#I didn’t think I’d have coherent thoughts yet I swear I blacked out and wrote this here we are

[o-wild-west-wind]

okay, here’s my actual thoughtful post: I get why people are upset about the finale…I really do. but I want to mention that there’s a bigger picture to this story that’s missing if you’re zooming too close onto Izzy as a character, and I’m honestly so grateful that the show stuck to the thematic arc it introduced in season 1 because, as per usual, it’s about the themes 🤌 and this show never skimps on the symbolism!!

so here’s the thing: the primary themes are toxic masculinity (& it’s opposite, queer joy); trauma; love as a healing force for the above; and, title alert—DEATH. because it’s so much more than a cool title!

now, Izzy has always represented something metaphorical about all of these points; most directly, he’s always represented masculinity, and s2 has been an arc of toxicity deconstruction. but crucially, he’s also represented all that for Ed, who is the deuteragonist of this show. because—don’t forget—Stede and Ed are the show.

I’ve always doubted myself for feeling this after seeing how fandom saw Izzy as a third romantic figure (which like by all means have a blast in your fanfics I don’t care it’s about joy at the end of the day and pursue that as you want to), but after hearing something about djenks referring to Izzy as a father figure, it confirms a major point for me—Izzy is also in a lot of ways a parallel to Ed’s dad, and a representation of the trauma and guilt Ed felt from that formative killing. for so long, Izzy was an aggressive shadow in Ed’s life, and a tangible reminder of those daddy issues—someone telling him what to do, keeping him Blackbeard—and the beautiful thing is how that changed this season, how Izzy became a version of masculinity that could love and be beautiful and make good from the hurt, the literal poison into positivity. someone antithetical to his own paternalistic force, healing our daddy issues one drag show at a time. BUT, Izzy is still thematically representative within Ed’s arc—and by also representing the trauma that made Ed “Blackbeard,” it does make smart writing sense as to why Izzy died (NOT saying you can’t be sad about it—stick with me for a moment).

because here’s the thing—as aforementioned, this show is also about DEATH. killing is the root of everyone’s trauma, and reconciling a relationship with death is the ultimate arc Ed and Stede are both on, with the ultimate path of learning to live despite its inevitability. there’s a reason it was such a huge thing that Ed couldn’t personally kill, and then in this episode killed so many people with his bare hands in the name of love—and there’s a reason that was framed as a good thing. and there’s also Ed’s (and arguably Stede’s) active suicidality, which has been a huge force driving this season. these are characters who see death as this all-consuming thing, and they see their own deaths as the only solution. death is the traumatic force driving almost everything about their being for so long—and its reconciliation is everything for them, the greatest sign of growth. so Izzy’s death, and everyone beginning again with love—healing each other with love—is a cap to it all. it’s death as a positive force, for once. it’s death as love, not trauma. it’s death as something that will always happen, but this time not forced by your own hand. it’s a death to everything toxic, to what “Blackbeard” represented, and all the while a sort of rebirth. it’s kind of a death to…death? it’s functionally like the real physical moon replacing the giant romantic imaginary orb: it’s taking the thing that’s been artificially morphed in Stede and Ed’s heads and making it real this time, with all the bittersweet emotions that come with tangible reality.

and honestly, I’m glad that it was tragic and emotional. I didn’t think I’d be so devastated to see Izzy die, but it really did get to me, especially because of everything he said to Ricky and then to Ed. but think of it this way: Izzy and Ed might be romantically compelling because they were toxic and charged (and I hope people still enjoy everything they get from that dynamic in fan work), but imagine if the show had actually gone in that direction—where would it take us thematically? it would kill the thesis; it would be love as chaos and entertainment, but not healing. instead, this show gave us something so much more powerful: a legitimate, fully-fleshed trauma arc.

trauma hurts. Izzy’s death hurts. but that’s okay. that’s great, actually! it means the storytelling was effective—that Izzy’s arc made you feel something. and i know this won’t be every viewer’s experience, but honestly? I’m glad I can have this grieving process in such a beautifully framed light in the safe space ship of this show, because let’s be real—death, real life death, fucks you up. and let me tell you, I could’ve used this show during so many episodes of grief in my life. but here it is now, reminding us that our grief and trauma doesn’t define us—and WHAT a powerful thing for queer love, especially, to be presented as the thing that heals us all. ESPECIALLY when so much grief and death in this community is woven so deeply with the trauma of our identity.

so grieve as you need to, but don’t forget to turn the poison into positivity 💛 because that’s what the show is telling us—choose live, despite!

[damatris]

There's Harshness In Your Voice And Softness In Your Hands

May I offer you a very soft and hopefully funny concussed!Jaskier geraskier fic in these trying times? Also tagging @jaskierswolf since you’re an awesome writer and I super appreciated your kind words and encouragement! <3 This was the third fic I wrote after a 8 year break in writing prose. :’D

Pre-Geraskier, concussed!Jaskier, protective!Geralt, Fluff, And Humor wc:  2,638 Also on AO3 with The Mud Wolf song!

....

"Are we there yet?" Jaskier asked with a grin, knowing perfectly well the town was only ten minute walk away. Exasperated sigh was his only response, just as he predicted.

"I do hope I have enough time to turn your newest valiant fight into an epic tale. Spinning a song out of a mud covered Witcher and his battle with an overgrown worm might be impossible for a lesser bard but I'm sure I can manage." he continued, taking maybe slightly too much joy out of having stayed spotless while Geralt looked like he had rolled on wet ground for a good while. Which wasn't too far from the truth.

For once the hunt had been more of an annoyance than life threatening. Geralt had been hired to take care of an unidentified monster wreaking havoc on the soft soil of nearby fields, threatening the crops.

Turned out the monster was a sizable worm like creature with thick ridged skin and countless teeth similar to sharp picks in a gaping maw. Which could have been deadly if its anatomy didn't require one to stick an arm inside the mouth to be bitten. But it had been strong, squirmy and eager to burrow away forcing Geralt to drag it out of the ground with both hands more than once. It ended up more of a wrestling match than a fight before he had been able to skewer the monster with his sword.

Jaskier had been happy to offer gleeful advice and encouragement from a safe distance where flying muck couldn't reach his silk doublet.

"Really, it would make for a good ditty, something to hum while working the fields" the bard continued, demonstrating a bright tune.

"Don't." Geralt said blankly, dragging the monster's corpse. Mud was starting to flake off his face and armor leaving dusty residue. He would have to give it a throughout cleaning later. Having caked mud in armor joints could only lead to discomfort and possibility of something jamming.

"We'll see." Jaskier said and kept humming until they reached their destination.

Calling it a town might be slightly generous but it was a lively place. During the day there had been a sizable crowd of customers and sellers in the town square, children playing and general bustle of people hurrying on their errands. Even now in the twilight hours there were people walking around giving them looks ranging from disgust to fear to bafflement. Which Jaskier thought was fair enough considering a bloody carcass was being dragged by an extremely filthy Witcher down their streets.

He too would have stopped to stare at such a spectacle once upon a time. Nowadays he just witnessed the hunting of the dangerous creatures instead.

Few minutes later they separated. Geralt was off to present the proof of the completed mission to the magistrate and collect his fee while Jaskier continued to the inn they were staying at. He had a promise to keep to the owner. Not that it was any sort of a hardship. He would have performed anyway but getting free meals for both of them was a very welcome bonus.

The inn's tavern with its warmth and amiable atmosphere was a welcome change from the cooling evening. Conversations and laughter, clinking of drinks being drank and dinners being eaten filled the space with familiar sounds. It had been far too long since the last time they had stayed somewhere nice Jaskier decided. Adjusting his lute he headed toward the bar to talk with the owner.

"Hello again!" Jaskier greeted placing a coin on the counter. "Could you draw a bath in about thirty minutes or so? Not for me, don't worry. I'm ready to sing until everyone here is full of good cheer and good ale!" he ended with a wink.

"That might take quite the while knowing these folks." Oscar, a tall broad man chuckled. Noticing the lack of a looming presence he asked "Bath's for the Witcher then?"

"Absolutely! You should and will see the state he landed himself. So easy to mistake for something that crawled out of a swamp and rolled in dirt for good measure. If you hadn't already seen him, you'd swear his hair is black and skin grey. Thankfully the same fate didn't befall me." Jaskier gestured to his clothes. "Now that would have been a tragedy."

"Plenty of water needed then." Oscar nodded to himself, moving toward a patron looking for a drink. "I'll have it ready for him."

Jaskier gave a small playful bow and twirled around to spot a good place to stash his lute case.

This evening had blessed him with an appreciative audience, Jaskier mused happily. He had begun with true crowd pleasers, jaunty songs that each and everyone knew, to draw the attention and set a jovial mood before moving to his original pieces bridging the change with Toss A Coin. It truly was a great trademark and transition song with addition of people usually complying with the lyrics and handing out money. Sure, there always were some grumblers who would prefer anything over having to hear about the White Wolf in a positive light but you never could please everyone. No matter how much he would like to.

Jaskier had started on the third song detailing a hunt he had witnessed when the Witcher of the tale entered the tavern drawing all eyes and causing murmur.

"Your bard really wasn't exaggerating much." Oscar noted behind the bar with a wry smile. "There's a warm bath waiting for you upstairs. I'd make haste if I were you."

Geralt nodded his acknowledgment while taking a sweeping look at the tavern. Spotting Jaskier near the stairs leading up to the second floor he locked eyes with him for a moment before starting in that direction. While Jaskier's performance hadn't faltered even for a second it was clear he was laughing internally at Geralt's appearance. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth as he took stock of the stiff hair and dust falling with every step.

Walking past him to the stairs Geralt grunted something that was both a thank you and a warning. Jaskier felt quite proud of how well he had learned the meanings of the various hmms and wordless grunts Geralt seemed so overly fond of.

"Filthy fucking mutant!"

Jaskier was used to being pelted with various objects by dissatisfied audiences so he didn't think anything about stepping between something flying and the Witcher's retreating back.

Until blinding pain hit him.

On a reflex Jaskier threw his arms in front of himself trying to ensure the safety of his lute as he was knocked down on his back. Trying to draw air back into his deflated lungs and focus on anything outside of the ringing in his ears, he vaguely registered a dark shape jumping over him with a curse.

It might have been a year or it might have been a second before a large hand shook his shoulder.

"Damn it Jaskier, breath!"

Ah, yes. He knew that voice. He should probably answer.

"...G'r'lt..." not the most eloquent but passable. It was kind of hard to force words out when you had to think about breathing. Maybe he should go back to practicing basics if saying one word clearly took that much air. How had he ever sang possessing such a horrendous breathing technique?

"Look at me."

But he already was? Oh, wait. That darkness wasn't Geralt's black armor. He just had his eyes closed. But who was he to deny the chance of looking at Geralt's eyes? They were so beautiful after all. With herculean task he blinked and, behold, those molten yellow eyes were intensely staring at his. Such perfection surrounded by dancing stars.

"Can you sit up?"

Should be simple enough but he would need his hands. And they were...

"M' lute...?"

"Of fucking course you would worry about your lute. You're clutching it."

Ah. Good. Everything was fine in that case. Case. Where was his lute case? No, he had put it down before performing. Should be safe. Even if he couldn't recall where it was. Maybe he could ask Geralt. He could just-

"Sniff 'nd find" it with his strange strange Witcher senses. Seemed like a good plan. Geralt would know the scent.

"What the everlasting fuck Jaskier? How hard did that tankard hit your head?"

But tankards weren't for hitting? Why would he have…? Ah. Yes. He must have stepped in front of it now that he thought about it. Still, who would throw one? If you wanted to throw something at a person then-

"Coins ar' good, bre'd okay."

"That's it. I'm taking him to our room."

Jaskier had never realized he could levitate but suddenly he wasn't on the floor anymore. It felt much more safe and warm than he would have thought. And weirdly dusty. Also, Geralt's face was very close. Very, very close. So very close. It was distracting him from the experience. It was unfair how-

"Handsome." Geralt was. Robbing him the chance of experiencing flight. The bastard.

"If you mumble nonsense then you can just shut up."

Rude.

Shit, Jaskier thought. He wasn't levitating anymore. He had missed his chance of enjoying it. Suddenly also the warmth and Geralt's face were gone. No, there was Geralt again. But why wasn't his hair white? It was even in the name. The White Wolf. Not-

"The Mud Wolf."

"Really Jaskier? Not even coherent and you make insults?"

Geralt was an insult. With his pretty eyes and pretty lips and strong arms. Arms…? Maybe Jaskier didn't know how to levitate after all. Maybe Geralt-

"Carried me?" Huh. That would have been even better to register than levitating. If he asked would Geralt do it again while hiding his stupid good looking face? No, probably not.

"Yes."

He would? Wait, no. It was an affirmation for being carried, Jaskier realized with disappointment. He was prevented from brooding by something wet and stinging touching his forehead. He wanted it to-

"Stop. Hurts."

"Stay still. I need to clean this."

Geralt was the one who had wrestled a worm, not him. Heh, that's why he was The Mud Wolf! Didn't explain why his forehead needed cleaning though. Jaskier took a deep breath and tried to focus. Worm, tavern, performing, Geralt coming in. Then it got fuzzy. But hadn't there been a mention of a-

"Tankard. I got hit by a tankard?"

"Finally. Yes Jaskier, you were an absolute idiot and stepped in its path." a relieved sigh passed Geralt's lips.

"You were already in its path." Jaskier accused him wincing against a new stab of pain. Geralt should be thankful. Who knew that an overglorified cup could hurt this much?

"I was the target. It would have hit my back. While wearing an armor. If I hadn't caught it first."

"..." Jaskier blamed his lack of a comeback on concussion. Having one would explain everything. "Please don't say a child threw it and managed to knock me out."

There was an amused huff. "No, it was an adult. One that has a far worse headache."

"They managed this while concus-? You gave them one!" Jaskier crowed pleased with his returning mental skills. "Ooh, I wish I could have seen it. I hope they lost a lot of teeth! And have a broken nose."

"Probably, didn't check. I had more important things to do." Geralt answered prodding Jaskier's head. It didn't look too bad now that the blood was gone. An ugly bruise was quickly forming on a sizeable bump but the cut wasn't long or deep. Shouldn't even leave a scar. Head wounds just bled like a bitch as Geralt knew from personal experience.

"I'm important?" Jaskier breathed with wide eyes and hanging mouth.

Of course. That would be his take away, Geralt thought. Not that he was wrong but…

"Hmmm."

"Dear Melitele, am I hallucinating?" Jaskier whispered lifting his arm to cup Geralt's cheek. And would have promptly poked him in the eye if Geralt hadn't snatched his hand.

"Geralt of Rivia admitting to care about someone? This must be a first!" a familiar sparkle was returning to Jaskier's pinched eyes. He moved their interlocked hands to take a better look. It wasn't particularly romantic with Geralt holding his wrist but Jaskier would take it.

Just as the thought crossed his mind Geralt let go and his arm flopped bonelessly back on the bed. He didn't remember his hands weighting that much. Weird. Combined with his lute he must have far more strength than he had guessed to be able to play for whole nights with no problem.

"Geralt, where's my lute?" Jaskier suddenly panicked trying to get up to look for it. He was screwed if someone had stolen or, god forbid, broken it. All he got for his attempt was splitting pain.

"Your priorities are fucked up." Geralt stated picking a potion and bandage out of his bag. "It's in the corner. Oscar brought it with the case."

"Excuse me! It's my tool of trade, my life line and…" Jaskier trailed off frowning.

"I'll finish that after I've slept." he sniffed radiating offense.

"You do that. Now, stay still." Geralt drawled. Swiping the cut one last time he covered it with gauze.

It might not be strictly necessary but he was quite sure Jaskier would tear it open at least few times with his animated expressions. And, it made him feel slightly better if he was honest. Realizing the bard had purposefully stepped in front of him and crumpled down like a sack of potatoes had been shocking. Just thinking about it made him want to tear the culprit apart piece by piece.

What in the world had driven Jaskier to do it was a mystery. He should be perfectly aware a flying mug was no danger for a Witcher.

"Drink." Geralt ordered shoving the potion toward Jaskier.

Jaskier did make a valiant effort to take the potion but kept missing the mark until Geralt placed it in his hand with an exasperated sigh. Shakily he drank the concoction without hesitation until the bottle was empty, Geralt helping him lift his head enough not to choke.

"Wait. What was that? You always go on and on how your strange Witcher potions are not for us weak fragile humans. You wouldn't poison me after all this time, right? Geralt?" Jaskier suddenly worried.

"If I wanted you dead I'd have killed you long ago. And not with poison." Geralt answered blankly.

"It's just painkiller. You can sleep now. I'll keep waking you up to make sure last of your brain cells didn't rattle loose." he continued lifting the blanket for Jaskier to wrap it around himself.

"That's offensive. I'll let you know I have plenty of commonsense…" Jaskier protested weakly eyelids fluttering.

"Sure. As much as a toddler." Geralt granted. Softer, he prompted Jaskier to close his eyes. "Sleep. You'll feel better after."

"... Uh-huh…" came the eloquent answer. Just before he succumbed to his exhaustion, Jaskier could have sworn he felt gentle hand carding through his hair.

Also on AO3 with The Mud Wolf song!

[ill-skillsgard]

The Gloaming Hour - Alex Hogh Andersen

Title: The Gloaming Hour

Characters: Alex Hogh Andersen x ambiguous fem

Warning: No real warnings. Just angst and feelings!

Note:  In honour of @flowers-in-your-hayr​​ birthday, I wrote a little imagine inspired by one of her wonderful moodboards! Thank you @maggiescarborough​​ for organizing this fun event and asking me to take part <3

The concept of this piece isn’t based on the moodboard directly, rather an idea that popped into my head from the collection of images. Hope you like it! Kisses!

+

Excitement drained from Alex's face ounce by ounce, leaving his jovial smile deflated, his bright eyes a lifeless blue. As the curator flipped through his collection of portraits, scrutiny notched a wrinkle between his eyebrows that deepened with each turn of the page. Though a facetious mustache hid the curator's top lip, Alex recognized a grimace and the discontent infiltrating the air between them.

The older man closed the portfolio and sighed. He took off his glasses, polished the lenses on the lapel of his jacket and replaced them on his nose to better assess Alex's mood.

"Alexander..."

"Please, just Alex," the photographer insisted.

"Alex. It... It just—it breaks my heart to see your passion shrivelling."

Struck as though the curator had set his work on fire before him on the desk, Alex took a half-step back to prepare for harsher evaluations. "Shrivelling? I'd have to disagree."

"This isn't up to par with what you've brought to me in recent times. There's no trace of emotion. At least, nothing genuine. They're good photos, Alex, but they're stock photos at best. Destined for a watermark."

Alex gestured at the portfolio. "They're not the worst. I made do with what I had. There's only so many angles of Copenhagen I can give you before it looks postcard-ish. I took these at the height of the panic, while the entire world held its breath waiting for answers. I feel I reflect this in my work. Did you see the one of the little girl on the swing?"

The curator pushed the folder across the desk, a final swing of the axe. "I can't put these in the show, Alex. It's not my reputation I'm worried about, it's yours. I don't want to be the rope that ties your young career to the stake. My patrons wouldn't piss on these if they were on fire. Now, your winter series... If you brought me something like that, then I'd sing a different tune. Those were raw. Unfettered by trivial surface emotions. These are rather college-level, just-got-my-hands-on-my-first-DSLR quality. We've seen much better from you."

"What about the photo of the old woman?" Alex gave one last push.

"I'm looking for a coherent series. Something that tells an ongoing story. One diamond in a bed of zirconias just won't cut it, Alex," said the curator. "But we like you here. I want you to be part of the show."

Alex nodded in agreement. "So do I."

"You have five days to put together something that will wow me. I need to be awe-struck. Do you think inspiration will strike in that amount of time?" 

"If I knew when inspiration planned a visit, I'd do nothing but schedule my time around it, trust me," Alex said.

"Five days, Alex, you have less than a week to put something stirring on my desk. I believe in you. Now, I must ask that we get a move on. I have another appointment."

Alex took his portfolio, tucked it under his arm, nodded at the curator and left the gallery. It wasn't until he stepped onto the street the numbness in his face gave way to the severe weight of rejection. He remembered walking into the studio but fifteen minutes prior, brimming with confidence, but that zeal had melted, leaving Alex dispirited and ready to give up his dreams. How could he capture a full series in a few short days? No great work of art had ever been executed in such a minimal amount of time. Alex sighed, lit a cigarette, and walked in no particular direction.

His camera hung around his neck as it nearly always did, but it only served to remind him of his shortcomings. When he passed over a canal of rushing water, Alex thought of ridding himself of the padded noose and chucking the device into the river below. Yet he clutched the camera's zoom lens, running his fingertips over the rubber grip for comfort.

Sequestered in grey daydreams, Alex's feet took him to the walking trails before his head caught up. He left the din of the city behind, and when he snapped from his ruminations, budding birch trees and new foliage surrounded him. Alex had walked the trails many times before, but that day a golden hue drenched the atmosphere and had him appreciating the landscape with eyes afresh. He wandered this way and that, losing himself in the thicket on purpose as he watched for rare birds above. 

He came to the river's bend where an arcing walking bridge connected one side to the other. A woman was standing on the apex, looking out over the water with her back turned to Alex. She paid no attention to anything but the rapids below as the gentle wind carried pieces of her hair, abandoning the strands to float about her pate like a strange halo. From afar, Alex studied the slopes of her profile, but without his glasses, he couldn't make out the subtleties that made her eye-catching. The woman didn't notice him step onto the walking bridge.

The closer Alex came to the woman, the stronger his urge to photograph her became. He uncapped the camera lens, turned on the device and adjusted the settings to compliment the evening glow. From a distance, Alex relied on the power of the lens to bring her closer. He snapped some photos, then approached another four steps, fixed his frame, and captured a few more.

Alex cycled through the newest photos and noticed something about the woman's face he hadn't before: she was crying. Below her left cheek, a small stream glimmered, the setting sun illuminating a teardrop hanging off her jaw. This discovery made Alex's heart sink. He went a little closer, snapped another picture with his proximity taken into consideration, then studied the image. Her sadness tainted the entire frame, a beacon of black and grey on a gilded backdrop.

The woman turned just as Alex clicked the shutter again, and her melancholy transformed into indignation. She swiped at her incriminating tears in hopes the stranger wouldn't see them, but it was far too late. Alex already had evidence of her mournful spell.

"Excuse me! Just what do you think you're doing taking photos of me?" The woman yelled, approaching swiftly. "Did I give you permission to take my picture?"

The photographer took a step back, abandoning his camera near his chest to display open palms. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bother. You just looked so... I'm sorry. I'll delete them, I promise."

Redness swallowed the whites of her eyes. Now that she was within slapping distance of Alex's face, it was clear the woman had been suffering there on the bridge for a long while. Though all traces of her dreary expression fled, he got the sense something terrible had happened to her, and he had taken advantage of her private moment for his benefit.

"Why would you do that? Take pictures of people without them knowing?" She demanded to know.

"I'm a photographer. I swear, I'm not some creepy guy that goes around taking photos of women."

"Pfft," she hissed. "I bet you have loads of disgusting pictures on that thing because you're a man, and all men are absolutely disgusting!"

Taken aback by her accosting, Alex realized her hurt ran deep and fresh. Her tears dried up, leaving behind nothing but scorn and red, puffy cheeks. Whatever internal wound she bore still bled, and he apologized again in hopes the woman might forgive him.

"Honestly, I'm just a photographer. Not a weirdo. Here, I'll even show you what I have on my camera roll. It's nothing but portraits and pictures of trees, I swear on my life. I was just walking and saw you on the bridge, and you looked... Um."

Her anger lessened, curiosity taking its place at least in her eyes. "I looked what? What did I look like?"

Alex chewed his bottom lip and toed a plank of the walking bridge. She met his silence with another step forward.

"You looked so sad... And beautiful," whispered Alex.

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head as a sarcastic laugh punched the air. "You're so full of shit."

"I'm not lying!" Alex defended himself. "Look for yourself."

The photographer turned his camera around, but the woman stepped back. Alex sighed, waited for her to build up enough trust to approach him, and let her come to his side when she was sure he wouldn't lunge. She looked at the display and the photo he'd captured of her hanging her head, one lone teardrop on her face alight with the diminishing aura of day. 

"Well... It's not terrible, I guess," she said.

"I'll still delete them," assured Alex

The woman shook her head. "You're a real photographer? Like a real, professional one?"

Alex fetched a business card from his pocket and passed it to her. She scanned the piece of cardstock and then his face.

"I've had my work displayed in art galleries if that helps."

"I guess it does."

A silence leavened the tension between them. The warbling water below clashed with bird calls above, and the sun slipped away, leaving them in deepening twilight. After five long minutes of quietude, the woman finally sighed.

"You don't have to delete them. They're good. You're obviously talented, and who am I to stifle your art?"

Surprised by her revelation, Alex chuckled nervously. "You sure? I don't have a problem getting rid of them."

"No," she shook her head. "You somehow made the shittiest day of my life look... Beautiful."

There was something about the woman's change of mind that told of understanding and kindness. Alex suddenly wanted to comfort her further. He slipped his camera behind him and spread his arms open. She flinched at this but realized what he meant to do.

"Would you like a hug? You look like you could use a good hug," offered Alex.

She bit the inside of her cheek as a bubble of a sob fought to escape her throat. Nodding while her eyes brimmed with another crop of tears, she stepped into his embrace and crushed her face into the collar of his denim coat. Surprised by the strength in which she clung to his torso, Alex matched it and held the girl tight until her tears dried up once more. 

[irwintry]

Like Candy

Warnings: swearing

Author’s Note: stomp on the ground (sea bears take it as a challenge) i kinda wish i could rewrite this part but at the same time i dont wanna 

Word Count: 1.9k

part one

Ashton's life felt like clockwork. Everything fit together just perfectly, and he had it all planned to a t. He knew exactly what kind of life he wanted to live during and after fame. Of course, there were a few roadblocks here and there, but his life remained steadily consistent.

You played a big part in that. He was used to you, even though he was the biggest pest of your life. That he knew. He loved seeing you flustered, and a part of him wanted it to be because of other reasons. Except, Ashton couldn't have that. His plan didn't involve you like that, so he scrapped whatever pieces included seeing you. That meant no Scotty's, no sunny-side-up eggs, and no you.

He stopped holding parties, too. He feared you would show up announced so you could talk to him. If he was honest – which he really, really wanted to be, he would let you talk to him. He would stop the entire world to see you one more time. But, he couldn't convince himself to even drive by that diner that had every jam in the world but orange marmalade. It was okay because he didn't like orange marmalade.

"You're depressing," a friend of his pointed out one night. They were four beers in, and Ashton felt nothing.

"Don't say that," he told his friend (whose name did not matter). Ashton felt it was his duty to defend himself at every given moment. He wouldn't allow himself to feel vulnerable, even when he wanted to crumble. He wanted to admit he was weak. He wasn't the Ashton that you grew to hate at the diner.

One morning, he drove by Scotty's. The windows were gone, and the glass doors had painted red x's down the front. He accidentally honked out of frustration, which caused a parade of honks to echo down the boulevard. The diner had been cut out of his life for two months now, but it destroyed him to see it go before he could say goodbye. This also meant he had no idea how to find you.

He only knew your first name and that you had a pug named Horace. By this point, the only way of seeing you again was if you decided to knock on his front door. You wouldn't; he made it clear he didn't want to see you again after never going back to Scotty's. He could tell you weren't the type to chase after things, especially when they weren't even yours in the first place. But in a way, he hoped he was wrong.

That kind of made Ashton hate himself. Why couldn't he just be nice to you? He wanted to show you exactly how he felt, but he couldn't. He had become the definition of a stupid schoolboy being a meanie because he had a crush on a girl. The pure idea made it hard for him to live with himself. He wanted to take it all back. Ashton didn't like to apologize, but for you, he wanted to spend the rest of his life making sure you knew how sorry he was.

Maybe that was why he drove by Scotty's in the first place. He had to start somewhere.

Sometimes, he drove by that gas station off of La Cienega to see if he could spot you pumping gas. He would even stop there a few times to buy him a little more time... just in case.

Ashton felt really pathetic. To him, you were sweet like candy (you reminded him of a Hershey's kiss), but not a fucked-up Warhead like himself. If you kept him in your cheek, it would only burn a little less. Too much of him would be unbearable.

What he didn't know was that you wouldn't believe any of that. You saw right through his sour shell. You also felt bad for him, but you'd never admit that to the poor soul. After knowing him for as long as you had, you figured out why he built a wall around his feelings. His "likings" towards you were hidden behind cold glares and deep, unkind laughter. You wanted to forgive him for that, which is why it took you two months to shake off the complex emotions rattling around in your brain.

You were pounding on his front door at eleven o'clock at night– you were too tired of feeling this way. You were too tired of this open-ended story he wrote for the two of you, even if it meant rejection.

Ashton had been fresh out of the shower, his eyes droopy and exhausted from a long day of writing and brainstorming. A stained gray shirt adorned his chest, the heathered material tucked tight into sweatpants of a darker shade. He was just about to make himself a bowl of black raspberry frozen yogurt when he heard your rhythmic knocking.

Neither of you said anything as he opened the door with a tired smile – a smile that fell right as his eyes landed on your sad ones. He took you in, forcing himself to keep the damn door open because he needed to face his feelings. It was a miracle you were here; he wouldn't have found you if you hadn't shown up.

"I– "

"'m not gonna be mean," he said, his voice sleepy.

Already, things were off to a different start than you had thought. You figured he'd slam the door in your face with a roll of his eyes. You would knock again, and he'd shout something rude from the inside. Or, he'd let you in and fuck you over once again.

You nodded.

Ashton felt a bit of bile rise up in his throat, so he opened the door for you and swallowed it down while you walked by him. It was his body's way of pushing away any temptations to be as cruel and sour as he had been months ago.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked softly. He couldn't even believe he had enough strength to vocalize coherent words. "Water? Toast with jam?"

You chuckled to yourself. "'m good," you said. "I just– uh, I should've stayed home." You scratched your arm through the waffled material of your sweatshirt.

Ashton looked at you with wide eyes, and he let you continue.

"I thought it would be smart of me to come here and tell you everything that's been on my mind," you continued. "I thought I would waltz in and easily explain how you've made me feel. I mean, fuck, Ashton you played me. You told me you liked me, fucked me, and then left me there. I shouldn't have come because clearly you don't care, and you never cared." You started towards the door, proud that you had said all of that without shedding a single tear. When you reached for the door handle, Ashton stepped in between you and the metal.

"'s not fair," he whispered, it was quite wimpy at that. "Not fair what I did to you. I'd take it back if I could."

"Then why– " You took a deep breath. "Why did you do it in the first place?"

He sighed and instinctively reached for one of your hands; it shocked him that you didn't pull away. "A little messed up in here," he said as he used his other hand to motion toward his head. There was a light laugh that escaped from his lips, but it wasn't genuine. Seeing you and holding this conversation gave him the worst anxiety he had felt since his first stage performance.

You nodded but said nothing. You were waiting for him to prove himself.

It was like a bomb went off in Ashton's head. He gripped his hair, attempting to force the truth out of his mouth while every muscle in his face tensed as time passed. He had never been this awful at feelings, especially when the risk of you never believing him was so strong. Not only that, but he had no excuse to act the way he did around you. You knew he liked you. What he never told you was that he was absolutely head over heels in love with you and the idea of you. Most likely, it was the latter that drove him insane. He didn't know you, not enough to be in love with you.

"But you know me better than anyone else," he said out of the blue. He waited to see your expression change, yet it didn't. Maybe you agreed. "Y'know, I really don't expect you to understand anything 'm gonna say."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why? Because you don't think I'm smart, or something?"

"No!" Ashton had fucked up already. "Fu– no, that's not– I didn't mean to say it like that. You, like, really fucked my mind up. You know I like you, you know I– "

"Do I?"

He frowned. "I like you way more than I let out. I mean, it's fucking crazy how much I like you. You and Scotty's were my escape, and once I started going there for you and you only, I didn't know how to be nice. You were bringing out the worst in me, and to this day, I don't know why. I'm giving you no reasons to trust me or believe me. Literally no reasons. You have every right to be mad or confused, or to just fuckin' slap me if you– "

It was like a brick hit his face. He hadn't actually expected you to slap him, but he was glad you did. It stopped the word vomit from ensuing moments later, and it released whatever tensions you were holding back.

He breathed out, shutting his eyes momentarily so he could steady his emotions. "I wanted you more than I've wanted anyone in my life, and I didn't know what to do. I want you." He couldn't open his eyes. "I played you. I fucked you over. And I'll forever hate myself for treating you the way I did. I wanna make it up to you– I'd spend my whole life doing it, but I'd never blame you for walking away."

When he opened his eyes, he noticed your rosy cheeks. You appeared to have relaxed a little bit– even though your arms were crossed, and your shoulders were hunched over. You weren't looking at him.

"'m just confused," you whispered. You looked so small, and he wanted to do was wrap you up in his arms. "I've never met anyone who will confess their feelings to someone and then drop them out of their life like one of their hook-ups. I actually had feelings for you, too. Dunno how. You were fuckin’ cruel."

Ashton's face crumbled. He could hear his heart in his ears as he took a step back against the door. Had you ever told him how you felt before? He couldn't remember; like always, he had focused on himself.

After that, he didn't know what to say. The silence was burning into his skull after every passing moment and looking into your eyes was too overwhelming for him to focus on another thought. The situation he had put himself in created this. And yet, he no longer felt nervous. He felt every bit comfortable being this vulnerable in front of you– something that he never thought he would ever, ever feel.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed out, almost a little too hushed for anyone to hear.

But you had. You just nodded.

"It's late," he said. "Stay tonight."

"Ash– "

"Please."

You didn't react right away. This was the longest time the two of you had maintained solid eye contact, and it was too overwhelming to look elsewhere. You wanted to see those hazel eyes until colors failed you.

"Okay," you mumbled.

Ashton felt his heart skip. The universe was giving him another chance    

[the-nerd-book-reader]

I’ll Stay

Just another Drarry thing I wrote because @theperksofbeingatotalnerd gives amazing prompts that I can’t seem to be able to not write

It was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. But Pansy was handing him a new shot, his week had been awful and Potter was looking indecently edible from the other side of the crowded bar in his dark red t-shirt and black pants, which did nothing to placate the fire in Draco’s stomach pit, a fire that could rival with the one that his last vodka shot had burned through his throat.

He should say no. He could still refuse the little glass Pansy held in front of him and go home, pretend he never saw Potter there and that he definitely didn’t care. But then Potter looked at his way, all strong jaw and deep green eyes. Draco downed his second shot.

                                                ____________

He wasn’t sure anymore if the heat he was feeling was due to the alcohol in his veins or the pair of eyes that seemed to follow him all night. He could feel them every time he turned to the bar or when he talked to Pansy (who was becoming rapidly tired of trying to pry his attention from another person) but, once he looked at Potter, the man was always talking to somebody else or not even facing him.

“Draco, you’re not hearing a single thing I’m saying. Again.” His friend complained next to him.

“I’m sorry, Pans. I think I’ve drank my limit and I’m really tired so-”

“Just go talk to him, Draco. He hasn’t taken his eyes of you all evening and neither have you.” She said, a fond (although a bit exasperated) smile etching her features.

Draco was shocked for a moment, but his eyes still roamed to where Potter was standing, nursing what seemed like a glass of firewhiskey in his hand while talking to the Weasel.    

“Don’t be daft, Pansy. He doesn’t…” He trailed off when he saw the girl dressing her jacket. “What are you doing?”

Pansy rolled her shoulders once and pulled at the lapels of the black leather jacket. Getting on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair lightly, a gesture she knew that wasn’t welcome.

“I’m going home, darling. And you are going to get over there and talk with the object of your dirty dreams.” She winked.

He did wish Potter only frequented his dirty dreams. That would be easy to explain. Him appearing in his daydreams however…

“Pansy, don’t you dare leave me he-”

With a pop, his friend was gone and Draco was left leaning on the counter, slightly tipsy (not enough to cloud his better judgement, but definitely enough for him not to risk losing a limb if he tried to apparate) and staring dumbly at the spot Pansy had occupied a few seconds ago. She couldn’t be serious about Potter, right? Just because they were partners now, it didn’t mean the gorgeous git actually wanted to… to what? Snog him? Fuck him? Date him?

Yeah, right Draco. The blonde thought to himself. That only happens in your regular dreams.

Still, there was something keeping Draco from going home right that instant. He couldn’t quite place it, though. He wasn’t sure if it was the tiredness he felt, like he didn’t have the energy to stand on his own slightly wobbly legs, or if it was the tingling he felt all over his body whenever Potter was near him. It was quite strange. The feeling of having all his body radiating heat but still feel like he couldn’t walk away even if he wanted to.

The problem was… Pansy be damned but she was right. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Not when Potter was still there, so near but oh so painfully far away from Draco’s reach.

And so, he asked for another firewhisky. And he stayed.

                                              ____________

Ok, he was officially pissed. Pansy had left an hour ago and in that hour alone Draco had drank three more glasses of firewhisky and two tequila shots. All of those, allied to the few more drinks he had had with his friend, left the blonde in a quite unsteady state and feeling like in a haze. All his thoughts kept rushing to the front of his mind, one in front of the other, crashing and tumbling back to his subconscient, only to repeat the motion over and over again. Draco felt like he couldn’t grasp any of them, like trying to catch water only to have them sliding through his fingers. He wasn’t, however, drunk enough to not realize what those thoughts were about. Or rather, who.

Well, it was all Potter’s fault anyway. The specky git and his stupid kindness, and the stupid unkept black bird’s nest that he called hair, and his stupid gorgeous body, and the stupid sexy laugh that warmed his heart, and the stupid soft voice every time he says good morning when he arrives (late obviously) to their office. And… and… and the simple and easy way he made Draco fall head over heels for him.

Now, here he was, utterly drunk and still unable to look away from Harry Potter, that was currently…

Wait. Where was he? He was just there, right next to Longbottom and talking to Lovegood. Draco remembered because he had been wondering how someone could look so stunning leaned casually on a table and-

“Hi, Draco.”

The Slytherin jumped from his booth, head snapping to his left, from where the heavy voice had come. Green bright eyes met him and he found his mouth dry, throat working soundlessly at the sight in front of him.

“I… I was over there and… and I saw you here by yourself so I thought I might come and offer you a drink?” Harry stuttered, a light red staining his cheeks. Draco wondered why Harry wouldn’t just take his shirt off if he was feeling so hot.

Trying to stay calm and work through the Gryffindor’s words, he stretched his hand to get hold of the counter, aiming for a more relaxed position. However, in his alcohol induced state, he failed the counter rather spectacularly, his weight sending him tumbling straight to the floor.

Suddenly, Draco felt strong arms circling his waist, keeping him from falling face-front with the floor. Next thing he knew, he was being gently pulled into a vertical position again and he found himself staring at the curve of the raven’s neck, hands planted in the broad chest.

It all happened too fast. The skin under his long fingers was warm, even with the fabric separating them; the remains of man’s cologne and firewhisky couldn’t mask the musky unique scent of Harry, that washed over Draco’s senses leaving him even more unstable and with his head spinning; the desire of burying his face in the Gryffindor’s neck became almost unbearable and he could almost swear that the arms holding him tightened for a flick of a second. Only if he could… “Malfoy?” The voice was soft, a calm question but the blonde was so absorbed in his new-found desire of tasting the bronzed skin in front of him that the sound of his name was quickly lost in the noise around them. “Draco?” He asked again, this time a bit more questioningly. At the sound of his first name leaving Harry’s lips, the Slytherin was finally able to shake out of his stupor, finally looking up to meet the green eyes that searched his face. ”I’m going to let you go now, ok?” He wanted to say no. He wanted to scream it. He wanted to stay just a bit longer held by the strong arms that circled him, losing himself wondering how would it be to be held like this every day. He couldn’t however. So, gathering whatever was left of his dignity, he stepped back, out of the other’s embrace. Clearing his throat, Draco finally spoke: “I’m fine, Potter. Err… Thank you. The floor was… slippery.” The arched eyebrow that Potter exhibited told him that he didn’t believe him for a second.

“I am perfectly able to stand on my one, Potter. It’s not my fault people spill their drinks to the floor.”

“The only person in this spot was you all night, Malfoy. And you didn’t spill any drink, much to my surprise.” He argued, eyebrow still in place.

“Why, Potter, you’ve been watching me that intently?” Draco tried to make his heart not to stop at the idea.

Harry’s cheeks became crimson for the second time that night and he spluttered a little before being able to form a coherent answer.

“I just meant… you were here since I arrived and the floor isn’t wet.”

Draco looked at the floor, realizing how dry it was. Not even Longbottom would slip there. “Oh. Right.” He mumbled, scratching his head and still looking down, a bit lost.

Harry must have taken pity on him, because he just chuckled (Merlin, even his chuckle is sexy, Draco thought to himself) and waved a hand dismissively.

“Look, Draco, it’s fine. I just came here to ask if you wanted to have a drink with me but it’s pretty obvious you’ve had your fair share of them tonight.”

Oh, this was not good. The blonde could already feel his drunk brain preparing to do something really stupid and really, really reckless. And wasn’t that saying something considering who he was talking to.

“Don’t make assumptions about me, Potter.” He almost spat.

“I wasn’t! Besides, there’s nothing wrong in drinking a little too much some-”

“I’ll take you up in that offer.” Draco interrupted, not giving it a second thought.

“You… You what?”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He could still ask the bartender to let him use the floo to call Pansy. He should just leave.

“I’ll have a drink with you.”

But he had been making all the wrong choices all evening. Why stop now?

Harry’s eyebrows shot in bewilderment, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Nonetheless, he signalled the bartender, asking for two more glasses of the wizarding drink. He looked at Draco once again, still the same expression etching his features. His bloody gorgeous features.

“Draco, are you sure? It’s fine if you want to call it a night.”

“I already told you I’d have a drink with you. Besides, I haven’t drank that much yet.” Ok, he was lying. But it wasn’t his fault anyway. Not when Harry’s eyes were finally set on him. Only him. Also, the sound of his name leaving the Gryffindor’s mouth still made funny things to his stomach. “I’ll stay.”

                                              ______________

 The moment the words had left his lips, Draco had thought he made the wrong decision. But then Harry had smiled. A slow, tentative smile painting his filled lips, that quickly turned into a full force grin and oh, oh Draco was so lost. He would never know why the prospect of a few more minutes of talk and drinking with him would make Harry so happy. So wonderfully bright. But he wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t complaining then, and he isn’t complaining now, as the gryffindor talks about everything and nothing at all. He can’t quite catch everything the man is saying. His alcohol drenched brain doesn’t allow him to. He doesn’t care either. Watching Harry so loose and carefree is enough. He doesn’t even care about the fact that he had embarrassedly admitted he actually enjoyed watching those cartoon muggle movies with his cousin. What were they called? Kidney? Fisney? Oh, yeah, Disney!

No. He really can’t regret the moment he decided he would stay.

Only if the man in front of him would let it be forever…

The blonde shook his head, trying to vanish the wildling thoughts in it, but he quickly stopped as the world swayed in front of him. He was starting to have troubles staying up right. He just hoped Harry wouldn’t notice. He didn’t want to leave yet.

“Are you ok, Draco? I think you’ve really drank your limit.”

Nice moment to stop being oblivious, Potter.

“I’ve told you I’m fine.” Draco managed to assure, although he finally pushed the glass away from him.

The man considered him for a moment before seeming to decide it wasn’t worth the fight and launching himself in the conversation as easily as he slipped out of it. Draco was able to focus on what he was saying. For about thirty seconds. Soon, he found that not having a drink to cradle between his fingers left his hands free to touch anything. He started by intertwine his fingers, willing to keep his hands still. He looked at Harry’s face once again and he noticed the man was still rambling about something he wasn’t really hearing. However, his eyes quickly focused on the movement of the red lips. Well, not exactly the movement but rather how much he would like to run his thumb across the bottom lip and maybe his tongue after. Then his eyes followed the sharp line of the jaw, covered by a light stubble that he wondered how it would feel rasping his skin. But where he truly lost it, was when his eyes skimmed the broad chest that he had been held against just an hour ago. His brain was to foggy, his hands were free without him even noticing it and the desires he’d been trying to contain for months now hit him full force.

Shaky fingers left the safety of the counter in front of him and Draco stretched his arm, his fingertips softly colliding with Harry’s chest in a feather caress, only the tissue separating they’re skins. The man’s breath hitched (when had he stopped talking?) and soon the Slytherin’s hand was completely flattened above the raven’s muscles. Draco didn’t think Harry was even breathing.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He should step back and flee away from there. Except, his brain didn’t want to. He didn’t want to. The only thing that mattered was the man in front of him, the warm skin beneath his and the fact that he was desperately in love with Harry Potter and he had to be drunk to even admit it to himself. He was crazy, he was out of his mind. It was a weakness.

But Harry had always been his weakness.

And the touch was so personal. So intimate. He would hate Draco in the morning. Hell, he would hate himself if he was able to remember it. However, touching him so closely right now made him wonder…

“… how would it be to be close to you.” Draco whispered. He didn’t realize the words weren’t said in the privacy of his own mind.

Harry gasped, and Draco was able to feel it through his hand. It felt wonderfully. He was still dozy from the feeling when he felt the man in front of him step forward and circle his waist with a strong arm, pulling him closer. All too suddenly, the gryffindor’s face was right beside his, barely touching him but not quite. Draco shivered as the lips he had been admiring a few moments before brushed his ear in a quiet whisper.

“Will you dance with me?”

Draco could only nod.

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. Because there was no way that the Saviour, the Boy-Who-Lived, his long-time crush, was holding him through the crowd as they made their way to the dance floor. Once they arrived, had the centre of it, bodies dancing all around them and the music ringing in his ears, Harry held him even closer, their fronts completely flushed together. Wobbly legs, that Draco couldn’t blame on alcohol anymore, did little to support his weight and so he let Harry hold him, not sure he could stand on his own. Harry started to sway and move against him, taking Draco with him and, bloody hell, they might never talk again after tonight but for now… for now Draco had this and Merlin be damned if he was letting go of it.

Dancing with Harry was surprisingly easy. The man knew how to move (Well, what a shock! The git was good at everything.) and the confidence with which he swayed his hips against Draco’s could rival the one he had while riding a broom. Damn, it was intoxicating. Draco knew what he wanted to ride after seeing that. Harry held him song after song, leading them and humming lightly. They’re eyes never met, though. Their cheeks remained pressed all the time, their breaths damping the hairs next to their ears although none of them talked. After some time, Harry started to show the first signs of fatigue. His breaths were coming out sharper and they were dancing slower than the beat of the song. Draco was also starting to feel the effects of the night and the alcohol on his body, his head becoming hard to hold upright. So, since nothing would actually make him regret this tomorrow, he lowered his head onto Harry’s shoulder, his lips dangerously close to the man’s neck. One movement from him and he could suck a purple bruise into the dark skin. The raven, on the other hand, faltered a step when he felt the blonde’s head on him, and he really must have been tired because he was angling his hips slightly away. The Slytherin however, was not ready to let it end already so, summoning the last of his strengths he pulled Harry back to him and…

Oh.Oh.

Mother of Merlin.

Potter had an erection. Harry was hard. He was hard while dancing with Draco. He was hard because of Draco. He wanted Harry for ages and Harry wanted him back.

“Shit.” Harry gasped, closing his eyes as their hard-ons rubbed together. “Draco, I-“

The man lost his ability to speak when moist lips made contact with the warm skin of his neck, an angry red hickey already being formed between Draco’s teeth. Once he let go of the skin, his tongue lapped the same spot he had just marked.

“Fuck!”

Draco didn’t even hesitate. “Get us out of here.”

“Draco, I don’t think you should-“

“Now, Potter.”

Obeying, probably for the first time in his life, Harry took his hand and tugged him all the away to the door, only sparing a moment to throw some galleons into the counter to pay for the drinks. When they finally made it through the door, they were both breathless and Draco’s fingers were itching to touch Harry again. He launched himself at him, only the wall keeping them from falling to the cold floor. In that moment, with Harry’s back against a brick wall and Draco’s front glued to him, they stopped. Their lips were hovering millimetres away and the blonde knew that, if that gap disappeared, there was no turning back. It only took him a glance at the bright green iris, almost inexistent because of the blown pupils, to make his decision. He closed the remaining distance between them.

Harry’s moan the moment their lips touched made Draco feel goosebumps all over his skin. The raven kissed him like he was drowning and Draco was air, it was amazing! Better than Draco had ever imagined. It felt so natural, like they had been kissing for years now. He knew that this would probably be over before the morning arrived, because Harry might want him, but Draco wanted all of him, so he let himself enjoy everything he could while he had it.

All too soon, the Gryffindor was gently pulling away and running his thumb through the blonde’s cheek bone, watching him so intently Draco could see the fire in his eyes.

“Merlin, you’re beautiful. I’m so sorry I never told you.” Harry whispered.

“Please.” Draco whimpered “Take me home.”

“I… I don’t know where you live.” He answered, confusion marking his features. Draco rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

“Yours. Take me with you.”

“But I…”

“Harry, please.” He pleaded while sucking a new bruise in the other’s collar bones.

“Ah, shit. Hold on to me.”

Draco was more than happy to obey. Harry tighten his grip on him and apparated them straight to his flat. Draco only had a moment to take in the dark hall where they were before his legs lost all the strength they had left. Apparition seemed not to be a good idea for someone as drunk as he was. Harry, always being the saviour, caught him before his knees even hit the dark wood floor. Suddenly, it all felt so surreal that Draco giggled. And once he started he couldn’t stop. He laughed as Harry hoisted him up, shaking his head with a fond smile playing on his lips. He was still laughing, his full body leaning on Harry for support, when the man crouched without a warning, picking up the slender man easily in a full bridal style. Draco squealed in surprise and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck when he started to move.

“Potter!” He hissed “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to bed” He answered promptly, kissing the small pout in Draco’s bottom lip. “Someone, which means you, drank too much tonight. You can barely stay upright, and I saw how much you had drank with Pansy before I arrived. Not to mention the hysterical laugh.” He smirked.

“So, you were watching me all night.” Draco drawled smugly while Harry pushed the bedroom door open with his foot.

The raven sighed sadly, and Draco frowned, suddenly worried.

“Draco, I’ve been watching you since we were eleven. And since you stepped into our now shared office with your irritating pride and confidence and that beautiful face. You have me since that day.”

“Wha- Harry, I… What do you mean?”

The Gryffindor snapped his fingers, and Draco watched as the blanket in the man’s bed backed up, revealing clean, white linen where he lowered Draco carefully. He had to admit it felt good to finally lay down in a comfortable bed. Harry made to step back but the blonde grabbed his wrist, not letting him move anyway further.

“Where are you going?” Draco asked desperately. It didn’t make any sense.

“To the living room, so you can sleep. You’re going to have a major headache tomorrow.” Harry answered neutrally, not quite meeting his eyes. It pained Draco, feeling him so distant when moments before he had him so impossibly close.

“Why?” He pushed, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. Bloody alcohol and its ability for making him such a sappy mess. “Aren’t you going to have me?”

Harry’s eyes snapped to his at that, wide and disbelieving. “I would never do that in the state you’re in Draco. You can’t make your own choices like that. You don’t really want this.”

“You’ll always be my choice, Harry.”

None of the man dared to breathe. They both stared into each other’s eyes, grey into green and green into grey, both searching for something that none of them knew if it was there.

Harry eventually sat in the edge of the bed, close enough to Draco’s hips that he could feel the waves of warm coming from his skin. He rubbed a hand through his face, sighing. When he finally looked again to the grey eyes, Draco could see the indecision swimming in the green. The hand that had previously rubbed so vigorously his face, hovered a little above Draco’s before cupping his cheek oh, so lovingly, and brushing a thumb through the soft marble skin. Harry lowered himself so they were face to face, the blonde’s head still comfortably nested in a pillow. Their lips brushed, as if the raven was asking for permission, and Draco nodded, just once. The kiss was chaste and brief, nothing like the one they had shared outside the crowded club, but it still warmed him inside.

“If you don’t hate me in the morning, we’ll talk. Yeah?” Harry whispered, just a little bit above Draco’s lips.

“Yeah.” Draco breathed, too tired to ask any more questions. They could wait for the morning.

When Harry made to leave again, the Slytherin combed a hand through the black mess in his head and looked straight into his eyes, shaking away the tiredness he felt so Harry could see how much he wanted it.

“Stay.” He pleaded.

The man wavered for a moment before making up his mind.

“Ok. I’ll stay.”

Harry tucked himself under the blanket and pulled Draco against him. “Forever if you’ll have me.”

“I do.”

[thegayagenda-forkids]

Hand Drawn Sleeves- Chapter 1

The first time T.J remembers seeing the designs was on the first day of second grade. He was sitting while the teacher was teaching math, and he wasn’t paying attention. He hated math anyways. He felt a tickle on his arm and looked down, seeing flowers and swirls sprawling about. He stared at his arm puzzled, rubbing at it, but the designs wouldn’t smear or fade. He put on his jacket and kept his sleeves rolled down all day.

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When he went back home, he was trying not to cry, freaking out and showing his mom. She smiled and stroked back his hair.

“Honey, everyone on Earth is born with a soulmate, the person that’s perfect for you and who you should be with,” she said. “And the universe decided to help us find them by letting us know what’s drawn on the skin of the other. Look!” She pointed to his arm and the drawings started smearing before disappearing. “Looks like your soulmate is washing them off. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“So whatever they draw I see on my skin?”

“And whatever you draw will show up on their skin.”

So T.J. Kippen moved on with his life, and he kept looking forward to what would show up on his skin. It was highly discouraged for people to use the writing on the skin to reveal their identities because if you met and knew who your soulmate was too early, there was a 99% chance of the relationship not working out and being forever alone, someone dubbed soulless. So he didn’t get his soulmate’s name. He looked for the drawings, and sometimes, he would draw over some of the designs with his own pen and would watch almost all of the drawings fade, wait a good few minutes, and then wait for the trademark frowny face to appear on his forearm. That’s when he would chuckle and wash off his own side. The frowny face would be crossed out with a big X and a smiley face would be drawn next to it, and that always made TJ smile, no matter what was happening in his life.

He loved watching the designs show up on his arm, the way they seemed to swirl. He tried picturing what his soulmate looked like. For several years, he pictured someone like his friend Joshie. Joshie was a cute boy who always had paint on his cheek, but his parents always talked about his soulmate becoming his girlfriend. He always frowned but accepted it. It was probably a girl and he was still growing out of his “girls are icky” phase. His sister Amber acted the same way whenever they referred to her soulmate as her future boyfriend. They were just growing out of it. That’s what they kept saying to each other.

In the meantime, T.J. would just watch the designs every day. He watched it while he was at school, giving up on trying to understand math. He was just stupid with numbers, and he wished people would stop being so hard on him there. He was good at English, Basketball, and even somewhat decent with Spanish since he was able to string together several coherent sentences from Dora the Explorer alone.

He was in the fifth grade when he moved to Shadyside after his dad died. It was just him, his mom, and his sister Amber. When his father died, his mom developed a black band in the middle of her forearm, the sign of a Lost Soul, someone who lost their soulmate.

It was the summer before sixth grade when the drawings stopped. All he would get were pencil smudges or ink stains on his hand from his soulmate. And whenever he helped do some repairs on his mom’s car and got oil stains, the frowny face would reappear, and if he was in the middle of the job, he would take out a pen and write:

-10 minutes-

-O.K. Counting.-

That was the most the two ever wrote to each other as messages. They didn’t want to risk it going any further. When T.J. was about to wash his hands, he’d draw a checkmark, and wait for the smiley face. That was all he got. No more drawings. He was sad, but he moved on. Tons of people would find their soulmates with nothing but ink stains and paint smudges. He moved on.

He joined the basketball team, and eventually, he made captain, and he became the best player on the team. He was forced to allow a girl onto his team, Buffy Driscoll. She was good, but he would never admit that. This was the boy’s basketball team and Driscoll was ruining the vibe. His mom said he had a crush whenever he complained about her. Amber knew Driscoll and the gang, and she knew that T.J. had absolutely no interest in her. He just wanted her off the team so she that the other basketball teams could stop making fun of them.

It was the eighth grade when T.J. looked down at his arms absentmindedly in math class when T.J.’s spirits lifted. It wasn’t him magically understanding the problems on the board. That was never going to happen. It was his arm. On his left arm, the doodles were returning. He smiled and looked over it. There were flowers and leaves, and swirls in the spaces between. He traced them with his finger, looking over it. It felt like his soulmate was back, really back.

He had so many questions. Who were they? Where did they learn how to draw? And why did they stop for so long. He wanted to go rushing out the school hallways and look at everyone’s arm, but he stopped himself. Did he want to know? Was he ready to know?

He decided to shake it off and go to basketball practice, thankful that Buffy was in meetings with the principal to create a new girls basketball team. Not that he would ever tell her, but he supported that. The sooner she got her girls team, the sooner she was off of his. He quickly got changed and went to the gym to go practice some layups.

“Whoa, Timothy Jimothy!” a voice behind him said. T.J. rolled his eyes.

“Not my name, Reed.”

“Dude, I’m running out of T and J names.”

“Yup. You’ll never figure it out. And I’m not telling,” he said, shooting another basket.

“Dude, why did you draw all this crap on your arm?” he took his arm and started looking over it. “Flowers, squiggles, turing fag on me, bro.”

“Dude, shut up,” he said, giving him a shove back. “It’s my soulmate you idiot, see?” he licked his thumb and rubbed it on the doodles. “No smudge. Not me.”

“Damn, you really got some girly girl to draw all over you?” he said.

“I don’t even know who my soulmate is yet,” T.J. said. “All I know is that there’s this drawing on my soulmate’s arm, and it won’t come off until they decide to wash it off.”

“You know,” Randy said, jogging into the room. “The amount that you two argue, nobody would think you guys are best friends. Honestly, even for me sometimes it’s more believable that you two are soulmates.”

“Gross,” Reed said. “T.J's dude!”

“Yeah, gross,” he said, shooting more baskets. “As if I’d want to spend the rest of my life with this dickhead.”

“Oh you’re so sure,” Randy teased.

“Randy, Reed’s arm is clean, mine has doodles all over it. My soulmate is active. Unlike yours...Randy?” T.J. let the ball drop and he rushed to his friend’s side, who fell to his knees and started breathing heavily.

Reed looked at his arm. There were swirling black lines all over it and then it settled on a black band on his forearm.

“Shit,” T.J. looked. “Man I’m sorry…”

“Just... just leave it,” he said. “I gotta go home…Maybe it’s good I didn’t meet them yet. Maybe I’ll meet another lost soul and just...see if we have fun.” He grabbed his stuff and left.

“Okay, I won’t say another word about soulmates...I swear...”

T.J. watched Randy walk away. He knew that sort of thing happened and opened his phone to see if there were any news stories that could have explained that. The good news is that there were no national tragedies to report, but that didn’t change the black band on Randy’s arm.

He remembered the car crash like it was yesterday. They weren’t in the car, but he remembered his mom screamed in pain and dropped the salad bowl she was holding. He remembered looking around confused while Amber rushed over to help her, and he remembered her breaking down crying when the band solidified. He looked up what happened later that night because his mom didn’t want to talk, and he and Amber just held each other and cried.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn’t want to remember the funeral, and he didn’t want to think about how his mom said that it feels like there’s a hole in her heart and that she’ll never be warm enough again.

“Whatever man…” T.J. said. “I’m gonna go study for English…” He put on his hoodie and froze when, as soon as she walked into the gym looking annoyed, he saw Buffy’s right arm. The patterns looked way to similar. He grabbed a blue pen and drew a small slash on his wrist. Thankfully, nothing happened, and he quickly cleaned the mark off before he left. Maybe Driscoll just drew on his soulmate’s arm, or maybe his soulmate was the artist. Either way, one important thought remained in his head.

“Not Her.”