#harry try not to brood challenge (impossible)

[thechosengryffindor]

"How does it feel to not get your way?” draco @misunderstccd

Harry snorted, "You really don't know. Do you?" Everything in his life was either predetermined or someone else's choice. "Wouldn't expect you to, rich git like you." It wasn't like Harry was just going to pretend to like the other after all this time. "It's the normal for me, since you have to know."

[foxtrology]

bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.”

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey���thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Abby you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Remus Lupin!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

I must admit that I’m always quite partial when it comes to applications for Remus, because he’s one of my favorite characters in the series as well, but I was delighted and entranced the more I read through your app. The grasp you showed for Remus’ character went beyond all doubts, especially how you took the bare minimum of a skeleton that we presented and the little we know of his youth, and made Remus your own. We can’t wait to see you explore him further in the context of this rp and to see him develop as you write him! *your FC change to Keiynan Lonsdale has been accepted!

application beneath the cut

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Abby, 22, She/Her, EST

ACTIVITY

7/10 (Moderately active, with a preference for lengthy paras that are well thought out as opposed to several short replies)

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Through the tags!

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

While reading the books, Remus Lupin is definitely the character I identified most with. I loved the way that he took on a mentor role in Harry’s life, and it was interesting for me to see him struggle with and cope with the various aspects of the war, such as Dumbledore’s death and the birth of his child. I found myself relating to some of his struggles with control and allowing himself to be happy with Tonks.

ANYTHING ELSE?

N/A

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Remus Lupin

FACE CLAIM

Ben Whishaw

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I have played as Remus for years, and am very attached to his character due to his similarities to my own personality. I love delving into his personality and behaviors and finding new ways to explore these with my interactions and conversations with other writers and characters!

In general, I like to try and showcase not only the qualities that made me fall in love with Remus’ character, but also some of his negative qualities and the darker aspects that could come to light in the middle of a tense war. In the bio you state that Remus has difficulties with violent outbursts. I imagine that due to his background, he has issues with depression and anxiety, and is quietly struggling with these more and more as the war progresses. I would be interested in playing into this quality, and developing these tendencies and the effect that they might have on his relationships and work.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

I prefer to play Remus as bisexual, with he/him pronouns. Remus has an extremely complicated and difficult relationship with the concept of romance and sex, and is closeted with his preferences and usually avoids the topic whenever possible, even with those closest to him. Due to the canon information that we have about Remus’ insecurities and hesitation in his involvement with Tonks in the future, I imagine that he hasn’t had many healthy, happy relationships in the past.

For this reason, I would be against most traditional relationships for Remus without extensive development beforehand, as I imagine anything less would be out of character for him. I would be interested in pursuing other types of potentially less-healthy relationships that would work alongside his canon with the right partner if they were interested!

Personally, I am partial to wolfstar if there is chemistry with the other writer and plenty of development prior to this.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

EXPAND ON TRAITS

+ Loyal:

Due to his reserved nature, Remus has few that he has allowed close. For the few that have managed to break through his defensive barriers, he is loyal nearly to a fault. Devoted, he feels a debt to those closest to him and will do nearly anything for the few he has come to know as family. His withdrawn nature can often be read as untrustworthy, but those closest to him know that this couldn’t be further from the truth.

+ Reasonable

Observation is something that is a learned trait for Remus rather than a natural one. Years of practice and careful thought to navigate circumstances years above his young age have forced Remus to be cold and calculating in certain areas, often suspicious. However, when applied to the people he cares about, his observant, reasonable nature and ability to read people translates to compassion. For those closest to him, Remus is often a trustworthy and judgement-free confidant. Most of the time, he is fair, rational, and level-headed, something that he prides himself on. To him, this represents a much-desired control that is often lacking in other areas of his life.

+ Physically & mentally strong

Although his fragile surface may not illustrate this, Remus is undoubtedly resilient. Having already had to deal with enough emotional and physical pain and misfortune for a lifetime or two, he is no stranger to suffering, and covers it all up with a steely sense of mildness and calm that drive those closest to him mad. Each moon has left him with both a high tolerance for pain and countless scars beyond those written in blood, but he strives to try and not let this get to him. Steadfast, his determination in completing tasks and remaining faithful to those he cares about is one of his strongest qualities. However, along with this tenacity and perseverance comes an inevitable stubbornness and unyielding nature when crossed.

+ Sweet

Sweet and charming, Remus’ quiet nature can be endearing at times. Always looking out for others, he has a thoughtful, pleasing manner about him that has managed to get him out of several tight situations before. To most who know Remus, he is nothing more than a kind, sweet guy. However when confronted about this, Remus will quickly reject the idea.

- Aggressive

Aggression is not something that people would ordinarily associate with Remus at first glance. However, beneath the careful layers and barriers that the man keeps up, Remus struggles with this daily. At first, aggression was merely something he associated with the wolf. Fearing his parent’s would look at him and see the monster, he forced himself to shut out natural emotions such as anger, saving those for his monthly transformations. However, this coping mechanism has led to a difficulty in managing anger and other natural reactions for fear of how others might react. At times, this manifests physically in the form of anxiety and panic, a fear of losing control so great that it can cause him to shut down. For Remus, there is nothing worse than those around him looking at him in fear like they would at the wolf.

- Resentful

The brooding war has had an impact on everyone, regardless of their stance in the tension. For Remus, the years prior to graduation and his uneasiness on where his place might be once he is finished with school, combined with the conflict outside Hogwarts’ doors have led him to become exceedingly depressive at times. Dejected, this negativity pulls down at his otherwise kind and optimistic nature, dividing him in two. To others, he is kind, steadfast, and always looking for solutions: optimistic as a necessity rather than a preference. However at night when there is no one else around him to impress, he doubts himself and his ability to help those he cares about most in the years to come. This depressive, resentful nature leads him to be cold and standoffish at times. Insomnia, anxiety, weight loss and restlessness increasingly plague his days and become more difficult to hide as the war rages on.

- Self-limiting

Critical to a core, at times Remus is his own worst enemy. On the outside, this presents itself as humorous quips and extreme modesty. To others, he might be polite, shy, or perhaps just reserved, a stark contrast to his boasting and loud friends. However, deeper down this self-deprecating nature is much more toxic and damaging. What started out as a hatred for his lycanthopy and the wolf at a young age have led Remus to hold himself to impossible standards to meet. In order to make up for what he believes to be short-comings, he is extremely hard on himself and ruthless in his perfectionism. Oftentimes, rather than face failure or rejection, Remus would rather limit himself, rarely making an effort to truly reach his own potential for fear that he isn’t capable or worth it.

- Poor choices

In an effort to please others, and particularly those closest to him, Remus can often find himself making poor choices. His judgement, while ordinarily present to keep him honest and fair, tends to be outweighed by his desire to please others and be liked. Constantly seeking approval, he has a history of setting aside what he knows to be right in order to impress others, something that he resents and regrets.

A FEW POTENTIAL PLOT POINTS

Interactions with Wolves: In the Second Wizarding War, Remus was tasked with reaching out to the werewolf community and acting as a spy in order to retrieve information. I would be interested in pursuing a plot point like this throughout the First Wizarding War. This would be an interesting plot to write, especially if it was required to remain a secret, potentially used to help divide the Marauders as the war progresses, leading up to the events in 1981.

Survival: I would also be interested in figuring out how Remus copes with the loss that is associated with war. As a resentful person, Remus can often be extremely depressive, and exploring how he deals with death and copes with change could be an intriguing idea. In addition to this, he will have to learn to rely on others, and building relationships with people is a particular challenge of his and one that could make for many interesting plots.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

Remus thought carefully for a moment, the weight of the answer the implications in the words heavy on his tongue. “I would create a treatment for lycanthropy.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“Deep into the Forbidden Forest?” Remus replied, his head tilting slightly. Well this is one that doesn’t require much imagination. “I suppose I’d take Sirius, and a tent. Sirius makes for fun company if I’m going to be freezing my arse out there in the woods all night. I’d imagine that he’d find some way to make a game out of it.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“Decisions that involve the people I care about. My friends.” Remus answered, biting his lip. “I don’t think there are any decisions that are really easy anymore. Unless, you know, you count deciding what to eat for dinner or what shirt to wear.” A small small pulled at the edges of his lips. “I think that half the reason I’ve only got three is to make it easier for me to decide.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“Just one?” He answered, the thoughtful look in his eyes betraying the attempt at a smile. “Depends on who’s saying it. I wouldn’t want the guys to think that I don’t trust them, or that I’m someone I’m not.” He paused after a small beat. “Anyone else can say what they want. Doesn’t matter.”

WRITING SAMPLE

(This para sample is set in the future in the “Lost Years”, during the time after James and Lily are murdered, and before he is introduced to all of us in The Prisoner of Azkaban.)

Four Seasons || Self-Para

It was a curious thing, time. One minute would go by, just like any other, with the hands on the clock moving in the right direction and everything going perfectly as usual, and the next, the world has stopped and the hands are spinning backwards and forwards all at once, sometimes frozen altogether, and a quiet young man finds to his horror that there isn’t anything he can do about it but stand still and wait for it to pass him over. That’s how time tended to move in those days, really. Just like the hands on a broken clock, heading sometimes backwards and forwards and often not at all, attempting to figure out a purpose and place in a world that he, an outdated relic of the past, no longer belonged in.

Remus walked down the sides of a chilly street where the biting winter air managed to catch under the worn holes and ragged rips in his threadbare robes as he moved forwards, his head held low and his eyes directed downwards, following the light dusting of snow that covered the cracked brick sidewalk. One block. Two blocks. Three blocks. Passing several people, without the faintest of remarks or greetings to be heard. All usual, until there- out of the corner of his eye, he made the mistake of lifting his head, spotting something that caught him off-guard. An out-of-place red orange glow of heat that radiated out from a frosty pub window, and inside, a flash of a young man’s coy grin drew his glance. The clock jolted and he missed a step. He had to stop and remind himself to take a breath. One step. Two steps. It took him a minute, but he always managed to set himself back again. The face was not the one he knew. The memory was not his. The winter was empty.

Rain poured down the panes of glass clouded over with age and neglect, and if he was to venture outdoors, he would find flowers in bloom again once more. Spring, the season of rebirth. Just another word. Remus turned the pages of a familiar yellowed book, the repetition helping to ease the shake in his hand, until a loud roar is heard from just outside. He found himself looking away from his reading and leaning towards the window without thought, even going so far as to cup his tired hands around his eyes, his surprisingly youthful face pressed up against the glass as if he were a child once again, waiting eagerly for a special surprise. The flash that followed was not one of a motorbike’s soft headlamp, though, but instead one belonging to the crack of lightning that sent sudden daggers of light through the room with a gray glow, holding the man captive for just a few seconds more in a mute state. Back and forth the hands flew, before he jolted back from the old panes as if he had been licked by an open flame, burying his lined face in his hands, ragged breath uneven. It’s been years. It’s been years.

The summer was kinder, with it’s clear days, and calm, forgiving nights. From the kitchen window he could just barely make out the wooded area by the back of the house, and beyond that, the deep indigo of the night sky as it painted the world over once more with it’s breathtaking pattern of stars and constellations, only interrupted by the large and garish blotch of a moon. Weary from a long day’s work earning just enough to get by, he bent over the sink, washing clean a cracked plate and simple, off-white mug that he had found in a thrift shop. The room was quiet, except for the occasional creak and groan of the shabby house, which made each and every insignificant noise all the more evident. Turning off the tap, he found his breath hitching in when he glanced back up once more, finding himself greeted by the startlingly familiar image of a black dog darting off into the woods, most likely in response to a smaller animal which had moved in that direction only moments before. No, he has to remind himself. No. He had to forget. He had to remind himself that he was alone. Sirius, the last of his friends still alive, wouldn’t be coming back. He would never be coming back. Shutting his eyes for long enough, the hands of the clock that had willed themselves to stop and start and stop again once more are pushed on, as he forced himself to breath out, setting down the mug that he hadn’t realized was clutched tightly between fingers pale as bones. He had to forget.

Autumn was full of memories. Each season was, he supposed, but autumn in particular was set aside from the rest, for vastly different reasons. It was funny how time did that to him, he found. To understand and actually come to terms with the fact that there were people and places and smells and sounds, which only minutes ago had seemed to live and breath in full color and liveliness, that now only existed as a distant memory and a date in a book to others. No, this was something that Remus didn’t think he’d ever get used to. The dates in these books also placed some of his most precious and favorite memories alongside the ones that he wished he could erase over again and again, a curious and horrible reality and twist in fate. The burnt red of a falling leaf just like her hair, the laugh in the hazel eyes of a bespeckled young man as he passes him by just like the one he had grown so accustomed to hearing on the breeze. All of it, while now faded and grey, was still just as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Autumn was full of memories.

Tea and thinking, he found, often went together quite nicely. As he sat down by the window inside a small cafe, a personal favorite of his now over the years of solitary life, as it seemed to be less occupied than most and had simple servers who didn’t mind how long he stayed, Remus found himself glancing out at the dewy grass and crooked faces carved into the pumpkins that lined the steps, with children eagerly huddled up in groups and giggling with wide, hopeful grins. Later that evening he would force himself to visit the large stone grave set by Godric’s Hollow as he did each year on this day, and then the other, where what little that had remained of Peter had been buried. He took a sip of his tea and held the cup tightly, letting the sides of the steaming mug press against his scarred, rough skin, burning until the area around it went numb, a feeble attempt to warm the chill that would never leave his tired bones. He was always cold these days. Paying respects, he supposed, is what these visits were, though he wasn’t sure how that could be so. They were gone, not lingering around waiting for some wasted-away old friend to come by and sit for a chat. The dreaded day would stretch on, until at last Remus would find himself once again alone at night, another year gone by, feeling sleep in his eyes but a painful ache in his chest that would never be soothed by rest.

He paced around in the darkened room again and again, alongside the incessant ticking of a clock like a guide, the need to move forwards gnawing inside his fatigued form, a deep rooted effort to escape everything and anything that harbored pain and yet also held him captive so entirely by it’s beauty and potential. It was a difficult balance, this game that he played at. He moved until his weary bones aged far beyond their years could move no more, leaving him to sink back and lay down at last, relaxing into the eerie chill, the lines between life and death blurring all the while as the alcohol set in at last. However much he liked to pretend, this was his coffin, as the sole survivor amongst a family of the dead. He must be the one to remember. He must hurt. He must live. That is the burden he was made to carry.

[nevofthewilds]

The Three Tasks of Eønvair: A Ballad

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNXCeoTDorE

Long, long ago, before the world was set,

The Stag God looked down and was most distressed:

Magic chaotic, alliances broke, wars loomed a threat.

His young growing herd seemed very much a mess. /

In woods all alone was a youth and his hound.

Zaluusti was his name, meaning “He Who Sees More.”

To kill a stag for his tribe he was honor bound. 

But in truth his heart was not keen for blood or for gore. /

Lost and without hope, the boy held his dog crying,

Until a singing was heard, caressing the air.

Moving as possessed, deep in a glade did he find

A spectral spirit woman, whose name was Eønvair. /

“The Stag God has sent me, an earthly emissary,

To try and find peace for those hard scorned.

You who see more, have most a promising destiny.

If you agree to aid him, He will grant you a reward.” /

Standing in awe and not a small amount of trepidation,

Zaluusti consented to do that which she asked.

Eønvair bade him carefully mark her dication

For a week would she allow for her Three mighty Tasks: /

“First seek out the mage, lead her from pride to humility.

Next meet the warlord, out of cruelty teach him kindness.

Last tame the beast, who while it rages cannot grant mercy.

Accomplish these tasks and you will the Stag God bless.” /

With this challenge and promise Eønvair left the glade,

Leaving the boy to ponder his fate.

Zaluusti knew danger and fear were surely ahead, 

And woefully bade his dog be a good boy and wait. /

First came he to the tower of the wizard.

By the name of Sebrigoll she was known.

Of her power and beauty many had heard,

But lately only fury and spite had her spells shown. /

She shared with the boy of a rejection most vile

In her lair where young creatures in cages were kept.

Tolthes the warlord once wooed her with guile

Then abandoned her promptly, tis why she wept. /

A thick-hided monster kept her trapped in the tower, 

And only that kept Sebrigoll’s prideful vengeance still.

To her heartache Zaluusti promised to ferry a letter

To allow for the scorned wizard’s wounds to heal. /

Further along the boy was beset by brutes

And brought before Tolthes high on a throne.

The dwarf in charge was bawdy and crude,

Laughing with mirth at the letter he was shown. /

Of Sebrigoll or subjects, Tolthes held no remorse

For his was a rule that would answer to none.

Words to the contrary could not sway the course

And Zaluusti feared that his mission might be done. /

But the warrior had an impossible challenge to complete

To find the nest of the beast who harried the land.

Where many had died before attaining the feat,

If Zaluusti succeeded Tolthes vowed to hold Sebrigoll’s hand. /

Adrift with visions of a maiden in Tolthes’ detention,

Zaluusti wandered for days looking for what couldn’t be found.

When an odor on the breeze caught his attention

The wayward scout spied a savage beasts mound. /

From deep in the ground came a mighty screech

As from forth the den came Qwihylkat, the nature’s rage.

The monster Tolthes had sought was itself aggrieved

Against one who kept it’s brood in a cage. /

Comprehending now how all parties were connected

The Stag God’s champion wracked his mind for clarity.

Kneeling to Qwihylkat and promising to help those affected

The Boy Who Saw More suddenly perceived remedy. /

Days later Tolthes arrived at the nest with soldiers armed

But found only a gothi and Sebrigoll instead of his prey.

The warlord’s fury would for once leave none harmed

Since the nest had been found would his vow be obeyed. /

No longer could Tolthes rule with cruelty or whim,

And the hurt pride of Sebrigoll could not be left still.

Thus were they bound, in their destiny, she and him. 

Their fate quite uncertain, equally hopeful and ill. /

Zaluusti rode Qwihylkat, clinging to horn and to hide,

Leaving those wed behind to begin their tense history. 

First he freed the chained maiden who’d soon be his bride,

And the two stormed the tower, unshackling the beast’s progeny. /

With a roar and a dance did the magic beasts went off,

Forgiving, not forgetting, the treacherous ways of men. 

The powers and wisdom of Qwilhylkat were lost,

For trust to the newlyweds would n’er be given again. /

Returning to the glade to seek from Eønvair his prize,

Zaluusti and his bride were suddenly held by shadow. 

The dark formed into Bozhoba, with mask and glowing eyes

Holding a feather aloft as if holding a rose. /

“Young herald of the Stag, you meddle in matters most grave:

For the conclusion of this story rests askew on my scale.

The peace you’ve brokered will this climax only stave-

Take here this feather, so you may avert this tale.” /

Zaluusti stepped forward but did not take the gift,

Rejecting the god whose nudges weren’t promised.

“I am Zaluusti, and while I may never seal this great rift,

Choices made for the good of all I will never be remiss.” /

Thus did Zaluusti the Arbiter return to his tribe and family,

With an epic, a wife, and a golden stag most fair.

Crowns, laws, stories would set his name to eternity

As the man who had finished the Three Tasks of Eønvair. //

[the-science-of-deduction]

Valentine’s Day Challenge: Day 1 - Sherlock x (y/n)

Prompt: You shouldn’t have to spend Valentine’s Day alone.

A/N: Hope this makes up for the lack of updates and the delay for the update to I Hate Christmas! Thanks for letting me join in on this cool event even though I’m a little late to the party @prettyxlittlexwriter. Cookies if you can guess who your *mysterious* friend is. Set before Sherlock met John.

Word Count: 1189.

Warnings: none. 

“Shit.” You cursed. “Shit, shit, shit.” You were currently sitting on your bed flipping through your calendar.

“Are you okay?” Your friend asked from the other side of the phone.

“I’m so sorry Clara. I can’t make it that day I’m busy.”

“Oh.” Your friend said from the other side, sounding quite dejected.

“I’m so very terribly sorry but we’re going to have to cancel our yearly Valentine’s brunch.”

“Yeah.” Your friend said, sighing. “It’s just, I mean, we always have the brunch on Valentine’s Day because we were always single but now that I have a girlfriend…” she said trailing off at the end. “We tried to reschedule it but it doesn’t seem like it’s working. You’re always busy on the days that I’m free and you’re always free on the days that I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” You apologized again.

“It’s not your fault, I know your partner Sherlock can be quite the handful.” You friend said from the other side, stifling a laugh.

You smiled, “Oh Clara, you always know what to say to make me smile. How’s Harry?”

“Oh… Harry and I had a bit of a domestic. We’re not doing well in the moment.”

“Oh Clara, I’m so sorry. I hope you two patch things up soon.” You said.

“Thank you for the kind words (y/n). I have to go now. See you later.”

“Bye.” You said quietly. You ended the phone call and look around your room. You sighed. Because of your job as a consulting detective’s assistant you hardly had any time to yourself, always running and dashing about solving crimes every day. When you finally had some time to yourself, you couldn’t spend it with your friends. Now, you were happy for Clara and you’d expected her girlfriend to take her out on the most romantic holiday ever, but you at least hoped she’d make some time for you. It turns out she didn’t like you as much as you thought. While you were thinking about this, it didn’t occur to you the real reason why you were so mad. You were not really mad at Clara; you were mad at Sherlock. He hadn’t given you a day off in months and of course when he finally did it had to be on Valentine’s Day. The jerk. Granted he had given you the whole week off but still… the jerk probably only gave you the day off because he didn’t want people to mistaken you as a couple on Valentine’s Day. You sighed a heavy sigh. You really weren’t likeable at all were you? Clara didn’t like you, Mycroft didn’t like you (granted Mycroft didn’t like anyone), and most certainly Sherlock didn’t like you. Not in a friendly way nor in a romantic way. Although he never really thought of anyone that way. Still, it was impossible for you to be liked. You weren’t pretty or smart or anything of the sort that would set you apart from the crowd. How in the world would Sherlock notice you? Hell, the first time you met him, he didn’t even know you were there at the crime scene until you accidently almost made him trip. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed you even if you were right in his line of sight. He wouldn’t even have noticed you if you guys hadn’t been introduced by your good friend Mike Stamford. He wouldn’t have noticed because you were nobody. You were just another face in the crowd. Another victim to be saved. And to Sherlock Holmes you thought you just weren’t worth saving.

Time Skip – Valentine’s Day

You yawned, sleepiness and drowsiness washed away with that one yawn. You swung your legs over the bed and stood stretching your arms up in the air. You shuffled quietly out of your bedroom and went straight to the kitchen. You hummed while making some tea. “Good, you’re finally awake.” A deep voice said startling you.

You dropped the kettle on the stove, burning your hand. You hissed in pain and rushed to run cold water over your burn. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. You scared the crap out of me.” You said.

“I’m sorry?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you okay?” He said cautiously.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” You said carefully applying cream to your burn. “What are you doing here?” You asked.

“I, well, I just-” He said pausing to recollect his thoughts. “I didn’t want you to be alone, especially on Valentine’s Day. I mean, what I meant to say was-” He said stopping again to think about his next words. “You shouldn’t have to spend Valentine’s Day alone.”

“How did you know I’d be alone?” You said shooting him a quizzical look.

“I just assumed that-” he started before he was interrupted by you.

“You assumed that since I didn’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend that I’d be spending this holiday alone?” You said, anger rising in your tone.

“Well, no I-” He said trying to start again before you interrupted him.

“No Sherlock, this time you listen. I’m spending this holiday alone because of you. My friend canceled on me because my work schedule is so hectic. I don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Do you want to know why?! Because you never give me enough time to look for one. My last day off was 6 months ago! That’s half a year! Tell me, why do you hate me so much?” You said, your anger finally exploding out.

“I don’t hate you.” he said cautiously. “I keep you around me all the time because I don’t want you to meet anyone else. I don’t give you day offs that often because I love the company you give me. Your friend, now that one was on me.” He said, looking down shamefully.

“Wha- What do you mean?”

“I like you (y/n). That day at the crime scene I didn’t want to notice you because I didn’t want you to notice me. The tall, dark, brooding, imbecile of a man. I was blind. I thought I knew everything. I didn’t know love. I didn’t know what it felt like until you touched me. Until you allowed me to deduce you without a fight. Until you kissed me.”

“I never kiss-” You said before Sherlock interrupted you this time, by smashing his lips onto yours in a passionate display of love. Your eyes widened in surprise. You gasped in surprise and Sherlock took this opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. For a person who had never felt love he certainly was good at showing how much he loved. You pulled apart and smiled at each other. He winked at you.

“Seriously Sherlock though.” You said stifling a laugh. “What did you mean my friend canceling on me was on you?”

“I mean I told her to cancel on you so that I could have more time with you.” He said simply.

“You jerk!” You yelled at him, hitting his arm.

He only smiled. “At least you actually have a boyfriend now.” He said cheekily.

You smiled in response and winked back.

The End

[josephkitchen0]

How to Pick the Best Chicken Feeders and Waterers

Feeding backyard chickens should hypothetically be a simple thing to do. You know what can chickens eat, but when the chicken feeders and waterers we buy fail to live up to expectations, it complicates things. There are many different styles of chicken feeders and waterers available today; some perform well, some fail quickly, and more still just don’t deliver the value we think they will. Over the years, I’ve used all sorts of off-the-shelf, commercial-grade and even some home brew systems, all with mixed results. Hopefully, my years of expensive trial and error can help you pick the right chicken feeders and waterers for your flock.

Plastics Make It Possible

I’ve noticed a trend in the poultry equipment retail market; it lags the commercial sector by about 10 years. I remember a time when all you could find on the local feed store shelves was metal equipment, with exception to those terrible little screw base water founts. The commercial poultry sector had long since scrapped their metal feeder and water equipment in favor of non-porous, non-rusting, chemical-resistant plastics, but the retail world of poultry supplies took awhile to catch up.

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Plastics have become the new standard for poultry equipment, both in the commercial sector and retail stores, but for different reasons. Professional farmers adopted plastic and stainless steel devices because of their non-porous characteristics, which deny bacteria and viruses a place to hide and entrench themselves. In addition, with the advent of modern disinfectants, the new acidic cleaning agents proved to be far too corrosive for old galvanized sheet metal. Plastic offers a cost-effective material that resists caustic solutions, can be as durable as their sheet metal predecessors, and offers a better longevity since they never rust.

Chicks eating from a 35lb Kuhl feeder

The retail poultry sector finally changed over to plastic construction simply because it’s cheap. It’s far cheaper to produce thousands of injection-molded feeders and much cheaper to ship plastic feeders that weigh a fraction of the old sheet steel designs. Cheaper products offer better profit margins, and cheap prices make consumers buy more, one way or another. The problems we as consumers see more often now is that these cheap fixtures are not as durable because, well, they’re cheap in every sense of the word. From a hygiene point of view, they’re still better than our old rusty feeders, but most plastics used in retail products are of a lesser quality and thickness compared to commercial equipment.

Buying Steel

Retail locations will sell you anything you want, for the most part. Even if your local shop still sells steel feeders for backyard chickens, I don’t suggest them. Retail galvanized steel is not the same as the old commercial grade galvanized steel, and these feeders will rust sooner rather than later. Rusty feeders are impossible to clean, look terrible and make you look like a bad poultry keeper, so don’t bother buying steel.

This goes double for today’s metal double wall water founts. Back in the day, they were your only option for a heated chicken waterer, but now they offer heated plastic water founts. I always suggest buying plastic now, since the new galvanized double wall founts rust quickly and break at the welds, causing a vacuum leak and consequently a big water leak. Nipple drinker systems are far superior to water founts of any design, so if you haven’t done so already, consider building a nipple bucket to make your life easier.

Products You Don’t Need

At the risk of sounding like a ranting snob, I’d like to air my biggest gripe with the retail poultry world. You don’t need half the stuff they’re trying to sell you for your backyard chickens! Chick growing equipment is the biggest offender in my eyes. Most first-time chicken buyers will purchase chicks at a retail location that wants to sell you a whole bunch of chick-specific equipment. Your $12 chick purchase quickly becomes $50 or $60 bucks before you can bat an eye. You need a special chick feeder, a special chick water fount, that handy little thermometer meant especially for raising chicks and oh, don’t forget our super-duper plastic draft guard thing, you definitely need that! Right, I have a bridge to sell you too.

I’ve never found these trough style feeders to be effective or useful.

What makes this feel like such a scam is this; you’ll be back in eight weeks to buy the full size chicken feeders and waterers your backyard chickens actually need, since your chickens now empty that little chick water fount in under two minutes, if they can drink from it at all. All that equipment you bought is now useless to you, and I hope they didn’t already eat you out of house and home, since you’ll be in need of more expendable cash to buy the equipment you really need.

Not all retailers are crooks, instead it’s my experience that they simply don’t know any better. These products are on the shelf, they make sense to them, and everyone else is buying it, so that’s what they need to sell you, right? Not really.

Adapting Full-Size Equipment For Chicks

If you’re brooding birds in a small box, the upright chicken feeders and waterers do make your life easier. But when you’re brooding on the barn floor, your birds can use adult equipment just as easily as chick specific equipment, with some adaptations. Full-size feeders are just as effective at delivering feed to chicks as they are for mature birds, but chicks are vertically challenged, so be sure to place full-size feeders at ground level and ramp up your bedding to meet the lip of the feeder. If you’re still using water founts; stop! I highly recommend building nipple drinkers (it’s cheap, easy, safer and far healthier). If you’re stuck with a water fount for now, filling the trough with marbles will stop chicks from drowning. The quail bases for those small quart water founts are great for preventing chicks from drowning, but marbles in the trough can work just as well.

Chickens can use a nipple system from day 1. No worries about contaminated water or drowning.

Speaking of troughs, those old-school metal or plastic trough feeders with the flip top are another one of those things you think you need, but all they do is serve dirty feed to your backyard chickens. Today’s tube and trough gravity feeders are far superior to the old style chick trough design. I have an old trough feeder hiding in my tool shed somewhere, and when I see it next, I’ll be sure to toss it.

Commercial vs. Retail

Today’s retail-grade plastic chicken feeders and waterers can be serviceable, as long as they are not abused. You will notice that the plastic is thin and it won’t like the sun all that much, but the price is likely right and they’re readily available. Big name brands in the retail world are Miller Manufacturing (AKA: Little Giant) and Harris Farms. When deciding what to feed chickens with, some people may figure these will suffice, but there are better quality feeders available.

Commercial feeders are built to withstand the abuse you can expect to see on a working farm, which can be rough sometimes. Good commercial plastic feeders feature thick, well-designed plastic parts as well as metal reinforcements when needed. Unlike many inexpensive retail feeders, modern commercial feeders usually include spill shields or grates (either as a separate part or integrated into the pan), which helps to stop your birds from pulling feed out of the feeder without eating it. Especially if your feeders are not set at the correct height, or you have different height birds in your flock, a spill shield or grate will help keep the feed in the pan and off the floor of your coop where it will go to waste. When looking for top-shelf commercial equipment, look for names like Kuhl, Brower and Big Dutchman.

Specialty Feeders for Backyard Chickens

My favorite feeder by far is my Kuhl 250 lb. range feeder because it has made feeding my backyard chickens so much easier. Range feeders are built to live outdoors and come in many sizes, rated by the pounds of feed it can hold. If I wanted to fill my feeder, I could put five 50lb bags of feed in the hopper, but I don’t usually need that much. Since it sits outside, it does have special design features, such as a rain fly that keeps the feed dry and clean for my birds. This feeder sits outside of my coop, which helps keep raccoons and other predators out of my barn. The local wildlife prefers to gorge themselves at the buffet of layer feed I have in my range feeder rather than work at breaking into my coop, which means my chickens are less of a target than when I used to feed inside the coop. I have some seriously fat raccoons and opossums these days, but now I also have chickens that are more likely to die of old age than being taken by a predator.

Home Brew Equipment

For those of us who are handy, there are so many ideas and how-to’s out there on the Internet that I couldn’t possibly cover them all here. One word of caution, or perhaps one major design consideration you should take into account is; how are you going to clean this thing? Designs that don’t disassemble for cleaning, or include porous materials like wood, are a real challenge to clean properly. Plan on using plastics, PVC tubes, stainless steel, or at least well painted or sealed wood to deny bacteria or other disease-causing organisms a place to hide and thrive.

I’m quite partial to my commercial equipment for chicken feeders and waterers, which might make me look snobbish, but I’ve thrown so much broken equipment away over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the quality they offer.

Do you have a favorite chicken feeder and waterer for your backyard chickens? Let me know in the comments below!

  How to Pick the Best Chicken Feeders and Waterers was originally posted by All About Chickens

[harrydracobang]

Harry/Draco Big Bang Week #1 Round-Up

Below you'll find a round-up of all of our amazing submissions that have posted during our first week of @harrydracobang​!

We hope you’ve been enjoying all the novel-length Drarry and amazing art so far, and we want to thank everybody who has been following the fest and supporting our participants with comments, kudos and recs! You are amazing and we know for certain our fantastic artists and writers appreciate all your support! <3

The next fic will go up tomorrow, and we still have one more week of amazing fic and art to share with you all, but for now, check our first week below to make sure you didn’t miss anything. Don’t forget to leave some love for our participants as you make your way through the submissions!

Chocolate and Pastry written by @agentmoppet​ with art by @anemonensblog​ [Explicit, 51k] Summary: When Pansy bets Draco that there is no chance he and Harry could carry out a genuine romantic relationship, he and Harry form a plan. But as their fake relationship progresses, Draco sees a side of Harry he never expected. Harry is struggling with something, pushing it far down inside him where he doesn't have to acknowledge its existence. Draco starts to worry, and then he starts to care, and then... horribly... he starts to fall in love. - Anemonen’s AO3 Art Post - Anemonen’s Tumblr Art Post

A Natural Conclusion written by @meshkol​ with art by @marshview-lim​ and @theacebard​ [Explicit, 52k] Summary: Harry’s happy with his life twenty-two years later. He has his job as the Head of the DMLE (albeit with a bit too much bureaucratic nonsense for his tastes), his not-really wife (and her incorrigibly charming shit of a boyfriend), and his three children (plus Scorpius Malfoy, who’s somehow become the fourth child in their brood). The only thing that’s missing is a partner, though not for a lack of trying on his part. However, the assignment of one case to Barrister Draco Malfoy – a polite and cordial acquaintance on the peripheral of Harry’s life – leads to a deep friendship and the slow realisation that the partner he’s been waiting his whole life for has been standing right in front of him all along. - Marshview’s Tumblr Art Post - Marshview’s AO3 Art Post

Only Ash Remains written by @whimsicaldragonette​ with art by @saulaie​[Teen, 67k] Summary: One year after Harry defeated Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, he still has no idea what to do with his life. He’s been living at No. 12 Grimmauld Place with Hermione and Ron, but they’ve spent the past few months on an extended stay in Australia to try and restore Hermione’s parents’ memories. Alone, he feels set adrift. Everyone else is focused on enjoying their summer before Hogwarts reopens (after a one year rebuilding period), but without Ron and Hermione, Harry doesn’t know if he can go back. Everything changes when the Malfoys dramatically re-enter his life, and together they learn to live again. - Saulaie’s AO3 Art Post - Saulaie’s Tumblr Art Post

Sweet Creature written by @whineosaur​ with art by @banana-ge-ge​ and @fistis​ [Teen, 63k] Summary: Harry loves his sheep, his dogs, the tranquil countryside farm he's turned into a home. He doesn't need Draco Malfoy screwing it all up. But, god, what else is he supposed to do about Draco Malfoy sleeping with a lamb in his bed? - Banana-ge-ge’s Tumblr Art Post  - Fistis’ Tumblr Art Post

Taking Chances written by @gracerene09​ with art by @ano-ka-ba​ and @pukingpastilles​ [Explicit, 135k]  Summary: After the war, Draco disappeared and started over in America, vowing never to return to Great Britain and the fraught past he left behind. Unfortunately, when his mates convince him to sign up for an exchange programme for the last year of their Auror Training, Draco learns that he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter. - Anokaba’s AO3 Art Post [NSFW] - Anokaba’s Tumblr Art Post [NSFW] - PukingPastilles’ Tumblr Art Post

Still Catch the Tide written by @dwell-the-brave with art by @razielim and @apriicat [Mature, 57k] Summary: When a ravaged body is found of Blackpool beach front, newly partnered Aurors Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are sent to investigate. This is a make-or-break case for Harry - solve the case and not scare his partner away, or risk his career. But when another body appears, and another, this mystery goes far deeper than either of them could have imagined. - Razielim’s Tumblr Art Post

The Anchor written by @rose-grangerweasleyisbae with art by @starwqrs [Teen, 54k] Summary: Draco has to go back to Hogwarts for his eight year. Either that, or it’s back to Azkaban according to his parole agreement. Which all wouldn’t be that big of a problem, if only Pansy learned to keep her trap shut and Potter would put on a bloody shirt before leaving the showers. Honestly, he had enough to cope with inside his own head without green eyed gits messing with it as well.

Dear Cousin, Love Regulus written by @xx-thedarklord-xx with art by @llap115-reblogs [Mature, 86k] Summary: As the sole Malfoy heir, Draco understood that his path was set long before his birth; who to be, how to act and what his choices should be. What he had not counted on was the power of outside influences. Letters from his deceased cousin caused him to realize that he did have choices, starting with the choice to be someone else, to be who he wanted to be. The road to self-discovery was difficult and navigating that path in the shadow of Harry Potter was its own challenge but maybe, just maybe, his friends would help him along the way. And he would owe it all to Regulus Black.  - LLAP115′s Tumblr Art Post

Men Who Love Dragons Too Much written by @fencer-x with art by @danasauurr [Explicit, 480k] Summary: [Extensive re-telling of Deathly Hallows] As in Half-blood Prince, Draco is charged by Voldemort with killing Dumbledore—only instead of trying to do his best with the challenge, he realizes he’s been set a futile task and instead focuses on finding a way to save both himself and his parents. He eventually decides to spend his sixth year studying Animagecraft, convinced it's his best shot at escaping the impossible situation he's found himself in. But just his luck, his Animagus form turns out to be a dragon, and a rather randy juvenile at that, intent on finding its mate: one Harry James Potter. - Danasauurr’s Tumblr Art Post