#holiday portraits near me

[danbusler]

A Gala Diwali Celebration!

A gala celebration of Diwali

A Gala Diwali celebration.Recently I had the great pleasure of photographing an amazing gathering to celebrate Diwali in a gorgeous Walpole, MA home.It was a beautiful and joyful evening filled with laughter and good friends to celebrate The Festival of Lights!

[oneforthemunny]

i'm not entirely sure what prompted this. to be utterly honest, the holidays are rough sometimes, and i've been kind of struggling so here's this bc this is how i cope now :)

tw: mentions of loss, grief, depression.

“...at the tone, please record your message.” 

Beep.

“Uh, hey. It’s-It’s Eddie. I, uh, I was just calling to, uh- I was just wanting to check on ya. I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, sweetheart, and I know you’ve been busy. I just… Yeah, gimme a call back when you can, alright? I still got those VHS’s. Rentals not due for a couple of days. I’d-I’d really like to see you. Just… call me back when you get this. Even if it’s late. Love you.” 

The lights on your tree started to blur, water-stained with blinding, swirling tears of guilt. Settled on your couch, in the same crumpled position that you fell into as soon as you got off work, waves of exhaustion consuming you, but sleep never came easily. 

The most wonderful time of the year was a stretch, a mockery of a term that felt poisoned and back handed. With every happy, glowy commercial, all smiling families and sing-songy laugh; it made you feel sick at the falseness of it all. 

It had been four days since you last spoke to Eddie, nearing two weeks since you saw him in person. Not out of spite, or a fight like it had been in the past. This time, it was you- all you. 

The message on the receiver played on a loop, you jammed your finger on the button, letting it sound off its automated message before his voice filled the silent space in the room. You missed the sound of his voice, the warmth behind it so comforting in this frigid winter. It might be better to call him, actually hear him and talk to him, but every time you reached for the phone, you couldn’t dial his number. That would mean you’d have to talk, have to say something, tell him why you’d been so MIA, and that required a strength you didn’t have yet. 

Somewhere between the late night talk show coming on, but not before your neighbor’s lights turned off, there was a knock at your door. You figured it was your neighbor across from you, Mrs. Jennings, always bringing you baked treats in festive sweaters, leaving with a hearty “Merry Christmas!” that always had you crumbling inside. 

“Baby?” Your body stilled, breath caught in your lungs at the sound, like he might be able to see you through the door. 

“Hey, I-I know you’re in there.” Eddie’s voice was soft, muffled by the heavy wood of your door. “Not to sound like a total fuckin’ stalker or anything. I just… I wanna make sure you’re ok?” 

Your mind screamed at you to move, to go answer the door, to reply, to do anything. 

The lock jiggled, a squeak and a creak before the door was opening softly- hesitantly, like he was scared of what he might find on the other side. “Babe?” Eddie’s eyes scanned the small kitchen area, your purse slung on the table, shoes kicked off by the door into a pile. 

“You alright? I-I called you a coupla times, actually, and I just wanted to make sure you were ok.” His voice was tight, heavy soled steps on the carpet. 

You knew he saw you by the way he stopped. Halted behind the couch, hovering over a collapsed you on the couch. Tear stained sweatshirt sleeves under your head, an array of photo albums you always kept tucked in the top of the storage closet down the hall, memories sprawled out on the coffee table, creased on the edges from your shaky grasp. 

The one closest to you had his stomach dropping. He’d seen her before, the solemn looks and shaky breaths that you and your family gave when you’d pass the outdated family portrait in your home. Plastered on the wall with matching bright smiles, but looming with a haunting, sickening feeling. Eddie knew the feeling, a little too well. 

“Oh.” Eddie breathed before he could help himself. 

You wanted to sob, felt the burn of it in your throat, curling into yourself. 

“No, no, no, I-I didn’t-” Eddie’s eyes darted frantically, reaching out towards you, but never touching you. He knew what this felt like, knew the embarrassment and vulnerability, the shame and dread. 

He knew what it felt like. 

Silently, he sank next to you on the couch, careful of the delicate photos, placing them out of the way with a gentleness that had you sniffling, swallowing down a whimpering cry. A hand on your back, pulling your body into his, letting the weight of you settle onto his chest. 

Your face moved into the soft cotton of his tee. He’d smoked on the way over here, though it was comforting. Nose rubbing against his chest, clinging to the fabric next to you in a fisted clutch. Eddie’s arms around your frame, holding you firmly yet so softly at the same time. 

Your neighbor’s lights were off by the time you finally spoke. 

“I was in line at Melvald’s getting wrapping paper,” You croaked, voice raspy with emotions, cheek still pressed to Eddie’s chest. You could hear his heartbeat. “And they started playing this song. The Christmas one by The Partridge Family?” 

Eddie nodded slowly, hand still gliding soothingly up and down your spine. He could feel your shaky breath through his fingertips. “She, uh,” You swallowed around the words. “She used to love that song. Would always sing it when we’d put the trimmings on the tree. My mom would have that hanging tinsel you know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And,” Your tone fell at the thought, at the mention of her again. “She’d always play this song on a loop. Would throw it around, all over the branches just to piss my mom off.” Your lips curled at the memory. You always laughed when she did that. Now you couldn’t because you knew she’d never do it again. 

There was a moment, a beat of silence in the still room. “Anyways, I…I was going to get wrapping paper because I’m so fucking behind on wrapping and-and buying, because I’ve been working-” 

“-You’ve been working a lot.” Eddie’s eyes cut down to you, carefully. 

You sighed, a shudder of a breath in. “Yeah. I know.” It was soft, an apology. You didn’t need to, but Eddie was glad to hear it. Selfishly, he was relieved that his fears that this was somehow his fault, that he’d done something to upset you, weren’t true. 

“I just… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be busy? I felt like if I stayed busy, I wouldn’t really get to think about it. Get this holiday over with and then I wouldn’t feel so…” You didn’t really know what to say, how to describe the feeling. 

“No, I… I get it.” Eddie nodded slowly, staring off in the colorful strands of lights glimmering from the tree in the far corner of the room. “My mom used to wear that, uh, that Pond's stuff to bed. The face stuff with the green lid?” You nodded slowly, cheek still smushed against his chest. 

“And right after she passed, I-I was in middle school, right? Seventh grade. And we had a sub and… fuck, she smelled just like that cream.” Eddie shook his head softly at the memory. “She just walked past me to make sure we were reading, and I smelled it and… I just ran out of the classroom because I didn’t want to cry in front of everyone. But, like, running out wasn’t much better.” 

You snorted softly, light enough to have Eddie’s gaze peering back down to you, heart skipping in his chest. “Yeah, I would say that might make it worse.” 

“Wasn’t very smooth.” Eddie nodded. “Just running out of the classroom seemed better than crying.” 

You paused for a moment, lips puckered in a pout. “It’s weird.” You muttered, still looking ahead. “How you’re just out and the smallest things just… send you over the edge.” 

“Yeah.” Eddie sighed. “Grief’s a weird thing.” 

“Really weird.” You mumbled. 

Eddie ducked his chin down, let his nose press into your scalp, breathing in your scent, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m here for you, you know?” He muttered, the vibrations from his words tickling your scalp. “For when it gets weird. You don’t… this sounds really fuckin’ cheesy and I’m sorry, but you don’t have to do it by yourself. Don’t have to be alone.” 

You weren’t sure what to say. Not sure you could even speak if you did know what to say, the growing lump in your throat strangling you. Instead, you clung tighter to his shirt, pressed yourself further into the warm, inviting hold that felt familiar and calming. 

Eddie would go and get the wrapping paper for you tomorrow, even help you wrap a few gifts. He’d help you carefully put up the photos with a gentleness that would have your heart fluttering. But for now, he held you, fingers moving down your spine, chin pressed to the top of your head, pulling you closer to him on the tiny couch.

[dw-writes]

The Invasion...Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary: Mad Sweeney could not recall the last true believer he had. Sure, he’d been brought over as one of the Fair Folk, but it was different. A sliver of the truth, a dim shadow of what he was really owed. The belief of someone who followed traditions, not him.

That changed when he arrived in Cairo.

That changed when he laid eyes on you and he found that one didn’t have to believe in the myth to believe in the man.

A/N: I am.... SO SORRY. this chapter really shouldn't have taken me [checks calendar] LOL ALMOST A YEAR TO WRITE HOLY SHIT IM SO SORRY. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter, please let me know what you think!!! And i'm sorry ahead of time for the pain :3 (not really yall were expecting it) also enjoy the latest crossover to happen in this series. i hope you enjoy!!! :D

Chapters: Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four  || Chapter Five || Chapter Six || Chapter Seven || Chapter Eight || Chapter Nine || Chapter Ten || Chapter Eleven || Chapter Twelve || Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fourteen || Chapter Fourteen-ish || Chapter Fifteen || Chapter Sixteen || Chapter Seventeen || Chapter Eighteen || Chapter Nineteen || Chapter Twenty || Chapter Twenty-One || Chapter Twenty-Two Requests: Mad Sweeney and The Holidays || The Invasion and the Stressful Blows One Shots: The Invasion and That One Thankful Holiday || The Invasion and the Weight of Change || Eyes On You

The Invasion and the Big Easy

Beautiful Aphrodite had only ever felt rage twice in her long life - once, thousands of years prior, as she watched the carnage that unfolded to retrieve the prize that she had given young Paris, and second, when she saw you.

You, sitting in an empty room, eyes glassy from too much alcohol and manufactured self-doubt. She knew what it was from, had felt your heart chip throughout the night from across the country while you fitfully slept under the concerned gaze of a new friend. Whispers of a voice filled the corners of the quiet room.

She turned to them, her incorporeal form non-existent to your unfocused gaze and the man who sat on the floor near you. The face of a young woman filled the unplugged television. Rose didn’t recognize her – it was some different form of Media, a newer one, a viral one. The young woman stopped whispering and met the goddess’s furious gaze.

The television cracked, the image disappeared, and the room fell silent. She turned back to you and watched your exhausted eyes close. The man mumbled, lifting his head to check you, then settled back against the wall with a sigh.

She made a note to learn his name and remembered how love existed in so many forms.

Elsewhere, Rose slumped into the arms of her two loves. They exchanged worried glances above her head as she mumbled to herself, “My poor messenger.” She sighed. Her concerns traced the cracks in your heart through your long day to the point she remembered last speaking to you, when you were happy, and the events of your day played out against her eyelids.

You stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a large and bustling Athens of a different age. Your bare feet were cradled by plush, green grass while a cream-colored toga fluttered around your legs.

“We haven’t talked in a long time,” said fair Aphrodite as she stepped up next to you. You tried to look at her, but her face kept changing, as did the rest of her. She cycled through so many features like an ever-changing portrait, each paint stroke melting into the next, all trapped beneath a pale pink robe that brushed the ground.

“Have we ever really sat and talked?” you asked.

She smiled. It lit up the world. “You know what I mean.” She nodded at you. “Nice toga.”

“I’m liking the breeze,” you replied with a smile of your own.

“Yeah? It’s nice, isn’t it?” she teased. You laughed, and she watched you, her features melting and solidifying into a face that was familiar to you. You cleared your throat and looked up at her.

“Sweeney?” you asked.

She shrugged broad shoulders. “Yes and no,” Rose answered with a voice that wasn’t hers. “I’m the goddess of love, remember?” She lifted a hand into the air. “Funny, I never would have guessed this, though. Not in a million years.”

“Which part?” you whispered.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “All of it,” she replied, “None of it. You know, I thought I had a grip on these things, but you keep surprising me.” She smiled. You longed to see that smile on his real face. “Tell him soon, okay?”

“I will,” you promised.

You opened your eyes as easy as a blink, staring ahead into the purple black haze of the dark room. Sweeney snored behind you; a hot arm thrown over your shoulders. You gingerly wrapped both hands around his wrist and frowned.

Was it a warning? A piece of advice? It could’ve been anything – your friends weren’t always so forth-coming in their intentions.

You stared at the room, thinking over everything that had recently happened, watching the darkness become blue, then gray, and a watery white as the sun started to rise. Your phone buzzes with the alarm for your meds, and you squirmed out of Sweeney’s grasp to take them.

You washed your face in the attached bathroom, brushed your teeth, changed into different, cleaner clothes. You woke Sweeney and insisted he stay quiet to not wake anyone else in the house. As you two left, you wrote a thank you note for the parents, and folded up Mitchel’s number for the sisters.

“I hope they get in contact with each other,” you sighed as you followed Sweeney across the large yard. He grunted, yawning, and continued towards the water’s edge. His lit cigarette brunt orange in the faint morning daylight, glinting off a key in his hand. “Sweeney?”

His boots clomped over a rickety pier just out of sight of the house. A boat swayed at the end of it.

“You’re joking,” you called after him. He waved you off without a word. You groaned, looking back up at the house behind you, and followed him. “You’re stealing their boat.”

“Borrowing,” he grunted, placing the cigarette between his lips, “’m borrowing – we’re—” he corrected, looking up at you as he crouched, “We are borrowin’ their boat.”

You crossed your arms. “Do you intend to mosey on back up the river with it when we’re done in New Orleans?” you asked. He climbed into the boat. You looked back at the house again and scrambled after him, pinwheeling your arms to keep your balance in the small craft. “Put out your cigarette,” you wheezed, “Before you blow us up.”

“’m not gonna blow us up!” he argued.

“You have the shittiest luck on either side of the Mississippi, Sweeney, so I’m sorry if I don’t trust you saying that,” you snapped. He sat back, glaring at you, which you returned. When you didn’t budge, he slowly pulled the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it out into the water. You took a deep breath and sat down. “Someone’s gonna get back at you for that,” you mumbled.

“You were so nice yesterday,” Sweeney mused as he sat back, “What happened? Hm?”

“You decided to steal the boat of a family that wanted to help us,” you shot back with a shrug, “And it’s not even theirs! This isn’t even their house!”

Sweeney groaned loud enough to drown out your complaints, twisting around to start the motor. You braced against the sides of the boat as it started down the river, glaring all the while at his smug smirk. You settled in after a while, watching the trees pass along the riverside. “What was that about my luck?” he said as he carefully steered the craft.

“You have shit luck,” you repeated, “The only reason you’re not dying some wildly fiery death is because I’m here and I don’t have shit luck.”

He snorted, shifting on the seat, and absently twisted his warped coin charm around his neck. “Ya know, maybe you made me another lucky coin,” he muttered absently, “Ever think of that?”

You watched him before you spoke. His eyes were trained on the river behind you and he carefully steered down the gentle curves, keeping away from other boats and suspicious shallows. You didn’t answer him for a long time. You balled the sleeves of your denim shirt in your palms and pulled it closer to you, wishing it was just a bit thicker to keep out the cold air coming off the water.

“Maybe I did,” you finally said as the river became more crowded with boats. He hummed as he looked up at you, slowing the boat down and threading it through the crowd to the dock. “Maybe I did make you a lucky coin,” you repeated.

He snorted as he climbed out of the coat. He held out his hand to you. “Bein’ facetious, luv,” he grumbled.

You took it, swinging your bag onto your shoulder as you climbed out. “Big word,” you teased. He tugged you hard against his side. “But really,” you said with a small smile, “Always told you that it was about belief. And I really think those coins were pretty lucky if they stopped a bullet and saved your life.”

“We’ll see,” he mumbled. He squeezed your hand, then led the way out of the marina and into the crowded streets, keeping you close so that the two of you wouldn’t be separated. You eventually found your way to a less crowded area of shops. Sweeney slowed down. “Ya hungry?”

“A bit,” you sighed, “We didn’t really eat anything at the house since someone stole their boat.” You looked up at him.

He rolled his eyes and looked around, tugging you behind him to a food truck on the corner. He huffed, lip curling in a teasing sneer as you pulled out your wallet and paid. He took the food he’d ordered, and yours, and tucked a bottle of beer in the crook of his elbow as he started to walk. You followed him, taking your food with a sigh as you kept pace with him. He stopped at a statue of the Virgin Mary, then smacked the top of his beer against its stone pedestal to pop the metal top off, and chugged half of it.

You watched him, slowly eating your food, leaning against the pillar across from him. “Sweeney?” you asked once he finished his beer.

He buried his face in his elbow as he released an ugly burp. You whistled slowly. “Whut?” he grumbled, taking a large bite of his meal.

“Are you okay?” you asked. You set your food down, worry twisting at your gut, and moved closer to him. “You’ve been a little weird since we got here.”

“Just got here,” he grunted.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” you shot back. You crossed your arms, staring up into his face. He scratched his chin, then down his neck as he watched you in return. “I’ve known you too long for you to pull this shit and not expect me to ask you about it,” you gently said.

He continued to stare, his blunt fingernail scratching at the label on the bottle until it started to peel. He didn’t say anything, though. His eyes grew dark the longer they traced over your face, until, finally, they fell away. He sniffed and looked at the crowd shuffling past you, scratching the growing stubble on his chin again. “Just don’t wanna see ‘em,” he grumbled.

“Hey strangers,” came the call of a familiar voice. Sweeney groaned, dropping his head back with the sound, and turned away while you smiled and spun around.

“What a sight for—” the words shifted in your mouth as you took in Laura Moon’s new, fresh face and glowing skin, “Sore eyes, holy shit Laura.”

She smirked and twirled, holding out her arms. “Guess that old man doesn’t lie, huh?” she said.

Sweeney rolled a hand in the air, tossing the empty bottle behind him. “Then what, pray tell, are ya doin’ here, huh?” he sniped, “What, you figure that the quick ‘n easy don’t last?”

You looked up at him, struggling not to roll your eyes. “Really?” you whispered.

He shrugged. “Just pointin’ out the obvious,” he muttered.

“In a really asshole-ish way,” you replied.

He lowered himself against the pillar, leaning into your space. “Never heard ya complain before,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossing over your stomach. “I call you an asshole a lot, actually. Pretty sure I use it more than your name,” you argued.

“It ain’t bad enough that it kept ya from kissin’ me though, ain’t it?” he asked with a smirk.

You snapped your mouth shut.

Laura’s voice was far too loud in the crowded street when she shouted, “You what?!” followed quickly by, “Holy fucking shit,” and, “It’s about time!”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed, turning to her. “No?”

“Yes!” she countered.

“That’s not the argument here, the argument is how he’s an asshole for getting on your case,” you tried. Behind you, Sweeney started to snicker.

“Uh, no, fuck that, I’m over it,” Laura said with a wave of her hand. She closed the gap between you. “You kissed this sasquatch? Seriously? What, was it against your will, or did you actually want it?” She gasped, her face alight with joy at the first taste of gossip she’d had since she died. It really gave you a glimpse of who she had been before. “Did he tell you that he—”

“Ya here for the Loa, yeah?” Sweeney cut in, coughing on ill swallowed spit.

“That’s not important right now, is it?” she countered, glaring, “Is it really?”

“Course it is,” he replied, pushing away from the pillar. It was your turn to stare at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes as he walked past. “Second longer without my coin is a second too long, Dead Wife. Let’s get this over with.” You followed after him. He tossed the bottle into the nearest trash.

“What crawled up his ass?” Laura grumbled as she walked next to you.

You shrugged. “He’s been like this since we got here. I don’t think he wants to deal with the Loa at all.” You tilted your head, then leaned towards her. “Do you know anything about the Loa? I haven’t read anything, just know what he’s told me.”

“Not a fucking clue except that they can bring me back,” she said.

“Huh,” you sighed.

Sweeney led you both around a corner and stopped in front of a small building. Above the door was a sign that swung in the humid breeze, displaying the black rooster that had started to fade in the sun. He paused at the door, rubbing his neck, then he turned to you both. “Ain’t no backin’ out of this once we start,” he said. He stared at Laura, his face the epitome of sobriety. “You wanna do this?”

She rolled her eyes and yanked the door open. “Let’s just fucking hurry up, I don’t have all day,” she griped.

Sweeney held the door open for you, his arm brushing your shoulder as he leaned down to whisper, “Stay close.”

You nodded and stepped inside.

(Rose frowned as the scene against her eyes shifted, showing you through the eyes of a goddess she’d never met.)

Bridget – lovely and strong – felt her heart lodge in her throat the moment you walked into the Black Cock. She knew the man you walked in with, knew the emotion that made him hold open the door for you, dip his head towards yours, brush your back as you passed him.

Mad Sweeney was in love with you, and you him, if your subtle lean into him was a clue, and he didn’t explain a damn thing about the Baron’s specialty if you have followed him and the woman there.

He was about to break your heart.

She knew all too well that not everyone enjoyed their partner stepping out, but even the ones that didn’t mind it never came with them to ask the favor.

He hadn’t fucking told you.

In the ten seconds it took for your trio to enter the bar, Maman Bridget’s opinion of Sweeney soured. Something must have shifted in her, too, as her husband’s fingers lightly prodded her back in question. She smiled, mirthless, and stepped out from behind the bar.

What a fucking coward.

(And then, there you were)

You watched the red-haired woman move around the end of the bar. She passed Sweeney, sharing a look with him, before she moved through a door you hadn’t noticed before.

(Imaged passed through your mind – piles of stones upon marked graves of women, women standing beneath weeping willows that shielded them from mist and shadow, drums beating against ears; but also, there were doctors in damp fields and poets writing by candlelight and rough handed blacksmiths and farms all framed by an ever-burning flame.)

You sat heavily at the bar. The weight of recognizing a two-faced goddess rested heavily on your shoulders and the back of your neck. You stared absently at a bottle in front of you, barely listening to the sound of Sweeney’s voice as he traded barbs with the man behind the bar. Your vision swam when you finally looked at him.

The man himself was tall, even lounging back against the back bar, with a top hat that made him even taller. He had deep, dark skin with the cool undertone of a clear night radiating from beneath. His bright eyes, while filled with humor, were scanning over your trio with a knowledge you couldn’t place.

The wall behind him melted away when he met your gaze. There was a history behind him, spanning centuries and countries, filled with celebrations and swearing and death and spirits and all framed by a heady smoke that filled your lungs and spilled over your lips on a shaky exhale. When you breathed in, there was life and sex and booze, singing and loud music and a sharp tang of spiced rum on your tongue.

You couched and squeezed your eyes shut to the man’s grin, bracing against the bar as you struggled to regain your composure. Beneath it all, you recognized a gap in your knowledge that ached in your chest and made your heart race. The lack of information made you anxious and it hurt. You refocused on the bar, scooping up a bottle near your fingers, and struggled to listen to the conversation.

“And when she is not around,” purred the Baron, his voice floating through the air, “I fuck a lot of other women.”

You were joining an already complicated conversation, you knew it, and maybe it was nerves clawing at your throat that forced your mouth open to say, “Doesn’t Maman Bridget help women with unfaithful lovers?” The air chilled for a moment, but nothing rang untrue in your skull. You glanced up from the bottle of pepper-infused rum in your hand. “What?” you asked, “I’m not wrong.” You were defensive, yes, your voice sharper than you intended.

The woman, who you knew had left through a door before, was standing next to the Baron behind the bar. She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “I like this one,” she murmured. She released the man and rounded the bar again, almost materializing by your side with her smooth movements. No wonder you hadn’t noticed her return. “I wouldn’t mind keeping you around,” she said, leaning against the bar, “The Baron might even warm up to you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” you replied, “No offense.”

The Baron laughed – loud and full, a sound that echoed a little harshly in your ears – and leaned towards you. “She’s right,” he murmured, “I like you.”

You smiled. There was an air to him that was familiar, and you voice as much when you said, “You remind me of another friend who owns a bar a lot like this. I think you two would get along.”

He snorted as he leaned back, eyeing Bridget over your shoulder as she slipped behind you. “Maybe you could introduce us,” he replied.

Sweeney sat heavily on the stool next to you, grunting and leaning into your warmth. “How’s about we stop makin’ nice,” he grumbled, “I gotta favor.”

Bridget smiled. “From what I hear, it’s not like you to do favors, Sweeney,” she sighed and your smile grew tighter, “Hasn’t that been your friend’s job?”

You frowned at the way she said ‘friend’. Sweeney huffed, shifting in his seat and leaning away from you.

“The Dead Wife,” he sighed, waving a hand towards Laura on his other side, “Is dead.”

The Baron flicked the rim of his hat up and leaned close, spreading his hands along the bar. “Don’t look dead,” he said. He sniffed, long and loud. “Don’t smell dead, neither.”

“Smells Norse,” Bridget commented with a sigh. She leaned towards Laura and picked up her hair, sniffing it. “A bit Greek? A bit…” Her hand snapped out and slapped the side of Sweeney’s head. He started to protest when Bridget opened her mouth and let loose a violent rant of Gaeilge so fast it didn’t sound like words.

Laura leaned back to share a wide-eyed look with you.

The Baron laughed.

Sweeney hunched his shoulders around his ears as Bridget swore. Her voice dropped as she switched to English, “You lost the Sun’s treasure?!”

Your leprechaun swung a hand towards Laura. “It ain’t lost, it’s in there!”

“It’s not yours anymore, is it?!” Bridget snapped, “Not the Sun’s but some dead woman’s!”

“And she’ll only give it up if she ain’t dead!” Sweeney shouted.

The Baron stood straighter. Bridget’s mouth clicked shut and her eyes glanced past him to you.

“Why we’re here,” Sweeney finished.

“That’s powerful magic,” the Baron murmured, “With a steep cost.”

“We’ll pay,” Laura replied, unknowing.

Sweeney shoved his hands through his hair and leaned on the bar, ducking his head low.

It was quiet for a moment. The Baron and Bridget exchanged looks. Then, Bridget cleared her throat. “Come back at closing,” she answered, “We need time to prepare.”

Sweeney was up and out the door before she finished. You stood to follow, stopped only by the woman’s hand on your arm. Laura lingered at the door.

“You shouldn’t come back,” she said, “It’s not magic involving you.”

You frowned, feeling a calm warmth seep into your skin, but pulled away. “We’ll see,” you replied.

You left.

Laura waited outside, talking about places to stay, and started towards the main road like she knew the area. Sweeney shuffled behind her, and you after him. He didn’t look at you, didn’t slow to walk next to you. He just walked, shoulders hunched, hands shoved in his pockets.

The three of you eventually made your way to a small hotel not far from the French Quarter. They had one room left, and the cost left you lightheaded, but you dug the cash out of your bag and paid regardless. Once you were given the keys, you turned to see what Laura and Sweeney wanted to do until it was time to go back, but found Sweeney gone.

Laura shrugged when you asked her where he’d gone. “Dunno,” she said, “Didn’t even see him leave.”

You frowned. “Okay,” you sighed, leaning to see if you spotted him anywhere. “What do you wanna do until he gets back?”

A smile lit up Laura’s face. She led you back outside, and down the street, stopping at every shop between the hotel and the bar. You found ink for Mr. Ibis, an antique set of mortician’s tools for Mr. Jacquel, and a new toy in the shape of a bat for Bas. Laura found a cute dress, which she showed you only after you had left the store, and she changed in an alley. There were other stores, other things purchased or stolen, other smiles shared and memories made.

It was dark soon enough, and the two of you stumbled back to the bar in each other’s arms, laughing like schoolgirls.

Sweeney was already there, waiting, face drawn as he pushed the door open. He didn’t say anything as you walked past him, didn’t even look at you.

Bridget looked away from the Baron with a smile that fell the moment she saw you.

(Coward. What a fucking coward.)

“I told you not to come,” she said, leaning on the bar, “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” you asked, confused, a bit incredulous, “They’re my friends.”

Even the Baron looked a bit lost as he watched Sweeney. “Sex magic only calls for two people,” he explained slowly, “That who requested, and that who benefits.” He tilted his head. “And those who cast it.”

“What?” His words rang in your ears. Laura’s hands disappeared from your arm as she said something, then the Baron, then silence. Three sets of eyes burned into your face as a fourth actively avoided looking at you. “What?” you asked again.

“It’s magic,” Bridget said at the confused look in your eye, “Just magic.” It was like she was trying to soothe a burn, but instead of aloe, it was lemon juice.

“Potent magic,” the Baron added. He slid his hand up over her ass. “Only kind that’ll work for this, too.”

Laura whispered your name.

You smiled. You had to – for her, who you’d come all that way for, and for Sweeney, who…

The smile hurt. You’d rather the platitudes from Bridget.

You nodded, glancing around the room. “Yeah, I know,” you said, voice cracking, “Why we’re here.” You cleared your throat. It burned. “I’ll be at the hotel then.” The door thumped against your back as you reached it. Laura had the grace to look away as you fumbled it open and left.

Once outside, the door slipped from your fingers and shut with a heavy thunk. The hot night warmed your clammy skin and sunk into your clothes until you started to sweat.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Just don’t wanna see ‘em.”

“You’re a liar!”

He knew.

(He really was a coward.)

You walked, shouldering through the thick evening crowd as your thoughts wandered away.

Why were you upset? He wasn’t yours, despite all your wants, and thoughts, and wishes. He never was, and, if you were honest, he never would be. You weren’t supposed to be there in the first place, weren’t supposed to be trailing after a man who worked for a god you shouldn’t have met. You were supposed to be home in Cairo. In your bed. Alone.

Fading.

Dying.

Dead.

Your feet shuffled to a stop. People milled past you, unseeing, like you were just something in their way and not a person on the brink of an abyss. You couldn’t tell what you were staring at – a swirl of blurring colors that spanned what must have been the road or the crowd or the buildings, it was all bright and it hurt. Heat spilled down your cheeks and your vision cleared.

A shoulder clipped yours. You stumbled, the rest of the tears rolling down your face, jolting back into your body when you weren’t even aware you’d left it.

“I’m sorry—oh,” a voice thick with a deep southern twang danced in your ears. Warm hands brushed your shoulders. “You alright, darlin’?” Your tears continued. They wouldn’t stop, even as you lifted your eyes from the ground, up past a white collar framed by metal filigree points, and met a warm, brown gaze set into a tanned and tired face. The Preacher’s brow furrowed as he muttered a soft, “Shit.”

You shrugged a shoulder away from him, mumbling something you knew was a lie, but that might’ve also been an apology.

He followed, standing close, staring past you, then turned you around towards a door. You barely heard his voice. You tried to take in more of his features, wondering why he bothered when no one else did – his hair was messy but stood in soft peaks around his head, while the sides were shaved close, and a splatter of dark freckles covered the bridge of his nose. He spoke again, meeting your gaze when he did.

The air trembled around you. Something traced his words out onto the air. You could’ve mistaken the anomaly for a heat wave if it hadn’t been at the end of your nose.

He guided you through the crowd and into a cold bar. You shivered at the sudden change, you sweat suddenly ice on your skin. His hands left you to remove his coat and drape it around you. You watched him roll up his sleeves. Hs pressed a hand between your shoulders and led you to a booth. Two other people were already sitting there, arm against arm.

“Padre?”

“Jesse?”

“Now,” the Preacher – Jesse – motioned you further into the booth, taking up the edge seat when you complied. “This here is Tulip, and Cassidy,” he quietly introduced.

You were pretty sure you gave them your name, but you couldn’t be sure.

“We ain’t here for—” Cassidy’s voice cut off with a yelp.

Tulip adjusted in her seat, shooting the man, Cassidy, next to her a glare. She smiled at you. She was lovely. “You alright, hun? You look down,” she asked. Jesse next to you suddenly jumped, swearing under his breath. “Why don’t you and Cass get us all some beers, yeah?” she politely demanded. She even moved for Cassidy to scramble out of the booth.

You took her in as she shuffled back across the booth seat – her tight brown coils kept the sunglasses sin her hair in place, and her brown eyes were bright as she stared at the men at the bar. She wore lip gloss, and her freckles were just a shade darker than her soft brown skin.

She flashed you another smile, this one not as awkward. “You okay?” she asked again. Her eyes darted over your face. “I mean, you don’t really look okay, but do you wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. You mulled over her words, adjusting yourself in Jesse’s coat as you struggled to settle back into your skin, forcing yourself into the situation. Out of all the stupid things you could’ve done, you were led into a bar by a stranger, and stuck in the corner seat of a booth.

Though, there were worse things you’d done, too.

And it was a Priest that led you into the bar. Out of all the strangers, that was one that you could, maybe, trust more. And given the weird thing that happened when he spoke, it really reminded you of Anders, and you scrubbed your face with your hands with a groan. Fully covering your face, you dropped your elbows on the table and rambled out everything that had ever happened – from meeting Sweeny in Cairo, to sitting in the bar with her at that moment. Your voice cracked as you spoke, and you barely registered Cassidy or Jesse returning sometime towards the early middle of your tale.

Tulip took your hand and wrapped it around a beer, the polite look on her face replaced with a familiar frustration.

“Now, I ain’t one for religion,” she started, quickly rolling her eyes as Jesse cleared his throat. “Wasn’t,” she corrected, “But someone wanted us to meet because I think we are uniquely qualified to help you out right now.”

Cassidy slapped his bottle on the table, leaning in curiously. “Yer man really a leprechaun?” he asked, “Flighty fuckers, ain’t they?”

“I’m sorry?” you laughed, clearing your throat.

“Nah, I’m old, yeah, been everywhere in my hundred years, and I ain’t ever come across a shrewder or fucked fae than a fuckin’ leprechaun,” he answered.

You properly grabbed the beer and had a long drink. “And how—”

“Oh.” Tulip slapped his arm. “Cassidy here is a vampire,” she said casually, then waved a hand at Jesse next to you, “And Jesse has the literal word of God in his chest.”

“Tulip,” he sighed, as though it was a long-worn topic of contention.

The edges of your world became a little more defined the longer you sat with them. “A vampire, a priest, and a woman,” you mumbled, “I’ve been in weirder situations.”

“Yeah, alright,” Cassidy said, waving his hand in a circle over the table as he adjusted in his seat, “Circle back – how the fuck did ya land an invitation to the Oester party?”

“Oester?” Jesse whispered to you.

“Easter,” you clarified.

He nodded slowly and sat back, draining his beer in one long gulp.

“Everyone’s always clamberin’ for that, fuck, even the Oester in fuckin’ Qatar has a hard time gettin’ invited some years!” Cassidy continued.

“There’s more than one?” asked Tulip.

“You also said there were multiple Jessues?” butt in Jesse over her.

“Jesi,” Tulip corrected.

“I think it’s just Jesus, ya know, both plural and singular,” Cassidy mumbled.

“We’re lookin’ for God,” Jesse continued, sighing, “Big G, God. Was he—”

You shook your head. “Sorry, Father. Just Jesus.”

“Jesse,” he insisted.

The conversation continued in a similar vein, you giving them more details, them sharing their story. The table collected a large amount of beer bottles as the hours passed.

Sweeney drank just as much as Bridget danced. It was a dance she’d done numerous times, one that he partook in at least once, one she’d done in front of others who owed favors, who needed magic so desperately that they’d toe the line between death and sex just to taste it. She twisted in time to music that formed on the air. Sweeney’s eyes slipped past her, past the figures that appeared around her, to someone she had yet to see. She threw her head back as old words slipped past her lips, and spotted the figure, the one who clouded the Irishman’s mind as the world grew hazy and the magic grew hot. Bridget was grinning when she turned to him, traced her slim fingers up his thighs, which parted for her.

“And, for a moment, I thought you were hung up on the dead girl,” she crooned against his clothed stomach.

Sweeney snorted.

“But it’s someone else,” she teased. Her lips grazed the skin of his neck. He twisted his head away from her. His knee started to bounce. “Bet you’d be more into it if the Informant were here, kneeling between your knees.” She pressed an open-mouthed kiss against his ear. “Just as eager to take your cock as you are to give it.”

He shrugged her off with a growled, “Shut up.”

She arched an eyebrow as she stood, though that Cheshire stretched further across her face. “C’mon, let’s play pretend, hm?” The room filled with an eerie glow. Sweeney rose from his eat. “You be the burly Irishman.”

“Shuddup.”

“I’ll grant your favor,” she purred, voice lilting as Sweeney stepped closer.

“Shut. Up.”

It wasn’t her voice that said, “Make me,” but she squealed when Sweeney scooped her up and pinned her to the wall, anger and frustration brewing hot in his veins. It wasn’t her he saw when he hiked her skirt up and pulled her legs high around his waist, nor when he tilted her hips up and pushed his cock into her with no preamble.

In the haze, he heard the Baron and Maman Bridget laugh.

As the red settled over his eyes, he slid a hand up the back of the figure on his hips, swinging them around, pinning them to the column behind him. They were tighter than hell on his cock and warmer than the sun against his chest and he felt himself swallow his own name as he kissed a mouth he’d become familiar with.

The fingers in his hair were yours.

The thighs he gripped tight were yours.

The voice that mewled and moaned in his ear as he touched and bit groped the right places was yours.

And while part of him knew it wasn’t you – wasn’t really you taking his cock like you were built for it – the rest of him desperately wished it was, and convinced him to enjoy the fantasy while it lasted.

(Laura knew that Sweeney only touched her the way he did was because he imagined it was you, and she desperately wished her imagination was powerful enough to picture the man she kept telling herself she loved, rather than seeing the one she really did.)

Jesse fumbled with the lock to your hotel room for the third time, swearing beneath the din of a party going on down the hall. Cassidy stated that he was sober, that he could open the door, but Tulip hushed him and pointed out that he was carrying you on his back, so he was too occupied to do so. He didn’t argue with her, nor point out that she, too, was drunk.

You cheered when Jesse finally opened the door.

“’ey, I got it,” Cassidy said as he shuffled inside. You were vaguely aware of him ushering Tulip and Jesse away, of him telling them that they needed to get home, and to call a taxi or an Uber.

“You text me!” Tulip halfway shouted around him, waving at you as you were deposited onto the bed.

You flashed her a thumbs up before Jesse pulled the door shut.

Cassidy turned to you, rubbing his neck, and dug through the only bag in the room, mumbling something about getting you a change of clothes.

It gave you a chance to really look at him, really take in his features. He was tall, with hair long enough to stick out in difference directions, and soft brown eyes, and was freckled from his previous days in the sun. His voice was soft as he handed you the clothes and advised you to change. He steadied you, helped you tug off your stubborn shirt and put on your clean one, then sat you on the toilet and grabbed a washcloth.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, surprisingly sober, given how much you drank.

He knelt and started to wipe your face; his brow knitted together at your question. Then, he sat back on his heels, his arms draped on his knees.

“I’m a real right bastard, love—”

You swiftly corrected him with your name.

He lifted his hands, apologized, and continued, “But I ain’t gonna leave someone alone when they’re hurtin’.” He paused, then sighed. “Specially with somethin’ like this.” He gave you a small smile.

“I don’t deserve it,” you whispered, sniffling. You wiped your nose with your hand. Cassidy held out the damp cloth. You took it, chin trembling, “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“You don’t,” Cassidy agreed. “Fact, from what y’ said, that Sweeney’s a fuckin’ arsehole and deserves an asskickin’, but that’s from the outside.”

You waved your hands, rolling your eyes. “No, I—” You sniffled against and dabbed your nose with the cloth. “No, I don’t deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve your company, I don’t…” Your voice cracked and dropped to a whisper as you continued, “I don’t deserve to be here. Someone else does. Someone stronger, someone kinder, someone smarter.” You hiccupped and covered your face with the cloth, leaning over your knees.

Cassidy sat on the floor at your feet, folding himself around your legs and the toilet as much as his long limbs would let him. He looped his arms around your back. “That’s the shitty booze talkin’, y’know…” he murmured, sighing gently, “An’ I dunno who you think is better. Yer plenty strong, from the sounds of yer story. Kind, too. Smart as a fuckin’ whip.” He frowned. “You deserve what ya put into the world, and y’ve put a lot of good out there.”

Your sob tore through his chest like a stake.

(Cassidy’s heart broke a bit and stitched back together with a bit of love he carried for you until the day he died.)

“Then why…” you trailed off.

He sighed. “Others just put shit out there, too, and that’s a bit bigger than the good sometimes.”

You scrubbed your eyes with the cloth until they burned, then sat up, wiping your cheeks. He took the washcloth, carefully wiping your nose with the corner.

“Know it ain’t much,” he whispered, “But ‘m glad someone like you’s here.”

“I wanna go home,” you whispered, and he felt it in his gut that you didn’t mean a place.

He sighed. “Me, too,” he said, and in that moment, you knew he didn’t mean a place either, and wondered if Tulip was right about the serendipitous meeting.

Your chin trembled. He helped you up, guided you to the bed, tucked you in, then sat next to you. He flipped the television on. You reached over and flipped it off.

“You’re a vampire,” you mumbled, resting your head on his shoulder, “Tell me a story. Tell me your story. I’ll commit it to memory.”

He snorted. “Why you wanna do somethin’ so silly like that, huh?” he asked.

“Everyone deserves to be remembered,” you sighed, closing your eyes. “And everyone’s important enough to be remembered.”

Your phone buzzed on the blankets. Cassidy scooped it up. He tilted the screen towards you.

“He’s really enjoying fucking that dead flesh,” read a text from your sister, sent over one of the social media apps on your phone.

“That somethin’ she’d say?” Cassidy asked, glancing at the phone, “You said somethin’ about gods and the like, too, when y’ were tellin’ yer shit.”

“Never,” you whispered.

He turned the phone off. “None a that, then,” he mumbled, tossing it somewhere on the bed. He threw an arm around your back. “Get comfortable. It’s a long story.”

“Those are the best,” you yawned.

He spun you a tale of two kids playing at being Freedom Fighters in a land you’d grown familiar with, about how one died in battle, another in the streets.

You drifted off sometime during his re-telling of the 70’s.

Old stone homes crowded the darkness of your sleep, looming over you like specters of a past you didn’t know well. You padded barefoot down cobblestone roads and turned a corner to find your familiar library at the end of one.

“Hello, you,” you whispered as you made your way over, pulling open the clean doors. They creaked and slammed shut behind you. It was dark inside. Not dark enough that you couldn’t see, but the once warm candles were no longer lit, instead being scattered, and broken across the floor. You stepped over them with a frown as you walked in.

Thrown across the main room were books – the floor was covered in pages that were ripped and stained, and shelves were knocked against each other. You knelt to pick up a book and sighed. An ache bloomed behind your eye as sobriety quickly approached.

“Leave.” A voice in the sudden silence made you jump. You dropped the book, rising to your feet. A figure stood beside a tipped over shelf. Its eyes reflected what little light filled the room. You gulped, shifting back as it inched towards you. You scrambled for the door and the bright light beyond it, panic clawing at your throat as the thing ran after you. You pulled the door open.

Its hand smashed the door shut. “You don’t get to run away from this!” it snarled over your startled screech, “You don’t get to just decide it’s over!”

“Stop it!” you screamed. It roared against your back, then fell silent. Its heat surrounded you. You swallowed, turning to see whatever it was that haunted your library.

You stood toe to toe, its bright, knowing eyes watched you. Its chest heaved and its arms trembled. You shivered, backing up against the door. It stepped back.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

It opened its mouth and hundreds of names poured out. You covered your ears as the sound of them echoed in your head, pounding against your skull, everything building until it was undecipherable noise.

Fingers wrapped around yours, cold against your hot skin.

Rose opened her eyes, leaning away from her two lovers to pick up her phone. She’d sent a message hours ago, calling on an acquaintance she hadn’t met in decades, cashing in her one and only favor to him.

Her message was the address of the hotel and your room number, attached to the request, “Take them home. Cairo.”

He’d replied, “Done,” and dropped a pin showing that his phone was at the same location.

She sagged with relief and sat back against the couch.

The man saw the read notification beneath his pin, then slid his phone into his pocket. It was easy for him to pick the lock of your room – old doors, old locks, they were nothing for his deft fingers. Though, he swore when he dropped the lock pick, scooping it up into a wide palm as he checked the door. Satisfied, he swung the door open.

Cassidy looked up from gently prying your hands from your head.

The strange man looked around the room. The television had been unplugged at one point, as had the small clock radio. A cell phone sat on the blankets, turned off. And a vampire was tending to the one Rose had sent him for.

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Cassidy grunted, standing tall, making sure he was between you and the stranger. The man laughed harder.

The sound was finally enough to wake you. You pushed yourself up, rubbing your sore eyes, and squinted at the man standing in your room. He tilted his head back, somehow larger than Cassidy was before you. “Rose sent me,” he said, waving a hand, “Here to take you home. To Cairo. Let’s go.”

Cassidy glanced over his shoulder at you. You swung your feet off the bed, shrugging, still half asleep and not quite sober as you groggily responded, “Take me home.”

“Y’sure?” whispered Cassidy.

You looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. “I’m sure.” Then, you pointed at your bag. “Give me your number. I’ll update you. And stay here, at least until nighttime. The room’s paid for.”

He hesitated, and gave the man another wary look, but did as he was told with a shrug. He eventually turned back to the man again. “Wait, who’re you?”

The strange man grinned, his laughter finally subsiding. “Call me Iartaithe,” he answered with a wink, “It’s a name.”

“Okay, but why’re you laughin’?” Cassidy asked as he grabbed your bag. He fished for the pen you pointed towards, glancing over when you saw you rubbing your eyes again.

“Just absurd,” Iartaithe replied, “Whole thing. Absolutely fucking absurd.”

“Yeah,” you muttered as you stretched your arms above your head, “Tell me about it.” You waited as Cassidy scribbled down his number, then stretched to grab your phone and turn it back on. You looked up at him. “Can you tell Sweeney where I’m going?”

“I can tell ‘im to fuck right off,” Cassidy replied. You smiled. “Guess I can,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” you said, “He’ll worry.” Then, you frowned, wondering if he’d show back up at all, and remembered that, despite what you wanted from him, he really was still your friend. He’d show up. And he’d worry. But you also knew that you couldn’t stay there anymore, especially alone. You appreciated Cassidy’s company, but you knew he couldn’t stay. You needed to go home. You needed to see Bast again. “Thank you,” you repeated, looking up at Cassidy, “Really.”

He flopped onto the bed with a loud sigh, tapping your phone with his finger. “You better fuckin’ message, or I’m comin’ to find you instead,” he threatened, “Fuck God. He can wait another fuckin’ day.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, yawning, and stood, scooping your bag off the floor. “Promise,” you swore.

Iarlaithe leaned back against the door, and stepped out into the hall when you followed. You gave Cassidy one last glance, waved when he did, and shut the door on him and everything that New Orleans had brought you.

~*~Thanks for Reading~*~ ~*~Tag List~*~

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[thenerdykneazle]

Dear Diary

Summary: You stumble across Garreth's rather scandalizing diary while waiting for him to meet up with you.

Garreth Weasley x Gryffindor F!MC

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, 7th year, aged-up characters

Word count: 2263

You sat on the edge of the fourposter bed. The maroon curtains were tied back, leaving it open. You looked around the room. It resembled your own, having the same beds with the exception that these were numbered. Garreth also had one more roommate than you did, though the room was smaller than yours. The five beds were packed into the small room at the top of Gryffindor tower. It also lacked the sitting area yours had, though a similar enchanted mirror stood near the door. The room was cleaner than you had ever seen it, too, as most of its residents were away for the holidays. The sole exception was Garreth. He had retuned just after Christmas to spend time with his aunt. As such, his desk was as strewn with papers as ever. It was filled with books, a few for his actual classes but most were various extracurricular tomes on potions and herbology. A portrait of the last Gryffindor captain to win the quidditch cup was hung above it.

Currently, you were waiting for Garreth to return from getting lunch with his aunt. You flopped back, lying sideways across the bed as you stared at the ceiling in boredom. You yawned as you stretched your limbs as far as you could reach them. Perhaps you would sneak in a nap while you waited. The break had been wonderfully peaceful – a stark contrast to your usually hectic schedule. Not a single soul had come to you in crisis, which meant you had been using a lot of time to catch up on much-needed sleep.

However, you decided against the nap since Garreth was set to return shortly. You got up and sat at his desk, looking through the pages of notes on his newest experiment. While you refused to be his guineapig, the concoctions did intrigue you. You drummed your fingers on the desk absentmindedly, tapping to the tune of one of the numerous Chudley Cannons cheers Garreth had taught you over the summer. Suddenly, a drawer you had never noticed in the desk slid open.

“And who are you?” you said as you plucked the lone book out of the drawer before sliding it shut.

You flicked it open, and your eyes scanned the black scrawl on the pages. A diary! You glanced at the door before returning your gaze to the book. Your heart rate accelerated with excitement. You knew you should put it back. Clearly these were private thoughts, hidden away behind a charm. Although, it wasn’t your fault the book practically thrust itself into your lap. You were flipping through the pages as you dialogued with yourself on the morality of perusing something so personal to your friend.

You held the book in both hands as you read the most recent entry. It was a sweet musing about Garreth’s excitement for break. He talked about missing his family and looking forward to quality time with his aunt. He also wrote a bit about the potion he hoped to perfect over break, a fizzing beverage that makes the drinker burp bubbles. You smiled as you read the words. You worked your way backwards, reading through complaints about classes and teachers, especially Professor Sharp. Though, despite his frustrations with him, he clearly had admiration for the man, as well.

An entry from two weeks prior gave you pause.

I had the best dream last night. It was about her, of course. In it, we spent the day in Hogsmeade, browsing Honeydukes and Zonko’s, before spending the night drinking at the Three Broomsticks. We stayed in the private room above the tavern, and she was all over me, kissing my neck and grabbing my hair. I got her knickers off, and she was so wet for me. I swear I could feel her slick now. It was so vivid.

Before I knew it, we were naked on the bed. She was under me as I slid into her. She moaned my name as I thrust sharply into her over and over. She mewled and pleaded for more, and I gave it to her. Merlin, I loved the way her voice cracked as she came, calling my name again. I was surprised I hadn’t actually spilled my seed when I woke up. What I wouldn’t give to hear her moaning my name in the waking world. I do so love the sound of it on her lips in her innocent greetings. Oh, how deliciously it would echo in my ears as she fell apart. Gods, I hope the memories of this dream never fade.

Wide-eyed, you looked around the room again, ensuring you were still alone. The sordid words shocked you. You would never have expected such vulgarity from the genial boy. Well, he wasn’t a boy anymore, you supposed. Well into your seventh year, you had both matured over the last two years. For Garreth, that meant filling out considerably. His broad shoulders and muscular arms served him well on the quidditch pitch. His strong forearms exposed from perpetually rolled-up sleeves were rather distracting in class. So was the way he loosened his tie in potions as the steaming cauldrons heated the room.

It was a small mercy that the woman in his dream went unnamed. It would be too much to know who had stolen the affections of the boy you cared for so ardently. Though, that didn’t stop you from rifling through the diary to try to find it out, against your better judgment. You found several other recountings of his wet dreams. He wrote of dreaming about her riding him and “watching her impale herself on [his] prick.” He wrote of another dream where he bent her over one of the potions stations and pounded into her from behind. An entry on a dream about eating her out in the astronomy tower after meeting her to fill out star charts brought a particularly strong blush to your cheeks. Yet not once did he mention her name.

You had made it all the way back to entries from the beginning of sixth year. It was there that you found the entry that sealed your fate.

She was driving me mad today. I swear she does it on purpose, leaning over tables so that her arse sticks out, begging to be grasped, and biting her lip to draw my eye to it. Even the lightest touch on my arm or brush of her fingers on my hand sets my skin ablaze. Gods, I’m desperate to tell her how I feel. I need to know if she feels the same. Yet, I cannot. We’ve become such good friends, and I couldn’t bear to make her uncomfortable if she doesn’t feel the same. Besides, she and Aunt Matilda are so close. I know my aunt loves me, but she is certain I would lead her into trouble. Aunt Matilda told me as much herself when she first arrived last year. Can’t imagine why she thinks so, though. I’m sure my aunt already warned her against me, and, even if she would give me a chance despite it, Aunt Matilda would never approve.

You almost missed it. The key phrase that made everything click into place: when she first arrived last year. He was talking about you. Fantasizing about you. Your skin tingled as a thrill ran up your spine. You were desperate to read more, but the sound of someone ascending the steps had you snapping the book shut. You tried to pull the drawer open, but it didn’t budge. You shoved the diary between random tomes on one of the desk’s shelves just before the door swung open. You were trembling with adrenaline.

“Good afternoon! Sorry I’m late. Aunt Matilda was extra chatty today,” he said brightly.

“Hi! No need to apologize, Garreth,” you replied as naturally as you could while feeling breathless and like your heart was about to beat out of your throat.

You saw his smile brighten a bit at the use of his name, and you couldn’t help the smirk that played on your lips. “Ready to ring in the new year?” he asked.

It was December 31st, and you two had plans to attend a party in Hogsmeade.

“Actually, Garreth, I was thinking we could hang out here for a while,” you said. You were eager to experiment with the knowledge you had gained. “I don’t want to start partying too early.”

Garreth sat on the side of his bed, facing you. His knee was mere inches from yours. “Okay. What would you like to do? We could bundle up and play summoner’s court, or we could nick some hot cocoa from the kitchens and hang out in the common room by the fire.”

As you looked in his emerald eyes, it was like you had never really seen them. You had always averted your gaze so quickly, afraid he’d see into your soul and reveal the feelings you worked so hard to keep hidden. Now as you gazed into them, you could see the adoration with which he looked at you. “I figured we could just stay up here for a while, Garreth,” you said. You wanted privacy.

He tilted his head as he smiled at you. “Why do you keep saying my name?” he asked, bemused.

You shrugged. “It’s a nice name. Very strong. Masculine,” you said. “Don’t you think, Garreth?”

A blush crept onto his freckled cheeks. “I guess so,” he said sheepishly.

You chucked. “I can stop if you’d rather, though,” you said seriously.

“No,” he blurted out far too quickly. “I mean…you don’t have to.”

The corners of your mouth ticked up again. “Good,” you said. “Because I like saying your name, Garreth.” You let your knee bump against his.

Garreth’s heart was racing. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew that he liked it, whatever it was.

You let your fingers rest on his forearm. “Do you like it?” you asked.

His gaze shifted from your hand to your eyes. He looked at you with a furrowed brow. “What?”

You gave him your most innocent expression. “Do you like it? When I say your name?”

He stared at you, wide-eyed and lips parted. Was he dreaming? He felt like he was awake, but surely you would only say such things in his dreams. He just nodded, unable to find any words.

Your smirk grew. You were loving the effect you were having on the ginger lad. “What about watching me impale myself on your prick? Would you like that?”

Garreth may well have been part mooncalf with how wide his eyes were now. He had reread his own words enough times to recognize them immediately. His eyes flicked to his desk, searching for the familiar cover. He spotted it quickly on the shelf – very much not where he had left it. “I can explain,” he said in a panicked tone.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, the corners turned down. “Seemed pretty self-explanatory to me,” you mused.

“Where was–I mean, how did you–?” he stammered to his shoes.

“I was just tapping on your desk as I read through some notes, and the drawer popped open,” you said.

He shook his head in disbelief at his bad luck. “I’m so sorry you had to read that,” he said, his gaze still downcast.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at your frantic friend. “Garreth, look at me,” you said.

He winced as his eyes flitted up to your face. He was surprised by what he saw. He expected you to be scowling, maybe borderline murderous. Instead, he found an amused, slightly arrogant smile. Your eyes scanned his face, lingering on his lips. You trapped your own lip between your teeth as you stared at him with unmistakable lust.

Your eyes met his as you spoke. “I’m not sorry at all that I read it. In fact, I was hoping to read more before I heard you coming.”

He could feel the desire burning in his stomach immediately. He repeated your words in his mind several times, checking if there was any possibility that he could be misinterpreting them. Once he was certain he understood you correctly, he was leaning over you, his hands resting on the edges of your chair. His face hovered a few treacherous inches from yours as he looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Why don’t I show you instead, love?” he asked.

You grabbed his tie and pulled him down so his lips met yours. You tangled a hand in his ginger curls, and his hands slid up your thighs as he kissed you back fiercely. He ran his tongue along your lower lip, entreating you for entry. Your lips parted, and his tongue slid along your own, exploring your mouth. Garreth pulled back beaming at you. You were both panting for air.

“So, I’ll take that as a ‘yes’?” he teased.

You bit your lip again as you nodded. “I’m quite curious about your dream in the astronomy tower,” you said as you gazed into his verdant eyes.

He gave you a devilish smile before hoisting you straight up from the chair. You let out a surprised squeal before giggling. He was careful not to hit your head as he laid you on his bed. His tongue darted out across his lips as he looked down at you like a starved chimera at a rabbit. His eyes glinted with desire. “I’ve been rather curious about it myself.”

[voltaage]

@simulamortem ( planned starter. )

     Similarly to Christmas, Natalie's home was fully decorated for the spooky holiday. Her front yard was littered with fake gravestones, with the occasional skeletal limb poking out of the ground as if it were rising from the dead. Near her entrance, there were pumpkins, already emptied and carved, sporting cat portraits that were most likely to be Nikola, despite the lack of artistic finesse.

     Inside was not much better. Little orange and purple string lights had been attached to the walls in the living room and kitchen, giving the spaces a more appropriate lighting effect. There were glass stickers on the windows, displaying cheesy caricatures of ghosts and ghouls. Fake cobwebs were placed upon the television and table surfaces.

     It was clear that while Natalie loved Christmas, Halloween was the holiday that she really went all out for.

     And she wasn't yet done, apparently, as she told the simulacrum in her home. There was still more to put up, more to organize for herself. As the engineer was going through her checklist, she suddenly sat up straight as she recalled something.

     "Oh, that reminds me, I have something to show you!" Natalie declared excitedly before standing up from the couch. "You stay right there and I'll be back in a minute."

     Natalie bent at the waist, leaning in to place a brief kiss on Revenant's forehead before she turned away. Rather swiftly, she made her way down the hall, though stopping to pick up the cat, for whatever reason...

[lets-go-hurt-someone]

I can’t stop writing little vignettes, moments from random parts of my bard durge Killian’s life. Should I be putting them on AO3? I don’t know. But I need to get them out of me like an exorcism.

Anyway, have a moment of internal crisis set a few years before BG3, after he and Gortash have been working together for some time but before they’ve really gotten the Absolute hoax off the ground. Very “prayer of forgiveness” inspired.

It’s Durgetash, but not nsfw beyond a bit of murder between friends. Canon-typical dark urge behaviour.

———

The body twitched and moaned from where it hung from the rafters, a noose fit snugly around its neck and its arms bound behind its back, toes scrambling for purchase on the stool below its feet. By now, the gag in its mouth was soaked through from all its blubbering and its face glistened in the low light, streaked with tears and spittle.

Killian lay on the bed only a few feet away, unmoved by the plight of a soul that was already committed to Bhaal. He strummed out a few ominous chords on the lute while he waited. A funeral dirge for the sacrifice, a calming melody for his own nerves. It was a shame to make Father wait so long for a sacrifice in the name of theatre. It was the sort of thing that Orin would do. But this was important. A test. An apology, perhaps.

Orin may have been sorely misled about the way in which their father demanded death, but she was right about some things. About the beauty in a well-executed kill, for one. Almost… romantic.

Kill sighed and flexed his toes as he plucked away – new boots still stiff, the leather yet to be broken in. Already they were dotted in flecks of blood splatter from bludgeoning the sacrifice before dragging it here. Soon enough they would be soft and supple and dyed a coppery maroon by the blood of his victims. Their victims.

The lock to the chamber door clicked and Kill sat up straight, tossing his lute aside. The body quit its struggling, going still as if it hoped whoever lay beyond the door would be its saviour. A hysterical notion, for the both of them.

The door swung open to reveal the Chosen of Bane, who took only a moment to assess the scene laid out in his bedchambers before stepping towards the man hanging from the rafters, unperturbed, to look up and meet his eyes. The captive began to grunt and thrash frantically, a wordless yet desperate plea for mercy, but Enver Gortash only rolled his eyes and turned away to face his co-conspirator with a scoff.

“Couldn’t you have taken a moment to lay down a few rags? It takes forever to get the blood out of the floorboards. I’ll have to get a wizard in.”

There was a spark of amusement in the admonishment. The man hanging from the ceiling’s frantic grunting quieted back to muffled sobs. Killian stood to meet Gortash and pressed a dagger to the body’s lower back, forceful but not hard enough to break skin. It whimpered, then went silent.

“I promise I’ll make it clean,” Kill purred, his eyes heavy-lidded with something like intoxication. The drunken feeling of death so near, at his fingertips. Of something else, at his fingertips. With his free hand, he reached out and ran his fingers over the sleeve of Gortash’s cloak. “New?”

“Do you like it?” Gortash smirked and tilted his head as if he was suppressing the impulse to do a twirl. “I just got back from the tailor.”

“Very archducal,” Kill said. “You should get a portrait done.”

Gortash’s smirk didn’t waver. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” He gestured to the man hanging from the ceiling. “Special occasion? Some Bhaalian holiday I don’t know about?”

Kill drew back and shrugged, suddenly hesitant. “Not exactly. You weren’t the only one with a sartorial consultation today. I went to see a cobbler this afternoon.”

That smirk didn’t falter, but it froze, the expression on Gortash’s face suddenly all too still. “Is that so?”

“Father’s orders,” Kill murmured.

Gortash made a noise in the back of his throat, something like a laugh, but swallowed whole before it could escape. He turned away and looked up again at the tear-streaked face of the captive man. “Well, out with it. Have you made me an orphan or not?”

“Don’t act like you’d be sad,” Killian hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits again. The dagger in his hand trembled against the body’s back, threatening to draw a portrait of his shame upon its spine. “I’d only be hastening the inevitable.”

Gortash took a moment to consider this, then turned back to meet Kill’s eyes, that smirk brightening into a true smile.

“So not.” His excitement was palpable— and certainly not out of any concern for the Flymms. His eyes flicked to Killian’s feet. “And you even bought new shoes!”

“Your mother was very persuasive… it must run in the family,” Kill said, his shoulders hunching, his voice dripping with venom. Like he wasn’t sure if he hated himself or Gortash more, and that hate was fueling something unspeakable within him.

Gortash laughed, swiftly grasping Killian by the shoulders, bringing their faces mere inches apart. The crackle of energy between them was as heady as the scent of blood in the air, and Killian struggled to decide whether to fight against it or give in. “You defied your father for me. Your god,” Gortash said, his voice just shy of awestruck.

Killian did struggle. Hate was a mortal’s most powerful emotion. The most holy. And gods above and below, did Enver cloud his mind with a wet swirl of billowing heat— not heat— righteous, unholy hatred.

“They’re still going to die–and by my hand, I swear it. I will do as my father commands,” Kill insisted, but dropped his dagger so he could bring his hands to Enver’s sides, slipped beneath the brand new cloak, soft, velvety, lovely. He felt himself falter, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper, almost fond. “But I saw no harm in a small delay to allow you a bit of vengeance first.”

With a jubilant, throaty laugh from Enver, their lips crashed together and Killian nearly stumbled back and fell into the bed. He steeled himself, twisting an arm around Enver’s waist as images flashed behind his eyelids of his own body laid bare, flayed and forgotten, on the bloodstained stone of his father’s temple. Enver pressed forward, bringing them closer together, and Kill clawed at him, desperate, needy, almost forgetting his purpose for coming here in the first place.

A prayer, an apology. A test.

Just as he was about to fall back and lose himself entire, he kicked out, sending the stool beneath the sacrifice’s feet flying across the room. It let out a strangled cry as the noose tightened, then went blissfully silent as its neck snapped clean.

Killian felt the rush as the sacrifice’s life left its body, the pure and perfect euphoria always granted by his father. And still, insanely, absurdly, unconscionably, he found himself leaning more fully into Enver Gortash’s arms— and the abhorrent answer to all of his heretical questions filled his soul like the rush of blood pumped by his foul heart.

This wasn’t hate, but it was something pure. Something perfect. Something absolutely vile.

Sceleritas would have a fit. And his father— he would never—

Please forgive me.

[jomiddlemarch]

The shapes a bright container can contain!

The next day, he asked his son what he thought.

“Living together? That’s what you’re calling it?” Scorpius replied around the mouthful of scone and clotted cream and raspberry jam that Draco would have been castigated by his mother for taking. Draco was not above using his French House-elf Clafouti’s light hand with pastry as the incentive for Scorpius to leave Hogwarts, though it cost extra in the elf’s pay packet to get them to produce the more stolid English puddings Scorpius favored. When Scorpius wanted treacle tart, Draco had to throw in a week’s holiday at the Malfoy villa near Biarritz and use of the sailboat. 

“What should I call it?” Draco said, resisting the impulse to take offense or, Merlin help him, blush.

“You’re asking me?” Scorpius said. He favored Draco in his coloring and bone structure but he had so much of his mother in his expressions, his tone of voice. Draco missed Astoria terribly for a moment and also didn’t, because he hadn’t lost her entirely, not when Scorpius was looking at him with such wry incredulity in his eyes, a green so dark they looked grey. “This seems massively inappropriate to me, Dad, but fine. I think you’re in love with Professor Granger but you don’t want to scare her off or you think she’ll never feel the same way, so you’re just taking what you can get and trying to come across like a really good friend and not a stalker.”

Draco was silent. He felt as if Scorpius had cast Organa remota maxima, his innermost self examined and dropped in front of him for his troubles. In love with Hermione. Really good friend. Not a stalker. It was insightful and devastating. Draco resisted the urge to lay his head down on the table or wandlessly shatter the gilt-encrusted vase he and Astoria had received as a betrothal gift from her Aunt Tanaquil and had never once used for flowers because it was so ugly. 

“Can everyone tell but Hermione?” Draco asked.

“Probably no one can tell but me. Professor Longbottom maybe, because he’s also got a thing for Professor Granger. All the House-elves, of course, but they wouldn’t say anything. Mum’s portrait,” Scorpius said, licking some jam from his fingers. “Great-Auntie Andromeda, I think she’s noticed, but that’s not bad because she’s friends with Professor Granger and she’s family, so she’ll tell you if you’ve got no chance at all.”

“Merde,” Draco muttered.

“You do remember I’m fluent in French, Dad?” Scorpius said, grinning. “I’ve picked up a fair amount of Bulgarian too, in case you’re thinking of trying that out.”

“One observes the decencies,” Draco said. “We both pretend you don’t speak French and I can curse in peace.”

“Why are you upset? She hasn’t kicked you out, has she?” Scorpius said.

“No,” Draco said.

“You haven’t made a muddle of something important? Said something rude about Albus’s father? They’re quite good friends, you know,” Scorpius said. Draco thought back to when they’d been first years, Hermione with that cloud of unruly curls and her lively little face, Harry in clothes that never quite fit, hair mussed, his glances at Hermione. The trust between them that was somehow something separate, greater, than what was between Harry and Ron. Good friends, indeed.

“No, I haven’t said anything rude about Potter,” Draco replied. “Nor any of her other friends—”

“Did you forget something like her birthday or that she hates almonds? She does hate almonds, Professor Longbottom mentioned it in passing one time. It’s why she never has pudding when they serve Bakewell tart,” Scorpius said. 

“Duly noted but no. She hasn’t indicated she’s upset. She asked me what you thought of us living together and it got a little involved,” Draco said. “That’s about all I’m going to share with you, so don’t try to pump me for more details.”

“I wouldn’t,” Scorpius said. “You can’t think I want to know anything about your…love life.”

The degree of disgust in his son’s voice was mitigated by his careful choice of love life in reference to his relationship to Hermione, whom Scorpius had been careful to call Professor Granger, the respect evident in his tone. 

“You don’t mind, then?” Draco said.

“Do you want me to? I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re not betraying Mum being happy with Professor Granger and it does seem like you’re happy now and you weren’t before, even though I didn’t really notice until you stopped being lonely,” Scorpius said. “Is this because of when you were all kids? Because I think you should be over that stuff by now. Merlin knows it’s been long enough—”

“I know, we’re all as old as the hills,” Draco said.

“You acted old until you started spending all your free time with Professor Granger. You fiddled with potions and read musty old books and talked about growing orchids instead of going out to the pub for pints or having your friends over for dinner,” Scorpius said. 

“And now?”

“Now you act like an eighth year with their first girlfriend most of the time, minus going to Honeydukes and cleaning out the inamorata chocs,” Scorpius said, smiling. “But no one minds because you’ve lightened up on your grading and giving detentions for snogging in the hallways.”

“Tell me this—are the students placing bets? Have you recused yourself from the pot if there is one?” Draco asked.

“Slytherin House agreed it would be indecorous, even if you’re only ever the acting Head,” Scorpius said. “Gryffindors are too focused on Quidditch. But I can’t say that Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw don’t have an extremely elaborate system of wagers, all recorded in Punic. I can’t say that. But I have not placed any bets and have not traded any insider information about flowers, tea, all the books you brought over…”

“Does Professor Longbottom know? About the betting?”

“Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on it. Making sure no one’s going to get into real financial trouble if you elope or Professor Granger comes to class with a Malfoy heirloom ring,” Scorpius said.

“I would not use a Malfoy heirloom,” Draco said.

“I know, you’d pick something from the Black side and you’d have it reset,” Scorpius said. “You’d pick a ruby, but I think that’s a mistake.”

“You do, do you?”

“It’s too obvious. Gryffindor colors, when I don’t even think Professor Granger especially believes in the Houses,” Scorpius said.

“What should I pick in this hypothetical future you’re imagining for me?” Draco asked.

“A star sapphire or a pearl,” Scorpius said. He waited, a reversal where Scorpius expected Draco to figure out the reasoning behind the choice, much as Draco would make his students explain why hellebore was diced and not shredded before getting stirred into the potion widdershins.

“A gem with an inclusion. She doesn’t want perfection or rather, what’s most beautiful to her requires a flaw. Vulnerability,” Draco said.

“Yeah, though I would’ve just said the part about the grain or sand or whatever it is being part of the jewel,” Scorpius replied.

“You worked that out on your own?”

“Mum’s portrait helped,” Scorpius said. “She also said you ought to bring Professor Granger by the house because you’re, and I quote, ‘making it weird.’”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Draco said. He’d been ambivalent about the creation of the portrait but Astoria thought it would help Scorpius and he couldn’t say that it wouldn’t. For the most part, the portrait was kind and gentle, encouraging and eager to cheer them up if they seemed glum, but occasionally she had an edge and that was when she most reminded Draco of his wife as she’d been.

“She’s not going to be rude,” Scorpius said.

“Mum’s portrait? I wouldn’t expect that,” Draco replied.

“No, I mean Professor Granger. If she doesn’t want to come or she does and she hates the curtains or something, she won’t be rude about it. She’s always nice, even when Eureka Cobbins submits the most excruciatingly moronic essays,” Scorpius said.

“I don’t know. Those tassels in the drawing room might be unbearable,” Draco said.

“Then you can Vanish them together,” Scorpius suggested.

[jungle-angel]

Charming Devil, Silver Tongue (Admiral!Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: Bob will never let anybody talk shit about the love of his life and if they do? Watch out

Tagging: @sebsxphia​ @rhettabbotts​ @nobody7102​

Honolulu, Hawaii

It still seemed strange to you how Bob had managed to become one of the youngest Admirals in the Navy and all the privileges that had come with it. That, on top of marrying into an old money ranching family, was still strange to you as well. 

Yet you and Bob never lost sight of what was important. 

Bob put his inheritance to good use not just for the two of you, but for others and the things that were near and dear to the both of you. Every year, you donated part of it to the military hospitals as a way to say thank you to those who Bob was closest to. St. Jude’s had been another, due in part to the premature birth of your son August, who was now a thriving seven year old as well as ones that aided first responders and their families. 

The one time that Bob really outdid himself was when you both had bought your home in Hawaii. It was a beautiful Victorian that had been there since the 1870s, encircled by palm trees, banyans and heady green shrubs, while just a few steps down a hidden walk was Waikiki Beach where you and Bob had shared many romantic walks during the first weeks of your marriage. Now it was there where your children all played, August, Patrick, Deidre and the others in your ever growing family. 

“Ready my love?” Bob asked, taking you on his arm. 

“Ready as ever good sir,” you said, placing a kiss on his lips. 

Auggie and Patrick both kept close to you, a little bit nervous seeing as this was their very first grown-up event and Bob had warned the both of them to be on their best behavior. 

He could hardly take his eyes off of you in that green velvet dress and your black heels, reminiscent of the same dress a young Rose Clooney had once worn in his favorite holiday film. The night was warm and breezy, the heavy smells of plumeria, jasmine and hibiscus hanging about while not far off was the roar of the ocean. You yourself could hardly take your eyes off of Bob in his Navy dress blacks and the sword at his belt. You were all too glad that you had done a set of black and white portraits for Irene and Joe back home and sent them, elsewise they’d be somewhere only you could find. 

Into the house you both went, your friends and close Navy cohorts all gathered in one place while a guest had been seated at the piano, playing away. The entire Dagger Squad had shown up at the behest of Admiral Simpson, some with kids of their own and others with their grandkids. 

“There. They. Are!” Beau greeted happily. “My two favorite people in the Navy.” 

You and Bob laughed, shaking his hand before June, his wife, came to greet you both. “How are you, (y/n)?” June asked as the two of you hugged. “It’s been too long.” 

“Busy,” you answered. “The kids have us running every which way but across the islands and ever since school let out for the year, they’re running feral across the property.” 

“Well come and bring them down here!” June exclaimed laughingly. “I told you, any time you need to pawn the kids off for a while.....” 

“Excuse me baby,” Bob whispered in your ear. “I’m gonna go and carouse with the rest of the wolf pack. I’ll be back.” 

“Take your time,” you said, kissing his cheek before you shooed Auggie and Patrick out to the garden to go and play with the other children. 

You and June scooted off to go and cavort with the other Navy wives, all of them practically screeching with excitement to see you. 

“Where have you been?” enquired Ruth Kahananui. “We haven’t seen you and Bob in ages!” 

“I was just telling June, they’re running wild all over the place,” you laughed. “Oh but they’re doing great though. Auggie just wrapped up first grade and Patrick’s going into first grade at the Waldorf school on the base.” 

“Oh my gosh!” Ruth exclaimed. “Leilani will probably be in his class.”

 You reveled in the chatter between you and the six other women who had become your closest friends outside of the Dagger Squad. All of you went back and forth about how the kids were doing, how much the little ones were growing and all of the things that they were doing in and out of school while the men flitted in between to check in on their wives. 

“Oh, (y/n,” said June. “I want you to meet someone, this is Lydia Atkinson. She’s the wife of Captain Atkinson.” 

“Lovely to meet you Lydia,” you said, shaking her hand. 

“Likewise,” the woman said, returning the gesture. “I was going to come and introduce myself earlier but didn’t want to intrude.” 

You and Lydia exchanged a few polite remarks before the conversation took a different turn altogether. 

“So I hear you’re the Captain’s wife?” you enquired. 

“Oh yes but that’s not really all that important,” Lydia answered with a wave of her hand. “He does his own thing and I do mine which is all the better for us.” 

“Do you have a job on base?” 

“I work as a broker for a firm,” Lydia answered. “Everyone will tell you it’s stressful, but to be honest, I eat it for breakfast.”

The two of you laughed a little at the remark. “And what do you do?” Lydia asked. 

“I’m a homemaker,” you answered. 

You were about to say something else when you noticed the somewhat disgusted look on Lydia’s face before she turned and walked away. You and the other wives whispered back and forth about what had just happened when all of a sudden, something reached your ears, a familiar voice that only moments ago had spoken directly to your face. 

“......And spend all my precious time chasing after a bunch of bratty kids? Hell no! I wanna do something with my life. I couldn’t believe when she told me that. Can you believe it? Little miss fifties housewife who sits in that house all day giving her husband kid after kid.....” 

You clamped a hand over your mouth at all the remarks that were spilling out of Lydia’s mouth, the color draining from your face. You had been about to march over and say something when the sound of firmer footsteps approached. 

“Baby?” Bob whispered.

You motioned towards Lydia and right then, Bob’s eyes flared like blue fire, his usually gentle features becoming set and hard with determination. You felt his hand clench around yours as he took you over.

“Miss Lydia,” Bob greeted, clearing his throat. “Good to see you.” 

Lydia’s face went white as a sheet when she turned around and saw Bob standing before her. “Admiral Floyd,” she said nervously. “What a coincidence.” 

“I’ll say,” Bob replied, seeing straight through the woman’s nervous demeanor. “I see you’ve met my lovely wife (Y/n)?” 

“Oh oh....yes, well, I um.....yes we have.” 

“Now did I hear it correctly that you may or may not have said a few things pertaining to my wife?” 

Lydia was utterly speechless, the fear evident on her face. 

“So you have?” Bob said, raising his eyebrows.

“No, no I....I was just.....” 

“Well let me remind you then that your husband is only a Captain,” Bob remarked. “See the two stars here? It means I can have him reassigned wherever I damn well please....and you with him.” 

You tried painfully hard not to let it slip that you were enjoying watching her squirm, the discomfort clear as day on Lydia’s face. 

“And just remember Miss Lydia,” Bob reminded her, taking you, his gorgeous wife on his arm. “We in our circle have a special word for ladies like yourself. Unfortunately, it isn’t used outside of a dog kennel.” 

You and Bob turned away, shooting Lydia a victoriously snobby look as Bob led you away, the other husbands not too far off and each one of them fully aware of Lydia’s screw up, giving the bitch a taste of her own medicine. 

“I’m surprised you knew what that was from,” you chuckled as you and Bob shared a dance. 

“I couldn’t resist,” Bob explained. “I heard what she said and thought she’d need a taste of her own medicine.” 

You pressed a sweet kiss to his lips, grateful for the husband and family you had. “Thank you my love,” you whispered in his ear.

“And don’t worry sweet pea,” Bob said. “I know who her nephew is. I’ve got permission to smoke Mr. Ivy League and make his life a living hell for however long his Navy career is.” 

You laughed as you rested your head on your husband’s shoulder, breathing in the barely noticeable smell of Irish Spring that followed him everywhere and reveling in the closeness that made the two of you stronger than ever. 

[danbusler]

Siblings May Fight, But they Are Loyal to the End

Brothers and sisters share a special bond

“I may fight with my siblings. But once you lay a finger on them, you’ll be facing me.” – Abby Slater Best friends who are always at each other’s throats, Siblings are in the end fiercely loyal forever. Family photo sessions capture the memories before they are gone.

[cambria-writes]

happy holidays! this is arguably a little late but i’ve had a rough go of it these past few days so i only just finished this tonight lol. Ii insist that i’m not late because we’re still in 2022 and the new year hasn’t hit yet!

anyways this is just a relatively short fluffy feel-good thing because i wanted to feel warm and fuzzy. so it’s absolutely self-indulgent.

word count: 3,229 warnings: swearing, it’s christmas eve and that’s important so that should probably be a warning, no y/n, no mention of gender but ravenloft reader is AFAB, minor ravenloft spoilers if you squint

for reference, this scene (with a bonus crown) is what the reader would’ve drawn.

and for the record, since it was mentioned on ao3, i'm very well aware it shouldn't have been a perception check! ravenloft!reader was never written with the intention of making them a tabletop rpg wiz, they just know enough to get by and follow along if they're sitting in on a game.

𝕽𝖔𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

When the phone rang, you didn’t even greet the speaker. You immediately answered with ‘what do you want you fucking menace’ because there’s really only one person who’d call you near midnight like a heathen. 

“What’s your favourite colour?”

You snort and wedge the phone between your chin and shoulder and sit back down at your dining table to keep sketching. 

“Dunno. Like, all of them?”

“Dude that’s the epitome of unhelpful,” Eddie deadpans, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Right, well like, is there any context to this? Cause you should know I don’t have a favourite colour,” you reply, frowning and erasing a small portion before swiping the eraser shredding away. 

“Come on,” Eddie whines, and you can practically see him throwing his head back in annoyance. “Not even one? Like, something that just always makes you happy when you see it?”

You hum for a second and put your pencil down. “I guess maybe black? I—“

“Nah, nuh uh. Boring as hell.”

“Rude, what—“

“Black’s not even a colour, that’s what you constantly say!”

You scoff and pick your pencil back up, switching the phone to the other shoulder. 

“Did you seriously just call me in the middle of the night to bitch at me for not having a preferred perceptible wavelength of light?”

There’s an unusually long silence on the other end of the line. You frown again and pull the handset away and follow the coiled line. Confused but satisfied that it hadn’t somehow gotten unplugged from the cradle on the wall, you wedge it back where it was. 

“Ed? You good?”

“Yeah, no. Yeah, sorry, just thinking.”

“Jesus, don’t burn yourself out there bud.”

“Oh fuck off.”

The rest of the phone call is relatively short, and colours aren’t mentioned again by the time you hang up. You don’t go to bed until nearly two in the morning, and by then you’re content with having gotten down the main lines of your portrait. 

The snowstorm that rolled in on the 23rd was entirely unexpected but wholly welcomed. You were scheduled to work on the 24th, but with the state of the roads and the fact that nearly half of Hawkins was running off of generators, you were graciously allowed to stay home until the new year. And given that this is your first Christmas in your new home, you were more than happy to hunker down and, ha, weather it out. 

You’d had plans, sure; Harrington had already made sure everyone knew to show up at his place on the 24th, your parents had been expecting you on Christmas morning and the rest of the day would have been spent going around to see extended family. And though the thought of not being able to fulfill your annual Christmas traditions did dampen your mood, just thinking about the astronomical amount of energy you’d save made it a bit more palatable. 

If the same thing were to happen next year, though, you might cry. 

You’d already called Steve to let him know you were staying home. Pleasantly surprised, he’d admitted he’d had a whole speech prepared about how he’s have The Swarm tear you a new one if you even dared thinking about touching your car keys. (Which would have been an effective threat, honestly. You really had no interest in giving Dustin a reason to get uppity at you, and you definitely didn’t want to have to deal with Max’s ire. Girl held grudges like you did trauma.)

Your parents were only slightly less understanding, with your mother trying to insist that your father could come pick you up. A little resistance put that all to rest, though, and with a promise to call on Christmas morning, that was dealt with as well. 

You’d just settled down on your couch, swaddled in the fluffy blanket you’d gotten from Eddie the year before, mug of hot chocolate held in both hands for warmth, when the doorbell rang. Confused, you look at the time—just after dinner on Christmas Eve—and sigh before heaving yourself off the couch to buzzer by the door. You hesitate for a second before pressing the button to let the mysterious visitor in. You’re already on your way back to your couch, having assumed it was just a neighbour who’d locked themselves out again, when you hear heavy footsteps outside your door. 

You quietly walk back up and carefully lean forward to look through the peephole. 

“What the…” you mutter, leaning back, nearly jumping out of your skin when the knocking finally comes. You quickly unlatch the chain and unlock the deadbolt before pulling the door open. “Ed, what the fuck—“

“Merry Christmas,” Eddie blurts out, thrusting a box out at you, though it really sounded more like ‘murr cr’sms’. 

“Merry Christmas to you too but Jesus come inside!” You pull Eddie through the door by his arm, quickly shutting the door behind you and getting started patting the snow off of him. “The hell did you do, walk here? You look like a damn yeti!”

“Y-yeah I kind-kind of d-did.”

You pause in your patting before grabbing Eddie’s arm again and turning him around to face you. You ‘reabout to ask if he was serious, but a quick glance at his face—reddened cheeks and nose, frosted lashes, dry lips—tells you he has, in fact, told you the truth. 

“Fuck me, okay,” you whisper, before shaking your head and getting a move on. “Stay there and take your boots and coat off and then get your ass on that couch, I’m making you coffee.”

You don’t hear any complaints. And though normally you would’ve been glad for the silence, even perhaps proud to have shut him up, Eddie’s silence is, once again, unsettling. And this time you’re pretty sure it’s not because he’s thinking, and most likely because he’s borderline hypothermic.

You try to be quick; you grab that one pair of sweatpants Eddie leant you when you got splashed by a car outside of the arcade. That one metallica shirt you borrowed one time when one Friday movie night turned into an impromptu sleepover. You make your way back to the living room, where thankfully Eddie’s listened to you, and has made himself at home swaddled in the blanket you’d left on the couch. You throw a quick glance to the front door, where his jacket and boots are slowly leaving a growing puddle of snow water.

You definitely need to get a welcome mat or something if this is going to keep happening. 

Your first instinct is to chuck the clothes at Eddie’s head. What you would usually do. But it’s Christmas eve, there’s a god damn storm outside and this maniac walked to your place. For some reason. You feel like you owe him to be nicer than you usually would be. Call it the ghost of Christmas conscience. 

“Here,” you say quietly, holding out the sloppily folded shirt and sweats. “You can change in here. I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

Eddie mutters a very stuttery thanks and takes the clothes from you. You pause for a second to see what’s on the TV—seems like A Christmas Story is about halfway through—before hastily turning away when you see Ed starting to lift his shirt over his head.

Coffee, right. You said you’d make coffee.

You’re being so normal about this, it’s absolutely fine. You’re totally fine. 

By the time you return to the couch in the living room, Eddie’s clothes are exceptionally neatly folded on your coffee table and he’s even more huddled up in your blanket than he had been before. You place his mug of coffee in his waiting hands and have to bite back shocked laughter when, even outstretched, underneath the blanket, he looks like a frozen T-rex.

“Alright,” you huff out when you finally take your seat on the other end of the couch. “You wanna tell me what’s in that box that was so important that you felt you had to walk here in a storm?”

Eddie sputters in his coffee a bit. When he brings the mug back down, he does look a little sheepish.

“Yeah, y’know it sounds pretty stupid when you say it like that.”

You nod and take a sip of your own coffee. “M’hm. That’s cause risking hypothermia to deliver a gift that very well could’ve waited until the storm passed is pretty stupid. No offense.”

Despite your disclaimer and your attempt to sound light about it, Eddie lapses into silence, again. 

“Okay, you keep going quiet, is there something—“

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

You stop yourself, mouth agape. You bring your coffee mug back up to your lips to try and shake off the surprise.

“I—okay. What, uh, what about Wayne?”

Eddie gestures vaguely under the blanket, and you assume he’s waving the issue of. “He’s with the Hendersons.”

“Oh. That’s…”

“Dustin asked me to go. I said no.”

You frown. “In favour of walking though the snow to get to me?”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie starts, but he doesn’t continue until he takes another long sip from the coffee mug. “Walking wasn’t the plan. Van broke down halfway here.”

“Oh thank god,” you sigh, leaning back into the arm of the couch and pulling your legs up and under you. “I literally thought you walked from your place!” 

“God, never,” Eddie laughs, pulling his own feet up on the couch to sit cross-legged. “But I was halfway here and there’s no power at the trailer, so.”

You hum and nod, but otherwise keep your silence. And you both stay like that for a few minutes. And while you’re taking the time to try and bring your BPM down to something a nurse might not scream about, Eddie seems to be appreciating the warmth that you’ve thrown at him.

“So,” you say after a while, clearing your throat and putting your mostly empty mug on the coffee table. “What’s in the box?” 

Eddie grins and puts his own mug down. The blanket falls away from his shoulders when he reaches toward to grab said box, and he turns it around in his hands before passing it over to you.

“Wait,” you rush to say, just as he opens his mouth. “Shit, wait, I have,” you trail off, and nearly jump over the back of the couch to run to your room. You quickly snatch the gift bag you’d left on your dresser and run back to the living room, nearly tripping over your own feet. You throw yourself back down onto the couch and shove the bag towards Eddie.

“What—“

“Gift for a gift,” you explain shortly, a little out of breath.

Eddie laughs lightly but takes the gift bag from you, and you eagerly snatch the box from his hands. You’re about to start tearing into the tacky Santa-print wrapping paper, but glance up to make sure it’s okay. Eddie chuckles and nods and motions for you to go ahead. 

You make quick work of the paper and nearly tear the top off the box before turning it over in your hand and letting its content drop into your palm.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, turning over the giant cut glass piece in your hand. You hold it up to the do lamplight, and it looks like it’s shimmering from the inside. Every which way you turn it, it’s like each facet is a different colour that reveals itself to you with each new angle. 

You don’t miss the fact that there are nineteen carefully carved and painted numbers on each face, and the last one has a little flame where the 20 normally would have been. 

You look up to thank Eddie, throat a little tight, but you nearly choke on your own tongue when you see his expression. 

He’s holding your gifted frame in his hands like it might break if he holds it too tightly. You can’t really understand the expression on his face, and the more time he spends staring unblinkingly at it, the more unsure you feel. 

“I, uh, is it… do you not like it?” 

Eddie slowly shakes his head before lifting his eyes up to you. He tries to start a few different sentences before clearing his throat. 

“Is this—this is really what you see?”

You let your hands fall into your lap and nervously turn the massive D20 around in them and nod. 

“Yeah, I mean. The crown might be a bit much,” you chuckle lightly, looking up and away towards the TV. “But yeah. You look really, uh. You look happy, when you’re DMing for the kids. Really cool. Thought you should be able to, I dunno. See it for yourself.”

When you do muster the courage to turn to look back to Eddie, he still has that absolutely confusing look on your face. You lift the heavy dice in one hand and wave it around a bit. 

“This is why you asked for my favourite colour, huh?” 

Eddie blinks a bit owlishly at first, but laughs and shakes his head. Slowly, carefully, he puts your gifted portrait on top of his folded clothes. Leans forward to pluck the dice from your hand and gently put it down on the coffee table next to your mug. 

“Ed, what’s wr—“

You inhale the rest of your question when Eddie reaches out a hand to grab and pull at one of your ankles. You screw your eyes shut when your head meets the couch cushion below your with a soft ‘thump’. And when you open your eyes, Eddie’s hovering over you, hands braced on the couch arm just above your head. You swallow thickly and promptly forget to breathe for a second. 

The end credit music for A Christmas Story feels like it’s playing from miles away.

“You good?” Eddie asks, quietly, and all you can do is nod. “You sure?”

“Yeah, uh huh. Fine,” you whisper, holding your hands close to your chest. Close your eyes when he leans in to rest his forehead against yours. “Why did you really come over?” You whisper, hesitantly uncurling a hand to place it on his chest.

“Missed you.”

“You see me almost every day.”

“Worried about you.”

You snort and lightly slap at his chest. “Bullshit. I own more knives than you do guitar picks.” 

Eddie exhales sharply before pulling back a bit. When you open your eyes, you almost want to hide from the tenderness you see in his. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, turning your head to the side to watch the TV turns from black to blue, now that the tape’s over. 

“Like what?” Eddie asks, and you can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice when he nuzzles at your neck. 

You grunt. “Like, I don’t know. Like you—like…”

“Like you’re the only person I’d drive and walk through a snow storm to see?” 

You hum but keep your head resolutely turned away. Shiver when you can feel his lips ghosting against your cheek. 

“Like you’re in love with me,” you mutter quietly, screwing your eyes shut. 

Eddie slowly peels a hand away from the arm of the couch to turn your head to look at him. You still avert your eyes. He brushes the hair away from your face instead.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he says, almost whines, tilting his head to try to catch your eyes. “You’re smarter than me, you’re not that dumb.”

You huff and cross your arms and finally look up at Eddie. There was some kind of combative quip on the tip of your tongue but it dies there as soon as the look on his face properly registers. 

“You’re not fucking around,” you say frowning. 

“I’m not fucking around.” Eddie sighs and moves up to kneel on the couch, both knees boxing in your legs. You move up on your elbows and scoot up a bit to lean your back against the arm of the couch. 

“Since when do you—“ 

“Dude, you literally saved me from a swarm of hell bats, somehow managed to team up with a super powered teenage girl to save the world, still don’t think I’m an absolute coward and show up at my doorstep if I call you when I can’t sleep,” Eddie lists off, starting to wave down at your a bit frantically. “And you actually listen to my shitty garage band music!”

“It’s not shitty!” 

“You’re proving my damn point, woman!” Ed shouts, swatting your hand away when you go to slap his chest again. “Merry fucking Christmas, I’m in love with you!” 

You let yourself slide back down to lie on the couch and laugh when you throw an arm over your face. 

“The fuck, this isn’t funny!” Eddie whines, trying to slap your arms away from your face. “This is serious!”

You choke your laughter down enough to say, “Roll for perception.” 

“Excuse me?” Eddie squawks, indignantly, pausing his assault on your arms. You lower them just enough to be able to peek at him. 

“You heard me, roll for perception.”

Eddie scoffs but turns to grab the massive dichroic dice from the table and gently rolls it along your carpeted floor. 

“Huh. 18. Do I get to add my wisdom modifier to that?” 

Though you bring your arms down from your face, you still cover it with your hands.

“You’re the only name and phone number I keep in my address book,” you start quietly, biting down on your lips before continuing. “That portrait of you isn’t the first one I’ve ever bothered trying to do. The photo of us Max took in the hospital is the only one I have framed. I hate cashews.”

“But you keep a tin of cashews in the cupboard on top of the f… fridge…” 

You nod and part your fingers to catch a glimpse of Eddie. He sighs before shouting and shaking his head. 

“Ed, what the—“

“Why are we so stupid complicated!” He shouts again, but it peters out into laughter. “Jesus, why can’t we just say shit like normal people?” 

“We hate normal people,” you deadpan, slowly letting your hands slide down your face. “So, uh,” you start, curling your fingers under your chin. “Merry, uh, Merry fucking Christmas, I lo—I love you too?”

Eddie closes his eyes and tilts his head back to sigh like you’ve just given him a glass of water after spending weeks in the desert.

You move to half sit up on your elbows again. 

“Hey, you—“

“Does this mean I can kiss you now and you’re not going to think I’m just doing it because it’s the holidays and there was mistletoe over your door?”

You blink for a second and pull yourself up on the arm of the couch and twist around to look at your door. Huh. Sure as shit, there it is.

“Oh. Mrs H must’ve put that up when she came over,” you say nervously, but when you turn around you’re shocked, both because of the still-freezing hand that comes up to your jaw and the lips that are pressed almost chastely against yours. 

“God bless Mrs H,” Eddie whispers, and your laughter is a quick huff before you loop your arms around his neck to pull him down against you for another kiss.

[saveregblackordie0726]

Sombre et Pur'

Chapter 9

Sixth Year – 1976 – October cont. 

The next two days passed in a blur of forced cheer and carefully executed smiles. Each act of kindness, each laugh shared with my friends – they all felt like I was desperately trying to patch the cracks in a crumbling facade. With every glance in a mirror, every whispered encouragement, I braced myself for the moment my monstrous reflection would stare back at me, confirming Regulus's twisted truth. 

Thursday found me curled up on one of the worn, plush sofas in the Gryffindor common room. The familiar warmth and flickering fireplace did little to chase away the chill that had settled in my bones. Peter, bless his ever-faithful soul, had sensed my lingering unease and insisted on a study session. Despite feeling adrift in a sea of Potions notes and Transfiguration diagrams, there was something undeniably soothing about his quiet company, his soft voice offering explanations I only half-heard. 

The common room bustled with the comfortable chaos I'd come to associate with Gryffindor life. Fifth-years argued good-naturedly over a game of Exploding Snap, the sharp snap of cards echoing through the room. A pair of first-years huddled near the window, their hushed whispers and furtive glances likely fueled by some mischief in the making. It was a scene of warmth and camaraderie – a sharp contrast to the tempest raging within me. 

Then, like a thunderclap shattering the fragile silence of my thoughts, James burst through the portrait hole, his usual boundless energy amplified by a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. 

"Alright, listen up!" he announced, his voice booming through the common room and silencing any other conversations. "Halloween's coming up, and I was thinking we could throw a proper bash!" Lily followed behind him, looking flushed as she plopped down beside him.  

Marlene, who had been engrossed in Charms homework, tossed her quill onto the table with a groan. "Oh, here we go," she muttered, but her tone was more amused than exasperated. 

Lily, ever the voice of reason, let out an exasperated sigh. "James, honestly, you're Head Boy now. You can't just throw wild ragers every holiday!" Her words were scolding, but the smile playing on her lips undermined any real severity. 

James, unfazed, scrunched his nose in a deliberately adorable pout. "Can't I?" he teased, and playfully tapped her knee which was now tucked against his lap. 

My lips twitched into a half-hearted smile at their familiar banter. The affection between them was palpable, an unspoken understanding that had been simmering just beneath the surface for years. With a pang of wistfulness, it struck me that it likely wouldn't be long before they finally gave in to the inevitable and made things official. 

The corner of my eye snagged on Sirius, who had been observing the exchange with a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. He offered a grin that didn't quite meet his eyes and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Peter, oblivious to the undercurrents, launched into an enthusiastic discussion about potential Halloween activities – bobbing for apples, pumpkin carving, the lot. 

"We should definitely have themed costumes!" Lily chirped, her usual pragmatism dissolving under the exciting prospect of a party. 

"Maybe this year Moony and Padfoot won't end up taking turns retching in the loo," Peter added with a chuckle. He, James, and Lily burst into good-natured laughter, but a tense silence fell over Sirius, Remus, and me. We had all shared knowing glances, a silent acknowledgment of the previous year's disastrous Halloween celebration. 

The tension between Sirius and Remus had reached an all-time high that night. Their usual playful teasing had morphed into something sharper, a simmering resentment veiled by forced camaraderie and copious amounts of Fire whisky. They'd disappeared for hours, reappearing flushed and disheveled, carefully avoiding each other's gazes for the rest of the night. We never spoke of it, but the unspoken question lingered, a shadow hanging over their friendship. 

"Well, then," Sirius broke the uncomfortable silence, a forced cheerfulness masking the tightness in his jaw. Are we considering inviting other Houses again?" He caught my eye and offered a soft smile. "Besides Clem, of course." 

Marlene, ever-dramatic, let out a groan and dramatically draped herself across my lap. "Obviously, otherwise we'll be stuck with you lot," she declared with a mischievous grin. "Where's the fun in that?" 

The conversation shifted, descending into a lighthearted debate over decorations, food, and the potential for one of us slipping Rosemerta galleons in return for the Fire whiskey. My laughter felt forced, my participation hollow. Yet, as I watched my friends, the knot in my chest loosened fractionally. These moments – the easy banter, the shared laughter, the unwavering support – they were a lifeline. They were a reminder that even as darkness gnawed at the edges of my soul, there was still good in the world. Good worth fighting for. Maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep the shadows at bay – for now. 

As evening descended, a familiar sense of dread settled upon me. Patrols with Regulus were a looming inevitability, and with every passing moment, the urge to hide beneath my covers grew stronger. It was a cowardly impulse, one at odds with the Hufflepuff bravery I prided myself on, but the darkness Regulus exuded chipped away at my resolve. 

The Gryffindor common room held me hostage under the guise of camaraderie. Lily insisted on another go at the glamour spell, determined to perfect the sleekness of my waves. Marlene quizzed me relentlessly on Herbology, claiming a surprise exam was imminent. Even Peter, with his quiet empathy, seemed to sense my reluctance and lingered over a chess game that usually would have lasted no more than twenty minutes. 

But time was a relentless hunter, and eventually, I could no longer justify the delay. As twilight painted the castle in shades of deep purple, I reluctantly stood, forcing a smile to mask the rising tide of apprehension. 

"Patrols," I announced, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. 

A hush fell over the gathered Gryffindors. Their eyes, filled with concern and unspoken questions, burned into me. I'd always been the one to ease their worries, to offer a reassuring smile. Now, I was the one desperately in need of reassurance I knew they couldn't give. 

Sirius, perhaps sensing my turmoil more keenly than the others, pushed himself up from the plush armchair he'd been occupying. "I'll walk you," he offered, his voice gentle, a stark contrast to his usual boisterousness. 

Gratitude washed over me in a warm wave. Without a word, I nodded and followed him towards the portrait hole. As we stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, a comfortable silence enveloped us. We fell into step side by side, his presence a balm against the oppressive weight of what awaited me. 

For a precious few moments, I allowed myself to simply exist in this pocket of normalcy – two friends silently navigating the castle halls. The familiar smell of old stone and lingering potions fumes brought a sense of grounding amidst the inner storm. But beneath the surface, unspoken worries churned. Sirius, despite his outward nonchalance, carried the burden of his family's darkness on his shoulders. Regulus was like a ticking time bomb, his allegiance a constant source of uncertainty. And I... I was caught between them, an unwilling pawn in a war I barely understood. 

As if sensing my spiraling thoughts, Sirius broke the silence. 

"How is he?" His voice was low, a whisper in the quiet hallway. 

I paused, contemplating the loaded question. Sirius's relationship with his brother was a twisted knot of love and betrayal, loyalty and rebellion. Despite the chasm that had grown between them, a flicker of concern still burned in Sirius's dark eyes whenever Regulus was mentioned. 

My fingers traced along the worn tapestry lining the corridor wall, finding comfort in the repetitive motion. Should I confide in him? Share the unsettling truths Regulus had laid bare, the darkness that now threatened to seep into my own soul? A part of me yearned to unburden myself to someone who understood the unique pain of fractured family ties. But something held me back, a lingering fear that exposing these vulnerable pieces of myself would leave me even more shattered. 

Instead, I settled on a half-truth, a careful deflection. "It's hard to say, Sirius. It's not as if we're having deep, meaningful conversations." I forced a wry smile, hoping to hide the tremble in my voice. "We barely speak, truthfully." 

Sirius nodded, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features before he masked it with a sigh. His jaw clenched, a telltale sign of unspoken anger and frustration. 

"He still won't speak to me," Sirius muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. "Lost count of the owls I've sent... useless." He shook his head, a gesture both dismissive and defeated. 

"They've got their teeth in him, Kit" he continued, his voice low and filled with a resigned dread I understood all too well. 

My footsteps slowed as a wave of sympathy washed over me. Seeing Sirius so vulnerable, stripped of his usual bravado, was a stark reminder of the unseen consequences of this war that was bleeding into every corner of our lives. It was a battle waged not merely on some distant battlefield, but in corridors and classrooms, in whispers and silences that wove themselves into the fabric of our existence. 

I longed to offer a comforting platitude, a reassurance that everything would be alright, but the words felt hollow. There was no easy comfort, no quick fix for the darkness that threatened to engulf us all. Instead, I remained silent, allowing him this moment of unfiltered honesty. 

"Why do I even give a damn?" Sirius murmured, the question directed more at himself than at me. 

I paused, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He met my gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in those usually bright, rebellious eyes. It was the same stormy gaze I'd begun to see mirrored in Regulus. 

"He's your brother," I said softly, empathy threading its way through my voice. "I know I could never turn my back on either of my sisters." 

We'd reached the statue that marked the beginning of our patrol route. A familiar sense of dread coiled in my stomach, tightening with each passing moment. Sirius seemed to mirror my unease, a subtle tension radiating from him. Then, his focus shifted, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows across the veranda. 

His expression darkened. When he turned back to me, his features were schooled into a mask of cold indifference. 

"Give it time, Sirius," I urged, my voice quiet but insistent. 

A flicker of warmth crossed his face, a fleeting reminder of the loyal, caring boy beneath the layers of bitterness. He offered a single nod, a silent acknowledgment of my meager attempt at reassurance. 

"Send Zephyr to me when you make it back to your common room," he instructed. "And Clem... be careful." The worry in his voice was palpable, a stark contrast to the carefree persona he presented to the world. 

Wordlessly, I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. And then he was gone, leaving me alone. 

As I turned to survey the room once more, my heart skipped a beat. Regulus stood leaning against the crumbling stone statue, a sneer marring his pale face. His eyes, icy and unreadable, fixed upon me with a scrutiny that made my skin crawl. The darkness within him seemed to bleed into the room itself, casting the space in a sinister, oppressive light.  

Patrols with Regulus were always unbearable, but tonight the oppressive silence was magnified by the fading light. With each step, shadows lengthened, clinging to the walls like whispers of the darkness that threatened to consume us both. I forced myself not to look at him, focusing on the worn cobblestones and the faint echo of our footsteps. Yet, his presence was a palpable weight beside me, the scent of old parchment and something darker, something that stirred unease deep within me, mingling with the crisp autumn air. 

We reached the Charms corridor, the flickering torchlight barely illuminating the peeling paint and rows of locked doors. It was here, amidst this forgotten space, that Regulus finally shattered the stifling quietude. 

"You two seem close." His voice cut through the silence, cold and laced with an undercurrent of accusation. 

My lips curled into a humorless smile. "You mean Sirius? Your brother?" I scoffed, pushing open the door to a deserted Magical Theory classroom. With a flick of my wand, I surveyed the desks and dusty blackboard. Satisfied it was empty, I closed the door and continued our patrol, determined not to let him goad me. 

"He is no brother of mine," Regulus retorted, his sneer audible in the darkness. 

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Oh, come off it, Black." 

Something flickered in his eyes, a flash of surprise quickly concealed. "Pardon?" 

I turned sharply, mirroring his own accusatory stance from our exchange in the Astronomy Tower. "It's only us here, Black," I echoed his words from that night, the weight of them settling between us like a physical barrier. "You can drop the act." 

The impact of my words was visible. He stiffened, jaw clenching beneath his sharp cheekbones. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind outside. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice laced with a forced nonchalance that rang hollow. "There is no act, Evans. He is a blood traitor, a disgrace to our family." 

"And I'm a Muggleborn," I fired back, my patience wearing thin. "But here you are, speaking with me." 

A venomous sneer twisted his lips. "Allow me to remedy that," he hissed, disgust dripping from each syllable. 

I shook my head, disgust mingling with a growing sense of defiance. He started to move, but I held my ground, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Our eyes locked, a silent battle of wills playing out in the half-light of the corridor. 

For a tense moment, I wasn't sure what he would do. Would he cast a hex, a curse motivated by the same blind hatred that fueled his family's beliefs? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, not out of fear for myself, but out of a bone-deep weariness at the relentless cycle of prejudice and violence that poisoned our world. 

Then, unexpectedly, he stepped back. The sneer remained, but a flicker of something I couldn't decipher flickered in his eyes. Frustration? Confusion? A hint of the vulnerability I'd glimpsed beneath his carefully constructed facade? Whatever it was, the moment passed. He resumed walking at my side, an unwelcome shadow in the dimly lit corridor. 

The silence hung heavy between us as we continued our patrol, a constant reminder of the unspoken chasm that divided us. Yet, as we reached the familiar spiral staircase leading to the Astronomy Tower, something shifted. It was as if the imposing stone walls and open sky created a strange sense of intimacy, an unspoken truth that labels, houses, and the rules of the outside world faded, at least temporarily, into the background. 

I lingered, the coolness of the iron railing a welcome contrast to the simmering tension between us. Against my better judgment, I found myself speaking. 

"He worries for you," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, a fragile olive branch offered across a battlefield of conflicting ideologies. 

He let out a humorless chuckle, leaning against the railing. His  almost shoulder-length dark hair, usually perfectly styled, was ruffled by the wind, adding a touch of boyishness to his otherwise chilling demeanor. 

"Does he?" His voice was laced with a bitterness that echoed my own inner turmoil. An uncomfortable silence descended. I watched as a cloud drifted across the moon, momentarily dimming the starlight that painted his features in an ethereal glow. 

"Maybe you should..." I started, uncertainty making my voice waver. 

The rest of the sentence died in my throat as he abruptly turned, interrupting my hesitant attempt at reconciliation. There was a new intensity in his gaze, a predatory glint that made my stomach clench. He took a step closer, his movements deliberate, closing the distance between us until the cool metal of the railing pressed against my back. 

"He should be worried," Regulus hissed, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "In fact," he paused, leaning in even closer, his breath ghosting across my cheek, "you both should be--” 

The question tumbled out of me before I could fully comprehend its implications. "Why do you do that?" My voice was quiet, laced with a hint of confusion and a defiance that surprised even me. I held his gaze, refusing to flinch as he continued to loom above me. 

"Do what, Evans?" he spat, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. 

"This," I gestured between the two of us, encompassing the invisible web of tension that thrummed in the air. "Trying to scare me into running away? Testing how much I'll take?" 

He remained silent, his face unreadable. It was as if my words had struck a nerve, a raw spot beneath his carefully crafted facade. His usual arrogance faltered ever so slightly, replaced by a flicker of something akin to vulnerability before it was ruthlessly suppressed. 

I pressed on, a surge of reckless bravery propelling me forward. "Or maybe," I lowered my voice, tilting my head in mock curiosity, "you're the one who's afraid." 

His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping visibly beneath his pale skin. His eyes, glacial and unyielding moments ago, now seemed to darken with a storm I couldn't fully decipher. There was anger there, yes, but something more - a ripple of unease beneath the surface of his controlled demeanor. 

"Maybe I want to hurt you," he hissed, his voice a dangerous whisper against the night air. "Maybe I want you to realize just how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things." 

His words were meant to wound, to reaffirm the power he held over me. But instead, they fueled a strange sort of defiant amusement. A twisted smile touched my lips. 

"I can see past all of that, Regulus," I countered, a hint of challenge in my voice. "I can see the fear, the desperation... and I think you hate that I know." 

He moved then, a sudden, predatory shift that closed the remaining distance between us. His gaze, now locked on mine with a burning intensity, was a physical force, pinning me against the railing. The moonlight cast stark shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the cold determination in his eyes. 

For a suspended moment, time seemed to warp. The chill wind, the distant rustling of leaves, the echo of my own ragged breaths – they all blurred into a muted backdrop against the onslaught of his presence. There was an undeniable danger in his closeness, in the way his eyes seemed to bore into my very soul. Yet beneath the fear, a perverse thrill coursed through me. This was a dance on the precipice, a tantalizing brush with the darkness he embodied. And in that moment, a shameful part of me craved it. 

"Run on home, little dove," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a caress. Yet, the words carried an unmistakable threat, a chilling promise of violence lurking just beneath the surface. "Before I break your wings." 

His hand shot out, fingers snaking around my upper arm. The fabric of my robe crumpled beneath his grip, the pressure a stark reminder of his strength, of the potential for pain he held within him. A gasp escaped me, a choked sound that was more of surprise than fear. But then, as suddenly as it had come, the intensity faded. His fingers loosened, withdrawing like a serpent retreating back into the shadows. He stepped back, the dangerous intimacy of the moment evaporating as quickly as it had materialized. There was a new distance in his eyes, a chilling coldness that sent a shiver down my spine. I was a pawn again, an opponent in the endless game he played, not a person worthy of his true, unmasked anger. 

"Go back to your common room, Evans," he commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Before I change my mind." 

The dismissal was a slap in the face, a brutal reminder of the power imbalance between us. Yet, I didn't cower, didn't flee like a frightened bird as he intended. I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze with a stubborn determination that mirrored his own. 

"As you wish," I retorted, managing a shaky smile. Without another word, I turned and walked away, my steps echoing against the stone floor. My back prickled beneath his unwavering scrutiny, the unspoken threat lingering in the air like a poisonous mist. 

The descent from the Astronomy Tower was a blur. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against the onslaught of conflicting emotions. Anger, fear, and a disconcerting flicker of exhilaration battled for dominance. Each step took me further from him, from the darkness he exuded, and back towards the comforting familiarity of the Hufflepuff common room. 

Yet, as I descended the winding staircase, a nagging certainty settled into my bones. This wasn't over, not by a long shot. Regulus Black was a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, and I had the terrible sense that I was both drawn to and terrified of the tempest he promised. 

The common room burst into view, a haven of warmth and laughter. My friends, blissfully unaware of the darkness I had faced in the tower, greeted me with smiles and casual questions about my patrol. I forced myself to respond, to slip back into the role of the cheerful, dependable Hufflepuff I was supposed to be. But it was a flimsy facade, barely concealing the shadows that clung to me like a second skin. 

Later, alone in the quiet sanctuary of my dormitory, the true weight of the evening settled upon me. My hand trembled as I untied the Hufflepuff knot on my robes, the bright yellow suddenly seeming garish against the backdrop of the confrontation that haunted my mind. 

Sleep was an elusive luxury. Each time I drifted towards unconsciousness; Regulus's face swam into view. His chilling words, the predatory glint in his eyes, his chillingly calm threat – they replayed in my mind like a twisted enchantment. I tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around me like a suffocating net. 

In the darkest hours of the night, the truth I had tried to deny echoed relentlessly. I was afraid of Regulus Black, of the capacity for cruelty I saw reflected in his eyes. But more than that, I was afraid of myself – of the darkness that lurked within, a darkness that answered his call with a terrifying and unwelcome recognition. We were shadows dancing in the moonlight, reflections of the war that threatened to consume us all. Sleep refused to offer any respite. My tumultuous thoughts, a chorus of whispers mirroring the ceaseless wind rattling the dorm window, banished any hope of escape. The shadows on the ceiling danced to a macabre rhythm, conjuring images of Regulus's icy gaze and the chilling touch of his fingers against my skin. A shiver traced its path down my spine, a stark reminder of the darkness that had tainted my patrol. 

Defeated, I pushed back the covers, the warmth of the bed offering no solace against the creeping unease. The pale moonlight filtering through the window cast long, eerie shadows across the room, lending an unsettling atmosphere to the once-familiar space. 

It was then that a flicker of recollection chased away the relentless onslaught of Regulus's chilling words. Sirius's parting request, his plea that I send an owl once I was safely back in the common room, suddenly resonated with new meaning. 

He had glimpsed the danger I had so foolishly danced with. 

With trembling hands, I reached for my wand, summoning Zephyr from her perch. She landed on my arm with a soft hoot, tilting her head inquisitively as if sensing my agitation. My fingers hastily scratched out a brief message, a silent confirmation of my safety and a word of thanks for Sirius's unspoken concern. 

"Take this to Sirius, please," I whispered, stroking Zephyr's feathers with a gentleness born out of a desperate need for a connection to warmth, to loyalty, to the light that Regulus threatened to extinguish within me. 

Zephyr took flight, a silent white specter disappearing into the darkness beyond the window. With her departure, a small sense of peace settled over me, a reminder that I wasn't completely alone in this battle against the shadows. 

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, finally won out. As I burrowed back beneath the covers, my mind still raced, though the images of Regulus were slowly replaced by those of Sirius. His eyes, so like his brother's, yet brimming with warmth where Regulus held only ice, swam into focus. It was a comforting contrast, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. 

I drifted into an uneasy sleep, images of storm clouds and silver linings clashing behind my closed eyelids. 

[bluberimufim]

Pedro & Inês (cultural ramblie)

Happy Valentine's Day!! <3<3 When I planned this post, I did not realize Carnaval and Valentine's Day were on consecutive days (catholic calendar calculations continue to kick my ass, just like every year), so you get TWO cultural ramblies for the price of one!!

This one is a bit different from the other ones. I usually talk about legends or holiday traditions but this is actually just history! Still, I felt inclined to share partly because this is a major thing in portuguese culture and partly because this is the most overdramatic historical anecdote I have ever seen and more people need to know about it. Now, let's get into it!

The Tragedy of Pedro and Inês

(portraits of Pedro and Inês, made centuries after their deaths)

In 1340, Prince Pedro of Portugal, son of King Afonso the 4th, married Constança Manuel of Aragon. When she moved to Portugal, Constança brought along her lady-in-waiting, Inês de Castro. You can already see where this is going.

Pedro and Inês fell madly in love and began a secret relationship (which seems to not have been that secret at all). In 1344, Afonso the 4th exiled Inês to the castle of Albuquerque, near the border, out of fear that this affair would sour diplomatic relationships with Castille.

It just so happens that Constança died in childbirth one year later. Despite his father's requests, Pedro refused to remarry, claiming that he was still too overcome with grief over his wife's death. Instead, he had Inês's exile annulled and began living with her. During this period in which they lived together, they had 4 children.

In 1355, five years later, King Afonso the 4th ordered the assassination of Inês de Castro. She was killed in Coimbra, in Quinta das Lágrimas, where legend says you can still hear her crying at the fountain where she lost her life, later named Fonte das Lágrimas ("Fountain of Tears"). This moment, along with another one further ahead, is the one all the poets go crazy for.

Inês's death triggered a revolt against the king, led by Pedro. However, there was never an actual physical confrontation, since the queen-mother was able to stop it in time.

In 1357, Pedro rose to the throne, becoming King Pedro the 1st. He claimed that he had married Inês in secret around 1354, legitimizing their children and making her possibly the only posthumous queen in history (someone fact-check me on this). For avenging her death, he was dubbed "Pedro, the Just".

He had matching tombs made for him and Inês so she could be buried as queen by his side. They still stand today in the Monastery of Alcobaça, where you can visit them. They were placed on opposite ends of the transept, facing each other, so that they could be face to face when they rose from their graves. The inscription on Pedro's tomb is thought to read "Until the ends of the world". I'll show pics later, don't worry.

You thought I was done? I haven't even gotten to the overdramatic part! (Ok, the tomb thing was pretty dramatic, but this part is extra as hell)

As King Pedro the 1st, he had Inês's two assassins executed. According to a somewhat contemporary chronicle by Fernão Lopes (still Middle Ages but a century later), he had their hearts ripped out, one through the chest and another through the back. Sources seem to disagree on whether this actually happened or not, but Fernão Lopes was a pretty reliable guy in other parts of his chronicle. And, this being strictly myth, it is said that he made those two assassins kiss the hand of Inês's corpse as they would the queen's. For this, he was dubbed "Pedro, the Cruel", on top of his other title. Perfectly balanced and whatnot.

Here's a painting by Pierre-Charles Comte about it:

The Tombs

I saw them in early November of last year and I cannot overstate how amazing they are in real life. The whole church they're in is beautiful but the tombs are just breathtaking, especially knowing the story behind them.

They're the reason I wanted to make this post. They are considered some of the greatest masterpieces of portuguese gothic sculpture. They are full of intricate carvings and, despite missing a few pieces here and there, are still in amazingly good condition today. You can visit them for free any time.

Here are the pictures I promised. The last 2 are taken by me!

Some historical notes (cool facts)

This is mostly about the corpse coronation part because I found it in my research and thought it was cool.

The first dynasty of portuguese kings didn't have coronations. They were seen as warrior kings first and foremost, and therefore felt no need to pledge their allegiance to Christianity. If they did swear over something, it was a shield. They did not have the fancy ceremony.

What can we learn from all this, you ask?

Write that overdramatic romance you've been wanting to. You'll never out-drama queen King Pedro the 1st.

[skaylanphear]

The Marauders

Summary: Heading to Hogwarts for the first time, Remus tries not to let his worries get him down. He has a lot on his plate—truths he can’t share with anyone—and none of it is helped by the bullies constantly casting jinxes and calling him nasty names. Despite it all, though, he has his three best friends—the first friends he’s ever made, in fact.

Yet, it doesn’t take long for Sirius to start getting suspicious, questioning what strange sickness could be keeping Remus in the hospital wing for days at a time. Ever nosy, Sirius takes it upon himself to unravel the mystery that is Remus Lupin, unaware of the tortured consequences that come with knowing such an intimate secret.

A story about the Marauders as they navigate their school years and set off into adulthood.

Year One: The Marauders and the Shrieking Shack - Chapters 1-34 Year Two: The Marauders and the Counting Curse - Chapters 35-?

Start Reading Here

Chapter 16

"Okay, so let's take stock," James said, the four of them sitting on a set of stairs leading out of the castle. Lessons were over, but Sirius had "accidentally" dropped one of his recently acquired Double-Decker Dungbombs near the portrait hole. And seeing as these were strong enough to knock a person unconscious, avoiding the area was paramount. Less on the threat of fainting and more so because they didn't want to be blamed. Hopefully, their house would fault a Slytherin.

"Of what?" Peter asked.

"Of where we are on Plan Slither-In," James replied.

Plan Slither-In was how they'd recently begun referring to their Slytherin revenge attempts. James said he'd come up with the name on the pretense that they were going to be sneaking into the dungeon dormitory, but Sirius couldn't shake that there was something inherently dirty about it. He giggled every time one of them said it.

"I think I've almost got the buttons perfected," Sirius said, quite proud of his accomplishments. "They smelled a bit like my shampoo last night." The smell he'd had James transfer to his practice packet for experimental purposes.

"Good, very good," James decided. "I've got the smell spell down, I think. My mum taught me how to turn it on and off during the holidays."

"Brilliant," Remus said, smiling. He was a week and a half off the full moon now, which meant he was feeling much better. He was closer to the new moon than the previous full moon, Sirius noted—nearly to the sweet spot. "I think I perfected the permanent sticking charm just this morning," he continued.

"Were you the one that stuck Snape's cauldron to the wall outside potions?" Peter asked.

"Yeah!" Remus smiled wider, which had Sirius smiling too. Remus very rarely offered up bright, genuine smiles. But learning a new spell—especially a difficult one—would definitely put him in a good mood.

"Slughorn was still trying to get it off this afternoon, when I went to see him," Peter said, snickering.

"Must really work, then," James said and reached out to pat Remus on the back.

"What about you, Pete?" Sirius asked. "Getting anywhere with your bit?"

"Slughorn still doesn't think much of me," he admitted glumly. "But I asked Sprout if she could maybe give me a tour of the greenhouses and said that if I stopped by this weekend, she'd be happy to. Hopefully, she'll take me around to the plant we're looking for."

"Perfect! All good news," James decided. "Now all we have left is to somehow link all the packets together, so we can turn them on and off at the same time."

"I'm sure there's a way to do it," Remus said. "Something in the library, probably."

Read More

[catboyolli]

thank you for the tag @man-made-misery 💖💘💕💖💖

Star sign: people say Sagittarius, astral chart says Capricorn 😅

Favourite holiday: I don't have one, so I'll go with whichever one gives me more days off from work (usually Carnival)

Last meal: coffee and toasts with cream cheese

Current favourite musician: well I've been in my Gojira era (Gojera) lately, they are just that good

Last music I listened to: The art of dying by Gojira (no surprises here) but I've had Tidal Wave by Shiraz Lane stuck on my head since this morning

Last tv show watched: Nadiya's Time to Eat on Netflix

Last book finished: The Nine Eyes of Lucien by Madeleine Roux (fucking finally)

Last book abandoned: none

Currently reading: fanfiction :)

Last thing researched for writing/art: distance between some cities of Blind Channel's 2022 US tour

Favorite online fandom memory: the Christmas tree greetings! It was such a cute idea 🥺💖

Favorite old fandom you wish would drag you back in/have a resurgence: Critical Role. I'm sure the fandom is alive and thriving, but C3 didn't hook me

Favorite thing you enjoy that never had an active or big fandom: some of my fave bands that are quite big, like Nightwish or Polyphia or Periphery or Gojira

Tempting project you’re trying to rein in/don't have time for: ooooh, plenty but there's character design for my BC fantasy and tiefling AUs, Olli/Allu friends with benefits fic writing, and oil portrait paiting (it's time consuming and I'm nowhere near the skill level I need to pull all of these off in a way that satisfies me)

no pressure tag: @hlurz and anyone who sees this and wants to do it

[river-ocean]

Piarles + 21 ❤

hi anon <3 this got out of hand but i need to stop pretending my piarles ficlets won't get out of hand. so.

enjoy this uni/roommates AU for piarles + love confessions :)

Every year, the English department held their annual Valentine’s Day carnation sale. And every year, Charles and Pierre’s dorm filled with carnations with anonymous messages. Most of them were addressed to Charles, but Pierre was more than satisfied with the amount of flowers he received - especially since Charles always seemed overwhelmed by his mountain.

“I do not understand what the point of sending it anonymously is. How am I supposed to know who is in love with me if they don’t even sign it?” Charles asked each year, exasperation and bewilderment clear on his face. Pierre would be lying if he said that he didn’t find it adorable.

Pierre would also be lying if he said that he hadn’t been sending Charles a carnation each year, adding one more to the massive bouquet his roommate amassed.

It had started as a joke their first year. Pierre stopped by the table on his way to class, typed out a line from a poem he enjoyed, and went about his day. 

“I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world”

He thought it would be funny for his roommate to receive a carnation from an anonymous suitor. Pierre would pretend to help him figure out who it was, and then eventually he’d admit to sending it as a joke. 

He didn’t know that his roommate would receive so many that it was pointless to try to hunt down the sender.

He also didn’t expect that somewhere along the way, he’d start to actually develop a crush on his roommate.

Their second year, he sent another carnation, with another line from the same poem. 

“the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism”

Charles wasn’t much of a poetry reader. Pierre figured he wouldn’t catch on.

Their third year, he sent another carnation, another line from the poem. 

“what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank”

Pierre watched as his roommate read each of the carnation messages. Charles’ expression remained neutral as he read through them, and Pierre felt a slight pang of disappointment.

Their fourth and final year, Pierre decided that he needed to be brave. He was going to sign the message this year. 

Their plans weren’t solidified for post graduation yet, and this could be his final chance to tell Charles how he felt. Four years of living together had given him plenty of opportunities to be honest with Charles, but he had never been brave enough to take that leap.

He typed out one last line from the poem, and below it, 

“it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it

I love you

-Pierre”

The carnations and messages were always delivered on Valentine’s Day.

Pierre saw the two stacks of flowers sitting outside his dorm room when he got back from class, which meant that Charles wasn’t back yet. They had an agreement not to read any of their messages until they were both home, celebrating the holiday with their carnations and the candy that Charles’ mom sent them every year.

Pierre placed the flowers on the table, pleased that the piles were pretty equal this year. 

Charles arrived home shortly after and rolled his eyes with a laugh when he saw the piles of flowers. Pierre suddenly felt nervous — the weight of his confession feeling real now that his message was on the table amongst the rest.

Pierre grew even more nervous as Charles expression remained neutral as it did every year. Had he seen Pierre’s message and ignored it? Had his flower not been delivered?

They were each down to one flower, one last anonymous message. Pierre pulled the tag off his carnation and read the message.

“Would you like to have a Coke with me?

I love you

-Charles”

He looked across the table, making silent eye contact with his roommate.

Charles was smiling, his eyes shimmering. He grabbed his backpack off the floor, unzipped the small pocket at the front, and pulled out three slips of paper. He slid them across the table to Pierre.

Pierre looked down at the papers. They had obviously been handled a lot — creased with folds and slightly tattered at the edges, like Charles had been carrying these slips with him for a while.

He picked up one of the slips and saw the message he had sent Charles a year ago. He picked up each of the other slips, and found that they were his messages from the first and second year. He looked back at Charles with wide eyes.

“I looked up the poem and I saw you had one of Frank O’Hara’s books on your bookshelf. I wasn’t sure if it was you, but I…figured it was worth a shot anyway,” Charles said softly, tentatively. “But now,” he added, sliding the final slip of paper over to Pierre with a smile.

————————————

Five years later, the officiant read Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara during their wedding ceremony.

[romaine2424]

The Azkaban Letters: Chapter 13 is Posted!

Chapter Summary:

Harry has a delightful dream and records it to send to Draco. Harry returns to 12 Grimmauld Place to meet with Remus and Bill where they are surprised by cackling laughter coming from the kitchen. Remus and Harry talk with Kreacher about the Slytherin locket. Plans are put in place for student instructions. And Harry cleverly gets a hold of the smaller portraits of his grandparents and great-grandparents.

Snippet:

The Samhain altar was filled. He looked at each of the portraits. Some waved to him, others slept, whilst some sneered. Then it struck him how to solve Elizabeth's request without raising suspicion with the house-elves. "Malkey!" The pop the house-elf made was barely audible. "What can Malkey do for Master Harry?" "I—I was wondering if there are any smaller portraits of my grandparents and great-grandparents. I'd like to put them on the mantel. And it would be nice to see them. I'm surprised they're not already displayed in the castle." He observed the elf's expression. His large eyes shifted. "Is there a problem?" Harry asked. "No. Malkey brings portraits to Master Harry. They are not displayed because Malkey thinks Master Harry may be mad at ancestors who did not protect Master and Master's parents." "Ah, I see. Thank you for your concern, but I would like to have them displayed, at least for the holiday. Where are they now?" "Portraits gallery," a voice said from the above floor. Harry glanced up to see Florean coming from the direction of his bedroom along the walkway to the central stairway. "There's a portraits gallery?" Harry mumbled to himself. "When Master has time, Malkey will show Master Harry portrait room. But smaller paintings somewhere else," the elf squeaked out. Harry had been around enough wily house-elves to tell when things were being hidden from him. "Malkey, I have a few minutes now." "Oh, sorry, Master Harry, but Malkey is needed in kitchen. Tomorrow be better," the elf said and popped out of the room. "Wha???" Harry began to say and then shook his head. A chuckle came from the stairwell as Florean made his way down. "Harry, I can show you the portraits' gallery now if you're truly interested. It's accessed through the dining room…secret entrance through the far end of the wall." Harry's eyes widened. He loved hidden spaces, and knowing that one had been so near him excited him more. "Thank you, Florean. That would be helpful. Any idea what that was all about?" Harry asked before taking another sip of his getting close to tepid coffee. Florean ran his fingers through the tail end of his silver plait over his shoulder. "Not certain, but I'd say either that elf is telling the truth about thinking you'd be upset with them, or possibly they could be upset with you." Harry grimaced. "Evil in the wards. I've heard them whisper at the entrance of the gallery." Harry sighed. "Florean, let's delay that visit until I speak with Henry and Fleamont alone. If it is Hermione, I'd prefer not to introduce myself to the rest of them in a disagreement. Plus, I need to leave in a few and rather have some time to spend there." "Perfectly understood, Harry. Just be aware that once Henry, Fiona, Euphemia and Fleamont are placed on the mantel, they will be privy to all the doings around here. The gallery room was set up centuries ago. It was for the Master or Mistress of the house to confer with them but not have them nosing around the other paintings to observe what's going on and interfering." Harry's eyes narrowed, trying to ensure he understood what Florean was telling him. He snickered. "So there, like in solitary confinement, and I'm letting these four out for good behaviour?" Florean laughed. "Yes, not the analogy I would use, but it works. Just let me know when you'd like to take a visit."

Read more on AO3: The Azkaban Letters, Chapter 13

Updates every Tuesday! Enjoy your week, Rom