#i have so many silly facts just bookmarked and keeping them on Hand!!

[jazzzzzzhands]

Could you do a small doodle of Wally and Home hugging? (Clown said Home hugs wally by squishing him between the door and the door frame)

Oh!! I actually have drawn this exact thing before!! BUT!! Have another TidBit!! Wally is a little woeful that he cannot fit into a miniature Home!!!

[leosficlist]

Post S3 Getting Together

Here for your reading pleasure are the fics I had bookmarked that take place after Series 3 or diverge from canon somewhere in there. Post-Mary, some acknowledging the wedding, a few with Rosie.

Lines Written In Kensington Gardens by CaitlinFairchild 6.1k words

Thirty-five was the established boundary, Sherlock decided after extensive calculations. He would be dead by thirty-five. That was the kind of man he was. That was the kind of life he lived.

At thirty-four, a year before his appointed rendezvous with oblivion, Sherlock met a man. Nobody special, or so he thought, an ordinary man--who soon proved extraordinary, a man who killed without hesitation to protect a life Sherlock cared nothing about.

This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes lived long enough to grow old.

Vena Cava by SilentAuror 27.4k

Sherlock has been shot in the chest; John has been shot in the heart. Though everything is broken, they do their best to heal the wounds that Mary left on them both.

All Wrapped Up by ThorntonsHeart 4.9k words

“John is back in Baker Street where he belongs but the Christmas present wrapping isn't going well! Of course, it's just another one of Sherlock's amazing gifts that he can wrap anything. John challenges him to prove it. Silliness ensues, chances are taken and the boys finally get everything they ever wanted for Christmas.”

notes: slight pwp, but romantic and lovely getting together

Nobody, Not Even the Rain, has Such Small Hands by miss_frankenstein 3.6k

“Will you need fresh socks?”

Sherlock’s voice immediately brings John back to the present. “What?”

Sherlock gestures irritably to the wet socks clutched in John’s hand. “Socks,” he says again sharply because he hates repeating himself, “Will you need fresh socks?”

notes: set somewhere in S3, John finally seizes his chance with Sherlock, Mary be damned. kinda arguing pre-confession

Your Daughter by agirlsname 9.3k words

Five times Sherlock held John's baby and one time he held John.

John didn't forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock, so the end of HLV didn't happen. When the baby comes John lives with Sherlock at Baker Street, and they take care of the newborn together. Sherlock adores her more than he's prepared for. Oh, and he might have something important to confess to John...

notes: absolutely beautiful devotional from Sherlock to the babygirl, who has no name mentioned.

Right Hand Man by SilentAuror 42k words

When John's left arm becomes paralysed after a car accident, Mary asks Sherlock to take him back to Baker Street to recuperate, as she's about to give birth. Despite the fact that the search for Moriarty is ongoing, Sherlock takes John in and takes responsibility for overseeing his rehabilitation as he adjusts to the loss of his arm.

notes: loved their slow paced getting together, heart clenching intimacy. post s3 in that it acknowledges that Mary shot Sherlock.

Are you happy? by amateurwriter 2.9k words

"The only option is, that you have some sort of a plan. Some crazy, brilliant plan that requires me living with her. So please, Sherlock. Tell me. I won't even be mad that you're keeping such essential things from me again. I promise. Just tell me. Tell me it's not much longer and I can come back here and just be with you like we were before. Tell me, Sherlock."

notes: porn with plot

Inked in Memory by 221b_hound 9.7k words

John has been back at Baker Street for a year, following the debacle that ended in Mary's death. Things are good. Back almost to what they used to be. Sherlock might wish they were something else, now, but he only has himself to blame, he thinks. It's too late, now, for the things he first denied before he'd ruined any chances he might have had.

Sherlock also thinks that people who get tattoos are idiots. But perhaps he's about to learn a thing or two, not least of which might be it's not as late as he thinks it is.

Many Happy Returns by sussexbound  5.5k

One did not surprise Sherlock Holmes on his birthday. It was not his ‘thing’. It was rarely appreciated. John knows this. He knows, but… [] But John can’t forget. [] All those things only made John love him more, but therein lies the problem, and the source of all his current turmoil. John loves Sherlock.

The Romance Was There by apliddell 4k words

In which Sherlock reveals his merits as a housekeeper, and a few other things, too.

notes: christmastime, domestic fluffy, harry over for the holidays, sharing a bed, sherlock writes a love letter

Eggs and Toast and Love Confessions by allonsys_girl 10.3k words

These two really are such idiots, but they figure it out in the end.

notes: loved their characterizations and their chemistry, realistic first time after getting together, john's bad at talking about his feelings

State of Flux by Atiki 24.6k

John’s marriage is over and he is finally back home (i.e. at Baker Street, where he belongs). Sherlock is awfully insecure and John is awfully hesitant, and they're both awkward idiots, of course, but they figure it out. Many First Times happen.

notes: love how they talk about their feelings, slowburn that doesn't drag

The Date (reprise) by distantstarlight 1.9k words

Sherlock Holmes is feeling low and blue but John is having none of it. It's Christmas Eve, and things to do.

notes: fluffy christmas getting together, mentions of mary so putting it in post s3

The Dread Pirate Roberts by loveanddeathandartandtaxes�� 1.2k words

"We first need to know if this new Moriarty is as… zealous as the last.” “I bet your boyfriend wasn’t secretly a lying assassin who tried to kill your best friend, though,” I can’t resist grumbling. Ever the drama queen, he throws his hands in the air and sighs loudly. “Can we please - just - focus, John?” Putting my hand to my face, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I just thought having boyfriends wasn’t a thing you did.”

notes: if you like john leaving mary for sherlock

[missameliep]

Title: In a Little Book Shop - Part 1

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3k

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

A/N: English is not my native language; there's one swear word; the poetry in bold blue letters are from Pablo Neruda's Poema 14 from "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada"; and Hayley Parker is @rosesnink's OC and I'm borrowing her.

Noe, I hope I did Hayley justice. This is just a silly little idea I had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

The Brahms’ piece playing in the back of the store swells in crescendo to a loud forte, almost muffling the sharp sound of the ancient brass bell at the door.  

Like every other Tuesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock sharp, the deliveryman walked in. Head bobbing to the music playing into that gigantic white headset he never takes off, today he was carrying only one brown box that almost matched the shade of the company’s uniform.  

The man nodded to Ernest Sinclaire, who had been sprucing up the counter for the past forty minutes, despite it already looking neat when he started or the fact that less and less customers have stopped by these past weeks. Not to mention most of the people who did cross the threshold were solely interested in the shop’s AC. With the heatwave, people certainly have fled London, he keeps telling himself.  

But he could be wrong.  

Printed books might have gone out of fashion this season like some insist. 

The situation has been so critical, he’s been considering his friend Bart’s suggestion of turning part of the antique bookshop into a cafeteria. 

‘A book ‘slash’ coffee shop. It’s trending', the man often says. However, Ernest is less than thrilled with the idea of fiddling with the antique shelves his father dedicated so many hours and love to restore years ago. Except for the improvement in the acclimatization and the profusion of autobiographies, the shop looks exactly like it did at its inauguration day in 1816. The framed lithographs in the entrance testify of the superb work.  

Almost bouncing, the deliveryman quickly crossed the distance between them, not sparing a second glance around, which Ernest always considers a shame. Does he even realize this bookshop has outlived 7 kings and 2 queens? 

Putting down a box with the handmade bookmarks commissioned to the talented artist Annabelle Parssons, Ernest signed the electronic receipt and took the brown box from the deliveryman’s hand. After the usual polite but wordless interaction, the man left. He was alone again when. The only sounds on the store from the first notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnals and the pens pushed aside to reach the pair of scissors in the top drawer.  

Like always, he unpacked and carefully inspected the content of the box. Taking one by one, he examines the book covers, searching for any sign of damage. This time the box is filled to the brim with several copies of two cookbooks that trend whenever another season of the Great British Bake Off starts.  

Cookbooks and travel guides are the best-selling items. Despite his personal opinions, he won’t complain if they keep the businesses going. Occasionally a customer after them might accept one or two of his recommendations or be drawn by the siren’s call of one of the poetry books or new authors he strategically places around the store.  

It happened to that young Spanish writer whose thrilling debut fantasy trilogy became the hit of the store last Christmas. He’s not ashamed to admit he had his friend Bart rambling about the story whenever a new customer arrived nor the way he made use of the beautiful art of the cover. Some of the customers were instantly drawn to the fiery red head in the cover – he cannot blame them though, since he was mesmerized by the heroine’s beauty himself – but most of them returned merely days later to buy the other books. Which reminds him to write a note to himself to place an order for more copies of the author’s new trilogy. 

A fit of laughter from a small child outside draws his attention from the paper and he smiles. His gaze follows the kid and the middle-aged woman holding their hand until they disappear after passing the large side window. The store’s location in the corner of two busy streets is privileged and is a perfect spot for people watching.  

Across the street, a pair of young women, who look too young to be drinking, linger by the pub’s door, and a group of teenagers walk past the door but don’t look twice at the windows. They are probably going to the ice-cream parlour two stores down.   

Keeping himself busy, he takes the recently arrived box. While moving some books aside to give space to the new ones without messing the systematic alphabetical and subject order, a copy of The Tucci Cookbook slips from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thump. Kneeling to pick it up, a glimpse of someone outside catches his attention. An indistinct mass of blonde hair moves quickly, almost running. A second later, the bell rings sharply and hits the base producing a long higher pitched sound, like it does whenever someone opens the door with too much force. 

“For fuck’s sake!” The angry feminine voice startles him. There’s some mumbling while the door closes with a soft click.  

From where he is knelt, he only catches a glimpse of a pair of high heeled black leather boots, which is a rather unusual choice for a scorching day like this. The heels click sharply against the wooden tiles, while she moves around the store.  

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he speaks to make his presence acknowledged, while pulling himself up and returning the book to the appropriate place.  

Moving around the box, he finally comes face to face with the woman, who had just removed an ash blonde wig from her head and was trying to shove it inside a small studded leather backpack. 

The woman’s hair is dark and glued to the head with a mix of sweat and some kind of greasy product, and her makeup is heavy, covering her face almost like a mask. The long and thick fake eyelashes look like spider legs and it’s hard to even distinguish the colour of her eyes. Not that he is trying to, of course. It was a polite gaze. Not even a gaze; barely a glimpse that allowed him to acknowledge the bright enticing eyes. 

Dressed all in black – black tank top, black sequin leggings, black heeled boots –, she looks like one of the artists that perform in The Club at Margaret Street. Even her lips are painted in a shade of ripe plum, almost black. If she’s one of the famous ones and is trending on Spotify or whatever is cool this week, he definitely cannot tell. Or maybe she’s just another TikToker committed to the art of making the most entertaining videos according to Bart, who often shoves the mobile into his nose to show the next Amy Winehouse, and wants to revel on the AC. As long as she doesn’t mess with the books and at least buy a bookmark, he’s fine with it. 

The woman zips up the bag and shoots him an inquisitive look. 

“Cat ate your tongue?” she asks and there’s a lilt of laughter in her tone. His gaze meets hers, and she looks pleased with his reaction and not offended, even though he’s been silent for impolitely long. 

His first guess might be right. She’s probably famous and he’s pulling a William Thacker again. And her eyes are brown in this light.  

He straightens himself and clears his throat.  

“Welcome to Ledford Park Bookshop. How can I help you, miss?”  

“I’m buying a gift.” 

“Anything in mind?” 

“A book.” 

Her wide teasing smile almost makes him smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his usual bookseller unbothered expression that some might mistake by grumpiness, which is not. It’s professional and he’s learned from past mistakes: smiling freely encourages idle conversation. 

“I was thinking about poetry. Something sensual,” she speaks the last word with an accent. “Do you have anything?” 

“The Erotica section is in the back.” 

“Perfect!” she replies while looking over her shoulder at the window. There’s a hint of relief in her words and the sigh she let out, but perhaps he was mistaking it by the effects of the heat. 

Her heels click rhythmically following him to the back of the store, and he stops himself from glancing over his shoulders and let’s his mind picture the way her hips sashay instead. 

In a second, they’re surrounded by shelves dedicated to erotic poetry, art catalogues and a range of classic authors like Sappho and Ovid, to best-selling from the 20th century like Pablo Neruda.  

A smug grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as she looks around, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is the most frequent reaction to the extensive collection. Just one of the many treasures that pleases the regular customers, who keep coming back for more books, more enlightening conversations, more ideas for their own books.  

“Poetry is over there,” he points at the neatly arranged books on her right side.  

Looking over her shoulder, she asks, “Any Spanish authors?”  

Taking a deep breath to consider, his lungs are filled with her sexy and intoxicating perfume. It emanates from her body and hangs heavily in the air. His attention is caught by it like flies on spiderwebs. It takes all his willpower to remind himself of the question. To free himself from the web, he walks around her, trying to clear his mind, and his eyes settle on the section reserved to books written in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. 

“Are you familiar with Pablo Neruda?” 

“He’s Chilean,” she corrects him without missing a beat. 

“You are absolutely correct. Most people mean books written in Spanish, I simply assumed that’s what you meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she speaks bluntly, “I don’t walk around expecting recognition about my intellectual capacity or general culture. Especially not from men.” 

She slowly and deliberately walks in front of him, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a menacing but also hypnotizing glow to her eyes, almost catlike, what it’s probably enhanced by the eyeliner, but mostly because her eyes resemble those of big felines one would see in wildlife’s documentaries, it’s the same look when they are ready to jump an antelope. And her big defying eyes are definitely grey.  

With maybe hints of blue in this light.  

She turns around and deliberately sashays back to him. Smiling, she takes the book from his hand. Her mouth curls into a smile, wide and showing her a hint of her teeth, and it makes her look prettier. Pretty. She’s pretty. Not enough to tempt him, but pretty enough to have people composing sonnets about long legs and shapely lips. Not him. He’s not thinking at all about how desirable her lips look. 

Flipping through pages of the book, she starts reading one of the sonnets in perfect Spanish. But not any of them, she’s reading his favourite one.  

When she changes language, her voice is melodious in an unexpected way, it loses the edge, every word sounds like coated in honey.  

Entranced, Ernest cannot avert his gaze from her lips while she reads.

Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote.  Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. Hasta te creo dueña del universo.  Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues,  Avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos. 

Before he realises, he’s reciting the verses with her, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Tilting her face up, her eyes flick from the page to his face. Her gaze burns his skin. She looks straight at him. Perhaps she’s looking straight to something hidden inside his eyes.  

Her voice fades and he recites alone the last two verses. 

Quiero hacer contigo  Lo que la primavera hace com los cerezos. 

Her expression changes, lighting up almost as if a treasure had been unearthed in front of her eyes. 

“¡Guay! ¡Hablas Español!” she cries, and the next words flow quickly and excitedly from her lips, and he cannot follow them at all, except for a few of the nouns and pronouns. His knowledge of the language is practically non-existent: he poorly reads and can only speak a few sentences to save his life in case of a catastrophe. 

“Sorry, I don’t. I only know some of Neruda’s poems by heart, and that’s one of them.” 

He lowers his gaze, shame burning his cheeks and warming him more than the heatwave had done so far. His fingers go to the collar of his white shirt, and pull at it, loosening it slightly. 

“For a moment, you could have fooled me.” Her words sound too flirty, almost daring.  

Is it a dare? Would she want me to pretend? 

Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners when she laughs. It’s impossible to look direct at her eyes, like one cannot look at an eclipse, risking burn their retinas. The intensity of her gaze probably does the same. His gaze wanders, then focus on the shelves, from one book spine to the next.   

“Why learning the poems if you don’t speak the language?” Her long fingers run through the spines of books, stopping his contemplation. “Trying to impress the ladies?” 

The silence stretches for a bit, giving him time to think; he stares at her, considering if she’d be truly interested in the truth. 

“My father worked with publishing,” he started, and his voice did not falter or waver as it would years ago; it’s easier to speak about him, almost comforting as if planting these memories like seeds, they’d bloom... “Every summer I’d work a few days a week at the office... When I was fourteen, he was working on a collection of Neruda’s poems and... well, that’s it.” 

“That's it? That's barely a story,” she laughed. “So, what happened? You memorised the poems to impress your father or something...?” 

He shook his head and delved into the memories of the suffocating summer surrounded by manuscripts and heated arguments about the imagery invoked by the cherry trees. “Father was a man easy to please. I never felt the urge to impress him. It always seemed that being myself was enough...” 

“Lucky you.” The hollow laugh that left her mouth startled him, but she recomposed herself. When she spoke again it wasn’t a question, but a statement, “Your father taught you about poetry.” 

“He taught me most things, including the tragedy of translators ignoring the profound differences between cultures and the meaning lost in translation when the works is rushed, and one chooses literality over intent... I was probably too young at the time to truly understand all he was trying to say... But I noticed in Spanish the poems sounded...” he paused, searching for a word. “More poetic somehow... Melodic in a different way... And then I memorised this one. And plenty of others –” 

“Which ones?” she cuts him off, and he’s about to answer – and Ernest suspects her feline eyes would compel him to answer questions until his throat was sore and his mind emptied of words – but the phone rang.  

With a sigh, he excuses himself. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate in calling me.” 

“I won’t.” The same expression from before returns, and so is the sharpness behind the words. 

He walks behind the counter to take the call, and he can no longer see the woman; for once, he’s not worried about shoplifting.  

The call takes longer than he wishes, and his patience almost runs out when the caller keeps inquiring about books’ covers that would match a specific shade of purple. The person doesn’t know the name of the author or genre, just that it's trending online.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose.

Any other day, this wouldn’t bother him, and he’d welcome the challenge, putting the phone down, he’d look around, like an archaeologist digging a site. But now he must go back to this one customer, because he needs to serve well. Nothing else. 

“Maybe you should stop by. We’re open until 20:00.” 

The person reluctantly thanks him and hangs up. 

Ernest’s eyes search the monitor underneath the counter. She’s moved to the shelves on the side of the store, next to the psychology section, closer to Jung. 

There’s a book close to her face, but her gaze is not on the pages. 

“Have you changed your mind about the gift?” he asks softly trying not to startle her or sound pretentious but fails.

Her shoulders tense and heave with an intake of breath, before she turns around to look at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Should I take the Neruda, or should I browse some more?” she asks breezily, one side of her mouth curled with a smirk, “I wonder if there’s something else more... suitable for my taste...” 

“By all means,” he replies politely, “Feel free to look and see if there’s anything else, you’d prefer.” 

“I definitely will.” She glides amongst the tall shelves closer to the window, then halts and looks at him over her shoulder. He was observing her, and his cheeks warm at being noticed.  

“Our bestselling books are over that table,” he says and returns to the task of organizing cook books but still observes her.   

Finally, her heels click as she comes to him.  

“I know what I want,” she says casually, and the book in her hand passes to his hand.  

Neruda.  

Her fingers graze his, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard the surprise. That’s the most human contact he’s had in several weeks, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Not anything else. His heart is racing because he’s shocked. This entire interaction has been incredibly odd. 

From the backpack, she takes a few notes to pay for the book. The money is placed in the counter, and so is the change. His attention is entirely focused on gift-wrapping the book, and not once he looks at her while doing it.  

When the package is passed to her hand, she thanks him, says goodbye and leaves.  

He never gets a name; but she lingers by the door and smiles pointedly at him before closing it. Surrounded by a cloud of her perfume, he wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of her. 

Thanks for reading!

[crowned-ladybug]

For the writing asks, 8, 12, 21 for a fic of your choice, 40, and 47 for a fic of your choice because I think it's such a silly fun question!

Thank you!! <3

8. What song would make a great fic (to either write or read)?

I don't write nor read songfics nowadays but in terms of inspiration? Rubs my evil lil hands together. I love every excuse to throw songs at ppl

last to fall by starset, bc there's too many fics about ppl kissing and not enough fics about whatever the fuck is going on here featuring something ancient and lonely and benevolent

summer skeletons by radical face, which Yes i Have in fact used lyrics from as a title before, but like. the vibes. gimme fic with these vibes. this is what your childhood friends AU should feel like whether it's about lifelong friends or friends-to-strangers or whatever else

pay no rent by turnpike troubadours, with the knowledge that this song is about the artist's cool aunt so i need this to be Specifically applied to platonic/familial relationships for fic pls and thank you

12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you?

I don't have a grand one for this bc for the life of me i can't recall doing a complete 180° on a trope like this, But: fake dating/fake married

Not bc i used to Hate it and now i Love it but more bc it turns out it's not all annoying always, the problem is that every damn fake relationship fic i met for years and years was specifically focused on awkwardness and pining and kissing for practice and then having to make a whole deal out of fake-breaking-up and-

Well turns out if it's instead about two ppl who, regardless of whether they harbour romantic feelings for the other or not, are having a grand ole time running this con they embarked on for the sake of necessity/spite/financial gain/what have you, it can be entertaining as hell. You just gotta write it right. It's not about the awkwardness and the miscommunication, it's about being an impossible lil shit

(The only two examples I had any hand in from the past idk how many years are unfortunately deep in the depths of my DMs with Dima, but trust me. We did it justice)

21. If you wrote a “missing scene” in so here's to believing in ghosts, what would it be?

Simply the first fic to come to mind with an actual answer, let's go

It'd be one of the very, Very few times Rafe found Nate, survived the encounter, and the two of them stuck together for a lil while. Because i feel like wherever that could've gone could've been Interesting, but it unfortunately didn't make the cut for the sake of the already bloated as hell scene count and the flow i was Trying to achieve

40. Do you tend to reread fics or are you a one-and-done kind of person?

I am Big on rereading, both my own stuff, stuff of ppl I know, and select fics by strangers that Live In My Brain. I only started actually using ao3 bookmarks Very recently so a lot of stuff is kinda just lost to me in that regard now, but yes, fics get reread A Whole Lot

47. If i don't know where (confused about how as well) was a pair of shoes, what kind would it be? Describe the shoes.

It's like a pair of old sneakers that you really should throw out by now but also keep justifying keeping bc like Technically they're still good for gardening or something okay, yes i know that the sides are cracked all the way down to the soles and the fabric is starting to tear out and some of the rings lining the holes the laces go in have come loose, and you never quite managed to get out the marker scribbles from that one time in class and- okay. Look. It's old as shit and falling apart and you're Emotionally Attached to it bc you wore it for Years so even if you never wear it again it can just sit on the shoerack or in a hallway cabinet or something until it crumbles to dust

Which is fitting considering "true and tried and covered in mud" is also a p good way to describe Raz and Lili's lifelong friendship in general

-

Questions list

[bethansfandoms]

landa on instagram asked for a prompt where “remus has a really horrible moon and has to stay extra long in the hospital wing. but sirius spoils him rotten with chocolate, reading to him and more.”

i feel this prompt got a little bit away from me so sorry about that! here:

“sirius.”

sirius actually yelped; the voice had caught him off guard and he let go of remus’ hand instantly. “madam pomfrey,” he said, turning around. “uh... i can explain?”

“please do. i am rather curious about how you got back in here considering i showed you out about...” she checked her watch, “two hours ago. all students should be in their dormitories, sirius. it’s late.”

he sighed. “yeah. i know. sorry.” he cast a long glance back at remus who was yet to wake up from last nights moon. he still felt so guilty about it.

leaving the shack was something they’d done plenty of times before. why it had gone so differently last night he wasn’t even sure. the wolf had obviously got a scent of something though because it was adamant about going towards the school rather than into the forrest.

james had had to push him back as he had the largest animagus form. they’d hurt him. sirius knew they had. the tree had leapt back into action and before peter could creep through and touch the knot, james and sirius had pushed the wolf right into it.

when remus had transformed back, he’d been awake for a few fleeting moments but quickly lost consciousness again.

and now sirius had to do the very thing he hated doing every month after the moon: leave him. well, again, seeing as though he’d used the invisibility cloak to get back in. he couldn’t believe madam pomfrey hadn’t noticed for a whole two hours.

“no potter or pettigrew?”

sirius chuckled, “no. no, it’s late like you said. it’s a hogsmeade weekend tomorrow too so they need rest.”

“so do you, sirius,” she said sympathetically.

“yeah i know. do you... do you mind if you just give me a sec? i’ll be out in a minute i promise.”

madam pomfrey nodded and drew the curtains back around remus’ bed.

sirius swiftly took remus’ hand back in his own and squeezed it. he knew remus was okay. it was just a bad moon, it happened sometimes. it still sucked, though, because sirius had thought becoming an animagus meant he’d be able to stop it happening anymore.

he brushed a strand of hair away from remus’ eyes and kissed his temple. he’d be awake tomorrow, madam pomfrey had healed his broken bones with magic but he needed to be awake to take the rest of his potions.

“sirius.” madam pomfrey stopped him before he could make it out the door. she sighed. “are you planning on going to hogsmeade tomorrow?”

“no. no i, uh, was going to come back here.”

“i thought as much. you know about visiting hours. however, tomorrow i’m not expecting many students as most of them won’t be here. if you come after breakfast, you’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

sirius beamed at her. “thank you.”

sirius went to breakfast with james and peter the next morning. shovelling down some toast as quickly as possible and wishing the other gryffindor seventh years well as they left for the village. then, he bounded through the corridors towards the dormitory. he wanted to get some things first.

“sirius,” madam pomfrey smiled. “he’s awake and he’s fine. keeping him in today just to make sure his ribs heal okay but if all goes to plan i’ll discharge him for dinner this evening.”

“brilliant, thank you.” sirius drew remus’ bed curtains; a chair was already next to his bed. “moony.”

remus smiled, “you could’ve gone to hogsmeade, you know. i wouldn’t have cared.”

sirius rolled his eyes and sat down, kissing remus firmly on the lips. “i’m glad you’re awake. i got you chocolate.” he rummaged around in his bag and gave it to him.

“what on earth for?”

“get well soon? i love you? do i need a reason to but you nice things?”

“thank you, padfoot. love you too.”

sirius broke out into a smile and kissed his forehead. “madam pomfrey said i could stay all day. if you want me too of course.”

“don’t be silly. obviously i want you here. i’m just... i’m shattered. i know i only just woke up but...”

“that’s okay. i picked up your book, by the way. incase you wanted it?”

“could you...” remus looked down at his hands. “could you read to me?”

“of course.” sirius dug out the book. “budge up.”

“sirius, i don’t think we can both fit on this bed anymore.”

sirius shrugged. “guess we’ll have to be close then. budge up.” remus laughed but did it anyway. they could both just about fit on the bed. sirius had an arm around remus and remus had to cuddle up to sirius, head on his chest. sirius couldn’t imagine remus minded that much.

“shall i just go from where it’s bookmarked?”

remus closed his eyes and hummed, “yeah, sure. don’t expect me to stay awake for long though.”

he didn’t. sirius barley managed a chapter before he noticed remus was no longer listening. he then realised that he couldn’t exactly move now, though.

sirius put the book down on the little bedside table and hugged remus tighter. it wasn’t even noon yet. he felt himself drifting off nonthless. maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t slept the night of the moon and hadn’t slept amazingly last night either. maybe it was remus’ slow, steady breathing.

that was how madam pomfrey found them an hour later. fast asleep and limbs wrapped tightly around each other, sirius’ head resting on top of remus’. it was almost comedic, the bed was far too small for two fully grown boys. she decided to leave them be.

[asian-hero]

oh also, wouldn’t it be funny for like, momo, iida, bakugou (basically the parent friends) finding out that their s/o listens to their music on full blast when they’re using earbuds/headphones and is just choosing to go deaf?? (totally not exposing myself lmao -❤️)

A/N: Honestly that’s me too, and every time I have to get my hearing checked I get nervous because of how loud I play my music 

Bakugou Katsuki

Katsuki would be the first to judge you, but have absolutely no room to talk

This man, while it may seem as though he’s reckless and careless, he’s anything but. Of course, he goes to bed at eight, but he also makes sure that he eats a balanced dish for every meal of the day in order to get all of the nutrients that’s needed to sustain his body, he also keeps up with his hygiene, and he also makes sure that whenever he’s listening to music or watching a video, he tries his best to turn it to the lowest volume he can while still being able to hear what’s playing

Though, of course, with his quirk comes some negative setbacks, such as being hard of hearing, which is why he often ends up yelling most of the time, just so he can hear himself and make sure that he’s saying the right thing

However, when he walks up to you one day, screaming your name, he’s extremely surprised to see that you don’t flinch, or even acknowledge that he’s there. At first, he just assumes that you’re trying to be a smart ass by “pretending” to not hear him, so he yells your name again, a bit louder than before. When you still don’t respond, he wonders if he did anything to upset you that day, and takes a seat next to you, finally gaining your attention when he puts his hand on your thigh

Of course, you jump slightly, turning to face him while pulling an earbud out of your ear, looking at him with such a confused expression while asking if he needed anything from you. He stares at you for a few moments, just silently wondering how loud your music was playing for you not to be able to hear him. So, like the gremlin he is, he pulls your other earbud out, and puts them both in his own ears, finding himself surprised when the noise blasting from your phone hurts his ears

Not even a second had passed when he rips them out and yells at you about why your music is up so loud, if you want to go deaf, if you have hearing problems. When you tell him that’s just how you like it, he looks at you as if you’re the stupidest person on the planet. 

Snatching your phone away, he holds down the volume button, and you watch as it slowly lowers down to a more acceptable range for him. He then shoves the earbuds back into your ears and moves your phone away from your grasp, not allowing you to even try and touch the settings

Though you’re annoyed at the fact that your music is much quieter, you feel a sense of giddiness in the pit of your stomach, knowing that Katsuki cares about you, even if it is in his own harsh, abrasive way

Resting your head on his shoulder, you close your eyes, allowing yourself to drift into another place, all the while Katsuki has a pretty pink blush on his cheeks, though if anyone were to call him out, he’d shove you off and vehemently deny it

Iida Tenya

Tenya, while he means well, can often be overbearing and obnoxious when it comes to the sake of your health

Most of the time, he’s extremely strict and responsible, purely because that’s how he’s always been, ever since he was a little kid, but he also tends to be a bit more strict when it comes to you, because he wants you to thrive and be happy and healthy, so he often asks you questions like “have you eaten yet?” or “when did you go to sleep last night?”

It’s very sweet, and you know he comes from a place of good intentions, but sometimes it can be rather annoying

One day, while the two of you were just relaxing on the couch, with him reading a book and you scrolling through your phone, your music blasting through your headphones, he noticed just how loud you were playing your music. After all, he was able to hear it, and he wasn’t even wearing them, so he worried about how loud it was for you. Setting down his book, he gently called your name, waiting to see your response. When you didn’t respond to him, he called once more, except a little louder, and in the tone he usually reserved for scolding your classmate. When you still didn’t respond, he moved himself in front of your face, making you freeze a bit in surprise, before a cute smile brightens your face

Pulling your headphones out, you tilt your head in confusion, asking if everything was okay, how his book was, just mundane things that were making Tenya question whether or not he should scold you for your unhealthy habit. However, his rational side took over, and he asked how loud you were listening to your music, since he could hear it

When you sheepishly smiled, rubbing your neck in embarrassment, he sighed, shaking his head as he started his little rant about how you shouldn’t listen to your music that loud, that it could cause serious damage to your eardrums, and that it would impact your overall health. Of course, he didn’t use his “strict” voice with you, but he did make it sound as though it wasn’t a request to turn down your volume, more so of a demand. You told him that you’d make more of an effort to be conscious of your volume, and that seemed as good enough of an answer for him

So, as the two of you got back into your positions, with you resting your back against his arm, and him going back to the page he bookmarked, you two fell into another comfortable silence, with your music being lowered down significantly

Of course, whenever he wasn’t with you, you’d subconsciously turn it back up, being used to it blaring through your headphones, but whenever he was with you, he’d simply take your phone from your hand, lowering the volume while giving you such a sweet smile that you couldn’t really deny him

Yaoyorozu Momo

There’s a reason for why many people considered Momo to be the “mom friend” of the group

She’s always the one that’s checking up on her friends, making sure that they ate well that day, if they were doing alright, and if anyone needed something, she’d be the first to show up on their doorstep with at least several different kinds of items

When it comes to you, her partner whom she absolutely adores and wants to see succeed in everything that you set your mind to, she almost becomes a mother hen of sorts. She’ll always be fussing about, making sure that you’re as comfortable as possible, even going out of her way to get you things that she knows you like, just so she can see that adorable smile across your face

Momo also texts you at least five times a day, one saying good morning, one asking if you had anything for breakfast, another for lunch, asking if you wanted to eat dinner together, and finally, one that told you good night and just how much she loves you. Every day she texts you that same five core messages without fail, and if you don’t respond to her within thirty minutes or so, she’ll just show up to wherever you are and check in on you herself

So, while the two of you were working out together, of course in her own private gym, she finally noticed one of your bad habits: having your music turned up to max volume while having your headphones in

At first, she was simply doing some cardio, while not-so-subtly checking you out as you lifted weights. However, she could hear something very faintly, almost as though someone were playing music from the floor above. But as she finished up her run and headed closer to you, she noticed that the noise was getting progressively louder and louder, up until she was standing right next to you, and she could hear your music perfectly clear. She waited until you finished up your final set, not wanting to startle you when you were working out, but as soon as you put the weights back, wiping the sweat from your forehead, she simply plucked out one of your earbuds, a small frown on her face

When you asked her what was wrong, she answered you by asking if your ears were hurting, or if you needed something to aid your hearing. At first, you were confused, unsure of where she got that idea. However, as she continued to glance at you, and then to your headphone, then back to you, you finally realized that she could hear you from across the gym. Laughing, you told her that you like to blast your music whenever you’re working out, and that you didn’t mean to disrupt her workout

She instead told you that you could never bother her, but she was concerned about your hearing, and suggested that you lower it just a bit, or, even better, just play it through a speaker, since she didn’t mind your music taste. Because you didn’t want to worry her, since she was always making sure that you were happy and healthy, you agreed to play your music out loud instead

So now every time the two of you go to workout, you connect your phone to the speaker, and the two of you jam out while you work out, and your sessions often end with the two of you dancing together, albeit a little silly. Though you wouldn’t change it for the world

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Long Lost Love // Part Two (D.M.)

Summary: For seven years, you watched the highs and falls of Draco Malfoy’s life. Fifteen years after twenty four letters were left unanswered, he stands on your doorstep declaring his love. What do you do?

A/N: Part two to my mini series for @stupxfy‘s two weeks of angst! The reaction to the first part really did. blow me away. I hope you like this part just as much! (There are some parts that are going to be similar, if not the exact same as the first part, that is so the story flows. This is from a different perspective after all.)

Warnings: pining, mutual pining, teenage love, teenage angst, kissing, making out, some swearing, brief mentions of the battle of hogwarts, mentions of food and drink, anxiety, nightmares.

Word count: 3k

Part One

Twenty two years ago:

By the end of your first week at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, there wasn’t a student or teacher who did not know the name Draco Malfoy.

At eleven years old, he held the arrogance of a man much older and much more experienced with the wiles of the world. At such a young age, he held the air of someone holding court. His small group of friends banding around him, watching him with expressions undefined.

At eleven years old, Draco Malfoy already started to hold the world in his hands.

At eleven years old, you knew to stay away – to protect yourself from the hurt that seemed to follow the young blonde boy wherever he went.

Nineteen years ago:

At fourteen years old, the whole school is still very much aware of Draco Malfoy’s presence. His family’s reputation preceding him; the pressure of the Malfoy name sitting heavily upon the teenager’s shoulders.

The friendship began on a Saturday.

A memorable enough day for you to remember exactly what day of the week it was. The day is seared into your mind for the fact that it had been a Hogsmeade weekend, and Draco hadn’t gone. He hadn’t missed a Hogsmeade visit since being granted permission, but for some reason he had chosen to miss this particular weekend.

And he had joined you in the library.

At fourteen years old, you were very much aware of Draco Malfoy and his title of the Slytherin Prince. At fourteen years old, you knew very well to stay away.

For a while he didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say; that’s what he’ll admit to you in a couple of years, when you lie on his chest, reminiscing.

His first words to you are your name. They’re whispered, quiet in the hush of the library, “(Y/N)?”

You startle, losing your place in your book, “Draco?”

He points down to your book, a shy smile on your face, “What are you reading?”

You feel your cheeks begin to heat; the familiar flush that accompanies your explanation of your love for fantasy novels that include a love triangle between two boys that are as equally as swoon-worthy as the other. You clear your throat, “A fantasy novel that I’ve been meaning to read for a while.”

Draco sits himself down across from you, resting his elbows on the table, looking somewhat intrigued. He doesn’t an offer an explanation for why he sits down, and you don’t ask for one. You’re happy enough to talk to the teenager that had manage to strike fear in the hearts of many of the students in the school; to decide for yourself whether Draco’s bite is worse than his bark.

“Are you enjoying it so far?” He asks, eyes focused on you rather than the book in your hands.

You glance down to the pages, your bookmark tucked away neatly. Nodding your head, you reply, “I am. I’ve read other books by this author and I’ve yet to find a book I dislike by them.”

Draco nods, not wanting to talk any further. Puzzled, you shrug your shoulders, disregarding the conversation with the Slytherin Prince as a moment of madness on his behalf, returning to the fantasy world of angels, demons, and gargoyle protectors.

It’s an odd interaction by any standard. He never offers his reasoning as to why he spoke to you, why he sat down and then stayed with you. Instead, Draco remains across the table from you, eyes roaming around the library before he eventually settles on watching you read, tracking the movement of each page.

As the day draws to an end, Draco stands and waits for you to collect your things. Silently, a friendship is forged between you both, and you cannot help but wonder how long this will last.

Seventeen years ago:

The greenhouses were ever so dark on an evening. The long tunnels are bathed in muted light due to the vines stretching their way across the roof, reminding you of hands reaching for their lovers in the middle of the night.

How many nights had you wandered the rows with Draco? Your hand reaching for his in the same way as the vines. His hand clasping yours like a Venus fly trap grips its prey.

Nights in the greenhouses were your favourite. Draco’s guard was dropped, revealing the shy mannered teenager you had fallen in love with. His arrogance: his anger – a façade to keep curious eyes at bay. There were very few he let in; you being the one he was most truthful to.

It was in the greenhouse and the hospital wing that you found Draco to be more his true self. It in those two locations that he forged more and more of who he wanted to be after Hogwarts.

He was playful; he was happy, and he was in love with you.

You smile to yourself as you step further into the greenhouse; remembering the night he had confessed his feelings to you, under this very roof. Draco hadn’t been prepared for your reaction, for to you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him. He hadn’t been prepared the first time, but he was definitely ready for the second, and the third, and the fourth.

“What are you thinking of?” His voice sounds close to your ear, making you jump.

Gasping, you whirl around, slapping Draco on the chest lightly. He laughs, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips. You glare at him playfully before answering, “For your information, I was thinking of the night you told me you loved me.”

Draco sighs happily, hooking an arm around your waist, pulling you to him. His free hand reaches up to stroke your cheek; his eyes shine with what can only be defined as joy and adoration. “That night features in my top ten nights of all time.”

“At what number?” You ask, leaning your cheek into his touch.

Draco tilts his head to one side, pretending to think it over. He waits a moment before answering, “Possibly number one.”

“Possibly?”

He laughs, dropping his hand from your face to settle on your waist. He ducks his head, his lips so close to yours they brush as he whispers, “Would it help to know that you feature in every one of my top ten nights?”

You tilt your face back, desperate for an ounce of pressure between your lips, “It helps some, but I think I have an idea of how you can really persuade me.”

“Oh?”

You hum in answer, finally connecting your lips in the kiss you had been longing for since you had met Draco in the Slytherin common room. It was hard, you realise, to keep your hands off him when he was in this sort of mood. Playful Draco was as intoxicating, if not more so, as he was when he was quiet and solemn. It felt silly, to be sixteen years old, and already declaring yourself in love, but here you were.

Breaking the kiss, you step back from the teenager that had somehow stolen your heart. Draco follows you instinctively, hands reaching for you. It sends a rush of warmth through your body,  but you force yourself to focus on the plan for the night. Things could easily slip downhill if you were to let yourself fall into the spell that Draco had managed to intricately weave around your heart and mind, connecting them both to him as his were connected to you.

“I say we get started for the night. We don’t want to let down Madame Pomfrey, do we?”

Draco huffs out a laugh, eyes bright as he watches you, “I suppose not. Let’s get started.”

“Name two purposes of Valerian Root,” You state, standing proudly by the flower known for its healing properties.

“To help someone sleep as well as to ease anxiety,” Draco answers, counting off the purposes on his fingers.

“Very good,” You laugh. You move quietly between the long rows of plants, still in awe that such plants could exist outside of their natural habitats. The wonder of magic, you think to yourself. You turn to Draco suddenly; happy to find his eyes already on you, “What is one danger of Black Henbane?”

Draco pauses his steps, eyes searching for the very flower you had spied only a moment ago. His mouth stretches into a small smile when he spies it hidden away at the back of the greenhouse – away from prying eyes and wandering hands. He walks over to you, remaining so close to you, you can feel the heat from his body as he answers, “As a member of the nightshade family, the plant can be toxic if used in large quantities.”

“Madame Pomfrey was right,” You splutter, happier and happier with his answers, “You’re going to make an incredible Healer, Draco Malfoy.”

You bite your lip, watching the heat creep up Draco’s neck to his cheeks. He ducks his head for a moment, unusually shy around you. “I don’t think I’ll get there if I don’t have you,” He admits, raising his head, meeting your gaze.

A satisfied smile spreads across your face. His admission practically heals something within you; an almost confirmation that Draco wants whatever the both of you have to last. “It’s a good job I’m in this for the long haul then isn’t it?”

“Are you really?” Draco asks; a funny tone to his voice, almost strained as if he can see something in the future.

You nod, determined. Reaching for his hand, you tangle your fingers together, wanting nothing more than to be close to him in this moment. “I’m here for however long you want me, Draco. If that means forever, then that means forever.”

Fifteen years ago:

The words are whispered so quietly you wonder whether you’ve heard him correctly, but then his hand drops yours and you watch him walk across the courtyard to be folded into the arms of the darkest wizard in a century.

“I’m sorry, forgive me.”

They reverberate in your head; clanging in your mind until they are all that you can hear. They repeat to the sound of your heart. Beating against your chest with such force you wonder whether the rest of the courtyard can hear your heart.

A broken sound leaves you; a sob mixed with a whimper drops from your lips as you attempt to follow the teenager you had pledged your forever to. Your eyes remain on Draco, watching as his mother reaches for him. You’re sure you scream his name over and over again, pushing through the crowd of remaining Hogwarts students, desperately, desperately trying to get to him.

A pair of hands grab at your waist, keeping you planted to the ground, stopping you from getting to him. “Don’t do it,” The hands all but shout, “Don’t follow him. He’s chosen his side.”

He had. He had chosen his side, and it hadn’t been with you. It’s then that you realise that whilst you had promised your forever, he had never promised you his.

--------

The letters are written out of hope. They’re written out of foolish hope that he would read them and come back to you. You write down your feelings for the blonde, displaying your love, expecting it to be thrown back in your face.

By writing down your feelings, you’re not only ridding yourself of the burden of the memories, but you’re laying down hope for a future you had promised years ago in the dark of a greenhouse.

Twenty four letters are sent.

There are no replies.

After the twenty fourth letter is sent, you wash your hands of the Slytherin Prince and the hurried kisses behind tapestries. You rid yourself of the memories of his smile and the feel of his hand in yours, of how his fingers would tangle with yours as he would press you against the wall, his lips seeking yours for a kiss that would be burnt into your memory. Deep down, though, you knew that it would be a while before you would free of the stain of his lips and hands.

He had chosen his side. The motive you would never know, but he had chosen nonetheless and now it was time for you to live your life.

Now:

The day began ordinarily. You woke with your husband; the sound of his alarm rousing the both of you. A day begun too early in your opinion. One you shared with your husband, happy at the sound of his laughter followed by the first of many kisses of the day.

The second kiss of the day landed on your mouth as you watched him head off to work. It had been a chance meeting the day you met your husband. Aiden had fallen to the floor in front of you; dramatically tripping over his own feet and untied shoelaces. After your laughter had dissipated, you had helped him up, asking for his name so you could see if he was hurt. He had stuttered his name out; already half in love with you, he later joked.

Waving Aiden off, you watch his car pull out of the driveway. Aiden hadn’t a lick of magic in him; completely and utterly ordinary save for the love he holds for you. His lack of magic had been part of the appeal; desperate to have a sense of ordinary after experiencing the extraordinary in your education.

He knew everything. Your magic wasn’t something you could keep secret, and he had accepted it as part of you, joking how much easier it would be to put the kettle on from another room.

It’s barely an hour later when a knock on the door sounds. Frowning, you automatically know it isn’t Aiden. He wouldn’t knock; he would walk straight in with a smile on his face and a greeting at the ready.

Pulling open the door, you feel your heart stop in your chest when you catch sight of the man standing on your doorstep.

Draco Malfoy.

The urge to run was overwhelming; adrenaline coiling your muscles tight, ready to spring to action in a moment’s notice. The last time you had seen the man standing before you, you were stood on the other side of the courtyard. The lines in your relationship very clearly drawn despite the letters written with love and hidden away with care, ready to be sent.

It had been fifteen years. Fifteen long years of wondering what you did wrong; of building yourself up from what he had broken into pieces; of finding a love you finally knew you deserved in the form of Aiden.

It had been fifteen years, and Draco Malfoy looked like hell.

Words fall from his mouth in a torrent; the explanation rushed out so fast it is hard to keep. You move to interrupt, to state the three words that would end it all now.

He doesn’t let you. Instead, he confesses his love for you. The love that had never died for him but had long been buried for you. He watches you in silence, watching the emotions flit over your face with a puzzled expression on his own. Draco didn’t seem to understand what was causing your hesitance, your silence on the matter.

“Draco…” You state, holding up your left hand for him to see the silver bands wrapping around the fourth finger – a sign of your love for Aiden, “I’m married.”

The effect is immediate. You watch as the fight leaves his body; as the hopelessness sets in, wringing his body for what it’s worth. The light dims in his eyes and you can the irreparable damage crack through the bright grey of eyes you once adored.

“Do you love him?” Draco asks; hating how the words taste on his tongue – bitter and filled with self-hatred. He cannot help himself; he has to know; this has to be the last nail in his self-built coffin.

You nod, feeling for the rings that have sat on your left hand for years now. “I do. I love him very much.”

“Does he treat you well?”

“Better than I deserve at times,” You admit, remembering the early days in your relationship with your husband. How he had been so patient when you woke up crying over the blonde haired man that now stood on your doorstep. How he had taken you in his arms and had not pushed; hadn’t questioned you like he wanted to – he let you cry it out and waited for you to come to him.

Years later and you still hadn’t thanked him enough for that.

Draco nods: blonde hair falling into his eyes which he pushes back with a weary movement of his hand. He steps back, a hand coming up to his chest. Whether it is an action of apology or a way to protect the heart that was now shattering in his chest, you did not know.

“I’m sorry,” He gasps, “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have done this, but I had to know.”

You step forward, one hand outstretched to the boy you had loved so fiercely at sixteen, “Draco…”

He shakes his head, face pained, “Please don’t. Don’t say my name.”

Tears fill your eyes; overwhelmed with the day already. “I’m sorry,” You whisper, “I hope you find someone. They’ll be as lucky as I was all those years ago.”

It’s the last straw. Draco’s heart shatters into unrecognisable dust in the cavity of his chest. His hands fall limply at his sides as his eyes run over your face one more time; committing to memory of what aging next to you would have looked like, what his future could have looked like if he had chosen you that day in the courtyard.

One more look is all he allows himself before he apparates away, running back to the safety of his home where he can mourn for the life he could have had in peace. If only he had spoken up, spoken out.

If only.

******

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @theweasleysredhair @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @idont-knowrn @lunalovegxxd @big-galaxy-chaos @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @stupxfy @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @starlightweasley @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lestersglitterglue @msmimimerton @obx-beach​ @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03 @bbeauttyybbx @breadqueen95 @acciotwinz​ @kashishwrites​ @slytherinsunrise​ @kylosleftbuttcheek​ @remmyswritings​ @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon​ @ria-rests-here​ @superbturtlemakerathlete​ @inglourious-imagines​ @ithilwen-lionheart​ @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown​ @ilovejjmaybank​ @theonly1outof-a-billion​ @phuvioqhile​ @moatsnow​ @missmulti​ @storyisnotover​

Draco Malfoy taglist: @the--queen-of-hell​ @obxmxybxnk​ @obx-beach​ @sycathorn-slush​ @dracomalfoyswifey​ @kashishwrites​ @justmesadgirl​ @detroitobsessed​ @aspiringsloth20​ @just-a-belgian-girl​ @lahoete​ @minty-malfoy​ @fallinallinmendes​ @ravenclawbitch426​ @ochrythum​ @beiahadid​ @gryffindors-weasley​ @dracosathenaeum​

[hatake-no-sharingan]

A Well Loved Copy (PART 2: Pieces of you)

Kakashi x Reader

Story Summary: Your cozy life as a bookseller is disturbed when a box of the worst books you could ever imagine arrives at your store, and with them a certain silver haired ninja to whom you are definitely not attracted.  

Chapter 1: CLICK HERE

Chapter summary: You give into Kakashi’s book. As you start to read, you realize the book he left you has more than one story to tell. It reveals many things about this wonderful stranger who visited your shop a few days ago.

Relationship: Kakashi x Reader

Warnings: None (it has a bit of mature references, but it’s not very graphic, just be careful and read under your own discretion)

A/N: I really liked how this turned out and now I have a clear path as to where the story is headed. This chapter is a bit of the exposition, you’ll really get to know the MC better. Hopefully you guys like it. I promise next chapter will be happier and have the charming fluffy Kakashi we all crave and love, but I needed this chapter to give it the depth the story needs. 

Special thanks to @seventh-line for editing, she’s your quality control guys! She’s preventing you all from reading a mess hehe. (the story wouldn’t be what it is without you <3 )

IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST FOR THE NEXT CHAPTERS: CLICK HERE

Pieces of you

You run your fingers across the cover, mimicking the same motion you saw him do in the shop yesterday. For a moment, it’s not paper you’re touching, but silky cool skin.

You read the first chapter with a frown on your face, your eyes reluctantly darting from one word to the other. Before you know it, you’re through the first part of the story, and it was infuriatingly....good.

The main character is likable from the start. There’s something about the way she talks that makes you want to be her friend. She’s sexy and confident, but a complex character too, with a dense storyline and fatal flaws.

You hate to admit it, but the book really draws you in. You begin to regret having judged Kakashi so harshly. You find yourself deeply enthralled, wondering what will happen next.

There’s way more story than there is porn, contrary to how you imagined it. Customers come and go and you barely lift your eyes to charge them for their items, always eager for them to leave so you can return to your reading.

You usually devour a book in a day or two, depending on the complexity of the story, but this time, you’re purposefully taking longer with each page. Not because the writer, Jiraiya, wove a prose too elevated to understand, he didn’t, but because each page held a secret message that told the story of its owner.

The book you’re holding tells two stories, the one the author wrote, printed massively, the same as the other copies you have on the shelf. But this book you have here, is unique. Its pages, the spine, the cover, they all tell a whole other story. Kakashi’s story.

Just who are you? The book isn’t just a copy of a romance novel, it’s the pieces of Kakashi wound up and bound together in a single object. It tells more truth about him than his silly biography on the history shelf ever will. Each time you flipped through a page, you felt closer to that man you’ve only met once.

You encounter a dozen different things that give dimension to your mental image of Kakashi. Bite marks on the bottom left corner, probably made by a small dog. Clumsily highlighted quotes, usually romantic ones. A sticky residue from what appeared to be food, maybe dango, which would’ve made you gag usually but didn’t this time. You catch yourself smiling more than once as you go on a journey with the little pieces of this man scattered throughout.

When you get to a steamy scene, you check if the store is empty, and then indulge yourself. The excitement rises to the pit of your stomach.

The main character just confessed her love for the antagonist, who *plot twist* isn’t the antagonist. He’s always been in love with her and had just become part of the evil criminal organization to protect her. After an incredibly intense fight, he tells her the truth, and she can’t resist her attraction to him anymore. Between blood, and bruises, she melts into his body. His calloused hands grasp her hips, and he pulls in her as close as he can. He slips her dress down, and she’s burning with desire. Your hands shake slightly and your breath becomes faster, heat rushing to your thighs.

She looks into his eyes, and threads her hands through his damp hair, making him moan hoarsely with the motion. In a deliciously slow motion he -

You close the book startled by the sound of the door chime to see a petite woman comes into the store with two little kids.

“Y/N?” Yume stares at you in disbelief “is this really you?”

You’re always happy to see your best friend, except now. You try to hide the book, uselessly, because she’s already noticed.

“Yeah why would I not be me?” You ask with a nervous giggle, pretending not to know what she’s talking about.

She turns towards the children and tells them to go look for something in the kids section. They run towards the colorful shelves decorated with animal decals happily. Then, to you she says “I mean what in the literary hell are you reading? The real Y/N wouldn’t ever touch those books”

Your cheeks get hot and you let out a nervous laugh

She takes the book from your hands and examines the cover

“This is one tough loved book. Which trash can did you fish it out of?”

“Stop, give it back!” you say reaching for it, but she pulls it away “and I didn’t take it out of a trash can. Someone lent it to me, and they happen to take it on rough missions”

“Y/N? What are you telling me? Don’t say this belongs to a...” she flips to the first page, and right below the title she sees the sloppy handwriting where he marked the book as his.

Hatake

“Shinobi” she whispers as her eyes widen, a gesture of pain crossing her face.

You want to say something, but find yourself stammering and at a loss for words. You know how she feels about shinobi, and you understand, but there’s something about Kakashi that intrigues you so much, that pulls you closer to him. Not to mention how kind he was that he brought the book to you, even if he’d been cocky when you met.

“You know they’re dangerous. And Kakashi Hatake’s copy? Seriously? He’s said to be one of the worst. You know some people call him the friend killer. What does that mean? The guy is nothing but trouble. Interacting with shinobi more than necessary will get you killed.”

You keep searching for words, but you cannot find them. The man you’ve met, read about, the guy who enjoys these novels, who keeps a bookmark made by three kids, who couldn’t stand the thought of you hating his favorite books, doesn’t match what she’s saying. It can’t, not for you. But you know there’s truth in what Yume says too.

He is a dangerous shinobi, he’s a known ex-ANBU, and it was true, his teammates once went on missions with him and they never came back.

“Now I don’t know if he killed them or not. Maybe he didn’t, not intentionally. But the fact is, his whole team is dead. Wherever he goes, death follows.” Yume paused, turning to stare out the window, arms crossed, “Wherever Shinobi go, death follows, or have you forgotten what happened to Kei?” She rubs the back of her head, frustrated. Her voice sounds strained now, as if going on with this conversation is too painful for her.

She takes a deep breath and looks directly into your eyes.

“Now I have two sons I didn’t ask for, and I love them. Don’t think I don’t love them, but don’t you think they miss their mother? The real one. Do you think I don’t miss my sister?”

Your friend asks finally.

You stay quiet. She takes her children and leaves without getting them anything. The remnants of your conversation leaving a dent in your heart.

You hate to see her go like that, mad at you, because you know her pain, and you love her.

Knowing those things about Kakashi should scare you away, but all it does is break your heart for him.

He shouldn’t have gone through that pain alone. Nobody should. In the end, Yume had her nephews, now her adopted sons, and her mother. You have your mother too.

As far as you knew, Kakashi Hatake, elite ninja, ex ANBU, mourned alone.

Everyday you wait for him to show up at the bookstore again, so you can prove to yourself he is the kind man you’ve found in the pages of this book. He doesn’t show up.

Taglist: @theunknownrandom @seventh-line

[simprisottowriter]

Helloo again can you write some fugo headcanons ? Some cute and funny like gyros would be very nice UwU

   Wonderful to see you again, UwU anon! Your character choices for headcanons are so lovely! Fugo is multidimensional, well-written with such depth, even if his appearance in the series was short. He deserves more attention and love!! ♡♡ Let's shower this boy with appreciation, with these headcanons! 

°☆ Personality, Private Life & Relationships ☆°

��� Treasures cute things, like charms or pendants. To him, their monetary value doesn’t matter. Memories are what make him keep anything close to his heart. Hidden in plain sight is his keychain, a small red puppet charm that decorates his keys. Cutesy and delicately worn by time as all the other small trinkets he owns, that remind him of the nicer moments of his childhood.

◇ Might look very unapproachable, but once someone gets close to him, they see a completely different side of him. Thoughtful, tender and sympathetic wouldn’t be the words someone would use to describe Fugo the first time they met him, but would definitely be the first words that come to mind after being near him for a while. In his private life, he would be a bit strict, but very understanding and well-mannered. He is so professional at everything he does, that it is pretty impressive.

◇ Incredibly good at card games, board games and anything that requires strategy. Wins most of the times. He doesn’t even try hard to win anymore, since he only plays with Mista and Narancia, as everyone else in Bruno’s team is too busy. They both just get confused at the game rules and do anything else than play properly, as Fugo just stares deadpan at them till they follow the rules. He can't help but laugh along with them with their antics. Even if he feels like he is babysitting them most of the time, he loves them much.

◇ Acts like he doesn’t find them even a teensy bit funny, but he adores puns and silly jokes! Tries to act serious all the time, that it’s so out of character when he secretly laughs at any ridiculous joke Narancia and Mista say. 

◇ Loves art! In all its forms. But mostly adores painting. You could probably show him a painting, and no matter how famous or not it is, he would recognize the artist solely from the art style. Bruno’s Passione considers it some sort of game to continually show random pictures of art to Fugo to recognize them, till he either gets angry or they get bored. Did I say that he loves abstract art and surrealism?

◇ When no one is around, Fugo passes his time like he always used to, by playing the piano. It is one of the most wonderful moments, that his teammates treasure, to listen to the piano playing while unlocking the door, as they return from a difficult mission. Brings the serenity back to their hearts. Makes them forget for a moment about their stressful work. Would also play soft Brahms and Bach music pieces, to ease insomnia and make a sleepless night bearable ♡

◇ More academically skilled than socially skilled, but he is trying his best! Small talk isn’t his greatest thing, but he is the best person to have around for deep conversations or debating. He is knowledgeable about many subjects and could keep the conversation interesting for hours with his facts and ideas.

◇ Loves it when he can share his interests and personal thoughts, without being ignored or belittled. Values trust more than anything.

◇ And once he finds someone he truly trusts, Fugo’s anger and fear will subside. Most notably, this would be easy to recognize not only from Fugo himself, but from Purple Haze. The stand would appear more often, but this time, more controllable, more tame and less dangerous than before, till it is completely harmless on its own. And not only that, but once Fugo manages to fully control Purple Haze, its performance and power would be unmatchable!

◇ Appreciates it with all his heart when someone helps him with his tasks. Even if he won’t admit it or even does all his chores by himself just to prove that he is very independent, he really wants a helping hand. Even if it is just staying by his side. Staying up late to aid his studying or helping him with daily problems of small importance are favors he would definitely return in the future. Acts of service and some fine quality time are a must for Fugo ♡

◇ Cleaning around the house or doing chores might be a hassle for many, but he actually likes them. Once he finds a place that he feels safe enough to settle in, that he can call his own, he is going to take care of it as much as he could.

◇ Gets disappointed in himself when he does absentmindedly a calculation wrong. It has stuck with him that he must excel in everything, and thus criticizes every small mistake he does. He’s a perfectionist to the core. Even if others around him understand and immediately forgive him, his expectations for himself have been raised too high, from all the events that took place in his past. It's difficult for him to loosen up.

◇ Emanates a soft scent of old books, perfume and a flowery aroma of freshly cleaned clothing. Feels just like home.

◇ Knitting and sewing are some of his favorite hobbies. They keep him at ease and make his intense anger disappear. He has a collection of small plushies he made himself. Refuses to show them, since he doesn’t believe they look well-made or worth showing, but in reality they are some of the cutest plushies you've ever seen!

◇ Has collections of worn-out books. With covers discolored and tattered from hours of reading next to the light of the nightstand. Their pages are slightly crumpled all over the edges, and remained as such, even if he constantly tried to straighten them out. Their white color, along with the letters, have been slightly faded and tinted brown. His bookshelves are filled with them. Upon inspection, you can recognize which book he is reading, even if most of them have a bookmark sticking out of them. His current read always has his most favorite handmade bookmark, a special request from a store in Naples.

◇ Won't be the person to approach others, but wait till someone else does the first move. He doesn’t believe he is worth someone's time, thus refuses to start anything. Usually never takes the lead, since every time he made the choice to stand up for himself, it cost him happy times of his life that he couldn't replace.

◇ Needing glasses won't be something he would admit. Even if his eyesight isn't that bad, he has always a pair of white-framed glasses in his pocket when he needs to read something up close. Wears them often when he is reading on his own, and not really in public.

◇ Has learned enough about cooking to be able to live on his own, but he is especially great at brewing tea or coffee. These are his go-to drinks, depending on the time of day or his schedule. Also loves sweets way too much!

◇ Refuses to realize that he deserves love and much, much caring. Really undervalues himself. 

◇ His whole body would probably freeze if someone held his hand. Mainly, he wouldn’t know how to react and would be very embarrassed about it. Though, he is so touch and attention starved that even a small movement that shows care and love would stay in his mind forever. A hug would send him. He wouldn't probably know how to articulate a sentence after that.

◇ Though, he flinches very easily when someone attempts to get close to him or touch him, like with a friendly pat on a back or his head. Not only that, but his speech becomes weaker and faster than before, he keeps looking away and his breath cannot regulate. Repressed memories of painful times flow back again. He cannot realize the person he has in front of him doesn't want to hurt him, and his body instinctively is on guard. The flinching stops when he is fully used to someone's presence, and trusts them with all his heart. He is worth the patience someone could give him, since he is a sweetheart!

◇ You can notice when he is in high spirits, since he hums joyfully the melody of his favorite songs while doing rather mundane tasks. At first it is very unnoticeable, but after you learn his behavior, you understand what makes him happy, even if he doesn't show it. Turns really bashful and tries to hide his embarrassment by looking away and sighing, when someone recognizes which song he is humming. He holds his personal interests (such as his music taste) very close to him and keeps them hidden, so it's a surprise to him to find someone that tries to break the walls he has built up. Oh, and since I mentioned his music taste, he would probably be a fan of rock, but I believe he would like any song that he just likes the vibe of it.

◇ As roughly explained above, a very private person. About his thoughts, past life and his current feelings. Takes a while for him to fully open up to someone. And even if he finds someone he trusts, he has a hard time letting all his emotions out. Knowing himself and how his feelings burden him, he refuses to let others know he truly feels. Repressing all his emotions, just because he doesn't want his loved ones to feel the pain he does. Deeply cares, even if he hides it under layers of anger. Caring and strong, as always.

[playitaagain]

in gentle moments

a mayward miniseries

masterlist

Part 4 of 9

silly boops on the nose.

JJ has a bit of a reputation. 

He’s well known on the island for smoking and drinking. He somehow always has something to say, with a captive audience listening to one of his many outlandish stories (and boy did the treasure hunt give him some good stories). He was always going, going, going, always just on the cusp of doing something crazy or losing his temper. 

But he enjoyed the quiet moments too. 

It became especially true when he finally got the guts to kiss Pope, the newly accepted Harvard student, when he read his letter of acceptance to the group. The group had cheered, exchanged money and gone about their day only to leave Pope and JJ alone to sort out their feelings. That day had ended in the first quiet moment in what was just agreed to be their new relationship. 

It was easy to have quiet moments with Pope. The other was always studying, always reading, always trying to expand his knowledge, and JJ just liked being around him. He always liked being around him, even before they got together. It was how JJ often found himself lounging on Pope’s bed with his head in Pope’s lap or napping on his bed while Pope did homework. 

Pope would even read to him sometimes. It had started out with JJ simply lying his head in Pope’s lap, the other mumbling words under his breath as he read with enthusiasm, eyes darting over the page. JJ had made an offhand comment that he should just read it out loud and that was probably the first time JJ can ever remember enjoying a book. 

It wasn’t always like that though. JJ got restless easily, but Pope took it all in stride. JJ would poke him until he paid attention to him. He would toss a balled up piece of notebook paper at his head, scribbling little notes to Pope to remind the other he was there. Pope would simply finish reading the sentence he was on, lean over to kiss JJ, placating the other enough to finish up his work before JJ got board again. 

Today was one of those quiet days though. 

JJ was tired. He could feel sleep pulling at the edge of his vision when he arrived at Pope’s house after his shift at the garage. Mrs. Heyward smiled warmly at him when he walked in, telling him they saved a plate of food for him. He smiles in thanks, eating quickly before he heads up the stairs to Pope’s room, feet dragging and bumping into each step as he goes. Mrs. Heyward frowns at him, but lets him go on his way up to Pope’s room. 

Pope is sitting on his bed with a book open in his lap. The door creaks when JJ pushes it open completely, returning it to its ajar position as he enters the room. Pope doesn’t say anything as JJ kicks off his shoes, tugs off his oil stained shirt, kicks off his dirty pants, and collapses on the bed. He barely has the energy to scoot up so his head is resting in Pope’s lap. There are hands in his hair instantly, soothing every muscle in his body as he sinks into Pope’s touch.

“I don’t know why you work so much. We have millions of dollars,” Pope comments, flipping open his book again. JJ shifts enough to wrap his arms around Pope’s waist. It’s a little awkward at this angle, but JJ presses his cheek into Pope’s stomach as the other leans back against the headboard. 

“I like working,” JJ mumbles, eyes already closed. It gives him a nice distraction from his life, the fact that Pope would be going to school all too soon, the fact that Pope could leave him at any moment, realize he wasn’t good enough. The work allows him to focus on something other than the sinking thoughts that nag at his brain over and over again. 

Pope doesn’t comment again, simply starts to read out loud as JJ drifts in and out of sleep. Pope’s voice soothes him, lulls him in a way he hadn’t even realized until he admitted his feelings. The voice brings him down to earth, keeps him tethered to this world and comforts him. 

He’s nearly asleep when Pope stops reading, hand moving from JJ’s hair for only a moment to slip the bookmark in place. “Why’d you stop?” JJ mumbles, shifting a bit so he falls next to Pope instead, arm now draped over his lap. 

Pope snorts at his words, placing the book on the nightstand before he shifts down the bed, lying next to JJ. “It’s midnight. I’ve been reading to you for hours,” Pope answers, hand moving to brush at JJ’s cheek. JJ hadn’t realized he actually fell asleep. He just thought he had been drifting for a little while. 

JJ yawns then, making Pope’s nose scrunch in disgust at his breath. “You should have brushed your teeth before you came in,” Pope grumbles, but it’s half hearted as he leans forward to press his lips to JJ’s nose, making the other wrinkle his nose at the touch. 

“I’ll brush them in the morning,” JJ grumbles, eyes still closed as he shuffles closer to Pope. The hand in his hair slips from the strands, instead cushioning JJ’s head as he touches it under Pope’s chin. Pope’s other arm rests across his side, fingers dancing across his back as JJ’s arms wrap around Pope’s waist in return. 

“I guess you’re staying tonight.” The words aren’t a question, simply a statement with amusement dripping from Pope’s words. JJ doesn’t bother with a verbal reply, simply nods his head once before pressing his cheek to Pope’s chest, listening to his heart beat. 

JJ doesn’t know if Pope says anything else, feels sleep pulling at his consciousness and lets it take him. The last thing he remembers is Pope presses closer, nose buried in JJ’s hair.

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[flipomatic]

Shortcuts Chapter 10

Author Note: Are you ready?

First Chapter Previous Chapter

________________________________________________________

The days flew by and before Emira knew it, it was Wednesday.

When she told Ed that she would be busy, he said he already had plans for that afternoon. That was good, since it would keep him out of her hair.

She was surprisingly nervous for the event, almost as nervous as she had been to show Viney the spell in the first place. She even double checked that morning that she had all three books in her bag, not wanting to accidentally forget one of them. Emira knew it was silly, but couldn’t shake the nerves.

After her last class dismissed, Emira went to her locker to swap her textbooks for the library books. Ed was at his locker nearby, so she said goodbye to him before heading to the healing track classroom.

When she went in, she saw that this time Viney beat her there. The other teen had already opened her set of books and was taking notes as she usually did. She looked up when Emira entered, green eyes following her path.

Emira sat down next to her, taking the three books from the library out of her bag. They both said hello as Emira opened the first book. She had spent some time that weekend bookmarking each spot she wanted to show Viney. That way it would be easier to explain the spell to her.

“This is where I found the foundation of the spell.” Emira said, pointing out a specific passage on the page. Viney leaned in close to look over her shoulder, reading the lines of text. Her arm brushed against Emira’s, the touch warming Emira’s cheeks. Viney didn’t seem to notice; she was too focused on the book.

“So, the perception of increased power provides the base for the actual increase.” Viney mused, leaning away to jot something in her notes. “I never would’ve thought of that.”

“I wasn’t sure if it would work when layered.” Emira flipped to a later page, where she had marked another spot. “But this next part addressed that.”

Viney was smiling as she leaned back over, pressing her arm even more firmly against Emira’s to read the next passage. Her heart jumped despite her willing it to be cool. “Oh, yeah I see.” Viney muttered, eyes moving over the text. When she moved away to write again in her notes, Emira released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Emira then switched the book for the next one, moving to show the next passage. She explained how she was able to combine theories to make it have an actual effect. Viney kept writing in her notes at each part, reading and then asking questions as she had them.

They worked on the spell for the next hour, using the books Emira brought along with the translation Viney had created for the healing book. By working together, they could combine their two types of magic and perhaps find a way to improve the spell.

Viney still wanted the spell to last for multiple uses, so after reviewing how the first enhancement worked they discussed if illusion magic could make that happen. Emira had seen something that might work for that in the third book, so she took that out and showed it to Viney. They started to do small trials on illusion spells, seeing if they could multiply the effects.

They kept talking and working until they were interrupted by a knock at the door. The janitor was there, already insisting that it was time to lock up. Emira wanted to protest, there was no way it was already time to go. In fact it barely felt like time had passed at all, but there wasn’t anything that could be done about it. She had to pack up the books and leave the classroom. Viney put the healing book on the shelf and followed closely behind her.

Once they were in the hallway, the janitor locked the door and moved on to the next room. The two teens stood in the hallway, waiting for the other to speak.

Emira didn’t want to leave, but she knew she probably should. Viney usually went to the secret passages after being locked out of the classroom, where Emira certainly would not be welcome. When Emira looked at her, Viney had her eyebrows scrunched as if she were thinking something over, hands held together in front of her body.

Emira sighed, and then accepted that their time for the day was done.

“Since we’ve been kicked out.” Emira said, immediately drawing Viney’s attention to her. “I guess it’s time to head home.” She turned half way, as if to start leaving. “We should do this again sometime; I learned a lot.” She wanted to add, I enjoyed spending time with you, but quashed those words back in her mind. When Viney didn’t respond, Emira waved and started to move away.

“Wait.” With a force that one word shouldn’t have been able to convey, Viney stopped her. Emira turned back, noticing how Viney’s mouth was now set in a firm line. “I’m going to study in the room of shortcuts.” A slight pink dusted her cheeks, eyes locked directly on Emira’s. “Do you want to come?”

Even when Emira thought she was starting to figure Viney out, she found ways to surprise her. It felt like forever ago that she had been kicked out of the secret passage room, and now here she was being invited to it. Her heart felt warm, the feeling of contentment that came with it spreading through her body.

“Yeah, I do.” Emira smiled, and a matching grin grew on Viney’s face.

“Good.” Viney nodded, gesturing for Emira to follow her. “I’ll show you the way.” She started to walk down the hallway, with Emira following behind.

They took a familiar route to the detention track room, which was already unlocked.

That was unexpected; Emira assumed it would be locked. “They keep this room unlocked for you?” She asked as she followed Viney inside, shutting the door behind her.

“Just an agreement between Principal Bump and us multi track kids.” Viney replied cheekily, grabbing the chalk to draw on the chalk board. “We agreed to stay out of the shortcuts during school if he allowed us access after hours.” She drew a square on the board, then a keyhole shape in the middle. It was the same shape that appeared all those weeks ago when Emira brute forced the door with magic.

“Pretty good deal.” Emira commented, watching as Viney touched the chalk to the keyhole. This caused the outline to glow white, and the door to pop open. Viney climbed in first with Emira close behind. It was a tight fit, just like it had been before.

They walked the few steps to the second door, which Viney pulled open. She moved to enter the room, but stopped midway through the door. She was looking up at something, though Emira couldn’t tell what it was from behind her. The view from the hallway was too limiting.

“What’s wrong?” Emira asked, which seemed to snap Viney out of her trance. She took a few steps forward, which allowed Emira to enter the room as well.

She looked up.

About one level up on the tower, with one of the passage doors wide open, stood Ed. He was throwing something through the door, from that distance it looked like it might be streamers.

Emira could not believe that he was here. How dare he sneak around and do this? She told him not to so many times, and yet here he was. Emira was practically seeing red, her temper flaring.

“Edric!” Emira called to him, leaving Viney on the ground level to scurry up the ramp to his level. He jumped at being called out and then warily watched her approach, looking like he might bolt through the door at any moment. “What are you doing here!?” She was too flustered to ask at a regular volume.

Ed brought one hand to the back of his head sheepishly. “Oh hey, wasn’t expecting to run into you.”

“Answer the question.” Emira hissed back at him, pointing one finger at his chest.

Below them, Viney hadn’t moved. Her head was tilted forward, eyes averted.

“Just setting up some streamers for tomorrow.” Ed had his fake smile on in full, but couldn’t diffuse Emira’s anger with just that. “I thought it was fine, Mittens told me you were friends with her now.” Emira narrowed her eyes to intensify her glare. “This was the goal, wasn’t it?” His voice came up slightly in a defensive tone.

“Shut up.” Emira actually poked him in the chest this time, once with each word. “We’ll deal with this later.” She shifted her finger to point out the still open door, holding the pose and making her directions clear.

“Spoilsport…” Ed muttered under his breath, then did as he was told and slipped out through the door. Emira slammed it shut behind him, the door emitting a loud bang.

She took a few deep breaths to try and calm herself. What nerve he had to sneak in here, to use the passages after she told him not to. So what if she and Viney were friends now, that didn’t give him the right to do whatever he wanted. When she was done with him later, he’d have no rights left at all.

With a few more calming breaths, Emira turned to go back down the ramp. She saw that Viney was still standing in the same spot she stopped at before. Her hands had clenched into fists and, it was hard to tell, they looked like they were shaking.

When Emira reached the bottom of the ramp she walked towards Viney, now concerned. Viney’s head was tilted down, eyes on the floor, and yes her hands were shaking.

Emira opened her mouth to tell her that Ed would never bother them again, but Viney cut her off.

“You used me.” Her voice was low and hoarse, each word carrying raw emotion. They echoed through the large room, playing themselves multiple times in Emira’s head in the silence that followed.

Emira gathered herself and took one step closer to her. “What do you…”

Viney’s head snapped up, eyes flaring. “You know exactly what I mean.” The words were sharp, biting. “Was this the only reason you spent time with me. The only reason you helped with the spell.” She asked the questions more like statements, not wanting an answer at all, but Emira responded anyway.

“No, of course not.” She insisted, trying and failing to keep her tone level. She closed the distance between them and placed one hand against Viney’s trembling fist, gently and slowly.

Viney shook her touch off, stepping back and away. “Like I’d believe you.” She scoffed. The sound felt like it pierced directly to Emira’s heart. “All you do is take.”

“Viney…” Emira tried to step closer again, but Viney only moved back. “It’s not what you think.” If she just explained that Ed didn’t have permission of any kind, Viney would understand. If she could just explain how she felt, how even though it had started that way things had changed so much. How she never wanted to hurt Viney. How her heart was breaking in this moment.

Viney shook her head. “This was the goal, wasn’t it.” She mimicked Ed’s low voice. Emira recoiled back, remembering him saying those same words a few minutes before. “I’m not stupid. When we met, I thought you were the type to cut corners. Lazy, arrogant, cruel.” Her voice cracked on the word cruel. “I didn’t want to be right.” Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, which she roughly wiped away. “I even thought we could be…” She trailed off as another tear came, this time escaping to roll down her left cheek. “Nothing. We’re nothing.” The words carried venom, dark and malicious.

Emira reached towards her one last time, now her own hand trembling, but was shoved away.

“Get out.” Viney pointed towards the exit leading to the detention track room.

“But, Viney…” Emira was sure her voice was shaking.

“Just leave.” More tears were flowing now, Viney didn’t seem to care to stop them. Emira could feel her own running down her cheeks.

She turned towards the exit, walking the few steps to it. When she looked back Viney had collapsed to sit on the ramp, head in her hands. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Emira yearned to comfort her, but she would just make it worse.

She had caused this after all.

Viney hadn’t called her selfish, but that was word Emira would’ve used for herself. It fit well with all the rest.

Emira left the room. She almost fell out of the small square exit. When she reached the detention track room she had to stop. Her own eyes were too blurry to see properly out of.

If only she could stop crying.

Next Chapter

[theguineapig3]

Something Borrowed Colloyd Week Day 2: Outfit Swap Genre: fluff / humor Words: 1715

[When Lloyd lent Colette one of his outfits, he’d assumed it was a loan rather than a gift. But Colette assumed otherwise, and her assumption leads Zelos to an assumption of his own- one Lloyd hadn’t considered.]

“Colette?”

Lloyd knocked on her half-open door before peeking in. Frank had said she was upstairs reading, and sure enough, Lloyd found her lounging on the bed with a book in her hands. She’d perked up when she heard his voice, however, and set the book aside.

“Lloyd! What are you doing here? I thought Zelos was coming by for lunch today.”

“He is, but I’ve got some time, so I figured I’d stop by.” Lloyd pushed his way into the room with a smile. “I was packing up my things and realized I’m short one outfit. Didn’t I loan you one a while back? When you fell in the creek, before the whole, y’know…” He waved his hand in an abstract gesture. She knew what he was talking about. “Do you still have that?”

“I do!” Colette hopped up from the bed and ran to the dresser, opening up the bottom drawer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted it back.”

“...didn’t realize I…” Lloyd repeated, a look of confusion on his face. “Why wouldn’t I want it back? It’s not like you messed it up or anything.” 

Colette pulled out the shirt and trousers, neatly folded, from the bottom of the drawer. “No, I guess I just assumed it was a gift. I’m sorry.”

Lloyd should have just shrugged it off, given the little time he had left, but he was curious. What kind of gift would that be? It’s not like it was something she’d wear on a regular basis. When would she wear it, anyway? “Is it something you want?”

For a second, he could swear Colette was blushing. “I mean, it’s yours, so it’d be selfish of me to keep it.”

“That wasn’t what I asked. Do you want it?”

Colette didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the clothes and pressed them into Lloyd’s arms. “You’ll need them for our journey. If anything happens to one of your others, Dirk or Genis won’t be there to mend them for you.”

“But… you never answered…” Lloyd stammered, watching as Colette walked back to her bed and picked up her book again. “Colette, c’mon. What’s the matter? If you want this, just say so.”

“You came looking for it. You need it. It’s yours.” Colette was hiding her face behind her book. “I just appreciate you lending it to me for a little while.”

Lloyd tried to think of some other way to phrase his question- some way he might be able to get an answer out of her- but he heard the clock downstairs chiming the hour and felt his shoulders stiffen.

“Oops, I didn’t realize it was that late! Zelos will be waiting. See you later, Colette!”

She didn’t peek out from behind her book, simply lifted a hand and waved.

“See you later.”

---

“Sorry I’m late,” Lloyd sighed as he slid into the chair opposite Zelos. Zelos grinned at him from across the table, leaning forward to rest his chin against his hands. 

“Don’t sweat it, hunny. I’m sure all that packing is wearing you out.”

“It wasn’t that.” There was a glass of water already on the table in front of him, and Lloyd took a gulp before continuing. “I dropped by Colette’s place to pick up something, and it took longer than expected.”

Zelos’ eyebrows raised. “Pick up something?”

“Yeah. It was some clothes that I lent her a while back. I didn’t realize she was planning on keeping them, so I’m sure I seemed like a jerk when I showed up and demanded them. I’ll have to apologize later.”

Zelos’ eyes went wide. “She’s holding onto your clothes? She’s got it bad. I didn’t think she was that far gone.”

“...got it? Got what?” Lloyd leaned across the table in surprise. “Far gone to where?”

The intensity of his reaction made Zelos laugh. “Aww, don’t worry. I’ve seen it all the time, and it’s never fatal.” He waved his fork around. “The great Zelos has lost many an article of clothing to a lovesick lady. It’s an occupational hazard of being so damn handsome and charming.”

“...lovesick?” Lloyd repeated. “Like, in love?”

“Yep. A lady in love wants to keep the object of her affection close to her heart. When she can’t have the real thing, she’ll accept almost any substitute. Clothes are a favorite.”

Lloyd stared into his glass, watching the ice settle. “...in love? You think Colette’s… in love with me?”

There was a pause. Zelos cracked a smile.

“I don’t think. I know.”

The table went quiet again, Lloyd fidgeting with his hands. “...I don’t get it. You say Colette is keeping my clothes because she can’t be with me… but we’re going on a journey together. We’ll be together all the time.”

“Maybe so,” Zelos replied with the wave of a hand, “but not the way she wants to be.”

“What other way of being together is there?”

The table went silent again. Zelos’ smile had disappeared, and he eyed Lloyd with a critical glare.

“...I know you’re dense, but you’re not that dense.”

Lloyd blushed and turned his head away. “I know, I know. But what if you’re wrong? How could I ask her about it without looking like an idiot?”

Zelos shrugged. “You don’t have to. If you don’t feel the same way, just ignore it.”

“I could never ignore her or her feelings!” Lloyd stood up, his fists clenched. “Because I… I…”

“Ah, I see. You also have it bad.”

“...yeah. I do.”

Admitting it felt good. Lloyd settled back into his chair and let out a sigh as he relaxed. Zelos smiled and held up his cup.

“Shall we toast, then? To you and Colette’s budding togetherness?”

“Not yet. After lunch, I’m gonna go give her back the clothes,” Lloyd answered, shaking his head. “And I’m either going to make her really happy… or look like a complete fool.”

Zelos laughed as he set his cup down.

“Nothing to lose, then.”

---

“Colette!”

The door was still ajar, so Lloyd burst in this time without knocking. Colette was still reading, just as she’d been before lunch, her bookmark having moved a significant distance through the volume. The surprise from Lloyd’s intrusion surprised her, as she dropped the book onto her lap.

“Wh-! Lloyd? What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Instead of answering directly, Lloyd placed the clothes on the foot of the bed and leaned over them. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” he asked. “Anything at all.”

Colette frowned, setting her book aside. “Of course I know that. You’re the one person I know I can always come to.”

“I know, but-” Lloyd stumbled over his words. “-but if there’s anything you’re afraid to tell me, for whatever reason, I want you to know that you don’t have to be afraid of that. There’s no way you can make me upset or make things weird between us or… or…” He was hoping she’d get his message, but her eyes were blank as she stared back at him. 

“Lloyd, is something wrong?”

There was an awkward pause. Lloyd finally let out a sigh and sat down on the side of the bed next to his clothes.

“Geez, now I’m all frazzled. Zelos told me something that may or may not be true, and if I’m wrong, I’m gonna look like an idiot. But I’d rather look like an idiot than ignore your feelings. So, um…” He took the clothes and slid them closer. “...if you were keeping these as a substitute for me, you don’t have to. You can have the real thing.”

Colette tilted her head, still looking puzzled, and Lloyd felt his cheeks burning as he was forced to clarify.

“I love you. So if you wanted to keep my clothes because you’re in love with me, then… y’know… you don’t have to.”

Colette placed a hand over her mouth in surprise. “You think that’s why I kept your clothes?”

The question made Lloyd’s heart sink. He really had made an awful mistake.

“Uh… well… um…”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve explained myself.” Colette shook her head and slid across the bed toward Lloyd. “Keeping your clothes had nothing to do with the fact that I love you.”

“It didn’t-?” Lloyd began, and then actually processed what she said. “You do?!”

“Of course I do.” Colette was close enough now that she could put her arms around him. “How could I not?”

Lloyd was too surprised to hug back just yet. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to assume… I guess I just hoped…” He sighed and finally placed his arms back around her. “But, then, what about the clothes? Why’d you keep them?”

He assumed she’d break the hug to answer, but instead, she stayed there next to him. “I’ve always admired how brave you are, how hard you’re willing to fight for what you believe in. You said once that being able to wear clothes created by your dad with love made you feel strong. When you lent them to me, I felt strong too- even if just for the little bit of time I wore them. I thought, since you had so many, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I held onto this one. Just in case I ever needed to feel strong.”

Lloyd hated to move away from the warmth of the hug, but he needed to look her in the eye. “But you are strong. You’re stronger than anyone I know. I’m the one who’s always admired you. There’s no need for you to wear anything special to do what comes naturally to you.” He paused and remembered the reason he’d returned. “But if you want to keep them, you can. That’s up to you.”

Colette shook her head. “After you left, I realized how silly it was of me to hoard it like that. We’re going to be together on this journey, after all, aren’t we? If it’s yours, then it’ll always be nearby, and I can use it whenever I want.”

“Of course! We’re a team! What’s mine is yours, always.”

That made Colette giggle. “So I can wear your clothes any time I want?”

Lloyd grinned in reply. 

“As long as I can wear yours too.”

[440mxs-wife]

Book Club

You walked into the library to find a new book. You had just finished a murder-mystery that was well-written, but now you wanted something different. Maybe one of the classics, like Pride and Prejudice, or The Great Gatsby. Perhaps a spy-thriller like Vince Flynn was known for, or something by Stephen King. You also had a soft spot for those sappy romance novels every once in a while, but you knew you wouldn't find that in this library.

As you had found in your past exploration of the library, all of the fiction books were kept on the uppermost shelves. That meant using the ladder, and you were a little afraid of heights. You were craving an introduction of new fictional characters, so up the ladder you went.

Your eyes settled on a book called Out of Time, by Monique Martin. It followed a college professor and his female research assistant. By manipulating a magical pocket watch, they are able to move through time, having various adventures. There were nine other books in the series, so you figured you should have plenty to read for a while.

You were reading the inside cover of the book as you descended the ladder. Near the bottom, your foot slipped on one of the rungs. Fortunately, Sam was passing through the library and saw you start to fall, arriving in the nick of time to catch you.

"Thank you, Sam! Guess I should've paid better attention to the ladder instead of this book," you mused. You slung one arm around his neck, batted your eyes and said, "My hero!"

Sam threw his head back and laughed at your silliness. "At your service, milady," he quipped.

Looking into his warm, hazel eyes, your face started to feel a little flushed. "Um, Sam? Can you please put me down? I think I'm okay to walk now. I can't wait to start this book!" Sam gently returned your feet to solid ground and you flashed him a grateful smile and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thank you!" you threw over your shoulder as you ran to your room for your favorite blanket to snuggle with in your reading chair.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam was on his way to the kitchen by way of the library when he saw you perusing the fiction books on the top shelves. He loved to read, not just for research, and he was glad that you loved to do both almost as much as he did.

There were so many times that he stopped plunking away on his laptop to watch you as you thumbed through a lore book. How your hazel eyes darted back and forth, scanning for any useful information for their latest case. Your furrowed eyebrows when you were trying to make sense of some ancient language. The way you would sometimes fall asleep while reading, your long and delicate eyelashes gently brushing your face.

When he entered the library, you were standing near the top of the ladder, hands on your hips as you looked through the books. You finally settled on one, and began reading the inside jacket while you went down the ladder. Sam started towards you, knowing that your distraction may cause you to fall off and get hurt. Sure enough, your foot slipped on one of the last rungs, and he was there to catch you.

It felt good to hold you in his arms, something he'd had dreams about, though not all of those dreams were as chaste as this encounter. As Sam gently lowered you back onto your feet, you smiled in gratitude and kissed his cheek. He felt a spark where your soft lips made contact with his skin, and he found that he wouldn't mind if you did that again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You brought out your favorite blanket from your room, and went back to the library. You found your favorite chair and settled into it sideways. Your back was against one arm, your legs were dangling over the other and your blanket was covering your lower half.

After you had been reading for about an hour, you started to think about some sort of refreshment. As if on cue, Sam brought you a cup of orange cinnamon tea, your favorite. He smiled as he carefully set the teacup on the small table next to you. "That was very thoughtful of you, Sam, thank you. I hope it wasn't too much trouble," you said.

"No trouble at all, I was already making some hot chocolate for myself, so I had the hot water from the teakettle left over for your tea," Sam replied. "Enjoy", he said with a smile as he moved over to one of the tables with his laptop.

The rhythmic clacking of the laptop keys and the warmth from the tea eventually caused your eyelids to droop a little. Soon, you gave in to the need for sleep and closed your eyes, your book still open to the page you were reading.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam paused in his research to steal a glance at you reading in your chair. He chuckled softly at your sleeping form, your chest gracefully rising and falling with each breath. You had forgotten to close your book before dozing off, so Sam found your bookmark to keep your place. He gently tugged the book out of your delicate but capable hands, placed the bookmark and closed the book.

First the book, now the reader. He tried to nudge you awake so that you could go back to your room and fall back to sleep in the comfort of your own bed, but you refused. He shook his head and decided to scoop you up and take you there himself.

Once in your room, he pulled back the covers enough to get you under them, then he removed your slippers. Sam pulled the blankets up around you and before he left, he kissed your forehead, which put a smile on your face. Just before he closed the door, he thought he heard you say, "Good night, Sam. I love you." He froze, not sure if you were dreaming or if you were conscious of what you were saying. Either way, he found that he didn't really care. Sam grinned and blew you a kiss, then closed your door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, you woke up in your bed, but couldn't remember how you got there. Last thing you remember is Sam bringing you a cup of your favorite tea. Then, he got to work on his laptop, looking for the next case. Could Sam have helped you in here and then put you to bed? You decided to ask him at breakfast to help you fill in the gaps in your memory of last night.

After your shower, you picked out your favorite pair of faded blue jeans, your black scoop neck T-shirt and red flannel overshirt. Converse sneakers completed the outfit and soon you were on your way to the kitchen to make breakfast.

You were feeling kind of ambitious today, so you decided to make French toast with sausages. In your largest mixing bowl, you combined eggs, some milk, cinnamon and a smidge of vanilla. You counted out the number of slices of bread you would need and started soaking them in the egg-and-milk batter.

Sam strolled into the kitchen, lured by the smell of the cinnamon. "Something smells really great in here," he remarked. "Whatcha up to?" he asked.

"Making French toast, and there are some microwaveable sausage links in the freezer. Would you mind putting them on a plate and getting them ready to be cooked, please?" you asked.

"Sure," said Sam, who seemed genuinely eager to help. "Let me make some coffee first, then I’ll move on to the sausages," he suggested.

"Fine by me, it's all part of the finished product. Thank you for your help, Sam," you replied.

Sam flashed you a shy smile as he arranged the sausage links on a plate. While he was in the cupboard, he also took out three plates for you, him and Dean. On his way to the microwave, he put a hand on your shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "This French toast already smells amazing. Can't wait to have some," he said close to your ear, giving you goosebumps.

You found it difficult to regain your focus on making breakfast, but eventually your heart rate resumed a normal level. You watched as Sam's lean frame moved effortlessly around the kitchen. He brought out the mugs for coffee, including your favorite one of Marvin the Martian from Looney Tunes. He made sure your favorite creamer was on the table.

After the table was set, Sam waited for the microwave to finish cooking the sausages. You were so captivated by his movements that you didn't notice how close your hand was to the hot griddle. When your fingers touched the hot surface, you yanked them back and yelped in pain. Sam was by your side in an instant, surveying the injury. He took your hand and ran your fingers under cold water to soothe the burn.

"I don't know what caused me to burn myself like that. I'm usually very careful," you muttered.

"Hey, don't worry about it. I think you'll survive, since it's not a fatal wound," Sam teased.

"Ha, ha, very funny," you stuck out your tongue at him, then grinned. You gathered two of the three plates of French toast and put some aluminum foil over the plate for Dean. After setting a plate in front of Sam, you looked for the syrup, but didn't see it. Sam must have read your mind, because he jumped up to get it for you. While he did that, you poured coffee for the two of you.

Finally, everything was on the table. After drizzling the syrup, you grinned at each other, then dug into the steamy stacks of French toast. You closed your eyes and savored the taste combination of bread, egg, milk, cinnamon and vanilla. 

"This is fantastic, the best French toast I've ever had," Sam gushed.

"I'm glad you like it, I'll have to make it more often, then," you promised. "Thank you for the tea last night, it was really relaxing. In fact, I think I fell asleep reading, but I don't remember how I got to my room. Did I sleepwalk back to my room?" you asked.

"Um, no, you didn't sleepwalk, but I made sure you got back to your room all right," Sam replied.

At that moment, Dean walked into the kitchen, having smelled the cinnamon from the French toast. He found his plate on the counter and joined you at the table. He then put several sausage links next to the stack of French toast and started eating.

As you took your dirty dishes to the sink, you brought Dean his coffee mug and poured some coffee. "Ah, thank you sweetheart," he said as you offered Sam a refill on his coffee.

You couldn't be sure, but you thought you saw a flicker of jealousy on Sam's face when Dean called you "sweetheart". Before exiting the kitchen, you put your hand on Sam's shoulder and rubbed it back and forth. When he turned to look in your eyes, you thanked him for his help this morning and last night. Then you gave him a smile and a wink as you walked towards the library.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As you left the kitchen, Sam's gaze followed you. Afterwards, he noticed a knowing smirk on Dean's face. "What, Dean?"

"Sammy, look at you, being so helpful," Dean teased. "What did you two do last night?" he asked.

"Shut up, Dean. Nothing, we didn't do anything," Sam retorted.

"Then what was she thanking you for, brother?" Dean persisted.

"All right, last night, she was looking for something to read on one of the top shelves. She was coming down the ladder and her foot slipped, so I caught her before she fell. Then I brought her some tea while she was reading, so she didn't have to get it herself. And this morning, she accidentally burned her fingers making breakfast, so I ran them under cold water for her. Are you done interrogating me now?" Sam fumed.

"Sounds like someone has a crush on someone else," Dean smirked. "I mean, she's pretty and all, I guess, but she's kind of a book-nerd if you ask me."

"She may be a 'book-nerd' to you, but to me, she's more than that," Sam murmured. So much more, he thought to himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Later that afternoon, Dean announced that he had found a case. One of you figured out that it was a vengeful spirit that drew its power from some ancient symbols. You and Sam got to work researching, trying to figure out how to kill it.

You pulled several books from the shelf, while Sam stuck to his laptop. As the day wore on, you could feel yourself getting closer to the answer, but you weren't quite there. You took a quick break for dinner, then returned to your research materials.

A couple of hours later, you stumbled upon some pictures that matched the ancient symbols from which the vengeful spirit was drawing his power. "Aha!" you exclaimed in triumph.

"Find something?" Sam asked. You frantically gestured for him to look over your shoulder at what you had found. When he came over, he took the chair next to you and draped one arm over the back of your chair as you explained what the symbols meant. More importantly, you told him how to reduce their power so you could defeat the vengeful spirit.

"So, this is all we need to do? That doesn't sound too difficult. Nice work finding that info!" Sam congratulated you, squeezing your shoulder.

"Thank you, Sam!" you replied, turning your head to look at Sam. Only problem is, your lips ran right into his. They were as wonderful as you had imagined, firm, yet also yielding, moving slowly against yours. Sam's eyes snapped open as he realized what just happened. "Um...." he started. "Wow," you responded.

"Yeah, about that....I just remembered something. Keep reading and I'll let Dean know what you found," Sam sputtered as he rushed out of the library towards his room.

You touched your tingling lips where Sam's had been only moments before. Then you thought about his hasty retreat and wondered if he had now changed his mind. It was an accident, kissing him like that, but you couldn't deny that it felt so right, perfect even.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oh Chuck. What have I done? Sam asked himself. Now she knows how I feel about her, and our friendship is probably ruined. Or, at the very least, it'll be awkward from here on out. I need to talk to Dean.

Sam caught his brother's eye across the library and motioned for him to come over and talk.

"What's going on, Sam? Why aren't you over there researching?" Dean asked.

"Something happened earlier when we were researching for the new case. She was showing me something in the book about the power symbols. She turned to look at me and our mouths ran into each other. As lame as that sounds, that's what happened," Sam explained.

Dean looked at his brother for a few seconds then busted out laughing. Sam started getting annoyed, not exactly seeing the humor in the situation. "It's not funny, Dean! Now she knows how I feel about her, which is going to make things awkward. I think I'd better leave the research to you. I can't trust myself to be alone with her," Sam finished, stepping back into his room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After solving the vengeful spirit case, you couldn't help but notice that Sam was doing everything he could to avoid you. If you came into the room, he made some excuse to be elsewhere. He hardly said two words at a time to you, and that was only if you said something first. The only time he could seem to tolerate your presence was when you were researching a case. Finally you'd had enough. You were going to get him to talk about what was bothering him, no matter what or how long it took. 

One night, Sam was sitting on the couch, reading one of his favorite books. You brought your newest book selection from your room, along with your blanket. Instead of curling up in your usual chair, you picked a spot on the couch next to Sam. You opened your book, took out the bookmark and started reading, paying no attention to Sam whatsoever. He looked at you and asked, "Why are you sitting so close to me? There's all this space on the couch, and you're practically in my lap!"

Without looking up from your book, you replied, "The lighting's better right here where you're sitting. I'm just trying not to ruin my eyes, Sam."

"Whatever," he grumbled as he rolled his eyes.

You slammed your book closed. "All right, Sam. Out with it. What have I done to make you so angry with me? Do you hate me for some reason?"

Sam slammed his book closed as well. "Hate you?!? How in the world could you ever think that??" he exclaimed.

"Because lately you can't stand to be in the same room with me for longer than five minutes, and you don't talk to me unless I talk to you first. The only time you tolerate being around me is when we're working on a case. So, what's going on?" you asked.

Sam looked like he wanted to tell you something, but for some reason he kept silent.

"Please tell me what it is," you pleaded, putting a hand on his arm. "You can tell me anything, you know," you replied softly. "Maybe I should start by telling you something. That night I picked out that new book and fell asleep in my chair while reading it? I remember how I got back to my room, Sam. I know you tried to wake me up but you couldn't, so you carried me into my room. I also remember what I said, do you?" you asked.

Sam nodded. "You said goodnight as I walked out the door," he answered.

"I also said, 'I love you, Sam'. And I meant it," you admitted as you looked up to meet his gaze. You reached up and placed your hand on Sam's cheek, stroking it with your thumb. He leaned into your touch and closed his eyes.

Sam covered your hand with his and brought it down to rest between the two of you. "I could never hate you. I'm sorry I've been so distant lately. Remember what happened that night when we were researching for that vengeful spirit?" You nodded. "I ran off because I thought that by kissing you, I had somehow ruined our friendship. I value that above all, it's very important to me.

"At the time, I didn't know how you felt. All I could think of was how awkward it could become between us, if we weren't on the same page," Sam explained.

"I understand. But Sam, you don't have anything to worry about. Our friendship is also very important to me. I hope we're on the same page now, when I say I'd like us to be more than friends," you replied.

Sam cupped his hand behind your head and brought you closer so that your lips met again. Softly at first, then the kiss turned a little deeper. Your mouths moved against each other in perfect harmony, tongues battling for control.

"Does this answer your question, baby?" Sam whispered, breaking the kiss. You nodded slowly before pulling him closer for another kiss.

"Whoo, Sammy! Get some!" Dean called as he passed through the library.

You tossed a pillow at Dean, then turned your attention back to Sam. You picked up his book to see what he was reading. "You're reading Where the Red Fern Grows"? He nodded. "I loved that book growing up, it was one of my favorites. Will you please read it to me?" you asked.

"Anything for you, my love," Sam grinned, touching your forehead to his. You curled up on the couch, resting your head on Sam's left thigh. He held the book in his right hand, draped his left arm along your side and held your hand, intertwining your fingers. You closed your eyes and smiled at the deep, rich sound of Sam's voice. This is perfect, you thought to yourself.

[yeats-infection]

@sqvalors tagged me in a lil writing meme... if you’d like to participate please do and tag me! 

ao3 name: fluorescentgrey but i also post some things as drglass (dr. glass is the second song on the fluorescent grey EP by deerhunter, so if i make another pseud it will be likenew, then washoff, etc.) 

fandoms: about two thirds of my fics are harry potter or star wars but there are a lot of random little goodies. currently i have shifted into the terror (2018) mode. 

number of fics: 59 right now... i will throw a party when i get to 69... 

fic i spent the most time on: this is funny because some of these technically took me like six months or more of working on them extremely intermittently... namely, bone machine. the series in the garden has taken me the most time generally... and in that, minuet did take me several months of working really hard while i had a schedule / commute that was not conducive to having a creative practice... 

fic i spent the least amount of time on: hilariously, literally my most popular fic by ninety miles, the witcher PWP that i wrote out of spite in two or three hours. 

longest fic: the source codes series... particularly heelstone which is 102k. i wrote these two stories in a single summer like a crazy person and i hate talking about them because i find them WAY too gooey. honestly, that’s why they are so long. it’s all the gooeyness!!!!!! 

shortest fic: yes, the answer is the witcher porn again (this silly thing is going to be the answer for many other questions in this little meme but i’m just going to stop talking about it while i’m ahead). the west end is just about 50 words longer and is much better and is a much better and more interesting story. 

most hits: we’re just going to pretend it’s sex and dying in high society, which has the second most hits. this is certainly due to the fact that @wolfstarwarehouse hypes this story a lot for which i am endlessly grateful! 

most kudos: recovery position has the second most kudos so let’s go with that one! i have been very touched by the response to this story, though i do personally like the sequel beachcoma a little more... i understand why not everyone wants to read it because it is a little more bittersweet. but it also comes from my soul. 

most comment threads: the two stories in the source codes series are leading here, because i only posted two chapters at a time so that i would get maximal validation, lol. 

most bookmarks: in order to talk about a story i haven’t talked about yet, the rosary has the fourth-most. i think this fic is truly my r/s swan song... i said everything i wanted to say and did everything i wanted to do. it’s a really good mystery/noir story that i didn’t think i could pull off until i did! and i love the OCs in it who have sort of manifested these secret headcanons for me that i may expostulate upon someday. thank you to @piovascosimo for the inspiration to write it. 

total word count: 1,000,478. lol! 

favorite fic i wrote: cannot possibly choose but probably the top five in order of date posted are: desperado, a handful of dust, doom town, beachcoma, jump into the fire

fic i’d rewrite / expand on: i already said all of source codes because it’s way too gooey, i also could make hard time killing floor blues a lot tighter, and a memoir of the flesh deserves a way better ending because i was rushing to make the yuletide deadline...

share a bit of a WIP: i was trying for a while to write a band of brothers AU where they are vietnam vets who start growing cannabis... based on the steve earle song “copperhead road.” this could have been SO good but the plot was too huge and unwieldy so i gave up. my roommate is obsessed with this idea and keeps asking me how it’s going so i may yet finish. but there’s a bit below the cut.

The knock at the door in the night was a sharp shock, bright as lightning, that sent them both back to Khe Sanh and before. Nix ducked. Dick went behind the doorframe. They kept low into the kitchen, where Nix took his old officer’s pistol out from where he kept it hidden behind the fridge. Then they went to the door, keeping to the edges of the hallways.

On the porch was Liebgott. He could have made his own way in likely right onto the couch without either of them noticing, so it was something that he had knocked on the goddamn door. It was particularly something given that none of the boys from Easy should have known about the grow operation, or even about Dick’s farm, being as Dick’s address on file at the V.A. was a post office box in town and Nix’s was still in Jersey. These considerations were nil to somebody who had spent the better part of five years in the bush of Vietnam. He took a last draw from his cigarette and put it out against the rubber sole of his boot, then he put the butt in his pocket. As far as Nix knew, he hadn’t said a word since January 1970.  

“Joe,” said Dick diplomatically. He put his hand out and Liebgott took it. Then he took Nix’s. He had handsome dark eyes, but they were full of a wall. You could tell he saw you, but it was like nothing followed the necessary channels to the brain to spur emotional response. It had been like this even while he was still talking, and after a while you got used to it.

“You comin' in,” said Nix, knowing he probably would even if he wasn’t invited.

Inside, they all three sat at the kitchen table in silence nobody was about to break. Finally Dick got up and went to the drawer where they kept the rollies and their share of the product. He passed a sheaf of papers and a film canister full of bud to Liebgott across the table. Nix understood as well as Dick apparently did that there would be no getting anything over on this kid, who had eyes in the back and sides of his head. He’d probably had a nice tour of the property before coming inside. “You hungry, son,” Dick said.

Liebgott shook his head. He extracted one of the buds from the canister and inspected it. They did look mighty good if Nix said so himself. They looked artful in Liebgott’s hand. There were black scabs across his knuckles and a dark rime of filth under those fingernails which still existed. He seemed satisfied enough with what he saw to take a paper out of the sheaf and start shredding the flower into it.

“Captain Nixon calls it Easy Diesel,” said Dick, like he was trying to pretend it wasn’t the funniest thing in the world.

Liebgott looked up and a smile flashed across his face like the savage golden light of a flare falling over the far hills. His smile was sort of brutal, like the edge of a knife in a barfight, or like a seething animal. Luckily it went away as quickly as it had come. He rolled the joint with a quick grace and lit the business end with his old silver Zippo Nixon hadn’t seen since the war. There was a skull engraved on one side and on the other it read IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY, FUCK YOU.

“I don’t know how you found us, Joe,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to… tell us. But we ain’t exactly keen to have just anybody here.” He paused and looked quickly to Nix, who tried to make it abundantly clear by means of eyebrows that he wasn’t sure they ought to go down this road, wherever it was leading. Dick ignored him. Liebgott was watching them, fully understanding their attempted clandestine exchange. “We ain’t exactly keen to have the DEA here,” Dick said at last.

The cherry at the end of the joint atomized with a crackling hiss. Liebgott looked between Dick and Nix with extreme seriousness sullied only by his exhaling a dignified white cloud out his nose. Then he nodded, once, curtly, demonstrating he understood his orders as they had been relayed.

Nix flashed Dick what he thought was a what have you done type look. But Dick looked totally unbothered. He should have gone into this business years ago for how violently unflappable he was. He said to Liebgott, “I’ll get some blankets and you can make up the couch.”

Liebgott shook his head to say no need. He got up, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor, shook each of their hands again, and in less than a minute’s time he was back out the door with nothing more than what he’d come in with except the joint.

Nix and Dick, on the porch, listening to the crickets, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“Are we hallucinating,” said Nix eventually.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dick replied. “We’ve got to ship all that product or we’ll starve.”

-

In the morning Nix was in the field, inspecting the plants. Liebgott was standing there at his quarter for god knew how long before he cleared his throat and Nix jumped about six feet in the air. There was a smirk shifting across Liebgott’s face that he would have been better about hiding when Nix had been his commanding officer. He looked like he hadn't slept. Back over there he had looked like that a lot, but it had been different, because of all the uppers they were taking. He cocked his head back over toward the long driveway and then he was off across the dew-wet grass which had already soaked through the hems of his canvas pants and his destroyed shoes.

Nix followed, like a duckling behind a hen. Liebgott still walked as though there were eyes in all sides of his head quickly processing information as he moved. Nix doubted you ever lost that kind of skill, even if in the real world it made you look like a mental patient. He caught up so they could walk side by side through the dew-wet grass. “What did you think,” he asked Liebgott.

Liebgott passed Nix the universal sign of furrowed brow that meant please clarify.

Nix gestured with pinched fingers to his own mouth as though Liebgott were also deaf. “The grass.”

He shaped his hand into an a-ok sign.

“You get any sleep?”

He nodded an infinitesimal nod, like the answer was a secret just for Nix to know.

“Well if you think it could be better just tell me how.”

Nix had had a high school friend whose sister was deaf from scarlet fever and whom he had watched on occasion communicate with her by means of sign language. Early on, back over there, he had sent off to command for a book, but by the time it came he understood it wasn’t that Liebgott couldn’t speak, he just didn’t want to. It was something like how people’s hair supposedly turned white if they witnessed some evil thing, or how people became ascetics in the name of god. If you were really fucked up on drugs or fear or otherwise, or if the natural magical thinking from childhood hadn’t been fully beaten out of you, you might have seen it as the sacrifice he had given to the forest for letting him out without a scratch so many goddamn times. It had been a bit of a trial to explain this to Spiers, who was practical almost to a fault, sometimes.

Liebgott showed another a-ok sign. Then he did a thumbs up which Nix knew meant it was good.

All in all it was smart. If he was still talking, Nix might have asked him, what have you been up to? You been sleeping on the street? You been to the V.A.? What did they tell you? And the answer would’ve been nothing good. Instead they just walked in the cool grass together in the sunshine and the morning was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It was all lovely until Liebgott had to physically stop him, laughing, somehow silently but also hysterically, from stepping right onto the razor-thin tripwire stretched invisibly across the dark gravel.

In the kitchen, Dick was doing the numbers. He took his glasses off when Nix came in and put the coffee on. “He learned a thing or two from Charlie,” Nix said, leaning against the counters.

“Who, Joe?”

“Our driveway is thoroughly ratfucked.”

“Hmm,” said Dick. He put the glasses back on and turned back to the accounting book. He was going to do this whole thing as above board as was humanly possible. The vivid daylight came through the window and struck the lens of his unstylish Ray-Bans and threw a kind of prism of color upon the white paper and the chicken-scratch sums. Nix felt like maybe this was something you would paint if you had the necessary implements and artistic ability. “Maybe we should see if we can get any more help.”

-

He was mildly ashamed to say it, but the doc had always kind of creeped Nix out. He imagined a hypothetical conversation with Dick, who he knew loved the kid, almost like a son: Listen, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, I owe him my life, yadda yadda. But either he’s dropped the brown acid one too many times or the voodoo exorcism went FUBAR.

The doc had arrived on the farm on the heels of Sunshine and Rainbows, aka Mr. Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, aka one Edward “Babe” Heffron. Nix had written Babe in South Philly, being as he was a connoisseur of bud and once upon a time had been famed among their company for smoking anything anyone put in his hand, often to his own detriment. The operation was getting big enough that Nix needed another pair of hands, other than Liebgott, of course, who was still fortifying the long driveway whilst giving away his cover by playing Led Zeppelin IV as loudly as was possible. It was a tough calculation, because Babe was a genius of pot, but he couldn’t keep a damn secret, and lo and behold he had dragged along with him a dark shadow in the human form of Eugene Roe. They came up the driveway in a big old Ford pickup that rattled its rust off in the potholes. Liebgott had dismantled the traps specially for their arrival when they had called from Williamsport to say they were an hour out.

“I figured we could use a medical professional to lend some credibility to the operation,” said Babe thoughtfully, sparking a joint on the porch over sweating jam jars of iced tea.

Roe snorted or something but it wasn’t really a normal person’s self-effacing laugh. Winters clapped his back. Nixon knew Roe had dropped out of medical school after two years but there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew that. Now he was working construction and Babe claimed to be working as a mechanic in a garage, but this seemed suspect given the state of the car they had driven up in.

“Well we sure as hell are glad you boys are here,” said Dick magnanimously.

Babe exhaled an opaque cloud that rivaled Nix’s own father’s ability with a stogie. “Can we see the bush?”

They went out all together to the field and ducked between the rows of corn. Babe knelt in the soil. It was damp with dew and quiet in here. It would have been almost like over there except it smelled good. “What’s the cross,” Babe said, inspecting the plants.

“It’s an indica blend…”

“Well, I can tell that,” he said.

“So you’re an expert on the plant now too?”

“I’ve just smoked an awful lot of joints in my life, Captain Nixon.”

Roe snorted again. When they all looked to him he said, “You said in the letter there was some kind of altruistic reason for all this.”

“It’s medicine, Gene,” Babe said gently, but also like they had had this conversation thirty thousand times. Nix filed away for later the intimation that Roe had read the letter he’d sent Babe at home in South Philadelphia.

“I guess you don’t remember the psychic break you had at the Do Lung Bridge.”

Babe waved this remark off, even though Nix remembered it too. It threw a chill down his back, like a water balloon had hit him at the base of his neck. “That was laced,” Babe said.

“With what!”

“I don’t know! Something bad!” Babe turned to Dick and Nix. “Gene’s teetotal,” he said, like this was a big old point of contention.

So that counted out the bad acid. Maybe he was just like this. Maybe he had had those big sad bug eyes as a child or an infant or a fetus in the womb. “Good on you, Doc,” Nix said.

“I ain’t trying it,” Roe said, folding his arms over his narrow chest, “no matter what it does.”

The doc was a tough cookie. Babe had claimed, over there, about as high as the Byrds song, that the doc came from a long line of the kind of folks described in Dr. John’s “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” and that, as such, he could heal wounds with his mind. When it didn’t work, as on the night when Jackson died, or the night when Hoobler died, or in the forest when Muck and Penkala died, or the night when Liebgott stopped speaking, he went to sit for a while on the edge of camp until Dick went over and made him eat something. Nix watched them in a state of confused envy, and then he went to write the letters to the families, so that Dick wouldn’t have to.

At dusk, after they ate a light dinner of corn on the cob and rice and beans, he took the boys up into the hayloft with an armful of blankets. “Sorry this is the best we got,” he said. He had said that about a hundred god damn times since they got here.

Roe looked like he wanted to say, you’ve got to stop apologizing for everything. Instead he said, “Where does Lieb sleep.”

Babe perked up. “Joe’s here?”

“You didn’t see him in the driveway?”

Nix sighed. “He’s gonna want to know what he did wrong that you saw him,” he said.

“Does he still — ”

Nix shook his head. “Not a peep.”

In a couple days time, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was hot and tired and stoned, up to his elbows in earth in the field, showing Babe how to replant the hatchlings he’d grown from seed. “You guys room together or what?”

“Me and Gene?” Babe’s eyes were red in the corners from smoking and from the sun. “What about you and Dick?”

Dick, who had the radio on inside turned up as loud as it would go, so that they would hear it in the field, playing Crosby Stills and Nash doing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “What about me and Dick?” said Nix.

Babe was a smart kid. He realized this was going nowhere. With muddy hands he popped one of the seedlings out of its little pot and cradled it into the ground. “Well, I think he thinks he’s looking after me, but in actuality, I am looking after him.”

[kaleldobrev]

Nightmare Cure

Summary: You struggle with nightmares. So Dean comes up with a way to help you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x You

Reader Gender: Not specific

Warnings: Just fluff, Dean being a good friend

Notes: I hope you all enjoy this cute and quick little one shot

AO3 Link

Having nightmares every night was something that I was used to. It was a given. If I didn’t have a nightmare, it was a surprise to me. Due to the fact that I have nightmares so frequently, me and sleep don’t mix well. I would be lucky to get at least three hours. The most I’ve gotten the in the past couple of months were five, but that was only because for some reason, I managed to have a good dream that night I got five hours. The dream involved a white picket fence, me reading a book on the porch, the sun was shining, and Dean was mowing the lawn. It was a simple dream, but it was a dream that I cherished deeply. Even though I’m not much of a writer, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it. Silly I know, but whenever I have good dreams like those, I always write them down. And a dream like that is not the first one I’ve had like that. Another dream that I deeply cherish is just Dean and I sitting on the couch together with a blanket on our lap. The fireplace is roaring and we’re just watching a John Wayne movie. Every so often Dean blurts out a line from the movie and I just smile. But the thing is, even though I cherish those dreams so much that I write them down, they make me sad too, because I know I’ll live that life. The Winchester’s and I will never have that white picket fence life. So sometimes I’ll wake up with my face slightly wet from crying. Thankfully the boys don’t hear me.

Sometimes my nightmares are the same, but sometimes they aren’t. But they usually have the same general themes. The boys and I are on a case, and the monster wins by killing the person we were supposed to save. And in the process, one or both of the boys die. Or, the boys turn on me. Dean as a demon again and Sam soulless again. I try my best to escape them but I never can; they torture me and I wake up before they can kill me. Or, Dean and I or Sam and I get into a huge argument which involves me leaving the boys and never looking back, going years and years without seeing or hearing from them. And the only time I hear news of them is news of their death and it just breaks me.

 I looked at my phone and saw the time. It was 3 in the morning, and I was still up. I promised Sam and Dean that I would try and get to bed by midnight tonight, but hey, research is more important than sleep; especially if lives are at stake. I closed my laptop and closed the two books that I was staring at, making sure I put bookmarks in the books so I could look at them again in a few hours.

Taking my laptop, I took it under my arm and grabbed my phone, placing it in my pocket. I sighed getting up from the War Room chair and started making my way to my room. I hoped that Sam or Dean wouldn’t see me or hear me walking the halls, but knowing them as long as I did, at least one or both of them would hear me. And the one that would be out to hear me the most would be Dean, and he was the one I didn’t want to hear me right now.

Dean cared about me deeply, probably almost as much as he cared about Sam. He knew about my nightmares and always offered to talk about them with me, but I always rejected him. He had his own nightmares to worry about, I didn’t need him to worry about mine too.

As I walked down the hallway, I heard a door creak up. I didn’t dare turn around. Instead, I faked a yawn, trying to make it look like I was coming back from the bathroom or something. But knowing Dean, he wouldn’t buy it. “Hey.” I heard him mumble, and I stopped dead in my tracks. I shut my eyes for a moment, and then opened them turning around to look at Dean.

“Hey.” I replied back.

“You’re just going to sleep.” Dean said leaning up against his door, pointing to my laptop. I looked down at it and then back at him. I nodded. “You promised you’d go to bed three hours ago.” There was slight disappoint in his voice. Something that I hated hearing, especially from him.

“I know I’m sorry. I just…” I trailed off.

“What?” He asked, his arms were crossed.

I sighed. “Can we talk in your room?” He nodded and moved out of the way of his door so I could enter. I walked toward him, moving slow. I didn’t want to have this conversation with him right now. This was a conversation that I’ve been dreading for a while, because I didn’t want him to worry about me. But I knew that even if I didn’t have this conversation with him, he’d still be worried about me.

I walked into his bedroom and sat at the edge of his bed, placing my laptop next to me. Dean closed the door behind him and sat down next to me. I held my hands in my lap, trying to avoid eye contact. “When you’re ready.” He said, with a small genuine smile on his face. When he smiled, even though it was a small one, the wrinkles on his face showed, and it was one of the many things I loved about him. Something that he definitely didn’t need to know.

I took a deep breath and made eye contact with him. “I’m afraid to…I’m afraid to go to sleep because I don’t want to have nightmares. They’re exhausting and just…Mentally draining.” I started to say. “Why do you think I wake up so exhausted every day?”

“I just assumed it’s because you’re not getting enough sleep.” He said, and I shook my head.

“It’s not that. Even before I hunted, I only get four hours of sleep and I was always fine. But now when I get four hours of sleep, I just feel so drained. Even when I’m lucky enough to get five hours I’m exhausted.” I tried to keep myself from crying. Not because I was sad, but because of how frustrated I was. I just wanted to have one decent night sleep more than every few months or once a year.

“Y/N. I know how you feel trust me. You’re no alone in this.” He replied, his voice caring.

“I know Dean I just didn’t want you to worry about me. You have your own nightmares to worry about. I didn’t need you to worry about mine too.” I started playing with my thumbs now, and they were interrupted by Dean placing his hand on top of my hands. I felt my heart race just slightly.

“Even if I didn’t know you had nightmares which, I know you’ve had for years, I’d still worry about you. Hell, Sam’s in his thirties and I still worry about him. Because he’s my little brother.” His small smile turned into a little bit of a bigger one.

“But Sam’s your brother. I’m not one of your siblings Dean.” I replied.

“That’s true but, doesn’t mean I can’t still worry about you. Even though Cas and I aren’t related, I still care about him.” He reassured me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“That’s true.” I nodded to myself, agreeing with his point. “I’m just…I’m just tired of having nightmares Dean.”

Dean looked at me, and not saying a word. It was as if he was trying to think of something to say, but was trying to figure out the proper way to say it. “Let’s try something to help you sleep.”

“Dean, I’ve tried everything.” I said, a little exasperated.

“Trust me. What we’re gonna try, you definitely didn’t try. Trust me, I’d know.” There was slight humor in his voice now.

“Okay I’ll bite. What? Because I’m willing to try anything at this point.” I told him.

“Try sleeping with me tonight.” He began to say, and my eyebrow raised. “That’s not what I mean. Nothing sexual or romantic. Simply two friends sharing a bed.” He clarified.

“Alright. What’s the worse that can happen?” I said getting up from the edge of the bed taking my laptop and placing it on the desk. I lifted up the covers and got under them, Dean staring at me all the while I was doing this. “You gonna get into bed or what Winchester?” I asked, making myself comfortable in his bed.

Dean chuckled and got up from his spot, making his way to the other side of the bed. He lifted his side of the covers and got under, making himself comfortable. “Night Y/N.” He said, turning off the light.

“Night Dean.” I replied, shutting my eyes.

 That night I didn’t have a nightmare. I dreamed of a life away from hunting; a life where Dean and I were together. The two of us were lying in bed together and we were just kissing and laughing. Dean was cracking jokes, and everything was perfect.

Even though it was only one night where I was sharing a bed with Dean, I wondered if sharing a bed with Dean was actually the cure to my nightmares. If it was the cure to mine, could it be the cure to Dean's?

Tagging: @22sarah08 @wndamaximov @all1e23

[yellowmagicalgirl]

Fic Writer Tag Game

tagged by @im-the-king-of-the-ocean​

...it feels like I just did something very similar to this very recently but I’ll do it again I guess. This time I’m gonna include Fanfiction.Net, though, just so I can give different answers. That being said, I’m only going to link to the AO3 version of the fic

Fandoms:

These days, it’s almost all Tales of Arcadia, but my AO3 also has some Miraculous Ladybug, SPOP, and RWBY as well as a crossover with The Hunger Games. In addition to the above, my FFN also has some PMMM, Tai Chi Chasers, Sailor Moon, iZombie, Harry Potter and Voltron Legendary Defender in there.

Number of Fics: 98 on FFN, but only 60 of them ever got transferred to AO3.

Fic I Spent the Most Time on: I know I said I was torn between two fics last time, but honestly? I spent hours looking up the effects of PTSD, solitary confinement, and various forms of torture for the Juliet Dies; Life Continues fics. There’s a reason why when I finally publish Juliet Survives in This I’m gonna contain two disclaimers: one for the Dead Dove Do Not Eat and another for the fact that I’m using magic and the fact that Claire’s not entirely human anymore just so I can find a way to make it so that Claire has a good reason for not being any worse off. The other fic I was writing I only did some research before going, “nah I’m bastardizing Arthurian legend”

Fic I Spent the Least Time on: *looks at old writing and cringes* Raked over Crimson Waves, probably...

Longest Fic: Every Ghost in Me is the longest fic I’ve ever written at a proud 10,188 words... and somehow it’s a oneshot.

Shortest Fic: For actual fics, it’s A Shop Infested on AO3 and Arme Harry on FFN. Though, A Shop Infested is also the shortest English actual fic on FFN for me as well (yes, I have one (1) fic written in German.) However, this doesn’t count my poetry. On AO3 it’s Isn't It Ironic? On FFN it’s In My Arms.

Most Hits: On AO3, it’s I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek) with its 1741 hits. On FFN, it’s Dare, which has 15,174 hits. Though, for comparison, Dare was written in 2015; I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek) only has 348 hits on FFN.

Most Kudos: I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek)

Most Comments: On AO3 my collab with Tuna, Birds, Bees, and Blood Magic, has the most comments, but Juliet Dies in This has the most threads. On FFN, it’s still Dare.

Most Bookmarks: Birds, Bees, and Blood Magic holds this title on AO3. The closest similar thing we have on FFN is favorites, so that title goes to Picked the Wrong Girl.

Total Word Count: On AO3, my net word count is 82,299. On FFN, I had to break out excel, and my net word count would be approximately 136,615 words. Approximately because I can’t separate the fic from the author’s note.

Favorite Fic I Wrote: You can’t make me choose... but it’s probably one of those jlaire hurt/comfort fics I’ve written. Or for that matter, the LadyNoir hurt/comfort fics I used to write when it comes to FFN even though I decided not to move them off of AO3... wait a second. I have a type. Oh no I have a type when writing and shipping and that type is the person who’s associated with light and goodness comforts the person who’s associated with darkness. I mean I’ve written outside of this type many a time but let’s face it so many of my shippy hurt comfort fics more or less boil down to this description.... how did I not realize this before.

Fic you Want to Rewrite or Expand on: I will never actually finish it but every so often I still want to go and give With the Distance Amplified a proper ending. Other than that, I kind of want to go and expand upon I Bet You Kiss Your Knuckles (Right Before They Touch My Cheek) despite the fact that I don’t want to have to watch ML canon to do so properly... oh, and also? I really need to finish the 3Below interlude to Juliet Dies; Life Continues.

Share a bit of a WIP or Story Idea you’re Planning on: so earlier today I posted a Krexie ficlet... I need to do some more editing so that the fic makes me nearly cry as much as the ficlet did and write all the other scenes because the fic is much more than just the kiss but here is the kiss from Krel’s POV:

There is a very full bowl of cat food, and multiple bowls of water. Krel follows Archie, and he finds Douxie, sitting on the floor, curled in a blanket, back to the door. Archie meows and runs away. Douxie doesn’t look up, and so Krel walks around him. Douxie’s head is bowed, and he is typing frantically at his phone, and then erasing what he wrote. There are tear tracks on his face, though they are hard to see, when most of the tears probably crawled into the cracks. Krel kneels in front of him, trying to see what Douxie is typing. The movement catches Douxie’s attention, and he startles. The blanket falls away from Douxie as he scrambles to his feet.

Normally, his reflexes are better. Not so clumsy. Not almost falling over his own long, cracked limbs. Krel reaches out to help Douxie stabilize himself, but Douxie uses a wall instead.

Douxie rips his earbuds from his ears, and for a second Krel can hear a woman singing from the earbuds before Douxie silences the music he was listening to. Douxie takes a breath. It is wet and shaking.

“Krel, why are you here?” Douxie wraps his arms around himself, and Krel isn’t sure if Douxie is cold from wearing a sleeveless shirt or just uncomfortable.

“I saw your text; I worried.”

“I’m sorry.”

Krel takes a large step towards Douxie; Douxie takes a small step back.

“Douxie, you, we’re gonna break the curse, you’re going to –“

“I’m going to die today,” Douxie whispers, looking at his own feet. Krel looks past the soft shorts Douxie is wearing to Douxie’s ankles. They have been taken over by cracks, and they’re advancing.

They are out of time. Douxie is out of time. Krel feels his lower lip start to tremble, and he tries to make it stop.

“You, you should probably go,” Douxie says like he doesn’t mean it. “I don’t… I’m not going to make you watch me die.”

“I’m not going to make you…” Krel can’t bring himself to say the word “die”, like saying it aloud will make it true. And that’s silly, that’s superstition, that’s not scientific, but every scientific way Krel has tried to save Douxie hasn’t worked. “I’m not leaving you alone; I don’t think you want to be alone right now.”

“Then can you-“ Douxie breaks off into a coughing fit. “Can you hold me? If that’s okay?”

Embrace your mistakes, like Mother would have said if she were not dead.

Krel takes another step towards Douxie, and Douxie does not step away, rather, he leans into Krel, unwrapping his arms from his own torso. They take one, two, three steps backward, to where the blanket lays abandoned on the floor. They sink to the ground, arms around each other. Krel cannot save Douxie, but he can make sure that Douxie is comfortable. Douxie clings to Krel with a surprising amount of strength. Krel ignores the urge to wrap his fingers around Douxie’s neck, just so he can keep track of Douxie’s pulse. Krel cards his fingers through Douxie’s hair instead. His other arm wraps around Douxie’s torso and his hand rests on Douxie’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Krel says, hating how his voice sounds when he’s about to cry.

“It’s not your fault, all of you did your best,” Douxie says, voice choked and so very scared. Krel feels his shirt starting to grow damp. “I don’t want to die; I wish we had more time.”

“Me too,” Krel says. A tear slips down his cheek, and he tightens his grip around Douxie’s torso, like he can keep Douxie from slipping away.

Douxie jerks, and Krel fears Douxie might be convulsing, but he’s just pushing himself up so he can look Krel in the eye. “Krel, I…” Douxie coughs, turning away, and when he turns back his glowing eyes are so much dimmer. “I love you.”

Douxie goes slack in Krel’s arms, closing his eyes. Krel presses his lips against Douxie’s and hopes.

A couple tears escape Krel’s eyes as he tries not to think of how he still doesn’t know for sure if he loves Douxie the way the curse wants him too, if he’s too late and he should have kissed or at least told Douxie sooner instead of waiting.

Krel closes his eyes. Douxie’s lips are chapped or cracked or maybe both, but they are still. Passive. Krel exhales through his nose; Douxie’s lips feel dead.

Krel is about to pull away, but then Douxie starts kissing him back. And it isn’t much, just a firm press that wasn’t there before, but it is enough to convince Krel that maybe it isn’t too late.

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