the letter. 

Which is how he leaves one day, takes his son with him, and shows up on Kathleen Doyle's doorstep. She doesn't know who they are at first, and it turns out never got the letter about her daughter's death. At the news, her jaw clenches and she sighs this tired sigh, but then shakes her head and welcomes the two of them in.

"How are ye holdin' up, Cormac?" she asks him, putting a glass of whiskey in front of him while Killian makes a game out of crawling between the table legs. 

"Not well."

"Aye, understandable."

He stares at the drink before taking a long swig, maybe too long, and staring off into space.

"How are you so calm?"

"After a brother, husband, and two sons, I'm no stranger ta loss."

"What's your secret?"

"Faith."

Cormac is quiet, because he doesn't have any of that. For a while, he did, but with his wife gone...not so much.

"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven...and blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." 

Maybe this whole faith thing is something worth learning, he thinks. 

"They never leave, but ye gotta take it day by day, Cormac."

Day by day...that's something he can try to do. If not for himself, for his son. Because he refuses to continue the cycle of McLaggen men who become bitter, who raise their sons like he was raised. He's going to be different, going to be better, and their son will be different too. She'd want it that way.

[nugnthopkns]

things in the hockey world have been whack lately and it's really rocking my shit to be completely honest. here's a snippet of the big rig x fem!oc story (yeah it'll most likely turn into a series bc i'm dumb) that has decided to occupy my brain and not let me work on anything else

The walk to the top should have only taken them thirty minutes, but it’s nearly an hour and a half later when Eloise’s hiking boots hit level ground. Part of it was that Jamie was genuinely interested in the small relics on the edge of the trail and asked her a million questions, but he also swept her off her feet and kissed her at every given opportunity.

Once both of them are atop the summit Eloise points out familiar locales below but stops once she realizes Jamie isn’t listening, but instead is staring at her.

“Do I have something in my teeth?”

He laughs at her question and shakes his head. “You just look really beautiful,” he shrugs, never losing his grin.

Eloise smiles back at him, and takes his hand to lead him over to a pile of rocks that overlook the city below them. “This used to be a monastery. The Byzantines were Christian, you know. They’d send monks up here to reflect on the gospel. There’s so much history in these stones.”

If Jamie already knew this information he does a fantastic job of hiding it. However, Eloise suspects the knowledge is all new for him, and he’s genuinely trying to learn more about something she cares so deeply about. “Please continue Dr. Cunningham,” he jokes, but when she falters he reassures her. “I mean it Elo. I want to hear more.”

She indulges him, but also herself, and shares stories of artefacts she’s found on sites similar to this one. Jamie listens intently, doing the best he can to absorb every bit of information. Eloise cares so much about archaeology that he’d be a fool to disregard it. During the rare occasions they aren’t together, Jamie does as much research on the discipline as he can before Penny drags him to a beach or on a bus tour of a nearby town. However, no matter how much he studies, nothing compares to listening to the way Eloise explains things. She has a knack for making even the most difficult of topics understandable and Jamie is constantly in awe of just how good she is at her job. Eloise loves archaeology more than he loves hockey.

“The sunset is stunning,” Eloise mumbles once she’s exhausted every possible tidbit of information about the site she could recall. While she was talking the sun had faded to a soft pink, streaking the blue of the sky and creating a backdrop artists could only dream of creating.

Jamie hums in agreement, but Eloise knows without looking at him that his attention is on her. “You’ve got to actually look at it before you can agree, Jame.”

“I’m already looking at something beautiful,” he shrugs, and pulls Eloise’s body closer to his. Jamie place a gentle kiss to the crown of her head before turning to look at the skyline Eloise is so hung up on.

Sitting atop the hill with Jamie, on the ruined wall of a Byzantine temple, Eloise is sure she’s never been more in love.

[nugnthopkns]

hi have this little snippet of a fem!oc x ryan graves series i've been working on that will have a proper announcement in like twenty minutes 😅

Magdalene’s keys jingle in the lock as the door opens. Ryan follows her in and shuts the door carefully, not wanting to disrupt the aura of peace that permeates the space. From what he can tell, the average size apartment is the perfect reflection of Magdalene – packed full of books and plants and feels very put together despite the owner being only twenty-five. After their shoes find a home on the boot rack and the coats are hung in the closet she leads Ryan into the living room. There’s a soft purring by his feet, and he looks down to see an animal. He never pegged Magdalene as someone to keep pets.

“Who’s this?” he asks, bending down to pet the small white cat.

“That’s Caligula.”

A puzzled look graces Ryan’s features. “Who?”

“Caligula,” Magdalene giggles. “You can call him little boots if you’d like. He’ll respond.” She picks up the animal when it comes to her and scratches gently behind its ear.

“Why would you name your cat something dumb like Caligula, and why does it respond to little boots?”

It’s then the woman realizes that not everyone understands the reference. “Caligula was the third emperor of Rome,” she explains, “But his real name was Gaius. He gained the nickname Caligula as a child and it just stuck. It translates to little boots in Latin.”

Ryan is in awe of Magdalene for what feels like the millionth time. Of course someone as smart as her would have a crazy name for a pet and have the knowledge to back it up. He feels his chest tighten with affection but he wills it away. She isn’t looking for anything right now, he reminds himself. Magdalene’s inability to reciprocate his feelings is frustrating, but Ryan knows he’d wait forever for her.

[cormac-the-bamf]

waiting for godot || 8.2

No decree or creed can outlaw you  As you take every living thing apart. Little  Master of earth, no one gets to heaven  Without going through you first.

-Yusef Koumyakaa, "Ode to the Maggot"

When war first breaks out, Cormac doesn’t like the idea of choosing sides. He doesn’t want any part of it, really, but the way things happen neutrality is not much of an option. It is do or die.

His father’s side of the family tries todo what they did the first time round — support Voldemort quietly but play the field and lie their way through it. Well, it doesn’t work and they lose everything. Uncle Tiberius and Aunt Aileen argue over which side to back; Aileen says Voldemort and Tiberius says no. The indecisiveness gets them killed.

Cormac’s dad, Doug, is a dumbass, a bully, and a bigot — something his son’s always known. So when his sister dies, it isn’t surprising he chooses the Dark Lord. He believes in sticking with his own kind, the sort of people he thinks have a right to exist, but he dies in the end too.

Cormac thinks the best way to survive is to get the fuck out. Aunt Rachael flees the country early on, and when she tells him to come, he plans to join her. Everything is set to go and he's even holding the portkey to her location.  But at the last minute, he has a revelation. He will not run away, he will not be his mother who left everyone and everything behind and he will not be a survivalist coward like McLaggens are apt to be.

He tells her he can't go, and she is predictably dramatic and devastated. Cormac doesn't know what he's waiting for but it's something in himself, waiting to bubble to the surface, and it needs to surface immediately. Decisions must be made and he cannot sit around idly, twiddling his thumbs, or what's to keep him from being Uncle Tiberius, Aunt Aileen, or Doug?

But here’s the thing he quickly learns: there is no “winning” side, which is funny, because Cormac McLaggen never used to believe in no-win scenarios. But there’s a secret nobody dares whisper about life and death, war or no. In the end, no matter which side a body chooses or if there’s no wars and they live their lives out in quiet banality, everybody ends up in the same place — six feet under the ground.

As the muggles say, ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

[cormac-the-bamf]

everyone's got one || snippet

What is it about his Aunt Rachael that Cormac McLaggen loves so much? It’s generally accepted she’d touched in the head — even she says she’s mad in all the ways nobody ever wants to be.

But since all she does is float around her big empty house all day, Doug drops him off there when he has something to do or is just tired of his son, which happens a lot after Cormac’s mum first leaves them.

"Don’t listen to your dad," she’d say,and not just about her. "His lift doesn’t go all the way up, if you know what I mean."

It always makes him laugh, and not just because according to his dad, Aunt Rachael is the one who is, put simply, batshit. His dad says a lot of stuff about a lot of things, and Cormac doesn’t know who to believe. Honestly, he likes his aunt’s words better, though.

"McLaggens never quit, as your granddad used to say," but then she crinkles her nose in thought. "Except he never said that. I do. I like to tell it to myself sometimes. It’s a nice lie, isn’t it?"

He’s only seven the first time she tells him that, but Cormac takes it to heart. It doesn’t have to be a lie, right? Which is what he asks and she pats him on the back, the sort of thing a mum should do. She is like one to him, but other times, she’s more like a sister.

Aunt Rachael has this big tree in her backyard, impossibly tall with too many branches to count. The perfect climbing tree, Cormac! She giggles every time as she races him to it and they sit there, on a sloped, thick branch. She likes to stare at the sky a lot, watching clouds and giving them names.

"Why is the sky blue, Cormac?" she asks once while they sit together in the climbing tree. “What does it mean? In the big, grand scheme of the universe? Those are the kinds of questions you ought to ask, every day of your life.”

He doesn’t ask those questions, at least not aloud, but when he’s older, he asks her why she is a writer, and why she doesn’t publish under her own name. Doesn’t she want the world to know how great she is?

"Sometimes, Cormac, stories can save us. You dream them as you tell them and hope others dream it along with you — the most beautiful thing in the world. And besides, I rather prefer the unreal, don’t you?" is her characteristic response. "And who’s to say I’m not Lucy Pennyfeather?”

"But you’re Rachael," he points out. "You can’t be Lucy Pennyfeather too."

"Why not? Why do I only have to be one person, anyway? Can’t I be a hundred different Rachael’s if I so please?”

In a lot of ways, his Aunt Rachael is like a child. She often talks about how she never wants to grow up. Let me be Peter Pan in Neverland! she declares. Second star to the right and straight on until morning! Cormac hasnt ever heard of Peter Pan was, so she makes twelve year-old him sit at the dinner table while she reads him the play. It’s a nice story, but it doesn’t save him like she said stories will. He does make up stories about his actual mum and how wonderful she must have been, acts out stories about who he is and is supposed to be every day, and they don’t save him, just make life bearable. What he really wants is to be free from stories.

Which, perhaps, is what is so compelling about Rachael McLaggen or Lucy Pennyfeather or whoever she is on any given day. She takes what it means to be a McLaggen and does it in her own way; she’s free, a wild thing, unibhibited, and Cormac wants to live where she lives. Not in her empty house with the big climbing tree in the yard — she doesn’t live there, not really. Her home…her home is the sky.

Cormac, on the other hand, lives on earth, chained to the ground and at fifteen, he reads one of the journals she keeps in a spare room, filled only with leather-bound journals. Her “mad girl” room, she calls it. The date on the page tells him she wrote it at seventeen, and after reading it, he’s afraid he must be mad too, because it’s closer to the truth than anything he’s ever read since.

There are these nights when the sky is so empty and everything is so empty — horribly, painfully empty. Her handwriting is slightly messy in a lilting sort of way, kind of like her.

Times like this I feel as though I’m a walking, selfish tragedy and a horrible person. I am broken heart and a weary spirit who inhabits a body that has never known true brokenness or weariness.

He wonders if she stills feels this way, all the years later. Will he?

But how can that be? I have my whole life ahead of me, so why can’t I shake these empty feelings? Why can’t I break out of this…I don’t know, cabinet that blocks off the sky so I’m convinced it’s empty and I am so limited. If I am really quiet, though; if I sit alone with myself and listen very, very carefully…my heart whispers to me like a caged bird who knows the sky exists in every one of its feathers even though it’s never known it.

The truth of it all is still there, because even though it sounds girly as all hell, he’s in a cabinet too, like a caged bird that whispers stupid little things about the sky. Except Cormac knows the sky exists. He knows it isn’t empty, because that’s where his aunt lives and it’s where he longs to be.

[cormac-the-bamf]

Can't Turn Down a Bet || Cormac Headcanon/Snippet

"I was in the Hospital Wing when they held the trials. Ate a pound of doxy eggs for a bet."

-Cormac, HBP, explaining this with "something of a swagger."

Why would anyone eat a pound of doxy eggs? Good question...

A pile of doxy eggs sit on the table, ratted and disgusting, and the Weasley twins across from it, snickering. They're daring anyone in Gryffindor to come up and eat them to prove their bravery. He walks by, giving them a look that clearly said you two are fucking bonkers. 

“What are you, McLaggen, afraid?”

 The words hit him like a bludger to the chest, and Cormac’s head snaps up with a new, determined glint.

 “Like hell I am!” he retorts, and decides right then to do it, take them up on their dare. Without another thought, he reaches forward to pick up an egg. It’s texture is like a thick glob of cobwebs between his fingers, somewhat squishy. He can pretend it's just a grape...well, an old, moldy grape. Looking them straight in the eye, he pops it promptly into his mouth.

Fuck it tastes disgusting, not like a moldy grape at all -- worse, in fact -- but it doesn't stop him from grabbing another handful. Cormac McLaggen is not afraid of anything, damnit. He's seventeen years old, a man for Merlin’s sake, and nobody, especially not the Weasley twins, was going to prove otherwise.

Later, when he’s in the hospital wing -- feverish, vomiting up a thick, black substance, he should probably regret it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he’s just royally pissed that it’s making him miss Quidditch tryouts. He’s never going to hear the end of it from his dad...