He’s gasping lungs
and cracked open ribs as he clutches the acceptance letter in his pocket and
glances up at the frost laced rooftops of Diagon Alley, realizes that there’s
an entire world beyond the manor walls and he hadn’t even realized it.
He’s eleven and
catching sight of her through shop window reflections like crystal balls.
Dragging himself into Florish and Bots because there’s curiosity, no, interest, no, enchantment, maybe,
ebbing like magic through the whorls of his fingertips. And she’s in his
peripheral, schoolbooks clutched to her chest and smile soft, eyes wide and
lashes fluttering. Luminescent in the light filtering through the window.
Draco watches as she
rolls her sleeves up to her elbows and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear,
strains on her tiptoes to reach a book on one of the higher shelves and –
“Here,” he says,
grabs the book and slips it into her hands. Ignores the spark that catches
between their fingertips and tugs, oh yes, he’s close enough to see the color
of her eyes like rainbows reflected through a prism, the butterfly soft smile
that traps itself against her mouth as she meets his eyes –
Says her name, “Y/N,”
like wind chimes or a symphony.
And Draco thinks
that it might as well be a spell.
He’s glances cast
across a classroom, over his shoulder, when he hopes that nobody is looking.
Fingers brushing and elbows knocking and, “Excuse me, I didn’t watch where I
was going.” He did, and he’d be lying if he said that touching her felt
anything less than a charm.
He’s twelve and he’s
the pride swelling in his chest at his first Quidditch match when he can hear her somewhere below him, cheering his
name. He tells her that she’s his good luck charm the next day, doesn’t quite
catch the blush that suffuses her cheeks before he turns away.
But it’s the last
day of term and she’s slipping by him in the train corridor and, “Have a good
summer, Draco,” she says, hesitates, brushes her lips against his cheek.
He hadn’t quite
believed in magic, until then.
snickering and Pansy’s knowing looks and jealousy, hot and potent, bubbling
like a potion he hadn’t managed to get right
in his stomach as Cormac McLagen smirks and smiles and sidles up beside
Y/N in the Great Hall during breakfast one day.
He’s thirteen and he’s
fucking captivated as snowflakes dust Y/N’s lashes and the wind twirls the ends
of her scarf, as she wipes butterbeer from her upper lip and giggles at
something that one of her friends whispers into her ear.
“I’ll help you back,”
he offers, seizes a chance, when her friends have run ahead of her on the path
back to the castle.
And she smiles at
him, tucks an arm through the crook of his elbow. Tells him about the trouble
she’s been having in Transfiguration lately and if she can’t figure it out her
parents will have her head for sure and –
“I can tutor you, if
you’d like,” he says, wonders if Blaise had spiked his pumpkin juice with Felix
Felicis that morning. Hopes that she can’t feel his heartbeat through the jut
of his elbow.
“I’d love that,” she
And he can’t quite
believe his luck.
He’s library desks
cluttered with books and ink blotches, Madam Pince’s furious hushing when he
and Y/N forget to be quite. The way light streaks and shimmers around her,
distorted as though they’re drowning in the Black Lake.
He’s fourteen and
strangely, oddly hopeful as he clasps her fingers, marvels at the fit of her
hand in his, shows her the correct hand motion and heart stops, starts,
stutters when she doesn’t quite pull away.
“I aced my last
test,” she tells him, runs towards him in the corridor, throws her arms around
his neck till he can feel her heartbeat crash against his.
“I guess you don’t
need a tutor anymore then,” he says. A frown is burgeoning on the cusp of his
“No, no,” she says
hurriedly. “I still do.”
And he isn’t sure
why he hasn’t transfigured this, them into something else yet.
He’s the firewhiskey
on his lips and the castle floor on the palms of his hands as he reaches forward
and spins the bottle yes, hopes, wonders, waits as it spins, spins, lands on
her, oh yes.
He’s fifteen and he’s
the lip-gloss on her lips, the way they crash head on like a train-wreck, a car
crash and he doesn’t have an algorithm for this: him, her, the kiss.
Because her mouth
fits neatly against his and she tastes like melted sugar, like cotton candy,
all soft edges and fluttering pulse points. His eyes are closed and he can’t
quite believe/ only he can, he’d rigged
He pulls her into a
broom cupboard and threads his fingers through her hair, tastes butterbeer on
her tongue and feels his tonsils glued together because this is a secret and he
can’t quite find the right words to say.
But things are
different, they’re different and he
holds her hands as he walks her to class, kisses her across the tabletop in
Honeydukes and grabs her, twirls her after Quidditch matches. He wraps his scarf
around her neck and they pass notes in class, sit at the top of the astronomy
tower at night and map out the handful of constellations that they know.
It’s this: him, her,
and how he hadn’t anticipated that the winds would change.
He’s late night
kisses and early morning platitudes, worried questions and, “Draco, I know
something’s wrong.” The mark on his arm and the worry that’s coiled tight in
his gut as he attempts to keep it covered up.
He’s sixteen and he’s
breaking, the world too heavy on Atlas’ shoulders. Because he has a noose
around his neck and he can’t do it, can’t, can’t, can’t.
They lose their
virginity to each other the night before he’s meant to kill Dumbledore. And it’s
like falling through a pensieve to a memory he didn’t know he had; soft lips
and rolling hips and gasps, teeth, fingers fit neatly in the groove of her
Here’s how it goes:
A girl, a boy, a tragedy. He’s Icarus and she’s the sun
and it’s not her that kills him, oh no, it’s the ocean and melted wax dripping
down his back.
He tells her ‘I love
you’ before he tells him ‘I have to kill you’.
And there’s a green
light and he’s Gatsby and he’s never managed to reach what he wanted, no, has
only ever been a cautionary tale.
He’s sixteen and he’s
a mistake, a heartbreak, the boy who made all the wrong choices.
He’s the shards of a
broken chandelier stuck in his mouth, his hands, vocal chords torn to ribbons
as lights flash green and screams echo through the hallowed corridors of the
manor. The letters he’d sent her that don’t have a reply, the ragged stitches
of a heart never meant to mend.
He’s seventeen and
the room of requirement is burning around him, life flashing before his eyes,
flames licking at his heels. It’s her, her, her. And Crabbe’s gone, the room is
charred but it’s not over yet, is never over.
There’s blood on his
hands and in his throat when he sees her again. When he grabs her, yells,
watches as a Death Eater’s body crumbles to the floor.
Her palm is sweaty
against his, breaths ragged and tears sooty.
There’s a war raging
around them and he finds that he doesn’t quite care.
He’s the faded mark
on his arm and the ring in his pocket and the happiness – cautious, unsure, new
– that permeates the walls of his new home with her. Because the war is over
and the world is still turning.
He’s eighteen and he’s
a happy ending, maybe, a fairytale that didn’t quite end with them riding off
into the sunset but ended like this instead: him and her and he thinks that
that’s all he ever really needed.
Spent all day working on decorating my new school books. Didn’t do alot on this lazy Tuesday and it was nice! Tried to post this about 4 times so if this has been one my feed multiple times don’t be surpised.
At first, nobody even noticed Neil using his notebooks
for sketches until a few stray papers had fallen from one of his schoolbooks. Back
then, Andrew had gotten a glimpse of what seemed to be doodles of fox paws,
foxes, cats and Exy but he hadn’t paid much attention.
He’d shrugged it off as stress relief or boredom.
Now, when Neil was asleep on his bunk with his
notebook open in front of his head, however, he couldn’t ignore it.
Not when the thing on the page was himself.
Andrew tugged at the notebook until it was in his
hands, careful enough so he wouldn’t wake Neil up. He sat on the floor with his
back to the wall and with a perfect view of the bed. Just in case Neil got a nightmare
because this week was definitely a bad one for him.
Being snoopy had always been a way to ensure the
safety of the person Andrew was protecting. A way to know his enemy and a way
to find hidden dirt, to manipulate.
was just plain curiosity that he wouldn’t admit to having.
Now that Andrew had a close look, he realized that it
wasn’t a notebook but a sketchbook used as a notebook. The page before the drawing
Neil had been working on was filled with notes from a Literature lecture where
each sentence was written at a different angle and size.
Not that he paid any mind to them.
No, his gaze was on Neil’s version of himself.
Andrew wasn’t a person who was vain, he just wore
black clothes he was comfortable with and intimidating in. He didn’t give two shits how he was, only knew that he had some good looks. He didn’t care
how others perceived him.
(He should have guessed that his traitorous mind would
make Neil another exception.)
There were a few versions of him on the page
– a side view, a center view and something halfway through both.
It was a face he was deeply familiar with – for one,
he’d lived with it since he was born; second – his twin had the same one. They
were both shadows and
hard and sharp edges.
This, the way Neil saw him, had almost nothing of
that. It was all smooth curves and soft lines from a perspective he’d never
seen. The fact that it was realistic and actually good made a bigger impact.
Because when he flipped through the pages, the only
sketches that weren’t half-assed, uneven or too hurried shapes were Andrew’s.
Every time Neil had put him on paper, it was down to the smallest of details.
From the slight tilt Andrew held his head in to the small and easily overlooked
scars to the right side of his chin and over his left eyebrow. He’d
even seen a few colored versions of his eyes where every speck and color
placement was identical to the original.
Andrew looked them all over, mentally cataloging the
increasing percentage Neil was at.
And he wondered.
He wondered at the warmth that had nothing to do with
the room temperature. He wondered at the enigma that dumb idiot was.
Then he flicked through the pages quickly, in case he
missed something, and got to the last two.
There, he saw something like a timeframe. Himself,
with his back propped on the Maserati, one hand holding his flip phone while
the other held his cigarette in his mouth. The drawing on the right was
almost the same, only he had pocketed the phone and was lowering the cigarette.
The third and last one was of him blowing smoke out of his mouth, chin tilted
upwards, staring at the person in front of him, presumably Neil.
What caught him off guard was the fact that the
only heavily detailed thing was Andrew’s face. Everything else was just quick
lines that indicated a form, nothing more.
Not his arms or torso or legs or any other part of
him. His face.
Maybe the only part of his body that he didn’t
consider sexual due to his lack of any expressions whatsoever.
Not only that, but Andrew’s eyes were literally the sole
thing that had more than four or five lines. In all the drawings he had seen of
himself, the eyes were the detail that always got in the center of attention.
And Andrew thought.
He thought about their first conversations back when
Andrew was drugged off to fucking La-la land all day, every day. He thought of
their progression through the months. The bus ride before Baltimore full of
Neil’s truths. The hotel after Baltimore. A month ago. A week ago. A day ago. Five hours ago.
Neil always looked him in the eyes – back then and in
present time as well.
That was the first thing Andrew had hated the most about
him. Because everybody else avoided doing it.
He held his gaze whenever they had eye contact, never
shying away or fearing Andrew’s cold disdain or indifference.
He racked his memories for a time when Neil had stared
at him the way Nicky lusted after strangers but he came empty handed. Neil never
looked until he had explicit permission.
Andrew had never caught Neil gawking at him, only
stolen glances here and there to see his body language and nothing more. He
always looked him in the face first. He was nothing
Andrew had known that before but having it thrown in
his fucking face was a completely different thing.
He placed the sketchbook next to Neil’s pillow, unable
to stop himself from looking at Neil’s peaceful expression.
“I fucking hate you.” he whispered.
Still, he lifted his hand to shift the unruly bangs
away from Neil’s eyes.
Give me casual gifts (new camera, schoolbooks paid and Aunt Mays car fixed)
Give me Tony fetching Peter from school and taking the scenic route to the Tower/Compound
Give me lunches at greasy diners and Donuts for desert (don’t tell your aunt)
Give me Peter having access to Tonys living quarters and workshop, his stuff showing up in odd corners (school books on the kitchen table, a sweater draped over a workshop chair, a comic pushed under the couch)
Give me Tony teaching Peter about engineering and mechanics, showing him his projects and the inner workings of the Iron Man suits (happy to make time for the curious teenager nothing like Howard Stark)
Give me Tony patiently helping Peter with homework or a project that just won’t turn out like it should (please, please you’ve GOT to help me, the deadline is TOMORROW)
Give me Peter filling Tonys (quiet, lonely) living space with overly dramatic recounts of boring school days, excited nerd talk and hyperactive, superpowered teenager antics
Pages from a 1710 school ledger by Philadelphian Grace Hoopes. Her penmanship and flourishes are remarkable! And check out that almost-too-quaint-to-be-true calculation of how many barley corns are in a mile. The book is also a great example of paper corrosion caused by unstable iron gall ink, as you can clearly see in the first image (the whole book looks pretty water-stained too).
“Okay, so remember that the reason the United States entered World War I was because Germany was sinking our merchant ships and they sent the Zimmerman note to Mexico,” Logan says.
He smiles at you. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
You smile back. “Yeah.” Then you stand on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek softly before stepping away. “Thank you, Logan.”
A faint blush dusts his cheeks as he mutters, “Anytime.”
Smiling again, you walk away to go to your favorite spot outside, clutching your history book to your chest. All of your schoolbooks are precious to you, as you’ve never had any before.
When you were younger, you went to school until you were about eight, and then your parents died in a house fire. Refusing to go to any kind of childcare, you spent your life on the streets, until now, at 28 years old. Charles found you after sensing you had the power of element manipulation, and took you to the Academy.
You’ve been learning as much as you can ever since, drinking in any information you can find. People don’t realize how much knowledge is a blessing, and you’re not going to take it for granted.
Just as you sit down on your favorite bench in the garden and open up your history book again, you hear the murmured voices behind you.
“She’s only been here a month, but she doesn’t know anything. You should see her in class,” the voice says. You refuse to turn around.
“Isn’t she in class with people half her age?” a second voice asks.
“Yeah,” the first one replies, “and she’s getting private tutoring from some of the other professors.”
Someone giggles before saying, “Wow, she must be retarded.”
Tears well up in your eyes at their words and drip down onto your textbook as they continue to make assumptions about your mental health.
“(Y/n), what’s wrong?”
You look up to see Logan standing next to where you’re sitting, eyes full of concern. “Nothing,” you stammer.
He frowns and looks behind you, then back at you, putting two and two together. “What did they say?”
“Nothing,” you whisper, but he’s already walking away towards the two girls talking about you.
“Hello, ladies,” he says, “what are you talking about?”
He feigns confusion. “Really? Because I thought I overheard you talking about my friend (y/n) over there.”
“That’s what I thought. Do you two even realize how lucky you are to have an education? Some kids don’t get to go to school, and (y/n) was one of them. So instead of making fun of her for it, be happy that she finally has a chance to learn. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Professor,” they mumble.
He nods at them and then walks back over to where you sit, taking a seat next to you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper, wiping away the last of your tears.
Hey! If I'm not too late would you do a scenario or headcanon for tendou where he is really interested in his fem! Classmate who always seems so interested in schoolbooks and who is always reading but in reality she is just reading shounen jump instead of books?
I’m doing this as headcanons, I hope you don’t mind!
first, you didn’t catch his attention much? Like, you were just a classmate
more, and you seemed to like your books a lot. But, as time passed, the fact
that you always seemed so invested in them, perked his attention. During
classes, you were looking at your schoolbook. During breaks? Yeah, the same.
Even during lunch, as you ate, you were reading them.
thought lots of times how to approach you. Since you spent basically all the
day reading them, you were supposed to have great marks, so he decided to
approach you after classes to ask for “some help with a subject he was really
day, before classes ended, the teacher called out your name. “(Name), I’d like
to talk with you a little after the class ends” He
saw your eyes go wide, and nod with your head a little low. What was that
reaction? He was pretty sure you haven’t done anything wrong.
After the last class,
curiosity got the best of him, and he finally approached you, since you still
seemed a little down. “Hey (Name), I was
wondering if you were okay?” When you looked at him with big eyes full of
surprise he said “I’m Tendou, and you
seem to be in a foul mood since break so…” and he looked at you again “Am I talking too much right?”
He heard you laugh and
say “No, its okay. The teacher asked me
about my grades, since they’re dropping a little…” and you couldn’t finish
your sentence because he let out a loud “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeh?!”
his face showing horror “How is that
When he saw you looking
around and saw no one was near, he heard you say “Can you keep a secret?” he nodded vigorously, curiosity killing
him. He never expected you to open your schoolbook, and find that it’s contents
were… full of familiar images and vibrant colors?
He stared at it for a
while, after saying in a low voice “I-it’s that… s-shonen jump?” when you nodded he couldn’t help but say “Oh my you’re perfect”
There is a teen wolf ao3 fanfic I'm looking for where in the first chapter Stiles opens the door to sophomore college student Peter Hale asking him for help research a mythological creature for a class, and leaving a stuffed wolf in his room. Cora is also really annoyed at him and share some classes with him and Laura approaches him at lunch in school.
Hmm I don’t think I know this one. That or I’ve forgotten it. Does anybody else recognize it?
“Dav- Davey?!” Jack raced over to Davey, who was huddled in the corner of his room. The comforter on his bed was messily pulled off and wrapped around Davey’s shoulders, his schoolbooks scattering the floor and sheets dragged with him. Davey was shivering, eyes wide with fear, barely registering when Jack came in through the window. Kneeling in front of Davey, Jack took one of his hands in his own, staring into his eyes. He didn’t blink for a full minute before he shut his eyes tight and opened them, really seeing Jack for the first time. With a sudden move that scared Jack, Davey scrambled backwards and pushed Jack away.
“You can’t be here!” he said, with wild eyes. Jack looked around, confused.
“I can’t be here?” Jack asked incredulously. Davey nodded. He wrapped the blanket tighter around him and looked away. That’s when Jack noticed the tears streaking down his face at an alarming rate. Jack crawled over to Davey and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. Davey fought for a moment, until he sighed deeply and let his head fall against Jack’s shoulder. The tears soaked through his shirt, but Jack didn’t care. He sat still until the shaky breaths subsided, their heartbeats slowly aligning. Davey pulled away, resting his forehead on Jack’s. Jack kissed his nose, cupping his face in his hands.
“What happened?” Davey’s eyes filled with fear and Jack held him tighter.
“The boys at school found out. About… Us. They saw you and I in the alley behind Jacobi’s and-” Jack kissed him, soft and slow. Davey widened his eyes in surprise, but slowly let them shut.
“Hush. They can’t hurt you. I won’t let them touch you. You’re always safe with me.” Davey sighed with relief and let his head fall on Jack’s chest.
Jack sat still, not wanting to disturb the boy he loved. As he took deep, slow breaths, he knew he would always want to be the one to be there to comfort Davey.
You groaned as you laid your head on the table, a complaint of “wwwwwhhhhyyyyy” making its way past your lips. Hearing a grunt you looked up in time to see your best friend rolling his eyes “come now, ____, don’t be like that, we have to Ace this test” he reminded, sighing you pushed your upper body off the table “I know, I know, but it’s so boring, Damian! Honestly who even cares about math? We literally carry calculators around wherever we go!” you said, picking up your phone and waving it slightly to emphasize your point. Damian narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips for second, before smirking and pushing the schoolbooks and notebooks aside “alright, alright, Then how about we turn this study date into a “study” date” he suggested, using air quotes on the second study. You stared at him in shock for a second, mouth agape and eyes wide “Damian Wayne! Are you asking me out? Or just messing with me?” you asked him, your voice rising a few decibels in surprise, the blue eyed boy only grinned “what do you think, ____ ____”, you smiled at that, and, well. Let’s just say the “study” date ended well, with a kiss and a D- on the test.