place between the pines

sorry i haven’t been drawing as much, its probably because i foolishly bought another copy of animal crossing to make a faerie-themed town

anonymous asked:

Hi! I'm kind of new to Drarry but I already realized that I really like stories where Harry is pining over Draco, desperately in love with him but at the same time he's still strong Harry we all like. A bit of angst, hurt/comfort is very welcome too. Happy ending is a must :) So if you have something like this in mind, I'll be very grateful if you share. Thank you!

I loooove pining, so this was a lot of fun to do! I hope you like them! Also, since you’re kind of new to Drarry, I just want to add that all the authors on this list are A++. And reading more of their fics would be a VERY good idea.

Drarry + pining!Harry fic recs

Azoth by zeitgeistic (88k)
Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for 8th year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.
(So much pining, it’s amazing. Harry and Draco do their masters project together, they grow very close, there’s pining and longing and it hurtssss.)

Turn by Sara’s Girl (306k)
One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.
(This is the mother of all pining!Harry fics and exactly what you’ll want. He’s so desperately in love with Draco, he’s oh-so-strong, and I’m SO proud of him and the way he fights for his own happiness in this fic. Beautiful, beautiful thing.)

In Pieces by dysonrules (85k)
Harry returns to Hogwarts as the new DADA instructor, only to find his teaching efforts thwarted by a very familiar ghost.
(You have no idea how much I’ve cried over this one. It takes pining to a whole new level of suffering and I am so there for all of it. And yes, happy ending~)

A Piercing Comfort by talithan (44k)
When Harry Potter hits the lowest point of his life so far, it is not his friends who keep him honest. With Draco Malfoy’s patience and guidance, Harry learns to stand on his own. The thing is, after the fact—he’s no longer sure he wants to.
(MY FEELS, THERE ARE TOO MANY OF THEM. The focus is on Harry and his dealing with everything post-war. Will satisfy any hurt/comfort craving.)

Reparations by Sara’s Girl (87k)
Harry is about to discover that the steepest learning curve comes after Healer training, and that second chances can be found in unexpected places.
(This fic is so incredibly well-written, characterizations so on point, and Harry falls so hard for Draco. The pining, the slow burn, the sexual tension. Agh!)

Running on Air by eleventy7 (74k)
Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.
(I’m forever crying over this one. Gorgeous writing, so beautifully written, every single sentence is exquisite. It’s that melancholic kind of angst. Love it.) 

Stately Homes of Wiltshire by waspabi (57k)
Malfoy Manor has mould, dry rot and an infestation of unusually historical poltergeists. Harry Potter is on the case.
(One of the funniest fics I know, this author is hilarious. The pining is lovely, the characterization of Draco is a favorite of mine, and everything is awesome.)

The Boy Who Only Lived Twice by lettered (54k)
Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It’s all right here, folks.
(This is one of the PUREST love stories ever, I have so many feels, it is fucking beautiful and it has ruined my life in the best way. Angsty pining galore!)

A Convenient Impracticality by firethesound (38k)
Somehow Harry ends up agreeing to a fake relationship with his ex-nemesis-turned-friendly-acquaintance-with-benefits, except for some reason it involves an awful lot of actual dating and, sadly, not much sex. Confused? Harry is too, but when has anything with Draco Malfoy ever been as straightforward as it seems?
(Delicious pining all over the place and the chemistry between Harry and Draco is off the charts. They’re both idiots, it’s hilarious, and the angst hurts me.)

NOTHING NATURAL by Diana Hurlburt

They call him Prosper, a measure of mockery for each measure of awe.


You know the road to the laboratory blind, could walk it in your sleep—have, because sleepwalking is telltale of the godborn, so your mother says and touches your ankle in rare affection where it rests on the porch rail, one foot on the earth and one in the realm of spirits.

“Spirits,” she repeats, gesturing to the road below, the spindly pine woods and the yellow haze of heat and pollution that makes up your horizon. “He controls the spirits.”

There are no spirits, only neighbors: Men and women and half-made machines given to rust, the detritus of civilization. A plot of bloodless jackdaws, midway between flophouse and refugee camp. You know that part of her statement, at least, is true. The weak and weak-willed, the dying, the once-dead, the discarded and useless, the flagrant all require direction. Seek strength. Are used by those stronger.

Sicaria laughs and makes her crooked cross, murmurs her oblique prayer.

“Get out,” she tells you in sudden rage, “go to your master. Get out of my sight, you unworthy and unclean thing, you who have forsaken the ways of God, you who cleave to the machines. Your eyes see only falsehood.”


It is fifteen years since your mother was cast out. It is your lifetime that has been spent in wasteland, the between-place, the unplace beyond the pale. It is a pine island that shelters you, a fanatic who raises you, a scientist who uses your hands and your back and his daughter who considers your mind.

Your mind. You know you have one. All creatures do, born or made. It is the First Law of Being.

Your name. If Sicaria gave you one it has been lost. It was only after Prosper’s carelessness that anyone else tried—his accident in the lab, though he would never call it that, surely you were at fault, your clumsy hands too broad for fine work and your elbows always in the way. Acid scattered from a flask, droplets caught in sun. You did not scream; it wasn’t the worst pain you had felt. In the washroom Miranda’s hands were gentle, washing, salving. They slowed after the initial motions and your pulse followed. You examine your two faces in the mirror. If you had ever displayed beauty it was gone now, Miranda’s heightened by your face now scarred. Her luminosity beyond the human and your coarseness, a sun and its shadow.

Her hand stayed on your cheek after its necessity had lapsed. She traced the remnants of acid, specks and splotches, long fingers black and velvet like the touch of night. You believe her grasp could shift moons from their orbit.

“Calvaluna,” she said, a cantrip reshaping your vision of yourself. “I read it somewhere—where? I have never read a book. I don’t need to, Father put his knowledge into my head before he activated me. But I hear it.” She tapped her forehead, then yours. “I hear it. It means you. It suits you. Calvaluna.”

It was prettier than you, you knew that, a beautiful name. Prettier than most things. Not prettier than her.


When Prosper leaves the laboratory it is less a retirement for the evening and more retreat. He would never call it that but you believe him fearful, after all. The powerful always are. He swings himself like a cudgel upon exit, he shouts for Miranda to attend him and cuffs you, a passing blow, thoughtless. Brutality is his lever, rarely compassion.

You know his laboratory better than he does, you think, wiping down counters. You know his daughter, made in his own image but ultimately fathomless. There’s a phrase in Sicaria’s Bible that makes you quiver when you apply it to Miranda.

It is full dark when Miranda comes for you. Your laboratory is Prosper’s in miniature, piecemeal and theft-built, squirreled away in a shed in the woods south of the pine island on which the best of the unplace’s hovels are built.

“It was a citrus packing house,” Miranda says as she always does. Touches the frame of the door right and then left, stretches to her full height to brush its top. It’s a ritual the way your mother’s prayers are, her prostrations, her rages. “Before the Laws took effect there was an industry here. Fruit. Citrus fruit.” She looks at you, a delight on her face that would fire the darkness. “Can you imagine it, Calvaluna? Whole stands of trees with fruit on them. Wild fruit, just growing. Imagine taking fruit off a tree and eating it.”

Your imagination is not that good.

She goes to the single table in the laboratory and stands before it in a manner you’ve thought must be like that of the Israelites in the Holy of Holies. You are not supposed to know what that means. You are not supposed to have holiness in your life. She looks at you briefly, with mischief, and draws down the shroud you have used to protect the R.E.L.’s shell from rain.

“I think we’re close,” she says. Her eyes are fascinated, distracted; her hand reaches for you. “Come here, Calvaluna, tell me if this is calibrated properly.”

“You have your father’s knowledge,” you say. But you go and look at the R.E.L. with her. You’re proud of the effort, the work of your joined hands. You are not supposed to have pride, either. There is no pride in being raised beyond the pale. In being the offspring of a hanged woman, a witch they would have called her in days past, a lawbreaker too iconoclastic to be allowed in the city and too ineffectual to be executed, spared for her belly to the tune of mockery. Certainly there is no pride in your form or your face.

“I think he’s almost ready to revive,” Miranda says. Her joy is the only light in these woods. The sun exists, you know, in theory. Miranda’s face is your only evidence thus far, fifteen years alive and far from those spaces left which thrive in natural sunlight. She links her fingers in yours, her thumb rubs the calluses on your palm; she points with your hands to the R.E.L.’s blank and staring eyes, his half-human head, his chest with its missing heart and its new core of wires. “Oh, Calvaluna! I’m nervous. Are you nervous?”

Nervous is not the right word for what you are.


“Calvaluna,” Sicaria repeated the day you told her of Miranda’s gift. She scraped the tip of her ritual knife between her teeth, grinning. “An appropriate name for you, my aborted dream. I should have exposed you as a sacrifice to God.”

There is no god but human will. This is the Second Law of Being.


Your fellow-spirits are all will-bound to Prosper’s caprice. He makes the cogs of the community turn, greases the paths of food and potable water and herbs plucked at the witching hour that make life slightly less… life-like. Thus he is obeyed.

“Daughter,” Sicaria echoes. She spits at the trash heap beside the back gate. “Blasphemy. Blasphemy. Such words I hear from your lips, my burden. Who was it gave you speech, that you fling curses in my face? I think maybe you’re the worse for your time spent in that man’s house. I see you confuse craft for birth.” She broods, her fingers twitching at the strand of beads beneath her wrapper. “But there’s no more to be done. How else are we to live?”

Once, and only once, you suggested that perhaps her god might see to living arrangements, if she did not like how you were turning out under Prosper’s tutelage.

“Go.” She waves to the wood path. “I heard tell there was meat today.”

If there was meat to be had, you suspect it’s long gone now. Your fellow-spirits are avaricious. What have they but base pleasures?

“He’s in a gloom,” Miranda says, her face round and open as a poinciana pod. “He’s made me clean the laboratory twice over, and asked me to cook… something. I didn’t recognize it, Calvaluna. Lentil soup? What is a lentil, do you know?”

You know of lentils.

“You can’t make lentil soup,” you tell her. “He shouldn’t ask you to do things he knows are impossible.”

“He believes anything is possible,” she says. You love and hate to see her countenance. You remember a time when she would have spoken the same words in hope and affection. You know it is your fault, the way she is changing, her will a canker on the face of beauty. You wonder what Prosper will do when he realizes it. You ponder in the night, sometimes, this scholar whose eyes perceive all but the truth.

Perhaps you will be gone before he awakens.

“Race me,” Miranda says, but she takes your hand.

“How am I to race if you keep me beside you?”

“A race doesn’t have to have a winner,” she says, and begins to run.

She times these things impeccably. She runs so that you can almost believe the light follows her footsteps, that she leaves no mark on the earth. Dusk springs up behind you. You prefer night, its honesty; you prefer the real dark that would cover most of your world if not for artificial day. The unplace is a hive of night creatures. Your fellow-spirits are easiest perceived in dimness, their proclivities hidden and their countenances smoothed.

Miranda keeps your hand in hers and runs, runs, fearless and laughing. She runs like a dart flung toward the center of the south woods, the pine cloven by lightning looming over your laboratory. The pine grows despite the wound at its heart. It is where you found the R.E.L.—one of Prosper’s cast-offs, what he termed a failed experiment—half-dead and crumbling piecemeal to rust in dank rainfall.

She drops to the base of the pine and pulls you down and points up.

“I know of stars,” she says, her eyes searching as though Heaven might reveal itself. “The Southern Cross, the Swan. The Pleiades. Many more names my father gave me.” She touches her forehead, as she does when she speaks of Prosper’s knowledge, planted in her like seed corn. She is godborn more surely than you can ever be, gleaming divinity. She touches your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I think they must look like you. The stars beyond our sky.”

She traces the scars and specks and splotches. She draws new constellations and names them, her fingers a warm trail on your skin, her breath a promise.


Just once you asked your mother if you would ever leave the unplace. You did not then understand that no one came to the salt-strewn plots of land on the city’s outskirts by choice—no one laid eyes on the pine island and thought, I am home. It is far more difficult to leave a place you have not happened upon by choice.

“He’ll be a protector,” you say, pliers in one hand and cording in the other. “His new code will require defense. Otherwise…”

You look at Miranda and think of what might happen to her if the R.E.L.’s defensive code does not run as planned. You picture yourself and remember Sicaria’s dark jibes, her reminiscences of city life. You rub your upper arm where the contraceptive block had been implanted. It only prevents some things, can halt neither the heady mix of desire and aspiration nor flat violence.

“Defense,” Miranda says, her face solemn in its thinking pose, unaware of your thoughts. “Defense, financials, new birth records and identification…”

Her voice skips along, almost merry, a fertile stream in which to seed possibility.


The Third Law of Being is the inviolability of life. No one has ever explained to you whether the Law covers all life.


Light explodes behind your eyes when Prosper’s hand meets your skull. Or, you realize a little belatedly, it is the fault of the lab table, the edge of it kissing your temple. Air rushes from your lungs. You stare at the vault above the shed in the woods, its ceiling gaping in sections to reveal leaves, the white sky of noon.

Miranda flies at him, her face dressed in horror. You have never kissed her, you think. You would prefer not to die unkissed; you’d prefer not to die at all.

“Ungrateful wretch,” Prosper says. “Twisted ape-child, spawn of—how thought you?” He smashes his hand across the table. “How thought you to betray my kindness? To turn my own blood against me?” He lifts one of the R.E.L.’s arms, almost delicately. “Whore and daughter of whores. Thief.”

Small comfort to think his rage stems from fear, but it’s enough. Prosper would not be angry if he didn’t believe the R.E.L. was sound.

“You.” He points to Sicaria in the doorway. One of your fellow-spirits has fetched her at his command and she is in a state, white-eyed and gagging on anger. “Take your mooncalf in hand, I never want to see her again. Corruptor.”

He catches Miranda and snares her arms, wrenches her close, covers her head with his hands as though she is innocent. As though healing and reviving the R.E.L. were not her idea. As though a child can be born of only one parent. The R.E.L. is your inheritance, legacy of unnatural issue, a being greater than the sum of its creators.

“This abomination will be destroyed,” Prosper says. Sicaria prays in the doorway, her eyes not on you nor on the R.E.L. but searching, seeking. She hates the sight of machines. Had the city not cast her out for improper worship she would have repudiated them anyway.

“He is an R.E.L.,” Miranda says. You stare despite the throb in your head, the blood in your eyes. Her voice remains soft, wondering, a caress on the cyborg’s clinical name. Aerial, a creature of movement and possibility. “Robotically Enhanced Lifeform. Give him his name, Father, lend some pity, even if you thought nothing of flinging him into the trash when he failed to serve you.”

“Abomination,” he repeats. “Homunculus, deformity—daughter. Listen. Calvaluna has done wrong in her ignorance but you… you are not ignorant, Miranda.”

You marvel at the blindness of the learned man, the man cast out for his learned ways, the man who has made the wilderness blossom in decay. Lord of chaos, king of the misruled.

“God be with me in this hour,” Sicaria prays, her hands on either side of the doorframe. “God be with me in my pain, God give me strength for the task before me, God grant me…”

Me, you mouth. God be with Sicaria, and science with Prosper, and neither passionate belief nor dispassionate prowess sustain them. Miranda looks at you from beneath her father’s hands. Her smile is your signpost, her trust your life raft. Your fellow-spirits are like unto you only in substance: Crude matter, blunt usefulness. Miranda is your true equal, beloved of your soul. Her eyes remain open.

Your eyes must remain open. You must get up. There are but two steps between you and the table, one step in the scientific process, a bare nudge of your fingers at the master switch. Miranda’s being is in your hands.

On the table, the R.E.L. casts off slumber and rattles to life.


So since these requests were very similar in concept, I apologize that I didn’t quite answer them exactly how you guys wanted, but I also saw this comic by @atwotonedbird and couldn’t help myself. 


(Drabble takes place in between events of Chapter 10 of Sidon’s Epic Pining Adventure before the Yiga attack happens)

Sidon was still grumbling angrily when they got back to his quarters, and now Link wasn’t sure if it was because Ruta’s stubbornness was still getting to him or because of the monster attack that just added fuel to his fire.

“Bastards,” Sidon growled, “I can’t believe they’d have the nerve to grab you like that…”

“Hm?’ Link grunted in confusion. It was only then that it finally clicked for him; a Moblin in the attack had gotten rather gutsy, grabbing Link by the hair and pulling him off his feet. Unfortunately for the Moblin, the motion had granted Link the perfect opening to slice it and kill it. But if Sidon had been the one to been grabbed like that and on the tail…

Well, Link still couldn’t remember much about Zora biology but he did know that tails were a sensitive spot and his first instinct would have been to rush Sidon straight to the infirmary.

That would also explain why Sidon let out such a rage-filled roar and ran his trident through the moblin’s neck even after it was dead.

Keep reading

BTW, My Dudes

Day 18 (???) for Serpents iz teh evil, Day 8 (?) for Inevitable Barfie…..

In Riverdale #3, it’s all Bughead and JatP—–in fact, Vermin kinda doesn’t even GET a story line, here….., But Bughead does received their first paid-for case by an overdressed Cheryl…..and Juggie’s sulkily bantering/pining for Betty. Remember these take place between the episodes

Okay But

I may already have a pirates AU, Stars Over The Sea, BUT
Consider this

Pirates of the Caribbean AU
•Bill is a Jack Sparrow endowed with a significant amount more grace, less bumbling, and less drunken swagger. He’s also even saltier and more sarcastic.
•Mabel is Elizabeth Swan. She was raised by the Northwests, but she is aware she’s a Pines by birth and has been hardcore trying to get her adopted sister Pacifica to fall for her biological brother Dipper.
•Mostly because I just want to see Bill dive into the water to rescue her. Because he’s hotter than Johnny Depp.
• And also, “That’s the tale of the greatest pirate in the Carribean. You lied on a beach for THREE DAYS. Drinking rum.”
“….basically. Welcome to the Caribbean.”
• Dipper is Will Turner. No Pinecest here though. He wants to save Mabel because she’s his sister. They were both dumped on the Northwest’s ship as young children.
• Also because “You forget your place, Dipper Pines.”
“It’s right here. Between you and Bill.”
• That kiss at the end of the first movie between Will and Elizabeth? Yeah right before he decided to trip backwards over the wall he grabbed Dipper, kissed him passionately in front of all the men, and then went for a dive.
• Ford is in the role of Bootstrap Bill, and in this AU, he’s the twins’ grandfather, and Stan is just an uncle! He and Stan had a falling out and he left home, married, had a kid, his wife died, and in his grief he then wound up getting roped up in pirate shit, including Captain Bill Cipher and everything that entailed. When Kryptos wanted to steal the Aztec gold and Bill said no, they committed mutiny and Ford didn’t like that, so he sent a piece of the gold to his grandkids, who he had just gotten news had turned 3, and then got drowned for it. He’s still alive tho
•Kryptos is Barbossa because in my headcanon he is the only one fucking dumb enough to commit mutiny against Bill Cipher. The crew feared Bill, but many respected him, and after the mutiny they both resented that and cheered his disappearance. None of them would openly disrespect him even if they saw him in a cell, but they don’t necessarily want him back. Kryptos isn’t about to give control back to Bill.
• Cursed Aztec gold I mean come fucking on–Bill is Xolotl in my headcanon, it’s WAY too easy. He cursed the gold years and years ago for the crimes of Cortez against his people but when the men went after the treasure he resisted, and that led to the mutiny. Davy Jones is actually another Aztec god, and Bill has run out of time in a human form. He made a deal to regain lost power, his time is up.
• Gideon is Cutler Beckett. Not too interested in Mabel for once, he just wants to control the Demon of the Sea.
• Mermando is Commodore Norrington. Mabel has no love interest, she just doesn’t want to be married to anyone and honestly she’d rather be a pirate.
• Stan is still alive. When Dipper and Mabel were found at sea and brought back to the harbor, the Northwests had already decided to take in Mabel (because she came in a nice dress and therefore looked fancier than scruffy Dipper) and he was left with only Dipper. He was allowed to see Mabel, though, once or twice.

And okay though but Bill telling Mabel to persuade him when she’s trying to get the letters of mark back
And she casually draws a knife and presses the point into his back
“<i>Your</i> boyfriend taught me how to handle a weapon…”
Bill: Point made, still not giving you these

@pinetrce gets a starter!

It was… nice to have an assistant. Victor didn’t delude himself for more than a second that it was like working in labs with Igor during college, but it was something to have company. Someone to talk to, someone to listen. Someone to catch him tapping his foot to a song in his head or rambling about someone else’s work that was focus-adjacent. It made the lab feel a little less lonely.

It was certainly different than working on the Promethean Project in the basement. That was and indescribably powerful feeling, knowing they were making life, knowing that he was spearheading the cure for death, having every scientist in the place kowtow to him…

It was a refreshing place between solitude and power, having Dipper Pines in the laboratory. 

Of course, then there were days like today when they were leaving the laboratory. Victor was in need of more fetal pigs for experiments and so, he and Dipper were in a company truck with Victor’s playlist and a two hour drive out of the city. 

“Right then,” he said drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for Dipper to buckle his seat belt. He had never brought anyone with him to pick up, excluding one very memorable trip he and Lorelei had taken together to an altogether different farm - a smaller, privately owned by one of her father’s infamous “friends” type farm - and somehow Victor suspected this would be a very experience than that. “Get comfortable, don’t touch the radio, and let me know if you need to stop. They’re expecting us vaguely around noon. Any questions?”

elenorasweet  asked:

Hi! Um, there isn't much Shance yet, but a lot of it seems to be Lance narrating, so we get to hear how amazing Shiro is, which is true, but can you flip that? Shiro admiring Lance, or pining for him, or something. Shiro pov of Shance, pretty please!

This is such an adorable prompt, and I hope you like it!

You can also read it on AO3

Lance was something else. Shiro remembers those big blue eyes staring up at him in adoration and the only thought that crossed his mind was “I could get lost in those eyes for the rest of my life.” It was bizarre in a way, to have his thoughts suddenly consumed by someone else rather than survival.

He started wondering if Lance’s bronze skin continued in that same shade across his entire body. He started to wonder if he could feel the ridges of Lance’s spine through his shirt or what beat Lance’s heart thumped at. The cadence of Lance’s voice when he first woke up, the texture of his face before and after he did his morning routine. He thought about the sweeping eyelashes that framed those eyes he found himself getting lost in more times than he could count. He wondered how Lance’s body would fit against his own, if their lips would seal together like puzzle pieces coming together. And on nights when he felt lonely and lost, he always thought of the way Lance’s fingers would fill up the empty places between his own.

So he did his fair share of pining and gazing adoringly at the man. He liked the confidence that would ooze off Lance’s words, and the delicate sadness that floated around him on days where he missed home and felt he wasn’t enough always made Shiro’s heart clench.

Don’t even get him started on what happened in his body when Lance spoke Spanish. Shiro didn’t know what it was, not the language itself because he’d heard different alien languages and they didn’t do anything for him. It was simply Lance’s voice. He liked the way words came off Lance’s tongue and the rhythm he spoke in. He liked the slightly higher pitch his speech got when he was excited.

And all of these feelings, were Shiro’s secret. No one was allowed to know about his crush. Of course that plan hadn’t worked out.

Keep reading

Parent-Teacher Conference

For the wonderful zilleniose!


Delethia Robinson opened the drawer of her desk and looked longingly at the packet of Marlboro’s she had in there. She hadn’t felt the urge to smoke since she was pregnant with her first son, Benjamin. And that had been thirty years ago.

But then she had never had any students like the Pines triplets before. 

With a shudder she shut the drawer and ran her fingers through her rapidly graying afro. Hopefully things would change, one way or the other, after this parent-teacher conference.

Speaking of which…

Mr. and Mrs. Pines entered the room. Mrs. Pines was five foot nothing, had long brown hair pulled back in a head band, and despite easily being in her mid-thirties at least, was wearing light up sneakers, a pink sweater with five cats shooting lasers from their eyes, and earrings of stars with wing like appendages from them. Her wrists jangled with the weight of all the bracelets she had on them, and her nails were painted a different color on each finger.

Mr. Pines, who had to duck to come in the room, dwarfed his wife, having to be at least six and a half feet. Like his children, he had both red curly hair and thick rimmed glasses. He was dressed far more conservatively than his wife, in slacks, a plaid collared button up, and a sweater vest. Though Mrs. Robinson had never seen a sweater vest that had obviously been crocheted at home before.

“Sorry we’re late! We stopped by the playground on the way in to make sure the kids were okay!” Mrs. Pines exclaimed. Mrs. Robinson had a feeling that that was the way that the triplets’ mother talked all the time.

“That is okay Mrs-”

“Oh please, call me Mabel! Mrs. Pines is my mom!” (And was it her or was there a shadow that passed over Mrs. P-Mabel’s face as she said that?)

“I’m Henry,” Mr. Pines followed, smiling gently, as Mrs. Robinson shook both of their hands.

They sat down, and after a minute of Henry trying to fit his frame in a desk that usually contained third graders, Mrs. Robinson began. 

“First of all, may I please assure you that your children are doing fine, and are not in trouble,” Mrs. Robinson began. She didn’t miss the relieved looks that passed between Mabel and Henry.

However,” she went on, “there are some things they have done the last few weeks that gives me great cause for concern.”

Mabel reached for Henry’s hand, and he clasped it in his own. “Like what?” Mabel asked, her effervescence now muted slightly. 

“I have reason to believe that your children are…are involved in demon summoning.”

Mr. and Mrs. Pines looked nowhere near as upset as she thought they would be (should be) but Mrs. Robinson continued on.

“There’s a sweater that Acacia constantly wears that has a summoning circle of some type on it….a circle I fear is for one of the greater demons.”

Not only was there a lack of response, but she could have sworn that Mrs. Pines was trying her best not to smile. 

“I’ve seen Hank and Willow floating in midair a few times after school lets out for the day, Hank refers to trading food at lunch as ‘making deals’, and then this morning I found this.

With distaste, she pulled out the paper with a rough circle on it that had made Mrs. Robinson almost throw up when she saw it earlier that day and recognized what it was.

She placed it on the desk between her and the Pines so they could see the eight symbols, the roughly drawn eight pointed star, the sigil which looked discomfortingly familiar to Mrs. Pines’ earrings in the middle.

“This…” and she couldn’t help the slight shake in her voice. “is for summoning Alcor, the Dreambender. Third graders. I don’t wish to make any accusations against you two or how you choose to parent, but this gives me great cause for concern.”

She looked up from the offending piece of paper to see that there was no concern at all on Mr. and Mrs. Pines’ faces.

Oh they were feigning it really well, and Mr. Pines almost had it nailed down, but Mrs. Robinson had been wrangling third graders for twenty five years, and she knew a bullshit job when she saw one.

Finally, Mr. Pines said, “This is cause for concern indeed, and we will of course bring it up with the kids, and see where they got this from.” But he looked far too relaxed, and Mrs. Pines still had that maddening almost smile on her face, looked like she was on the brink of laughter.

Mrs. Robinson waited, silently. She had found when dealing with both students and their parents it was best to give them enough rope to hang themselves with.

“I really don’t know where they could have gotten that from,” Mrs. Pines managed to get out, and in any other situation, Mrs. Robinson would have grudgingly been impressed with the way Mabel kept a snerk, giggle, or snort from her voice.

Mrs. Pines went to take the piece of paper from the desk, getting out of her chair as she did. “Well, we’ll make sure the kids realize how, how serious this is, thanks for letting us know and-“

Sit down Mabel Pines.”

Mabel Pines may have been in her mid-thirties, owner of a successful business, married and with three children, but some voices went straight to the spine and hind brain and demanded to be listened to.

Mr. Pines straightened out of his slump to loom a little taller.

Mrs. Robinson was not so easily intimidated. “I have been teaching at this school for thirty years,” she started, disgust dripping from her voice. “And I have had to call CPS six times in my career on parents who abused and neglected their children. But I have never, ever seen such callous disregard in my life like I see in you two now. This isn’t just the physical safety of your children at risk but their souls. Does that not even bother you? Do you two even care?

Two spots of red had appeared on Mabel’s cheekbones, and Henry’s hands were shaking slightly, but Mrs. Robinson went on.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call Child Protective Services or the police right now.”

Mrs. Pines opened her mouth, probably to begin to shout, but Mr. Pines gently took her hand in his.

“Mabel….we should tell her.”

She looked in her husband’s eyes, completely ignoring Mrs. Robinson.

“I don’t want to make things worse,” she said quietly.

Mr. Pines raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think they can get any worse-“

Mrs. Robinson snapped her fingers between the two of them and they both turned to stare at her.

“This is not the time for fun or games, I want an explanation in the next thirty seconds or I call CPS in Bend.”

Mabel silently plucked the piece of paper from the desk. As she did so, Mrs. Robinson noticed for the first time that her hands were covered in calluses, scars, and scabs.

What kind of people were these parents?

She, oh god she was picking a scab on her thumb and placing it onto the paper-

Before Mrs. Robinson had a chance to react, Mrs. Pines simply said, “Bro-bro, can you come here for a second?”

There was no smoke, no roars, no smell of sulphur, no flash of fangs and claws.

Simply a desk that one minute was unoccupied and the next was filled with a man who looked remarkably similar to Mabel.

Though Mabel and the man had diametrically opposite senses of fashion.

And Mabel didn’t have bat wings springing from her back.

Or black sclera and gold irises.

“Mabes?” the man-no, the demon, asked. “Um, what’s going on? Also, I’m pretty sure I left the oven on so I may need to get back soon…”

Mabel looked at Mrs. Robinson.

“May I introduce you to my brother, Dipper Pines?”

The demon sheepishly waved. Mabel took a deep breath.

“Also known as Alcor the Dreambender.”

Mrs. Robinson had seen everything the world could possibly throw at her over thirty years of teaching elementary school, and that included the Great Gerbil Eating Incident of 2002.

But this….this….

Mrs. Robinson fainted for the first and last time in her life.


(Possible Sam×Reader or Dean×Reader)

Word count: 3578

Tags: @deans-trenchcoat-baby @icecream-and-winchesters

Language, alcohol, soul crushing fluff to make you fangirl for days, smut, implied jealousy, there are a few inserts of reader specific traits, so if they don’t match yours, just pretend they do please and thanks <3.
A little bit of angst but a relatively mild gift to our lovely followers for the holidays.
Be prepared for heartbreaking angst at any moment, though. We’re terrible people.

Christmas with the Winchesters always ended in drunken rants and spilled eggnog, but when the heat shuts off, the power begins to flicker, and the Winchesters are at eachothers throats–it truly is a Christmas you won’t forget. 

Author’s notes

Saveachevyridedean’s notes:  I’m sorry if part two of this is slightly delayed, Ashli and I are a potent mixture and can NEVER get any work done because we distract each other so much but it’s honestly all my fault so blame me for being too funny xD
But holy hell this was so fun to write. It’s my first collab and one of my first published fics!~
Shout out to Ashli, my partner in crime, and to Effie and Lashya for helping me along the way. LOVE YOU FAM ♡♡♡ 

(I apologize for the abruptness of the ending, but it was around 4 in the morning when I ended up finishing, so just hit me up if y’all want a new chapter~!)

Icecream-and-winchesters’ notes:
Do you like my writing? Do you follow me? If so, read this. I did like..25% of the work but trust me, that’s a good thing. I’m honestly shocked we posted this with how many times we paused. Average number of words a day was…150. Tops. Things get crazy when people are stupid enough to work with me (No but seriously this kid worked hard, she wrote her part, edit my parts, and basically strong armed this whole thing bestfriend deserves a medal)

Y/N= your name

The wind battered and pushed at the sides of the car, causing the Impala that you and the Winchesters adored greatly to swerve in whatever direction the harsh winter wind forced itself. Your heart raced in your chest with each sudden turn, and as you frantically regained control over the vehicle, as thin pieces of ice and snow began to dance and swirl around the open road, the thick, and heavy, white blanket coating the entirety of the area and the trees that surrounded either side of you. Cursing under your breath, you increased speed, clinging to the broken yellow line that occasionally appeared through the increasingly thick snow, the only thought on your mind one of home.
The roar of the engine filled your ears as you gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles rippling underneath your gloves.  This was unusual weather for Lebanon–even in late December, and you were less than used to driving in these conditions.
A heavy and loud guitar riff pulled you from your concentrations, and as you kept your eyes pinned to the road, you began to lazily fish for the blaring device. The rustle of the plastic bags that sat in the passenger seat gave you a hint towards the area in which it laid, and after the third ring you found the vibrating object.
Your eyes wandered towards the Caller ID, a smile tugging at your cheeks as you instantly recognized the name written across the glowing screen. Before the device could ring again, you had answered the call. 

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Adapted by acclaimed writer David Farr (Hanna), the gripping contemporary interpretation of the 1993 novel is a complex story of modern criminality which sees former British soldier Jonathan Pine recruited by intelligence operative Angela Burr to infiltrate the inner circle of arms dealer Richard Roper, dubbed ‘the worst man in the world’, in an attempt to bring him down from within.

The desciption of the first episode of The Night Manager!!! 

SPOILERS AHEAD, stop reading if you don’t want to know…

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