#eventual

[sp0o0kylights]

Bullshit.

The word rings obnoxiously in Steve’s ears as he pushes his way out back, not wanting to be anymore of a talking piece at this party than he already was.

He’d just wanted Nancy to stop drinking, take a second, pace herself…

Steve swipes furiously at his eyes, and then curses when it nearly causes him to run into Chrissy Cunnginham, who’s perched in a chair tucked away from the patio door.

“Sorry, sorry.” He apologizes, trying not to sound like he’s upset, trying to keep his cool--only for her to look up and away, brushing off her own tears.

“Oh.” Steve says, a little laugh bubbling out of him. “You too huh?”

Thankfully she correctly interprets that he's not laughing at her, and adds her own giggle to the mix, the sound gentle even if pitched in upset.

"Boy problems?" Steve asks her, sinking down to the vacant chair on Chrissy's right.

She nods, clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Girl problems?" She asks back, and he grimaces a smile.

They sit for a minute, Steve pulling out a cigarette and offering it to her before lighting up. Chrissy shakes her head, and though her nose curls a little at the smoke she doesn’t say anything.

Neither of them do, staring at the few people bringing the party outside in the way only drunk teenagers can.

"Can I tell you something?" Chrissy says finally, as Steve continues to struggle to keep himself breathing evenly (and not spiraling. He still has to go back and try and escort Nancy home, and he needs to keep his temper when he does it.)

She licks her lips. "I keep trying to break up with Jason, but he won't let me."

It takes a second for the words to register, but when they do he leans himself towards chrissy in concern. “What do you mean, he won’t let you?”

“He’s not--it’s not…”She trails off, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “He talks me out of it is all.”

She’s downplaying it, and Steve’s concern grows tenfold. “Does he argue with you or just…tells you no or something?”

"It's complicated." Chrissy says, refusing to look at him. "He has this vision for me, for us."

Steve watches as she worries at a hangnail.

Feels the need to reach out and take her hand, but keeps his own hands to himself.

If Steve has learned anything, it's that not everyone wants to be touched as much as he does.

"He keeps telling me I'm just being anxious. That I should trust him, and I do, he just expects me to always do what he says? And more and more lately I--"

She huddles down into the little cat costume she's wearing, pulling the thin black sweater around her. "I want different things than he does."

Steve wonders vaguely if Nancy wants different things.

Or a different person entirely.

"That's not fair to you." Steve says, leaning forward and lowering his own voice. "He can't keep you in a relationship you don't want to be in."

A hard thing for him to say, after the bathroom conversation but this is different.

‘Please, let this be different.’ He thinks, before pushing the thought aside.

"He can't force you to do what he wants just because he wants it, or thinks its best. He should be listening to you and what you want too. Relationships are about…compromise right?” It’s what he’s heard anyway, though most of the time “compromise” means “letting the other person get what they want.”

Which is what he thought he’d been doing for Nancy all this time.

“I can help you if you want. Be your," Steve poorly mimes waving a pom pom. "cheer support."

Chrissy looks at him, eyes still wet. "You would?"

"Of course.” He says, before scooting just a smidgen closer. “Might have to ask you to return the favor though. Nancy said some things tonight and I could really use a second--”

A loud curse makes them both startle, interrupting Steve.

Together, they look around before another noise, like bark being scraped, draws both their attention to the large oak that stands in the backyard.”

"Is…is that Eddie Munson?" Chrissy asks.

"I think so."

Chrissy squints a little, as if not quite believing what she's seeing. "Is…he stuck in a tree?"

Steve finds himself staring in his own disbelief, hands moving to his hips as he watches Munsons wriggling, cursing form.

"I think so." He repeats with a shake of his head.

Eddie's foot slips off a branch, once, twice.

"Hey--" Steve calls out in warning, but unfortunately it comes too late.

The branch under his foot gives away with a startling crack! as another branch shreds Munson's jacket as his full weight caches on it.

"Oh!" Chrissy gasps, hand flying to her mouth as Eddie falls right onto his ass with a yelp.

"You good man?" Steve asks, rising from his chair, hesitant to go over but needing to make sure the idiot hasn't cracked his skull open.

Chrissy has no such qualms, popping up to run over to Munson.

"You're bleeding." She tells him worriedly, dropping to her knees to get a better look.

"Well shit." Munson says with a wonky grin. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Chrissy asks, as Steve’s newly honed babysitting instincts kick in and drive him to get up and look at Munson’s injury himself.

Chrissy carefully strokes the older teen’s hair out of his face, as Steve bends down to check his head and neck.

"You hurt anywhere?" He asks, spotting the scratch that had Chrissy worried.

It’s on his forehead--the guy must have knocked his face against the tree when he fell. Head injuries always bleed a ton but this one's well contained to a small scrape.

Probably not a concern, though Steve looks at his pupils anyways.

"Nah, I’m pine. I didn't mean to drop in on you guys.” He waves a hand behind him before dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that tree, it was pretty shady.”

Steve, long trained by Dustin, narrows his eyes. "Are you making puns right now?"

"Maybe?" Munson hedges, looking delighted to have been called out.

“Uh huh.” Steve puts his hands back on his hips, straightening up from where he’d crouched down. “Your head okay? You remember your name and shit?”

“Edward Edwardian Munson, present and ready for duty!” He gives a mock salute, before dropping Chrissy a wink. “If the duty is drinking and playing games that is.”

“Your middle name cannot be Edwardian.” Chrissy laughs.

"It is!" He defends, at the same time Steve says,

“It's not "

“Oh?” Munson challenges, as if this entire situation isn’t ridiculous. “Then what is my middle name, Sir Steven?”

“No idea, but I know it’s not that.”

Munson blows a raspberry at him. “Well then, maybe you should mind your own beeswax."

"Like you were doing? Up in the tree right above us?" Steve banters back.

The playful look dies a little, Munson beginning the painful process of standing after one falls.

"For the record, I absolutely was not eavesdropping, you guys just happened to be under the tree I climbed and I was there first. " He says it rapidly, like he's used to being accused of such things, and is heading off as many problems as he can.

Steve just ignores it, opting instead to hold his hands out. One to Chrissy and one to Eddie.

Watches surprise cross the older teens face, even as he waits for Chrissy to get up before accepting Steve's hand.

"Why were you up a tree? The family dog run you up there?" Steve grunts as he pulls the metalhead up.

"Funny." Munson quipped sarcastically. "But no. I was up there for reasons."

'Reasons.' Steve mouths, and has to fight himself to keep from grinning.

"Even though I was there first, I did happen to hear some things." He looks at Chrissy, voice turning serious. "If you need any help getting things through Carver's thick skull I'd love to lend a hand."

"You would cheer for me too?"

"Oh absolutely. I'd make a far better cheerleader than Harrington here." He shoots a grin towards Steve to take the edge off the words, before doing a far more enthusiastic mimicry of the cheerleaders pom pom routine.

"But I know how much Carver hates the word no. If you break up with him and he gives you shit after, I'm happy to step in."

Steve hadn't actually thought about that yet, but given what he knew of Jason it makes sense.

He could easily see Chrissy worrying about Jason harassing her after the break up.

"Thank you. Both of you." She sniffs. "Eddie, are you sure you're okay?"

"Right as rain!" Munson gives a rather theatrical thumbs up. "I'll let you in on a family secret, we Munson's have rubber bones."

She gives him another giggle for his efforts, and even Steve can’t fully cover his

Munson, the ass, notices.

“Well call me the court jester, I got both the King and Queen to smile!” He cheers.

Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn't deny it.

"Chrissy!?" Someone barks, loud in the otherwise quiet backyard.

"Speak of the devil." Eddie drops his voice dramatically as Jason strides out of the house.

"I've been looking for you." He chides, two of his friends following close behind.

They're younger members of the basketball team, ones Steve's brain sluggishly attempts to remember.

"Are your knees dirty?" Jason asks Chrissy, disgust tinting his voice as he slowly looks from her to Munson next to her.

His eyes narrow, expression almost offronted.

"You heathen." Jason snarls, stepping forward with a fist clenched.

It was a move right of the sitcoms Steve swore he didn't watch, and it looked just as cheesy in real life as it did on screen.

"Calm down." Steve speaks up, hands going to his hips.

Jason's head jerks as he registers him, so focused on Munson that Steve slipped his notice entirely.

"Harrington?" He asks, as if Steve could be mistaken for anyone else here.

Steve gives him jazz hands in return.

"What are you doing out here?" Jason speaks only to Steve, whole body angling towards him like he's the only person who matters.

It's something Steve's dad does, if there's a businessman he considers to be an equal in the room. Zoning in on them, so he can subtly work in ways to make them feel inferior.

It's narcissism at its core (or so says his mother, when she's blitzed out on too many glasses of wine.)

"Talking to people." Steve deadpans. "If you're looking for beer, you walked past it."

Jason entire face pinches, like he just stepped in dog shit. "No one just talks to Munson."

It's a stupid thing to say, and whatever Hason was trying to imply with it wasn't appreciated.

"Well mark me as the first." Steve's hip cocks, voice frosting over.

Surprise washes across Munson's face, though he remains silent as Steve deals with Jason.

Probably a smart move, given how Jason seems to be eager for a fight.

"Whatever it is you're doing, you can leave Chrissy out of it." He says, and god his voice even sounds like Steve's dad.

"Chrissy," Steve says, with an eyebrow raise he knows looks judgemental, "can speak for herself."

He turns to face her, inviting her to the conversation, in the same way he'd always wished someone would invite his mother to speak against his father.

Watches as the cheerleader bites her lip, trying hard to hide the tears that have sprung to her eyes--but proves that she's stronger than Steve's mother ever was.

She steps forward, taking the opportunity offered to her with a steadying breath. "Jason--"

"You can explain it to me later." Her boyfriend waves her off, like she was a waitress offering water and not his partner.

Uncaring entirely that she's clearly upset.

That she wants to talk.

Munson has come to stand on Chrissy's other side, gone still in a way Steve's never seen him do.

It's downright weird for a guy who's normally always moving, and Steve knows it's defensive.

He's feeling a little defensive himself right now, though he doesn't want to particularly untangle why.

"Jason, listen to me." Chrissy tries again.

In his preffery vision, Steve spots a flash of familiar color. Turns his head automatically, seeking it out--and sees Jonathan hustling Nancy across the room.

The younger man is trying to balance Nancy while opening the front door, and for a second Steve almost beelines for them, except--

Except.

Nancy's whole body moves in what Steve intimately knows is an exhale, leaning her head in the crook of Jonathan's shoulder.

One arm wraps around his waist, as Jonathan finally gets the door open, and Steve watches with a stunned sort of horror as his girlfriend presses a kiss to Jonathan's shoulder.

It's fine.

He's fine.

Nancy was just--drunk. Seeking comfort. She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't mean it like that, she didn't--

"Oh shit Harrington." Jason drawls, a lazy sort of taunt. "I think Byers just stole your girlfriend."

Steve's head snaps back to him, the emotions he was attempting to box up flying to the front of his brain like dogs who slipped their leash.

"Never thought a priss like Nancy would be easy like that, but then, you never were the kind of guy to inspire loyalty." Jason continues, clearly ignoring his own girlfriend and all Steve can see is red.

Munson sucks air between his teeth next to him, nervously eyeing Steve while Chrissy's eyes have gone wide with shock and growing anger.

"Jason!" She admonishes, but he's not even looking towards her.

That too sharp smile is all for Steve.

He thinks of Nancy, the way she'd been so angry with him but so gentle with Jonathan.

He thinks of the monster he faced down in the Byers house, the terror that had shrank down to that same adrenaline soaked focus he had on the basketball court.

He thinks of this asshole Junior in front of him.

Making Chrissy cry just because she'd been kind enough to try to help Eddie, and accept Eddie's kindness in return when the weirdo tried to help her and Steve both.

Steve taps his foot, then switches his stance.

'Plant your feet.' Hargroves voice snarls in his memory and Steve wouldn't be surprised if the asshole abandons the keg long enough to come watch this.

Have his turn at heckling, just because he can.

Steve plants his feet anyway.

"You know what Carver?" He says, hands dropping from his hips.

Jason's face curves into a smile. "What?" He says, tone smarmy.

"You're full of shit."

Hand cocking back of its own accord, Steve puts every bit of himself into his punch.

Feels it reverberate up his arm as his knuckles connect to Jason's cheek.

It's going to hurt later, but right now all he can do is stand over Jason as the asshole's head snaps sideways, legs staggering him backwards until he's falling into his friends.

Chrissy gasps, Jason's boys chanting variations of 'Oh shit!'

Steve just glares him down.

The junior wipes his bloodied mouth, letting his friends push him up before shrugging them off.

"You're going to regret that." Jason snarls, and Steve squares up a second time, expecting to be rushed, when the sharp snickt! of a switchblade freezes them both.

"I think we're done here." Munson says, knife in hand.

The blade he holds is stained a deep, russet red. Crusty flakes fall off it, drifting gently down to the patio floor.

Jason's eyes boggle at it for a moment before he stands up straight.

"Now it makes sense. You're weak, Harrington, letting the Freak get his claws into you." Jason spits bloodstained saliva down at Eddie's feet. "No wonder Coach wants Billy as co-captain!"

Steve just scoffs.

"Chrissy!" Carver barks, making the poor girl jump. "Come here, we're leaving!"

Trembling, but stepping closer to Steve, she shakes her head.

"Chrissy." Jason orders again, and has the audacity to point to his feet, like a man commanding his dog.

"No." Chrissy says it quietly at first, voice a little shaky, before she seems to realize it.

She stands taller, repeats herself in a stronger voice. "No, Jason. We're done."

Jason stares at her, hard. "Chrissy, your mother told me to bring you home. So I'm going to take you home and get you away from this--demon and his lackey!"

It doesn't sound loving.

It sounds like a threat.

He steps forward, hand out to grab her arm and Steve tenses, shifting to step in front of Chrissy.

Eddie beats him there.

The word demon seems to awaken something in him, because his face is now grinning theatrically, voice dipping low in pitch.

"You heard her, Carver. She said no, and even I respect a lady's wish. So run along now," he walks two fingers in the air, from the hand not waving the knife around. "before I decide to make you and her both one of mine, just as I did Harrington!"

Jason actually crosses himself, before making one last attempt for Chrissy.

"That monster is dangerous. if you don't come with me, I'll have to alert your parents." He locks eyes with her. "For the good of your soul."

Steve snorts at that crock of shit, but Eddie lunges forward, slashing the knife in the air.

It's nowhere near Jason, but the guy leaps a foot back anyway.

"Begone!" Eddie booms, and that's all it takes for Jason and his cronies to huff and puff and stride away.

He keeps his arms in the air for a few beats more, before dropping them when it's clear Jason won't be back.

"So I'm yours, huh?" Steve drawls, as Eddie finally puts his hands down and turns to face them.

The guys scary face drops into something almost excited, and Steve can practically see the adrenaline crackling through him.

"Hey it worked. Carver's a religious nut, he goes running anytime you even hint at Satan." Eddie shrugs, grinning wildly. "Put on a little show and poof! Him and his flying monkeys melt away!"

He mimes melting and Steve stares at him for it, until he hears Chrissy laughing next to him.

Eddie grins at her and Steve is hit with the realization that it was for her benefit. To make her feel better about her psycho ex.

Something fond and familiar winds through his chest as the other boy bows.

He refuses to put a name to it.

"Did you paint your knife?" He asks instead, rubbing the hand he hit Jason with.

"What?" Eddie asks, startled out of his court jester act.

Steve nods to his hand holding the switchblade. "That's not blood, it's way too red."

"Ah." Eddie turns the grin back on, and this time it's for Steve. "Yeah, it's uh. Modeling paint. Not like Carver would know the difference."

Unspoken was the fact that he hadn't thought Steve would.

Prior to last year, he'd have been right.

Drunken cheering erupts into wild yells inside, breaking whatever spell the three of them were under.

Hargrove's voice is the loudest among them, and the dude is definitely wasted.

Steve has a feeling Hargrove also knows the difference between paint and blood, rendering Munson's knife trick useless if the dick tried to start something.

"Do you want a ride home, Chrissy?" He asks quietly.

"If it's not a bother." She says, wiping tears shed refused to let fall from her eyes.

Chrissy Cunningham was a lot stronger than people gave her credit for.

"Come on, Munson, I think it's time we all make our exit." Steve says, finding himself weirdly unwilling to leave the older teen behind.

Eddie could hold his own, but given how badly things were playing out Steve figured it was best if they all just called it a day.

"Yeah lemme just…" Munson puts his blade away, fumbling at his pockets for a moment before turning and snatching up a metal lunchbox.

"There! After you, my liege." He says, before opening the lunchbox to make it talk.

"My lady." He makes it say, pitching his voice high.

Chrissy breaks into giggles again and Steve rolls his eyes, but he claps his good hand on Eddie's shoulder as he walks past.

Eddie smiles at him, this one a bit softer than the others, eyes sparkling and Steve chooses not to read into that either.

The three of them walk together, Eddie splitting off to his van after Chrissy thanks him.

Part Two

[norman-smsl-guidancecounselor]

flippin bad touch quest

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #55

What if Danny’s core worked like the Shikon Jewel from inuyasha? It gets split into however many pieces, depending on how long you make the fic.

Jason was raiding a GIW facility and finds 2 such shards, when they form together with a brilliant light, a larger shard is found. Danny finds himself slowly regaining consciousness with every shard to the point where eventually he can sense the other shards and core speak to Jason.

[daysofnights]

i love horcrux hunting aus where regulus shows up incredibly injured at someones house after the cave and theres slow emotional bonding while he heals and helps them but a version where he shows up when he needs help with the horcruxes and then disappears again until next time because he knows he can’t do it alone so he never stays with them and never gets actual help for his injuries past a basic spell/potion and only when theyre finished finding the last horcrux or maybe after an ambush or fight while trying to get a horcrux he collapses from exhaustion and only then do they realise how badly hes been taking care of himself and its basically the first au but with regulus going through it for a bit longer

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

not me updating this post (it's more likely than you'd think)

-

Dust and debris spread like a fine mist through the air. 

Harry can see the storefront across from him. The window’s glass has large looping letters, their outline gilded and just catching what little light shines through the smoke clouds, but he can hardly make out the words. He feels so dizzy.

What’s going on?

At first the world is straight, if a little blurry, and then it is not. He’s tilting—no, falling—Harry is falling; he’s been pushed, shoved? The culprit is running off somewhere into the smog, and he catches himself with his hand on the brick behind him. He thinks it must hurt but can’t really feel it. 

There’s definitely something going on here, Harry nods almost to encourage himself. And he’s sure of it because, even though it‘s painful to look at (now that he’s seen it - he can’t stop staring), spellfire is sparking up and down the alley. Probably a fight, but who’s fighting? And - what’s that?

A large chunk of rubble, he realises. Then he corrects himself—chunks. 

Oh. 

They make an impressive line through all this dust and whatnot to the point where things actually seem visible. And now that he’s sort of able to see and mostly paying attention, Harry’s noticing that the chunks aren’t coming from nearby buildings; they aren’t falling from the sky.

He watches, brows raised, as the ground a bit off in the distance breaks, cracks, and almost crumbles out of itself. The massive stone tears straight up and away, shooting at harrowing speeds towards—something, Harry’s certain. Their mass is being used as projectiles. 

Woah, he thinks and hopes he says it out loud because whoever’s doing that needs to hear this, now that’s wicked. The magical strength required to do that must be enormous, but judging by their wavering and almost wild flinging energy, it lacks in any refinement or skill. Whoever is doing that is desperate. Scared. So, not wicked, probably.

Harry’s tempted to find the poor bastard and give them a pat on the back, maybe take them out for a pint. Hell, he could use one right about now. He’s feeling pretty desperate and—well, maybe not scared—but definitely confused, too. 

Which brings him back to: What’s going on?

Waking up in the middle of an ongoing fight is what Harry had been expecting; what he hadn’t been expecting is waking up in the middle of what looks like Diagon Alley if he squints a bit and tilts his head to the left.

Deciding he’s overstayed his wall welcome, Harry straightens up, cautiously keeping his hand on the brick for steadying. He dusts himself off rather pointlessly and gives his Auror robes a quick pat down. No wand. 

That’s a problem. Nothing he can’t work around, but it’s a problem long term. Thankfully, he isn’t out of practice with wandless spellwork, but it vastly limits what he can do to lend a hand with whatever the hell is going on here. 

And he’ll really have to lend a hand and get out of here as quickly as possible. Ron is no doubt losing his mind with worry, and they still have to take care of some rouge wizards reaping havoc on a small wizarding community in Alfriston. If Harry really is in Diagon, he’s a long way away from there, so time is of the essence. 

Seriously, what happened anyway? What did that wizard throw at him?

It occurs to Harry then that he should probably give more attention to the wizards currently throwing things at him because one of those large pieces of rubble abruptly interrupts his train of thought and sightline. He gathers whatever magic he can and prepares to apparate away from its path, but—

Nothing. 

He tries again. And again. It’s getting closer. 

Then on his fourth attempt he feels something grating against his skin and realises—anti-apparition wards. 

Something is not only going on… but is very wrong. 

Harry’s eyes widen, and he ducks, rolling out of the way and further into the street. The world continues rolling even when he stops, vertigo crashing over him all too suddenly and forcing him to catch his breath; Merlin, Harry feels like he’s dying. 

He only gets this way after portkey travel or long-distance flooing—how he got here does not agree with him at all. And watching as that stone impacts the shop window he stared at earlier, Harry startles at another simple revelation. 

He can’t hear. 

He takes a deep breath and coughs, tries again until he feels calmer and doesn’t choke with every lung full. He can hear, but it isn’t anything substantial, only a low-volume, high-pitched ringing noise that echoes around in his head. He feels nearly delirious. And a bit like he’s going to be sick. 

Mindlessly, Harry steps back and out of the way of a nasty-looking violet spell, its shade almost neon. He takes a moment to assess his body more carefully.

Fingers, toes—check. All limbs, head is on straight, joints are bending the right way—he’s perfectly fine. He doesn’t feel any major injuries but forces a pitifully weak healing charm from within - out. He’s shit at wandless healing even though everyone swears otherwise, so it doesn’t ease up the nausea, but it does fix his hearing. 

He almost wishes it hadn’t.

Screaming louder than banshee cries, whizzing spells, explosions echoing, the dull droning of the wards, buildings breaking, shouts, crying, pleading—the world is so much louder than Harry is expecting, and he flinches, holds his hands against his ears at the onslaught. 

It takes some time, more than he wants to tolerate, and a few more close calls with ugly spells, but when Harry finally gets his bearings, he jumps into the fray. 

It’s hardly a thought to magic away most of the debris in the air, and with it gone, he takes in his surroundings. His head whips back and forth, taking stock of what’s newly visible. Harry’s unsure where to begin and who to ask for an explanation of what is even happening. He can’t spot any familiar Aurors, but there are definitely people scattered about in uniforms…

Harry nearly pauses at that. Yes, there are definitely people dressed in uniforms. Ones that are dark and black and flow like ink and look eerily familiar, and others that look strikingly like Sirius’s old—

“HELP!”

Harry’s eyes unerringly find the source of that scream—a young woman clutching a child. 

Their backs are up against the broken remains of a side alley, and her body is trying to cover the kid, hide them, to the best of her ability. A wizard in dark robes blocks their only way out, wand held stiffly in a tight grip - it’s pointed straight at them. 

Harry’s already moving, but his eyes squint, disoriented as he catches the unmistakable glimmer of silver reflecting off sunlight from the side of the wizard’s face. And this does make him pause. It makes him pause just long enough to feel and humour the stomach-swooping horror of recognition—of wrongness—that sight causes. 

It’s certainly a good thing that Harry has gotten to be so proficient at pushing down and sealing away horrors of all types and that he continues to be fast on his feet, quick on the draw. Helpful, too, that his wandless stupefy is still in top form. 

The wizard crumples to the ground, and Harry’s assist goes unnoticed in all the chaos. Yet the woman finds his eyes anyway, obviously having noticed him earlier, maybe even calling out for Harry specifically. She peers up at him, relieved and overwhelmingly grateful, but stares for a beat too long. 

And Harry, long used to prolonged stares, gives her no mind. He quickly comes over to help escort her and the child somewhere safer. She mutters something as he lifts the mute kid into his arms, their eyes wide and blinking. Harry balances them mostly on his left - his right hand holding their back steady, but he wants to keep it free to cast just in case. 

“What was that?” Harry asks while waiting for the kid to get comfortable and finish tightly wrapping their arms around his neck. He releases his hold on their back once they settle, and he takes a gentle but resolute hold on the woman to help guide her out of the alley and any direct fire. 

She’s shaking violently, but when she repeats herself, her voice is more confident—louder. “I- I didn’t know you had become an Auror, James. I thought you only g-graduated this summer?” She asks.

For a moment, only a moment, all of Harry’s battle-hardened instincts fall away. 

He feels his shoulders drop from their tense hold, and he—he just can’t believe what he’s heard. She doesn’t look anywhere close to his parents’ ages had they still been alive, even by wixen ageing standards. Really, she looks much closer to Harry’s age, maybe a couple of years older, give or take. They had probably gone to Hogwarts together for a while, so then why—

Why does she think he’s his father? James, she called Harry, like they are friendly. Like they know each other. 

Shock. Harry can excuse this as shock. He sorely wants to, but that feeling of wrongness is rearing its ugly head once again. 

So he decides not to say anything at all. Harry stays quiet and focused. He stuns anyone suspicious they come across and brings them both to a mostly unharmed shop out of the way with a blessedly working floo connection in a warded office in the back. 

The kid gives him a big hug before they leave, still mute, still blinking with wide eyes, and the woman turns to Harry, puts one hand on his arm, squeezes him once and says, “Stay safe, James.”

He watches them leave.

Breathe, Harry, he tells himself. And it almost works because he can hear the wet gasp and feel his chest move up and down with it. Yet he remains breathless, his mind whirring and unable to catch a thought long enough to actually think—until his feet start moving.

Harry exits the building and, with a clarity he doesn’t truly feel, rounds the corner. He’s confident that Twilfitt and Tattings should be just here, only a few feet away. When he arrives at the distinct shop front, still standing on what Harry can only guess is unadulterated rich-pureblood spite, the store looks nothing like the clothing shop he’s seen hundreds of times before. 

Unsettled but always willing to take a gamble, Harry sticks to the edges of the alley and makes his way further up Diagon, closer to Horizont. He avoids bouncing spells and crumpled bodies and casts when he has to all the way until he spots the familiar sign of Ollivanders. 

With careful hesitation and a churning deep in his gut, Harry tries something with no small amount of hysteria. He holds up his hand right before the shattered glass of Ollivanders’s main window and says:

“Accio Harry Potter’s wand.”

Harry stands there foolishly for a moment, lingering. Nothing happens. 

A short laugh rushes out of him; vicious relief nearly causes his head to sway, but he can’t help it. For a breathtaking moment, he had almost convinced himself that he’d felt something like a tingle, like a response from his magic that something was about to happen. 

Shock, Harry reminds himself. She was just in shock. 

He shakes his head to clear it of whatever madness had briefly held him and readies to shoulder open the door and commandeer a temporary wand. Even an incompatible wand will be better than nothing if he continues lending a hand to the Aurors on the scene. But before he can even take a step, his eyes catch movement in the darkness of the shop. And—Oh, that’s coming straight at me. 

“Whoa!” Harry ducks and turns to watch as a wand takes an arching turn and bounds straight towards him again. But this time, Harry is ready; he catches it with a smart thwack to the flat of his palm. 

The immediate warmth and pure magic radiating from this wand floods his veins unlike any other—but that’s a lie. It’s exactly like one other. One other wand from when Harry was eleven. His very first wand. 

He looks at the fine holly wood in his hand, feels the blazing heat of what is no doubt a phoenix feather core, and the familiar curves and juts of its crafted exterior, and conjures no happiness at the sight of his old friend. Harry feels dread take hold of his very being, leaving him cold and wrung dry. 

“Tempus,” Harry mutters, and like delicate clockwork, the spell casts flawlessly and more naturally than any spell Harry has cast in ages. The time of day and month are troubling enough, but the year really causes its own upending. 

1978.

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath in. He locks all the terrible and horrible things he’s feeling away in a small corner of his mind, shoving it all into a cupboard under the stairs. And he takes a deep, steadying breath out. 

He nods once to himself and holds his wand in a textbook grip. Logic and Auror instinct, but more prevalent, war instinct, sinks its familiar claws into the still healing scars of his mind. 

He leaves Ollivanders and makes his way carefully up Diagon Alley, distantly acknowledging that he hasn’t done as good a job as he’s hoping at concealing his anxieties. His casting is too accurate and decidedly not as innocent as it’s been. He trades stupefy for spells that may lean a little darker than any Auror really should be using.

He can’t say he has the element of surprise on his side. Still, the terrorists attacking the alley aren’t exactly looking out for an Auror dressed like Harry, so he has a precious few moments of them treating him like a civilian before realising their grave error. 

But, by then, Harry has blasted them halfway across the alley. They’re face down on the cobblestones or missing a limb or two by the time their ah-ha moment of ‘civilians don’t normally fight like that’ echoes in the quiet of their unconscious minds.

As Harry gets closer to the heart of the battle, picking off black-robed wizards one by one and gathering appreciative and perplexed looks from Aurors, he realises that faces are beginning to gain an awful familiarity. He wants to hex himself—of course faces are starting to look familiar. He knows an ungodly amount of wixen who fought in the First War. He’s heard numerous stories of their bravery and seen photographs of them, after all, and Harry really should have known that seeing them would be inevitable, even now—even when he isn’t ready.

But he hasn’t ever travelled this far back in time, so can anyone blame him for being caught by surprise?

Because—there she is.

She’s fresh out of Hogwarts. Classes must’ve only ended a month or so ago. And she’s standing at the heart of the battle. The August sun lends an unfairly clear day to the gruesome attack and shines on the brilliant auburn of her hair, all tied back and away from her face like a flaming whip. Gods, there she is.

Harry is shocked still, eyes locked on the sight of Lily Potter.

And he pays for it with a gnarly gash to the side of his ribs.

Gasping out, he quickly breaks from his trance and curses his inability to stay focused. Harry fires back with his own cutting spell; of course, the much nastier sectumsempra won’t be nearly as easy to bounce back from, but Harry just can’t muster up the fucks to give at the moment. 

Mum—Lily—is the one who stops his next assailant, though Harry doubts she even notices her assistance. It turns out she’s the one ripping stone out of the earth and flinging it at anything silver and moving. And, Merlin, it’s nearly charming. He’s going to throw up.

It takes a blue spell, its colour vibrant and just off enough for Harry to connect that it isn’t anything friendly, barely missing her, for him to decide enough is enough.

Harry centres himself and pulls at his magic. He aims his wand at the ground beneath his feet and chants until small spikes start erupting around them like saplings from the cobblestone. He doesn’t stop until they grow taller and taller until they tower over every head and every thatched roof, and until all the ruined pathways around Diagon Alley have become impractical and claustrophobic. 

Startled cries come from every direction; Harry thinks he hears bones snapping from those who can’t thread the needle before the spikes grow too close, like a dense forest. No one is spared of his sudden anger…

…no one except for Lily Potter, who stands in a small circle of safety. The spikes around her have curved inward, lending shelter. When Harry finally catches her gaze—oh no, oh no, oh no—he finds that her arms are raised. Almost like Harry’s a robber, and this is all just some kind of hold-up. He feels the urge to laugh die as quickly as it comes.

Not a soul moves, but Harry isn’t one for inaction. He lifts his wand and casts a sonorus; he speaks, “If you are a follower of-“ Harry mindfully avoids His name, unaware if the taboo has been enacted, “the Dark Lord, I believe you’ve caused well enough damage today. Leave.”

It’s silent for a long moment. And then, suddenly, the sharp snap of the anti-apparition wards shattering is all Harry hears. He can almost feel the rain of its magic falling down all around them, preceding the sounds of loud pop-pop-pops from the Death Eaters tucking tails and running away. 

Harry is a little shocked that simply demanding they leave works. Then again, turning all of Diagon Alley’s streets into some giant’s version of an Iron Maiden in the heat of his anger is probably something to be wary of. When the last pop fades, and all is quiet once more, Harry transfigures the cobblestones back. Once again, marvelling at the easy control with his holly wand.

It dawns on Harry, now that the battle is cleared up as best as he can manage, that he has no way of returning to his time and nothing to immediately keep that thought from taking hold and consuming him whole. He stands, mind racing and paralysed, as multiple hesitant thanks, thank you so much, you saved us, are whispered his way. And he could really do without the reminder of how irreparably fucked he’s just made the timeline, but, you’re welcome, he supposes. 

Then, through the whirlwind of his breakdown, he feels two gentle hands on his arms, pulling him out of the dark and into the eye of the storm.  

“Excuse me?” Harry looks up at green, sage and fresh like a vegetable garden, like summer’s grass on a quidditch field, like sprigs of thyme on a holiday roast surrounded by family; he looks up at the eyes of Lily Potter and startles at the sound of her voice.

Is this what she really sounds like? Harry remembers her voice clear as day from—well, it’s nothing he wants to think about now. But he doesn’t remember it sounding like this. So bright and so…

“So young…” Harry mindlessly replies. And Lily Potter’s answering frown is enough to leave him sorry for the rest of his miserable life.

She turns her careful attention to Harry’s bleeding shoulder, and he finally realises she’s trying to heal him. He doesn’t mention that he isn’t too worried about it and that the gash on his ribs is way worse because she starts speaking again, and all Harry wants to do is shut up and listen to her voice forever.

“Speak for yourself, firecracker,” she says. “You look about my age and handled yourself better than any of these Aurors.”

Firecracker? Harry mutters soundlessly. He’s bewildered at the idea of his mother giving him a nickname like that, his mother giving him a nickname at all. Something screaming and rotting and twisting in his soul mourns the loss of it until now.

“This doesn’t look as bad as I’d thought. Do you feel any intense pain? Any sharp shooting down your arm or back?” She asks.

Harry shakes his head slowly and in a daze. She hums, doubting, “Well, even if it doesn’t hurt too badly, let’s get you to St Mungo’s and patch you up—“

Harry steps back and out of her gentle hands, shaking his head with much more clarity. “No. No doctors. I can heal it myself well enough.”

Lily’s eyes widen, and something on his face must scream that he’s planning on making his great escape—it doesn’t matter where as long as it isn’t here in front of her of all people—because she suddenly grabs his wrist tight enough to bruise. “Wait! I’ll listen! I won’t force you to see a healer, but please,” she grips him even tighter, “we haven’t had a… a victory like this… in a long, long time.” 

Her eyes pry into him; they search and search, and she must find something because she steadies her panic and softly demands that he - “Don’t go.”

Harry can only stare, horrified, at his own mother standing before him, young and alive and begging him not to go.

He’s saved from answering as they’re interrupted by a loud shout, “LILY!” 

A man full-on tackles Lily Potter with force strong enough to pull Harry with them, but madly, all Harry can think is that - Mum has quite the grip.

And now that he’s so close, Harry quickly deduces that the new link to their growing chain is none other than James Potter.

Harry’s eyes blink slowly; a bone-weary exhaustion takes staunch hold of him as he listens to his father ask after his mother’s well-being. Finally, Lily speaks over him firm and unyielding, “James. I am fine. Where on earth have you been?” 

“I was dealing with some Death Eaters towards the mouth of Knockturn—but that doesn’t matter! What matters is that you promised to stay by me, and in less than two shakes of a fairy’s wings, you were nowhere to be seen.”

Lily scoffs, “I cannot believe you are blaming me right now when you are clearly the one who wandered off first! We agreed to stay near the centre, and, oh wow! Would you look at that? That’s exactly where you found me, isn’t it?”

Harry cannot believe he’s watching his parents have their first domestic argument, and he isn’t even technically born yet. This is cruel and unusual. Wait, are they even married? 

“Okay. Agree to disagree,” James nods. Lily’s got that look on her face that Hermione sometimes gets with Ron, like he’d better say the right thing in the next four seconds, or he’ll get a nasty left hook to the face. Harry feels his stomach drop right out of him at the thought of never seeing Ron and Hermione ever again. Oh god. And then, James continues, “We are both at fault.”

James’ eyes stray towards Harry, looking long and hard at his face. He finds Lily’s tight grip next and asks, “Who’s tall, pale, and ready to be sick standing beside you here?”

“What?” Lily asks, and her eyes fall on Harry, too. Her mouth parts in a horror Harry feels immensely. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry; I promise I didn’t forget about you. It’s just that James is so distracting, and oh merlin, I haven’t even introduced myself—“

“Lily, take a deep breath. And maybe let the man go?”

“James, you have no idea what happened. But you would if you’d have been here.”

Harry clears his throat, “Um,” James and Lily both turn and give him their full attention. Oh, that’s awful. How does Harry simultaneously feel like the youngest and oldest person here? He’s clueless about what to say next but settles on, “Um… I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” James and Lily say it together. Perfect unison. Lily’s eyes are wide, but her smile is wider, and James looks extremely confused and nearly half as put out. His brows furrow until they almost touch, and he comments, “My grandfather’s name was Harry.” He frowns and corrects himself, “Well, his name was Henry, but we all called him Harry.”

Oh. Should Harry have given them a fake name?

“James…” Lily murmurs. She isn’t quiet enough for Harry to miss her following words, “He looks a bit like he could be your brother, doesn’t he? Even a bit like Charlus?” James silently and slowly nods, his eyes still locked on Harry.

“What did you say your surname was again, Harry?” James asks with all the subtlety of a hippogriff, like he’s trying to be slick. 

And Harry, no stranger to risky bets, replies, “I didn’t. But it’s Potter. Harry Potter.”

The silence that follows is the loudest he’s heard yet. Wasn’t he nearly deaf earlier?

Until—“Lily. You got a good grip on him, yeah?” James asks.

“Of course,” she nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

James grins. “Hold on tighter, then.”

The sudden gathering of magic in the air has Harry’s hair standing on end. He knows what’s coming but doesn’t truly process it until he catches sight of James’ wand out, and by then, it’s too late.

They apparate out of Diagon Alley.

[californiaboytoybilly]

Eye Candy - pt one

Steve and Robin move to a big city on the coast after Robin graduates from her college classes with a degree in the arts.

It’s an impulsive decision, like many of theirs are. The kids are leaving for college, they’ve been fired from their jobs- Steve publicly chewed out a customer who made a gross comment about Robin’s chest- and neither of them particularly want to keep staying in their childhood homes still in their early twenties.

So they pick a city, cram their combined belongings into a car, and spend the better part of a few days slowly driving across country.

It takes a while because Steve insists on stopping at multiple cheesy landmarks on the way, much to Robin’s theatric dismay.

But they get there and they settle in and they… love it. They find an industrial style apartment that they can see the water from- over a handful of other brick buildings, anyway- and get new jobs at a musical diner. Turns out they can both sing, and Steve looks great in his tiny red shorts and rollerblades.

They spend their mornings arguing over what shape is superior to cook batter in (Robin is team waffle, Steve is team pancake) and giggling over the celebrity gossip section like teen girls. More often than not, they end up crashing in Robin’s bed at night even though they have separate bedrooms. It’s wonderful.

But one night, they are so incredibly bored.

They get all dressed up just to pass the time, doing little model walks out to the living room, striking poses, taking goofy pictures to cover the walls in. The outfits turn out honestly kind of great and it feels like a waste not to go anywhere. So they do.

The original plan was to go to this queer club they found in their first week here, the entrance to which was. hidden inside the dry storage room of an Italian restaurant. However, they take a detour through the rich neighborhoods to ogle the stupidly big houses they couldn’t afford even with twenty pooled years of diner salary, making fun of the absurdly shaped topiaries and obnoxiously shiny cars that made Steve’s look like a junk heap.

That’s when they get a reckless idea.

One of the houses a little separate from the others is a mansion with music thrumming from inside and flashing colourful lights, with a guard dressed in all black standing at the front door.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

They blurted at the same time, slowing the car to a stop.

Minutes later, Steve strolled down the long, perfectly even paving stones set into the emerald lawn with an updated, adult version of his signature King Steve ‘I belong everywhere I show up’ face.

He was dressed in a loose silk shirt and dark wash jeans, hazel eyes rimmed in kohl and hair artfully messed on top of his head. Robin had caved into his suggestions earlier, dressed in an eggshell bustier- that she kept awkwardly adjusting where it dug into her side- and black slacks with gold buttons up the legs.

They don’t look underdressed for the place, at least.

Steve gets stopped by the guard almost immediately and asked for his name, and Robin starts to sweat. She’s ready to apologize and say they must have accidentally come to the wrong place.

But Steve just scoffs, hand on his hip, with a righteously offended look on his face. “Excuse me?” He asks, tone dripping false condescension. “Are you seriously asking who I am?”

The guard looks nervous, immediately shuffling with his papers presumably carrying the guest list. A vein throbs in his temple and he flits his gaze between Robin and Steve in their dressy clothes and the door behind him.

What kind of people were at this party that the guard was that nervous about not recognizing someone?

The guard glances subtly at the list again and Robin can see there are only two names not checked off the list.

“No, sir. Of course I recognize you…” The guard trails awkwardly as he lies, “trick of the light, couldn’t see your face before. Come on in, my apologies.”

He checks off both names on the list, without asking again.

That worked?

Robin gave Steve a baffled side eye as they entered the house, to which he simply shrugged.

“My mother always said to pretend I belonged anywhere I went with conviction. She said people would wittle out a spare chair for me with a spoon rather than admit they don’t know why I’m there.”

Robin snorted. “Rich people.”

Steve just barely resisted the urge to elbow her in the ribs. “At least if I was still rich, we wouldn’t have wrestled over the last banana this morning.”

But then he paused, eyes taking in the other scattered guests.

“Hey uh… is it just me or is everyone here-“

“Insanely hot?” Robin finished his sentence, sticking close to his side as she looked around. “Steve where the hell are we?”

Steve didn’t have an answer for her, scanning the crowd of ridiculously attractive people in expensive outfits, mingling and dancing to the music playing from a speaker he couldn’t find in the massive, open concept first floor.

He didn’t get long to try and figure it out, however.

A low, faintly amused voice chimed in from a few feet away. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” The mystery person answered Robin’s query as Steve spun to face them, pulse spiking.

“I certainly would remember a face like that, especially since I made the guest list. So my return question is… how did you get into my house?”

[absentlurker]

ok hear me out: eddie is on the mend but he’s limited to his trailer because he’s about 78% mummy. wayne is back at work because bills pile up even when your nephew is lowkey dying in the hospital. everyone seems to be back to their normal routine and eddie doesn’t want to really mess that for them so…here he is. trying to comfortably sit on the couch outside and get some vitamin d before he actually turns into a vampire.

Eddie is cursing his existence as he shifts for the 56th time when his neighbor cheerfully opens her screen door and starts walking to her small garden in front of her blue and white trailer.

“Hey, Eddie!” She calls out when she notices him sprawled out. “How you doin’, honey?”

Eddie keeps his eyes on the cloudy sky as he replies, “Livin’ the zombie dream!”

Patty tsks softly before crossing the dirt path.

She stood over him with her hands on her hips, “Come on! Up, up!” She wiggles her pastel gloved hands at him.

Eddie eyes her like she was an actual predator, “Uh…” he starts.

Patty rolls her eyes, “Don’t look at me like that, boy. I’ve known you since you were a wobbly-kneed 12 year old.”

Eddie sputters, offended as though he didn’t draw breath in his lungs until he was a leather jacket wearing dungeon master.

Patty sighs and wiggles her fingers at him once more, “I know you’re bored to death, sweetheart, cooped up here by yourself and hurtin’,” she starts softly, “come sit with me while I spruce up my rosemary. You might even learn somethin’” Eddie stares at her for a minute and exhales loudly when her eyebrows raise.

He starts to slowly shift up and he allows Patty to gently take some of his weight as she helps him cross over to her trailer. She sets him up under her shade cover in a lawn chair at her small round table with a small glass of lemonade. She claps her hands softly when he gives her a thumbs up before she turns around, picking up a few things and brings Eddie three small plant pots that were full of soil and three what looked to be slowly dying plants in plastic beginner pots.

Patty hands him some gloves, “I found these little cuties at the store for a quarter! They’re lavender!” She chirps.

Eddie picks up on the plants as he says, “Patty, they look dead.”

Patty waves her hand as she crouches next to her small wooden plant bed, “oh people always think they’re dead. But you give those little babies a little TLC and they’re good as new!”

She racks up brown crusty leaves with her fingers, “can’t tell you how many times I’ve bought plants that people think are dead but blossom just beautifully if they’re taken care of.”

Eddie hms softly. Eddie creates a small hole in the soil as Patty instructs him how to plant the lavender. She gently pats him on the shoulder when he finishes.

She hands Eddie a small elephant shaped watering can and watches as he slowly waters the newly potted plants. Eddie exhales loudly once he sets the watering can back down and leans back in the lawn chair.

“That’s enough physical activity for me, babe.” Patty chuckles as she fusses with her older plants that are sitting seemingly randomly around the outside of her trailer.

“Well, I thank you for your assistance just the same,” she says before she starts into a story of when she was sixteen and pretty. Eddie sips the tart lemonade slowly as she talks and it isn’t long before he dozes off surrounded by potted plants and a chipper old woman.

[buddieisgoingcanon2024]

The Buddie wedding!!!! I could see Buck wanting to give Eddie the big blowout wedding he wanted with a partner he actually chose. Eddie wanting to give Buck the Cinderella treatment wedding. In short, I'm saying it will be a wedding worthy of a soap opera. And even Chris will have a clipboard!!!

I can picture everyone in their places of where I think they would be like best men ext. The only thing I can't picture is if Eddie and Buck meet in the middle and walk down together. Or if Eddie is up with Chris and Maddie gives Buck away? But we all know Bobby is officiating it!

I love your thoughts on the Buddie “EVENTUAL” Wedding. I could see it either way. But you’re right Bobby would officiate.

[steddielicious]

HHMMMMM I meant to do a quick little fic of Chrissy realizing she’s a lesbian. It was MEANT to be 8-1200 words long and now it’s 2k words in and still only about three quarters of way through…oops??

[pinkestmenace]

For some reason it's not showing the title here but it's finally done! My new novel length fic! I'll post one chapter a day. (人･ω･)

Rocks Fall, Everyone Flies

Summary:

After receiving a mysterious letter describin' the location of a treasure, King Dedede sets out on a li'l treasure hunt. Dark caves, strange crystals, competitors for the prize...he can handle it all! What's a li'l facin' yer fears to a king? Just a challenge, that's what! Surely nothin' will go wrong this time, right?

Heh. He should've known not to tempt fate. Now his competitor's Kirby, the treasure's a bust 'n' that cave's a whole lot deeper, darker 'n' more oppressive than it was when they went in. Darn it! If only they'd told someone where they'd gone! At least the rock-solid rivals still have each other.

All is not lost, though: the determined duo of Meta Knight and Bandee are on their way! Will they turn the tide, overcome the darkness of the cave and find them in time to have the most awkward recovery sleepover ever? Or will the cave give them all their eternal sleep instead?

But seriously: what in the world is up with this cave? Why do the locals shun this place like the plague? What if the real threat was the existential dread we picked up along the way?

[sp0o0kylights]

PSEUDO DADS WAYNE AND HOPPER/BEAT TO SHIT STEVE HARRINGTON A03 LINK

S3 AU wherein Hopper calls in a favor and Wayne ends up hiding a beaten and battered Steve Harrington in his house.

Eddie's not happy about it.

SEPERATE POST FOR ANYONE WHO JUST WANTS THE A03 LINK

First chapter has all three parts together.

[angellayercake]

Sam and the Series of Disastrous Dates

Sam has watched her new best friend fall in love with the man of her dreams but when will it be her turn? For OC kiss week 2023 we will follow Sam from the Pastimes for a Retired Papa series on some of her dating adventures and see if she will ever meet her dream man.

Original Female Character x Original Male Character

AO3

Day 1 - Dancing 

She plucked at the leotard she was wearing as she prayed for the floor to open and swallow her. A dance class was what she had been told she was attending. Her so-called friend had a lot to answer for. She spared one last glance for the text message that had ruined her evening.

‘Sorry Sammy, a little white lie! It’s Salsa Speed Dating. Can’t wait to hear about Mr Right! X’

A couple of the guys were looking in her direction with what she assumed was a leer. She had thought she was attending a fitness class, hence the now somewhat ridiculous outfit. Looking around at the other women in attendance she felt her stomach churning in embarrassment. Flowy dresses, perfect hair, make up! And there she was in a subtly sweat-stained leotard, she had added a wrap skirt from her little foray into ballet class so that was something, and trainers. No make up obviously and scraped back hair possibly a few days passed needing a wash. She was seconds away from turning and leaving when the host entered, clapping her hands above her head to get everyone's attention.

‘Welcome, welcome!  All of you are here to find love through the passion of salsa!’ Sam cringed to herself, the woman was waving her hands along with her shouting and spoke with a gratingly fake Spanish accent, made worse by the fact salsa dancing didn’t even originate from Spain. ‘You will have a song to learn all you need about your potential partner then we will change. Please get into position in order of your badges and then we will begin!’ She clapped her hands once again, stamping her feet like she was doing the flamenco.

She takes a deep breath, last chance to escape but no, she is here now and she can do this. She looks down at the already peeling sticker stuck to her checking her number, four, and makes her way to the slowly forming line. She looked up and her heart sank. Either the universe had a sense of humour or the organisers had taken one look at them and decided that they were meant for each other.

He was wearing a full ballroom dancer's outfit. The whole thing was made of awful stretchy polyester and although it looked like separate pieces it was, in fact, an all in one. The shirt which was open to far too low on his shaved, and judging by the sheen, oiled chest could only be described as bedazzled. Rows and rows of plastic diamantes fanned out across the shoulders, although the longer Sam looked the more she noticed were missing. The shirt was then sewn into a heavily ruched cummerbund that did nothing to hide his protruding stomach which was also attached to ill fitting flared trousers.

Looking back up at his face she noticed him smirking at her. Oh she hoped he didn’t think she was checking him out. She smiled at him awkwardly in a bid to be polite, she did have to dance with the man for the next five minutes.

‘The person opposite you is your partner for the first dance. Take up your positions and let’s salsa!’ She winced, who thought it was a good idea to give her a microphone. She stepped forward, offering him one hand and placing the other on his shoulder.

‘And what is your name senorita?’ She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to cringe his northern accent, not making the term of endearment roll off the tongue. She opened her mouth to reply and almost choked on the taste of his cheap aftershave. She was really regretting not running away when she had the chance.

‘It’s Sam.’ She smiled and hoped it didn’t look as strained as it felt. He didn’t seem to notice.

‘A lovely name for a lovely lady. Every Samantha I have met was a beauty.’ He looked pleased with himself for that comment but she had to repress a shiver of disgust.

‘Uh thanks, but it is Sam.’ She looked down before remembering her manners. She might never want to see him again already but she didn’t want to be rude. ‘What's your name?’

‘I’m Clive so you better remember it for when you tick the yes box later.’ He winked and she managed to choke out something that could be called a laugh.

‘Well I haven't seen your dancing skills yet.’ The music hadn’t started yet, why hadn’t it started yet.

‘Oh you will not be disappointed, I can tell you that for nothing.’ She just nodded once before breaking the unsettling eye contact he was trying to maintain. Finally the first song kicked in and he didn’t hesitate to lead her through the first few steps. He was a surprisingly competent dancer although it didn’t seem like a natural talent, his rhythm being slightly off and his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

‘You aren’t so bad yourself,’ he said after she spun back to him after a series of twirls and spins had kept them apart. Sweat was starting to bead on his upper lip and she wasn’t sure how he was going to last the night. ‘I should have known you would be as good as me.’ She knew he didn’t mean it as an insult but it felt like a jab all the same. ‘You and me are the only ones dressed properly for the occasion.’ She spared a glance for some of the other couples around them wearing normal date attire and tried not to think about how ridiculous they must look.

‘Yeah we are a right pair,’ she laughed along but upon catching his eyes she thought she may have said the wrong thing. There is a glint in his eye she doesn’t like the look of. As the dance progresses he gets too out of breath to carry a conversation so while she doesn’t really appreciate his heavy beer tinged breathing directly in her face at least she is spared that.

As the music reaches a climax he swings her into a dip, her only option to cling onto him to avoid collapsing to the floor. He looks into her eyes in what she assumes is supposed to be a seductive manner but it misses the mark but a lot. His sweaty red face is not doing anything to help him. She breaks the awkward eye contact looking up at the ceiling, waiting for him to let her up but he just keeps staring.

‘I think we would make a great pair Samantha.’ He closes his eyes and moves his face closer.

‘It’s Sam,’ she starts to say before she is silenced by his slippery puckered lips. She freezes not knowing what to do, maybe falling to the floor would have been better. She feels his sweat dripping onto her face as he keeps his lips pressed firmly to hers. The only saving grace is that he doesn’t try to deepen the kiss.

‘It seems the passion of salsa has overtaken one couple already, but don’t make your minds up too quickly! There are many salsa partners to sample tonight!’ She is still in shock as he brings her back upright, overbalancing slightly and clinging to her to steady himself.

‘You won’t be forgetting me in a hurry will you Samantha.’ He has the audacity to wink at her and she can only grimace back as she tries to surreptitiously wipe his sweat off her face.

‘You are quite right about that,’ she says before muttering to herself. ‘But not for the reasons you think.’

‘What was that?’ He asks as he leans towards her to try and catch what she said but she is quite literally saved by the bell signalling the change of partners.

‘Oh look, time to change partners. See ya.’ Then she quite literally runs for it. She grabs her things, managing to slip away in the buzz of the other attendees swapping around, already trying to order a taxi and get as far away from this place as possible. As soon as she has confirmation she switches to her messaging app typing away furiously. Oh god she is going to kill her for this. She really needs new friends!

[connor-sent-by-cyberlife]

The End

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³ᵈ ᵐᵒᵈᵉˡ ᵖᵒʳᵗ ᵇʸ ᵐᵉᵗᵒʳᶤᵃ ᵒᶰ ᵗʷᶤᵗᵗᵉʳ

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

“I’ll admit,” Percy Weasley starts. He’s hardly paying attention to anything outside the documents he’s perusing, throwing occasional glances at the small, constantly updating graph shimmering in the air beside him. “When Granger came to me with this idea, I thought she had finally gone mad.”

He snorts to himself and flips to another page, “It’d be about time, honestly. Dating my brother really should have done her in sooner. But Granger is smart. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. So, even though I thought the time had finally come to declare the one sane addition to my family, insane—I gave her the benefit of the doubt.”

Someone off camera clears their throat, “Mr Weasley, could you clarify what idea Ms Granger had that you’re referring to?”

Percy looks up with furrowed brows. He tilts his head and asks, “What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

“It’s obvious to us but not to the audience.”

“Ah,” Percy nods sagely. “I understand. Right. I am referring to Hermione Granger’s idea of filming a documentary about life inside the Ministry of Magic in an attempt to raise recruitment across various departments, of course.”

-

“The ministry gets a bad rap,” Hermione Granger says while walking briskly down the halls of Level One. “People think we’re secretly dark. They think that underhanded things are happening in the underbelly of our ministry. As Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, I oversee many finer details of our departments here. And, lately, overall interest to work for the ministry has suddenly declined.”

She pauses before a door, one hand on the knob before she turns to address the camera head-on, “Each year, more and more students graduate from Hogwarts. The wixen population in England has flourished, but we’re not seeing an influx of resumes.”

A paper bird flaps its folded wings and lands on her wrist, pecking at her sleeve for attention. She glances down at it and plucks the bird, her magic smoothing out the folds until all that’s left is a small piece of blue paper with a brief note.

She reads it as she continues, “That’s where you all come in. PR is Percy’s job, but with the Minister’s upcoming reelection push, he hasn’t got the time to spare. So I’m counting on this inside look on the ministry to soften our public image and make us more approachable….” She pauses.

Her head lifts slowly and carefully. “As an aside, please do not speak with the Head Auror until further notice,” she stresses and enters the doorway leaving the crew behind.

-

The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Head Auror Harry Potter, stands casually in a training hall, overseeing the strict regimen for the sparse few new Aurors. His robes are draped over his shoulders and not quite worn in accordance with uniform regulations. But no one has the guts to tell him.

He replies to the quietly asked question simply, “Hermione doesn’t want you speaking with me because she thinks nothing shifty is happening in the ministry and wants this documentary to go off without a hitch.”

Before he continues, Harry carefully shrugs, “Whereas, I’m the opposite, really.”

Silence lingers before someone is brave enough to ask, “The opposite, Head Auror Potter-sir?”

Harry catches the eyes of the cameraperson who spoke up—they flinch with the intensity of his stare—but he just smiles and says, “Yeah. And Harry is fine, please.”

There’s a brief moment where it looks like Harry is contemplating how to word his following sentence, but his straightforward attitude seems to win out. “Our Minister is a Dark Lord in disguise, clearly. So anyone with half a brain cell would be smart to keep away. And if we’re going to have a whole documentary trying to prove otherwise, I plan on doing everything I can to stop it.”

The camera still zooms in a little on his pleased face even though no one knows what to say for a long, long while.

-

Ron Weasley adjusts himself in the tall folding chair the crew set up for him in the Auror Break Area. He’s holding a small bag of crisps and slowly makes his way through it before straightening up in his seat.

He looks very concerned and a touch manic when he says, “Harry is obsessed with the Minister.”

-

The Minister for Magic is yet to be available for an interview.

-

[landboundstar]

Trade Secrets Part 23

"How long is your break?"

Selina turned on the bench where we sat watching the ducks.

"Twenty five days."

She took a bite of the Gotham round in her hand, cheese running down the side of the pretzel that was unique to Gotham. Flat soft pretzel circles made out of everything bagel dough. Every stadium, park, and street cart in Gotham served them sliced like sandwiches or dipped in cheese and drizzled with mustard like the rounds Selina had bought for us as we hung out in the park. 

"Hey!"

The shout had both of us looking up. Instinctively, I looked towards where Dad sat, still deep in the middle of a chess game.

But it was Harvey running towards us, waving, a smile on his face.

Both of us waved back as Harvey came over to the bench.

Something seemed wrong though. It wasn't obvious enough to turn heads, but something felt off about how he moved. The sharper, shorter, quicker steps, the rounded shoulders, and worry crease between his brows didn't seem quite right.

But as Harvey reached us, hands fiddling with the coin in his pocket as he watched some ducklings imperiously trying to beg for bread, I thought I had imagined his odd gait.

"Summer break for you too?"

"Twenty five glorious days of it." Selina stretched her arms overhead, pointing her toes like a dancer. "What are your plans, Harvey?"

"I'm going to camp, I guess." He looked out at the ducks, racing to get a piece of bread from the water. "My parents signed me up for a camp my therapist recommended. To deal with some things."

I thought about Mr. Dent yelling at Harvey outside of the church and thought that some time at camp, away from his parents, sounded like it might be good for Harvey. Even if he didn't sound too enthusiastic about it.

"Are you going to have time to hang out before you go to camp?"

"Yeah. I mean, I should."

"Great! We should all hang out. Do you think we could have a movie night?"

Harvey shifted his feet. "With Bruce too?"

Selina rolled her eyes "Of course, with Bruce too."

Harvey moved his feet again, nervously. I nearly asked about it, but then, he took a breath and stopped.

"Okay, that sounds good."

Harvey pulled the coin out of his pocket and flipped it, a little of that different stance coming back.

"Do you think all of us could hang out afterwards?"

"Sure."

I wanted to ask Selina if Harvey seemed like he was being a little weird to her, but I couldn't with Harvey standing right there.

I was really glad to see Dad walking over, and then I realized he was carrying over ice cream and I got distracted by the thought of eating ice cream.

I mean, it was summer and I was visiting out with friends and we were going to go to the movies and hang out.

But something about how Harvey was acting felt like a piece of bread hitting the water, rippling and distorting the person I knew for a second so that they felt different until the ripples smoothed out.

An insistent quack drew my attention, and a duck nibbled a forgotten bit of Gotham rounds while we joked and laughed, free to just hang out.

At least for a few weeks.

[stratataisen]

WIP For a Prompt

So this is for a prompt I'm working--super snail slowly...am so sorry. ;-; Writings been a bit difficult. Anyways, the first part is with Rass and his brother. Their back and forth is a lot of fun to write, ngl.

------------------------ “You're…cooking…”

“Good to know you haven’t lost your observational skills with your old age, brother,” Rass quipped as he tasted the broth. Could use more salt, he thought as he added a pinch to the soup.

“Very funny,” Jekiah snorted, moving over to where Rass was hunched over a large pot of simmering soup. “Why are you cooking?”

“Zabe’s sick, pretty bad case of the flu,” the younger Mandolorian explained, stirring the pot carefully as his brother leaned in to take a sniff. “I thought I’d make him some soup to help him feel better.”

He tried his damnedest not to blush when Jekiah gave him a searching look, gray eyebrow raised high on his forehead. But his ears had other plans as he felt them heat up--traitorous bastards.

“I see,” Jekiah said, leaning against the counter next to him. “Zabe is the smuggler captain you’ve been working with recently, correct?”

“He is,” Rass confirmed, pointedly not looking at his older brother.

“Hmm,” Jekiah hummed before a soft chuckle escaped him. “Never thought I’d see the day where you’re smitten with someone.”

“I am not smitten--”

“You’re cooking for him,” the older man stated, giving Rass a very pointed look. “You don’t cook for just anyone.”

Rass, for his part, did the very mature action of pouting and looking away.