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capricorn-0mnikorn · 11 months

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A thought that's been living rent-free in my head for years:

From the NaNoWriMo forum boards, sometime before 2014

Whether a story is "happy" or "sad" depends entirely on when you choose to begin and where you choose to end.

A story is like a line segment in mathematics. Theoretically, every true line stretches off to infinity in either direction. And that's why math textbooks always talk about "Line Segments;" what you draw on your paper is only an approximation of a small part of the truly unknowable, infinite thing.

Stories are like that.

Start with a courtship, and end with a wedding? Happy. Start with the wedding, and end with a funeral? Sad. Start with a funeral, and end with finding new friends through the Grief Support Group? Happy. Start with childhood, and end with graduating school and going on a Road Trip? Ambiguous.

And so on. You can stretch that Happy/Sad/Ambiguous line infinitely far in either direction into the past and future (or into alternate universes). The stories we tell are only "Segments."

And I think it can sometimes be helpful to think of our own life stories that way, too.

#storytelling #mathematics #analogies #NaNoWriMo long ago #bold text #colored text

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adreamthatsworthkeeping · 6 months

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I've realised this is my 16th Nano. I have 15 under my belt with 15 wins. I do not like understanding the passage of time through this number.

#I was in my second year of uni when I started #2008 #so long ago #the better times #send me back #nanowrimo #nano #nanowrimo 2023 #nano 2023

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kaatiba · 1 year

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legends of mourra - nano excerpt no.1

↳ A Muslim-themed fantasy featuring a boy abducted by the djinn and the determined mother, lovelorn kinsman, gentle warrior, female Ranger, and scarred outcast hoping to rescue him.

❝ Once, in the oldest of days and times, there were four kingdoms: the kingdom of Men, the kingdom of the Djinn, the kingdom of the Elyoud, and the kingdom of Beasts. I say once, but they are kingdoms still. They are not, nor have they ever been, united, though only two are sworn enemies: the Djinn and the Elyoud, who will have no alliance or consortium with each other.

The kingdoms of Men and Beasts ever been their jointed battleground, their jointed enemies or allies, for Men have something in their nature to afford them a sort of kinship with either race, and while Beasts are a kingdom unto their own, they intersect and are, in many cases, vassals to Man, Djinn, and Elyoud.

Once, in the oldest of days and times, there was also a famed poet. His name was Bilal, and he had a voice so beautiful it softened the heart and elevated the minds of his listeners, tamed wild beasts so that they would sit docile at his feet, and called to all manner of birds wishing to improve their music through attendance on him or who were simply enchanted by his song, such as that empress of birds, the anqa’ of the sun, for his voice was the closest in beauty and power to hers. ❞

general taglist (open!): @lockejhaven

lofm taglist (open!): @muddshadow

#kaatibawrites #kaatiba's nano 22 updates #nano 22 #nanowrimo 2022 #lofm.wip #LORE! LEGENDS! STORIES FROM LONG AGO INTERSECTING WITH THE MAIN STORY IN FUN NEW WAYS!!!#IM SO EXCITED AHHHH #and WORLDBUILDING #all my worldbuilding is being built into the plot and im SO overjoyed about it #and that i get to write about my culture and religions beliefs and traditions and stories and ADD to them with my own touch!!!#feel free to ask me all or any qs!#anything with spoilers i will be vague about but ye!

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writingdotcoffee · 6 months

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The "Alt" NaNoWriMo Challenge

I'm a big fan of NaNoWriMo and the energy the event breathes into the writing community. Hundreds of thousands of people start working on their novels at the same time. Lots of people share their progress and cheer each other on. Several now-famous authors have started their best-selling novels during NaNo over the years.

That said, it's not for everyone. Writing 50,000 words per month is a serious commitment. Doing it alongside school or work is no joke. In fact, most people who sign up don't finish. According to these stats, only 1-2 out of every 10 participants complete the challenge.

I've never joined NaNoWriMo myself. I'm a slow writer, and I know that I would burn out. Instead, I set a different writing-related challenge for myself every November.

In 2018, I started reading one short story every day. It turned into a regular habit, and I ended up reading hundreds of short stories over the following few months.

Last year, I wanted to build a 30-day writing streak. In the end, I wrote for 232 days in a row. 2023 became the most productive year of my writing life by far with over 250,000 words written.

This year, I will be doing something similar, and I want to invite you to come along for the ride.

The Idea of "AltNaNo"

The idea of finishing a novel in a month seems outrageous to most people. That's what makes it so compelling. It's like standing at the foot of a snowcapped mountain with a rope and a couple of ice picks. The challenge itself is inspiring.

The AltNaNo challenge is the exact opposite. The goal is as small as possible on purpose. The focus isn't to achieve this massive feat but to squash all excuses and merely start writing.

You may not be able to write 50,000 words in a month. But almost everyone can find 15 minutes to write every day.

The Challenge

The goal is simple: Write for at least 15 minutes every day in November.

Writing 100 words and calling it a day after 15 minutes is a success.

Spending longer and writing 500 words is a success.

Wrestling with a difficult scene for 15 minutes and writing only a single sentence is a success.

Spending 15 minutes trying to write after a long day and not producing a single word is a success, too.

Be a tortoise. We all know how the story goes.

How to Join

I've set up daily challenges for the first week in Writing Analytics, if you wanted to join us there:

Day 1/30 ✅

Day 2/30 ✅

Day 3/30 ✅

Day 4/30 ✅

Day 5/30 ✅

Day 6/30 ✅

Day 7/30 ✅

I'll be posting daily updates on the blog as well.

PS: If you'd like to learn more about developing a writing habit, check out this free course I launched a few weeks ago.

#writing #writers #write #amwriting #writing advice #writing life #writing tips #writeblr #writing challenge #altnano

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novelizt · 5 months

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EXPECTO PATRONUM I ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

⚜ PART 2 | SERIES MASTERLIST

GENRE ➺ HOGWARTS AU [slytherin! lockwood x fem! ravenclaw! reader]. rivals to lovers (and a dash of 'everyone knows but them'). fluff and angst.

WC ➺ 13.7k

SYNOPSIS ➺ after a six year rivalry with lockwood, your patronus suddenly matches his when it didn't before.

DISCLAIMER ➺ reader is implied to be shorter than lockwood. appearance of harry potter next gen characters and a few ocs. lockwood calls reader 'sweetheart' and 'my dearest vexation'. prefect! lockwood. (i also headcanon him being a cunning-flirt, so lockwood might read slightly ooc.)

WARNINGS ➺ strained family dynamics (for reader), love potions (misuse of magic), dragons on the loose, wizard duels, and a lot of unpolished dialogue.

NOTES ➺ it's been a long time coming. i hope this finds you when you need it 💙 happy nanowrimo !!

this was originally a one-shot that got split in two. please read part two after this to see their happily ever after 💙

For every Gryffindor came a Slytherin waiting to trouble them. You thought you were in the clear after you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw four years ago. So, you questioned how you had the misfortune of being vexed by a serpent such as Anthony Lockwood.

He boasted the status of being the sole muggle-born Slythern in your year, as well as a colossal thorn in your side. He made it routine to test you. You knew his M.O. well enough to recognize the sound of his footsteps before he even reached you.

"We're learning advanced protective charms in Defence today," he announced like you didn't speed through the syllabus already.

You didn't have to look at him to know he was sporting that lilted smile of his. If you were in a bitter mood, you might have even slung a hex at him.

Luckily for him, you just wanted to get through the day. You quickened your steps. He followed like a parasite.

He even had the gall to bend at the knees to be at eye-level with you, the right side of his mouth curved higher than his left. "Come on, sweetheart. Not even a nod of acknowledgement?"

"If it will get you to leave me be..."

You granted his request and even offered a stiff nod, hoping that would suffice.

You hoped too much because all he did was grin and return to his regularly scheduled goading by matching your stride.

"Away with you," you shooed.

You threw your arm out, aiming for his shoulder. He caught your hand before it even made contact—giving your knuckle a quick tap just to aggravate you.

"I know that trick, sweetheart." He unfurled fingers from yours, slow and deliberate. "Let me walk you, at least. I am a gentleman. Oh– Don't make that face. I really am!"

"If you are such a gentleman, you'd pay attention to my request and leave."

"Suddenly, I'm a barbarian." He shot you a wink that made you wish the floor would swallow you whole. "I could do much worse, you know. Have you heard of oobleck—the stuff muggles are raving about? Bet you'd have a jolly time finding out how to get a non-Newtonian fluid out of your hair."

He feigned a yawn, dropping an arm over your shoulders and giving your arm a subtle squeeze to drive home the fact that he had no intentions of letting you go.

"Arse," was your gracious response.

"Oh, don't be like that. If you are going to play that game, I do have a divine rump. So do you," he said without missing a beat. He played a fool to your slack jaw and widened eyes. "And would you look at that! We've arrived to your classroom. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

If only looks could kill.

Your systems stalled when he dipped his head and planted an ever-cheeky kiss on your temple.

It was futile to throw out a fist to dent that pretty face of his, because he caught your hand before you could even land a hit.

"Cheeky," Lockwood crooned. He tapped your nose before letting you go. You made a show of flicking off the invisible mites he gave you. "Nice try though, sweetheart."

"You—" When you tried to stomp on his foot, he veered out of the way, finessed as a Chesire.

At that point, you knew you were fighting a losing battle. You lifted your chin and crossed the threshold into Potions, ignoring the exorbitant waves and kissy faces he made at you.

Your classmates levelled you with looks of intrigue but you ignored them, too.

Of course, Lockwood had to have the last word. "Remember not to mix up your asphodel and lavender. Wouldn't want another smokey incident, would we? You basically handed me that perfect score."

You tried not to shrivel when a ripple of giggles disrupted the stillness of the classroom.

You threw a nasty look over your shoulder and turned sour when he left, his laugh echoing down the hall. You estimated that he'd be a few minutes late to his class, even if he had to run to make it. Poor chap.

Finally, you were rid of him, but the newly realised smell in the room replaced his slot as your morning vexation. The smell of old parchment, clipped grass, and (much to your bereavement) the Lockwood Stench viscerally assaulted your senses.

You blanched, falling into your seat. "Heavens, did he leave his perfume in here? It smells awful."

As if seeing his face wasn't bad enough, he managed to be the subject of your irritation even if he was absent from the room.

James Potter II, your seatmate and friend, laughed. Eyes crinkling like he knew something you didn't. "He, meaning Anthony Lockwood?"

Your lip curled at the name. Even while preoccupied by your review notes, the smell clouded you. Your attempts to wave away the stench only made it stronger.

It wasn't the worst smell in the wizarding world but you'd rather go through the only class you don't share with him without the incessant thought of him. A huff left you as you came to peace with the fact that your nose would lose its sense eventually.

James's most devious grin stretched across his face. "That's Amortentia over there."

Your breath caught. He jutted a finger at the cauldron that sat at the end of your two-seater desk.

Surely enough, the brew had a pearlescent sheen with curls of peach smoke spiralling into the air, infecting the room with its fragrance. Now that you'd been made aware, your ribs felt too right for your lungs.

Your laugh came out stiff. You coughed, hoping it sutured the cracks in your façade. "I was mistaken then. I only smell the Quidditch Pitch."

James hummed, unconvinced.

—

Time passed slower when you were dying to forget the incident at Potions. Your eyes kept jumping to your watch before the middle of the day had even passed.

Classes had come and gone, and a certainly foul smell clung to the walls of this classroom—as was always the case for Defence Against the Dark Arts. For a moment, you missed smelling the amortentia, then jolted at what other thing that implied.

You knew class started when your peers fell silent, listening attentively on tipped toes. It was every man for himself on days the tables and chairs were pushed to the side of the room.

"On this fine day, we are covering a very tricky, but very utilised charm." The Professor circled the room, inspecting posture and wand grip as she passed.

For a moment, her eyes fell on you, and you stiffened under her gaze. Her lip quirked, like she found comfort in scaring you.

You were made aware that she was a rival of your grandmother's, back in their heyday. You surmised that because she couldn't get one up on your grandmother, she transposed her efforts onto the next best thing: You, and she wasn't afraid to show it.

Her heels clicked, grating your ears as she went on to terrorise a few more unfortunate souls in the way. The vast majority were daft to her impartiality.

She went on a lecture about the charm's importance in the Battle at Hogwarts. You were about to doze off when she slapped her wand against her palm. "Now that the lot of you are in your fourth year, I feel that it is important to know how to cast it in light of grave circumstances."

She waved her wand and muttered a few words before a silvery line jumped from her wand, spinning in the air and illuminating the room before taking on the shape of a rabbit.

The silvery manifestation hopped along with great speed, passing you briskly and making you stumble.

A hand caught your arm before you hit the floor. You were quick to retrieve yourself when you realised that it was Lockwood. You tuned out his mild laugh as you turned away without thanks.

The patronus then skidded to a halt at James's side, speaking in the Professor's voice. "I expect you to know this, Mr. Potter."

It dispersed and a vicious applause shook the room. Even you found yourself wide-eyed in exhilaration. Fighting the fact that the professor was rude, the patronus charm was something you'd been dying to learn way back when.

In the midst of the celebration, your eyes caught Lockwood's, only to find him already staring. There was a pinching sensation in your gut. It forced you to look away. You missed his smile completely.

The Professor ordered the class to break into pairs. Lockwood glued himself to your side before you could blink. He was shooing people away before you could even shoo him away.

"She's got a nasty temper, that one. Wouldn't want her patronus to lunge at you."

"I will have it bite your head off," you murmured, watching a nice Hufflepuff back away. Thus, leaving you alone with the bane of your existence.

"You're too nice for that," Lockwood replied, tapping your side with a half-smile.

"You just said I have a temper."

"With me, yes. But I can handle you."

You had a lot to say about that. The Professor spoke before you could.

"Now," Professor mused. Her voice bounced off the walls in higher vibration. "Using the instructions in your books, attempt to cast your patronus. Remember! The lighter the memory, the more efficient the patronus."

A chorus of turning pages echoed. You and Lockwood withdrew your wands, already knowing which spell to use.

His lips quirked. "Did some advanced reading, did you?"

"You know me so well."

You shook in anticipation, but, after shortly regarding your partner, you refrained from looking too eager.

"Dunderheads first," you urged with false cheer.

The insult flew over Lockwood's head. "Gladly. I like to think my patronus would be a lion."

You couldn't help but snort. "I assume yours would be a housecat with a lot of overgrown hair."

"That would be you."

You had an inkling that he found joy in watching you frown.

After a long while and a generous amount of griping, his wand moved, and he muttered, "Expecto patronum."

A silvery burst of light exploded from his wand. Wisps spun in the air before the dust settled, revealing a crane. It stretched, showcasing several inches of its incandescent neck and wingspan before Lockwood waved his wand once more. The motion sent it in a circle around the room.

It was so majestic, you couldn't pry your eyes away. Other students stared in envy as the crane weaved past other patronuses, nipping at them playfully before soaring back to you.

Wait, not to you... At you.

You found your feet, ready to duck before the silvery bird crashed into you, but it never did. It dispersed before it even touched a hair on your head.

It was an explosion of silver sand. It brushed your cheek with unexpected warmth. The cold seeped into your robes as the darkness veiled you.

"Shame." Lockwood clicked his tongue. "Thought I could freak you out a bit. I couldn't hold it for too long, though."

"Truly a shame," you simpered.

Professor's applause rang out from the other side of the room. Likely for Lockwood's expert execution or his taunting you. Mayhaps both.

"Good work, Mr. Lockwood! Keep practising and your patronus could glide over the Atlantic one day."

"Hear that?" He brightened at the compliment, standing taller as he leaned toward you. "It's your turn, dunderhead."

The number of hexes you could have used . . . You didn't need them. You needed happy thoughts to conjure up a patronus. It was hard enough standing in the same room as Lockwood and Professor Loathes-Your-Guts.

Your inspirations were of holidays and golden scores; your parents' approval; Lockwood falling on his face during Quidditch (your lips twitched at the memory); and the muggle fantasy novels you hid in your room.

A warm feeling shot down your arm, heartening you to mutter the enchantment. The feeling wrapped around your body like a blanket, and when you opened your eyes, your own patronus stared back at you.

It stood metres above the rest, towering over students and patronuses alike. Wisps of silver waved to and fro its body. The only apt description for it was 'colossal'.

"Is that a giraffe?" Lockwood muttered.

"No, It's a pelican." You smiled at his frown. "Of course, it's a giraffe, Lockwood."

You'd never seen one so pretty.

It glowed so bright that Lockwood looked blue in its light. He spared you a look of resignation.

You win.

A swell of pride came to the surface before the patronus wilted away. The space it stood turned black.

Hollers rung out, shaking the bricked walls. A new wave of excitement seized the room. You didn't even glance at the Professor but you could feel her heated gaze on the back of your head. That was victory enough.

—

Three years following that day, you're harrowed by the thought of leaving this place behind. Hogwarts felt like home, more so than the one you shared with your parents.

It was difficult to imagine life without the sky above the dining tables or the constant presence of Prefects scolding lower years.

Soon, your rivalry with Lockwood would fade to the black, too. As far as you knew, the fool was gunning to be an auror. Becoming one yourself wasn't a path you were inclined to take.

You passed the hourglasses of House Points and watched as more trickled into Slytherin's glass, and you felt nothing. The fact that you came to peace with having less points should have been concerning. Your mother would scorn you if she ever caught you thinking that way.

Not wanting to linger, you turned for the dining hall.

You didn't flinch when a weight fell over your shoulders and Lockwood's pretty face invaded your periphery. You should have known he couldn't leave you alone for too long.

"Lockwood."

He grinned. "My dearest vexation."

Your nose scrunched, irritation injected with the smallest feeling of familiarity. "Don't call me that."

"Copy that," He smiled, dragging you closer by the arm around your shoulders. "sweetheart."

It was a lost cause to correct the priss.

"I thought you would've matured by now. Disappointing, really."

"I could be mature, or I could point out the fact that we have fifty points above Ravenclaw."

"I don't mind."

He stalled, and you stopped with him. You didn't really have a choice when he had you under his wing.

He searched your eyes, bewildered. Unsettled, even. "What's on with you?"

You tried to shrug him off but he held fast, fingers practically melded to your arm. "I'm fine, thank you very much. I just don't see the point of upholding this... this–" What was this? You didn't finish the thought before swaying the conversation elsewhere. "We're graduating this year. Might as well set an example for the first-years."

"Our squabbles make it fun for them." On the brink of being offended, he insisted, "They have plenty of examples as is. Kat Godwin sucks the life out of everything, George is best friends with Moaning Myrtle, and Lucy is off talking to the illusive Gray Lady."

You groaned. "That isn't the point."

You made an attempt to shove him, but he caught your hand.

"You have got to start thinking of better ways to express yourself other than hitting or shoving. You should know I always see it coming."

"I can express myself just fine," you respired, yanking your hand away. "But do go ahead. Indulge me. What, pray tell, does that make us?"

Lockwood flourished his free hand as he spoke. "We are 'the arch rivals who makes their problem everyone's problem'. The lower years adore it!"

"Do they?"

In time for your asking, a group of second-years waved at Lockwood, and then to you. He waved back whilst you offered them a terse smile.

One of the girls elbowed her friend. As whispery as her tone was, everyone still heard her. "See? Told you they suit each other."

"They are a couple. Of course, they do," the friend replied.

"Not a couple," you corrected swiftly.

They scurried faster. Before they left the hall, one yelled out, "Just kiss already!"

Despite his matching flush, Lockwood turned to you with a cheeky grin. "You heard them. Let us kiss." He advanced, lips puckered.

You blocked the way with your palm, spreading your fingers until you could push his head back by his forehead. "Yeah– No."

You pried yourself free from his grip to sit with your friends. He didn't fight it, but you weren't surprised that he shouted after you. "But I was right! We have to give the audience what they want!"

"Mr. Lockwood!" Professor McGonagall stood to reprimand him.

You turned away to hide a laugh.

—

The day was lovely. The previous day's rain left a dewy haze in its wake. It was chilly but not cold, and the sun and clouds looked remarkably friendly that morning.

Even then, you didn't know what it was. Your stomach churned for a reason unseen. In the stillness, you could hear a pin drop. You could hear yourself think for once.

Not long after the nagging feeling arrived, you came to the horrific conclusion that Lockwood's absence felt off-putting. You were walking to potions class alone, for the first time in years.

There was no Anthony Lockwood galloping behind you, throwing his arm around you and messing up your hair when you shrug him off. There was no warning as to what your class would be covering that day or a passive-aggressive jab about the most recent Quidditch match.

And, bizarrely, you missed the chaos. You shuddered as the thought struck you.

You held your books tighter and quickened your pace to get to class. When you arrived at Potions, Lockwood-less, your classmates stood to verify the emptiness of the doorway for themselves. Even they were puzzled.

James cocked a brow as you sat and laid out your items without a noise. "Where's lover boy?"

"Using his brain and finally leaving me alone," you responded, wincing at the hint of exasperation in your tone. You didn't mean to sound so dejected, and you definitely didn't intend to slam your things on your desk either. There's a lot of things you didn't intend to do today and 'mentioning Lockwood' was now at the top of that list.

"Mhm," James leaned back in his seat, eyeing you warily. "You don't look too happy."

"I stayed up late doing that essay about counter-potions," you reasoned, having a hard time getting the words out.

James looked pained when you mentioned it. Seconds later, you stifled a laugh when he admitted to forgetting all about that assignment.

Contrary to what you'd promised yourself, Lockwood remained in the back of your mind the entire period.

—

When had Anthony Lockwood ever been interested in Oriana Cai?

That's the first question that popped into your head as you watched him kneel before her with a bouquet of the reddest roses you'd ever seen.

The display was so unexpected, it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your jaw fell slack. James had to pick it up off the ground before you came back to your senses.

In that time, Oriana squealed and clapped, throwing herself forward and strangling the bane-of-your-existence in a hug he enjoyed a little too much. The flowers ended up discarded on the floor.

You had more sense than to gawk. Your chest constricted when Lockwood didn't even acknowledge you as you passed. You shook off the feeling along with the sense of dread you felt from earlier.

His affairs were none of your business, yet, you found yourself thinking about it when you didn't intend to. It's a stake to the heart that his scheduled banter and crude comments were put on hold for whatever that was.

Lockwood had forsaken his seat across from you in favour of sitting with Oriana and her clique. They laughed all through lunch break, his teeth on display, stuck in an unmoving smile.

He looks like a clown, you thought as you skewered a floret of broccoli onto your fork.

You glanced at the professors' table to see if they'd caught onto Lockwood's bizarre behaviour, but they were daft to it.

To any normal person, Lockwood was being a silly boy with a crush. To you, it was abnormal.

Lockwood didn't have the balls to be that forward. How could you say that without sounding obsessed with him?

"If you stare any longer, you might actually burn a hole through his head." James nudged your side and you returned it with a harder shove. "Woah! Cool down, smarty pants. I'm on your side here. I'm just saying, glaring daggers at him won't do much."

"He's being odd," you whispered petulantly.

"I know!" James set his elbow on the table. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Me? Why would I do anything?"

Your eyes landed on Lockwood again. You sucked your teeth before looking away.

James snapped his fingers, forcing you to look up as he pointed an accusatory finger at you. "That. That's why you would do something."

"I don't meddle in Lockwood's affairs. He can do whatever he wants," you said tersely. "If he's so immersed in his romantic life, I might as well get ahead and score more points for my house."

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

"No." Another unfortunate vegetable faced the wrath of your fork. James flinched. "It doesn't bother me in the slightest."

"If you need me to help, just give me a bell." James vacated his seat, gave your shoulder a firm pat, then went off to check on his cousins, praying none of them caught whatever Lockwood's got.

You stewed in your own thoughts before you gave into temptation and looked at Lockwood for the last time. For lunch, at least.

He blinked rapidly, like there were stars stuck in his eyes. The distorted look on his face dissipated when Oriana popped a wad of gum into his mouth. He chewed and chewed until the colour returned to his face. Redder than before.

You tried to shovel your conspiracies down with your lunch. You even chewed slower to put your focus elsewhere, but you couldn't shake off the dread that roiled in the recess of your mind.

—

"I can extend my essay by three paragraphs," you said to Lockwood in the library, attempting to coax him out of his stupor. "I'd beat your record."

"Yeah." He sighed, daydreaming. He hadn't written anything in his scroll. His competitive spirit died somewhere between his confession and now.

You slid into the seat across from him and waved in his face. He looked right through you, staring at the wall. When you followed his gaze, your expression fell flat.

He wasn't staring at the wall, he was staring at Oriana Cai, again. She wiggled her fingers at him, giggling behind her hand.

The moment she saw you, she didn't even attempt to hide her disdain. Suddenly, the library felt colder than before. For the first time in forever, you couldn't find the right words to explain it.

—

You watched Lockwood's change of behaviour with a scrutinising eye. You managed to pick up on a few things that changed.

First, he was infatuated with Oriana Cai. You caught them snogging the other day and you had to hold your breath to keep your lunch down. So much for decorum.

Second, he'd lost all interest in everything other than his girlfriend. He hadn't mentioned Quidditch in the past week, and he didn't have a modicum of concern for his plummeting scores. It was a scenario you never thought possible.

Lastly, Lockwood had a newly acquired addiction to bubblegum. Not just any type of gum. It was Bombarda of Flavour: Berry Kiss.

With a bit of research, you discovered that BOF was a brand run by Oriana's family. Any sane person would assume that Lockwood was an avid fan of his girlfriend's family business, but you were everything but sane.

When you presented the facts to James, he continued to chew on his liquorice. "And? Where is this going?"

"The sweets are infused with Amortentia," you concluded.

James stopped, stared at his liquorice with distrust, then threw it into a bin. "How can you be so sure?"

"Cai's family runs a gum business. Lockwood's been acting weird since he started chewing the gum Cai brought him. It can't be simple coincidence."

"So, not only are you accusing Cai of spiking gum with amortentia, but her family of being an accessory to misuse of magic as well?"

"They've got to be aware of what she's doing, at least! And they're not stopping her, are they? They're just as guilty," you said fervently.

"Fine," James relented. "How are we going to prove that and save your guy?"

"He's not my guy."

"Sure."

You cleared your throat before sitting down. "We need to steal from the potions classroom."

"You are... insane."

There was a bated silence that followed. You raised your brows at him.

He cracked a smile. "I'm in."

—

Potters had a speciality for breaking rules. You came to that conclusion after James, Albus (James's younger brother), and Scorpius Malfoy managed to steal the ingredients you needed without being caught. They looked quite proud of themselves too.

You wasted no time laying out your theory scrolls and recipe book.

"What's she doing?" Albus asked.

"Saving Lockwood," James answered as-a-matter-of-factly.

"I knew something was wrong with him," Scorpius rasped. "Knew something was up with them too."

You silenced him and ordered James to escort the boys back to their dorm. They didn't go without a fight, but James was experienced enough to wrangle them away.

—

"Lockwood—"

He passed you without a second glance.

Your heart flatlined, but you fought against the feeling and recalled why you were there. You steeled your resolve.

With shining eyes and pulled shoulders, you pivoted and captured his arm. The indifference in his eyes was an arrow passing straight through you.

You had to swallow the lump in your throat to find your voice. "Could you try this for me?"

There was no readily available remedy for amortentia, leaving one with the mere hope that its effects diminish over time. The problem was that Oriana Cai had a continuous supply of bewitching gums intentionally keeping him under her enchantment.

You used all your potions knowledge to concoct a solution that would—cross your fingers—work. It was blended into a scrumptious looking cookie thanks to the expertise of culinary enthusiast, George Karim.

You were worried that he wouldn't even give it a try, but he took the package from your hands.

"Thanks."

He walked away without a second thought. It tore your heart in two, but he accepted the cookie! You raised your arms in triumph, stopping short when he tossed the cookie and its cute wrapper out of the nearest window.

Your excitement plummeted along with it.

—

You took a chapter out of Lockwood's book and persevered. He no longer competed with you to answer the professors' questions, but you took every chance to goad him into a debate. All for naught. He barely did anything anymore.

You tried to cure him several more times with the same anti-Amortentia solution. Three times to be exact: ice cream, soup, and—your most desperate attempt yet—gum.

In the end, he'd throw them all away.

All he would put in his mouth was anything Cai spoon-fed him. It made you want to throttle him.

Lockwood was a capable wizard, and the witch had reduced him to something short of being a man-baby.

On your worst days, you'd reluctantly admitted to missing the banter. Even his annoying grin; the one that rose higher on the right side. The same one that had eluded you since the beginning of term.

The seasons changed. Oriana Cai still had Anthony Lockwood under her thumb.

You melted into the velvet blue couch, sighing to the starlit window of Ravenclaw turret. Even the sheer beauty of the common rooms did little to console you.

You draped your arm over your eyes. "Who knew things were this boring without that pest?"

James, who wasn't even supposed to be allowed into the tower, grasped his chest. "Ouch. What of the rest of us?"

"Rowena!" shouted George. You jumped when he slammed his book shut. "I thought your raving about your books was bad enough. Just tell him you miss him already,"

He was done with you sneaking James in to concoct whatever else you were thinking up. He had lost the plot. At that point, even he was versed in anti-amortentia theory.

"She doesn't miss him," James sighed, bored. "apparently."

"I don't," you said promptly. "Karim, you should be more concerned. Your friend is being spelled into being a muppet."

"I am concerned," George retorted hotly. "But I am so sick of staying up 'till Merlin knows when to find out what you're going to spin into a dish next. I can't even study in peace!"

"We're not that bad, are we?" Looking for backup, you propped your chin over the back of the couch, shooting your most precious smile at your youngsters, Lorcan and Lysander Scamander.

Lorcan shook his head, and Lysander nodded his.

"It's a draw," James chuckled.

Frustration poured from George. "Can you please just find somewhere else to scheme? I want to study and not hear 'Lockwood' every bloody second."

"Fine." You hugged your pile of recipe pages to your chest. "We'll go somewhere we're appreciated."

"Oh, please. Don't go too far. The end of the world doesn't actually exist," George nipped.

James snorted, amused.

You closed the door behind you, finally giving Ravenclaw Tower some much deserved silence.

—

Another crumpled up piece of paper rolled on the rim of the bin before unceremoniously falling out.

You knew your onions, but this was getting tedious. After wasting hours relishing in the staleness of your coffee and the soreness of your fingers, you were just about ready to throw in the towel.

James had left you a bit ago, something about helping Lucy with setting up the flying lesson for the first-years.

They were probably done with it by then and you were still there, trying to brainstorm a method that would knock some sense back into the tosser you called a rival.

About a metre of wasted scroll and dried ink were the results of your efforts. Even then, you didn't reach a plausible solution to your problem.

When you succumbed to your headache and glanced at the clock, the lateness kickstarted your bloodstream. When you stood, you swayed from the dark spots that danced in your vision.

You didn't allow yourself to stay in a haze for too long. You had already missed two and a half classes by the time you broke out of your reverie.

The halls were all empty. You were bound to be in trouble.

You were a punctual student, an excellent student. You were miffed that all it took for you to slip was the absence of a boy. Pathetic. Then again... The boy was what made winning fun.

Your brisk walk quickened to a jog, dreading the inevitability of explaining your tardiness.

"Sweetheart?"

You paused, opening your ears.

Silence.

You scoffed and picked up your stride. Then you heard him again, saying your name. It was odd — odd enough for you to realise that it wasn't a figment of your imagination.

His voice was a trap and you submitted to it too easily. You spun back around to trace the voice and stopped short of the bend. Anyone would have stalled at the rare sight of Oriana Cai angry, her nails sinking into Lockwood's cheeks.

Bile rose to your throat.

Lockwood's back was pushed flush against the wall, he was fervently shaking his head like he was shaking the daze out of his system.

"Quiet!" she commanded him. "Darling, I'm only doing this for us."

His hand closed around her wrist but whatever the potion had done to him left him fatigued. "No, my—" He licked his bottom lip, correcting himself. "She's—"

"Not here! How many times am I going to tell you?"

To your relief, she retracted her nails from him. Your heart started back up when she produced a pack of gum.

"You're better off with me, Ant. I love you, not her. She's nothing but a bitter wench who didn't realise what she had until someone took it from her. See how she only looks for you when we're together? She's selfish!"

"You don't understand," he tried to slap the gum from her hand but she was more sober than he was. For the first time in a long time, the right side of his mouth tipped up. It wounded you. "She needs me. She just won't admit it."

Oriana didn't take it well. Her face bursted in shades of red. Her beautiful features twisted into a grizzly scowl. "None of her!"

"Expelliarmus!"

Your hand quivered as you casted, but your magic did what it was meant to. The gum flew from her hand.

Her glowering face turned to you with killer intent.

"You!" She flew at you. Her billowing robes a thing plucked from your worst nightmares.

Your hand flicked instinctively. "Expecto patronum!"

She shrieked. Your silvery protector crashing against her face.

None of you saw what form it took, but the burst of silver straight into her eyes stunned her long enough for you to run around her and take Lockwood by the arm. His hands quivered; less from adrenaline, more from pure exhaustion. You could almost feel his pulse under your palm.

You coaxed him to muster his strength. "Come on, you barbarian. We need to get help."

The chuckle he let out was pathetic, but it's familiar enough to make you crack a smile. There's your Lockwood after all. He wasn't all gone.

"Knew you'd save me," he rasped. You held him tighter when he stumbled. He held on with what strength he could muster. "You always do."

Not the time to disarm you with a statement like that. An angry stupefy soared overhead, quickly followed by what you assumed was the cruciatus curse. You grunted when an angry zap nicked your side.

You held onto Lockwood and he held onto you, both clattering down the longest steps of your lives. An inspired, deranged girl at your heels.

"Give me my boyfriend back!" She shrieked, casting a fury of spells at you. The echo of the halls amplified her bellows. "He's mine! I earned him!"

He tripped on a lifted tile, leaning on you as you rushed for the landing.

Your heartbeat made it's way to your ears. Every breath felt forced. You pushed ahead, dragging Lockwood's weight down every winding twist in the moving steps.

A very explosive bombarda forced you to stagger back and reconsider your escape route. Only, there was no escape route. The changing stairwells had you and Lockwood trapped on a landing.

Oriana descended like an angel made from her own delusions.

Your lungs struggled to take in air with an unbearable stitch in your aide. Lockwood collapsed to his knees, drained of energy. As his eyes fought to stay open, he clung to your hand like it was his lifeline.

You shifted to hide his crumpled form from Cai.

"You've had your chance, Scarecrow." Cai laughed, on the brink of tears. In her eyes, she was as innocent as a girl who simply had something swiped from her. "He was at your knees for years! Why can't you let him be happy with me? Give him to me, please..."

Your jaw tensed. The lick of anger in your chest stoked to a fire the longer she spoke.

"He's not an object," you managed without spitting flames. "He can feel what he wants, when he wants. If he wishes to walk away from me after all this... I wouldn't blame him. But casting a spell on him? That's not love, Cai. It isn't love. You're trapping him."

Cai's nose flared. "What a saint! Sorry, should I let him grieve something he never had with you? You're blind to not see it. You ruined him! This is the only way. I can help him if you just let me—"

Something moved in your periphery. A mop of black hair, the best wingman in Hogwarts.

You were on the verge of a smile, feeling your adrenaline decrescendo. "Your family, they know what you're doing?"

She grinned. "My family supports my decisions. Contrary to yours, I hear. They agree that you're a heartless witch, and a dose of amortentia should fix him for me."

Your breath hitched. Lockwood clenched your hand, bringing you back.

"For your information," your lip twitched. "I'm an Eagle, not a Scarecrow. Get your house representatives right."

You collapsed the moment a barrier surged around her, her screaming muffled by the incantations.

James came down the steps in stride with Professor Flitwick.

"Not 'your guy', huh?" James taunted, crouching beside you. You offered him a tight-lipped smile.

Professor Flitwick fortified his barrier before he addressed you. "Splendid patronus. You're the first to project your voice and have it travel as far as it did. I expected no less from our ace student. As for Ms. Cai..." He looked at her with pinched brows.. He wasn't sure what to do, really. There had never been a situation that drastic before. "She will be penalised accordingly."

The weight on your shoulders lifted, but a new one came just as quick. You straightened your back to support Lockwood's limp weight.

The warmth of his breath fanned your neck, a feeling that made your stomach churn for all the wrong reasons. He still smelt like the berry-flavoured gum that got him into this mess in the first place.

The same mess that had made you miss a few classes for the first time in six years.

With the last of your energy, you raised a trembling hand. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Are we considered tardy?"

He pushed his glasses higher up his nose before replying. "That should be the least of your troubles, you." Professor Flitwick turned to your friend. "James Potter?"

James saluted. "I've got them, prof."

"Please refrain from calling me 'prof', Mr Potter."

"Yes, prof."

—

Madame Pomfrey had a lot to say about the unforthcoming mess that was Lockwood, post-Amortentia.

For the better part of the appointment, Madame Pomfrey concluded that Lockwood wasn't severely altered by the prolonged exposure to love potion. For the worse part, he was advised to sit out of anything too physically demanding until he felt like himself again.

"But how can I feel like myself without Quidditch?" he agonised, as if you beheld all the answers.

You were forced to hear it, seeing as you were roommates until Madame Pomfrey declared you both stable enough to go free.

You buried yourself into the stiff pillows of the medical ward. "A week of rest and observation isn't as bad as the months you were bewitched, honestly."

"Pray, how can it be worse?"

You lifted your head. "Ever read out a lengthy love poem in the middle of the dining hall?"

"No..."

Your lips tipped up. "Yes."

He shut his eyes and splayed his hand over his head, trying to wash out the visualisation of actually doing that for all of Hogwarts to see.

"End me," he rasped.

"If you insist," your smile stretched. "You recited one for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Every. Single. Day."

He slapped another hand over his face. "Oh... what have I done to deserve this?"

"Caught the eye of a loony, apparently. It was horrid. I felt sorry for you."

"Don't patronise me."

You jerked a finger at him. "I earned the right. I got a nasty laceration in my side for you. Unwillingly, might I add."

His arms fell away, honeyed eyes set on you. "Please, if you were unwilling, you wouldn't have tried so hard to save me."

"If I left you for dead, I would be a monster."

"A very pretty one," he chimed.

"So you can still pull that drivel out of your arse. Good to know we didn't lose you."

"Say what you will." He crossed his arms behind his head, smiling like a jester. "I know you have a place for me in that shrivelled, darkened heart of yours."

"My heart isn't shrivelled or darkened," you said defiantly.

He quirked a brow, smirking. "You correct that but not the fact that I have a place in it?"

"You—" You opted to chuck your emptied juice carton at him.

In classic Lockwood fashion, he caught the carton in his hand and waved it triumphantly. "Try again, sweetheart. I know your habits like I know the back of my hand."

You raised a not-so-friendly finger and slid your curtain to hide yourself from his view. Still, you heard his laughter, loud and alive.

You weren't aware of how much you'd missed it until you caught yourself smiling.

—

Anthony Lockwood was the kind of child who would climb up the slide. Not because it was fun, but because he liked the thrill of breaking the rules.

Some things never changed, because he had convinced you to accompany him on a night fly while Madame Pomfrey was off collecting herbs from the green house.

You had flown through the worst weather while playing Quidditch, but it struck you that you'd never been out this late. Not one-on-one with Lockwood, at least.

It was a terrible, unsafe idea, but he had a way with words. He made it seem like a once in a lifetime opportunity. You weren't sure whether that was true, since he did use his prefect status to sneak into places he wasn't allowed into.

You knew that turning around was crossed off your list the moment he broke into the closet and extracted your broom for you.

"I have a hard time believing you've never done this before," you whispered as you took in the sight of the Quidditch Pitch, void of life and light.

It was a haunting sight, but Lockwood had been right about it being a once in a lifetime scene. The moon was the only guiding light, drowning everything in a seductive mauve colour. It brought out the beauty of sparse light and silhouettes, you almost believed you stepped into one of your fantasy novels.

He flashed his teeth at you before he vaulted over the partition and traipsed across the grass. His trusty broom already levitating by his side. "I've never done this with you before, if that's what you're asking."

It wasn't, but you didn't want to know who else would join Lockwood in his idiocy.

You followed suit and mounted your broom, allowing yourself to rise several metres to feel the bite of the nocturnal chill.

"It's an amazing feeling, isn't it?" Lockwood shouted, his two feet still on the ground.

"I'm not going to admit that I enjoy breaking the rules," you responded, flying modest circles while taking in the scene.

While the wind whistled in your ears and tousled your hair, he wheeled a box out of storage and flipped the latches.

You squinted, trying to see what he was doing but his back was covering the contents of the box.

"What's that?"

A golden streak of light veered away from him. Even as the breeze bellowed in your ear, you could hear its tinkling wings.

The Snitch.

"Can't have fun without a challenge," Lockwood said. His boisterous laughter echoed in your ears as he hopped onto his broom and zoomed up, up, and up, already chasing the golden menace.

He passed you, his robes grazing your elbow. You didn't think twice. You gave chase, following the direction you had seen the Snitch blitz to.

Lockwood's curls fought against velocity. You were almost tempted to comment on it before you saw a glimmer in the corner of your eye.

You and Lockwood swerved at the same time. Waves of black, blue, and green flagged through darkness as you bent forward, urging your trusty broom to overtake Lockwood's. You were closing in on the Snitch, stretching your hand to reach for it.

It's buzzing crescendoed in your ears, forcing your blood to pump as Lockwood did the same.

Oh, so close.

The Snitch brushed your fingertips before it zagged. Spinning in the air before rushing right at you.

You bent your body, narrowly missing a Snitch to the nose. The same couldn't be said for Lockwood.

You heard the thump of the collision before you saw him clutching his mouth. It was futile for you to hold in a laugh.

"You alright?"

His glare only made you laugh harder.

"Ouch," he hissed, taking his hand away from his mouth.

You snorted after seeing the damage.

Luckily, nothing was broken, but there was a faint pink smudge across his bottom lip and cheek.

You raised a brow. "You wear lipstick?"

"It's lip balm," he said haughtily, wiping away the smudge. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," You held a laugh long enough to reach across to wipe the smidge he couldn't quite swipe away. He stiffened at your touch. You did your best to hold in a reaction of your own. "I just didn't expect you to be a lip balm sort of guy."

"Do I look like a lipstick guy?" he inquired, regaining himself. "Thank you for thinking so, but you can keep your pigmented cosmetics to yourself. They look better on you anyway."

"Complimenting me now? You're sure your noggin's alright, chap?"

"Don't 'chap' me, sweetheart. It makes me feel old."

"I thought you liked the seniority," you taunted. "'Being in seventh-year means the youngest look up to us' and all. Your words, not mine."

"You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

You gasped, clutching your chest. "How can you say that when the moon is out?"

"Oh, bother." He bristled. "You've shown greater concern for the moon's feelings than you have mine for the past six years. You wound me."

"That's because the moon listens. You never do," you pointed out.

"I do," he replied. "Only for things that matter."

"So, the camel-llama debate didn't matter?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "You're still on that?"

"I always will be. What muggle can't tell those animals apart? You should be ashamed."

"We were eleven!"

"Old enough for you to have admitted defeat, but no! You kept getting them wrong and saying you were right." He pinched his nose as you went on. "Then you started bothering me because you couldn't admit defeat. Now look at us. Six years later and I'm still right."

His eyes met yours, creased with an impending smile. "When we passed the hourglasses, Slytherin was ten points above Ravenclaw."

"You prat—"

Your head was thrown sideways as a flit of gold smashed into you. Your lip pulsed. Luckily, you had the mind to stretch your hand and catch the golden bugger.

The Snitch fought in your grip. Eventually, its wings tucked in. Then, a bated silence. Only for a moment. Lockwood snorted as you massage your jaw.

You gave him a nasty glare. "Not a word."

"I wasn't going to say anything," he lied. "Except, your lipstick smeared."

"Rowena..."

"Here, let me."

He sported a boyish grin as he reached across, mirroring your actions from earlier. You swatted him away and he simply laughed in response.

—

With your feet on the grass, you were glad to be done with your excursion; More relieved that he let you take the win.

You're not sure a bleeding lip was worth it though, but, at least, it was over.

After packing up the Snitch and putting away your brooms (plus making it seem like you two had never been there at all), you started the walk back up to the castle's medical ward.

Somewhere on the cobblestone path, Lockwood had drawn a curious notebook and quill from his robes. "So," he flipped to a page that had been sectioned into two, scored by stick lines. "What have I missed while I was bewitched?"

You eyed the notebook. "Is that... a tally?"

"Yes," he replied. "Now, what did I miss? I had one up on you before my memories went hazy."

"Just start a new one," you urged him.

Thinking of what you achieved while he was out of it was in the same league as winning a race against a slug. There was no fulfilment.

"C'mon," Lockwood cajoled, stepping closer to you. "I've been tallying since fourth year."

You raised a brow. "Fourth year?"

"The class on the Patronus charm inspired me," he replied. "Since we're always butting heads, having a tally made it feel official."

"How do I know you haven't picked your wins and excluded mine?"

"Have you no faith in me?"

"Do you want a real answer?"

He pursed his lips, earning a laugh from you.

"I respect you, you know. Even if you are the way you are," he told you, turning the notebook to show you the tally.

The first column was his score. The second one beheld 'vexation' instead of your name. The scores were neck-and-neck, save for the singular tick on his side that put him in the lead.

He quickly drew one more stick under your column, putting you two at a draw once more. "I'll count this impromptu Quidditch match, on the condition that you won't tell a soul that it was me who snuck out first."

"You must be dedicated," you chortled. "Just count from here on out. I haven't done much, honestly."

He quirked a brow, speaking slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Why are you talking like that?"

"Nothing. I'm just surprised." He closed the notebook and pocketed it with his quill. "You're usually more competitive."

"That's when I don’t spend an afternoon running for my life, Lockwood."

"You make a fair point."

You were making your way into the thresh of the castle now. The torches warmed the air, thawing the chill as you flounced forth.

There was a peace in the silence and a sweetness in the solitude. You felt Lockwood's hand brush yours and found that you enjoyed it more than you thought. Not that you would say anything about it.

You're not sure whether he caught on to the lilt of your lips before he threw his arm over your shoulders, just like old times.

This time, it felt different. The heat he let off was a juxtaposition to the bite of the night, and you found yourself melting into him even more.

You would have been fine in the quiet, but Lockwood had never been friends with it.

"George told me you were scheming to cure me. How were you planning to do that exactly?"

He kicked a pebble out of your way. You withheld the urge to smile.

"It was an amplified version of a regular love potion reversal. Same one we did research work on last year."

"What did you change?"

"Thrice the dose of rosemary and dried salamander. I also added a touch of pig tongue."

"Wouldn't doubling the wormroot do the same thing?"

"No," you scoffed. "That would expel the fragrance, but it wouldn't counteract the effects of the love potion."

"Doesn't the dried salamander do that?"

"Rosemary thins out the viscosity of the love potion and the dried salamander washes down the magic that messes with your thought process."

He smiled but there was no commitment in it. "Apologies, I'm no love potion whiz."

"Next thing you know, you'll be telling me crushed jasmine will cure insanity."

"I get it, sweetheart. That doesn't explain the pig tongue."

"I was hoping the horrid taste would wake you up from your delusions."

"I think it would have worked."

"It would have," you boasted, "if you had any sense in you to try."

He chuckled, apologising in smiles. Lockwood closed the distance by ruffling your hair. You waved him away, but that did little to stop him.

"You got the higher mark on that research paper," he recalled.

"I did." You glowed with pride. "As is always the case for Potions, and Transfiguration, and Charms—"

"What are you planning to do when we're done with Hogwarts?"

His expression turned dire, like he had been agonising over when to ask the fated question. It might have been a trick of the light, but his eyes glazed.

You considered his question for a moment. "I'm expanding into healing magic." Just envisioning how far your knowledge could go brought a smile to your face. "I'm good at the cardinal subjects for healing. I enjoy them enough to see myself heading in that direction."

"That's serious," he said, genuinely taken by your answer. "You have to be recommended by a professor to take on a role at a hospital or ward, don't you?"

You tried to keep your smile humble. "I already have a recommendation."

He tilted his head so you could see the surprise on his face. "Really? Who?"

"Madame Pomfrey. I'll be her apprentice next year. Hopefully, I'll move to St. Mungo's in a few years."

"Funny," he jested, bumping your hip with his. "What would she say to the bludgers you've batted at me?"

"Your insults about me are tantamount to nothing in her eyes. She adores me."

"Because you're a kiss-up?"

You stopped, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Because I have wit."

His lips lilted into that smile you knew so well. The right of his mouth rose higher than the left, short of turning into a smirk. "You have a lot more than wit, sweetheart."

Your heart did unspeakable things. For a heart-stalling moment, you forgot to say something back.

You looked at him, he looked at you. He was closer than you'd thought. Lockwood was unfairly dashing in torch light. Windswept hair, sweat on his brow, and everything.

He seemed to drift closer and closer, but it's you who inched forward. The lesser the distance, the more honest you felt.

His eyes dipped to your lips and—

A shriek, high and shrill, broke the spell. Both you and Lockwood leapt apart. You dusted off your cloak and he rubbed his nape.

The shrieking voice returned. "Dragon!"

Dragon?

You lurched for the entrance. You couldn't see much in the mouth of the castle. Neither could Lockwood, but you felt it. The buzz before the chase, the stacking of adrenaline and the thrill of trouble creeping up on you.

Your eyes locked with his, and you knew you're thinking the same thing.

When the winds of a Romanian Longhorn flattened the trees and blew out the torches, it was the flag at the beginning of a race. You and Lockwood were running for it.

—

You found that sprinting in the dark was akin to swimming upstream. You'd tripped over several roots and rocks, and you still haven't found which pocket you hid your wand in. It was a humbling experience, being in the throes of losing something with extension charms in your robes.

After furiously tapping himself down, Lockwood found his. He flicked his wand and yelled into the air, "Accio Brooms!"

"Why didn't we do that earlier?"

Lockwood flashed a smile. "We have an excuse to destroy the storage room door now."

You were on the verge of yelling. "How would we explain why we're out here?"

"Don't think too hard, you'll hurt yourself." He made another gesture with his wand before a glow illuminated from the tip of it — lighting up the path. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there, sweetheart. We have a dragon to catch."

As the Lumos rose in intensity, the path turned treacherous. The cobbled walkway was turning into pointed stones and angry branches. The trees began to move, contorting into all sorts of grotesque shapes and snares.

Lockwood had taken the lead, taking the brunt of their greedy clutches. You had to grab the back of his robe to make sure he didn't get snatched away by the foliage.

You would have buckled at the wooden stakes that bent toward you if your brooms hadn't snapped through their grappling, snapping inferior splinters before you found your grip.

The uptake was sharp, desperate to get away from the furious trees. You clung to your broom and swallowed down the urge to retch.

Lockwood, who had levelled beside you, looked fine. You would have thrown a rock at him if you weren't turning green.

He set a hand on your back, rubbing slow circles as he surveyed the area. You appreciated the gesture.

"It's heading for the Quidditch Pitch. If we get there fast enough, we can trap it there. Easier to manage in a controlled area."

"It's a dragon, Lockwood. It would burn the place down." You straighten up ever so slightly. "On top of that, it's a Romanian Longhorn."

"I know. Endangered species. We'll have to be cautious. She could turn us into a kebab." His lips tilted into a smile. "I wager we can tame her in less than an hour."

You exhaled the last of your nausea. A grin forming on your face. "Think half."

"Ambitious, aren't we?"

You flew forward, seeing the whiskers of fire curling in the distance. "Scared, serpent boy?"

There were flames in his eyes as he sped ahead, robes soaring behind him. "Never!"

—

"You distract her. I stun her," Lockwood prompted as soon as the Quidditch Pitch came into view.

Metres above you, the Longhorn huffed plumes of smoke down on you. You tried to be quiet, but you did have qualms with Lockwood's plan.

"You're the faster flyer, why am I the distraction?"

He pointed at his chest, like that was the answer. "I'm still recovering."

"That's rich!" You still haven't found your wand and the tosser was playing sick. "You dragged me out here to fly thirty minutes ago. Don't give me that."

"What? I can't hear you!" He veered further from you. "You're the most capable witch of our age. There is no one else I'd do this with!"

He was gone from sight before you could bump him off of his broom.

Then again, you'd rather die fighting than die a sitting duck. You angled your broom up, zooming into the beast's sight before it spotted Lockwood.

Its breath was sulphur against your skin, fighting the chill but lighting a spark of fear. Its pondering yellow eyes circled on you before its mouth creaked open.

"Lockwood, work quickly!"

In a dragon chase, one must remember three things: your size advantage, the dragon's breath hurt as much as its fire, and the dragon can and will play dirty.

You were an agile flyer, ducking whenever the strokes of its inner fire hurled for you, but even you had to exercise all of your flyer's knowledge to evade its claws. A swipe, a lick of flames, a swipe, another swipe — it was practically toying with you.

The only good thing that came with it playing with its food was the fact that you had lured it right where you wanted it.

The Quidditch Pitch was gargantuan compared to the juvenile specimen. You just hoped the place wouldn't go up in flames.

You hadn't seen Lockwood in a good minute, almost believing he'd shirked you, but then you glimpsed a flicker of serpent green in your periphery and ease up.

Before long, the dragon grew tired of the play and decided that she wanted to sink her teeth into something real.

You felt a nip at the end of your broom and zagged in the air. You steadied your mount before feeling your blood rush faster.

She was snapping at you. You chanced a glance and found the black in her eyes flattened to slits, hunger dancing in the embers of them.

"Lockwood!" you cried, narrowly dodging an eager claw. "Double time!"

"I found a soft spot! Give me a minute!"

"We don't have that much time," you surmised based on the increased momentum of the beast's strikes.

After a full turn-around to swing her tail at you, you dove. Nose aimed right down to the grass. You didn't even want to look back and see how close she was.

Gravity would be on her side but pulling up now could mean flying right into her furnace of a mouth. You didn't know which gruesome death was the lesser of two evils.

In the distance, you heard Lockwood. "Stupefy!"

The dragon nipped on your broom once more before you felt a tug on your robe. Your grip slipped, your broom flew in the opposite direction. Leaving you to crash and roll into the grass, ignoring the pain of carpet burn as you helped yourself onto your feet.

You didn't get far before your legs collapsed, your whole body weight crashing on your shoulder. You were never the type to go down without a fight. You kept kicking in a desperate attempt to escape the giant.

"Lockwood!"

"Wait for me!"

You felt its breath. Molten and fear-rushing, melting the hair on your legs as you watched your own reflection in its eye.

And then, its head hit the ground and its jaw lulled. Craning open but never snapping, just barely missing your foot as you pulled your limbs towards yourself.

The lines on Lockwood's face were deeper when you laid eyes on him. When he saw that you were alright, his expression flipped like a switch. A smile formed on his face, like you didn't almost lose your life.

He hopped off of his broom and approached.

"I didn't know you could look scared."

"I was almost a dragon's dinner," you spat.

You didn't fight him as he hooked his arms under yours and hauled you up. He kept an arm around you while the feeling returned to your legs.

He chuckled in a way that could make anyone believe he was faultless. "Sorry. It was a bother finding a soft spot. This big girl has pretty solid armour for a juvenile."

"That is the last time I ever follow your instructions. I knew getting mixed up with you was a death sentence."

"Yet," he chirped, brushing off the soot remains of the edges of your hood. "you're standing here, alive."

"I regret trusting you."

"No, you don't." He flourished a hand at the slumbering beast. "Just look at what putting your heads together did."

"It won't stay asleep forever," you whispered.

Just standing there, right at the alcove of its jaw, felt like standing on the tightrope of death. Suffice it to say, you wanted to be elsewhere.

You tasted the sweet, cool air as you replenished the oxygen in your lungs. Annoyance crept in as you realised that, despite your best efforts, you were still heaving. Adrenaline refusing to crest.

You tried to shove Lockwood but he had caught your arm. "Had to wait 'till the last minute, didn't you?" you nipped.

"I just told you, it's not easy to look for a chink in a dragon's scales. Be optimistic. I could have let her take your legs."

"You wouldn't."

"You're right, I wouldn't, but it's nice to imagine that I could be spiteful."

You snorted, trying not to flinch as the beast blinked its bleary eyes at you. "Let's put the big guy to sleep. Whoever takes care of him must be worried."

"She's a lady," Lockwood corrected.

You forced a smile. "My apologies, I didn't have the time to check in the midst of my near-delimbing."

"Easy mistake." He shrugged. "How about we tie up those loose ends?"

"We would've had it done by now if you stopped chattering."

"Last I checked, you were chattering back."

"You—"

The dragon blew out a warm breath, chilling you. You would've crumpled if Lockwood wasn't holding you up.

"Never you mind," you rectified. "You know the Sleeping Trance Charm, don't you?"

He balanced you on one arm, his hold snaking around your waist. With his free hand, he raised his wand at the dragon. "How to Pacify A Dragon 101. Of course, I do."

"Semi-circle motions," you reminded as the giant gold eyes blinked at you.

"I know that already, sweetheart. You know," Lockwood trailed off. His eyes landed on you. You ignore it for the sake of your already racing heart. "We make a pretty good team."

You allowed yourself a smile. "When you're not being insufferable."

"You always think I'm insufferable."

"So, you are self-aware."

"Oh, shut up." He didn't sound like he meant it.

The world must have been pitted against you, because the drowse in the dragon's eyes disappeared before Lockwood could even mutter the spell.

Its jaws widened, and Lockwood pulled you back just before they snapped. Half a foot from taking a chunk out of you and Lockwood.

"That's not good," Lockwood grunted. He accioed his broom closer. By how hard he was pulling you, you assumed he was trying to get you to clamber on as well.

That would be dooming the two of you. Being a singular target was like turning yourselves into a barbeque.

You pushed him away, catching the panic in his eyes for a moment.

You threw your arms out, signalling him away. "Go!"

Lockwood stalled, hand on his broom. "But—"

"Go!"

He mounted reluctantly. Taking off to grab the Longhorn's attention while you were squabbling for your broom.

When you found it, your worst fears were confirmed. The world really did want you dead.

Your broom was snapped clean in two after colliding with the base of the highest hoop. Mourning your trusted companion wasn't an option, because the dragon had spotted you. Its neck craned, rearing like a snake before it struck.

You tapped your pockets, desperate to find your wand. Not in that pocket, not in that one—

At long last, you fished it out of your most unused pocket. You pointed its end at the beast but a flash of green and silver disrupted your vision.

A tug on your arm and the feeling of rising winds brought you to the present. Lockwood had grabbed you and given you a seat on his broom, saving you from a very fiery end. The patch of grass you were standing on was charred to a crisp.

"Calm down, sweetheart. I can feel you shaking." His mouth was at your ear. You shrunk even more to hide from his view.

Your heart lurched as the Romanian Longhorn roared. You leaned closer to Lockwood, feeling the steady lub-dub through his shirt. It sang your anxieties to repose.

"We need a new plan," you told him, trying to keep your mind in one place. "I don't think she'll fall for another one of our two-person schemes."

"We're one broom down, so, how do you suggest we do that?"

You two watched as the Longhorn stretched its wings, kick starting your panic.

Lockwood leaned forward and tapped your leg. "Hold on tight."

Your hands on the broom fastened until your knuckles turned bloodless.

With renewed determination, he said, "We have to try the Sleeping Trance Charm again."

"While it's wide awake?"

"I'm sorry, would you like to ask her to sit and make it easier for us?"

You pinched his arm in response. The gesture was returned with Lockwood twisting his broom to have you two dangling upside down. One hand jutted out and grabbed Lockwood by the cloak.

"Lockwood, you prat!"

"Say sorry."

"You — Gah! Sorry!"

He smirked as he righted the broom.

Given a new perspective, you wheezed. "We have to do something before it burns down the whole pitch."

"We could summon the rest of the brooms," Lockwood suggested.

He flew higher as the Longhorn swiped for your legs.

"That would just make a mess. She can burn them. Then we'd have a bigger mess to clean up, plus a debt to whoever owns those brooms."

"Well..." Lockwood looked down at the dragon. "I could offer a special deal on pens to rack up enough pounds to pay it back."

"Pens?"

"A muggle writing device. Better and cleaner than ink and quill," he quipped. "I sell them to earn a few pounds. Don't give me that disapproving look, I gave you one for your birthday."

You reeled. "That's what it was? I didn't think 'pens' looked like that. They're supposed to be made of metal, no?"

"The archaic ones, yes. Now, there are plastic, ballpoint pens."

"Why are we talking about this? We can be turned into crispy bacon at any second now."

"Sweetheart, it's either we sacrifice the brooms or we turn into bacon, as you so nicely put it."

Your heart lurched. "My mother would kill me if we fell into debt, Lockwood. Thinking about it now, she'd behead me if she finds out about this mess."

He was genuinely perplexed by the fear that laced your voice. "I thought you were from a pureblood family."

"I am!" You trilled, sounding like you needed to prove something. "But things aren't that easy. Things are earned."

"They would understand. This is a life or death situation here!"

"No, I– Just– We can't."

"Okay..." He did his best to calm you down. It didn't help that he could practically feel the dragon's breath at this distance. "We ditch that idea. How's a firework charm?"

"Yes! Good idea."

You readied your wand. Only to stop short as silver-blue figures circled the dragon. It didn't take a genius to spot a patronus, a handful of them. You spotted a silvery cat crash into the dragon's side.

A non-corporeal patronus materialised at your side, speaking with the voice of Professor Flitwick. "Do your best not to use explosives. Her caregiver's orders."

More patronuses rose like shrouds of smoke and magic, disorienting the dragon in the midst of them. Some were fully manifested, some were faint — like they had been casted by a novice.

One look down confirmed your thoughts. Students and teachers alike were casting patronuses to keep you and Lockwood from turning into Dragon Dinner. Others were busy casting a large-scale protego to isolate the creature.

The Romanian Longhorn's only choice was to fly higher and higher. Lockwood followed, strategically hiding behind patronuses as they passed.

"You have your wand?" Lockwood inquired as the air began to thin. Breathing was a task you had to do consciously to stay awake.

"Of course, I do."

"This is our chance," he told you. He poised his wand.

You raised yours, too. "I'll cast a patronus to hide the glow of the Sleeping Trance Charm."

"Here's to hoping we keep all of our limbs."

He eased closer. You readied yourself, going through all of your best memories. You didn't go back to thoughts of your favourite books or your academics—No. Your mind kept circling back to your earlier moments with Lockwood: the sneaking out, the snitch, that moment at the threshold...

Blue sand trickled from the tip of your wand. Kicking up magic that twisted into the form of a crane. Your brows furrowed as you muttered the enchantment again, only for the patronus to stretch its wings and soar towards the dragon.

You threw a glance at Lockwood from over your shoulder. "I told you I would cast the patronus."

"You are," Lockwood quipped. He did a terrible job of hiding his smile, voice pressed like he was using the last of his air to say it. "That's your patronus."

"No, it's yours." Your tone lacked conviction, and substance — seeing as the crane did burst from your wand.

Lockwood chanced a glance at you, giving you a glimpse of that smirky smile that you'd recognize even in another life. "Have something you need to tell me, sweetheart?"

"Piss off," you said. You pulled his cheek forward, forcing him to face the winds of the dragon he was supposed to be charming. "Focus on what you have to do!"

"We'll get back to this."

He aimed at the dragon and muttered, "Dormitus."

Its eyes were locked on your patronus, following its path, unaware of its eyelids drooping and its waving wings slowing.

Slowly, the dragon began to lose altitude. Closer and closer to the ground as students and professors scuttled out of the way.

The winds dissipated as it laid its scaled head on the grass, finally quelled.

You expelled a breath you were holding in. Lockwood did the same, you felt his chest flush against your back as he laxed.

Lockwood landed a ways away and dismounted first, helping you off but never actually letting you go. Your connected hands dropped between you as you both took the time to calm your heartbeats.

A deranged laugh slipped from your lips. "If you weren't such a danger magnet, you'd have a promising future as an auror."

He looked at you, a confusing mix of disbelief and hope on his face. "You mean that?"

You shrugged with a lipped smile. Not even his habit of looking at the floor could hide his smile from you. You could see it clearly as the sun rose higher.

The moment of peace was interrupted by the furious shuffling of boots on grass. You raised your heads and spotted the unmistakable figures of Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Hagrid.

"There you are." Lockwood said charmingly, casting a smile to match. "We were just about to come and ask what we should do about this—"

McGonagall called you both by name. Even you flinched at her vehemence.

"Why, I never!" She looked between you, clear aggravation carved into the lines of her face. "In all my years, I have never seen such a display of recklessness! You could have died. How could we ever explain that to your parents?"

You watched Lockwood's smile widen. A precursor to him saying, "Professor, with all due respect, my parents are dead."

Professor McGonagall was speechless, momentarily at a loss.

You took the chance to fill in the silence. "And I do believe Mr. Harry Potter has done worse."

Her eyes hardened as she wound her cloak tighter around herself. "I apologise for my earlier statement, Mr. Lockwood, but this kind of disobedience and endangerment cannot be tolerated. I expect you both to know where this is leading."

"Cleaning the toilets?" you two said in sync.

"Worse," Professor McGonagall looked quite proud of herself. "Detention."

You and Lockwood sobered.

"Professor, I'm a prefect," Lockwood reasoned. "And still in recovery."

"And I'm your best student," you chipped in. "Certainly, that means something."

McGonagall tipped her chin. "Then you'll be pleased to hear that the pair of you are the first to make it to detention with those accomplishments." Her tone turned frosty. "Friday evening. You know which room. Good day."

You were still reeling when Professor Flitwick motioned to his mouth. "You two should clean yourselves up, lest some misunderstand the smudges on your lips."

Hagrid flashed you two a friendly smile as you and Lockwood disconnected arms to swipe at your lips.

—

Detention didn't last too long. After a good three debates where you and Lockwood vaulted between being friends, being enemies, and being on the brink of committing murder, the kind, ghostly professor in charge let you free for his own sanity.

—

By the time you two returned to your regularly scheduled programming, Cai had been expelled and given a fancy room in St. Mungo's. Lockwood was properly compensated by the BOF company, and the pair of you received an additional fee to assure your silence. You gave your word, but one, James Potter, never made the pact. He reported the happenings to his father and promptly had the company shut down for misuse of magic.

Best wingman, indeed.

In the aurora of a half-realised friendship, you allowed Lockwood to keep his arm on your shoulder as a form of gratitude. He took every chance he got to practise his privilege.

He pulled you closer, practically nuzzling your hair. "You do appreciate me, after all."

"Barely," you replied.

The admission was enough to bring a smile to his face. If you got too soft, he'd assume you transformed into someone else entirely.

Lockwood, himself, had returned to his usual self; disputing you in class, outdoing your word counts, and (a recent development) stealing your quills to replace them with pens. How the professors didn't notice was beyond you.

You missed the banter and the thrill of the competition, but not the dingy smell of the DADA classroom. It was as pungent as always.

"Seventh years." The Professor's tone was different compared to the hundred lessons you've had before this. Dare you say she even sounded melancholic. There's a gaggle of students that laughed about it but she was more lenient, she said nothing to them. "This is your last year in Hogwarts and your last year under my tutelage. This year, we focus on practicality and efficiency. Using your knowledge against another witch or wizard."

She flicked her wand and the crowd parted, pulled in opposite directions by invisible hands.

Gasps rang out, friends clung closer to each other, and you grabbed Lockwood's sleeve when you were shoved aside. His arm dropped to support your weight by the small of your back.

You looked up and he was smiling down at you, the right side of his smile higher than the left. Familiar. Though, he was rather close.

You opened your mouth to complain, only to shudder at the sound of glass breaking. The chandelier above fell, and Professor proceeded to transfigure it into a glass cage of sorts.

She looked pleased with herself as the crystalline cage settled into a dome shape, resting both hands on her wand as she beamed at the parted crowd. "Today, we duel!"

You covered your ears at the sheer volume of your classmates' bellows. Several students looked forward to this day. They could finally let loose and cast spells like they were meant to. The girl to your right bit the end of her wand, looking a lot like a panther ready to lunge.

You grimaced and sent your prayers to Rowena Ravenclaw to save you from the hungry ones.

"Looking forward to it?" Lockwood asked, glueing himself to the spot next to you, chivalrously blocking you from the onslaught of moving bodies.

You could barely see him because the lights have been dimmed to bring all eyes to the duelling cage. You didn't know why you were even searching for his eyes in the first place.

"No," you finally answered. Your eyes landed on the cage, catching the faint veins of blue shift in and out of existence around it. Kind of like the webs of light at the surface of muggle pools. You would have missed them if you weren't squinting. "I aspire to be a healer. This is the type of thing I advise against."

He caught on to the magic, too. "Don't stress too much. The cage is enchanted to snuff out all malignant magic to avoid injury."

"How do you know?"

"That's a large-scale protego charm. Knowing the professor, she tweaked it to limit anyone who goes too far." He nudged your side. You heard the smirk in his tone. "Not bad for an aspiring auror, right?"

"Right," you agreed.

You didn't expect him to sputter. You shushed him when several heads turned your way.

"What was that?"

He patted down his robe, like it would help him collect himself. "That was surprise, sweetheart. I didn't expect you to agree with me."

"Are you suggesting that I'm unnegotiable?"

"No," he answered. "You simply... oppose me most of the time—all of the time."

"You're very easy to oppose. I just pick the choice that has a lower mortality rate. You always seem to be doing dangerous things, Mr. Lockwood."

"I'm Mr. Lockwood now, huh?" That smile again.

"Yes, you are."

"Could you call me that more often?"

His smile made you conscious. You crossed your arms over your chest, like that would protect you. "Why?"

"I like how it sounds," he replied. "I'd do just about anything to hear it again."

"Hm..." Your eyes drifted to the sparks of spells being swished back and forth. The cage turned into a mirrorball. "Win your match."

Lockwood drew himself up to full height, rolling his shoulders back with a confident grin. "Easy."

"Really? Easier than being love-spelled by a fangirl?"

Your stomach turned. That's how you knew you'd said something wrong. Your stance changed. You almost hit yourself for saying something so uncalled for.

He opened his mouth to defend himself but the Professor's voice cut through his.

"Anthony Lockwood and James Potter versus Daria Thomas-Finnigan and..." She dragged the silence on, smirking as she finally uttered your name. Professor Loathes-Your-Guts clearly, still, loathes your guts.

The room divided into two once more; those cheering for Slytherin and Gryffindor, and those cheering for Ravenclaw. The energy could rival that of a Quidditch match.

"May the best team win," was Lockwood's cold farewell. He was gruff and unjesting—a complete departure from his usual visage that it scared you. He had never been so forbidding to you, even as rivals.

He and James entered on the right wing, and you and Daria entered through the left. The circle under you lit up blue. The Professor's magic gripped you, encompassing your whole body.

Lockwood had been right. Professor kept strict tabs on everyone in the cage, and you regretted stepping in when you looked across the way.

Both Lockwood and James were ready to kill. It was an exaggeration, but you'd never seen either look so deathly competitive.

Daria's hand on your shoulder reeled you back to the present. She graced you with a smile. "Gryffindor might have good fighters but we've got something better." You were tempted to say 'female anatomy' but she spoke over your thoughts. "We've got brain."

You drew your shoulders up and gripped your wand fiercely. You faced forward as the Professor yelled, "Start."

⚜ PART 2 | SERIES MASTERLIST

SWEETHEARTS ➺ @kiyasoup @toddandersondupe @locknco @onecojg @avdiobliss @mentallyillsodapop @mitskiswift99 @mischivana @bella-rose29 @wordsarelife

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

#— ❨ 🌺 ❩ 𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐙𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐀 ₊˚.༄#lockwood hogwarts au #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood angst

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suzukiblu · 6 months

Text

Day twelve of fic NaNoWriMo, obligatory sugar daddy Tim/sugar baby Kon AU.

Tim waits until the next morning, after their latest Young Justice sleepover has both occurred and concluded, and catches Kon while Cissie is bullying Bart away from the pancake mix and taking over the kitchen for her and Cassie to make everyone breakfast. It’s their turn, which is for the best; last time was Kon and Suzie, and they’d absolutely wrecked the kitchen before finally confessing that Kon had never actually cooked before and Suzie didn’t know if she knew how to.

Breakfast had been Pop-Tarts and it’d taken them two hours to clean up the kitchen. Tim had just decided not to ask questions, at that point.

“I’ve got a summary of the intel you asked for,” Tim says, holding out his single-page “report” for Kon, tucked nice and neat into a manilla folder. Kon looks startled.

“Huh?” he says, blinking down at the folder.

“I looked into Tim Drake,” Tim clarifies. “Long story short, you’re in the clear. His grades are stable, his disciplinary record isn’t concerning, and his psychological profile falls within acceptable parameters. His mother passed away a couple years ago, but his father just got remarried and he and the stepmother aren’t involved in anything shady, there’s no other relatives or criminal associates on record, and the family business’s practices are only a little morally dubious, which in Gotham is practically sainthood, frankly. Maybe don’t accept any unsourced archeological finds from him if it comes up, but otherwise you should be good. Go ahead and make friends.”

“Uh, right,” Kon says, a brief flash of embarrassment crossing his face as his ears redden. “Friends. Yeah. Uh–you seriously checked him out to Bat-standards that quick, though? Geez, man, you didn’t have to do that. I coulda waited a couple weeks.”

“Just rearranged a little casework that wasn’t time-sensitive anyway,” Tim replies, repressing a wince. Maybe he should’ve padded the time a little more on this. He doesn’t want Kon to think he wasn’t taking his request seriously. “Also, he’s a civilian high school student with exactly two family members and a fairly small friend group. There weren’t a lot of rabbit holes to go down.”

“I guess not,” Kon says, looking awkwardly at the folder for a moment before pushing it back towards him. “Uh. I don’t need to, like . . . read that or anything. If you say he’s good, I mean.”

“You don’t?” Tim asks, a little mystified. Kon looks embarrassed again.

“It’s weird enough asking for a background check on a dude who’s apparently just trying to be nice,” he says. “I’m not gonna read it if there’s nothing I actually need to know.”

Tim blinks, still more mystified, though he’s not sure if it’s Kon turning down perfectly-presented intel on a stranger or Kon trusting his opinion enough to turn down that intel that’s doing it.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure.”

“Uh, yeah. You really didn’t have to rush it, though,” Kon says, still looking embarrassed; tucking a loose curl of hair behind his ear in incredibly distracting fashion that Tim has to struggle to not be distracted by with limited success. “Like–it’s cool of you, but I really could’ve waited a couple weeks. Like, he’s probably not gonna go full mask-off supervillain day one at the mall, you know?”

“I had the time,” Tim says, still feeling a little odd. “And it’s better to know before you spend too much time around him anyway, isn’t it?”

Also, better to know so Tim can progress on bribing Kon out of his shitty lab-life and into a cute little cul-de-sac somewhere. Or an apartment building. Or an apartment block.

“I guess, yeah,” Kon says, his face inexplicably reddening. “Um. Yeah. Uh. Thanks, Rob.”

Then he zips off abruptly without another word, and Tim is left mildly bewlidered and looking at the empty space he was just standing in.

“. . . you’re welcome,” he says after a moment, no less bewildered, and puts the report away.

He doesn’t really get Kon as a person, sometimes, but at least this is another step forward on the plan. He still needs to talk it all out with him as Tim Drake and work him up to it, because even Kon’s very weird socialization clearly still thinks it’s kinda strange for somebody to just offer to rent an apartment for him out of the blue, but then again, maybe that’s just because he thought Tim might be a supervillain. Which Tim still isn’t, technically. He’s like, a proto-supervillain at best. And only when it comes to bank fraud and pre-planning, because if he’s learned anything from Bruce at all, it’s that being the most prepared person in a situation absolutely always pays off.

Maybe he can get Kon to quit Cadmus completely, if he plays his cards right here. He’ll start with a place that Kon can commute from, or at least by pretending they’re looking for a place that Kon can commute from. Maybe Cadmus would actually fucking pay him more than a pittance and an expense account, then, and Kon could save up a little. Tim should look into what the other field agents get, actually, though chances are “free room and board” is probably on most of their paychecks too, since Cadmus more than likely made most of them too.

Fucking shitty asshole cloning labs.

Maybe Tim should actually bribe some lobbyists the next time clones’ rights come up in legislation. Or just as soon as he has Kon safe and settled and secure outside of Cadmus, whichever comes first. That would definitely be a good use of his trust fund.

Or just all of Drake Industries’ profits for that quarter, depending on how effectively he can distract his dad for said quarter.

Tim’s a reasonably resourceful person. He could work something out.

Also, clones’ rights implies getting Cadmus potentially shut down or at least more closely monitored, and maybe conning Superman into paying back child support for being irresponsible with his DNA. An incredibly powerful alien specifically primed for the local environment absolutely should’ve known better than to not have something arranged in case of his death besides just letting someone bury him, of all things. Incredibly stupid idea on his part, frankly. Isn’t there an AI running the Fortress of Solitude, to say nothing of all the androids? He absolutely could’ve set up a failsafe to come collect his body and lock down the Fortress once it was inside. Not a perfect solution, obviously, but definitely a better one than “let Metropolis just do whatever they feel like”.

Much better, in Tim’s opinion.

Seriously. Kryptonians are basically invasive predators on Earth. Superman absolutely should’ve known better than to leave his own dead body lying around. Frankly, Tim’s disappointed in Bruce for that one. He really should’ve had a talk with Superman about that particular oversight before Kon even happened. Not that Tim’s complaining about Kon existing, but Kon is basically the best-case scenario they could’ve gotten out of that. What if somebody’d possessed Superman’s empty body? What if they’d stripped it for parts and made a whole army of Supermen? What if any fucking number of things had happened?

There’d better be something in place now, is all Tim’s gonna say.

. . . maybe he’ll set up a high-yield savings account for any potential future Kon 2.0’s, just in case Superman decides to be stupid again. Just make monthly deposits and let it all collect interest. Tim’s not ready to be a clone-dad, but he can get the groundwork going.

Hell, maybe he’ll make a Kon 2.0 one day.

. . . that is an insane person thought, Tim recognizes. And way farther down along the supervillain pipeline than he wants to be right now.

Still, Kon’s a hybrid, so he’s probably infertile, right? Which means if he ever wants to have kids or anything, he’d need–

Oh god, Tim thinks, and immediately hides his bright red face behind his fake summary of his own life story. Okay. New thought processes. New thoughts. New . . . everything, at this point. New all-the-things.

He’s sixteen, he reminds himself accusingly. There is absolutely nothing about the idea of Kon with a little Kryptonian-ish baby that should appeal to him at all at this stage in his life.

Just, well, his inner future supervillain apparently has a thing for punk telekinetic DILFs, he guesses.

Well, given the timeline he’s intending to go supervillain on–

If Tim ever meets a telepath, he thinks he should probably just quit, actually. Like, for good. There is no possible way it wouldn’t end in absolute mortification.

Oh god, Dubbilex is a telepath, isn’t he. Tim is never going to be able to be in the same room with the man again without employing every possible meditation technique he knows, because otherwise his brain is just going to be screaming about what Kon looks like soaked in Kool-Aid with his hair slicked back. Or how he smirks when he’s flirting with a civilian stranger at a café. Or the mental image of him in a crop top and Daisy Dukes version of his superhero costume, ngh–

Tim can definitely just never be in the same room with Dubbilex again. Or Martian Manhunter. Or maybe just anyone.

Dammit.

#timkon #tim drake #kon el #conner kent #dc robin #superboy #rinfic #wip: obligatory sugar baby kon #long post

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bomberqueen17 · 27 days

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deep in the obsession

ok so IDK how much I've talked about my Special Interest in the Bronze Age on here. At one point (like nanowrimo of 2003 or so) I was trying to write a novel set in the British Isles Bronze Age and I researched as much as I could and there just wasn't much information and I wrote some stuff anyway but it petered out. And ever since then I've kept checking back on various avenues of research and every time there's a new find I'd read as much as I could find about it. And then they discovered the remains of a pile-dwelling settlement in the Fens in England and they've finally just now published the results of that? Well of course I've been obsessively reading about it. (I had actually emailed the Cambridge Archaeology Unit a couple of months ago to ask where I could find the publications, so the timing was good.)

I mean the long and short of it is, they've got a site exposed by modern quarrying activity, which consists of five remaining buildings, which burned down and collapsed into the river channel with all their contents in the 9th century BC; the inhabitants escaped with very few of their possessions, and the rest of the assembly of the items they used in their daily lives are largely present, very well-preserved; whole sets of pots and woodworking tools, as well as textiles and textile-processing materials, foodstuffs, wooden tools, and enough building materials to almost entirely reconstruct their dwellings; a enormous wealth of information about their diets, their ways of living, even some feel for their aesthetic sensibilities. The circumstances of the buildings' collapse even means we know how they laid out their living spaces.

So I am going to infodump about what I've pulled out of these rather dense and dry reports (I have zero complaints, they're perfectly appropriately-written), so buckle up.

Firstly, if you want to read these yourself, the publications are open access PDFs hosted on the Cambridge Archaeology Unit's website here.

There are also a fantastic series of blog posts both from during the excavation and from during the initial analytical "post-ex" phase on the site's website, which I devoured while waiting for the final reports.

I admit I was first drawn to the whole thing, when I first saw stories about it, because of the mystery. It seems to have been a whole settlement, a village maybe, and it all burned down at once, and no humans seem to have died in it, but everyone left everything behind, even leaving a dog in one of the buildings, and some penned little lambs in a couple of them-- what caused this? Were they attacked? Were they forced out of it? It had a palisade around it as if for defense, did they build it because they were afraid, and rightfully so?? Why did they not come back to try to salvage anything? The water would have been shallow, surely they could at least get their axe-heads and things back.

But the thing that has sustained my interest now is that it appears to have been an unexceptional village after all. There's no evidence that these were elite people living here. There weren't any unambiguous weapons found-- part of a broken sword, in what was obviously a recycle bin (a wooden bucket), waiting along with some broken chisels and a bent axe and part of a broken bronze bucket for a trip back to the nearest metalworker. Some spears, but likely used for hunting, stored outside the houses all together leaned up against the palisade under an overhanging roof eave. Axes, but the sheer quantity of woodworking in the site means they were very obviously woodworking tools, and weapons only by technicality.

Other contemporaneous sites are preserved so incompletely that there are always "was this a place people dwelled or was it a ceremonial gathering place" kinds of questions. Artifacts are found either discarded in middens, broken, or deposited in hoards, "ceremonially?". But all this stuff is in-context, in the house, which burned down and collapsed straight down. This was the kitchen area, obviously; all the houses had most of their pots in the same approximate spot, caches of grain in the same area. This corner is where we find stuff they were working on-- one house has probably a loom, and tons of textile-related stuff scattered around it. (There's only evidence for a loom in one or maybe two of the buildings, but there are spindle whorls and bobbins of thread in three; several spinners providing one weaver, as is common throughout history.)

Some of the pots had been broken before the fire, and some of them had been partially discarded and partially kept, like for example a well-shaped broken bit of rim was being used as a scoop or something, while the little unusable shards had gotten chucked into the river where they threw their trash; the archaeologists could reunite fragments to prove this, and could derive the information that these shards would all be associated with the same house; they weren't shared, they were using the broken pot in the same house where they'd used it before it was broken; they seem to have cooked their meals separately, and kept separate inventory of basic household necessities. But the extra stuff seems to have been stored in the communal storage shed, so they could all get to it.

There's a large but incomplete sheet of bark that in places has a second sheet adhered to it with moss in between, which was likely bedding.

There are textiles, not just woven ones but also weft-twined ones made from lime bast cord-- mats, or hats, or capes. There's a knotted fishing net that was rolled up and in a pile with other things in an area that seems to have been a storage shed of sorts. (Near the "recycle bin" full of broken metal.) There's a collection of prepared fiber, ready to be made into cordage or spun into thread, and it's all prepared the same way in standard-sized bundles-- tantalizingly, regular enough as if for trade, stored in that storage shed next to a nested set of new pots-- like somebody had bought or made them and they weren't put to use yet, OR someone had made extra they intended to trade offsite for stuff they couldn't make themselves.

The whole sets of pots are broadly the same among households-- similar numbers of large vs. small, coarse vs. fine. They all resemble one another, though some are better-made than others-- as if several people made them, but under the guidance of one experienced worker.

Several pots and wooden containers have food residues. Hauntingly, there's a ceramic pot that was still half-full of porridge, with a wooden spatula/spoon still stuck in it. The porridge was made of ground wheat cooked in a liquid containing animal fats from a ruminant-- either sheep/goat or red deer-- possibly an early example of frumenty.

Enough of the structural timbers remain from the buildings, many with markings on them from where other structural elements were touching them and alternately exposed/protected them from fire so it is possible to reconstruct shapes and connections in more detail than if they were unburnt ruins, that the buildings can be nearly completely reconstructed, which is novel because most buildings of this era are known only from footprints/post holes. Almost no material survived from the walls, but because of these ghost "protection marks" it's possible to know that the walls existed, how wide they were, that they were attached in a particular spot, that they were made of a series of small uprights-- and to then surmise that some of the fragments of "wattle", woven panels, must have come from the walls in some cases. And it's possible to reconstruct the innovative, never-elsewhere-seen sprung floor system of bowed joists that kept the floors securely above the water below.

Anyway, I've devoured Vol I and am most of the way through scouring Vol II for interesting tidbits.

Yes of course I want to write a novel with this as the setting but I also am just completely fascinated.

#about the author #must farm #archaeology #bronze age

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am-i-obsessed---maybe · 5 months

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Dark Glasses - Crowley x Reader (Platonic)

Sooooo, Nanowrimo was a bust, but you know what that means?

We're back with the fanfiction train! Choo Choo!

also reminder that requests are open! (just check out my guidelines first)

Wordcount: 1.9k

Summery: Friends support friends even when your friend is actually a demon but especially when your demon friend just got shot down by his long time angel crush.

The same man has been coming to your bar since you started working there five years ago. The other bartenders told you he's been around since you opened 20 years ago, he never gives his name and comes in with dark glasses no matter what time of day it is or whether the sun is out or not. Although unlike most regulars he doesn't have a specific drink he always orders. Sometimes it’s a rum and coke, sometimes he goes for a more classy bottle of wine, sometimes he'll even order a straight shot of liquor but he always tips well.

You call him 'Dark Glasses'. You could have called him redhead seeing as his hair was the most vibrant red you'd ever seen. There was no way it was natural but that wouldn't be fair to him. Some people can get very touchy about red hair.

Instead you called him dark glasses.

Dark Glasses came into your bar one day, sauntering over in the late afternoon, not an unnatural occurrence. The bar was basically empty with the exception of two friends that got a head start on the night's drinking.

Dark Glasses sat down and you could feel the loss and pain flowing off of him, not like how you can tell with people. It wasn't his expression or body language that gave you the impression though, it was as if you felt his emotions. As if they were ebbing off of him.

"Give me whatever's strongest" He said and you nodded, something told you he needed to drown out his sorrows.

“One bone dry martini coming right up” you said.

As you mixed his drink you periodically looked over at him, the poor guy was thrown over the bar as if it was the only thing keeping him from crying.

You walked over to him and handed him the drink.

"There you go sir" You said and he perked up only slightly, took the glass from you and downed the entire thing in one go.

"I'll need another one" He said, pushing the glass back in your direction.

You stared at him, "That, that was a glass of straight vodka. three shots of vodka." You said, stunned.

"I thought you said this was a martini" The man mumbled.

"Yes, the glass is coated in a little bit of vermouth, that's what makes it so dry... You just downed three shots of vodka like it was nothing" You said.

"Got a high tolerance, now can I get another one please?" He asked and honestly you were a bit too stunned to say no.

After two more though you knew he was done. Normal people, even those with a high tolerance like he apparently has can't drink more than 6 shots of vodka without getting drunk and he was drunk.

Mind you, not the fun kind he normally is. You're familiar with Dark Glasses when he's drunk. He slurs and gets very bold and flirty as well as clumsy, though not touchy which always surprised you. Now though, now was different. Now he was a sad drunk. Moping all around the bar. He could barely walk, instead he swayed from side to side and his flirting, something you could usually count on to raise your spirits, became lowley grumbling.

"I think that's enough" You said, taking what little remained of his third glass and pouring it out.

"What? No! I'm fine" He tried to say but struggled with the last word.

"No, you're drunk. You can stick around but the only thing you're getting is water" You told him and he made a face that almost looked like a snake trying to give puppy dog eyes.

"Come on Y/N, you know me, I can handle anything" He said, pulling you by the sleeve over the bar.

He's never initiated contact like that before. Not with anyone.

"Alright, that's enough. Go home" You told him and he deflated.

"Can't," He said.

"What do you mean can't?" You asked.

He had a home. He'd told you about it. A nice flat in mayfair with lots of plants.

"Can't. Don't live there anymore" He said and you looked genuinely surprised. Is that what has him so down in the dumps? Was he evicted? Did the bank repossess his apartment?

"What about that bookseller friend of yours in Soho? Can't you stay with him?" You asked and he shook his head.

"He's gone. He went to heaven" Dark Glasses said.

"Oh I'm so sorry" You said, maybe that was why he was so down.

"How about this, I finish my shift in a couple hours, you can crash on my couch" You told him. You'd never have said this to anyone else but you knew Dark Glasses. You knew he was sweet though he hated when someone pointed it out and you knew he needed help.

"You would do that for me?" He asked and you smiled.

"What can I say, you tip really well" You joked and managed to get a chuckle out of him before he went back to moping.

A few hours later He was leaning on you as you walked him out of the bar. Somehow still just as drunk as when you'd taken away his last drink.

"Wait, wait, wait, how are we going to your place?" He asked.

"Car" you said. He wasn't heavy but keeping him walking in a somewhat straight line out was difficult.

"My car?" He asked.

"No. You are not driving. My car" You told him and led him over to where your slightly beat up old car was parked.

"Now come on, in you go" You said, trying to help him in. It took a minute but he managed to shimmy in comfortably enough for someone with very little control of their extremities.

"I don't like this car" He complained.

"Too bad" you told him, got in and drove off.

"Why are you helping me? You're never this nice" He slurred.

"You're never this mopey" You retorted.

"Yeah but, but..." He trailed off.

"We're almost there just don't fall asleep the last thing I need is to try to drag you up to my place" You said and he nodded.

"Don't worry, I won't, I can sober up whenever I want" He said and you shook his head. Sometimes Dark Glasses said the craziest things when he was drunk. Sometimes he'd say them when he wasn't drunk but that was neither here nor there.

You eased him through the door to your flat and he smiled.

"You have plants, very nice Y/N" He said and you smiled.

"Thank you now you go sit down before you collapse all over my floor" You told him and he did as he was told, sitting down and then sprawling himself over your couch.

"He used to do this too, when I was too drunk, he'd bring me in and tell me to sit" he slurred and you turned to him, confused.

"Who?" You asked.

“My angel” Dark Glasses said. You came over to him with a glass of water.

"It's hard, when someone dies. Grief is a powerful thing" You told him and he shrugged.

"I wouldn't know" he said, slurping down the contents of the cup.

"Just sleep. You'll feel better in the morning" you told him, spreading a blanket over him and placing the cup on the coffee table.

"Try to make it to the toilet if you puke" You told him and went to bed yourself.

Crowley had never been hungover. He'd always sober up before it got to that point but this time he didn't. Even the thought of sobering up made him think of his drinking sessions with Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale left. He went to heaven and left Crowley to drown out his sorrows the human way.

The first thing you woke up to was the loud sound of someone vomiting.

"Please god let him have made it to the toilet" You said to yourself, throwing off the blacket and going to check on your mysterious guest.

She must have thought it would be funnier to scare you because Crowley in fact made it to the toilet. Luckily.

Crowley was practically puking his life out, once it was all out, at least for now, he heaved.

"How do humans do this?" He asked. He had half a mind to miracle it all away.

"With years of practice" You said, making your presence known.

"Ahhh!" He shouted, falling back on his butt only to rub at his head and groan, "Ugh". Now everything hurt even more than before.

He still had his sunglasses on, though the bathroom lights were off and the sun hadn’t even come up yet.

"I always thought you were pretty strange but now I'm starting to wonder if you're sane at all" You said.

"If you're worried I'll go crazy and attack you, you needn't be." He said quietly and you rolled your eyes.

"As if you could with the way you are right now, you look like you've been dragged through hell" You said and Crowley looked back down at the toilet.

"Oh you have no idea" He said.

At this point he was simply sitting criss-crossed in front of the toilet so you sat down on the bathroom floor next to him. Checking the time, it had only been a few hours.

"I know you've gotten drunk before, have you seriously never been hungover?" You asked.

"Never" He said.

"I don't think I believe you" You said.

“Well it’s the truth” He said.

“You are one strange specimen Glasses” You said.

“Glasses?” He asked.

“Oh, um, you never told any of us at the bar what your name was so we just called you Dark Glasses… cause you’re always wearing your dark—”

“Yeah I get it” He said. “It’s Crowley by the way”

“That’s quite the original name” You said.

“Used to be Crawley but that was a bit too” He made a hissing noise with his tongue and you noticed it was thin and split, like a snake’s.

“You know sometimes I wonder if you’re even human with all the strange shit that comes out of your mouth” You joked and Crowley laughed and then smirked.

“You wanna know a secret?” He asked.

You looked at him skeptically. “Do I?” You asked.

He shrugged, “It’s up to you really” He said.

“Then, yeah I guess”

“I’m a demon” He said.

You chuckled.

He didn’t laugh.

“No”

“Yes”

“I was the serpent of eden” He said, smiling.

“That’s not– no… cause that would mean that god” He nodded, “And satan” He nodded again.

“The world almost ended four years ago” He says. It’s almost as if seeing your reaction is helping him get his spirits back.

“You can’t just drop a bomb like that and move on!”

…

“How come it didn’t?” You asked.

“We convinced the antichrist that the earth was actually pretty nice” He said.

“We?” You asked.

“Aziraphale… and I” He said, his voice dwindling.

“He’s that bookseller friend of yours right?” You asked and Crowley nodded.

“He’s the one that died, I’m so sorry Crowley” You said, putting a comforting hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“He didn’t die.” Crowley said.

You looked at him, “But you said he went to heaven” “He’s an angel, my angel” Crowley said, his voice wasn’t a white, it was more just, sad and full of grief.

“He went off to become the new supreme archangel of all of heaven” Crowley said, this time he was in fact whining.

“Well then, he could come back” You said but Crowley shook his head.

“Not after he said he forgave me” He said.

“Forgave you for what?” “Kissing him,” Crowley said sorrowfully.

Oh.

“I’ll go get us both some wine” You said.

#good omens x reader #crowley x reader #gn reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #good omens 2 #aziraphale x crowley #platonic reader insert #good omens crowley x reader

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winchester-reload · 2 years

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The Suptober 2022 Prompt List

That’s right, Suptober is back, baby!

For anyone who doesn't know, Suptober is a month-long Supernatural-themed creative challenge that I started five years ago on a whim and quickly took over our October activities for years to come. The prompt list is made by yours truly, and creative output is made by YOU. Think: inktober meets NaNoWriMo meets the SPN fandom. This means you can write, draw, edit, do photography--your choice.

It’s an incredibly fun, creative block of time filled with overwhelming community support and a massive wall of new supernatural creations for all to consume. Participate, if you can. If you can’t, be sure to interact and reblog the creations of the people who do!

Rules:

Fill the appropriate prompt for each day of October, and try to go for the whole 31 days.

All prompt posts must be Supernatural-themed.

Please use each prompt as a personal challenge. This means, there’s no word count requirement or art requirement, but don’t slap six words on a page or draw two lines and call it good.

Don't post early! (You can post late, but not early! (This is based on your time zone.))

No incest/non-con.

Like, comment, and reblog each other's suptober creations!

No hate (that means no actor-hating or participant-on-participant hating. If I see it, you will be blocked.)

USE TAG #suptober22 on your posts so we can follow you! I’ll be monitoring that tag and reblogging art from there when I have time!

Post your art on whatever platform you want, but if you want it to be part of an archive, also post it to the Ao3 collection here.

This year more than the previous ones Suptober will be a self-moderated challenge. I'm here to cheerlead and celebrate your creations with you, but I won't be meticulously archiving the posts on tumblr like I have in the past. This year, I want to participate! (Selfish, I know. But I have a good feeling you all won't hold it against me 😉)I will reblog things as I see them though, so don’t worry about that!

Okay, now go and be free! Start brainstorming!

For a text version of the list, go here.

Join the Suptober Discord Here

Questions? Comment below or shoot me an ask!

#suptober22 #jackies talking #spn #spnfanart #spnfanfic

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hiddenwritingsintheworld · 6 months

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Midnight Rain Ch. 2

(I am so sorry for the long delay, I've been going through so much shit in RL & my writing has taken a backseat to everything, but im working on it and hopefully NaNoWriMo kicks me back into doing what I love!! Enjoy Chapter 2 of Midnight Rain :P )

Rich Mans World Series | Man After Midnight Series | Chapter 1 | Donations | Thoughts & Feelings

“Did you have to be such a bitch about it?!” Sebastian yelled as he rushed after Brooke who turned and slapped him. “You don't have the room nor the worth to stand there and call anyone a bitch when you didn't even have the balls to fucking tell him about what happened!!” Brooke and Sebastian continued to yell at each other, Chris sat in the living room for a moment listening to them fight. He got up, walking up the stairs and moved past them down the hallway as they fought before stopping at your door.

You were lying in bed, facing the window when you heard the door open; You glanced over your shoulder to see Chris standing there. You shot up as you heard Brooke yell, “What are you doing?!” Chris shut the door behind him and locked it. He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, looking down at the ground he didn’t dare bring a hand to touch you, or even face you. The silence felt like a weighted blanket draped over the two of you, holding you down in the shadows of a deadly secret.

“I was….saving our wedding photo….that’s how they caught me in our bedroom….when you left, I moved the only one I had from my office to our bedroom. I didn’t care if everything else got destroyed. I could buy new stuff all day long…but not that photo…” he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph of the two of you. He stared at it, the edges were burnt, and he smiled softly. “I love this photo…” he whispered. You were staring up at him, a doe eyed look, evident on your features. Chris was smirking at the camera, but he didn’t care how he looked, he only cared about how you looked in the photo. You were holding onto his arm, staring up at him. He fell in love with it the moment his mother had sent it from the photographers.

“I always liked that photo….” you whispered softly as he turned his head toward you, however his eyes remained on the floor. “You could have called me…” he said as you looked at him. “I was in a sedated state for two weeks in the hospital...they didn’t know if I would make it…Brooke informed them we were separated, that's why they didn’t call you.” you said. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said looking at you, finally meeting your eyes.

You looked at him, your eyes glistening with tears, “but I couldn’t protect our little girl…” you sniffled as he moved, engulfing you in his arms as you sobbed into his chest. “But you protected yourself…now we can go after the son of a bitch who did this to our baby.” Chris whispered, rocking you gently as he rubbed your back, letting you sob into his chest. You clung to him for dear life, feeling nothing but warmth and safety in his arms. “You don’t blame me?” you whispered looking up at him, as he looked down at you, “No baby…you did nothing wrong, this wasn’t your fault at all.” he whispered kissing your forehead.

You and Chris stayed wrapped in each other's arms for a while, until you’d both dozed off, Brooke and Sebastian had talked to Anthony, sharing what knowledge they all had about that night, which they’d learned what happened to you, and what happened to Chris seemed to happen on the same night. Anthony shared with them how Chris’s physical therapy was going and how he had been trying to figure out who came after him but they were coming up on a dead end.

“I mean…it had to be the Irish right? Who else is at war with Chris that they would try to kill Y/N, and his child?” Brooke asked as she poured each of them a drink. “It's just…..the Irish extended an olive branch to Chris months ago…..well before this happened. Which was weird in the first place.” Anthony said sipping the bourbon Brooke had poured.

Brooke glanced at Seb as she downed the contents of her own glass, causing both men to look at her. “Well that’s great I think but it still leaves the question of who is responsible for this?” She asked as Anthony shook his head; “I don't know…but we need to find out.”

When you woke up, Chris was snoring softly next to you. You hadn’t slept as well as you did that night, since you’d left Chris months ago. You watched him sleep for a little bit before rolling over and staring at the ceiling. You wondered what life would have been like, a little girl with him, would he have spoiled her? Would he’ve gotten up and done the late night feedings and changings? Would he have spent more time at home with you and her instead of out at the clubs? Yes. he would have been the most perfect father to the children you could of had together. A voice called in the back of your mind. You sighed and closed your eyes for a moment, wishing you could go back, beg Brooke to not leave that night.

“You look so beautiful in the mornings.” Chris whispered softly; you opened your eyes, seeing him watching you, as he smiled softly. You felt your lips pull back just a little, smiling for the first time in months. You both laid there, arms and legs tangled together, you both laid in silence for a while before a soft knock on the door alerted you both that you weren’t alone. “Y/N…I’m going to run to the store…Anthony is here for Chris so I’ll make sure Sebastian stays behind in case you need anything.”

“Why don’t I come to the story with you today?” you asked as you got up, Brooke was silent for a moment, “Are you sure? You haven’t left the house since you got home from the hospital.” Brooke pointed out. You walked over, opening the door so she could come in and nodded at her. “Yeah, I feel like I should go with you.” you said, giving her a shrug. “Gotta face the world sometime right?”

Chris sat up, “If you’re not up for it Y/N, don’t push yourself.” But you looked back at him and gave him a small tight smile, “It’ll be good for me, don't worry,” you changed into a pair of jeans, pairing it with a black shirt and tan sweater. You grabbed your purse and walked downstairs with Chris after he’d gotten dressed as well, smiling a little at Bucky and Brooke before looking at Chris, “Um…how about I call you later? We can talk and see how everything is going,” you said, shoving your hands in your pockets.

Chris looked taken back before he nodded, “Right, yeah, I’ll talk to you later and check in with you.” He grabbed his jacket before he looked at Sebastian, “When you get some time, let’s talk about a few things.” he shook his hand before walking out with Anthony.

You left with Brooke, going to the store for the first time since you were pregnant. You noticed how things looked different and the same, you carried on with light talking while you two drove on; and once at the store, you helped her grab a few different things. “Why don’t we get some snacks and have a movie night tonight?” Brooke asked as you smiled and nodded, “I’d really like that. I’ll go grab some chips, salsa, candy, and some stuff to make that dip your mom taught you to make!” you grinned as she did too, “yes!! Okay! I’m gonna go grab ice cream, toppings, and whatever else sounds good!” she took off toward the frozen section while you went to grab a basket and grab your list. This was the first time anything really had sounded good to you in a long time.

As you shopped you reached for a bag of chips, when another hand reached for the same bag. You looked over, withdrawing your hand and apologizing when the gentleman in front of you chuckled and handed you the bag. “I’m sorry, here, front bags are always fresher,” he said smiling at you. You were frozen like a deer in headlights, he was handsome, and a dazzling smile to match. “Oh, uh,” you let out a soft giggle, “Thank you, but go ahead, I can get a different bag.” you said looking up at him as he grinned at you, placing the bag down in your basket. “Don’t worry about it sunshine. I don’t mind.” he winked before turning to grab a bag himself. He was tall, with short, soft, blondish-brown hair, bright blue eyes and a dashing bright smile. “Well thank you sir,” you felt yourself blush as you stared at him, he was captivating as he stood tall and smiled down at you, “I’m Steve…Steve Rogers,” he held his hand out to you.

Tag List: (Message me if you want to be added!)

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gourmet-trash · 6 months

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HEY. remember when i said i accidentally stayed up until 2am writing smut a week ago? i did it again! tomorrow i might delete edit this and post it properly, but in honor of trying to use nanowrimo to simply get back into the habit of writing and get out of my own head about it, here's 4k of under-negotiated halstarion kink for ya!

They haven’t been settled in the clearing long, but Halsin is breathless, shirtless, and working a line of sucking kisses towards Astarion’s gaping collar when it happens. He’s learned to look and listen for it now - the telltale shift of Astarion’s focus, the overly practiced cadence of his moans. Tonight, it’s a sound he makes when Halsin kisses the exposed bit of his collarbone – too breathy, too eager – that makes Halsin look up.

Astarion is still perched over his lap, has curled a long fingered hand around the back of his neck and another over his shoulder. But for all that his weight is a welcome presence across his thighs, Halsin knows he isn’t really there with him. His features are arranged into an expression of soft pleasure, certainly, but there’s a dull rust in his eyes and a languidness in his limbs that give him away.

Slowly, Halsin sits up against the tree he’s propped himself against and lifts his hands from where they had been stroking the outside of Astarion’s thighs. He rests one warm palm higher against his side and lifts the other to cup his cheek.

“Astarion?” he calls, brushing his thumb against the soft skin beneath it. They’ve only just started feeling their way into the evening, and Astarion hasn’t been detached for long. But even still, Halsin gives him time to reconnect, watching as his eyes gradually brighten and refocus.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

Astarion blinks at him once, twice, and then his expression pinches down into something narrow. Annoyed. It only lasts a moment before he visibly regains control of his features, brows softening, lips curling, lashes lowering.

“I’m fine,” he insists, turning to press a nipping kiss to the thumb against his cheek before leaning in closer and winding his arms around Halsin’s neck. “Just got a bit…distracted. Now where were we?”

When he dips in for a kiss, Halsin returns it, but only briefly before he eases Astarion back. The annoyance reclaims his face and is not swept away this time.

“Are you certain?” he presses. “We do not have to continue with this if you would rather not.”

Astarion leans back from him of his own accord this time, fisting his hands against his own thighs and huffing so hard a curl falls down over his forehead. He doesn’t climb off of Halsin’s lap, but his brow knits into a tight furrow and his lips press down into a hard, flat line. The agitation roiling up around him may as well be a physical thing for how obvious his displeasure is.

“I want to continue,” he bites out, teeth all but grinding together.

Halsin, in turn, is exceedingly careful when he lowers his hand to Astarion’s other side, his touch featherlight, though Astarion gives no indication he notices at all.

“It’s all right if you don’t,” he points out, keeping his own voice calm. He means this, and knows - or rather hopes - Astarion knows that. It would not be the first time they adjusted their evening plans accordingly, and Halsin knows it will not be the last. He is, perhaps, more at peace with this than Astarion himself is if the tension in his limbs and the thunder in his expression are anything to go by.

Astarion doesn’t respond, breathing hard and unnecessary through his nose, and when Halsin glances down, he finds he’s uncurled his fists in favor of curling the points of his nails into his thighs instead. When one cuts through his trousers to dig into the glimpse of white flesh underneath, Halsin releases his sides and sets his own larger hands over his, grasping gently. Not enough to restrain, but enough to keep him from directing any more frustration into his own skin.

Astarion scowls down at their hands in silence.

Halsin rubs his thumbs against his hands until Astarion relaxes them. Then, softly, he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, my heart.”

“Yes, and maybe that’s the problem!” Astarion snaps suddenly, yanking his hands out from under his.

Halsin stares, startled by the outburst, and Astarion frowns, first at him and then at the tree over his shoulder. When he doesn’t elaborate, Halsin carefully breaches the silence instead.

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

Astarion opens his mouth to respond before catching himself and pressing his lips back together. Halsin spots a glimpse of a fang hooking over his lower lip briefly before it’s released, and he clicks his tongue softly, shoulders coming up slightly towards his ears.

Halsin sees the moment Astarion’s not insignificant amount of nerve fails him. When he decides to settle rather than expose any more of his soft underbelly than he already has by asking outright for what he wants. He casts his eyes aside and tilts his head, just so, hiding his expression and tucking away his throat - his jugular.

“Astarion,” Halsin tries to coax him back into the conversation, lifting a hand to frame the sharp edge of his jaw. He sees Astarion roll his eyes under the cover of his lashes and the loose curl of his hair.

“Let’s not worry about it, darling! Certainly not worth derailing the rest of our evening over. Shall we try again?” Astarion says with bright, easy flippancy. He settles back into his own limbs with perfectly composed intent: rolling a wrist as if to brush away the conversation, sitting up to regain his position and conveniently pulling his jaw out of Halsin’s palm. He puts on a familiar smirk and drops his hands to Halsin’s chest, watching as his fingers drag down over the bared muscle and hair there. A well insinuated excuse to avoid eye contact.

Halsin considers him for a moment while Astarion artfully attempts to sweep the entire ordeal back under the proverbial rug. But it is a rare thing for Astarion to voice his own desires with any sort of specificity, either because he does not know what he wants or because he struggles with what he does. And Halsin suspects he knows which of the two is agitating him this evening.

When he lifts his hand to Astarion’s jaw again, he catches both sides and digs his fingertips and thumb into the soft skin with more force than he’s previously shown outside the furthest throes of passion. The skin dimples under his grip, and on another man it would take only a bit more pressure to leave a flush in the shape of his fingers behind.

The effect is immediate.

Astarion’s eyes finally snap back to his, wider but infinitely more focused than they’d been just a moment before. And whether from the pressure against his jaw or sheer surprise, his lips have fallen just a bit apart. He doesn’t even appear to be making the effort to feign breathing, gone supernaturally still in Halsin’s lap with only his fingertips still balanced against his chest, as if he’d forgotten about them entirely.

But it’s the intensity of his focus that strikes Halsin the hardest. Any misgivings he may have had about the honesty of Astarion’s desires are put at ease by how firmly anchored into the present moment he appears to be. For now, at least.

Halsin doesn’t speak right away, watching Astarion’s face as he slowly tightens his grip, pushing into what must be uncomfortable pressure. It’s just hard enough to force Astarion’s mouth further open, enough to expose his fangs. It would likely not yet even bruise if his lover were at risk of such a thing.

It still tears an impossibly sweet noise from him, high pitched and wobbling in his throat. The sound is something delightfully unpracticed, and it sends a sharp, promising jolt of warmth through him to hear it. Another warm pulse follows at the flustered expression that crosses Astarion’s face a moment later when he realizes he made it.

“Astarion,” he says again, fingers tight but his voice as gentle as it has been before. Astarion tries to make an undoubtedly disapproving face at the tone, but he isn’t entirely successful with his mouth pressed open and a thin line of saliva starting to trickle out of the corner of his lips. “Is this the sort of treatment you were asking for?”

The spell that had so thoroughly ensnared Astarion when Halsin grabbed him is starting to abate by now. He doesn’t pull away, but he does raise an arch eyebrow and lifts one of his own hands to wave pointedly at where Halsin is holding his mouth ajar.

Halsin smiles and uses his grip on Astarion’s chin to tip his head back a bit. He’s rewarded with a small, hitched sound that Astarion doesn’t quite manage to stop himself from making, and the trail of saliva curls over his jaw and starts a slow trickle down the exposed line of his neck.

“I’m certain you can manage a clear enough yes or no from here,” Halsin says, not unkindly.

He watches Astarion’s eyes narrow and his throat bob. He has never been connected to Astarion’s mind in the way their other companions have, but he doesn’t need a tadpole to know Astarion is weighing his options. It is written more plainly on his face than he’s likely aware.

Astarion still doesn’t try to pull away, hasn’t even moved again except to drop his hand back onto Halsin’s chest. But he sees the considering shift in his expression, and Halsin feels the testing shift of his jaw under his fingers. Pushing back against the pressure.

No, Halsin realizes a moment later. Pushing into it. He squeezes, brief but hard, in retaliation, digging into the soft divots where Astarion’s jaw is already hinged open. Gives him a taste of something properly painful.

The red of his eyes disappears briefly under a flutter of lashes, and a shudder wracks through his body where he’s so carefully perched over Halsin’s lap. When Halsin presses one thigh up firmly between his, Astarion eagerly accepts the offer and grinds himself against the proffered muscle with a ragged moan.

There’s no denying he’s a stunning creature, but Halsin thinks he’s especially beautiful like this, when some of those carefully tailored seams start to fray, revealing the raw edges he typically keeps tucked away under needle and gilded threat. He smooths a warm hand down Astarion’s considerably cooler flank to cup his hip, rubbing a soft circle against the point of his hip bone through his trousers. And when Astarion squirms at the tender treatment, he squeezes his jaw once more.

It takes him by surprise if the gurgling moan and stuttering rock of his hips are anything to go by. Astarion’s fingers curl where they’re pressed against his chest, nails pricking at his bare skin, and he makes a pleased sound of his own for it. Halsin is so endeared he nearly lets this be enough.

Nearly.

He softens his grip somewhat on Astarion’s jaw. It’s not enough to release him, not even enough for him to comfortably close his mouth again, but Astarion whines his protest all the same, trying admirably to scowl at him with his spit slicked jaw hanging open.

Halsin chuckles and tugs Astarion forward a bit, just to see his eyes flutter, as he leans in to meet him. He draws the tip of his own tongue along the soft shape of Astarion’s lower lip, from one corner to the other and slowly back again, relishing in the shiver he feels under his hands and against his thigh.

“You do still have to answer me, my heart.”

“Huhhn?” is the wordless, confused noise he gets in return, and Halsin leans back again to catch Astarion’s eyes.

He’s watching him, eyes gone heavy lidded and dark, but he’s still there, still anchored between the press of fingers to his jaw and thigh to his cock.

Halsin smiles and lifts his hand from Astarion’s hip to pet a few wayward curls off of his forehead, ignoring the way Astarion rolls his eyes at him for it. “Is this the sort of treatment you were asking me for?” he asks again.

This time Astarion does his best to nod in Halsin’s grip, making an affirmative “uh huh” sound for good measure.

He leans in once more to press a tender kiss to Astarion’s temple while tightening his fingers around his jaw again, digging a little harder against what must be exceptionally sore muscles by this point.

“Thats’s very good,” Halsin says against his ear, feeling the sharp prick of Astarion’s nails pressing harder against his chest for it. “You’re doing so well, Astarion.”

The noise he makes is one of confused pleasure, a protesting sound, but he grinds harder against Halsin’s leg when he shifts it deliberately against him. Halsin can feel the delicate muscles of Astarion’s jaw trembling under the pressure of his fingertips as well as he can the trembling in the thighs Astarion has squeezed around his own.

“You are,” Halsin insists, pushing Astarian’s chin further up, forcing him to tip his head back, to arch his neck to accommodate the bracket of Halsin’s hand clamped around his wet jaw. His own fingers and wrist are damp.

And so is the front of Astarion’s pants where he’s rutting. Halsin can hear how rough his own voice has gone when he murmurs, “You’ve done such a good job this evening telling me what you desire. Allowing me to give it to you.”

Astarion whimpers and screws his eyes shut, trying without much success to shake his head in Halsin’s grip. But he’s pressed so close that Halsin can feel the way his cock jumps in the snare of his pants, can smell the arousal high and heady in his scent.

Briefly, he considers cutting a finger over one of those pearly, reaching fangs and trickling blood down Astarion’s open throat. But they are already well beyond where they should be with nothing more than a passing comment, and he’s unwilling to push much further against the blurry boundaries around this. He can, however, give him a bit more.

“Look at me, my love,” he croons, petting his free fingers into Astarion’s hair again before fisting them hard enough to pull against his scalp.

Halsin is certain it doesn’t hurt as much as his jaw must, but it’s a new, sharp sensation, and Astarion’s eyes snap open with a yelp that gets trapped somewhere in his curved throat. His lower lashes are wet when he narrows his eyes at him. Looking at him now, it’s hard for Halsin to believe the sort of stillness that had overtaken him earlier in the evening.

Now, all that supernatural stillness has abandoned Astarion, and he’s squirming in Halsin’s lap like he can’t help himself, scoring what are certain to be welts into his pecs like a particularly pleased cat. As if in retaliation - and that isn’t so absurd a thought with Astarion - he scoots down the thigh he’s been riding so he can rub his own knee against the hot ridge straining at the front of Halsin’s pants with every eager roll of his hips. And in the process, he leans closer, deliberately making Halsin’s grip pull harder on his hair.

Halsin takes a deep breath to steady himself and knows Astarion sees it from the pleased flash in his eyes and the self-satisfied quirk of his parted lips. So he chuckles and gives Astarion’s hair one more sharp pull, enjoying the thready moan from the vampire as he rolls his own hips once, letting him feel how much his trust, his pleasure, have affected Halsin in turn.

When he slides his fingers out of his hair, Astarion whines and grabs blindly for Halsin’s wrist. But when he finds it, he doesn’t try and drag Halsin’s hand back, he simply clings to it like a new lifeline, panting through his open mouth when Halsin slowly moves his hand between them.

“You’re so good, my heart,” Halsin says, as gentle as he can make his now gravel-pitched voice, while he rubs his thumb against the wet patch on Astarion’s trousers. Astarion clutches at his wrist, shuddering, and the low moan that starts in his chest hiccups into a sharper noise when Halsin digs his other thumb in a tight, harsh circle into the sore meat of his jaw.

“That’s it. Just like that, Astarion. You can let go whenever you’re ready. I have you,” Halsin promises against his ear, brushing his lips softly against the sensitive, twitching tip.

Astarion shakes his head slightly again, though if it’s in protest or simply to feel his fingers pushing into his flesh, Halsin can’t say. He isn’t sure Astarion could either, at that point. But he’s patient, lets the vampire take what he needs, where he’s all but writhing in his lap, chasing down that cresting peak.

Halsin grinds his palm steadily back against Astarion’s cock and offers no protest to the iron grip on his wrist or the stinging in his pec. He murmurs soft praise and encouragement as he needles at the aching spots in Astarion’s jaw. And when he finally feels tension sweeping up through his body, hears the catch in his throat, Halsin loosens his grip entirely on Astarion’s jaw.

Astarion sobs when sensation rushes back into the tender muscles, grinding down onto Halsin’s thigh hard enough as he chases his orgasm that the druid will not be surprised if he’s bruised in the morning.

Carefully, while Astarion is still hiccuping and shuddering through the last sparking threads of his climax, Halsin cups the nape of his neck and slowly eases the weight of his head back up and then foreword onto his shoulder. And when Astarion goes, shivering but without complaint, he slips his wrist from Astarion’s loosened grip and winds the arm around his back, pulling him in close to the warmer curve of his body.

He gently massages the stiff muscle down the back of his neck, and allows himself the brief indulgence of pressing his nose against the soft white curls of his hair. He smells like he always does, of faded rosemary and iron, but also enticingly of salt and sex, and it’s a lovely, heady combination.

But Halsin is more than content in their current position, breathing in the scent of him, marveling at the looseness of his limbs and the faint trembling in his fingers where they lie curled against his chest. His shoulder is damp where Astarion has tucked his face, and Halsin allows them to pretend it’s from the spit smearing his jaw while he listens to the quiet rustle of the night around them and Astarion’s unsteady efforts to reaffect the act of breathing. Even one shirt shy of fully clothed, this is more vulnerable than Astarion has ever appeared when spread out on a bedroll, and Halsin holds on to this gift for as long as Astarion allows.

Unsurprisingly, the moment does not last for as long as Halsin would like. But, if he is honest with himself, an eternity cradling that tender moment would still not have been enough.

“Well, darling, that was certainly a pleasant surprise,” Astarion hums, and while the words themselves are true to form, the raspy quality of his voice and the fact that he has yet to lift his head are telling. Halsin smiles into his hair and can’t help but snort his amusement when Astarion most certainly feels it if his put upon “Ugh” is anything to by.

“I meant what I said,” Halsin tells him, lifting his own head, and it doesn’t escape him that Astarion takes several moments longer to do the same. Even if he has affixed a bland, unimpressed look on his face when he finally sits back enough for that face to be visible.

“Of course you did,” he says, rolling his eyes, and it takes a considerable effort for Halsin not to reach up and wipe the remaining tear tracks off his cheeks. He drops his hands to frame Astarion’s hips instead, holding him steady while Astarion laces his own fingers and stretches his arms up above his head, making a showy but pleased sound at the feeling.

When he drops his arms again, it’s in a loose circle around Halsin’s neck, and his lips are curled into something teasing and just on the edge of mean. He doesn't reach to rub his jaw, doesn't comment on the ache that must be left behind. Instead, he drops his voice into a familiar purr and says, “You know, darling, usually when someone roughs me around a bit, they just call me a whore and get on with it.”

Halsin smiles softly and rubs his thumbs against the jut of Astarion’s hip bones. “If you find your pleasure in a firmer hand, my heart, I am happy to oblige. But I will not be cruel.”

Astarion barks out a laugh and shifts pointedly, pressing the thigh tucked between Halsin’s to rub against the still-hot ridge at their crux. “Cruel?” he repeats, leaning in to nip sharply at Halsin’s lip. “I think I can handle a little name calling with my manhandling. In fact, I’m quite good at it.”

There is a much more complicated matter lying tangled at the heart of all this, something overgrown with thorns and rot and biting quips. And Halsin is old and experienced enough to know that there are several more conversations to be had before they wade back into this bramble again.

But they are, for the moment, still caught in the underbrush, and Halsin does not feel as guilty as he perhaps should when he lingers there.

Astarion smirks when he raises a hand to his face again, but his expression falters with startled realization when Halsin gently traces his knuckle down the tear track drying against his cheek. And when Astarion twitches as if to lean back, it’s a simple thing to catch his chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding him gently in place.

Halsin leans in slowly, and Astarion does not try to pull away when he brushes his lips up the long shell of his ear. When he speaks against it, his voice is no louder than a whisper, something meant for the vampire’s ears and his alone.

“Did you ever come as hard for those insults as you did for my praise, Astarion?”

He shudders so hard, Halsin is compelled to tighten the grip he still has on his hip to make sure he doesn’t lose his balance. Astarion tries for a moment to find his easy deflection or sweetly barbed insults, visibly floundering at his own speechlessness. Tripping over the brambles he likely didn’t realize were still underfoot.

Thinking again that he should feel guiltier than he does, Halsin releases Astarion’s hip and chin to cup his face gently instead. He brushes his thumbs under the surprisingly round shape of Astarion’s eyes, stroking away the last visible remnants of any tears. And with that baffled, garnet stare still focused on him, he presses a soft kiss to Astarion’s forehead.

“We should wash up before we return to camp,” he says, raising his voice a bit and leaning back, giving Astarion space to step out of the brush.

He does so slowly, blinking away his own befuddlement and sitting back on Halsin’s thigh. It takes one false start that he covers as eloquently as he can with a cough before Astarion is neatly hemming down his edges again. “We? Only one of us seems to have the dubious pleasure of thoroughly sticky trousers, darling,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

Halsin laughs at that and nudges Astarion until he reluctantly climbs onto his feet, and he ignores the bemused frown being aimed at him by ducking to retrieve his discarded shirt. “Perhaps a bit of late night laundering to go with a bath, then.”

“Not precisely the point I was making, you realize?”

“I do,” Halsin assures him, pulling his shirt on before turning back to Astarion. He smiles at his pinched expression and reaches up to brush a bit of hair off his forehead. Astarion is still frowning at him, but he tips his head, just a bit, towards his fingers, and it takes a greater effort than Halsin cares to admit not to lean down and kiss his forehead again. “I am perfectly content this evening, my heart.”

“Content? My, what glowing praise for the evening,” he sneers, his tone still off center but finding its way back into easy scorn. “Perhaps you would be better at insults.”

Halsin chuckles and pulls away, starting towards the edge of the clearing in the direction of a stream they had found earlier in the day. “I promise to have better compliments prepared for next time.”

There’s a beat of quiet before he hears Astarion’s footsteps trailing after him. “Well. If you promise.”

#¯\_(ツ)_/¯#this has been eating me alive for a week so i had to finish the damn thing in SOME capacity #what IS this????#does this WORK???#IS THIS SOMETHING????#i don't know anymore #i see you sandman and tf babes but em needs to get this outta her system first #halstarion #halsin #astarion #bg3 #baulder's gate 3 #fanfic

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greywolfheirs · 6 months

Text

Plot Twist: That old man kisses Loki

AKA I'm using my first NaNoWriMo to write random fics and drabbles I wouldn't get around to normally. When is this in the current canon? Who knows! Certainly not me :)

~~~~~

“What am I doing?” Loki breathed as he paced the now-empty judge’s room. “X-05…Brad was right. I’m a villain, and that’s all I’ll ever be. I have to stop being a hero.”

Mobius tracked Loki’s frantic movements with his eyes, unsure what the Asgardian was getting at. “You still haven’t told me what happened with Sylvie. What did she tell you?”

Loki shook his head. “It doesn’t matter–nothing I do matters.”

Mobius stepped forward as Loki let out a groan and covered his face. “Look, calm down. I’ve already told you, you can be whatever you want to be, but I can’t help you get there unless you talk to me.”

Loki lowered his hands just enough to meet Mobius’s gaze. It wouldn’t ever get old, looking into Loki’s hazel eyes, so open and yearning for trust but used to too much hurt. He took a shaky breath and explained, “I understand why nothing I’m doing is working now. She spelled it out very clearly: I hurt everyone I care about, and that’s all I’m capable of doing.”

Mobius shook his head, but Loki wasn’t done.

“Odin’s breath it’s like I was born to cause suffering wherever I go. Trying to be a hero–trying to save anything is just causing more problems.” Loki’s hands moved away to gesture dramatically as he became more frantic. “I should just do what the other Lokis did and hole away in some forgotten part of the universe where I can’t hurt anyone anymore. I am alone and I always should be, it’s better for everyone.”

Mobius took another step forward and grabbed Loki’s wrists to still them. Without thinking, he blurted, “It’s not better for me.”

“What?” Loki breathed, but quickly shook his head. “I promise you it is, Mobius. You should get far, far away from me before I destroy you and everything you care about.”

“I care about you,” Mobius countered, feeling bold in the wake of Loki’s despair. “So where does that leave us?”

“Mobius,” Loki sighed. His eyes were wet now, and he looked terrified. “I’m a plague on everyone who meets me. I’m unloveable.”

“Now that is just not true at all,” Mobius laughed, trying to look reassuring. Inside, he was chaos. Showing his cards like this left him feeling torn open. But Loki needed to hear it. “I have evidence saying otherwise.”

Loki opened his mouth to say something in response, but nothing came out and Mobius felt his hands begin to shake. The god began to look away in shame, and it snapped all of Mobius’s remaining restraints. He surged forward, using his grip on Loki’s wrists to pull them closer until their lips connected.

Loki breathed in sharply through his nose but otherwise remained rigid. When Mobius began reluctantly pulling back, however, he seemed to recover, twisting his arms so that he was grasping Mobius instead, and pressing forward with urgency that changed the kiss to something more passionate. Mobius gripped Loki’s coat to regain his balance in the face of the sudden assault, and Loki’s now free hand slid up to cradle Mobius’s head, fingers threading through the short hairs there.

Loki tried to deepen the kiss even further, but Mobius felt out of breath in a way he’d never experienced before and it put him in danger of fainting. He used his hand on Loki’s coat to gently push him away. Not too far, just enough to breathe.

“Mobius,” Loki gasped, pressing in again to lean their foreheads together. He didn’t seem better off. Mobius could feel his panting breaths against his lips.

“You can’t be unlovable,” Mobius managed to say. “Because I fell in love with you a long time ago.”

Loki looked up through his lashes. “Not the smartest choice.”

Mobius huffed a small laugh. “I like my chances here.”

Loki made a small noise and closed the distance between them again. Mobius had to disagree–this was probably the smartest choice he’d made in his entire life.

#loki series #lokius #drabble #my writing #the grey wolf writes

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