dabbles

fleurmione; ten years past and the beach house still stands against the sea, lonely and paint stripped by the salty air

It’s been years since they’ve truly lived in the cottage. Cobwebs gather beneath cupboards, dust settles onto the furniture, enchantments for the day to day activities lose their effectiveness. Bill and Fleur had moved further inland–they needed space, Bill said–for the children.

Now, when Fleur visits the quiet house, it’s a solemn, sullen place. She doesn’t know when it became so depressed, so empty and deployed of life. In recent years she can’t seem to recall a time when the house felt happy and she wonders, had it ever been such a place?

Its only out of coincidence that she finds Hermione at it’s shore.

“You come here often?” Fleur asks, meters away from Hermione. The woman is sat on the grassy part of a large sand dune over-looking the ocean. Dressed in casual clothing with nothing but her wand beside her, Fleur thinks Hermione somehow looks as worn as the cottage.

Hermione turns to her, hair frizzled and wind swept, surprised etched into her eyebrows. “More often than you, I think.”

She doesn’t stand up to properly greet Fleur–though they’ve known each other too long to expect or be disappointed by such gestures. Hermione smiles and, like the house, even that expression is tinged with sadness.

“The wards must be wearying out off,” Fleur says as she sits down beside Hermione, uncaring about the sand that will inevitably make its way into the creases of her dress and undergarments. “Or else I would’ve come to keep you company.”

Hermione nods, looking forward into the ocean, “I suppose it’s been a while since you and Bill have visited the cottage.”

It’s said as an expression rather than a question, and thats how Fleur knows Hermione has visited the location more times than she has. “The children and work keep us busy,” Fleur sighs, “Bill and I were thinking of cleaning out the cottage so we could spend the summer here.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Fleur hums, “Bill’s work will keep him for a few days before he can come to Shell, I’m it’s first visitor in a few years.” A gust of northbound wind pushes strands of brown hair astray and Fleur resists the urge to finger them back into place. Instead she asks;

“Do you come here often?”

Hermione stiffens, just barely, but Fleur notices. Her shoulders locks and a muscle in her jaw twitches. Fleur lets the silence draw out until Hermione conjures an answer.

“Once, maybe twice a month,” Hermione looks even deeper into the ocean, “it’s peaceful.”

Fleur nods. Doesn’t ask about Ron–because she doesn’t have to. Doesn’t ask about Hermione’s job or her children, or her marriage. She’s heard enough from Luna, from Harry, from Bill.

“Sorry,” Hermione speaks again, “I should’ve let you or Bill know.”

Fleur shakes her head, dares to wrap her fingers around Hermione’s elbow, tugs just enough to grab her attention and smiles when Hermione looks her way. “The cottage–and this beach–is as much yours as it is mine. You’re more than welcome here.”

She wants to say more, wants to do more. If she were younger and more prone to irresponsible choices, more of a hopeless romantic, if she were braver, she would have said more. Instead, silence drags on and on, until nothing else but the waves and wind could be heard.

“Do you wish things were different?” Hermione asks quietly after what felt like an eternity of breathing in salty air and watching the waves roll by.

Fleur thinks on her answer for half a moment deciding how she’d convey her feelings. “I wish…I’d kept this cottage from rotting away.” And that seems to have said it all–or just enough so that Hermione understood.

They’ve sat here before, ten years ago, where Fleur was a newlywed, and Hermione was newly broken, a scar barely healing on her arm, and they sat on the sand until Fleur could stand it no longer and she pulled Hermione into her lap. And she held her, she held her close and wished the pain away, and Hermione looked at her delicately with hopeful eyes and Fleur wished she were braver then, wish she’d done things differently so that Hermione could be hers–the way Bill is hers.

Ten years, and they teeter on the same edge, between easy, amicable friendship and the possibility of something more until whatever was between them had festered and rotted like the cottage until there was nothing but bittersweet emptiness.

They speak in half truths, dancing around this decayed, worn out regret, and Fleur is so, so exhausted. They’ve made their choices, in life and in mates, and it’s led them here still. To the same beach, the same house, the same want. She feels like a thread of her fate is bound to Hermione’s, as if they will always somehow come back to this house and this beach, and–

–Hermione takes her hand, all grainy with sand between her fingers, and presses her cracked lips against Fleur’s knuckle. Hermione sighs, breaths hot air onto her hand until Fleur can bear it no longer and pulls her hand away.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says and this hurts Fleur deeper than she could have prepared herself for. Fleur shakes her head, denying–always denying–what could be hers if she only asked.

Fleur blinks away the tears, swallows the ball in her throat. “I’m sorry too.”

2. Pet Names

Nick has countless little names for Judy, and he seemed to come up with three new ones each day.  Without fail. Judy has no idea how he does it.  After all her parents called her like five names, two of which were terms they used on everyone.

Judy has her own names for Nick.  She could just about count them all on her two paws.  It’s not without like of trying however.

But Nick just churns them out like he it was his calling.

He uses ‘Carrots’ at least 85% if the the time.  Since he’s the only one can call her that without getting kicked in the kneecaps, and he relishes it.  ‘Fluff’ and ‘Sly Bunny’ are in close second.  ‘Sweetheart’ and ‘Darling’ are used in more private settings and moments.

However, it just makes him calling her Judy all the more sweeter.


Day two of 30 Day Challenge! Short and sweet for everyone!

On First Times

When they kiss, when they finally kiss, it feels like the inevitable spring shower that follows a particularly harsh winter; warm and slow, stilling the air so that Anna’s world is reduced to a single defined point where the first raindrop had just fallen.

Anna vaguely thinks, there ought to be something terrible in her stomach. As she leans forward onto her tiptoes to meet lips with her sister, she wonders where is the ball of guilt, of shame and sin. And if this is truly a sin, Anna decides as Elsa’s hot mouth opens and her tongue slips past, that the devil could expect her in hell without an ounce of regret.

Out of the thousands of scenarios she’s played in her head, this is one she hasn’t imagined. Perhaps Elsa would kiss her in the gardens, pressed against the large hickory tree in the back as the guards stood ignorant. Or would Elsa kiss her in the library as she slept against one of the many thick tomes, stealing a kiss from her unconscious form so that Anna may confront Elsa later that night, tease her older sibling and return the kiss.

Oh how Anna had fantasized about those lips, that mouth that sang like a nightingale, kissing her in a moment of frenzied lust.

But when it happens, they are in the most mundane of places. Elsa’s room, dressed in only sifts and a moment before, Anna was laughing against the fireplace about whatever they’d been discussing. She’d thrown her head back, closing her eyes, one of those laughs that demanded to be experienced in full and when composure and vision returned to her, Elsa is so close and looking so fondly that Anna just couldn’t resist.

So Anna steps forward and finds that there is no fear or hesitation, that in Elsa’s eyes are warmth and only slight anticipation, realizes that Elsa has been waiting for this too, this moment where everything has slotted into place and nothing feels more right than to press her body, one of royal blood that only craves royal flesh, against her sister.

Bluepulse request.

Jaime had never seen fingers move as fast as Bart’s. Of course, he shouldn’t be so surprised. The dude was a speedster for God sake! But just seeing the way Bart had gotten so into the video game that Jaime had chosen was shocking. Like most people, Bart would jerk his hands to the right or left, up or down, as if it would help him in anyway. He’d stick his tongue out to the side in concentration, squint at the TV screen, and jump each time something went wrong. It was all kind of cute, to be honest. Though, it was kind of aggravating too. Bart had never played this game, let alone any other video game before in his life, and he was beating Jaime. BEATING him! How can HE beat ME?! Jaime thought franticly as he tried his best to find Bart’s avatar. Once he caught sight of him, he quickly loaded his ammo, ready to shoot, but before he had time to blink, Jaime’s screen was flashing in big bold letters, “GAME OVER!”
Mouth gaping in surprise, Jaime turned to look at Bart who was doing a little victory dance on the floor beside him. “D-Did you just beat me?” Jaime sputtered. He shook his head. “I thought you said you didn’t know how to play!”
Bart’s smile widened and he shrugged looking over his shoulder. “I’m a quick learner.”
“I’d say…” Jaime muttered, dropping the remote and crossing his arms.
He couldn’t believe Bart had beaten him!
“Don’t get so mad, Blue…” Bart frowned, shifting his body so he could look fully at his friend.
Jaime shook his head. “I’m not mad,” He sighed. Sneaking a glance back up to the screen, Jaime leaned against the couch.
“Sheeh, Blue! Dontbesuchasoreloser! It was fun! Totallycrash! Let’s play again!” Bart was now on his feet, vibrating excitedly. “I’ll go easy on you!”
Despite how much Jaime didn’t want to lose again, he could only smile at how happy the younger teen was. “Fine,” Jaime nodded, popping his knuckles. “You’re on.”
Bart jumped up, punching the air. “Sweeet!” He quickly ran over to Jaime, dropped down in front of him, and squeezed himself between Jaime’s legs, laying the back of his head on the elders chest. “Let’s make a deal, ok? I win; we stay up as late as we can playing as many video games as possible! This is awesome! I don’t want to miss out! From what I hear from Rob, Halo is a lot of fun! So is Assassins creed, and Oh, what was it…Mod-modern war…”
“Modern warfare.” Jaime finished, resting his chin on the top of the auburn boy’s head. “And ya, they’re all pretty…crash.
“Really?! Do you have them all?!”
“Them and more.”
“Dude, awesome!”
Sliding his arms around Bart’s stomach, Jaime leaned down. “So this deal…What if I win, hermano?”
Bart looked back at Jaime, eyes sparkling. “We call it a night and I save you from the pure humiliation of losing game after game after game.”
“Now you’ve done it…” Jaime muttered, reaching for his remote control and starting a new game.
Needless to say, for a boy who had never played video games before, Bart never lost a game.  

anonymous asked:

au where jean's mother is super overbearing and open around marco. jean is extremely ashamed whenever she sticks her head in the door, but marco finds it charming, as his own mother is always away and busy (also a reason why marco is so independent and looks out for his friends like a mother would)

Jean wanted to die of embarrassment. He often did when he Marco visited his home. Hell, it wasn’t Marco, it was when anyone visited him at home. His Mom would mean well, but she would bring snacks and ask if they needed drinks. Marco would always be kind and answer Jean’s Mom politely but eventually Jean couldn’t hold back his sighs of frustration. 

Jean knew why his Mom and Marco got along so pleasantly. It was because, when it was just him and Marco, the freckled face dork could be just as overbearing as his Mom. Asking if he needed anything and occasionally fawning over him. 

Jean had been bothered by it at first but when they had visited Marco’s house once (and only once) it had became painfully apparent why Marco acted the way he did. Marco’s Mom had barely acknowledged their presence and Jean wondered if she was even aware of when her son was in the house or not. 

Although he was still exasperated at his Mom’s doting ways, Jean always tried to act more tolerate when Marco was over. In Jean’s own way, even though he acted embarrassed by it, he enjoyed knowing how much his Mom cared for him. 

Seeing that giving attitude reflected in Marco, made Jean realize just how much he had come to matter to the other boy. It warmed Jean’s heart and in return he always tried to show just how much Marco mattered to him in return. 

Bubble-gum love

“I found a way to make some money.” Said Peter as he Sirius, James and Remus walked across the grounds from the greenhouses up to their next lesson in the castle.

“Yeah?” Asked Remus politely.

“Well it was James’ idea really,” he gestured towards James who grinned, “he suggested that I have people pay me to tell them funny stories about all the stupid stuff I’ve done.”

“But you do that anyway,” said Remus, but he did not hear Peter’s reply.

He had just pulled open one of the double door to the castle, and at the same moment someone pushed out though the other door exiting the castle. As he registered the bright flash of short, bubble-gum pink hair he inhaled sharply. He had seen her at lunch already and had not been expecting to see her again, or even looking for her easy-to-find hair.

Oh, god, he couldn’t breath she was even more beautiful up close. Remus couldn’t help but look at the soft lightly freckled, soft pale skin of the heart-shaped face beneath those neon locks that had first caught his attention. Her eyes were bright and exquisite like the most beautiful mixture of colors ever imaginable, and her perfect lips folded together smoothly. Remus imagined that it must have been the ideal face. The most perfect face he had ever seen. 

He saw her only for a moment before she pushed out into the sunshine, and he entered the shadowy gloom, or so it seemed to Remus, because she lit up the entire room, she was more radiant, even than the sun shining though the magical ceiling of the great hall.

Remus was not even aware of his friends laughing, and continuing to chat until Peter said, “well what do you think Rem?”

“Huh?” Remus was looked around trying to remember where he was.

“What do you think of my idea?”

“What? Oh, it’s…great.”

“You ok mate?” asked Sirius.

“Yeah,” Remus shook his head, “fine.” But all he could think of was bright pink hair and vibrant blue eyes. Why couldn’t he have at least one class with her? She was a year below him, he remembered. Dammit. And she was in Hufflepuff, which meant he really had no chance to see her. Double Dammit. But then again, maybe he could find a way to see a bit more of her, he thought drily, James might have some tips.