#i never got to uncap his spells fully

[yuyuunon]

Fairy Kalim

[gryffindors-weasley]

Hues of Pink

Bill Weasley x Reader

Summary: On rainy day at home, Bill paints your nails.

Requested by @am-i-space : “Hey I recently had this thought and I would love to actually read this I think it would be adorable: Bill sitting behind you and and painting your nails, and like little neck kisses and stupid giggles from both of you and him resting his head on yours when he´s concentrating.”

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of scars, fluff, kissing

A/N: Thank you for such a sweet and fluffy request, I hope you enjoy it!!

(gif found on pinterest, credits to the maker)

The rain was steady outside, no intentions of passing any time soon as it pelted relentlessly against the chilled windowpanes. Fortunately, there were no pressing plans waiting for either of you, and the inclement weather had only further decided that it would be a lax day around your home. You weren’t complaining though, work had been rather taxing on the both of you as of late and this gave way to some much needed time to spend together. You would never complain about that, because days like this seemed to be few and far between.

“What are you doing, love?” Bill asks, appearing in the doorway with a yawn. He leant against the doorframe as he watched you curiously over his mug and you smile brightly from your spot at the coffee table.

“Painting my nails,” you state simply, setting down your nail file amongst the assortment of other tools.

You hadn’t had spare minute to do such a hobby in a while and with your newfound down time, you thought it’d be the perfect opportunity to treat yourself. That, and it had always been a way to alleviate your stress when your mind was feeling rather busy. Though you will admit it does not work wonders in the department of aroma therapy. That much is very certain.

He hums and nods, stepping into the room fully to be with you. He was still dressed in his pajamas much like you were, and his hair had yet to meet a comb that day as it dusted over his shoulders in tangled red locks. You always playfully suggested a trim if he’d insisted on letting his hairbrush collect dust on your nightstand, but your attempts were always declined with an immediate frown. Not to mention the ginger strands you always found in your brush.

Moments later he had joined you on the living room floor, basking in the warmth of his drink that was steaming just under his nose freckled nose.

“Good morning,” you murmur, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. He turned his head in that moment to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, tasting of his usual lemon tea and an abundant amount of sugar. “Or should I say good afternoon?”

He scrunches his nose in a quiet protest, pulling away from you with a fond shake of his head and a soft smile. “Must you always tease me?”

You pretend to ponder the question briefly, tapping your finger on your cheek as he raises a brow at you. “I believe the answer is undoubtedly a yes, my love.”

He scoffs into his mug.

“Well, I believe I should stop calling you sunshine in favor of something more accurate then, like trouble.”

“Actually, Bill, I quite like that one,” You say with a laugh, more so when he narrows his tired eyes at you with a disapproving frown. Though no matter how much you may have teased him in good fun, you’d always be the embodiment of sunshine, lighting up his life in every way imaginable.

You tenderly ran your thumb over the pink scars that run across his cheek, his frown fading and the crease between his brows smoothing once more at your touch. “I’m only kidding,” you assure, but he knows that smile anywhere. “But you know I can’t resist!”

He huffs and hides his smile behind his mug as he takes a sip, setting the tattered old ceramic down on a mismatched coaster before focusing his attention back on you. It was something he always found himself to be doing, to him it was rather hard not to. And the way your tongue had poked out just past very kissable lips was only further proving his point; anything thing you did, no matter how simple or grand, always proved his point. He feels maybe he shouldn’t have joined in with his brothers in teasing Ron for the way he’s always gazing at Hermione, because he’s quite sure he has his little brother beat at this point.

He supposes one never truly understands the full scope of love and it’s effects until one is lucky enough have it. Well, he always knew love when it came to his family, he’s never experienced a moment in his life where he found himself without it. But this, this was far different from that. You came into his life and turned it upside down for the better, quite literally too when you had knocked his textbooks to floor outside of potions in your clumsy haze all those years ago. He’s sure he’s never seen someone be quite so flustered over him in all his life. Charlie was quick to take note and embarrass him in front of you once he knew his brother had caught feelings, and he quickly became flustered over you. Regardless, he was and still is profoundly in love with you, that’ll never change.

You loved him for who he is, not what he may or may not have. The scars stretching across his fair skin were of no importance either, for he’d always been beautiful to you. He was Bill Weasley, wonderfully awkward and exceptionally intelligent with a heart of gold. That’s what you loved.

His fingers tapped against his cheek as his chin rests in his palm, watching as you paint on the blush colored nail varnish with a practiced ease. You have a habit of making everything look easy, he’s noticed. For lack of better, less ironic wording, he always felt you seemed to possess a different kind of magic. One that makes the world go round, his world, one that makes everything all the more enamoring. Any spell or enchantment couldn’t hold a candle to you in his eyes.

“Can I do it?” He suddenly inquires, tucking his hair behind his ear even though it rebelliously fell right back into place. He’s decided he’s got to do something other than stare at you all day, though he is perfectly content to do so.

When you turn your head, he’s looking at you curiously, and a smile is quick to tug at your lips. He mirrors your expression with a lopsided grin, a pale scarlet dusting his cheeks.

You nod and he scoots in behind you, peering over your shoulder at the spread of polishes laid out on the small table. Before he started, you switch on another lamp with a flick of your finger so he could see a bit better. He snagged the bottle of baby pink polish you’d been working from, uncapping it and gingerly taking your hand in his own. When you opened your mouth to point him in the right direction he hushed you with a quiet hum and you laugh softly, leaning back against his chest as you let him take creative control.

He settled his chin on your shoulder, his head rested against yours as he got to work with unwavering determination. No matter the task, Bill Weasley will always find a way to make it seem as though it was of the utmost importance. Whether it be washing the dishes or being called off to work, that stoic look of concentration never failed to make an appearance. Yes, his hands had been a bit shaky and perhaps it was from the extra scoop of sugar he puts in his tea, perhaps it wasn’t, but so far he hadn’t done half bad.

With your free hand, you snag his mug of tea and take a sip, smiling to yourself at how obscenely sweet it was. If one thing was obvious, it was that he had the biggest sweet tooth out of anyone you’d ever known. He made a discontented protest when you moved once more and nearly messed up his progress, though it was one that was easily satisfied with a kiss.

For a while after that things were quiet, save for the consistent patter of the raindrops trickling down outside and his steady breathing in your ear. A cinnamon flavored candle had been gracing the room with its delightful fragrance, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t remind him of home. It made everything all the more cozy. The day was nothing short of peaceful and everything you’d dreamed it would be; not even Bill’s lighthearted grumbling over your constant fidgeting could take away from the moment. He was the cause after all, he couldn’t expect you to stay still with the chaste and absentminded kisses he’d been pressing upon your neck. It was only fair.

“I used to paint my mother’s nails, you know,” he murmurs then, still focused on the task at hand. You hum softly in response to urge him to continue on. “Whenever she’d gotten a cold or even just felt under the weather, I’d paint her nails to lift her spirits. It was this ruby red color she always adored. Granted I was fifteen and it looked absolutely horrendous and— love don’t move!”

You giggle out a soft apology and turn your head to kiss his cheek, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry.”

He pursed his lips with a hint of a smile and sighed softly, diligently continuing on with his work. “Now Ronnie gets to do it.”

The thought alone made you smile because the one and only time you’d let Ron Weasley do your nails, and even Fred for that matter, you’d ended up with more polish on your skin than your nails. It had even wound up on them, you recall. They had insisted you were moving far too much and that may have been a little true, but you’ll never let them live down their terrible nail painting abilities.

Bill’s hair had been tickling your skin and you fought the shiver it elicited, but you couldn’t seem to help it in that moment. The tiny brush clutched in his hand had smudged the soft pink pigment onto your skin, and he huffed out a laugh against your neck. He stuck the brush back in its rightful bottle with acceptance that he couldn’t get any more work done before his lips found your neck once more, your laughter relentless when he kissed the sensitive skin. He knew this fact very well, and used it to his full advantage as retaliation. His arm encircled your waist momentarily as he squeezed you close in a half hug, his own laughter mingling with yours in the little living room.

You manage free yourself from his embrace, cautious not to further smudge your freshly painted manicure. He was quick to get on his feet, though, grabbing your wrist and twirling you to face him as he tugged you close.

“Careful! You just might ruin all your hard work, love,” you scold with a beaming smile, but he seems to be far more concerned with you presently.

Your laughter fades considerably in that moment as he envelopes you in his arms once more, and with careful movements you wrap your own around his neck. You’d never quite gotten used to the way he looks at you and you probably never will; it was as if the very world revolved around you. It made the familiar crimson burn and blossom across your cheeks, his smile widening a fraction as you avert your gaze.

“You’ve got to stop doing that, you know,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek while you try and focus on absolutely anything but the way your blush is creeping down your neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chuckles, but he was very much aware of the meaning behind your words.

You cast a pointed stare in his direction, daring to look at him fully. A stubborn chunk of ginger hair had fallen from where it was tucked behind his ear, brushing over his cheek. A sigh leaves your lips and he finds himself resting his forehead on yours, nudging you softly with his nose. You were starting to feel like a moment more perfect than this couldn’t exist. The pungent scent of nail polish was something you could very much do without, but it was only a minor inconvenience. For you were in the arms of the love of your life and not a single thing could surpass that.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his eyes falling closed as a much softer smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Very much.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, not one of mocking, but one of utter joy that had been too overflowing within you not to do so. His chuckle puffs against your lips, his arms tightening their hold. “I love you, Bill Weasley,” you breathe earnestly in the closeness, nearly stealing a kiss before you let yourself finish your declaration. “Very much.”

Both your cheeks were stained in varying hues of pink as your lips melded in the most loving of kisses, and there was no greater feeling.

—

Tags: @theweasleysredhair @loony-loopy-lupinn @lupinsclassroom @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq

[pretendingboyfriends]

114? maybe after a dry spell or something

anon: ..... 41.

114. Trying Something New & 41. Filming Themselves 

just thought these two worked together 😏 so enjoy

For weeks neither you nor Harry has been in the mood to do anything of the sexual nature. To be truthful, it has nothing to do with any sort of fight or uncomfortableness, the two of you are just going through a bit of a dry spell, just like most couples do this far into a relationship.  It isn’t like either of you have been repulsed by each other, though, it’s just as if the two of you have had other things on your mind that don’t relate to sex. But now that you’re finally alone with each other, cuddled up on the couch for a quiet night in, the hormones that seemed to be absent for the past three weeks have finally shown themselves again. 

You’re both lying across the couch spooning, Harry pressed against your back with an arm slung around your waist as a show plays on the TV. He smacks a quick, chaste kiss to your cheek after a few moments of silence and you give him an appreciative hum, sliding your hand over his and bringing his hand up to your lips. He chuckles lowly and leans in further, lips traveling from your cheek to your jaw, then your neck, suckling your warm skin gently. 

“Well, hello,” You hum through a smile, reaching back and threading your fingers through his messy hair. 

“Hi,” He grunts between neck kisses, arms tightening around your waist to pull you into him more.

“Been awhile, hasn’t it?” You whisper, turning your head to catch his lips with your own. He smiles and cups your face, pulling a few more languid kisses from you.

“Yeah it has.” He purrs against your lips with a small smile. 

“You wanna…?” You ask with a smirk. 

He smirks back, pecking your lips once more. “Most definitely,”

With that, you’re sliding off of the couch, grabbing his hand and tugging him to the bedroom, leaving the TV on without a care in the world. 

Once reaching your bedroom, you guide him to the bed, pressing kisses to his lips over and over, hands planted against his cheeks as you back him into the bed. 

“Think we should try something new,” You whisper, straddling his thighs and looping your arms around his neck loosely. 

“Mm?” He hums. “Like what?” 

You smile devilishly, pulling away from him and sliding off of his lap, backing into the closet. 

You’d bought this item nearly a month ago on a whim, hoping to use it at some point but never finding the moment to present it to him. And now that you’re both aching for each other and the opportunity has finally arisen, you think it’s time to introduce your little friend.

You take the small box from the back of your closet, entering the bedroom again, holding it out to him. 

“What’s this?” He asks, quirking his eyebrows slightly.

“Open it,” You giggle as he takes it into his hands, chuckling at you nervously. You watch him slide the lid of the box off, placing it to the side and gazing down into the box.

“Is this-?”

You bite your lip nervously. “A butt plug.”

His expression is unreadable as he takes it from the box, studying it closely. The design is simple, aluminum metal with a pink, crystal tail and he silently and carefully turns it over in his hands. 

“What do you think?” You ask, timidly shuffling back and forth on your feet. 

“I think… you should get on the bed.” He hums, biting his lip and smirking up at you. 

You snicker giddily, immediately crawling onto the bed, lying on your tummy and watching as he reaches into the nightstand for your small bottle of lube that the two of you use on rare occasions. 

Excitement bubbles in the pit of your tummy whilst you watch him crawl onto the bed after you, situating himself behind you. His fingers curl into the waistband of your shorts and panties, tugging them down your legs quickly and tossing them to the side before doing the same with your t-shirt, leaving you completely naked.

“Y’sure you wanna do this?” He asks, large hands rubbing over your hips soothingly. 

“Yes. Definitely.” 

He chuckles and picks up the bottle of lube, uncapping it before sliding his hand to the curve of your ass cheek and spreading it from your other. The cool temperature of the liquid oozing onto your warm skin causes you to jump slightly and he chuckles, tossing the bottle to the side and rubbing his fingers against your tight, puckered hole to ensure that the lube is fully covering you. 

He pauses for a moment, taking the plug from the box and applying a small bit of lube to it as well before moving to press it against your skin. Your immediate reaction to the tip of it pressing against you is to whimper, pressing back against it eagerly. 

“Patience, darling,” He whispers, pressing it into you slowly. “Don’t wanna hurt you.” He takes a moment to work it into you, pressing it in further and further until you finally feel it slide inside of you fully and you keen breathlessly. “How’s that feel, hm? Good?” 

“So good,” You whimper, pushing back against him. “Fuck me, please.”

“Just wait one more moment, okay?” He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before sliding off of the bed. You watch him remove his own clothes as he walks across the room and into the closet. 

Huffing frustratedly, you turn your head back to look into the closet. “What’s taking so long?”

He reappears in nothing but his briefs, holding your digital camera in his hands and you realize what he wants to do. 

“Was thinkin’ we could make a little tape, y’know, since we’re trying new things…” He smirks, holding the camera up. 

You bite your lip, shrugging a little. “Why not?”

He smiles, making his way back to the bed, adjusting his semi-hard dick through his briefs as he crawls behind you. You can hear the beeping of the camera being turned on behind you and your chest flutters with excitement. You wiggle your hips, turning your head back to look at him over your shoulder as he records you, sliding his hand over your ass cheeks and hips. 

“Look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” He grunts, sliding his fingers down your bare, glistening slit. “Shit- so wet, too.” 

“Please,” You whine, pressing your face into the fluffy duvet of the bed. 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” He grunts, taking himself from his briefs with one hand and tugging at his cock to make sure he’s fully hard before he’s pressing himself to your entrance, camera angled directly at where you’re connected. 

Finally, he’s sliding into you, both of you releasing long sighs of relief  as he fills you to the hilt. The sensation of both your holes being filled at the same time is overwhelmingly delicious and the way you’re clenching around Harry’s cock nearly makes him choke. 

“Fuck, Harry, that’s so good,” You moan, attempting to fuck yourself on his cock desperately. 

He mutters a few expletives before pressing his hand against the small of your back and beginning to fuck into you slowly. “S’good, yeah?”

“So good- feel so full.” You mutter, fingers gripping the duvet tightly as you rock back against him. 

Harry leans over, clumsily placing the camera on the nightstand, moving it to face the two of you and allow him to fuck you properly. He tugs you up by your hips to get the best angle for both of you and immediately you’re moaning at the new, better feeling. 

His pace gradually builds from slow and deep to fast and rough, both of you moaning and whining uncontrollably. You can already feel your release building within the pit of your stomach and you reach back, grasping for Harry’s hand and bringing it beneath you to brush his fingers against your clit over and over. 

“Y’close already, huh?” He growls, leaning forward and pressing his chest against your back so that he can nip and bite at your neck.

“Fuck- yes I’m so close,”

“Cum for me, baby. Cum all over me.” He demands, fingers continuously circling your clit. 

You nearly scream his name as you cum, one hand gripping the duvet and the other buried into the curls at the back of his head as he thrusts into you. You feel him reach over, grabbing the camera from the nightstand, angling it towards you in your post-orgasm bliss. 

Quickly, he’s sliding his cock out of you, frantically jerking himself over your ass cheeks, finding his own release within moments and spilling his hot cum all over the supple skin of your ass and back, camera recording the entire moment. 

“Holy shit,” He mutters, collapsing on his side breathlessly as he tosses the camera to the side. 

“I think we need to try new things more often.” You chuckle, turning over and allowing him to pull you into him.

-

sorry if there are any mistakes, i wrote this in a bit of a horny rush LMAO 

[moonlightserenadeeznutz]

Top Surgery

Oneshot about (trans) Remus Lupin getting top surgery. Bit of wolfstar as well.

Disclaimer: To all my trans boys/trans masc people reading this. You are no less trans, nor are you no less male/masculine if you decide against top surgery, or if you don’t/can’t get top surgery. This goes for bottom surgery, binding, hormones, etc. Your body doesn’t define your gender, nor does what you decide to do with it. <3 ~ Remus wasn’t allowed to get top surgery until he was seventeen. Well... “top surgery” was the muggle name for it. In the wizarding world, a simple spell would do the trick. But there was a law in the wizarding world stating that parts of the body weren’t allowed to be removed from an underage wizard or witch unless said body part was detrimental to the child’s life, say, an unfixable limb, or a gangrenous leg. And despite Remus’ adamance that his chest was a detriment, specifically to his mental health, (when would the wizarding world take mental health seriously? He regularly thought to himself), the law disagreed. So he had to wait until he was of age.

In the meantime, he simply wore a shirt with a binding charm put upon it, which did the trick to make his chest look flat with his clothes on, but he was desperate to just be able to take his shirt off, in the hot weather or in bed. He forwent ever swimming in the lake with his friends because he couldn’t swim with his binder on, but he didn’t want his chest to be noticeable. So he had to sit by the edge of the lake instead, his feet dipped in and his friends splashing at him from within the water.

Another problem Remus faced was that, even when he did turn seventeen, he had no idea where to go to get top surgery. He lived in 1970s Britain. There were simply no resources, muggle or wizarding, and he didn’t have the money anyway. And Madam Pomfrey couldn’t do it. She was a school nurse, she wasn’t allowed to perform procedures. She could only give out potions and fix up bones. Procedures were for St Mungos. And St Mungos didn’t have top surgery as an option.

The days leading up to Remus’s seventeenth birthday made him rather depressed. He’d soon be of age, but it wouldn’t make any difference. He was stuck. Stuck in the wrong body, and there was nothing he could do.

Of course, he had been on hormones since second year, or at least the wizarding version of hormones, which was just a transfiguration potion, and luckily for him, it wasn’t against wizarding law as long as he had his parents’ permission, which he did. And the potion had changed his body considerably. His voice deepened, he had facial hair and he tried hard to work out so he had abs and muscles, which he knew wasn’t exactly necessary, and he didn’t go overboard, but really he was just trying to offset the dysphoria he got from his chest by making the rest of him look as masculine as possible.

He was in a similar situation with bottom dysphoria, but at least he was able to hide it. Getting surgery for that wasn’t as pressing as his chest, and because of the potion he at least didn’t have to worry about his periods anymore.

Compared to Remus’s misery before his seventeenth birthday, Sirius, James and Peter were clearly happy about something, but they wouldn’t tell him what it was, even when he threatened to hex them; a threat he regularly used but never went through with, so it didn’t do much to get them to talk.

But he soon found out what they were whispering about on the day of his seventeenth. Sirius handed him an envelope, unlabelled, and said “It’s from all of us.”

“You know, for two rich people, you guys can be real cheapskates.” They just continued smiling expectantly until Remus opened up the envelope and looked inside.

There wasn’t a card like he was expecting, but some sort of advertisement, or pamphlet. He read through it, and his eyebrows knitted together as he read further down the page. The ad was for a wizarding clinic, specifically aimed at trans wizards and witches. It was set up by a guy named Gray Jacobson, who was a trained Healer, and trans himself, and offered all different kinds of things, including top surgery.

“I... don’t get it?” Said Remus eventually, pushing down any hope that was making its way up through his body.

“What’s not to get?” Exclaimed Sirius, no longer containing his excitement. “It’s a secret clinic, away from the ministry and St Mungos and shit, and surgery is affordable. Free even, if you really can’t pay. But don’t worry about that, because we all chipped in-” he was talking a mile a minute.

“Woah, woah, slow down, Padfoot,” interrupted Remus. ““How do you know this clinic is trustworthy.”

“If we didn’t think it was trustworthy, mate, we wouldn’t have shown it to you,” said James. “We’ve been researching it for months, Sirius and I even visited it last half term. The guy, Gray, is really nice. He told us all about it. He can tell you as well. The procedure for getting rid of your chest is so easy. Takes a few minutes, then you have to take a potion every night for a week until you’re all healed up. But then it’s done! No more chest!”

“No more binding!” Grinned Sirius. No more chest. No more binding. God it sounded brilliant. Too good to be true.

“Really?” Was all Remus could manage.

~ Half term was already upon them, so Remus and his friends were able to visit the clinic the next day. And James and Sirius had been right, Gray was very nice. And Remus loved meeting someone else like him. He’d never met another trans man before, and Gray gave him hope for his future. The man seemed happy, content. Remus wanted that.

It didn’t take long for Remus to view the place as perfectly legit, even with his usual paranoid, distrusting self. And according to Gray, the spell really did only take a few minutes, even if he did have to be placed under a sleeping charm while it happened, and he wouldn’t be able to see his chest until a week later. That didn’t bother him at all. What was a week after six years of waiting?

He booked the next appointment for the following Monday, and he really couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited. When he left the clinic, Sirius immediately hugged him, and James joined in, until Remus couldn’t even move under their combined weight.

~ The day of the appointment, Remus was nervous. Excited, but nervous. His friends had all agreed that it would be a little overwhelming if they all came with him, so it was decided that Sirius was to be the one to accompany Remus. He was Remus’s boyfriend after all, and besides, wild centaurs couldn’t stop Sirius from being there to support his best friend.

Remus didn’t know what to wear, and he couldn’t help but feel very self conscious at exposing his chest, even for a few minutes. But it was the price he had to pay, and he chose a button up shirt and jeans. Nothing special.

“Here’s the sleeping potion,” said Gray, handing Remus a bottle of silvery liquid. “You’ll be asleep in a matter of minutes, and then awake in another matter of minutes. The only difference is, when you wake up, there’ll sure be a huge weight off your chest.” Sirius snorted from behind the man, and even Remus grinned at the stupid joke. It was definitely something his friends would say.

They were in the clinic now; they’d arrived around twenty minutes ago, and hadn’t needed to wait that long. Sirius held Remus’s hand the entire time, though he seemed to be more nervous than Remus was. Remus was nervous, but the nearer the surgery came to actually happening, the more impatient he felt. He wanted this to be over with, so he could finally feel like himself.

Remus uncapped the potion and drunk it down in one, and within seconds he started to feel light headed and drowsy. Gray helped him to lie back on the bed that he was sitting on, and the last thing he saw before falling asleep was Sirius giving him a very cheesy double thumbs up.

Somehow, within only a few minutes, his brain managed to conjure up what felt like hours of dreaming, although it was so nonsensical that Remus couldn’t make heads nor tails off it, and by the time he’d woken up, he couldn’t remember anything.

It took him some time to come round properly, drowsy as he was, but when the fog from his head finally cleared, he immediately looked down at his chest.

It was wrapped up in bandages, but one thing was certain: his chest was flat.

He ran his hand across the bandages. Yup. Absolutely flat. He almost started crying right then and there.

“Hello, love,” greeted Sirius, seeing that Remus was now awake. Remus stared up at him.

“It’s flat,” he croaked. Sirius grinned.

“It sure is.” Gray walked over to them. He’d been tinkering around with some vials, and he handed one to Remus.

“Take a sip of this every night for a week, it will help your chest to heal fully. Then you can remove the bandages. And if you need anything else, any help, or you have any questions, you know where I am.”

“Thank you.” Remus hoped the man could see just how grateful he was, as he was unable to form full sentences for the moment, the affects of the sleeping potion still lingering. But Gray let him and Sirius go on their way, and like last time with James, Sirius waited until they were out of the clinic, this time using the floo network in the clinic’s fireplace to take them home to their tiny apartment, to throw his arms around Remus. This was it for Remus, and he couldn’t stop himself from breaking down in tears. Good tear of course. Happy tears. If this was what he was like now, he’d be a wreck after a week.

And if Remus was impatient before, he certainly was now. Sirius had to constantly stop him from trying to unwind his bandages early.

“Keep doing that and I will personally pin you to the ground,” Sirius warned.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“In this instance it is solely a threat.”

“Fine.”

After what felt like years, the week was finally drawing to a close. And James, Lily and Peter arrived to see the big reveal. It was an audience that made Remus feel a little self conscious, but a part of him didn’t want them to miss this.

They were all crammed into the bathroom, the only place in the apartment that had a mirror. Rather than cutting off the bandages with magic, immediately revealing his chest, he opted for unwinding them by hand. His nervousness had returned to replace his impatience and he wanted to take it slowly.

As the last bandages fell away, he started into the mirror, and his friends cheered beside him. His chest was completely flat, and it looked exactly how he wanted it to look. It was a chest that could be shown off. A chest he could take a shirt off of and go swimming with. Finally. He never had to wear his binder again. He’d never smiled this much in his life, and it only faltered as he tried not to once again start crying. He failed. Sirius went over to kiss him, and soon all his friends were hugging him.

And the first thing he did when half term ended and lessons at Hogwarts were let out for lunchtime, was take his shirt off, and go swimming in the lake with his friends.

[the-duke-of-nuts]

Is This Coffee Hot Or Is It Just You?

Day 3: Coffee Shop @dukexietyweek 

Summary: Virgil finds out that a certain someone happens to work at the local coffee shop

Pairing: Dukexiety

Word Count: 1389

Warnings: Food Mention, Innuendos, Violence Mention, Literally all of my fics contain swearing so there’s that I guess

Tag List: @idontcareaboutcanon (If anyone else wants to be added just let me know)

Ah Coffee shops. Virgil never understood the appeal about a place filled with nothing but caffine, free WIFI, hipsters, and pastries. He certainly also didn't understand why he agreed to go to the local one near his apartment that his friends kept oh so begging him to go to for some reason. Well, by "friends" it was mostly Patton and Roman. His other two friends could care less about the place just as much as him. But here he was opening the door to the quiet semi-crowded shop. There was an oddly comforting atmosphere to it. The lights were dim, random relaxing music can be heard through the speakers, various different tea boxes and mugs hung on the shelves. "Maybe this place isn't so bad." Virgil thought to himself as he looked around the room. He walked forward to the counter as he happened to be the next person in line but then he saw him.

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

Remus Pierce. The same Remus Pierce that always flirted with him in high school. The same Remus Pierce that casually ate juiced bread at lunch to gross people out. The same Remus Pierce that Virgil secretly had a crush- 

"Well hello there customer~ What can I get you~?" The said mustached, silver streaked hair barista asked smirking. "Coffee." Virgil deadpanned. "I'm afraid you're gonna need to be more specific than that." "Like my soul." Virgil glared. "Alright so black it is. And a name?" Remus smirked as he uncapped a marker and held an empty coffee cup. "Oh my god Remus you already know my-" Virgil took a deep breath in so he could stop himself from getting angry and causing an unnecessary scene and answered with a fake smile "Virgil." "I'm sorry can you spell that for me please? I don't wanna misspell a hottie like yours name like everybody else here does to the other customers."

That damn cocky smirk.

Virgil just wanted to kiss- punch that smug look off his face. "V-I-R-G-I-L." "Okay S-E-X-Y got it. Your beverage should be hot and ready for you shortly." Remus winked and booped Virgil's nose as he walked off to go make the emo's coffee. Virgil growled blushing and buried his face in his hands.

Damn him for being so hot- horrible!

Remus soon came back with Virgil's coffee and dramatically bowed as he held the cup for him to take."For you, my 'Bittersweet Symphony'. "Thanks..." Virgil hesitantly took the beverage. "How much?" He asked as he placed the cup down and reached for his wallet. "Oh for you it's on the house!" "Thanks I guess?" Remus smiled and responded with a nod and a hum.

You gorgeous fuck stop smiling!

Virgil's heart started beating a little faster. Surely Remus wasn't having this effect on him right? They've known each other since high school. There was nothing to be nervous about. The only reason Virgil didn't hear much about the barista after that was because Roman hardly ever talked about him. "So... You work here." Virgil stated as he tried to start a conversation. "Yup! Have been for a couple of months now. What about you? Do you do anything nowadays?" "Of course I do I do a lot of stuff!" Virgil immediately answered. " Oh really? Like what?" Remus asked amused. "Stuff..." Virgil half mumbled as he looked away. Remus cackled.

That disgustingly beautiful laugh.

"Vee Vee, I've known you long enough to know that you're not fully being honest because you're either 1, ashamed or 2, scared of what I'm gonna say. Now c'mon what do you actually do? I promise I won't judge." Virgil blushed. Was he really that readable?

"Fine. It's not like you care or anything but I write poems and sell them."

"Nice. Maybe one of these days you can read me one of your angsty emo sonnets. OOH! Or better yet I can help you write some juicy-"

"Not happening!"

"Fine fine suit yourself." Remus chuckled. "So what brings you here Finding Emo?"

"Prince Drama Queen and Chocolate Chip Cookies."

"Ah so Romano and Patty. That figures. You sure it wasn't for another reason~?"

"No?"

"C'mon admit it. I know you missed me~" Remus smirked playfully pinching Virgil's cheek. "I didn't even know you worked here!" Virgil blushed as he swatted Remus' hand away. "Yeah but now you do and you can see me aaaaanytime you want." "Whatever..." Virgil crossed his arms and looked away.

There soon became a silence between them. Since when did Remus' eyes get prettier? Maybe it was the eyeshadow? No he always had that. Maybe it was because they were a deep chocolate brown? His hair and lips definitely looked softer and- Shit! Virgil was staring!

Get out of there! Get out of there now!

"Anyways I should get going and uh-" Virgil cleared his throat as he picked up his coffee and turned around to leave as quick as possible but Remus stopped him. "Wait uh Virgil, can I ask you something?" Ah yes every anxiety-ridden person's favorite question. "You just did." Virgil deadpanned trying to play off his anxiousness. "You know what I meant!" Remus said slightly irritated.

"Fine. What is it?"

"Okay so I was wondering if you maybe wanted to hang out together later after my shift?"

Virgil blushed. "Like a date?" "If you want it to be~" Remus wiggled his eyebrows and winked. "But in all seriousness yeah kind of." A date!? Remus was far from being the romantic type. This had to be a trick right!?

"Remus I-"

"Look, I know you don't like me much and you probably hate me, but just give me this one chance... Please?" Remus took Virgil's hand and gave him a pleading look. Virgil unconsciously held Remus' hand tighter staring into his eyes. He felt bad. Did Remus really think he actually hated him? That was far from the truth. Virgil loved him. He loved him so damn much since the moment he first laid eyes on him. He just didn't know how to tell him. Let alone show him. 

Virgil sighed. "Fine. One date and that's it. If I actually have a good time, I'll maybe consider going on some more with you. If not, then whatever we have going on between us isn't happening.” That was an obvious lie. Virgil would've agreed to go on countless ones regardless of the outcome and accept to being Remus' boyfriend if he asked but he never wanted to actually admit that to the barista's face.

"I won't disappoint!" Remus smiled getting a little excited. "Yeah yeah whatever. Just out of curiosity, what exactly is this date?" Virgil asked knowing fully well that this "date" the barista had planned was far from his twin's definition. Remus smirked and leaned forward for only Virgil to hear. "Two words. Baseball bats and breaking shit." There's the Remus he knew and loved.

Still chaotic as ever.

Virgil smiled. "Alright you've piqued my interest." "I'm glad I did. If I'm lucky, we both know what happens after the first date~" Remus smirked wiggling his eyebrows. "Shut up. You wish." Virgil blushed holding back a laugh and playfully pushed Remus' face away. Remus cackled.

"A man can fantasize."

"Yeah a little too much."

"So you have thought about-"

"Pierce! Stop flirting with the customers and get back to work!"

Remus rolled his eyes annoyed at his manager's voice in the distance. "I gotta go. My shift ends in like 2 hours and I put my number on the cup so just call or text me or come back by then." "Alright." Remus smirked. "What!?" Virgil blushed confused but immediately realized what that smirk meant.

Oh no.

Remus practically made this phrase a tradition everytime they said bye to each other. "I love you no homo." Yup there it was. Virgil sighed and facepalmed "I love you too no homo..." Remus smiled satisfied that Virgil still said it back since the day they first met.

"Later."

"Later."

 Virgil picked his coffee up and left and smiled to himself as soon as he went outside. After all of these years, he's still a dork. That's what Virgil always loved about Remus. And with that final thought, Virgil finally sipped his coffee and his smile grew wider.

He remembered exactly how I liked it.

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

Trust

Masterlist here

Characters: Tom Hiddleston and Female Novelist Reader

Summary: Finding just the right actor to star in the movie based on your book wasn't an easy process. And then Tom Hiddleston walked into the room, and he may solve more than just your casting concerns.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption

Word Count: 4.2k (whoops)

A/N: This is based off a request given to me by @yespolkadotkitty! I apologize that I haven’t posted in a long while and that this took a minute to get out, but I hope you enjoy it! ALSO. I know nothing about the film industry. Please ignore what I’m sure are several errors concerning that topic.

“Next!”

“He was really good. You sure you didn’t like him?”

You closed your eyes and dropped your forehead onto your hand supported by your elbow on the folding table in front of you. When you had been contacted by your agent that a studio wanted to turn your best-selling novel into a movie, it felt like a dream come true. A whirlwind of paid flights, lunch meetings, negotiations, and signed contracts led you to your spot next to the casting director, several producers, and director for the movie. You were lucky that they were taking your opinion into consideration at all, and you didn’t want to create waves, but there hadn’t been a man reading for the main role yet that felt right.

From several one-note actors to a few who were way off the mark to those who showed up completely unprepared, nobody had made you feel the gripping tension of the troubled but earnest character of Joshua Collins, the struggling artist and male half of your romantic tale.

“Hello, my name is Tom Hiddleston, and I’d like to audition for the role of Joshua Collins.”

That voice. Sophistication roughened with the barest hint of anxiety and smoothed out by a full baritone that dripped honey. Your head popped up from your hand to take in the sheepishly grinning man in front of you. He was tall, so tall that it took an eternity for your eyes to drag from the worn boots on his feet, up the slim legs expertly encased in blue slacks, over the broad chest that strained at the thin fabric of his light blue button-up shirt, to a face that had to have been sculpted by the finest craftsmen with planes and shadows to highlight his arresting stare.

The lines that he read through with a producer’s assistant sounded as if they came straight from your creative imaginings. He was Joshua. The ability he had to convey such emotion with the tilt of his head, the press of his lips, or even the very act of taking a breath to sustain his speech was enough to render you utterly transfixed. Even the silence that fell over the room as he gathered his thoughts for a response had you tense and gripping your pen until your knuckles lightened as you waited with bated breath for a reply you had memorized before he’d strolled in. But with him it was new, organic, somehow spontaneous and heartfelt and so true it resonated deep in your bones.

And then he stood from the chair he had fallen into with an easy, relieved smile on his face as he smoothed his hand down the front of his shirt. “Thank you all for sharing your time with me today. And, if I may,” he shifted his attention from the studio bigwigs to you, “I absolutely adored the raw humanity in your novel. I hope that I can bring it to life for you.”

The sound of the door closing seemed to break the spell that had fallen over the room. You shared a knowing look first with the casting director and then the director herself.

“Joe, please tell those remaining that auditions have been canceled,” Sam smiled, scribbling something in her portfolio in front of her. “We have our man.”

~

Had you picked up all of the loose bits of trash scattered around your room? Sure, the staff had cleaned that morning, but that didn’t mean that you hadn’t found some way to dirty it since then. Would bottled water be okay? Maybe he preferred coffee. Hotel coffee wasn’t ever the greatest, but it would do in a pinch. Right? And should you have put on nicer clothes? Maybe-

A light, rhythmic knock sounded on your door, stopping your anxious thoughts and making you freeze from where you were bent over making sure the hem of your jeans wasn’t rolled over.

Another knock, and you quickly righted yourself, running your hand over your hair to tame any flyaways as you scurried to the door. Tom stood on the other side, holding two beers in one hand and a thick leather folio in the other.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me before rehearsals begin. May I come in?”

As if anyone would turn down Tom Hiddleston, especially when he came bearing beer. You stepped to the side, allowing him to pass by, leaving behind the very masculine scent of bergamot and citrus in the air that stirred between you. “Of course. You look like you’re ready to attend a class or something.”

He placed everything down on the tiny table meant to be a desk before turning to you with a small smile. His large hands rubbed against his jeans on the outside of his thighs. “Admittedly, I am a bit of a fan of your writing. An avid fan, actually. I was hoping that you wouldn’t mind too terribly if we discussed the book? I want to ensure I fully bring this character to life as you so masterfully wrote it.”

Color you shocked. Sure, you had received plenty of praise for your book throughout this process, the paycheck was evidence enough that it was liked, but to have someone that you personally admired for their own set of talents compliment it was another thing entirely. Working to school your face so that your excitement didn’t show, you grabbed the beer he opened and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ask away, Mr. Hiddleston.”

Draping his long and lithe form into the faded desk chair, he opened his folio and uncapped a pen that looked more expensive than the entirety of your outfit. “Tom, please. We will be working closely together, and we are neighbors in this hotel as well. Formalities are not necessary.”

“Okay,” you nodded and took a swig of liquid courage. “Tom, what would you like to know?”

Questions and answered flowed easily after a few stuttering moments on both sides of the conversation. You were only struck dumb once or twice from the intensity of his thoughtful stare, and you found yourself both grateful and saddened when it would leave you to focus on the copious notes he scribbled down in the folio on his thigh. You’d never felt so heard as to when he watched you ramble on about plot points and motivation and character development, with his hand rasping against the five o’clock shadow that darkened his razor-sharp jawline and his brows furrowed.

Only when you stifled a yawn behind your hand did he seem to pull himself from the focused notes he had been taking after you explained a more difficult aspect of Joshua’s past. He glanced at the leather-strapped watch on his arm, frowning. “I do believe that I have kept you up far too late. I apologize. I should be going so that you may rest for overseeing rehearsals tomorrow. You will be there, correct?”

“I think so, yeah. Unless I’m needed for consultation on a last-minute script change, I think that’s where I’m supposed to be. I’m not really sure how all of this works,” you admitted with a light laugh.

He walked with you to the door after tossing both his and your bottles in the trash and gathering his things that had spread out over the desk. “If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask. I know how overwhelming all of this can be. Until then, I very much look forward to seeing you. Goodnight.”

The clasp of his hand on your shoulder was heavy, stretching across your skin with a pleasant warmth that you wanted to curl into and bask in forever. You reached up and patted his hand gently before opening the door. “Goodnight.”

Sure enough, when you watched him head back to his room in the hotel meant to house you for the entirety of the filming project, he disappeared into the room directly next to yours.

The faint scent of his cologne lingered on your clothing as you ducked back into your room to prepare yourself as best as you could for the unknown journey ahead.

~

In all your days, you’d never met someone as motivated and driven as Tom. When he wasn’t rehearsing, he was exercising, or building comradery between the cast and crew that he would be spending the next year with, or even, to your astonishment, spending time with you.

It had begun under the guise of him delving deep into his character with you over beers and room service. Then it had switched to other books in your catalog, and then, when you had begged off any serious thinking because you’d spent all day arguing with the writers, it changed into something more personal.

You walked onto set holding two travel tumblers precariously with one arm and your overstuffed binder in the other. A meeting with your agent that morning discussing the press tour preceding the premiere of the movie had gone on longer than expected, and you couldn’t wait to sit down and just watch Tom and the cast act out the inner workings of your imagination over the coffee you clutched. The idea of going for so many interviews and appearances weighed heavily on you. To be the object of so much attention wasn’t why you had gone into writing.

But, perhaps this was.

Tom looked quite frustrated as he talked to Sam, the director, in the middle of the set, about a pivotal point in the film where he admits his love to the female lead (who does not feel the same), and he barely glanced your way as you settled in. His hands flew in front of him with every gesture, fingers spread wide and then clenched tightly into fists at his side. Some conclusion must have been reached because Sam came back to her spot behind the monitors and Tom got into place.

It was obvious to everyone that something was off. You especially, as the dialogue didn’t fit what you had written with the screenwriters for the scene. After the cameras stopped rolling so Sam could talk to Tom once again, whose performance had been stilted and unnatural, you turned to your assistant with a frown heavily etched into your skin. “Was there a rewrite?”

She didn’t even look up from the email she was typing away on her phone. “Yes, ma’am. Just given to everyone this morning. I sent it to your email.”

Groaning quietly, you slipped your coffee and belongings into pockets on the sides of your chair and stood up, holding Tom’s tea in your hand. When you caught his eye you raised it in the air and he nodded. He could come get a drink from it when he had a moment.

That moment came much faster than you expected. He held up one finger to Sam, and you barely caught him plead, “Let me take a drink before we run it again,” before he jogged over to you.

“What’s going on?” you asked, offering him the steaming tea and crossing your arms over your stomach.

He took a deep drink and sighed, closing his eyes to savor the flavor and moment of peace before opening them to look wearily down at you. Irritation lived in the lines between his brows and in the press of his lips together. “The rewrites simply don’t feel like Joshua. I don’t feel as if they line up with his motivations. I-” he sighed heavily, dropping his chin to his chest and putting his free hand on his hip.

You stepped closer to him so that he was forced to meet the determined set of your eyes. Of its own accord, your hand reached out and grasped his. He returned the tight grip and your heart squeezed right along with it. Not the time.

“You know him. You’ve brought him to life and fleshed him out into a fuller being than my words ever did. I-”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re immensely talented,” he interjected.

“I’m not. I’m praising your talent. I’ll go fight Sam if I have to, to just get one take like it was written before they changed it. That’s all I can probably get you. Can you do it?”

He took a bracing sip of his tea before handing the travel mug back to you. Gratitude reflected in the stormy blue of his eyes. “I can. Thank you.”

And then he jogged off back to the set, speaking quietly with the female lead, Mary, about the plan. Which left you to face Sam, hopefully, to throw around what little bit of weight you had. In all honesty, she could put a stopper on the whole situation and force Tom to follow the rewrites. But he was watching you with such hope and support that it bolstered your confidence enough to set down his drink and go over to her.

“What’s going on?”

Sam was a fierce woman, having clawed her way up through the ranks to get her position, and it was easy to want to cower under the steel of her stare. Taking a deep breath, you held out your hands at your sides. “The rewrites aren’t working, Sam. He knows it, Mary knows it, and I know it. Can we just try it the way it was written before? Even if it doesn’t work like we hope, then he’ll have gotten it out of his system and we can move on with shooting.”

She studied you, pinning you to the spot as you tried desperately not to fidget while waiting for her verdict. She maintained eye contact when she shouted to the remarkably silent cast and crew, “One take with the old lines and blocking.”

The knowledge that your reputation was very much on this decision weighed heavily on your shoulders as you nodded your thanks before heading back to your chair. Getting situated, you cradled your coffee in your hands and inhaled the calming aroma as you watched everyone scurry around to get ready for the slight change in blocking and places.

And then action was called, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as Tom’s heart was broken and shattered into a million pieces at Mary’s rejection. The anguish he expressed through ragged breaths and glistening eyes was enough to make you want to run from your place and gather him into the safety of your arms in a futile attempt to put him back together. The scene went on naturally after it was meant to finish, Sam not calling cut, and he collapsed into a heap on his knees and ripped the sketchbook before him to shreds before letting out a scream of pain that would haunt you for the rest of your days.

“Cut.”

An intern ran onto the set and handed Tom several tissues, which he took with a watery smile. Every muscle in your body tensed as you waited for Sam’s reaction.

“Reset. Tom, take a moment and collect yourself. Frank, make sure that you’re tighter on his face right after she turns him down. Lisa, good idea on the sketchbook. Get the rest that you have. Good work, people.”

Tom stood up and was instantly surrounded by hair and makeup to fix the mess that he’d made of himself with his heartfelt performance. But, over their bobbing heads, he managed to look at you and mouth, “Thank you.”

The happiness and relief that soared through your veins were more exhilarating than coffee would ever be.

~

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your fingers stilled over your laptop, the words of your latest piece of fiction ceasing in your head at the peculiar sound. Did someone just knock on your wall? Surely the sounds of your quiet music weren’t too loud.

Knock. Knock.

Hesitantly, you twisted in your bed, pressing your ear to the thin beige wall, and rapped against it three times. When there wasn’t an answering knock, you turned around and pressed your back against your pile of pillows to continue tapping away at what you hoped could possibly be another movie brought to life.

And then the same steady knocks sounded on the door to your hotel room. Confused, you closed your laptop and set it to the side, padding to the door in your pajamas. You opened the door with a confused frown to see Tom standing on the other side, holding a covered tray from room service, exhaustion living in the slump of his shoulders and pull on the corners of his mouth.

“On occasion, I find it hard to wind down after filming. Since you’re awake, I was hoping we could share this piece of chocolate cake and chat a bit?”

Suddenly very shy at your mismatched pajamas and air-dried hair from your shower, you blushed, waving him inside. “How can I turn down cake?”

You closed the door behind him and sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening that you had remembered to pick up your dirty clothes from earlier in the day. Turning around, you found Tom sitting cross-legged on the bed, chocolate crumbs on his lips that you longed to clean with your own. “Were you writing? I can leave. I don’t want to disturb you?”

“Nonsense. The ideas are in my notes. I can always make time for you, especially if you ply me with sweets.” You crawled onto the bed next to him and snagged the fork from his hand, taking a bite. “You sure know a way to a girl’s heart.”

His face softened as he nudged your knee with his. “You think very highly of me. On that note, thank you, today, for believing in me.”

“Of course. You are the most talented man I’ve ever met. I trust your gut.”

The rest of the cake was eaten in relative silence, your eyes chasing each other in fleeting glances that had your heart racing in your chest. There was something much more intimate about sharing a dessert in your pajamas, on your bed, than your other late-night meetings in your room. Was it the electric brush of his fingers over yours when you passed the fork to him, or the knowledge that your lips were touching where his had only moments ago? Would he taste like the rich dessert you shared?

Yearning for the charismatic man had grown in you since that first meeting at his audition. How could it not? He was kind, seeking to meet and know every person he interacted with on set. You were not the exception, as your late-night meetings had proved. His intelligence knew no bounds, and you had put it to the test with rousing discussions from everything to literature to current events to Shakespeare to politics. And the fondness that you caught in his gaze from time to time set a warmth alight in your bones that you wanted to live in for the rest of your days. Every brush of his body against yours had you aware of the heat he left behind for hours, and you had long ago imprinted the feeling of his lips upon your cheek in a quick greeting kiss into your memory.

You must have been staring during your descent into your hopelessly pining thoughts, as he was watching you closely with an eyebrow quirked in silent question, when you pulled yourself from your reverie.

“Sorry,” you shook your head, blinking the madness of your wishes away. “Long day. What’d you say?”

“I said that you have a bit of chocolate on your face. Would you like me to get it for you?” he asked quietly.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His thumb brushed against your cheek, sending the smallest shiver down your spine, before he pulled the digit into his mouth. The silence that stretched beneath his darkened gaze held you frozen to the spot. Your face burned where he had fleetingly touched you.

“Were it not for professionalism…” he murmured, a hint of anguish in his voice as his eyes traveled down your face to settle on your parted lips.

How was it possible that you felt like a schoolgirl again? Your heart hammered in your chest so loudly that it seemed impossible to take a deep enough breath to stop your head from spinning. You shifted on the bed, closer to him, peering up at him through your lashes. “You’d?”

He sighed and scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck before lighting it on your face. Holding you still, he leaned forward, pressing his lips against your cheek in a lingering kiss that had your stomach clench in anticipation. Your hands dug into the scratchy duvet beneath you to keep from resting on his abdomen to see if he had the same reaction to the tension that stretched between you like a livewire.

He left one more kiss on your temple, breathing you in and stroking your jawline with his thumb, before pulling away and standing up from the bed with a groan. “You are temptation personified. It would be an injustice to us both if any romantic notions got in the way of your brilliant storytelling. After, though…”

The promise in his lowered voice and the inferno of his eyes was enough to temporarily sate you as you watched him walk out of the door with a shake of his head. Writing for that evening was out of the question as you fell asleep with the remnants of his touch warm on your skin and his cologne perfuming your sheets.

~

“Did you hear the news?”

You turned from where you were scrolling through your phone at the filming wrap party, perking up at the liquid velvet voice that broke through the terrible house music Sam had requested from the DJ. Tom leaned his shoulder against the very wall that currently propped you up, his head tilted to the side in a way that had your belly fluttering like mad.

“News?”

His hands shoved into the pockets of his navy blazer. “We’ll be on the press tour together, for the movie. The studio wanted someone paired up with you that had a bit more experience with such matters, and I volunteered. I guess you aren’t rid of me yet.”

“As if I’d want such a thing,” you admitted with a quiet laugh. Any anxieties that you'd had about making an idiot of yourself for the worldwide press tour were now replaced with doing the very same, but perhaps now you'd be caught ogling Tom while he waxed on about the movie. Or perhaps you'd simply go mad spending so much time with him in close quarters while jet setting across the globe. Was there time for romantic interludes when you were answering the same twenty questions in twenty different countries?

He stood up straight and offered his arm with a cheeky grin, “At the risk of removing the woman of the hour from the party, would you accompany me outside for a bit of fresh air?”

The mischief that twinkled in his eyes was impossible to ignore. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Says the leading man of the movie and an actual ray of sunshine. Lead on.”

The bar that they’d rented for the evening opened out onto a busy street that replaced the booming music with honking horns and bustling crowds hurrying home. His arm fell to hang at his side, and he caught your hand with his and laced your fingers together before pulling you behind a bit of greenery out front that hid you from prying eyes both inside and outside.

“Along with attending the press tour with you, I was hoping I could accompany you to the premiere?” he asked, leaned against the roughened brick wall behind him, tugging you closer until you stood in between his spread legs. The chilled wind was most unwelcome at your back, but the warmth of the man in front of you was more than enough to make the stolen privacy comfortable.

Your free hand picked a bit of lint from his crimson sweater before stilling, connected to his ribs by just your pointer finger and thumb, drawn into his heat with the bite of the winter air through your thin party dress. “You know what they’ll say.”

Tom was an incredibly private man, and it might create more talk than he’d want to deal with to show up with a date. You’d love more than anything to spend the evening on his arm, basking in his charismatic glow, but not if it caused him any headache or heartache.

His breath, scented with bittersweet alcohol, fanned across your face as his hand settled onto your hip. That simple touch branded your goose-bump covered skin and had you leaned into him until you had to crane your head backward to meet his tender stare. “That I was chivalrous in escorting the novelist who allowed me the opportunity to embody her treasured characters? That it was very thoughtful of me to ensure that you didn’t feel tossed to the sharks for your first red carpet event?”

With just the drop of his chin, his forehead leaned against yours. “Say yes?”

The nudge of his nose along yours, the rub of his thumb over the thin skin on the back of your hand, the push of his leanly muscled chest against yours with every breath, gave you enough courage to close your eyes and touch your lips to his in the kiss that had been denied you months ago. He groaned softly into your parted lips, releasing his hold on you to press his hands over the curve of your backside so you were flush against him. Fire scorched at your insides from the tease of his tongue and you tumbled headfirst into the passion that he finally stoked to life after it had been smoldering between you for so very long.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly against his jaw, pulling away to draw air into your tortured lungs, kneading your fingers gently over his rapidly beating heart.

Leaning against him, with his arms wrapped around you so that your face found a comfortable home in the smooth column of his throat, you closed your eyes and gave in to the enticing man that had caught your attention so very long ago. With Tom by your side, and perhaps even in your bed, you were safe in the knowledge that you wouldn’t have to navigate this new world alone.

~~

Tidbit of Tom taglist: @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @ladyblablabla

Whole Shebang taglist: @just-the-hiddles @yespolkadotkitty @nonsensicalobsessions @vodka-and-some-sass @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @brokenthelovely @myworddump @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul​ @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses​ @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian​ @toozmanykids​ @claritastantrum @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius​ @sabine-leo​ @lovesmesomehiddles​ @peterman-spideyparker​ @wegingerangelica​ @bluefrenchfries604​ @catsladen @snoopy3000​ @silverswordthekilljoy​ @villainousshakespeare​ @kitkatd7​

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

Insecure butterfly

A/N: this was requested by anon, I’m sorry it took so long and it’s written so bad, but I hope you enjoy none the less! Let me know what you think! I based this on my own experience. If anyone has any requests, please send them to me! 

Summary; Richie and Eddie’s daughter feel fat, and Richie and Eddie do their best to convince her otherwise. 

warnings: bad self image, and curse words 

The front door closes with a loud bang, as Richie tumbles trough it, a flower bouquet gripped tightly in his left hand. Among the flower bouquet is a combination of Zinnia’s, hibiscus and red saliva's, who granted don’t match, but they are Richie’s favorite flowers, and it’s only really meant to prove to Eddie and Calia that he thinks about them anyway, so they don’t have to.

 He’s overcome with happiness, the sun warming every inch of his skin and making the world seem that much better and more welcoming, the smiles that have returned on everyone’s face at the first sighting of the heat resulting in one on his face too.

Summer has always been his favorite season, as a kid it was because it meant he was duty free, no school to worry about and no homework that he half-assed just to get it done.  Summer was the equivalent to freedom, the losers and him always escaping to a place, mostly to the barrens, where parents couldn’t judge them, and there were no expectations, no rolls that they were forced into.

After the summer where Pennywise nearly killed them all, the season stopped representing joy, and instead depicted the dark, mind-numbing fear Richie had experienced for the very first time at IT’s hands. Then he forgot about IT, but his life dulled down so fully without his friend being there, that life was one long endless year he survived, barely taking notice of what the weather was like.

Re-meeting Eddie again after Mike called, caused summer to claim his rightful place as the number one time of the year once more.

So sue him for being excited that it’s summer break, but spending time with his family in the summer, to go camping or swimming, lit Richie up like a crystal ball, the inner child in him bubbling up to the surface. A list of things they can do holds Richie hostage, and he barely contains the excitement until he enters his home, trying to convey to the outside world that yes, he is a grown man and not a kid on Christmas eve.

He’s walking towards the kitchen, whistling a tune of a song Eddie hates, and Calia claims makes him appear even older then he is, searching around for his husband who by all means should have been home after dropping their daughter off with a friend.

Said husband ambushes him from behind, a hand gripping Richie’s bicep harder than strictly necessary, spooking Richie even when he tries to pretend it didn’t.

He turns around, his mouth halfway to making a joke already, but stopping once he spots the look of absolute dread coming from Eddie. At first he thinks it has something to do with Sonia, because even now that Eddie isn’t in contact with her anymore, devastation would still take a hold of him if something bad were to have occurred with her, but it’s not.

‘Our daughter’, Eddie says with a pinch of hysterics, ‘thinks she’s fat.’ His breathing comes in short gasps, which indicates that he’s about to have another panic attack, and Richie needs to hurry to distract him so he can steer it away.

‘I brought you flowers Eds. They smell all sweet and cute, like you.’ He decides on, shoving the bundle under his nose, attempting to make his smile as unsuspiciously as possible. Eddie takes to flowers and spares them a quick glance, before shoving them up the small table that’s mostly used for decoration, abandoning them for later.

‘I’m serious Rich, where did she even get that idea?’ He starts to pace up and down the room, sauntering in their living room where he resumes his hovering, deep in thought.

With a sigh, Richie follows him and takes a seat in their sofa. Of course what Eddie claims is concerning, but it wouldn’t be the first time that Calia entrusted him with something, and he was oblivious to the context in which it was said. Besides, at least one of them needs to be calm to resolve the situation, and it seemed like that task fell upon his today. ‘Did she say anything to you?’ Richie inquires, fishing for as much details as he can get. His earlier mood is completely obliterated, uneasy sitting in the pit of his stomach, despite his best attempts to stay focused.

‘No’, Eddie replies, sheepishly, as he comes to a stop and looks up at Richie guiltily.

‘Eddie, you can not spy on her.’

‘I did no such thing asshole’, Eddie defends. ‘I overheard her on the phone while she was in the car. There was no way that I didn’t hear anything, and it was not done on purpose.’ His hand chops in the air to accentuated his point, appalled at the accusation Richie made. ‘I’m not my mother.’

Immediately consumed with guilt, Richie scrambles off their couch, seizing Eddie’s hand in his to try and capture his eyes. The hurt that burns through him when Eddie snatches his hand away makes his feel even worse.  ‘That’s not what I was trying to say Eds.’

With an eyebrow lifted, Eddie stares at him, as if daring him to spell out what he did mean then. His hands are fidgeting by his side, and Richie notices it right away, his own hands itching to comfort his husband.

‘I’m sorry okay? You could never be like your mom. A lot of parents check their kids phone Eds, that does not mean they’re your mother. I’m just against reading her texts, it’s her privacy. I should have realized that you respect her privacy as well and I’m sorry, but I will never, ever compare you to your mother okay?’

Eddie grunts, still a bit annoyed at Richie, but he accepts the kiss from him eagerly all the same, the anger draining out of him the second their lips touch. Privileged to be the one to have that effect on Eddie, but also understanding the severity of the situation, Richie struggles to detain a smile.

‘I’m sorry too, I was trying to pick a fight because I have no idea what to do with all this anxiety in me, but that was wrong.’ Eddie accounts for.

Richie shrugs it off, they have more important things to get too anyway, and he should have worded it better in the first place. ‘Well then we’re both sorry Eddie Spaghetti, now sit your cute ass down and tell me what happened.’

Relenting, Eddie trails after Richie, sinking down next to him, while he begins to tell the story from the start. ‘When I dropped her off this morning at Nina’s house, we were running a little late, so she called her to say that we were bound to arrive soon, and the two of them got talking. I don’t know what Nina said, I heard nothing of her side of the conversation, but Calia responded to her saying ‘I know that, but I’m too fat to wear such a thing anyway’, what the hell do we do Rich?’

Something bubbling up under the surface tries to make its way up, insistent and demanding Richie to accept it, to process it regardless of his tries not to.

Helplessness settles in in every pore of his being, prolonging his suffering and making his stomach turn violently. This somehow feels worse than Calia being sick, simply because there’s nothing really to be done.

Richie has spend more than enough of his childhood and adolescence hating the way he looked, and attempting to change all the things he didn’t like, revolted by the reflection that stared back at him, and followed him anywhere he went.

And it’s not something that anyone else can fix for you either. Eddie hadn’t been able to make Richie more confident, not for lack of trying, and everyone telling him that he was beautiful as a child only had an aversion effect. He was being unheard, his insecurities swept from under the rug like they were too much to deal with.

Claiming he was beautiful felt like an escape, an easy way out of conversation that everyone was too awkward to have. He wonders if perhaps it’s something genetic, something he passed on to his daughter.

The mom’s in the Facebook group I’m in said that we should take away all mirrors, is that something we should do?’ Startled by Eddie’s admission, Richie starts guffawing.

‘You’re in a Facebook group with all moms?’ He teases, words light with an blasé tone about them. His mind flashes back to years of not being able to view himself in the mirror, feeling nothing but shame whenever he did catch his own eye.

‘Don’t you fucking start Richie’, Eddie warns, but Richie succeeds in his intent, which was distracting Eddie from the serious issue at hand, and a tiny bit off lightheartedness reared its head, soothing him by the fact that he knew what it was like, and he might be able to help her.

‘Alright, Alright,’ Richie relents, for now, his arm up in a surrendering gesture. ‘Let’s just talk to her, and then we’ll see what she says. But Eds, we’re gonna need to handle this naturally okay? Don’t ambush her.’

‘Obviously not dickwad, if anything, it’s you that has to act normal.’

Without question, it’s Eddie that brings up the topic, not even a second after Calia arrives home. She finishes taking off her shoes, adjusting her grey sweater that she was wearing, as she follows the sound of Richie and Eddie’s bickering, the way she is used to them doing.

With a greeting wave, she crouches down to grab a water bottle in the fridge, uncapping the plastic and taking a big gulp.

‘We need to talk’, is the first thing Eddie declaims since she laid eyes on them. She stops mid swallow, her eyes turning wide and her face paling, full of worry.

‘You’re in trouble young lady’, Richie jokes in his best principal impression, before motioning her over. ‘Your dad is kidding, it’s just a talk, you’re not in trouble.’

‘Jees dad, I have anxiety, don’t do that.’ Calia says, her eyes rolling with vigor. She listens to Richie, her posture relaxing and her shoulders dropping, the worry’s melting away.

‘Great job Eds,’ he murmurs quiet enough that she doesn’t hear them, while still jabbing Eddie ins the side. Already, it appear as thought the conversation is not going to go the way they planned it.

‘So, what’s up?’ She asks, flitting her eyes between her parents, attempting to gauge them. Attempting to come across as nonchalant, Richie stretches out to the back of the sofa, his entire body splayed out sinking down.

It gives away more than he wants, the alarm bells going off in Calia’s head, an eyebrow furrowed in confusion, and the nervousness coming back. The eyebrow is something she has clearly mirrored from Eddie, and at times Richie speculates what she may have gotten from him and comes to the sick and twisted realization that mental issues, might be the answer.

He shakes himself out of his stupor, resigning it to a later time maybe tonight, as he would no doubt overthink everything right before sleep carried him off to sleep.

‘Your pops and I wanted to ask you about something I overheard in the car this morning.’

Becoming evident right away that Calia is appalled at the prospect of her father budding in a private conversation, Richie hurries to alleviate the situation.

‘He didn’t mean to listen in kiddo. It was an accident, but we still need to discuss it, it’s important. ’

Calia huffs, but stay silent none the less, and Richie takes it as his cue to continue.;

‘Your dad said that you said that you were fat’, Richie’s voice cracks at the end of his word, his stupid emotion getting the better of him as his heart breaks. In all his life, Calia was the most magnificent person, Eddie not taking into account, that he had ever encountered, and it was agony to know that she felt so less of herself.

Her face turns red, a blush coating both her cheeks, while she tensely glances around the room, avoiding eye contact. ‘So’, she mumbles, embarrassment creeping up her spine.

‘Why do you feel like that?’ Eddie prods, recalling some off the things he and Richie google searched before Calia get home.

She shrugs her shoulders, and Richie relates to her desire to get out of the situation fast. It’s not easy, to talk about the things that plague us so deeply, especially not with our parents of all people, but he knows that if they don’t talk about this now, they never will.

‘You can tell us, there’s no judgment in this house. Well except judgment on your dad’s cutnes, he’s 1000 percent guilty of that.’ He reaches over to pinch one of Eddie’s cheeks, hissing when his hand gets smacked away.

‘Hey, if you two are going to do, I’ll just go up to my room.’ Set out to escape the living room without her parents taking notice, Calia stands up inconspicuously, shuffling towards the door.

When both of her parents turn to watch her, and Eddie asks her to sit down again, she groans, but still does what is requested of her.

‘Can you tell us? I promise that if you confide in us this one time and we can’t help you or you feel to uncomfortable, then we won’t ever bring it up.

‘I just am okay? Like I’m a lot bigger than most of my friends, my stomach is protruding and I have a double chin. Compared to how you guys looked, and my friends it’s a simple fact that I am fat.’

Eddie has to swallow down his tears at her words, even when he squeezes his eyes closed to stop them that way. Granting him a minute to collect himself, Richie takes the lead. He himself discovers that it’s as hard being a parent as it is being the person who has low self-esteem. He finds himself rendered so useless.

Before he has a chance to even respond, he catches the words that Calia breathes out, like another kick to an already wounded puppy. ‘It’s not like any guy will ever want me either.’

‘Okay, don’t you ever fucking say that. Who the fuck cares if no guy, or girl wants you. They do, I know in the same way that I know you’re beautiful, but I also that right now that means nothing, and you think that I’m your father so I have to say that, so let me make clear to you what is true. You don’t exits to be a wife, that is not why you are born. You’re alive to brave through the world, and to leave the world a little brighter when you leave. If that includes having a boyfriend than okay, if it doesn’t than that’s that. A body isn’t functioning because you need to please someone, it’s such a complicated and crazy thing, but it works.’

While taking a deep breath, he uses his pause to stare at Calia’s eyes, conveying how much he means what he says.

‘Who created that extraordinary painting that won her top of her class, and resulted into it being displayed at in the art museum?’

‘I guess I did’, she concurs, her full and undivided attention on her dads.

‘Yeah, you fucking well did. And who wrote all those enthralling and peculiar poems that put uncle Ben to shame?’

Giggling, Calia point at herself with both her thumbs. ‘This girl.’

‘Yeah that’s right,’ Eddie buds in, finally able to get himself together enough to participate. ‘your body did that all in it’s own, and that had nothing to do with the way you look at all.’

‘I know this sounds like such a lie, but’s not. One day you will find someone that not likes you with your flaws, but because of your them. You’re not perfect, no one is, but you have such a wonderful soul, that everything else is added bonus. The guy that’ll date you in the future will have hit the jack pot, whether you’re skinny, or chubby or fat.’

‘That’s pretty fucking deep Pops.’ Calia messes with him, giving him a gentle push to throw him off balance, and break the serious tension that floats around the room.

‘Wow, you try and be nice to your children once and this is what I get as a think you?’ Richie complains sarcastically, pretending to cry and gain sympathy.

‘And don’t curse in front of our daughter Richie. How dare you?’ Eddie adds, the smirk turning the words from serious, to playful.

‘Thanks dads,’ Calia entrusts, enveloping both of them in her arms. Her insecurities won’t be gone overnight, but at least she knows she has her dads to remind her of the important things in life, and to emphasize how beautiful she is. When the family settles in or a movie night, outside, a butterfly makes it’s way up to the sky.

[cr0nu5-archive]

the prompt is halloween which i should’ve just done something more related to the holiday but who doesnt love some vampire action and since its the last day and i missed two days i decided to write something to accompany the art so uh no plot drabble under the cut i wrote it in a few hours be gentle

 "You gonna help me out or what?"

 "I'm already helping you out by not gathering an angry mob to run your freaky ass out of town."

 "Come on, Tomura. Don't be like that."

 Said man huffed in annoyance. The vampire never had trouble getting "food" before. He doesn't understand why he needs his help this time. Tomura half expects this is an excuse to make an attempt on his life.

 "I promise not to drink more than a pint. You have my word. Cross my heart." The vampire ran his finger over his unbeating heart, playful smirk on his face. The scowl on the other's face showed his distaste for that last bit before he processed the first sentence.

 "Wait. A pint?! A fucking pint, Dabi?! I thought you got your fill just the other day." He raised his voice just a bit, thinking the blood sucker was just fucking with him at this point.

 "I went out looking for a snack but I never said I had a successful haul. Just help me out this once. I already feel so weak." With an exaggerated emphasis on "so" Dabi put on a show by staggering closer to the human before throwing his body against the other's. Tomura did his best to try to push the prick off of him but it was clear the undead monster was not lacking in his normal strength.

 "Get off. Do you even know what losing a pint of blood could do to someone with my body type? I know I'm not anemic but come on." He was still struggling to shove the other away, unsuccessfully.

 "I'm not stupid. I know it's a lot to ask of you." The vampire finally stood up properly, taking his weight off of Tomura fully. "Not just the amount of blood but you'd have to put your trust in me. But, I promise I know my shit. I've been in the game a while. I'm not some rookie that's gonna accidentally bleed you dry." Dabi's demeanor was more serious.

 "... I do trust you." They both stood there quietly for a moment until he spoke up again. "Fine. But don't make a habit of it, I'm not a fucking juice box." Tomura grumbled as he pushed his hair out of the way to reveal his neck.

 Which earned him a slap upside his head from the vampire.

 "Hey! what the hell was that for?!"

 "Only a complete idiot offers their neck to one of my kind."

 "But you-"

 "I want a meal, not the entire buffet. Had you offered your neck to anyone else, it would certainly be your last moments of life."

 "Okay, what should I offer you?" The human hoped the cause of his flushed face would be mistaken for his anger instead of his embarrassment.

 "Your wrist is fine." Dabi held out his hand as if he just asked for a stick of gum.

 Tomura hesitantly pushed his hand at him, which Dabi took a hold of. The vampire pulled Tomura's wrist closer to his mouth. He made eye contact with the other while he ran his tongue across the dainty wrist, strengthening his hold so his food source wouldn't escape.

 "Gross… What the hell are you doing?" His words didn't carry a tone of disgust.

 "What? I can't play with my food?" Dabi couldn't hold back a grin.

 "You're an asshole," he scoffs. "Just get it over with."

 Dabi let out a huff of laughter. He opened his mouth, showing off his fangs, then bit down on the human's pale skin. Blood immediately filled his mouth. His eyes slipped closed as he enjoyed the flavor and comforting texture.

 Tomura winced when his skin was pierced but the pain quickly faded and was replaced with a calm and soothing feeling. It felt like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders, like all his worries drained away with each drop of blood. He hadn't expected getting his blood drained by a vampire to feel so relaxing.

 Some blood couldn't be contained by Dabi's mouth and dropped down the other's arm, leaving a trail of red. Tomura watched, almost mezmorized, as the vampire continued to have his fill. After a few minutes Dabi reluctantly pulled off and licked his lips, trying not to waste a drop, before wiping the rest off with the back of his hand.

 "Thank you, Tomura." He thanked him in probably the most sincere voice Tomura has ever heard from him. "We should head to the bathroom to get you cleaned up. Think you can walk there?"

 What kind of a question is that, Tomura thought to himself. He took a step forward and the calm feeling faded rapidly as a dizzy spell hit him. He stumbled forward and immediately felt an arm pulling him close.

 "Nevermind. I'll take care of everything." With that, he hooked his arm under the human's knees and lifted him up with his other arm around his back. He made his way down the hall to his destination.

 "Why hasn't the bleeding slowed down?" Drowsiness soaked every word.

 "Our saliva is like an anticoagulant. Keeps the blood flowing so we can bleed our victims dry. Of course that adds complications to those of us not looking to kill every time we need to eat." They reached the bathroom and luckily the door was open a crack so Dabi just nudged it fully open with his foot.

 Once inside, he sat Tomura on the toilet seat. His attention turned towards the cabinets under the sink and shuffled stuff around till he pulled out what he needed, peroxide and bandages. He rolled up some toilet paper and uncapped the peroxide.

 "You need to disinfect it? You got weird vampire diseases?... Do you guys have vampire herpes?" A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

 "I will leave your ass here to bleed out." He wouldn't.

 The blood sucker poured some peroxide on the paper. He gently took Tomura's arm and lightly dabbed the fang wounds. Once done, he tossed out the bloodied up toilet paper and got some more and wet it slightly with the faucet water. He then cleaned up the blood that covered the other's arm as best he could. Tomura's eyes were slowly closing before Dabi got his attention.

 "Hey, stay awake for me for a little longer." Tomura did his best to comply.

 Lastly, Dabi unrolled the bandages and tore out the amount that was needed with his teeth. He tried his best to wrap the wrist not too tight but not to lose either. He wasn't exactly a professional but did a pretty good job nonetheless. He looked at the other's face to see him still clinging to consciousness.

 "I'll take you to bed now."

 "I wanna walk there." Tomura stood up and leaned on Dabi.

 "Fine, fine."

[angelbabylu]

Something Wicked // LH

pairing: witch!oc x vampire!luke

word count: 5k

warnings: smut, fluff, magical stuff 

notes: this is the most self indulgent thing i’ve ever done. it is comprised of a few different elements: first i got the idea for this from this book series about a witch falling in love with a vampire. on top of that, i’ve always been obsessed with higher education for supernatural creatures (like hogwarts but as a university) and i decided to add some of that element to this fic as well. next, there are a few allusions to Macbeth and Les Miserables in this because i really enjoyed how they fit with the story line. and finally, Luke is french in this?? bec i thought it would be hot & also i loved the idea of him being made a vampire during the french revolution. this fic ended up being mostly character and world building and then smut lol but i may revisit this universe again with some actual plot at a later date. 

title: from Macbeth 

:: ::

It was almost 9 pm when the wind began to pick up outside Margo’s half-opened window. It usually wouldn’t have bothered her–she loved the ominous rustle of the trees and the way the wind’s magic made her feel as if she could fly. But tonight, it was whipping jet black hair into a frenzy in front of her face, making it almost impossible to read the book of potion ingredients that sat in front of her. At first, she had tried tucking the offending strands behind one ear, then another. When the hair tie she used to secure it into a curly knot atop her head broke, she groaned in frustration, her head slamming on the desk with a dull thud.

“Alright you fucking mop,” Margo growled to her curls. “I’ll close the window.”

She was surprised to find the rest of her room dark when she moved away from the incandescent lamp that lived on her desk. The enchanted item had slowly increased in brightness as the sun had given way to its rival, assuring that Margo’s studies weren’t bothered by such trivialities as not having enough light to read.

It took only five long strides for Margo to cross her room, but in that time her mind had moved from the conveniences of being a modern witch back to the potions test she was going to take the next day. Mutely, she recited the four fundamental potion bases and what effects they could help achieve. She was on the third when a bright flash of lightning pulled her from her thoughts and stilled her hand on the window sill.

That explained the way her hair was behaving, at least. There was a thunderstorm brewing, and her hair’s natural propensity to disobey increased whenever electricity stirred in the air. She closed the window and went back to her desk; she had more important things to worry about. By the time the deep roll of thunder disturbed the air, she was tucked back in her chair, nose buried in her book.  

Margo didn’t look up again until her senses drove her to do so. There was a slight tingling in her thumb–a witches sixth sense that told her another being was coming her way. Eventually, she didn’t need any of her preternatural senses–the loud clacking of heels against old wood floors announced the arrival easily enough.

Mildly annoyed, Margo sat back. It was too much to ask for more than a few hours to herself–especially when her sisters were involved. She had barely taken a full breath before the door to her room was slammed opened revealing Serena, dressed in what had to be her most revealing outfit all year. The leopard print skirt was tight and short, struggling to fully cover the entirety of her ass. The top–well Margo wasn’t sure if she could call it a top. It was more a flimsy piece of mesh and two strips of fabric to cover her breasts. But if anyone could pull it off, it was Serena. It was not just her amazon like appearance that made this possible, but also the obvious confidence that rolled of her and the way she commanded attention as soon as she entered a room.

Much like she did now.

But Margo had known Serena too long to be intimidated by her.

Raising an eyebrow tauntingly, Margo asked, “Trying to catch an incubus?”

The sharp sound of Serena’s heels was the only response as Serena moved deeper into the room to sit on Margo’s bed. The bed was raised to allow space for storage underneath. Often times, Margo found herself leaping just to get on to it, but Serena was tall enough that she could sit down without a struggle.

Finally, Serena met her eyes again. “Not everyone has a hot vampire boyfriend drooling over them, Mar. I definitely wouldn’t mind an incubus.”

And there it was. The reason why Margo had thrown herself so wholeheartedly into her studies that night.

A warmth started to spread on her cheeks and to the tips of her hair as she blushed. “Shut up,” she grumbled, hating the way just the mention of his name sent her pulse skyrocketing.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Serena said as she played with one of the many earrings up and down her lobe. “Maybe you should invite him to the party tonight.”

Margo rolled her eyes and ignored the girl on her bed in favor of her text. “I’m not going to the party tonight, Serena. I already told you that.”

“Oh for Circe’s sake, Margo.” Serena’s voice was colored with annoyance. “Just come to the party. Live a little.”

Margo kept her eyes focused on the page in front of her. Under Fire Potions, she began reading the uses – poison, hallucinogens, mind-alterations, etc. Serena got increasingly agitated behind her, but Margo continued to ignore her.

When Serena grumbled, “Margo?” Margo finally gave her the response she had been looking for.

“I said I am not coming.” Margo gestured wildly to the mess of notebooks, sticky notes, and highlighters strewn across her desk–though this was not the only reason she would be missing out on the festivities.

Margo had other plans come the witching hour. She tried not to let her face betray that fact, knowing that Serena would not take lightly to her ditching her party for a boy.

“You’ve been studying all night. Take a break and come celebrate with us.”

Margo had argued with Serena enough to know that a simple no might not suffice. Instead, she uncapped a highlighter and grumbled, “Serena, if you don’t leave me alone I’m going to hex you green for the next 24 hours. Then, neither of us will be able to enjoy the party.”

Such use of magic on school grounds was, of course, strictly forbidden. But Margo would happily risk probation for the few minutes of blissful quiet it would bring. Luckily, no one had to hex anyone. Serena accepted her defeat and left Margo’s room, muttering, “Your loss.”

Margo and Serena were both students at the University of the Arcana. They were the world’s worst kept secret. The things that mortal beings feared most were real and living among them, though not with as much horrific tendency towards the cruel as mortals liked to believe. Or, at least, no more so than the mortals themselves. Witches, vampires, demons, shapeshifters–they were human just like everyone else, just a different subclass of humans.

Part of the human experience, unfortunately, was going to a university and getting a degree. Here, Margo studied horticultural magic. It was a degree with which, as her mom liked to remind her, she could go on to become a pharmacist. That was not her plan. She wanted to own a greenhouse someday–maybe do some rudimental medicinal remedies for people in her community. She often dreamed of this simple life on a countryside somewhere.

For now, she was forced to live on a campus large enough to be a country of its own. Not only that but the sorority Gamma Nu with which she had pledged required her to live with twenty-nine other student witches. As much as she hated it–it was a campus requirement. No student witch was allowed on campus without pledging to a coven. That, unfortunately, meant that her sorority sisters never gave her a moment of peace.

Serena had only left Margo’s room for twenty minutes before the heavy bass of some modern hip-hop song began shaking her room.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Margo yelled to no one in particular. The tips of her fingers began to spark blue as she itched to hex someone. It seemed that her sisters couldn’t be bothered to cast a privacy spell on their party, thus subjecting Margo to the loud, rhythmic thumping that would make studying impossible.  

Regretfully, she was terrible at noise redirection spells. Any attempts to soundproof her room would end in disaster. Her plans for the night, to study and retain all that she could before he came, we’re steadily being foiled by distractions at every turn.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to steer her mind to a different route. She just needed to change locations. If she trudged around disgruntled enough, the house would recognize her need, and provide her with a solution. The house was sentient, as all witch abodes were. Something about the excess magic in the air caused them to develop a mind of their own. Sometimes, it was more harm than good, as the house had been known to get rid of entire rooms when it was in a mood. But, just as often, it had been known to give a witch exactly what she was looking for.

Holding out hope, Margo packed up her belongings and slipped out of her room.

“Okay house,” she said pleadingly, hoping it could hear her over the thundering of the music and the storm outside. “Show me someplace quiet I can study.”

For a minute, the only thing she saw was a little black ball of fur that dashed past her feet, following the music downstairs. Witches didn’t have familiars per se, but that never stopped her sisters from ironically adopting every black cat they came across.

“House?” she asked impatiently. A door banged open down the hall.

“Thank you,” She whispered, making her way to the door. It led to the library, which was one story down on the eastern wing, but the laws of physical space did not much apply there.

She couldn’t bring herself to fully step inside, however. This was obviously one of the house’s jokes.

The library was soundproof, that much Margo did know. But it was also haunted by two loud, gossipy ghosts.

“Oh dear,” a larger woman said from her position knitting by the library’s fireplace. If not from the way she was tinted silver and slightly translucent, one might not have known she was undead. “Elizabeth, come see! The studious one did not get invited to the party.”

From somewhere on the banister of the second floor came a tinny laugh. “Well, that’s no surprise to me!” Elizabeth responded. “Look at the way she dressed.”

Margo resisted the urge to pull at her old sweatpants and the UA sweatshirt she wore. “Shut up,” she grumbled. Before shutting the door, she added, “I was invited by the way! I didn’t want to go.”

She ignored Elizabeth’s pointed, “What kind of girl doesn’t want to go to a party?” The sound of which lingered until much after Margo had closed the door.

The house rumbled underneath her, making it clear it was laughing.

“House!” she snapped, annoyed at his antics. Another door appeared in front of her in that instant. This time, she did step inside it. It was the abandoned potions laboratory she hadn’t known existed. A quick survey of the place revealed it was in the basement. Which, happily, seemed to be enchanted, for all the noise of the party disappeared as soon as she closed the door.

It was perfect.

Margo toiled over the cauldron in the laboratory for hours, using whatever preserved ingredients she could find to build practice potions. Having always been a tactical learner, this made the art of potion making so much more accessible to her. The fire underneath the cauldron burned hot, causing her to shed her sweater for the loose grey tank underneath. Eventually, she piled her hair up and away from her face, to avoid the way the steam had caused it to stick to her cheeks and the back of her neck. The ingredients were old school–more animal than plant-based, as she preferred to work with. But Margo made it work nonetheless. 

                    Eye of newt.

                    Toe of frog.

                    Wool of Bat.

                    Tongue of Dog.

Round and round the boiling pot she went, throwing in the ancient ingredients and murmuring incantations, learning the form way better than any text could teach her. She was so lost in the art of it all, she was sure nothing could pull her out.

Then the witching hour came, and a sharp prickling sensation in Margo’s thumbs told her that someone was looking for her. Or something. It was much bigger and much more powerful than Serena–it sent her witch’s sense haywire. She knew just who was it was. She had been waiting for him all night. For a moment, she debated going up to the party, finding him, and dragging him back down to the basement. But, there was a spell she knew, old and powerful, that would bring any creature to her in an instant. Of course, with ancient magicks, there was always a chance of attracting unwanted, much more dangerous attention.

Sighing, she lifted up a quick prayer to Hecate, then said, “Fuck it.”

Turning away from the cauldron, she recited the old but powerful spell.

By the pricking of my thumb, Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks.

She closed her eyes for a breath, and when she opened it, he appeared in front of her like an apparition. At first, he was nothing more than a blur of black and silver. He had entered the room at full vampiric speed, and her eyes had to take a moment to adjust, to register what she was seeing.

Her heart began pounding in her chest, not unlike the rhythmic thumping of the bass she had heard earlier. Run, her instincts told her, recognizing that there was a predator, much larger and much deadlier than her in the room. She tried to calm the pounding she could now feel in her throat, with a breath. It came out shuddering.

Now that her eyes were fully adjusted, she could see the way his pupils dilated, no doubt at the sound of the rush of blood through her veins. As he advanced on her, she took a few steps back. Eventually, she was stopped by the edge of the table next to where the cauldron still bubbled over.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Vampires were at the top of the human food chain. Because of that, everything about them was designed to draw prey in. Luke was no different. The way he talked was an aphrodisiac, the smallest hint of an old French accent rolling off his tongue lasciviously, drawing a longing from her core. She felt the moment her body realized that she was in no immediate danger, and her heart started hammering for an entirely different reason.

“I know,��� she responded, trying to sound cavalier. It was why she had thrown herself so wholeheartedly into her studies that night. At some point in the afternoon, she had received a text. It was just five words, yet it had made her toes curl with desire. Witching hour. I’ll find you. The modern monster’s equivalent of a booty call. Margo, not one to betray her studies for a man, had spent all afternoon with her nose buried in a book. Now that he was right in front of her, she was confident enough in what she had learned that she had no trouble stepping away from the cauldron for the night.

Instead of getting closer to her as her whole body ached for, Luke moved to survey in the room. In turn, she surveyed him. His movements were cat-like, each motion deliberate and graceful. The white, silk shirt he wore was unbuttoned halfway down and tucked into a pair of black leather pants. A peek at the smooth expanse of his chest made Margo yearn to reach out and touch, but she stayed backed up against the table, allowing him to walk the layout of the lab.

“Pilar said you were somewhere studying,” He referenced her housemate easily as he walked around the room almost aimlessly, first glancing into the still bubbling cauldron, then the ingredients that lined the shelf. Ungraciously, she felt jealousy rise to the surface, sending pinpricks of magic down her spine. Margo was well aware of Luke and Pilar’s brief tryst a few months before, and in moments like these, when her senses were bridled by lust, she couldn’t help the primal instincts of possessiveness.

“Potions test.” She responded. Then, because she couldn’t quite put the thought out of her mind, she added, “Pilar needs to mind her own business.”

She was proud of herself when the words didn’t come out sounding shaky or hoarse.

“She’s worried about you, ma chérie. All you do is study.”

Margo tramped down her envy and reminded herself that she hadn’t spent all day studying just so she and Luke could fight about his over-friendliness with his ex. Instead, she tried to focus on nudging Luke’s eyes back to her with a suggestive comment. “I’m not studying right now.”

At her goading, Luke finally gave her the attention she craved. He turned to look at her, his smirk dangerous and promising.

“I prove to be an adequate distraction, no?”

She didn’t see him move. Rather, one moment, he was across the room with a jar of dragon scales in his hand, and somehow, in that same instant, the jar was back on the shelf, and he was next to her, tucking an escaped curl behind her ear.

Immediately, she heaved her chest up to him.

The way he tutted was almost regretful as he traced the line of a barely visible scar, one that he had left on her chest less than 24 hours before. “Oh, ma chérie. You’re already addicted to my touch. I can hear how your blood sings for me.”

Bowing his head, he gently brought his lips to the scar that rested just above the swell of her bosom. “Are you ever,” he paused slightly as if choosing his next word carefully. “Scared of this?”

Scared of this. Scared of them. Historically, witches and vampires did not come together for anything more than sex and political alliances. But, there was something deeper between Luke and Margo. The memory of how indignant she had felt when Serena mentioned her hot vampire boyfriend rose to the surface. Even now she had a hard time with the state of their relationship-how quickly she had come to fall in love with her predator. He often reminded her of the power that he held over her and how her sense of self-preservation became nonexistent whenever he was around.

Luke nipped at her skin lightly, not enough to draw blood. It wrenched her from her thoughts and into that moment with him. When her heart stuttered, he stared up at her, a wolfish grin playing on his face. In moments like these, they both regressed to their animalistic impulses, running on deep, primal instincts left over from their ancestors.

“You forget, Hemmings, that I’m powerful too,” Margo muttered a quick incantation, and this time, the speed with which Luke moved was not due to his vampiric abilities, but rather the invisible bands of wind that twisted around him, pulling him off her, and restraining his wrist. His attempts to burst free of his magical binding was futile. He pulled at his invisible restraints and bared his teeth in warning to her.

The animal inside him did not like to be tied up.

She ignored the way her blood roared in her ears, focusing only on the fact that if it sounded loud to her, it would be deafening for Luke.

Reaching out to the potions table, Margo grabbed a knife she had been using earlier, wiping any traces of ingredients from it with a quick, cleansing water spell. Then, she held it up to her breast. Both her and Luke tracked the way the cool blade as it came to rest against her skin. The grey tank top, as unattractive as Elizabeth’s ghost would find it, did the job of sparking Luke’s interest. She wore no bra underneath, so it hung low on her ample bosom and was thin enough that her nipples all but poked through.

She pierced the skin right where Luke had scarred her before. In response, Luke’s pupils dilated further until his blue eyes were almost completely black, and his breath began to get ragged. Now, it was her turn to smirk.

“I might be addicted to your touch,” she purred. “But you’re addicted to my taste.”

Luke impossibly broke free of her binds and had his hands gripping at her sides in a second. He buried his face in her neck, not going for her blood until he got express permission to do so.

“Can I?” His voice was rough and riddled with want. She nodded once, and Luke dropped his mouth to her heart vein and started to drink deeply.

Nothing that Margo had experienced in her 21 years of life was as erotic as a vampire drinking from her chest. In popular culture, vampires drank from their lover’s neck. That was too impersonal of an action, Luke had informed her. Vampires drank from a mortal’s necks when they planned to drain them and leave them for dead. There was something much more sacred about their relationship, something that made the idea of taking blood from that public place repugnant to him.

As he sucked deeper on Margo’s chest, a shiver of lust set inside her aflame. She could feel herself grow wet from the pull of blood out of her and into him. It was an aphrodisiac, and she was powerless against the feeling it brought. From the way Luke flexed his fingers at her side, she could tell he was just as affected by it as she was. He pulled away to thrust his erection against her.

“Wanna drink while I’m inside you,” he begged.

She didn’t trust her voice not to come out in a ragged plea, so she nodded mutely, already reaching for the hem of her shirt to pull it over her head. Luke hoisted her up unto the table she had barely noticed digging into her back. Instead of returning to the wound on her chest, already closed from the healing properties in his saliva, Luke went for her nipples, sucking on one as he rolled the other between his forefinger and thumb.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered almost reverentially.

He started on a path downwards, kissing her stomach, licking into the dip of her belly button. “You know,” he began as he knelt in front of her, fingers already poised to remove her sweatpants. “Since the change, I’ve questioned my belief in a higher power. But when I do this with you, I know He’s real. Nothing else but an omnipotent deity could have created an angel as beautiful as you.”

Margo bit her lip. Having spent some time with the romantic era poets of the mid-1800s, Luke was prone to outbursts like these in the midst of sex. Margo liked to tease him about it.

“I’m no angel,” she retorted a slight quirk of her lips. “I’ll be right there in hell with you, Luke Hemmings. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Luke took a moment to respond, choosing instead to remove her sweatpants and panties. Then, he placed a few chaste kisses to the inside of either thigh, letting his scruff rub lightly against her teasingly. Margo’s hand shot out, running through his hair a few times, before trying to lead him to her folds.

Instead, he chose that moment to respond to her earlier comment. It was always like this with them. Push and pull. Two opposing tides of want, dragging their sex in different directions. “You are too intoxicating. The devil will try to steal you from me.”

Luke brought his mouth back to her stomach, lapping at the salt of her skin. He nibbled slightly, causing her to release a shuddering breath.

“The devil can’t have me,” she cried between gasps. “I belong to you.”

That was just the motivation the vampire needed. “And I to you,” he growled. It was a guttural sound coming from deep within. In the next moment, he brought his tongue to her, pressing it against her clit.

He spent his time worshiping her folds, before adding one finger inside her. Margo’s legs fell open wider in response, inviting more.

“How does every inch of you taste so good?” He asked in another bought of reverence. Margo’s only response was a cry of euphoria as Luke’s fingers scissored in and out of her, drawing immeasurable pleasure. For a few moments, she basked in the sensation of a lover taking his time to reduce her to cries and shudders. When she came the first time, she was so lost in this sensation, she wasn’t cognizant of the little sparks of magic flittering off her, falling to the tables and the floor.

It was not until Luke muttered, “Shit,” that she opened her eyes to see smoke rising from a hole burnt into the hardwood floor.

“Fuck,” she cursed, still panting. “My bad.”

They glanced at each other for a brief moment, taken by the heat of each other. Then, they devolved into laughter. This wasn’t the first time Margo had burnt something in the midst of their passion, and it wouldn’t be her last.

Luke stood and picked her up amid their laughter. In response, she wrapped her legs around his waist and peppered her face with kisses. “Take us back to your room,” he begged. He raised one foot in the basement of the old house as Margo whispered her incantation, and when he put it down, they were back in her second-floor room.

“God, I love magic,” He breathed, depositing her on her bed.

“Me too,” she responded, and with a wink, all his clothes disappeared. Luke was unconcerned with their dematerialization, knowing from experience he would find them neatly folded at the foot of her bed the next morning.

Crawling on top of her, he slotted their mouths together in a motion they had done so often it became ritual. They spent a few blissful moments, rubbing unbidden against each other. But Luke was impatient. Soon, he was pinning both her wrists above her head with one large hand and entering her slowly.

At first, his thrusts were slow, deliberate, as he got used to the feeling of being inside her. Then, when his movements started to become more erratic, Margo bared her chest to him, knowing exactly what he wanted. His teeth pierced the scarred flesh easily, and he moaned at the first drop of blood that made contacts with his lips.

He released his hold on her hands then, so his were available to wrap his hand around her throat, grip at her side and play with her clit or nipple as he saw fit. The animal in both of them moved about in unrestrained movements as they devolved into hands, teeth, and hips. He drank until it felt like the open wound in her chest was somehow connected to her pussy, each deep suck causing her walls to contract.

She groaned, one hand in his hair, the other in the sheets. It was heaven for her, but for him, it was even better. Curious, Margo had once asked what it felt like to make love to her and feed from her at the same time. He said it felt like being burned alive in the best way possible. Passion consumed every inch of him, setting him aflame.

When he pulled back from her chest, they were both seconds away from climaxing. Immediately, he brought one finger to her clit, playing with it as he thrust inside her. She came, and he followed. This time, a soft glow of light radiated off her in pulses, matching the pulses of her orgasm. Her magical reactions to him were getting stronger.

She turned her attention to the man now draped atop of her, breathing in deeply, taking in the heady scent of the room.

“Smell something you like?” she teased, knowing he liked the smell of them tangled together in the room. Luke loved being unable to smell where he ended and she began.

“Yeah,” he breathed in response, still visibly affected by Margo’s blood. Margo laid there a few minutes running her hand through his hair, waiting for him to come down from the high she had caused.

When Luke was back to himself again, he flipped them, so she was lying atop him. With a quick incantation, Margo brought the blanket gently over their shoulders. Peacefully, they settled in for the night.

“I love you, mon cœur,” Luke uttered the sentiment first.

Margo repeated it.

“Wake me up at 8?” She wanted to get some last minutes revisions done before her test at 10 and one of the best things about having a vampire boyfriend? He didn’t need sleep, so she had a personal alarm. Margo thought the kiss he placed atop her head was an affirmative and a goodnight all in one. He had one more thing to say.

“Le suprême bonheur de la vie, c'est la conviction qu'on est aimé; aimé pour soi-même, disons mieux, aimé malgré soi-même.”

The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather in spite of ourselves.

It was a quote from his late friend, Victor Hugo. In moments of reminiscing, Luke thought back to the time he’d spent with the author and poet. He had told her once that he never believed he would find the happiness Hugo spoke about. But he found it with her.

She squeezed his side gently, a silent admittance that she loved him as well. 

:: ::

Part 2: Man or Beast

end notes: shout out to anyone who recognizes the names margo, serena & pilar who are elle’s sorority sisters from legally blonde the musical lmao. let me know what you think! love yall!

tag list: @5sosnsfw / @bloodmoonashton / @lukescaboose / @5sex-of-summa / @deviantnines / @halcyonnhood / @gh0st-0f-y0u-95 / @aspiringwildfire / @cal-pal-cuddles / @hotmessmichael / @hereforlukescruff/ @softforcal / @ohhmuke / @fratcalum / @calumamongmen / @ashtonandcalslefthand / @asht0ns-world / @colorful-queen-of-the-roses / @heavenlydrarry / @slowlyelectronictragedy / @myemptywallets / @pagesuponstpages / @fallfrxmgrace / @thefireisgone / @michaelorwhat / @dammitbands / @sugarcoated-pain / @sublimehood / @cal-puddies / @singt0mecalum / @irwinkitten / @myloverboyash

[singingvio]

“How did you get yourself there?”

Okay, so I didn’t have specific characters for this, so I chose Red and Green because there aren’t a lot of platonic Red/Green fics out there. Also Vio at the end because reasons.

---

Green sat on the highest branch of the giant tree in the center of the courtyard. he stared at the sky, a brilliant midnight sky with scattered stars above him. The view was beautiful, and Green often went there to think, but that wasn’t why he was there.

He had a nightmare, a really bad one, when he was forced to fight his friends and family.

He had ran outside to calm down, but wasn’t much calmer now, after an hour. “Green? How did you get yourself there?” called a voice. Green looked down to see Red sitting on the grass below the tree. He leaned too far forward and started to fall.

Red shrieked and jumped out of the way while Green used his earth magic (they had all developed the elements’ powers the second time) to soften the ground and cushion his fall. it still hurt a bit, though.

“Ow...” he mumbled. Red ran over to him and helped him up.

“Green! Are you okay?” he asked, worried. Green nodded.

“Yeah. why are you out here, Red?” Red held out his fire rod.

“I was going to get up early to practice using my element. I’ve had this to control it, but I’m only going to use it if using fire with my hands gets out of control” he said. He looked at Green and frowned. “You look upset. what’s wrong?” he asked.

The two Links sat down and Green looked at Red sadly. “It’s... nothing. it’s stupid, don’t worry about it.” Red stood up suddenly and grabbed Green by the arm, practically dragging him back to the tower. Even though he didn’t look like it, Red was just as strong as Blue, and it was kind of annoying sometimes.

Green followed him reluctantly to the bright red door that marked Red’s room. Red opened the door quietly and practically shoved Green at the bed, where Green sat down. “Don’t move.” Red ordered as he left the room. Green sat there waiting for a few minutes when the door opened again.

Red came back into the room dragging a half-asleep Vio, who was still wearing purple PJs, behind him. Vio was carrying a small bag that Green had figured out a while ago was full of nail polish. Vio, Red, and Shadow painted their nails a lot.

Vio and Red sat on the bed on either side of Green, Vio barely awake and Red too awake for three in the morning. Red opened the bag to reveal nail polish in just about every color of the rainbow. Vio reached over and plucked a deep violet the same color as his tunic from the bag, and Red showed the other choices to Green.

“Pick a color.” he said. Green looked at him, confused.

“...What?”

“Pick. A. Color.”

“Why, Red? I’ve never painted my nails.”

“Pick one.”

“Goddesses, just pick a color, Green.” Vio grumbled. “This is how we interrogate people.”

“Say what?” Green said, choosing a shining emerald green. Red giggled a bit.

“I learned this trick from Vio, when he wants to talk to someone about something they don’t want to but have to talk about, he paints their nails so they can’t get away.” he said. Vio nodded and uncapped the purple bottle. He started painting his own nails, and Red gestured at Green to hold out his hand. Green did, and Red started to paint Green’s nails emerald.

“So, what happened?” Red asked. Green sighed, he wasn’t getting out of this. Might as well just tell them.

“I had a nightmare. Stupid, I know.” Vio burst out laughing which was kind of a surprise. Then again, he wasn’t fully awake, and when he was half-asleep, he was a lot more open about his feelings.

“No, Not stupid. I have lots of nightmares, so does Shadow, and they’re never stupid. Nightmares of any sort can leave a mark on you that can’t be washed away unless you talk about it.” he said. Green blinked.

“What was this nightmare about?” Red asked. Green sighed.

“I was... forced to fight everyone I cared about. You, Blue, Vio, Shadow, Zelda, Erune, Father, Valensuela, Artura, Vaati...” (Vaati in ghost form from the Minish Cap when he’s nice.-SV) he said. “I strangled you and Blue with my earth magic, stabbed Zelda, Erune and Father, the knights and Vaati I fast away with some type of spell, Vio I drowned, and Shadow was about to kill me, then I woke up.”

Red frowned and put Green’s hand down. he picked up the other and continued to paint. Vio reached over and with his unpainted hand, brushed Green’s face right under his eye. He showed Green a small puddle of water.

“You’re crying, Green.” he said, frowning. Was he? Green didn’t notice.

“Remember it’s not real.” Red said. “If you want, we can go around the castle and show you that everyone’s alive and safe, you didn’t fight them or anything.” Green started to cry again.

“But what if my dream comes true? What if I do have to fight everyone? I had to fight Father, I fight Blue all the time, and I even tried to kill Vio because I thought he was evil!” he yelled. Vio flinched. That was a sore subject, his stay at the Fire Temple. even being there triggered bad memories for him, Green, and Shadow.

Red then did something unexpected. he slapped Green across the face. Vio stared at him, shocked. Red rarely got mad like that. “Get yourself together, Green! Father was in a trance, you had no choice, you and Blue fight, yes, but they’re always over in about five seconds, and you fighting Vio was part of his plan to save Hyrule!” he shouted. “So stop whining, and let’s go see that everyone’s safe and there’s nothing to worry about, and that this dream of your wont’ happen!”

Green sat there silently, then sighed. “All right. I think you hitting me worked, I’m not caught up in that anymore.I still want to see everyone safe, though.” Red nodded and handed Vio back the nail polish. Vio put the bottles back in the bag and walked off.

“Well, you two have fun. I’m going back to bed. And Red, if you wake me up in the middle of the night again and drag me to talk with you or someone else for over an hour, you are so dead.” Red just laughed. He helped Green up, and the two did just as planned.

The knight’s quarters? Everyone fast asleep. Blue? Snoring like a hibernating bear. Vaati? Nowhere to be found, but that was normal, and the glowing orb in the common room where Vaati could contact them for emergencies was still. Vio and Shadow? Somehow Vio had fallen asleep inabout thirty seconds, and the two were curled up on the bed, fast asleep. Erune? practicing some sword-fighting moves Red had taught her in the training yard. Zelda? Awake and practically buried under a pile of papers.

Red led Greenback to the tower and into the emerald hero’s room. “See you later, Green.” he said, walking back to his room while Green fell on the grass-green bed.

---

one month later

---

Green looked up in the middle of the night, at the tree, to see Vio sitting there, wide awake and upset. “How did you get yourself there?” he asked. Vio yelped in surprise and fell, then used his wind magic to float safely to the ground. Green helped him up. “Nightmare?” After that dilemma a month ago, it had become common for Green, Vio, and Red to sit in the tree until one of the others used their code, ‘How did you get yourself there,’ and they got down and talked.

Vio nodded. “Yeah.” the two walked to the tower.

“...Let’s get Red.” Green said. Vio nodded silently. “And the nail polish.” That got a laugh.

[uncharted-writer-blog]

Percy Jackson Vs. Harry Potter: Your Favorite Characters Kill Each Other.

I’m going to note briefly that in order to make the fight fair, I allow Harry to be susceptible to Celestial Bronze. He is a being of magic, after all.

Percy

It's a lot like Capture the Flag, Thought Percy.

The woods were dense around him, huge hulking trees went up and up into the sky. The ground was thick with leaves, bushes and rocks, all of which he took in. Everything must be used for tactical advantage.

About twenty yards away stood his enemy: A boy about his age. His hair was messy, a jagged scar crossed his forehead. He had glasses on his face and a wand in his hand.

Percy chuckled, “Hey man, that's a nice little stick you got there! You compensating for someth-”

“STUPEFY!” Shouted his enemy, a blast of energy leaping from the wand.

Percy jerked into motion, his blade, Riptide, knocking the attack aside.

“So that's how it's gonna be.” Percy muttered to himself.

He charged.

The boy with the wand muttered something and flicked his wrist. A ball of flame hurtled toward Percy. He threw himself in a roll, but by the time he regained his footing, he once again heard “Stupefy!” and was forced to deflect another energy beam.

“Who you calling a stupid-guy?” Percy, asked.

“No, no!” Shouted the boy, slowly walking towards Percy, “Not stupid-guy...STUPEFY!”

The blast was deflected.

“Well that's a relief.” Said Percy, who put back on the speed, angling Riptide for the kill.

His opponent leaped aside with surprising agility, Percy's blade only nicking his shoulder. Percy spun, launching a kick at the boy, which knocked him flat on his back.

Percy grinned and brought down his blade.

“Protego!” Yelled the boy, and suddenly Riptide's momentum was stopped by an invisible force. Percy's enemy began to sweat, his wand was pointed directly at the celestial bronze point above him. Slowly, like pushing against a current, the weapon forced its way down towards its target below.

“Disparate!” Yelled the boy. Riptide drew closer. He grew frantic. “Dissaparate!”

“What is wrong with you, man?” Percy yelled, “Die like a boss!”

Suddenly the pressure disappeared...and so did the boy.

Riptide buried itself up to the hilts in the earth.

“What the crap??” Percy jerked his head around, looking for the boy.

Then he heard it, a distinctive pop from deeper in the woods.

He was off like a shot.

Harry

Harry apparated atop a large mound, a hill really, formed out of dirt and boulders. Ascending it would require careful footing, it would be tricky, uncertain. To be atop it afforded a great advantage.

Harry took a deep breath. It had been a while since he'd been put on his toes like that.

From the woods came the soft crunch of feet on pine needles, and out came his opponent. A proud, muscular boy. He wore an orange shirt and carried a magic sword of bronze.

Harry leveled his wand at the young man. Obviously his weapon could deflect magical attacks, so he would have to be quick.

“Deletrius!” A beam of white light cut its way through the air. The boy caught the blast on his sword, deflecting it to the side. Harry concentrated, and doubled the beam's intensity. The power he had to produce made his ears buzz.

The young man in the orange shirt had other problems. The force of the energy drove him back several steps, and he was using both hands to keep his blade from nearing his face. He sunk to one knee and pushed hard. Harry snarled, pouring on the pressure.

Harry's enemy then jerked his blade, changing its position and angling the beam's reflection. Before Harry could react, the ground beside him erupted, hurling him to his side.

He scrambled to his feet, grasping for his wand. The young man was on the move again, nearly at the mound's base. His little hill had been somewhat rearranged by the blast, but beside from a burn on his arm there was no damage done.

“Bombarda Maxima!”

A wave of power rolled through him and out his wand. This time, a beam didn't shoot from its tip, but a full explosion.

Boom!

The concussive force was so great that it rocked even Harry. The ground, rock and dirt alike, was torn apart. His foe was blasted backwards, knocked to the dirt, presumably unconscious...there was no way he could possibly rise.

He rose.

The blade in his hand shone as he lifted up, and then, suddenly, it was not in his hand anymore.

Harry reacted lightning-fast.

“Depulso!” Harry flicked his wand, and the weapon, which had been barreling towards him, went flying off into the woods.

The boy in orange never slowed, down, however, and had scrambled up the mound behind the weapon. Harry launched a quick lightning curse at him, but the attack was clumsy, and his enemy dodged it.

His fist found Harry's jaw.

Harry's vision flickered red as he tumbled backward, sliding down the dirty mound. At the bottom he rose to one knee, through the haze he made out his opponent, sprinting down the slope. Only one spell came to mind: his last one.

“Depulso.” He snarled

A wall of invisible force collided with his enemy, sending him flying back up the mound. Harry sprung to his feet, the spell waking his senses, “Confringo!”

His wand sparked and released a bolt of red power. His enemy was too dazed to dodge it, and it hit him square in the chest.

Harry felt the heat from where he stood.

The bolt, upon impact, unraveled into a wave of flames. The boy in orange now flickered orange as fire caught on his clothes and burned away his skin. He was knocked back to the ground. Harry was certain this duel was done.

Percy

Percy was on fire.

But it was ok...it wasn't the first time.

He screamed and sprang to his feet. Despite the pain, Percy knew better than to stay in range of that wand. With several quick bounds he threw himself over the mound, and rolled down the other side. Once reaching the ground, he stripped his burning shirt off and beat his pants. After a moment he pushed up to his knees...he was in pain and his chest was practically melted, but he was the son of Poseidon, god of the ocean, and water did not burn easily. It was this that kept him from fatal wound.

He reached for his singed pocket...Riptide had not yet returned.

Suddenly, the boy with the scar reached the top of the hill. Percy scrambled to his feet, turned, and zig-zagging so he would not be hit by anymore hocus-pocus, ran for the cover of the trees.

Percy wasn't sure what kind of opponent he was fighting. The boy didn't seem to have any significant physical ability to speak of, however it looked like he could do just about anything with that little wand...just say the magic word and boom! Everything falls apart.

So now Percy was going to the one place he knew he'd have the advantage. The place that had been calling to him since he arrived in this forest.

The creek.

Within a minute, Percy, chest heaving, arrived at its edge. It wasn't anything special: a regular creek, about twenty five feet across. He stood on a ledge, about ten feet above its waters.

A popping noise came from behind.

“Stupefy!” He heard.

Percy tried to spin, but it was too late.

He suddenly felt rigid, his mind went blank, and he toppled downward, over the ledge, and into the water.

As soon as he broke the surface, Percy felt rejuvenated. The wound on his chest itched for a moment, and then vanished, a distant memory. His mind felt clear and bright once more. He opened his eyes and smiled.

Now the scar-boy was in big trouble.

Percy concentrated, and the sensation of a tug in his gut appeared. The feeling was like an old friend after all these years, a reminder of his power. The water began to swirl around him. Faster, faster. It quickly formed a water spout, a cyclone of the waves. Dark clouds flitted among the chaotic waters, lightning flickered. Foam sprayed.

With a yell, Percy launched himself upwards. The boy with the scar's eyes widened in shock as he saw his opponent, thought defeated, standing in the center of wild cyclone. Percy reached in his pocket: Riptide had returned. He pulled the pen out and uncapped it, activating his blade.

“WOOOO HOOO!” Screamed Percy,

All at once the water rushed at scar-guy, taking Percy with it. Immediately he was ploughed off his feet by a wave. The boy whispered something and held out his wand, and suddenly the tide split around him, an invisible barrier being formed by the force of his magic.

Percy barreled towards him slashing at his invisible barrier with Riptide. As he did so, the wand trembled in his hand, and he was swallowed by the waves.

But before his head went all the way under, Percy heard two distinctive words: “Accio Firebolt”

Now, however, he was under the waves. Percy stretched his will to the water, ordering it to rip him apart, but was still being resisted by a strange force. Though he banged his enemy around on the ground, and buffeted him with rocks and lack of oxygen, he could not fully attack him. Something was shielding the magician.

And then, something like a sledgehammer nailed Percy in the back.

The wizard blasted his way out of the water, and, grabbing on to a...was that a flying broomstick?? Shot off into the sky.

“Two can play at this game, boy.” Hissed Percy,

He closed his eyes,

Blackjack...Blackjack can you hear me?

Yo, boss. Whatcha need?

Percy grinned.

Harry

Now things were going Harry's way.

The wind rushed past him as he gained altitude, soaring above the trees and, hopefully, out of range of that horrible river. About fifty feet above the tree tops, he stopped, hovering in mid-air. Harry caught his breath.

A moment passed, and then he leveled his wand at the ground below.

“Fiendfyre!” The dark spell tasted foul as it left his lips

A horrible pressure built up inside of Harry, and immediately he began to tremble. Then, with a shout of concentration, pure, white-hot flame erupted from the wand in his hand, expanding on its scorching way to the ground far below.

A blanket of fire washed over the treetops. The boy in the orange shirt was surely done for...

And then Harry heard an odd sound...

It sounded like...neighing.

From the inferno below, his opponent came barreling upward...riding a black horse with wings.

They were upon him in an instant, and Harry was first to jerk the broom sideways into a sharp maneuver to avoid his opponent's blade. The enemy swooped in yet again, and the Boy Who Lived was forced to veer sideways to retain that title.

“WOOHOO!” Screamed the black-haired boy, “I CAN FLY TOO! AND I DON'T LOOK SUPER LAME WHILE I DO IT EITHER!!!”

“Try this for 'super lame'.” Harry hissed. A beam of red energy leaped for the horse's neck. Somehow, the steed managed to twist sideways, and that cursed bronze blade absorbed it.

And so began a game of cat and mouse in the sky. Harry changed off from being the hunter to the hunted as their two unlikely vehicles were put to the test in combat. The wizard found himself using every ounce of what he had learned from Quidditch maneuvers to avoid the boy's blade and the horse's hoofs. And at every open chance, he launched a spell at his foe, which was generally knocked aside or dodged.

The two veered away from one another, and spun around, so that they were facing each other.

“It's over, kid!” Harry's opponent yelled “Give up or eat Celestial Bronze!”

“In your dreams.”

With a vicious battle-cry, both teens flew towards the other, weapons raised.

Percy

The power inside his chest reached a boiling point. The tug in his gut borderlined on agony. The god-half of him begged to be released…

Who was he to deny it?

Percy screamed. The energy rolled through him. He extended his left hand in a claw-like motion. He felt the water. The water was within everyone.

The boy with the scar and glasses eyes went wide. The wand fell from his hand and he began to convulse as the liquid within his body turned against him. His head rolled back. Percy felt the bile rise in his throat.

They met. Riptide fell.

Percy’s blade clove the Boy Who Lived in half.

Winner: Percy Jackson

[kaz2y5-imagines]

Castle On the Hill

Title: Castle on the Hill

Pairing: Reader x Dean

Word Count: 3,038

Theme song: Castle on the Hill by Ed Sheeran

Request: Hiii Kazzy! I love your blog and I've noticed that you like Ed Sheeran (I love him too) and he released Castle On The Hill today and he's given so many feels so I was wondering whether you'd be interested in doing a dean/reader based on it with them ending up together? I'd love to see what you'd be able to do with that but only if you want to. If not, just know you're an amazing and your Riptide, Stolen Dance and Red String Of Fate series have changed me forever <3 <3

x

Your name: submit What is this? // <![CDATA[ document.getElementById("submit").addEventListener('click', myHandler); function myHandler() { var v = document.body.innerHTML; var input = document.getElementById("inputTxt").value; v = v.replace(/\by\/n\b|\(y\/n\)/ig, input); document.body.innerHTML = v; } // ]]>

-------------------

Dean is nine years old and he’s home. Or at least as close to home as he has these days, and running wild along the very top of the hill that looks down over to his Uncle Bobby’s house.

“Dean, slow down!” Sam yells from somewhere behind him, still running up the other side of it.

“I can’t slow down, I’m a ghost, Sammy! You gotta catch me!”

“Uncle Bobby just yelled for us! Dad’s back! I’ll race you home!”

Dean turns his head to look toward his brother’s voice, but he doesn’t slow his brand-new-tennis-shoed feet.

“No, Sam, come on. We just started—“ his words are lost, though, as the tip of his sneaker hits a rock and down he goes, falling to his knees on the edge of the hill where gravity takes over completely. He tumbles down the side of it, his small body picking up enough speed that the hands he has thrown out in front of him do little to slow his descent, and he comes unceremoniously to a skidding stop in the dirt at the bottom in a small cloud of dust that fills his nostrils.

“Wow. I’ve never seen anyone do that on accident before.”

Dean looks up and finds himself staring up at you. Your hands are on your hips and you’re appraising him with a golden halo of sunset light behind you, framing your fly-away hair. Dean opens his mouth to reply, surprised when only a small whimper comes out as he tries to stand at the same time and finds that his leg isn’t quite complying. A glance down at it reveals his jeans are torn on both knees, the skin there and on his palms scraped bloody and pocked with small rocks.

“Here,” you say, offering him a hand. He wipes his own on the front of his shirt, ridding it of some of the dirt before taking the help from his new, uninvited companion.

“My dad’s gonna kill me,” he says, as he stands to his feet. His right leg is ginger when he tries to put weight on it and you frown a little before taking his arm and slinging it around your shoulder.

“Where’s your house?” you ask. He points back up the hill with a slight grimace, but you nod once and start a slow path with him in the fading light.

“We were playing ghosts,” Dean says, though you hadn’t asked. You glance over at him and nod in understanding.

“Did the ghost get you?”

“I was the ghost!” he says, affronted.

“I’ve never seen a ghost fall down a hill like that,” you say with a giggle, but stop with the look he gives you.

“Does it hurt bad?” you ask, back-tracking. Dean stiffens his lip and shakes his head.

“It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“One time,” you start, “I was on the swings at school and I’d made a bet that I could jump the farthest out of everyone, even though mom says I shouldn’t make bets. And I was going so high and I jumped at just the right time so it felt like I was flying, like in a dream, but I landed on my arm and I had to wear a cast for part of last year. It’s even in my school picture. My teacher signed it and she drew a smiley face like she does when I get a good grade on the spelling tests.”

“You broke your arm?”

“Uh-huh. But you know what?”

“What?”

“I won the bet,” you say with a grin, and Dean is smiling back, and the pain in his leg has faded away from the forefront of his mind for a moment. You help him hobble the rest of the way back to his Uncle Bobby’s in silence, save the sound of your feet over dead grass, and he unwraps his arm from around your shoulder when he gets to the porch. You stand at the bottom and watch him use the railing for support as he makes his slow way up it.

“Thanks,” he says, remembering his manners just when he’s made it to the front door. You smile widely at him in response, and there he goes again, smiling right back. You turn away, run a few steps before turning to look over your shoulder.

“I’m Y/N,” you call back to him as an afterthought.

“Dean.”

“Bye, Dean!”

It’s almost dark now, and he watches you run under the fast-arriving night with your hair flying out behind you, and he thinks of what you said, of how you felt like you were flying when you’d jumped. He watches you now, running fast and growing small, until he hears the heavy clunk-clunk-clunk of his father’s boots coming down the hall toward the front door, and Dean turns away, to head inside.

——————————

Dean is fifteen and he’s running. He cuts a path through the sparse, November-deadened woods with the twigs and branches making some serious attempts to grab at his flannel shirt and stop him. He’s put himself just ahead of you and he takes the brunt of their clawing scratches. You run behind him, laughing, breathlessly yelling at him to slow down. He throws a grin over his shoulder at you but doesn’t slow. Your hand is in his and you can’t recall which of you initiated that, but Dean gives your hand a squeeze now and without a word, the two of you go from running to a full-on sprint, fast as you can until you break through to the clearing—your clearing—and come to a stop.

Your hand falls from his and you lean over, elbows to your knees, to catch your breath.

“Think we lost ‘em?” you ask. Dean does a small turn of the area and you listen with him. Nothing.

“Told you I knew a shortcut.”

“And I told you that fake ID was crap,” you say with a laugh, standing up straight again. “I knew you were going to get caught.”

With a grin and a flourish, he pulls the item in question from his jacket pocket, along with a couple of minis and a small bottle of whisky.

“Did you steal those?” you ask, eyes wide. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but his grin widens at the look on your face.

“Hey, I tried to give them money. It’s not my fault they weren’t going to sell to Ted Nugent.”

You roll your eyes with a laugh, about to comment on his alias choice when the rest of your group comes breaking into the clearing. A couple of friends from your school, and Sam just behind them. You all converge in the middle, patting backs and relaying stories of how you’d lost the small town cops chasing you, and then Dean is uncapping and raising the whisky, toasting loudly to your new job and your first paycheck, which would have paid for the drinks if the liquor store hadn’t had it out for Ted Nugent. Your group dissolves into laughter and the passing of the bottle, and the night begins.

——

Dean finds you later, after the half-moon is high in the inkwell sky, and two of your group have already had too much, thrown up, and tapped out for the night. You’ve made your way up the hill and you sit with your arms around you, listening to the noise of your friends laughing below; their words and stories are just far enough away to be indiscernible. They are a blended familiarity in the dark.

Dean finishes climbing the hill and takes a long, slow breath before shoving his hands in his pockets.

“You cold?” he asks. You smile up at him and shake your head.

“Think the whisky’s keeping me warm.”

He takes a seat beside you and pulls his knees up to draw his arms around.

“How’d you like it?”

“Whisky?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, it’s terrible,” you say, eliciting a laugh from him. “Yeah, it’s really bad.”

“Well, I got the cheap stuff,” he says. You elbow him softly and laugh with him.

“My first drink and you go cheap?”

“I didn’t want to use up your whole first paycheck,” he says, looking to you with a grin. “Speaking of which.” He pulls the cash you’d given him earlier in the afternoon from his pocket and hands it to you.

“For next time,” you say with a nod.

“Next time,” he agrees. You look up at the sky again and pull your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling the futility of trying to hold your next question in.

“Which will be when, do you think?” you ask, giving into it.

Dean’s followed your gaze skyward and he blinks up at the stars before shaking his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if dad knows. He just…drops us off,” he says. “Could be next week, could be next fall.” Your stomach drops at the thought of a whole year before seeing him again.

“Why can’t you just stay with your Uncle?” you ask, blurting the words before you can stop yourself. “You’d be able to stay at one school, you’d have friends here. You could—“

“I can’t, Y/N. It’s family, you know? We have to stick together,” he says. You chew on the inside of your cheek, nodding, and the sky swims in your watery eyes. You feel Dean look at you and he shifts immediately, turning to face you more fully and reaching a hand out just halfway before stopping.

“Maybe I am a little cold,” you say, and you take advantage of the few seconds you have of Dean looking away as he shrugs out of his coat to wipe at your eyes. He drapes it over your shoulders, running his hand up and down your arm a couple times.

“How much did you drink?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head just barely.

“A couple sips. It was really gross,” you reiterate, laughing in spite of yourself. “Why?”

And then Dean is leaning forward, right toward you and you don’t even have time to be nervous because you’re closing your eyes as if you’ve done this a hundred times, and meeting him in the middle. It’s short—just a second or two of his lips on yours, before he pulls away and blinks at you. You’re warm from the whisky, or his jacket, or the kiss, or some combination of the three, and wonder idly about the goosebumps along your arms.

Dean stays silent but he moves his hand closer to yours, just so that his thumb is brushing over your wrist. You lean into him, allowing yourself to rest your head on his shoulder.

“Is this where we met?” you ask suddenly. Dean’s quiet a beat longer before he shakes his head.

“It was a little farther that way,” he says, pointing ahead of you.

“Well, you’d know,” you tease. “You saw that spot from every angle possible.”

“I was six.”

“You were clumsy.”

“I did it on purpose,” he tries, but you shake your head and then rest it on his shoulder.

“Nope.”

Slowly, Dean leans his head just slightly to rest against yours, breathing in your shampoo smell.

“I’d stay if I could,” he says, quieter now. None of your words seem right and so you say nothing, just turn your hand palm-up and twine your fingers with his. You both face out toward the small town below your hill, with your friends on the other side, and you and Dean sitting on top overlooking it like silent royalty to the summer-night kingdom, and only cricket song between you.

——————————

Dean is thirty-three and he’s tired. That can’t be right, though, can it? Because there’s something in his eyes, in the way he carries himself, the way his shoulders seem to hunch over some now, that speaks of so many more years than that.

“You’re getting old,” you say suddenly. He turns his faux-offended look full on you, eyes narrowed so that you have to laugh.

“That means you’re getting old too, smart-ass,” he says, barely suppressing his grin.

“Yeah, but I look good,” you say. Dean rolls his eyes, but nods his acquiescence.

“You always look good. And that dress…”

You look down at yourself, running your hands over the dark fabric.

“Wish it was for a better reason.”

“Yeah, Bobby would’ve hated this. Always hated the big funeral thing. He said they were more for the living than the dead,” Dean says, looking around the kitchen.

“He wasn’t wrong.”

You’re reminded of the few times you’d had dinner there, always regaling Bobby with the story of Dean’s tumble until Bobby was laughing belly-laughs with Sam, and Dean was scowling in his embarrassed, little boy way.

Dean pulls you from your thoughts by pushing away from the counter and going for the fridge, pulling a six pack of beer from it and tucking it under his arm.

“Come on,” he says, pushing the back door open and holding it for you. You glance to the living room where a few people are still lingering over drinks and small plates of food.

“We can’t leave. You can’t leave.”

“Sam’s got it. I can’t be here anymore, I’m friggin’ suffocating,” Dean says, and you can’t deny him. You follow him out into the fresh air.

You walk close to Dean for a few minutes in silence. It’s an otherwise quiet day; days in Sioux Falls usually are. You make it about a half a mile down the road before Dean offers you a beer. He hesitates to take one for himself after you decline.

“You can drink,” you tell him. He considers the beer in his hand and then stops abruptly. You stop, too, and back up a step to stand beside him once more. He lost his jacket earlier, about five minutes into the funeral, and he stands now with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, standing on the side of the dirt road looking east. He seems to be lost in thought and you reach out to him, placing your hand gently on his forearm and saying his name just once.

“We’re losing a lot of people, Y/N,” he says, not looking directly at you.

You let your hand fall to your side and wait.

“But Bobby…I always thought he was invincible, you know? Like…well, like dad.”

You nod. There’d been no funeral for that, no get-together. It was something you’d learned in a phone call during that interminable stretch of time when Dean hadn’t visited.

“Who else?” you ask.

“Ash,” he starts. “Pamela.”

You stand, not looking directly at him but shifting just so he can feel your arm brush his, so he knows you’re there.

“Ellen,” he says.

“And Jo,” you offer, almost a whisper.

“And Jo,” he confirms. You felt a pang of empathy for her, having only heard a few stories in passing. She must have felt the same as you; always waiting for Dean to come around again, even if it was only for a day.

“And now Bobby,” Dean finishes. He runs his hand down his drawn face with a heavy sigh. “We just keep losing people and there’s not a damn thing I can do.”

“You’ve still got Jody,” you tell him. She’s still back at Bobby’s right now, probably doing more hosting duties than her fair share. Dean gives you a small nod.

“And that Garth guy? He’s still around, right?”

Dean lets out a small laugh.

“Yeah, he’s still around.”

“And Sam,” you add. It’s at this that Dean finally looks at you, and all at once you see that little boy you’d known and this too-old man in front of you now. It’s jarring and you’re struck by it, by him, and how he’s become such a part of your life, fleeting as he’s been.

“And you?” he asks. You smile at him, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

“And me.”

He offers his free hand to you and you take it without question.

“We should go back,” he says.

You bite down on your words, on your offer to come with him when he and Sam hit the road again. It’s not the time. Besides, you know that he’s just listed every reason why he wouldn’t allow it; that ever-growing list of ones he’s lost and how he’s not willing to risk adding your name to it. You can feel yourself squeezing his hand too tight, as though you could keep him there with you this time, but he says nothing about it. And you remind yourself that he’ll always come back.

——————————

Dean is thirty-eight and he's pushing the Impala to her limits. Sam is barely able to read the sign that they fly by as they race down the two-lane blacktop.

“Dean, slow down!” Sam chides, righting his computer on his lap as he types out an email back to Jody.

“No can do, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin.

“You’re going to get us killed.”

“No. I know these roads,” he replies. His phone chirps in his pocket and he pulls it out, unlocking the screen and looking down just long enough to see the picture you’ve sent. You’re smiling wide, holding the phone out to show the small townscape panorama down below you as you stand tall on your hill. There’s two words in a text below the picture.

With nostalgia in his veins, Dean pushes down on the gas to see if he can get anymore out of his car. The sun is setting and Dean’s got a bet with himself that he can get to you before the moon does.

“I know these roads,” he says again, mostly to himself now. “And Y/N’s waiting.”

They cross the city limits and Dean feels it in his heart, unstoppable like rolling down a hill. Like flying off a swing-set and it feeling like flying.

Dean is twenty, he’s thirty-eight, he’s seventeen, he’s nine years old, and he’s home.