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drmaddict · 6 months

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Pet dates

Summary: When Theo took a cat into his dormitory one evening, he didn't expect to wake up next to a girl the next morning. (Y/n), who was walking around the school in her Animagus form, didn't really expect to be used as a teddy bear that night either.

Wordcount: 3.748

I taped quietly through the nightly corridors of Hogwarts. As an Animagus, I enjoyed the freedom of not being noticed. Another cat in the corridors. Who would even waste a glance? I was enjoying the darkness of the night with my adjusted eyes when I saw three figures. They came closer quietly.

"Shh!", one of them hissed.

"Hey, you had to sneak into the library, didn't you?", hissed the next one.

I recognized Draco Malfoy first. His light-colored hair was immediately noticeable. Then Mattheo Riddle and Theodore Nott.

Draco and Mattheo walked past me, but Theodore stopped.

"Hello there.", he whispered and held out his hand to me. "Come here piccola bellezza."

"Dude, leave the cat alone and come here.", Draco hissed.

Theo ignored him and stroked my head with his fingertips. Out of instinct, I began to purr.

To be honest, I don't get touched very often. Neither as a cat, nor as a human. Theodore smiled. "Have you been locked out?" He stroked my back with just the right amount of pressure. "It's far too cold out here. Come on. It's warm in our dorm."

Still completely caught up in the pleasure of his touch, I reacted too late. I found myself pressed against his chest. Most girls would kill for this opportunity. Maybe I would too, but somehow you imagine this in a different context.

Theodore caught up with the other two.

Draco just rolled his eyes, but Mattheo looked at me closely. A grin stretched across his face as he looked me straight in the eye, as if he knew exactly who I was. "Interesting.", he whispered.

"What?", Theodore asked, confused.

Mattheo bent down to my eye level. "Come on then, little mouse.", he grinned.

I wriggled against the iron grip around me. "Stop that! You're making her nervous.", Theodore grumbled.

"Guys, can we please go now?" growled Draco, annoyed. The three of them started moving again.

"What is it with you and cats anyway?" Draco asked into the silence.

"They're cats.", Theodore replied, as if that explained everything.

When the three of them arrived in their common room, Theodore sat me down on his bed. Blaise Zabini was lying on the opposite one, leafing through a book. He raised a well-formed eyebrow.

"Weren't you going to get a book?"

"Shut up.", grumbled Theodore.

"Theo just picked up a little girlfriend on the way.", grinned Riddle. "That's nothing new."

I gave him a dirty glare. Somehow the bastard knew exactly, who I was.

I jumped off the bed and went to the door. I scratched at it and meowed angrily, but Theodore just grabbed me again and sat me on the bed.

"It's all right. Nothing will happen to you here."

I exhaled in annoyance. Riddle reached for me with one hand, grinning, but I immediately slapped his hand away.

"Ow!" he hissed and stuck his bleeding finger in his mouth. "You little-"

I instinctively stood up to my full height and hissed at him.

Theodore pushed him away from me.

"She scratched me!", Riddle hissed.

"You scared her." grumbled Theodore.

Turning to his bed, he pulled his shirt over his head and let his pants slide to the floor.

I quickly turned to the wall and looked at the green fabric of the four-poster bed. The world was unfair. The guy didn't have one bloody flaw.

I heard Riddle snicker. Asshole.

Theodore lay down under the covers. Without a warning, he pulled me against him like I was a teddy bear. He stroked my stomach slowly. I let out a surrendered breath. I didn't even notice that I was falling asleep from the gentle caresses.

The next morning, I woke up to someone stroking my head.

"Morning Bella.", someone whispered.

My brain kick-started. I was in Theodore Nott's bed. He was still holding me. I was - thank God - still a cat.... I hadn't slept this well in a long time.

But I'd never slept as a cat either, so that was probably it.

Theodore stroked my stomach in slow circles. The purring immediately started again. I looked at him. He was smiling gently. I didn't really know him, but he always seemed so cold in the corridors. Very different from now. He closed his eyes and continued to run his fingers through my fur.

I was too rarely really touched not to enjoy this.

I allowed the caress and closed my eyes until Riddle's voice rang out.

Whereupon a scream was heard. Theodore's scream.

I felt my body expand.

I looked into Theodore's horrified face.

I looked around in panic. Riddle laughed. "There are spells that can force an Animagus back into its human form."

I glanced at Theodore again before running off frantically. As soon as I opened the door, I sprinted back through the corridors in cat form.

I felt like throwing up.

Theo's POV

I was still looking after the girl in shock.

We had potions together. I didn't know her name though. Mattheo was still laughing.

"You knew that?", I snapped at him.

He just shrugged and threw himself back into bed. "You seem to have acted with mutual consent."

I threw my alarm clock at him.

(Y/n)s POV

"Where have you been?", Jenny asked me, as I walked into our common room.

"Nowhere.", I said way too quickly.

"But-"

"Nowhere!", I babbled frantically and immediately locked myself in the bathroom.

Now everyone will know. I ruffled my hair. I had always kept the authorization for the Animagus a secret. It should remain a secret. God, they're all going to shoot their mouths off. The little freak who clings to the school crush par excellence and crawls into his bed without hin knowing.

I forced myself to take a deep breath.

Bloody hell.

I skipped breakfast. As small as I could, I sat down in Potions class and looked at my book.

I heard everyone filling the room, but continued to not look up. I breathed a sigh of relief when Snape finally walked into the room in his usual dramatic fashion.

"You will form groups today."

I looked dully at the blackboard. Was he serious?

He called out the pairs stoically.

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N). Theodore Nott."

Was he fucking serious?

I buried my face in my hands. What had I done? What did I do to deserve this?

I heard a pile of books being dropped on the desk.

I looked up into Theodore Nott's usual cold face. My face felt incredibly hot.

Snape explained the day's task and then sat down at his desk.

Silently, I began sorting the ingredients.

Theodore skimmed over the instructions.

"Can you please not tell anyone?", I whispered.

He didn't respond. I sighed. "I dont want to push you... But that I'm an Animagus... Only I knew that until yesterday."

He grumbled.

"I wanted to leave, but you wouldn't let me.", I grumbled back.

"Because I thought you were a cat.", he hissed.

"Why are you taking some stranger's cat with you anyway?"

He faltered. "None of your business."

I sighed in annoyance and turned up the flame.

"Was it that bad?", he grumbled quietly.

"What?"

"Lying in my bed with me."

I glanced at the kettle. "No." I admitted.

He stirred like the instructions said. "We're good at keeping our mouths shut. So don't worry."

I looked at his cold face. How could he be so different to the boy this morning? That warm and relaxed smile.

"Thank you.", I whispered.

I sprinted through the corridors as fast as my paws could carry me. That damn Miss Noris had it in for me.

I whizzed around the corner and immediately collided with a pair of legs.

I heard the cat behind me. I stood up and hissed at her.

"Go on. Go away.", said the owner of the legs and gently shooed her away.

Miss Noris gave me another challenging look and then slunk around the corner.

Theodore sighed. He glanced toward me. "(Y/n)?", he asked cautiously.

I nodded.

"Being a cat, you sure do pick fights, don't you?"

I grumbled. I didn't start it.

He smirked. "Don't get caught away."

His hand moved to my head, but stopped in mid-motion. He stretched his fingers once and pulled them back towards him. "See you."

I could feel myself wanting that touch. Even though I couldn't say why, I was far braver as a cat than as a human. So I trotted past him and stroked his legs once. A few steps away, I stopped again and looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face.

He shook his head at me. "We'll keep this between us," he murmured.

I nodded and walked back towards my common room. I tried to ignore the tingling sensation on my head.

The next day, Theodore suddenly sat down next to me in Potions. I looked irritatedly from him to his clicke and back again.

"Hi.", he just said and put his books on the table.

"Uhh... Hi.", I faltered.

He looked straight at me and leaned slightly towards me. "If I'm wrong, just forget it and pretend I never said anything.", he started. I nodded hesitantly. In a whisper, he continued. "You seem to like it when people... pet you.", he began.

I nodded. "I think we'd both benefit from seeing each other... meet like this more often.", he mumbled.

I looked at him, confused. "You want... What, petting dates?", I asked.

"Forget it.", he grumbled and tried to get up, but I held him by his sleeve.

"Now wait a minute. I'm just surprised.", I explained. He sat down again. I played with my quill. "I don't think I'd mind, but why don't you just get a cat... Well, if you like them so much."

"I'm not allowed.", he explained curtly.

"Oh."

"Yup."

I prepared my roll of parchment. "When do you want to start?"

I noticed his shoulders relax slightly. Today at seven. Come to the library. I'll sit at the back."

I nodded as Snape came bounding through the door.

I crept through the library, keeping an eye out for Theodore.

Hidden at the very back, he was sitting and flicking through a book, bored.

I jumped onto the table next to him and looked at the manuscript. He flinched slightly, when I landed next to him. "Hi," he whispered. He pointed to his scarf, which he had provisionally draped into a small bed. "Make yourself comfortable."

I lay down hesitantly on the green fabric. I pulled it here and there to make myself comfortable. When I was satisfied and lay down, I noticed Theodore grinning at me and shaking his head slightly. I grumbled slightly. He put his hand on my head and started to run it through my fur. I immediately started purring. He applied the perfect amount of pressure again. I closed my eyes in pleasure and let my limbs grow heavy.

"So we can do this more often?", he asked softly. I nodded and let out a small gasp. I lazily opened one eye. He had rested his head on his hand and was looking relaxed at me. I let myself fall onto my side and continued purring to myself.

We met up more often since then. Sometimes even just like that. Without fur. He had immediately made it clear that he only wanted to be called Theo when I had first spoken to him. Now we were sitting in the three brooms, drinking butterbeer.

"Don't you want to join your friends?" I asked.

He waved me off. "Oh Draco's studying to beat Granger today. Blaise has a date and Mattheo... I don't want to know."

He took a big sip from his glass.

"What do you actually get out of these meetings?" I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It relaxes me.", he admitted. "Most people just want sex."

I let my fingers scratch his scalp once. His ears turned red. I grinned. "Do you want to swap roles?"

He remained silent. "It wouldn't be a problem.", I mumbled. "Quit pro quo.", I shrugged.

He held on to his glass. "Would you?", he asked, looking stubbornly at the table.

"Sure.", I said, shrugging my shoulders.

He downed the rest of his beer and stood up. He held his hand out to me. "You coming?"

I let him pull me along.

He poked his head into the bedroom and exhaled with relief. Quickly, he pushed me inside. No one was there. He waved his wand and the curtains of his bed were already drawn. We sat down behind the curtains. I leaned back against the headboard and looked at Theo, waiting. He cast a silencing spell on the bed before lying down hesitantly on the pillow. I stroked his thick curls. He exhaled calmly and just let himself be pampered. It was unusual, but... nice.

Theo's POV

I was already poking around in my food, bored, when Mattheo sat down next to me on the bench.

"Tell me, when do you actually fuck each other?", he grinned.

I looked at him blankly. "Who are you talking about?"

Mattheo shook his head in amusement. "Well, your kitten."

I furrowed my eyebrows in irritation.

"Are you stalking me?"

Mattheo was still shoveling his food onto his plate with amusement. "You forget I know what goes on with people in here." He tapped his own forehead and grinned. "The little one has the hots for you. Even if she doesn't really know it herself yet."

He leaned his head on one hand. "But you're no better."

My hand closed convulsively around my fork. Anger bubbled up inside me. "You swore you'd stay out of our heads."

"I can't always completely suppress it.", Mattheo shrugged. "But you're into each other. In a weird beastly way." He shoved pumpkin paste into his mouth. "Why don't you make some cute little kittens then?"

I spat at him. "If you ever get lost in my head again, I'll make sure you can never grasp even a simple thought of yourself ever again." I stood up jerkily and left the Great Hall.

What was that even supposed to mean (Y/n) fancies me? We were... Friends? Damn we were friends. I liked her. Because we were friends. How by Merlin's fucking beard did that happen?

(Y/n)s POV

Theo was avoiding me. Had been all week. I didn't know if I'd done anything wrong, but he was avoiding me.

I was walking through the library to check out a potions book when I saw him between one of the back shelves. I stopped with a jolt. He had a girl pressed up against the shelf. He was literally devouring her. As quickly as possible, I turned around and left, but not without catching my bag on the shelf and catapulting a handful of books onto the floor.

They fluttered around until they were put back in their places.

I looked into the expressionless face of Theo and the grinning face of a blonde Ravenclaw girl.

"Sorry.", I babbled and disappeared as quickly as I could.

He could have just said he was seeing someone. Damn it, I really didn't insist that we see each other. After all, he had started the whole thing. I sat down defiantly in the courtyard. That we could become friends? But... Hadn't we become friends somewhere?

I sighed. Maybe I was just imagining it.

I was trotting through the corridors when I heard him.

"Hey.... Hey wait a minute! Damn it, stop!"

I sprinted on, but somehow Theo caught up with me. He quickly picked me up and hugged me to him. He held my front and back paws in one hand each so that I couldn't scratch him. I wriggled around wildly in his arms.

"No, you're coming with me now.", he scolded.

He carried me into the dungeon to his dormitory and threw me roughly onto his bed. He breathed in and out heavily from the effort of holding me down. I did the same. My ears were pinned back and I glared at him angrily.

"Everyone out!", he ordered without looking at anyone in the room.

They left the dormitory grumbling. I made a dash for the open door, but Theo immediately held me down. "Don't even think about it.", he hissed.

I hissed back. What the fuck was that about?

He didn't want to talk to me anymore.

The door closed. I sat petulantly on the bed.

"Now... Become a fucking human being! I want to talk!"

All of a sudden he wanted to talk. He ignored the fact that I even existed for two weeks and suddenly he wanted to talk.

I turned my back to him and flattened my ears.

"I'm sorry, okay?", he groaned, annoyed.

I didn't move.

He walked around the bed to look at me. He squatted down in front of me.

"I've been thinking," he said angrily. "Damn I'm not used to this friendship crap!"

I continued to sulk.

"Especially not with girls." He sat down on the floor. "It's unusual and scares me." A pout now appeared on his face too. "With girls, I usually only want sex and not... the rest." He got quieter and quieter.

I looked at him in surprise.

He buried his face in his hands. "Could I speak to a human now, please?"

I let myself change into my human form.

"What does that mean exactly?", I asked, looking down at him.

He looked stubbornly at the edge of the bed. "Probably that I want a relationship.", he said, as irritated as if he could hardly believe it himself.

"With me?", I asked, confused.

He looked at me as if I was dumb. "Of course with you! With who else?"

"No idea! Maybe Miss Ravenclaw." I threw my hands up in the air, annoyed.

"Are you jealous?"

"No.", I pouted.

"You're jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"She's jealous!", Mattheo shouted from the other side of the door.

I growled, annoyed. "How-"

"He can read minds... by nature."

"That damn-"

"Hey! Concentrate!" He pulled my face towards him. His hands were warm on my cheeks. "If you're jealous, it's probably because you don't find the idea so far-fetched."

"Maybe." I mumbled and looked into his blue eyes.

"Possibly.", he nodded. He pushed me onto the bed and himself on top of me. His lips met mine hard. Large hands slid over my body with determination. Overwhelmed, I reached into his hair and tried to keep up with him. It was no secret that he was experienced. You could guess that I wasn't. He let his mouth wander to my neck, held my jaw gently but firmly to get a better grip on my throat and licked over the main artery, which was pulsating fast and furiously. I closed my eyes in pleasure and a soft moan escaped me.

The door pushed open. "Dude I'm not waiting for you to finish here now." Draco Malfoy walked towards his desk. "I have to study.", he clarified. Theo rolled his eyes. I fought my way back to clear thoughts.

"About time.", Zabini said dryly and lay back down on his bed.

Theo reached for his wand and the curtains closed immediately. This was followed by a silencing spell.

He looked me straight in the eye. "I don't know how relationships work.", he admitted. "But I'm a quick learner."

I smirked. "I wouldn't know either." I closed my eyes in embarrassment. "I don't even know how..."

Theo's hand went back to my jaw. "I'll show you.", he sighed and lunged at my neck again.

I plucked grumpily at my collar. Theo grinned. I glared at him. He grinned wider.

Makeup with 100% coverage was all over my neck and the dark marks were still visible.

He had casually thrown an arm around me as we walked to Potions together. His mask once again completely the serene Theodore Nott that everyone knew.

His fingers ran over my neck.

"Don't do that," I grumbled.

"You liked it yesterday.", he grinned.

I poked him in the ribs.

"YES!" someone shouted in the corridor. "No Potions today!"

Draco, who was walking ahead of us, stuffed his notes into his pocket, annoyed. "If anyone's looking for me, I'm sleeping in until Monday.", he announced, shuffling down the corridor to the common room. The boy had been studying all night. The dark shadows lay heavy under his eyes.

"Early weekend.", Theo sighed, continuing to stroke circles over my neck.

Less than an hour later, we were sitting in the Slytherin common room. Theo was sitting in one of the wing chairs with his legs up, enjoying the warm fire. With his eyes closed, he stroked my fur lazily. I was curled up on his chest, my head in the crook of his neck, purring happily to myself.

Bonus Fluff

Draco and Zabini were once again arguing as only the two of them could. Theo was sitting on his bed and I was on his lap.

I curled up and let myself be stroked. My cat instincts were on fire today.

I smelled her on his fingers. This little one from Ravenclaw. They had played Quidditch against each other. Slytherin had won.

She had hugged him and grabbed his hand. Her scent was there. It wouldn't go away.

"What are you doing?", Theo asked suddenly. I licked his hand and couldn't stop. He belonged to me. He didn't have to smell like anyone else. "Hey, don't do that. That tickles." He tried to pull his hand away, but I nibbled on his finger. "Hey no teeth!" He pulled his hand away in a flash. I growled.

Behind me, Mattheo laughed. "Your little flea slinger is jealous. You reek of someone else."

I took advantage of the brief second Theo was inattentive and latched onto his arm. I immediately rubbed my head against his hand. "Are you marking me right now?", he asked incredulously.

I growled again. Yes, I was jealous. So what? I nibbled on his little finger again. He sighed and lifted me to his chest. A mistake. His neck smelled like her too. I immediately licked it. "Hey!" He tried to push me away, but I clawed at his shirt. "Claws! Claws!" he shouted frantically and grabbed my paws. I put my front paws around his neck.

"Okay.", he sighed. "Let off some steam."

I purred and rubbed my head along his chin.

#theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x y/n #slytherin boys #slytherin boys fanfiction #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott fic #fluff

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elmuchachondesigns · 1 year

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Losing Color

Summer was here, everything was so green, now winter is coming, and all changed to yellow and soon will change to brown

Purchasable Links:

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#ElMuchachon #color #autumn #fall #nature #trees #leaves #leaf #road #grayscale #yellow #losing #beauty #earth #environment #green #bushes #Tablet Case #Poster #Postcard #Design

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rustedhearts · 8 months

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dazed and confused (70s!childhood best friend!steve x fem!reader)

summary: steve's been your best friend all your life. but friends aren't supposed to think about friends the way you think about steve.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the only living boy in indiana ✶ main masterlist

tags: 70s!steve, childhood bestie!steve, fluff, pining! we're pining!, tid-bit of jealousy from us, this is short but sweet. not edited as usual.

recommended listening: you're lost, little girl —the doors; sweet leaf —black sabbath

buy me a ko-fi! ♡

somewhere in indiana. october, 1977.

The slow riff of The Doors’ You’re Lost, Little Girl trickled through the cinderblock basement. The Strange Days album spun on Steve’s turntable, the right door left open to reveal his cautiously-crafted selection. An array of colors and bands, all organized into what Steve considered his “most prized possession.” A music man above all else, you sort of admired how much he cared for the craft of careful listening.

You wriggled your fingers through the gaps of one of the Harrington Afghan blankets, where an orange stripe turned to brown. Steve hummed along to the start of the lyrics—a low, rumbling sound. You peeked over the edge of the sofa, ratty and old and shoved down here when Mrs. Harrington bought something sturdier at the start of the decade. You remembered the day she instructed Steve’s father to bring the old one down here; it was the first time you wandered into a room alone with Steve. Just the two of you, other neighborhood kids neglected on the lawn down the street.

He asked if you wanted to stay over and play a game, and Mrs. Harrington brought a bowl of pretzels to share while you hunched over Monopoly. Now, the basement was your place—yours and Steve’s. Four walls of cinderblock and concrete floor, softened with a shaggy brown rug once found in the living room, and posters purchased at the record stores and concert merchandise stands, and seasonal decorations Mrs. Harrington rotated every few months.

When it didn’t smell like the linen and laundry beating against the pea green dryer, the stench of Steve’s Winston cigarettes took over. It was always cold, and always home. You often found yourself here instead of at your own.

“You’re lost, little girl,” Steve cooed lyrically, cigarette withering and smoking between his two fingers.

He was lying on the hard ground, one palm pressed over his sweater-clad stomach and the other held open against the air where his cigarette waited. The maroon red of his shirt made his hair look dark and luscious, and the paleness of his Midwestern-cold-season skin warm again. If he opened his eyes, now pinched shut to marinate in the song like he so often did, you knew they’d be soft and puppy-like. He only ever looked at you with a smile.

So how was it that you never kissed?

You found yourself asking that a lot lately. When he picked you up for class at the community college with a thermos full of hot coffee on bitter cold days. When he slung his jacket around your shoulders when you shivered at football games. When he popped a kiss against your cheek out of pure excitement and whirled away like he hadn’t just burned your skin in the most delightful way.

And that tingling delight only appeared this year. When he started to fill out his brown leather jacket until it creaked. When his voice started growling through you like a firework. When his hands grew rough from work on the Pontiac in the driveway, inherited from his father for his eighteenth birthday. He spent the summer fixing it up, and that first scorching day you came up the driveway and saw him slicked with grease…you were done for.

Now, you only ever thought about kissing Steve.

“Penny for your thoughts, little girl?” Steve mused from the floor. His eyes were open now, head tipped to catch you staring.

You jerked away, blushing into your knees. “Sorry. Just zoning out.”

You continued your poking ministrations in the blanket before tossing Steve a bewildered look. “And don’t call me that.”

Steve chuckled around his cigarette, growing smaller by the minute between his lips, puffing smoke with every sharp ejection of amused breath. His socked feet scuffed against the floor as he pressed up, sauntering toward the rear of the couch in his brown corduroy pants.

“Jeez.” He yanked the cigarette from his mouth and slung one leg over the back of the couch beside you. “Who pissed in your Cheerios today?”

You shifted away from him when he settled on the top edge of the couch, huffing as you went. Crowded against the padded and pillowed arm, you frowned into your fist propped under your chin and glared at the poster of Led Zeppelin ahead of you.

You hated your own body for betraying you this way—for making you ache for your best friend. It was wrong. Everyone knew that dating a friend never ended well. You knew too much about each other, had seen too much of the bad for the food to feel unadulterated and sweet the way it did with someone you’d known for far less. But you’d known Steve nearly all your life. Introduced as two curious and adventurous six year olds, you saw each other through elementary, middle, high school, and now college. You’d comforted all the bad dates and heard the rundown of every parental fight. You knew about the rash he had from a new laundry detergent last winter, and you knew he liked to jerk off with his left hand even though he was a righty because it “feels like it’s not even his.”

You knew too much.

So why did he look so handsome sitting next to you like that?

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was soft now, murmured just under the stereo. “Are you—you’re not mad at me or something, are you?”

"No," you murmured, eyes turned down toward your lap.

Steve watched you a moment, elbows on his knees, waiting for more to utter from your mouth. It was so unlike you to grow quiet in his presence. Your mouth was always running, spilling some secret you promised to keep with "the exception of Steve," or retelling some story with adamant vibrancy. If you were ever quiet, it was only so you could bathe in the peacefulness of your alone time together.

You had never been quiet like this. Well...not since that time in high school when your boyfriend dumped you.

"Well, hey, did I show you the Masters of Reality I found at the record store? It's sick, I've never seen this version of the cover before."

Steve hopped off the couch, stubbing his cigarette out in an old mug on the end of the coffee table as he went. He disappeared up the stairs with a rushed be right back, and you listened to his footsteps thump above your head. When he was gone, you dropped your head into your hands and sighed.

✶ ✶

You parted ways for the day a few hours later, the span of uncomfortable time in which you sat shoulder-to-shoulder silently watching The Price Is Right. You couldn't think of a thing to say to him, and he didn't know how to take your quiet.

On the trudge home, you scolded yourself for having such romantic thoughts about him. For wondering what his lips would feel like on your own, and how his hands might feel beneath your clothes. It was wrong. And you were certain that if Steve knew how you were thinking these days, he'd be appalled. You'd lose your best friend forever.

There's no coming back from unrequited love.

You spent the night tossing and turning and glaring at your Donna Summer poster in the dark, wondering why your brain wouldn't just shut up about Steve. Steve's hair and Steve's eyes and Steve's ass in those Levis. You slumped from bed the next morning (thankfully a Sunday) with scratchy eyes and a head full of Steve.

So pardon your irritation when you dressed and dolled yourself pretty for the few short paces down the street to his house, only to find the rear of a long head of auburn hair looking up at Steve. You skirted to a stop at the end of the driveway, nose already turning cold from the nip of autumn air, new brown boots scuffing on the pavement. The gurgle of Steve's radio could be heard even from there, winding up an eight track. The Pontiac windows were rolled down to stream out the sounds.

And there Steve was, propped against the hood, grease-stained rag thrown over his puffy-sweatered shoulder, gazing down at this short little thing like some new kitten. He had his arms crossed the way he does when he wants to be handsome—and Christ did it work. But they were on her.

Over her shoulder, Steve caught the edge of your coat. He swiftly shifted gears, pushing off the car to wave a hand at you. You watched his mouth move in a murmur toward the girl, who rubbed her hand along his arm as she sidestepped toward a goodbye. You still lingered, hands tucked and balled tight in your fuzzy pockets, waiting for some sort of instruction.

Steve always had girls around, but suddenly, while watching this tiny little inkling of a girl sashay her way away from your best friend, you felt like screaming. You wanted the girls to stop coming around.

"Hey, c'mere," Steve called through the distance, and with a start, you realized the girl was fading down the street, and you were just standing there.

You shuffled your way over, inhaling deeply as you went. As the gap diminished and you approached, you caught a whiff of sharp autumn leaves, and the smoke of a Winston recently put out. Somewhere underneath, the amber musk of his cologne. You'd drool if you bothered to open your mouth.

"Hey." Steve grinned, hands rubbing around the greased cloth. His familiar, heather grey sweatshirt looked soft, hood a bit rumpled at the nape of his neck.

Once, you fell asleep on a three hour road trip, and woke up on the edge of Ohio with your head in his lap. He was playing with your hair, and when you blinked up fuzzily and furrowed your brows, he soothed you awake like some sort of child. You could still feel the warmth of that sweatshirt.

"Hey," you returned, a little too sharp. "Who was that?"

Steve's sneakers whooshed over the pavement, kicking up gravel and crunching fallen leaves as he headed toward the tool box. He was polishing up, checking fluids and odds and ends. Sometimes, you thought he just liked standing next to his hot ride.

Steve glanced toward the end of the drive where the mystery girl disappeared to a few moments ago. "Who?"

You rolled your eyes, huffing. "The girl, Hair."

Steve scoffed at your ill-intended nickname, heading toward the driver side door. He hung halfway in, reaching for the knob on the stereo.

"Somebody, nobody. I don't know yet."

You kicked at a rock near your foot, frowning. "What does that even mean?"

Steve continued to fiddle inside the car. "It means, she could be somebody. I'm seeing where it goes, takin' my time."

You pushed your head back toward the sky, head shaking. Steve took the moment to look at you through the windshield, memorizing the colors and shapes of your outfit. Camel brown coat, chocolate brown boots, black turtleneck, purple corduroy jeans. You had lipgloss on today, and the color made your eyes beam.

Steve pulled out of the car and headed back toward the tools before he could look any more. You tipped your head back into place just as he slid under the car, the soles of his sneakers bared to you. His socks didn't match. Something about that made you smile.

"Why are you so cranky anyway?" he called from under the hunk of blue metal. "Yesterday, today—you havin' your monthly—"

Kicking his foot hard with the toe of your boot, you glared down at the portioned part of Steve Harrington you could see. "Don't finish that sentence, Harrington."

Steve jolted. "Ow! Alright, alright, Jes-us."

You pulled away, pacing the patch of grey ground in front of the car. You tight-roped the crack for a while, watching your feet overtake the severed cement, glancing occasionally toward Steve when things clattered.

"How'd you meet her?" you found yourself calling out.

Steve paused a moment. You continued to pace. He sniffled and rolled up his sleeves, shifting under the car. "Uh...record store. She asked my opinion."

Oh, you inwardly groaned. She was a cool girl. Trying to swallow down your frustrations, you sniffled away a cold drip snot and hummed.

"What's she listen to, ABBA?"

Steve shook his head, chuckling. "Yeah, actually. But I can't be a music snob, honey, that's not how I roll. Chicks can play whatever they want when we're doin' it, I don't mind."

Scowling, you thought about going over and kicking him again for good measure. But the poor kid just didn't have a clue, did he? He was handsome, lived in a two-parent home, his father still had a job, and he had a job waiting for him when he was done fooling around. It wasn't his fault he had everything.

You just wanted him to have you, too.

"Hey, grab my smokes for me? On the front seat."

Tapping your foot, arms firmly crossed over your chest, you spent a moment boring a hole into Steve's foot. Another kick? No. Your mind wandered to that Tuesday evening, straight after school your senior year, when Nancy Wheeler dumped Steve behind the gym during fifth period, and Steve came running home and did everything he could to stop crying—but you held him in your arms and told him he could cry all he wanted.

Steve didn't think "chicks" could "play whatever they wanted when they were doin' it." Steve didn't think women were playthings. Steve wanted to be loved.

You could love him well.

Huffing, you stomped toward the car, coat sleeves swinging with every bound. You snatched the crumpled back of half-empty Winstons from the leather of the front seat and rounded the square-nosed hood of the Pontiac. When you came into view, Steve slid out from under the car and sat up.

"Thanks—whoa!"

But you threw the pack at his head, heard the small clatter of cardboard against skin as it pinged off his brow and into his lap. His brows creased as you spun sharply on your heel and crossed your arms again, heading for the end of the drive. Steve scrambled to catch up, tripping over his feet as he went.

"Wait, wait—stop!" Steve rushed you, snatching you by the elbow to pull you to a sharp stop.

When you turned—or he made you, rather—you looked anywhere but his pretty face. Glaring at the collar of his sweatshirt, doing all you could to hold your breath and bring down the simmer in your cheeks. Suddenly, you couldn't speak. Suddenly, all those feelings were coming to a boil, flowing over and spilling out.

But you couldn't put into words just what you were feeling. You couldn't find it in you to open your mouth and speak.

"What's goin' on?" Steve chuckled, but his tone lacked the humor. "What did I do, what's wrong?"

Balling your fingers into fists again, frozen numb and trembling with a hungry ache, you tossed your eyes his way. Steve could see the anguish on your face, pinched in the center sourly. But what was wrong? Steve couldn't put his finger on it.

Stomping your booted foot, you gave a soft, petulant whine into the brisk air. And before Steve could laugh or shake his head at your childish antics, ones he's seen plenty of before when you haven't gotten your way—you smashed your mouth on his.

Leaning up on your boots, creasing the leather toes, creaking with your weight; planting your hands on his firm, bulging arms growing bigger by the day; squeezing muscle mass with an eager grasp. You pressed your mouth right to his and breathed him in. The stereo in the Pontiac gave a whir and a click, and then the hoarse cough of Ozzie Osbourne cut through the quiet of the street. Sweet Leaf slipped from the car and fueled Steve with a fire like no other.

So, when you pulled back with a sharp smack of spit and swollen cheeks, Steve didn't let you get far. A step back and to the side, a slow and incomplete rotation toward the front of the house—until Steve snatched you by the belt loop just above your ass and tugged you back.

"Hey."

You crumpled into him, arms caged against his chest—and yes, the sweater was just as soft as you remembered. His hands slid through the groove of your waist and down the round globes of your ass, squeezing with firm pressure and eager palms. Big biceps pressing you into him by the shoulders: pulling you in, holding you close. He tasted like Coca Cola, glass bottle now rolling into the grass, blown away by the wind.

If he asked, you were searching for more of in his mouth, parched from the cold.

Against your mouth, you felt the lines of Steve's lips widen. When he pulled away, it was just far enough to still feel his breath against your chin, close enough to see the flecks of jade in his eyes.

And he was grinning a half-cocked, handsome grin.

"About damn time."

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katrotica · 11 months

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I'm only realizing just now that technically this could be a girlcrush poster. I'd planned on it being a katrotica poster partially bc Jia Lissa is a porn star, so it's on-theme, but also because the picture I'd originally chosen, from this same set, featured a different hand positioning. Jia was significantly more exposed. And I really liked the picture a lot, so was a bit blinded of the fact that tumblr gets very uncomfortable when girls spread their legs. I don’t. I find it very comfortable. But, when I saw that there was a “fig leaf” option (in this case the fig leaf is a pair of long lime green gloves) I thought I’d use that one instead. In the end, a smoking hot redhead wearing nothing but pride socks and weird gloves is still plenty naughty for Katrotica, so I’m leaving it here, nudity implied ;)

#jia lissa

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apalapucian · 24 days

Text

green light (2024 ver.)

an: old fic rewrite; the war is over, everybody lives AU. (well, not everybody everybody, but the potter family + sirius + remus + even peter* live.) entire fic under the cut. also on ao3 (better formatted there lol). * = you'll see.

—

1982

saying certain names out loud still hurts, so they don't.

they wake up early. a nervous hush settles in the whole house, the kind they thought has gone over the past year, but — well, it is october 31st. it's bound to return. not to haunt them, exactly. just remind them maybe. that they ought to stop a bit. commemorate. they owe it to their friends. they owe it to — frank and alice.

frank and alice. water beats down james's bare back and he leans a hand against the tiled wall before him, the other reaching up to massage his nape. he breathes deep slow breaths through his mouth, watches rivulets chase each other on the floor. thinks, what does it take to wash all the guilt away? frank and alice, frank and alice...

he steps out of the shower and stares his reflection down in the bathroom mirror. frank and alice.

yeah. still stings.

he holds lily's hand under the table throughout breakfast, and lily smiles — soft, fond, if a bit incredulous — at his one-handed attempt to eat.

it's still dark when they step out. they don't leave harry. they can't.

they apparate before old rusty gates, harry's tiny fists balling up and clutching james's shirt at the racket, but otherwise staying asleep in his father's arms. he looks so calm, their harry, so content in slumber. james strokes his hair and kisses the top of his head. he's sorry for everything else, he really is. but he's not sorry that harry's here, safe and close and breathing against his chest.

the graves look new. augusta, james guesses with a pang. lily stoops down to press a hand over alice's name, brushing away a stray leaf. they don't say anything. lily sniffs, and james puts his free arm around her.

the walk back out is better, lighter. lily's hand is no longer dawn-cold. harry stirs again, his usual wake-up time now, opening his eyes at the sound of the gates creaking close. for a moment it seems like he's going to cry, but the sun breaks over the horizon, and in awe he watches the light spill onto the dewy graveyard over james's shoulder.

—

1983

james is asleep, and lily rolls over to her other side to stare at the window. it's a wider window, and there's a different tree silhouetted against the dark, an unfamiliar picture framed in the night-dimmed white wood. the insects are quieter here, and the stars are... hmm. shier. although it might just be the weather, of course. the lone desk in the room is devoid of her potion books, of her research notes. no quidditch posters are tacked on the walls. no gryffindor things. the shelves, too. the list goes on and on, a disorderly parade of bullet points going too fast, so fast that even james's quiet breaths from behind her can't catch up and calm her down this time: the floors creak in different places. the staircase is longer, wider — not by much, still nothing to james's family house, but the difference is still stark. there is a patch of mildew in a corner of the kitchen ceiling. the cupboards are empty, two spare rooms are unfurnished, they need a new couch, maybe a coffee table, yellow roses in the garden...

she closes her eyes and sighs. for now, she reminds herself. mostly empty for now. and there's nothing wrong with that. there's nothing wrong with coming here, leaving godric's hollow. they needed this. she and james and harry. godric's hollow was home, but it was home during the war, and try as they all did to sweep away the remnants of battle from its corners, it stayed in the air and taunted them every time the house got too still, too quiet. echoes of terrible midnight news lingered, and the constant attacks of... of uncertainty, of terror still. god, the terror. of being shut up forever. of getting fucking murdered when they step out. of losing everything at any given second.

they needed this. this is right. it will be a better home.

a short, stuttering creak cuts through the silence, startling lily's thoughts. she turns, and harry is in the doorway. (they leave the door open so they can hear the house and harry, a habit they haven't shaken yet.) in the dim room, lit only by what little light spills in through the window, lily makes out her son's furrowed brows and the jutted-out bottom lip.

she raises a hand to beckon him in, but before she can speak, james says, "hey, mate," without any indication of having been sleeping at all.

she sits up to survey her husband in surprise, but his currently specs-less eyes are fixed, squinting, on harry, who shuffles into the room feet bare and glasses askew and hair a mirror of the same storm on his father's head. he stops at the foot of the bed and says in his tired little voice, "can i sleep here?"

"of course," says james, who's sat up now as well. "d'you want us to go to your room then?"

"daaadddd," groans harry, and james laughs, and he and lily scoot to the sides so harry can cuddle in between them. the pillows are righted and the sheets are pulled up to harry's chin. his glasses are laid beside james's on the bedside table.

"okay, i think i can sleep now," says harry, eyes already closed.

they all go silent then, james and lily just staring at each other in the dark over their son; wearing the same content, worried, happy, tired, everything almost-smile.

james reaches out for lily's hand, tracing circles against her knuckles with his thumb. harry shifts a little beneath, mumbles, "all right, mum? daddy?"

and their almost-smiles crack into full sigh-smiles of relief; an exhale of happiness they didn't know they were holding in.

"yeah, we are."

"sweet dreams, harry."

—

1984

she wakes up late and james is not beside her when she does. her heart skips a beat, but the panic doesn't last long anymore, and she feels more sure of her steps and the floor and their presence here than she ever was.

three years. three whole years, and it's really, really gone, isn't it?

there are yellow roses on the kitchen table. a cup of coffee charmed to keep warm for a time. a scrawled "morning! :) –james & harry" on a scrap of paper, the torn bottom of a receipt for... milk, she finds. and strawberries. harry was signed by harry himself, and lily wants to cry at the shaky strokes, the crooked lines. she can hear them in the other room where james's window seat project is almost finished. harry is laughing. he asks questions, mocks his dad's shabby handiwork, drops the things he's asked to hand.

roses and handwritten notes and coffee and giggles nearby. this is her life now. she skims the flowers, the sun itself in her heart.

—

1985

"d'you think moony's okay?" sirius asks, sat all thoughtful and cross-legged on the counter, and james wonders if he realizes that this isn't the first time he's asked him this. not even the second time.

"dunno," says james, feigning distractedness. good thing it doesn't take much at the moment. he looks at his reference sheet for recipe number three, taped on the wall, barely making out his own handwriting. cooking without magic is such a hassle. but he's in charge of it this year, and — because he's a proud dumbo, an arrogant toerag — he asked lily and harry to get out of the house while he cooks up the greatest dinner of their lives, so that none of lily's interventions or harry's endless bouts of 'taste-testing' ruin it. yeah, he thinks, because he's ruining it on his own just fine, thank you. "hey, will you pass me that jar — no, not that — yes. thanks..."

silence. james glances at sirius without moving his head, and is filled with exasperation at the look on his face. he asks, "look, why don't you just owl him?"

"he might still be mad at me," says sirius, and the immediacy of his response is proof, yet again, of how much he's been thinking about this.

not that james hasn't been. it's just — moony needs it. he needs to be away and sulking or whatever right now. but he'll be back. james is sure. till then there's nothing to do but wait.

which sirius sucks at, apparently. "d'you think i shouldn't have said anything?" he asks.

james stalls by ticking off two more instructions, probably getting the measurements wrong, but what the hell. "i don't know," he answers eventually.

sirius rolls his eyes. "loads of help, you are."

he gets a puff of flour in the face for that. james didn't need to look at him to aim. he smirks when he hears him cough and swear.

and then, later, while sprinkling salt (that's definitely way too much salt than just the required 'pinch'), james adds, quietly, "no, i don't think so."

"huh?"

"i think it's good that you — " james repeats, but he is distracted, because he looks up and notices how clean sirius looks. james is like, marinade-smeared and flour-dusted all over. "you know," he starts, "you're no better help than harry around here. at least he doesn't ask stressful questions while i work."

"first of all, you're not working," sirius retorts. "you're — i don't know, bullshitting this. second of all," this he says with a hand held up to silence james, who was about to talk back, "so it does stress you out. i knew it. you were trying to be all cool about it but i knew."

"oh, shut up. of course it stresses me out, padfoot, you always stress me out. you're an extremely stressful person. and this is even especially stressful. you're my best friends. but — like i said, i don't think it."

"don't think what?"

"that you shouldn't have said anything. i think it's good that you told him. otherwise it would have been this big wedge between you two, and no one would like that. not me, not lily, not you two."

sirius frowns. "so you like that he's not talking to us?"

"he talks to me," james points out, "and lily."

sirius arches a brow at him.

"fine, i don't like that you two aren't talking. but you obviously still feel guilty. you're always so... polite. so careful around him. you don't think we don't notice? and that wouldn't change unless he forgives you, which would never happen if he didn't know you had an offense to begin with."

"yeah, well. now he knows, and he hates us."

"just you, mate."

"thank you, prongs."

james drops what he's doing. "of course he'd react this way! you did tell him you didn't trust him. that you thought — "

" — i thought he was the spy, yeah. but that was before, you know that. you know it, don't you?"

"i do know it, padfoot."

"now i know — for sure — that i can trust him with my..."

"your life?" james prompts, when sirius leaves the sentence hanging.

"well, no. i don't know. my motorcycle, maybe."

"same thing."

" — true."

they stare at each other; sirius drags his gaze away first to pull his god this is so stupid face. "why did i have to fucking tell him? it's long over. we're all okay now. i should just have kept it to myself. forever. god."

"stop beating yourself up. you — hm. you get a point for honesty from me."

"it wasn't even honesty. it wasn't like anyone asked."

"well, you were drunk. we all were a bit."

"i screwed up."

" — yes, you did."

sirius looks scandalized. "wow. you didn't even hesitate."

"i've already made two excuses for you and i'm this close to dumping this casserole over your head," says james. "let's give him a week, okay? no — three more days. if he still doesn't talk to you then, i'll talk to him. but let him stew for now, yeah?"

sirius sighs. he doesn't say yes or nod or anything, but james can tell when he concedes. they leave the topic at that, and sirius begins his three-day wait by finally jumping off the counter to help. he briefly surveys james's dish (or what atrocity has become of it), narrows his eyes at the godawful handwriting, and then thumps james on the head. "you forgot number four, master chef," he points out, jabbing a finger on his cheat sheet.

"oh goddamn it..."

—

1986

harry goes missing. sirius picks remus up from hogsmeade and they drive to the potters' on his motorcycle, sirius barging in before remus can knock.

"how long does it take you two to change?" sirius scolds james and lily, while they all rummage around harry's usual hiding places, finding nothing. "you got fucking distracted, didn't you? i swear to god — "

"he wishes," snaps lily. "he was being an idiot."

"oh i'm being an idiot — " begins james, but remus and sirius cut him off.

"you were arguing?"

they (that is to say remus) find harry in the cramped cupboard under the stairs. he fell asleep. with james's invisibility cloak, which he procured without the knowledge or permission of his parents, as it turns out, and honestly sirius doesn't know whether to be admonitory or proud about that, and is only glad that it's not his business to be either.

"i was only going to scare you," harry says, looking properly guilty. "but you took so long to come down! i fell asleep."

"you succeeded, mate," says remus. "we were all very scared."

"never ever disappear on us like that again," lily tells off harry, but she's hugging him so fiercely, and james is still raking his fingers through his hair, wild-eyed, but is now also looking at his wife and son like he's forgotten whatever petty fight held them up upstairs. as he should, really.

james kisses her long and hard on the doorstep before she leaves to meet some important guy for work or some other. remus, who's leaving with her as he's supposed to go back to hogwarts now that the problem's solved, rolls his eyes while he waits for the gross affair to finish. sirius is staying in the house with james. he fakes retching gestures at the conitnued kissing, making harry giggle.

later, in the living room, sirius and harry swap chocolate frog cards. james is in the kitchen, doing the dishes. in the late afternoon lull, harry softly confides to sirius that while waiting in his nook earlier, before he fell asleep, he thought his parents might never bother to try and find him anymore.

"nah, they'll always find you. did you see them? they were all — " he makes exaggerated expressions of anguish. harry laughs again.

"but i was 'sleep then. what if i wasn't? what if i'm just lost?"

"they'd still find you."

"even if i have the cloak?"

"why are you lost and wearing the cloak?"

"um. i dunno."

sirius nods solemnly. "even if you have the cloak."

"even if it was under aunt petunia's stairs?"

sirius laughs. "even if you were under my mum's stairs."

harry grimaces at that. and then, "uncle moony found me though," says harry.

"does it matter?" says sirius, rumpling harry's hair. then he gently rights his glasses. "he just beat your dad to it. and me. and your mum. but one of us is always, always going to find you... oh, look — " he fishes a card from his deck, trapping it between index and middle finger and then flicking it neatly towards harry's pile. "it's your granddad!"

the longer harry stares at it, the deeper the lines between his eyebrows get. "why is... um, my hair's not gonna be like that when i grow up, is it?"

—

1987

lily shifts in her seat so she can look miss cole square in the eye. beside her, james squeezes her hand, but she doesn't know if he's just being twitchy. "i just don't see how anyone can turn someone else's hair entirely blue," explains lily, "without the other's... ah, full participation."

"and eyebrows," james reminds her, nudging her side.

lily nods. "and eyebrows, yes. thank you, james."

"you're welcome, lily."

miss cole looks positively pained from behind her desk, with her lips pursed mcgonagall-thin and her beady eyes sinking beneath her frown-lines. she inspects james and lily and harry, the last standing beside his seated father and is still glaring in contempt at the other boy in the room. kevin. big burly kid who could so easily have been dudley's twin brother, if not for his hair (and eyebrows) being the most vivid shade of lapis lazuli at the moment. his parents (filthy rich from what they've heard) are not around; he's accompanied instead by a furious, flustered, really bewildered nanny named (nicknamed?) baby.

"kevin says he did it," says baby, pointing a wrinkly-knuckled finger at harry. she speaks in this loud spitting hiss that's her attempt at 'keeping quiet' after getting told off so many times for being so loud. "kevin would never do this to himself — "

"oh, why not? it looks amazing on him," says james, straight face and amazement and concern and all. harry's glare breaks, but he has the sense to bite down on his lip to keep his laugh in.

harry doesn't get in too much trouble for it, thank god, mostly for lack of evidence. lily had a point, and miss cole is driven to just conclude that the boys must have just agreed to mess around and color kevin's hair, and kevin initially agreed, except now he looks (even more) ridiculous and he's not happy about it. (what happened, really, if anyone wants to know, was that between morning break and maths kevin wanted to give harry a free haircut, because he thought his classmate 'four-eyes' looked stupid with his 'mop-head'. he stole harry's glasses, cornered him, held him by the collar and loomed triumphantly over him with a pair of scissors — then harry grappled blindly at his head and his hair was just — suddenly. all. blue.)

harry and kevin mutter their respective apologies, as asked of them by miss cole, and harry glances warily at his parents when the counselor asks them to shake hands. lily nods; james smiles at him, puts a hand around his shoulders and urges him forward. harry swallows at the glint in kevin's eye when he takes his small hand in his hammy fingers, ready to retaliate — but then james cocks his head to one side and — lily couldn't entirely see, standing behind, but she's pretty sure james just gave kevin the look. not the glare, he reserves that for equal grounds. it's the look; that calm, icy, smug, unhinged james potter look that knows it can't lose and dares you to try. it has made fully grown adversaries waver in the past, so lily can only imagine how downright terrifying that could be to a seven-year-old.

kevin drops harry's hand in barely two seconds. he's out of the office in five.

james glances back at lily to smirk. she smirks right back.

—

1988

the parlor is crowded, but they find an available table for two in the patio, under the shade of a giant green umbrella. halfway through his ice cream (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts), harry adjusts his glasses and opens his mouth to say something, but his uncle moony beats him to it: "the answer is no, harry."

"i wasn't gonna ask again!"

"alright. what is it then?"

"i was only going to say... that i promise not to tell anyone. i promise. not even daddy. or mum!"

remus laughs. "d'you think they don't know?"

harry's eyes widen, and he actually drops his spoon in disapproval. "they know what your boggart is? why won't you tell me?"

"because i don't want to lie to you. you're a grown up now, as you're so constantly reminding us — and we're friends! but i also don't want to tell you what it is yet."

"but — "

"come on now, harry."

"but now you're missing the list."

"i'm truly sorry about that."

harry pouts, digs in again, and then, "okay, what about your patronus?"

remus considers this for a moment. "wolf," he says quietly.

"cool."

remus beams at him. "yeah, cooler than your dad's. and padfoot's."

"oh. hm. well, i don't know about that," he quips honestly. "i do like that dad's is a stag... hey, uncle moony?"

"yeah?"

"what about uncle padfoot? does he know? i won't tell him, if you're worried about that."

remus chuckles, leaning over to wipe chocolate off harry's nose. "i'm sorry, he knows. look, how about i take you to hogwarts next sunday? i'll take you to the kitchens. that'll make up for being the lame uncle, won't it?"

harry lightens up. "really?"

"yes."

"yes! yes, please. thank you."

"alright then."

"can we go on saturday?"

"ah, no. the joke shop's opening on saturday."

"oh, yeah..."

ice cream is finished and the walk home is a quiet, autumn-colored calm. when the crowd thins on a particular stretch of the road, harry nudges remus's side. "hey, uncle moony."

"i really hope you're not going to ask me again."

"i wasn't."

"go on, then."

harry grins up at him. "i don't think you're lame at all."

—

1989

"you're kidding," says james, reverent and awestruck, and lily knows she's made the right decision.

"we're not," she replies in sing-song.

"but this is... this is the latest comet." he runs his hand along the smooth length of the new racing broom, mouth still open in amazement. "how — "

"we all pitched in. sirius and remus and — "

"and me!" says harry, jumping in and hugging what he can reach of james. he's been bursting since the idea came forth, and it's a miracle, really, that he managed to keep the secret in until now. "i pitched in! i broke mr. jupiter!"

"you broke mr. jupiter?" says james, torn away from the moment at once. "but mr. jupiter was for your broom! and you love mr. jupiter! you loved his smooth pink butt!"

harry giggles. "mum bought me another one. it's a tardis piggy bank! it's bigger on the inside. and uncle moony said hogwarts has brooms there i can practice with, dad, and uncle padfoot said he'd buy me a broomstick himself once i'm a really, really good flier. and, dad, they said — you're going to play in the world cup."

"oh. i — who said?"

"all of us," says lily, smirking.

"that's... the world cup. huh."

"yeah!" says harry, almost yelling now, practically bouncing in excitement. "you're going to play for puddlemere united, aren't you? i mean, the wasps are fine too, and i suppose the magpies would be excellent as well, but — "

"easy, harry," says lily. her grin is ear-splitting.

james holds up a hand. "alright, back up one second — but, lily, your work — "

"they've given me permission to work on the potions research at home. i can use the spare room upstairs — don't worry, harry and i have it all sorted out. right, harry?"

"yeah, we have." harry holds up his palm for a high-five, lily gives it to him, and james grins at them fondly.

"there's also that prophet column still going," continues lily, "and the boys already said tom can handle the joke shop just fine on his own now. i just thought... you haven't forgotten, have you? i know you always tell me it's okay, but i see you when you play with harry, and... it's always been your dream. you can now, james. go for it."

james exhales a shuddering sigh of disbelief, overwhelmed. and then, shaking his head at... them, at the feeling of being with them here, now, god — he drops the broom and takes his wife's face into his hands. her lips taste like flying, like winning, like lily evans under the beech tree by the lake that very first time, and so, so, so much more —

"good thing uncle padfoot's not here," remarks harry, righting the broom up from the floor and watching his parents in equal euphoria. "you guys are disgusting."

—

1990

kingsley shacklebolt is minister for magic, and james doesn't have to (re)practice his patronus charms, because it's a tall, bushy-eyebrowed auror who leads him down the poorly lit corridor and not a swarm of hooded barbarities who want to suck out his soul. the auror leaves him by a cell almost to the end of the hallway, and there's nothing at first, just varying shades of darkness everywhere james turns, the echoing beats of water dripping, the muffled rage of waves around the island. he thinks he can hear laughter from somewhere close; a cold, high-pitched female giggling, and he considers just walking out because — christ. this place is mad. but then there's movement from the corner, behind the bars, and then he's in front of him, and james... doesn't know. feels a lot of things. wants to punch him, most of all.

"prongs," says wormtail. no — peter. peter pettigrew. his voice is a scratchy whisper, his face sunken and his hair a long wispy dead mess. he's thinner than james has ever seen him.

"shut up," says james, voice low. he feels the urge to back away one step, not expecting peter to cling on to the bars and hungrily squeeze his face through them to see him.

"prongs." he says it so reverently, like a god's name. "i'm — what are you — " he's surveying james up and down, drinking in anything he can from beyond azkaban. "prongs, fuck, i'm so happy you're here — "

"i said shut up. i didn't come here for you."

peter looks surprised, then hurt, then his grip on the metal loosens as a maniacal grin starts to spread on his lips. "clearly, you did. you can't help it. dear god, i can't believe i almost gave up."

james blinks at him in incredulity. "what?"

"i am sorry, prongs. i am. and i knew you'd know that, i knew you'd come back for me, but it's been so long — "

james starts to laugh. "are you insane?"

peter shuts up.

james looks at him, really looks at him, and the anger threatens to bubble up the surface again. but he holds himself down, keeps his clenched fists on his sides. he takes a deep breath, licks his lips, and then: "we're happy."

"i'm — sorry?"

there. that's why he's here. not to lash out, but to... to drop the last of what's still been weighing him down. and now that he's said that, we're happy — he didn't know it's what he was supposed to say, didn't plan it. it just sort of came out. but now he does feel like he just rid himself of the last of it. the last bad thing.

his hand slackens. he thinks of his first world league match next month, of sirius and regulus talking again, of remus getting promoted in hogwarts. lily and harry brewing potions in the spare room. idle evenings eating ice cream at the town plaza fountain. the joke shop's first anniversary. that time they danced to the weird sisters' new song in the rain... "we're happy," he repeats. "me and lily and harry. sirius. remus. everyone left is happy, pete. everyone alive."

peter opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

"and i don't know if i've forgiven you. maybe i have, or maybe... i don't know, maybe i just stopped going back. i certainly haven't forgotten, but trust me, i will. soon enough no one will even remember you anymore."

"i'm..." but there's nothing peter can say now. maybe he really is sorry, and maybe it'll never be enough, but james doesn't care. and he knows that peter knows this, sees it on his face, because his former friend cuts his sentence short. "james..." not a god anymore.

"i'm done with you," says james, knowing it in his heart to be true. "goodbye, wormtail. from all of us."

and he's sure then that he really isn't angry anymore, that he's okay, truly and finally, because the name no longer hurts so much as it did years ago.

the same way, he thinks as he walks down the halls of the most desolate place on earth, feeling so strange to be so... so full of light, in a place like this — the same way frank and alice (and marlene and dorcas and benjy and gideon and fabian and all the others) haven't stung in a long while.

fin

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆˙⟡٠⭑.

bookmark/kudos/leave purple hearts on ao3? :) thanks for reading!

#jily #jily*#jily lives au #everybody lives au #jily au #jple #jily fanfiction #jily fanfic #jily fic #wolfstar as cute uncles because. pls #domestic fluff #HAPPY ENDING!!!!!!!#apalapucian*

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arliedraws · 4 months

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GGSB: Day 2 - Old Photographs

Whew, in the nick of (CST) time , I whipped out this bad boy for the January 2 - Old Photographs prompt.

Summary: When Harry leafs through his photo album, Hermione points out the handsome best man at his parents’ wedding and suggests he investigate this mysterious person. Reluctantly, Harry decides to write only after desperation to survive the summer on Privet Drive compels him.

@goodgodfathersiriusblack

AO3 Link

Old Photographs and a Soggy Letter

Harry paged idly through the old photographs as the countryside sped by in a blur of greens and yellows. They were all familiar to him now as though he’d seen them his whole life. Since Hagrid had given him the book of photographs he’d collected from the Potters’ old friends, Harry had spent hours behind the curtains of his four poster gazing at his parents’ faces by the light of his wand. In truth, he was disappointed when Professor Dumbledore told him he would never see the Mirror of Erised again, stricken with the understanding that it meant he would never see his family again either. Hagrid’s gift meant more than Harry could put into words.

“Who’s that?” said Hermione.

“Er—what?”

She leaned, her arm brushing his as she pointed at the photograph. “That man there with your parents. Who is that?”

“Oh,” Harry said, the train compartment rushing back to him as he focused back on the book. There were his parents, of course, but it was their wedding day, and beside them was another person—a young, dark-haired man. Harry had seen this photograph before, but he figured the man was just another person who belonged to a past that Harry could only dream about.

“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging.

“It looks like he must have been your dad’s best man,” Hermione remarked.

“Can I see?” said Ron. Harry turned the book to show him, and Ron raised his brows. “Good looking bloke, isn’t he?”

Hermione was still peering at the black-haired man with keen interest. “What does it say on the back of the photograph?”

“Huh?”

“Well, there might be something written there, don’t you think? Mum writes on the back of our photographs at home so we won’t forget why we took the photo or who was in it. You never looked?”

Before Harry could stop her, Hermione wedged a nail beneath the photo and popped it from the black corners that kept it in place. A spark of anger flickered in his chest that evaporated as soon as he saw she was right. Someone had scribbled on the back. Harry’s jaw dropped. It never occurred to him to look at the backside of the photos.

“James Potter and Lily Evans, getting married, 1980,” Hermione read to them. “Best Man, Sirius Black. Ooh, Harry, have you heard of this person before?”

Harry shook his head, though she seemed to expect that.

“Hang on,” said Ron, frowning. “Sirius Black. That sounds familiar. I think he might be famous.”

“Famous? Really?” said Hermione. She turned the photograph over. “Does that mean he’s still alive?”

Ron shrugged and fed his rat Scabbers a bit of fudge that Harry bought from the trolley for them to share. Harry took the photograph back from Hermione and gently wedged it back into place. What was Hermione getting at? All the people in the photographs were sure to be dead, otherwise, wouldn’t he have heard from them before now?

Hermione sat back against the seat, her knee bobbing as she stared, eyes unfocused, at the luggage rack overhead. Harry was used to that look now. It meant she was puzzling something together, figuring out something neither he or Ron would have considered twice. Harry closed the book and tucked it back in his bag, hoping she wouldn’t bring it up again. It made him queasy to think that there might someone out there as close to his parents as that man had been who had left him with the Dursleys his whole life.

“What if he doesn’t know what happened to your parents, Harry?” said Hermione suddenly.

“What?”

“Hermione, come on,” Ron said, shaking his head. “It’s just a photograph.”

“But—but what if this man has no idea that Harry’s been living with, well, you know…the Dursleys? What if he’s been abroad or something?”

“For ten years?” Ron threw back.

“Well, I don’t know!” said Hermione. “But I hate to think about Harry going back there with those horrible people, don’t you, Ron? What if there was someone else?”

“Yeah, but maybe there’s a reason he hasn’t reached out,” Ron said. “Think about it, Hermione. Ten years and the best man from their wedding has no idea they’re dead?”

“It doesn’t hurt to try!”

“Try what?” Harry asked, wishing they would drop the conversation. “How am I suppose to find him even if he is alive?”

Hermione persisted. “You could write him.”

“How can I if I don’t know where he is?”

“Hedwig could find him,” she said. “It might not be easy for her, but I’ve heard owls can deliver letters even if there’s no address. Of course, you don’t have to, Harry. I just think…if you were curious.”

Harry wasn’t sure.

Finally, Hermione let the subject go, and eventually their conversation led back to the Stone, Nicholas Flamel, Voldemort, and eventually their plans for the summer holiday. Eventually, the train pulled into London just as Harry dreaded, slowing as it reached the platform of 9¾, chugging towards a summer that seemed longer than any stretch of time he had ever faced.

Upon arriving at King’s Cross, they parted ways and Harry followed Uncle Vernon to the car, dragging his trunk behind him as the other students embraced their parents and gushed their greetings and relief to be going home. Harry only felt his stomach sinking lower as Uncle Vernon shoved the trunk in the boot of the car and then barked at Harry to get inside.

His arrival back at Privet Drive was met with indifference. Aunt Petunia hardly looked at him, and Dudley, who had arrived two days earlier, was too busy playing Nintendo to notice his cousin had come home too. The only relief was that Harry had a room into which he could disappear instead of ducking into the cupboard under the stairs like he’d done his entire life. As he made to drag his trunk up the stairs to Dudley’s second bedroom, Uncle Vernon snatched him by the back of his shirt.

“Oh, no you don’t!” said Uncle Vernon. “All of that nonsense—” he gestured wildly to the trunk “—goes back in the cupboard!”

“Why?” demanded Harry, feeling sick. The trunk contained everything Harry owned—or rather, everything Harry cared about including his wand, his father’s Invisibility Cloak, his uniform, and the photo album.

“I won’t have any of that stuff around here! It’s one thing we let you go to that ruddy school, but I won’t risk you burning down the house.”

“But I’m not—” Harry almost let it slip that he wasn’t allowed to do magic during the holidays. This, however true, was nothing the Dursleys needed to know. “Can I get out a few of my things, then?”

“No!” barked Uncle Vernon as Harry made to unfasten his trunk

So Harry watched miserably as Uncle Vernon yanked the handle from his grasp, hauled the trunk to the cupboard, and hurled it inside with a slam. Any hope of sneaking downstairs after everyone was asleep vanished as Uncle Vernon shoved a key in the lock and turned it with a definitively click. Harry knew he’d be lucky if Uncle Vernon didn’t throw the key in the bin.

Hedwig ruffled her feathers at the bang, and Uncle Vernon swiveled.

“You’ll keep that bird in that cage, too!”

“I can’t do that—she’s got to stretch her wings and hunt.”

“I won’t have you sending letters to those—friends of yours!” Uncle Vernon pointed a meaty finger at Harry threateningly and said, “Stay there. I’ve got to find a lock for that cage.”

Uncle Vernon trudged into the kitchen, and Harry felt heated anger course through his body.

Maybe it was the indignity of coming home to Privet Drive, maybe it was facing Voldemort, maybe it was the idea that there really was someone out there who would rescue him if they knew Harry’s parents were dead—he didn’t know exactly what emboldened him to do it, but Harry didn’t hesitate. He unlatched the golden cage, urged Hedwig into the corridor, and scrambled for the door. As he wrenched it open, Hedwig must have understood because she soared through the threshold, out into the hazy afternoon.

“ARGH—NO!” roared Uncle Vernon, emerging from the kitchen again, a padlock in his hand.

In the end, Harry paid dearly for his momentary lapse in judgment.

He spent the next two days locked in his bedroom, let out only twice a day to use the toilet and eat with the rest of the Dursleys. While he realized it could have been worse—though he wasn’t exactly sure how—he was glad that Hedwig was free. At least she had the sense to keep him company by flying in through his window past midnight, long after the Dursleys had gone to sleep so he could pet her feathers while he wished he were anywhere else. He would’ve even faced Voldemort again if it meant getting out of Little Whinging and his tiny bedroom.

On the third day of captivity, Harry was so bored, he thought he would go mad. All of the broken toys left in the room either were too damaged to use or intended for children much younger than a boy of almost twelve. Eventually, bored of watching a spider weave a web in the corner of the windowsill, he decided to sift through the mountain of old toys for something to do. Eventually, after a few minutes of digging, he found a backpack full of Dudley’s things from primary school filled with unused notebooks and dulled pencils. His heart leapt.

The first letter he wrote was to Ron, begging him to come get him. Harry threw that one away, however, fearing it might sound too desperate. He rewrote it, careful to indicate that he was fine, but he was ready to leave. The second, he wrote to Hermione, parroting most of what he wrote to Ron, only he promised to meet her at the Weasleys when they came to get him.

It wasn’t until the Dursleys forgot to feed him on that third evening that Harry wrote the last letter. Stomach growling from hunger, a feeling he hadn’t missed at school, Harry sat down hard at the desk and wrote quickly.

Harry paused, his pencil growing almost too dull to use. What did he want to say? He didn’t want to accuse this person of ignoring him since his parents died, yet he needed this Sirius Black to understand that Harry needed help.

Before he could think twice, he sent off all three letters. As he watched Hedwig’s wings glow in the moonlight as she flew over the tops of houses, he felt strangely elated—relieved, even. He wasn’t entirely sure why because his stomach ached and he felt faint, but as he crawled into bed and struggled to sleep, he imagined what the reply would be. Maybe he didn’t have much more time to waste in Number Four. Maybe Sirius Black would come to get him.

—

The dog’s ear twitched.

Pale eyes blinked open and flickered to the bars of the cell. The sound echoed between the stone walls. The dog lifted its head, turning towards the window in the outer wall. He’d heard something like—but he couldn’t believe it—how could an owl make it all the way out to the middle of the sea?

Sirius transformed and approached the window, curiosity chasing away the shame of the possibility that he was losing his mind. His mind came and went anyway, that was nothing new. Voices echoed down the hall from other prisoners, and they also echoed between his ears—whispers and taunts from those he once loved, spurred on by the dementors who stood outside his cell. But to hear an owl was new, and for someone who had very little to do in his cell, it was worth it to look.

Sirius stepped on the thin mattress of his coat to peer over the edge of the window. Between the bars, a snowy owl flapped furiously in the the wind, her eyes squinting against the splatter of rain. Sirius jabbed an arm through the bars to let her grasp on with her talons, sticking them deep into his flesh.

She was just small enough to fit through the bars as he pulled her inside. Immediately, she released him, flew to the end of the cot, and then dropped a bit of very wet paper onto the blanket. At first, Sirius simply stared, and yellowish eyes stared right back. Then, when he failed to move, she impatiently took up the sopping sheet of paper, unfurled her wings again, and dropped her burden closer to him.

“You can’t be…this can’t be real,” croaked Sirius.

The owl shook out her wings and shot him a withering look as if to say she were annoyed he wasn’t more grateful. Sirius reached for the soggy bit of paper. His eyes darted quickly over the paper. Part of it was ripped from its wet voyage, but thankfully, it wasn’t written in ink.

Dear Mr. Black,

My name is Harry Potter.

Sirius sat down hard, his heart hammering. Harry. Harry. It was a name he wasn’t allowed to think about. A name that brought him joy—a name the Dementors sucked from him when it jumped into his thoughts. He could always hear a baby crying, however. He could always imagine the small face, red and crumpled, and that blood red gash down his forehead. But that name—

Trembling, Sirius’s read, trailing his eyes down the page.

My parents were James and Lily Potter. I know it’s been a long time since their wedding, and you might not even know they had a son, but I am sorry to say that they passed away about eleven years ago. You might already know that. I think you must have been close with them because I saw you in a photograph at their wedding, and it said that you were their best man. Well, I am just writing because I live with my Aunt and Uncle and I was wondering if I could meet you sometime. I’m okay, but it’s not been very pleasant around here. My Aunt and Uncle won’t let me out of my bedroom right now, so you’d have to come and see me instead of me coming to you. Maybe you live abroad or something, so I understand if you can’t come.

Sorry if you didn’t know my parents died and this is how you found out. You can return a letter with Hedwig. She’ll wait for your reply.

From, Harry Potter

Sirius looked up at the owl. Harry’s owl. Hedwig. Names and faces were returning to him. Harry—James—Lily— Names that meant something, names that brought him comfort and love and—

Gone, all gone, your fault—

A dementor was moving outside his cell, drifting close to the bars as if it could taste the spark of a good memory, souring it and turning it into something grotesque. Sirius clenched the letter in anger and barked at the dementor to go away. But dementors could not hear—they could only feel.

Sirius waited until the dementor faded into the darkness of the corridor again, and glanced down at his hands to see that he hand crushed the letter into a pulpy sludge.

“No…no, no, no, no…”

Gone—as soon as those words had come to him—Harry’s writing—it was gone. Sirius dropped his head into his hands.

What were you going to do with it anyway? a voice sneered between his ears. Read it every day, sleep with it? Completely pathetic—desperate—

There was a strange howling sound ricocheting between the stone walls, and Sirius glanced at his cell. The haunting sound stopped suddenly. Had that been him?

The owl on his cot inched warily closer, her yellow eyes never leaving his as she approached. Reaching out a shaking hand, he stroked her feathered head. He had not touched another living thing in eleven years. There were no rats or mice in Azkaban—no birds, no spiders. Only stone walls. Only dementors. The warmth of the owl nearly made him weep. You are weak, soft, pathetic…

How long he stroked the feathers of Harry’s owl, he couldn’t count the time. He had no concept of minutes or hours anymore—only the years and seconds that inched closer to death and his release. Hedwig—for that what Harry called her in the letter—shifted finally, and Sirius broke from his trance.

“Please,” he told her, “please, don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Hedwig nuzzled his hand one last time and before he could stop her, she leapt from the cot and, wings spread as she hopped to the window, wedged herself through the bars and into the unnatural mist. Sirius didn’t bother standing up to watch her fly away.

—

Days and nights faded into each other like they always did, sometimes bringing rain and other times only the roll of sea air through his cell. Sirius could pretend it had been a hallucination, that Hedwig had never come at all. Perhaps Harry didn’t even own an owl—perhaps Sirius had made it all up with the help of the dementors.

Yet Sirius found the remnants of the letter on his cell floor, and he spent a day trying to piece together the bits he hadn’t crushed. He found words like ‘Aunt’ and ‘live’ and ‘James’ but the rest had been thoroughly destroyed. Misery cocooned him, and he even forgot he was an Animagus for a few days. Had it really been Harry who wrote to him? Or had someone decided to torment him?

Sleep evaded him, and several days after his encounter with Hedwig, he lay staring at the window. If only he’d been a bird Animagus—he could have slipped through the bars and soared out over the sea, back to land, back to Harry—

A shadow crossed over the window.

“Hedwig!” cried Sirius, jerking upright.

The owl hooted and pried through the bars. Something dropped from her talons onto the cot, and Sirius, without thinking dived for it.

But it wasn’t another letter. Hedwig had dropped a pad of paper and cracked ballpoint pen in front of him. She stepped back looking rather pleased with herself.

“What’s this?” he said.

Sirius opened the pad of paper that was no larger than his palm. There was a shopping list on one page, a tally of appointments on the next, and a few telephone numbers next to very Muggle sounding names.

“Am I to write a letter?” said Sirius, shoving down a traitorous, swelling delight. The last half of the notepad was empty. Blank. His heart leapt as he glanced at the cell door. He didn’t have time to waste; they would notice his mood changing soon. He wrenched off the cap of the pen and wrote quickly, ignoring how foreign it felt to hold a pen, to put words onto paper—

“Here!” said Sirius, flipping the pad closed when he’d finished. He shoved it at her. “Take it—give this to him!”

Hedwig obeyed, taking the pad in her beak and fluttering out through the window once more.

For the first time in years, Sirius allowed himself to feel it. Hope. Joy. Delight. It would be gone soon, stolen by the dementors in a minute or two, but as he watched Hedwig disappear into the mist, clutching the notepad filled with desperate words of love and longing. Maybe the notepad would never reach Harry. Maybe Hedwig would drop it into the sea, and Harry would never know there was someone out there who missed him, loved him, wept for him.

But Sirius pretended for a few seconds that Harry would know him, read his words, and maybe even love him in return.

#good godfather sirius black #good godfather sirius black fest 2024 #sirius and harry #sirius black #harry potter #excuse egregious errors - i was in a hurry

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lizzisimss · 10 months

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Pink & Green Apartment CC List:

CC used (list below) Pinecrest Apartments #404 in Evergreen Harbor 1 bed, 1 bath $76,027

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harpywritesfic · 2 months

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I want this poster in my dorm. Let’s get to work.

(Lots of images and a bit of a long post below the cut)

First order of business is to get a straightened image of only the poster. Aspect ratio seems to be 3:4. I don’t think I can just print this with the prominent green overlay- it’d look out of place. And ink is expensive.

I’ve made a recreation of the poster, with the cropped image as my guide. It’s made to print on white paper with standard red and black ink. The poster will be aged/stained/distressed whatever you want to call it after printing. Here's mine with the original on top, and the clean version alone. Couldn't get the letter spacing perfect, but it’s not bad, and it only took four saves to get a file I was happy with. Sent it off to the print shop!

In the meantime, it's time for a test run of tea-staining. I decimated the tea bag and rubbed the grounds into the paper to get the mottled effect on the top two pages. The bottom paper was done with green tea and as you can see it's barely evident.

We are gathered here today in honor of the chai* we lost along the way, bravely sacrificing themselves in the line of paper-staining duty. Their efforts, while experimental, are nonetheless vital to the success of the project.

*there was also green tea but the stain was weak and I don't like green tea as much as chai so I don't feel bad about it

Then the water pump to my house broke so I went to a hotel overnight to have running water which was in the same town as the print shop so I got to pick up the poster! The red's a little washed out but oh well. The lady at the print shop unrolled it to show me so that I could verify it was the right one, and she thought it was great. I told her it's for my dorm room and that I felt a dorm needs at least one real weird bit of decor, and she agreed that it really adds to the aesthetic. It's here, I have running water to make tea with again, now it's time for teabaggi- nope, can't say that. Um. Time to stain it.

The first stain was done with one bag of double-spice chai. It didn't go very far because i prepared the tea for, y'know, drinking and didn't get to dip the bag back in to refresh it. The second stain was with two bags of single-spice which I dipped back into the tea to get more stain. I kept dipping them after breaking them open, then forgot I did that and went to drink the tea only to remember it's full of nasty leaf bits. I drank it anyway and brushed my teeth afterward. Here it is before staining, after the first stain, and right after the second with the tea bits still on it.

Here it is all done and hung up!! It's an accent piece, a conversation starter. Now to invade Mr. Gaiman's inbox.

#good omens #harpy’s storytime #harpy overshares

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the-sword-lesbian · 9 months

Text

I might be playing a in pathfinder game that my friend is going to GM in like half a year. But because i have no self control I’ve already fully planned out a character and written a multipage backstory and fic about her.

So umm… enjoy?

——

Something felt not right about all of it… it was a bad idea. We should’ve just left her well alone.

“Alright, nice and easy.” Brog said as he approached the strange woman. “You’re that girl what’s on all them wanted posters ain’tcha?”

He had his scattergun leveled on her. Birdie was just coming out the bushes with her carbine off to the side. And I had my pistol pointed at her on the other side.

It was supposed to be an easy ambush, we’d heard that she’d come through a small town a few days ago and thought we’d get the drop on her. Lone woman, big price on her head, easy money. But looking at her now… I wasn’t so sure.

She let go of the pack hanging from the strap on her shoulder causing it to slide to the ground with a small thud. “Y’all b-b-best find someone else t-t-to rob,” she said with a noticeable stutter. She pulled her duster back past her hips, revealing the ornate looking pistol just to one side of her belt buckle. She didn’t look like much, just some dusty boots, worn road clothes, and a hat pulled low. Something about her eyes though gave me a sick feeling in my stomach. Those sharp green eyes.

“Ah ah ah, easy now girlie,” Brog said, pulling the hammer back on his gun. “Let’s not get any funny ideas about reachin’ for that fancy piece you got there.” He took another few steps forward. “In fact I’m gonna go ahead and take it off ya.”

“Thhhhis is the last warning you’re gonna g-g-get,” she said. Despite the stutter there was a surety in her voice. Those dangerous eyes glanced around quickly, sizing the three of us up.

Brog laughed as he neared her, “look at you, tryna act tough meanwhile yous stammerin and shakin like a leaf.”

“Thhhhat’s your first mistake,” she said. “Thinking my st-stutter has anything to do with fear.”

“S’at right?” Brog sneered. “Hands behind your back.” He took one final step towards her. She wasn’t a small person but with him being an orc he still towered over her. “And what’s my second mistake?”

She put her hands behind her as she glared up at him high enough for the sun to hit those fierce green eyes. “You’re easily dist-stracted,” she said calmly.

Brog looked down at her with annoyance, “I’ll be takin that gun now,” he said as he reached for the pistol in her holster.

He’d no sooner laid a finger on it before her whole demeanor seemed to shift from stern glaring to simple confusion. “Oh thhhhat gun,” she said brightly. I blinked for just a second and suddenly she had a second pistol drawn from behind her back, pressed up under Brog’s jaw. “I thhhought you meant this one.”

“What the-“ was all he got out before she pulled the trigger and Brog’s head snapped backwards, a mass of blood and one of his tusks went flying out.

“What the fuck!?” Shouted Birdie as she started cycling her carbine as fast as it would fire.

Unfortunately for Birdie the woman stepped past Brog’s falling body, using it as a shield to catch all of the incoming carbine bullets. His body hit the ground as Birdie’s gun clanged empty. The woman fired her pistol again and Birdie collapsed backwards into the bushes.

I raised my gun to defend myself from the terrible mistake we’d all made but as my gaze traveled from Birdie’s final resting place back to the woman I saw her already aiming at me. She fired and my hand was relieved of my gun as well as more than one finger. “Fuck!” I screamed in pain as I fell to my knees. Clutching my remaining fingers I wanted to beg for mercy but I was frozen in fear as she picked up her bag and stepped towards me.

She holstered her gun and pulled a cigar from inside her coat pocket, tucking it between her lips. The whole time she stalked towards me I silently prayed to every god I could think of to spare me. Those terrifying green eyes bore into my soul, as if I was facing judgment for all my sins here and now.

As she came to a stop before me I looked up into the face that would surely be my demise. She held up her hand and snapped her fingers together and to my sheer terror a small flicker of flame appeared on her fingertips. I truly believe that if I had been capable of doing anything other than staring in horror I might have soiled myself in that moment.

She held the small bit of fire up to the cigar and puffed on it once, twice. Closing her eyes and seeming to savor the smoke, before she shook her hand and the flame went out. She opened her eyes and stared into my soul once more before plucking the cigar from her mouth and speaking, “you shhhould get b-better friends,” she said before turning and walking past me down the road.

I watched her walk, unmoving, for I don’t know how long. Long after she’d left my sight for sure. I looked back towards my former associates, Brog’s body soaking the dirt of the road a deep red. Birdie’s feet sticking out of the bushes. I looked back down the road. Never would I forget those eyes.

#pathfinder 2e #dnd oc #orignal character #she’s a gunslinger with just a dash of druid for some flare #she’s converted from a 5e character idea I had #dnd5e #my wrtitng #yes she has a stutter #i also have a stutter

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