sigh i hate you just kidding i can't even say that without feeling bad


Sliding across the kitchen tiles in her fluffy socks (and narrowly avoiding injury), she wiped down the black countertop with a damp cloth leaving a fresh citrus scent in its wake. Humming along to whatever 80s track that was playing over the sound system in Shawn’s dining area, she cleared the remnants of the cooking equipment from their dinner. Although he had pretty much just moved in, she had already made herself at home and despite his protests she always insisted on cleaning up. Besides, she practically lived there anyway.

And she didn’t mind cleaning up. Being an only child, she had never lived with a teenage guy before and was initially worried that when she visited, the once pristine apartment would look like a bomb had hit it - only going on what she had heard about teenage boys and cleanliness, of course. But she had to admit she was pleasantly surprised at how tidy Shawn kept his place. She supposed it had more to do with pride in having his own place rather than the interest to clean but either way, the condo was kept immaculate. There was rarely a moment she arrived and he wasn’t sweeping the hardwood floors. Something about it getting dusty, he insisted, though she just laughed and told him to put the damn brush away.

The final pot clanged as she placed it back in its respective drawer and she switched the stereo off with a satisfied sigh. Spotless. She furrowed her brow at the sound of the pounding bass continuing down the hall. Shawn had told her he was going to blow off some steam or something along the lines of that. She thought she really ought to start listening to him more rather than ushering him out of the kitchen so she could shamelessly sing without the presence of an actual vocalist. Truth be told, she was as tone deaf as they came.

Padding silently down along the hall that she knew Shawn would probably be feverishly sweeping later, she made out the song to be a Drake track accompanied by the rhythmic sound of punches hitting leather. As she grew closer, the door to his makeshift studio room was slightly ajar and she held onto the doorframe for dear life. Standing there in all his shirtless glory, she silently thanked whatever god that he had his back to her. Stance fixed and posture poised, he threw punch after punch at bag whose chains shook with each hit. He was slick with sweat and all her attention was fixated on the way his back muscles flexed and contracted with each jab. A limp curl hung down on his forehead while the rest at the back of his head were plastered to his neck with perspiration. His grey sweatpants hung low on his waist and she found it hard to concentrate when he let out the occasional low grunt as he threw a punch.

She knew he had taken up boxing as a way to keep fit while he was on tour and couldn’t make it to the gym. The thought of that alone was enough to let her mind run rampant. But experiencing the sight in person? Well, that was a whole other level of explicit thoughts and right now, her mind needed a big ‘Parental Advisory: Explicit Content’ sticker stuck to it.

Biting her lip with too much vigour, she inwardly prayed that her knees wouldn’t give out. The sound of someone collapsing in the doorway was sure to put a pause to his boxing session and she’d be damned if she was the one to stop him. It almost felt wrong watching him. Although he is her boyfriend, she still felt like she was trespassing - watching something that she shouldn’t. Her phone suddenly felt very heavy in her back pocket as the urge to record the unlawful sight in front of her welled up inside her. She wanted to capture the moment, project it on cinema screens, tattoo it on her body. Woah girl, reel it in she thought to herself, chastising her imagination for taking the scenario and running away with it.

“I told you not to box without gloves, didn’t I?” she said as the song ended. Her voice was a surprise to her own ears - it sounded controlled and not at all flustered as she had expected.

Whatever ounce of rationality she had mustered up before was completely and utterly demolished when her Greek God of a boyfriend turned around to face her - all glistening abs and taut pectoral muscles. The way his lips parted slightly as he panted and the innocent look in his eyes was enough to make her crumble into a heap of ashes. The early signs of stubble were visible above his lip and on his chin and although she wasn’t usually a fan of facial hair, she stifled a groan in her throat. What the hell was this kid doing to her? A smug smile spread across his face as he moved across the room to turn off the speaker and she dared her legs to hold her weight as she walked - or rather wobbled - towards him.

“Guess I should’ve listened, huh?” he replied with a sheepish grin as he looked from his knuckles back up to her face. She noticed the cuts dotted along his knuckles and the purplish hue of the bruised already forming underneath. He could only chuckle as she sighed and quirked a brow at him, his own way of saying ‘I’m fine, really’.

“The blood trickling down your hand says otherwise” she countered, taking one of his large hands in her own. Brushing a finger across his lower knuckles that escaped relatively unscathed, she shot him another look. But it was hard to even pretend to be mad at him when he was gazing down at her, his warm brown eyes alight with mischief.

“Sorry, mom” he said apologetically with a boyish grin, earning himself a swat to the chest.

“C'mon, Rocky Balboa” she said sarcastically and took him by the hand carefully. Leading him to the en suite in the master bedroom, she bent down to reach the first aid kit she had taken the liberty of buying. Admittedly, she was hopelessly accident prone and Shawn was clumsy so it was considered an essential as far as she was concerned. One of them was bound to do something potentially self-destructive. Which was laughably ironic considering the fact that she was fit to combust any second.

“Honestly, I’m fine. It’s not that bad” Shawn argued examining his hands. Looking up from her position on the floor and ready to shoot another unamused look at him, he towered above her and she lost all ability to speak. His damp curls hung around his face as he looked down and her and she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander to where the defined V muscle at his waist disappeared beneath the waistline of his sweatpants. His cheeks were as hot and rosy as hers felt. Whatever smart-ass comment that was on the tip of her tongue died. Combustion in 3…2… Clearing her throat and standing up quickly, she placed the first aid kit on the counter before putting a hand on her hip.

“Just- shut up and let me be a good girlfriend, alright?” she said playfully. As she opened the kit, he held up his hands in surrender. Getting to work disinfecting the cuts on his hands, she tried desperately to ignore his proximity to her and the heat radiating off his body. Needless to say she failed miserably. After she had finished wrapping the bandages around his knuckles (like he should have done before he started boxing), he pressed a kiss against her hair and mumbled his thanks against her skin. The height difference meant she was staring at the hollow in his throat that was gleaming with sweat and she couldn’t hold herself back from planting a kiss there. A surprised low groan escaped him and as she wound her arms around his waist, she could feel him pull back slightly.

“I’m all gross and sweaty, baby girl” he said in a low voice, the tenor in it reverberating through her bones.

“Good, that’s the way I like you” she said with a smirk, gazing up at him through her lashes before placing another slow, languid kiss at the base of his neck. He gripped her hips as he sucked in a breath when her teeth grazed his skin.

“Well in that case…” he said and in one swift motion, he had her hoisted up onto the counter and stood between her legs, earning a surprised gasp from her lips. “You won’t mind getting a bit sweaty yourself.”

Her mind raced and she crashed her lips against his. God, he had been gone for so long. Far too long. She had forgotten how much she had missed this. Missed the way his tongue brushing hers caused that feeling to erupt in her stomach every single time. The way he pulled her towards him by her hips, getting her as close to him as humanely possible. The way he groaned against her lips when she wound a hand into his wild hair. Usually he was gentle, slow. Nothing about him was gentle in that moment letting her know that he had missed her just as much as she had missed him. Kissing her way along his jawline to his ear, she kissed his earlobe before speaking with a challenging tone to her voice

“Go on then, baby. Make me sweat.”

Moramortia: Chapter 1

143k words total, 20 chapters


Scorpius isn’t on the Hogwarts Express at the start of seventh year, and Albus discovers that he’s become very ill over the summer. Determined to find out what’s wrong with him and how to make him better, Albus starts doing some research, and discovers Moramortia, a fatal illness with just one cure. Together, Albus and Scorpius (with some help from Rose) set out on an adventure to find the ingredients to make the potion that will hopefully save Scorpius’s life…

This fic has been just over a year in the making, and I can’t believe it’s finally done. Thank you to everyone who’s helped along the way, including those who have had to suffer through all the angsty snippets that I couldn’t help but share. Special thanks go to my amazing beta, @abradystrix – Bathilda believed in us, and we got here in the end!

Read it on AO3 / Pick a chapter


The Beginning

Find what you love and let it kill you.

Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.

Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.

For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.

-Charles Bukowski


Scorpius isn’t on the Hogwarts Express at the start of seventh year. This would be alarming in itself, but coupled with the fact that Albus has heard nothing from him in weeks, it’s downright terrifying. 

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

There's a quote from one of my favorite books, 'He's got a heart as big as Texas. He'll die for you without blinking. But he doesn't expect anyone to do the same for him.' And because of YOU I can't read that book now without thinking about Derek. And about how Derek'd react if Stiles wasn't ONLY willing to die for him, but willing to give up his dreams and hopes so Der could live his (course they'd find a way to have both but Stiles' willingness to sacrifice so Der can have joy is the point)

“I don’t understand,” Derek whispers, looking down at the two plane tickets. “These say one way.”

“Yeah, they do,” Stiles smiles, nudging Derek with his shoulder. He smells content, happy, and Derek just doesn’t get it. Wasn’t it only last week Stiles said he never wants to leave Beacon Hills? That this is where he wants to settle down for good? 

“You just became an official deputy last week,” Derek says, frowning. “It’s all you’ve ever wanted to do. I’m not taking you away from that because I stupidly mentioned some silly dream I once had about travelling the world when I was a kid.”

“A kid who never got to live any of his dreams,” Stiles says, smile turning sad. It should feel pitying, but coming from Stiles it’s just on the right side of painful; comforting, and Derek can’t help but lean in a little, pressing himself against Stiles’ warmth. 

“I’ve got you,” Derek shrugs, leaning into Stiles a little further when he wraps his arm around him. “I don’t need anything else.” 

“Yeah, well, I may be enough for you, but as much as I love my sourwolf, I prefer when he’s happy.” He pauses, dropping his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just don’t tell him I said that.” 

Derek grins, but it instantly fades. “Seeing the world is my dream, not yours. I’d never forgive myself for taking you away from what makes you happy.”

“Luckily you are what makes me happy.” 

Derek sighs. “Stiles-”

No, Derek, listen,” Stiles says, swinging his leg so he somehow manages to straddle him in one smooth movement. “Wow, I didn’t actually think I’d manage that without one of us getting hurt.” He grins down at their laps, fist pumping the air before his face grows serious again. “Right,” he licks his lips, raising his eyes to Derek’s. “All I want is for you to be happy. It is literally my only goal in life, next to keeping my dad healthy. You want to see the world? We’ll see it. Hell, Derek, if you told me you wanted to go and live in the mountains and be a proper wolf man, I’d follow you!”

Derek narrows his eyes at that, but there’s a lump that forms in his throat he can’t swallow. Stiles’ heart beat is steady, every inch of him radiating confidence and reassurance. He wants this and Derek doesn’t understand.   

“But your dad-” 

“Skype, postcards. Next problem.”


“Skype, the weirdest looking postcards I can find. Weekly online video game tournaments. Anything else?” 

“Why?” he asks, hating that is voice sounds so small.

“I’d die for you,” Stiles says, like it’s that simple. 

“That’s not an answer,” Derek says, although he knows Stiles isn’t lying. Stiles always comes back for him, but hearing it said out loud…he shakes his head. It’s not right. No-one should want to die for him. He doesn’t deserve that level of love again, not when he betrayed his entire family. 

“I can see you thinking in there,” Stiles leans down, eyes boring into Derek’s in that way they’ve always done, even before they got together. “It stops now. I know how long it took me to get you to accept a hug without feeling bad about it. It took me 228 days. Getting you to ask for what you wanted in bed, and not what you thought I wanted, took 456 days. I know getting you to believe I love you as much as I do could take years, but this is where I start. Right here, right now. This is where I start proving to you how much I actually love you, Derek.”

Derek expects him to laugh, to make a comment on how cheesy he sounds, or bring out the ‘Derek Hale spreadsheet’ complete with graphs and charts, but there’s nothing. He’s completely serious. “But-” he starts to say, trying to blink away the tears that begin to pool in his eyes. Stiles cared. Cared enough to be that patient with him, and Stiles isn’t a patient person. He still cares, a voice in the back of his head reminds him. He wishes it doesn’t feel like such a shock. 

“ The station will be waiting for me when we get back, whether that’s one or ten years from now,” Stiles says, covering Derek’s mouth with his hand. “You’re what I want, Derek. Whatever you want, I want. It’s that easy.”

Derek surprises himself by laughing, shaking his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. It’s all he can say. He doesn’t know if he will ever be able to say anything else, even though he knows. Somewhere in the back of his head he knows what he means to Stiles, because he trusts Stiles.

“You will,” Stiles leans in again, placing a soft kiss to his lips. Derek tries to respond, but he’s frozen, shaking a little. “Mmm,” Stiles blinks when he pulls back, looking a little dazed. “I’ll never get tired of that.”

I hope so, Derek thinks. “Me neither,” he whispers instead.