The day after the battle, Hermione Granger got up before the sun did. The Lake was covered in fog, and she was used to having somewhere urgent to go, to be, to fight.
She closed the tent flap up behind her. Hogwarts had something like enough beds, but Hermione hadn’t had it in her to climb those moving staircases, to step through the painting’s open frame and make her way to the Gryffindor girls’ seventh year dormitory. Her bed would have been there, months untouched except for the bras and scarves and bottles of sparkly purple nail polish Parvati and Lavender had strewn onto every open surface.
The fog rolled in off the Lake and Hermione stood at the damp shore and shivered until the sun rose and burned it all away.
The day after the battle, they buried their dead out on an island in the Lake, the day after the battle. Madame Pomfrey fretted and hovered, but every injured witch, wizard, and squib made it out to those conjured chairs. They might sit with assistance– with spells, with braces, with a friend’s shoulder– but they sat quiet and they listened to Flitwick read out the names.
The day after the battle, Ron Weasley stood on tiptoe when he stepped back into the Great Hall, looking over a sea of bent heads to find a cluster of red. They’d brought the tables back.
The cluster was only a tiny blip of three– Bill and their parents were flitting about, helping Flitwick float steaming bowls of pasta down onto each table. But Ginny and Percy were sitting on either side of George, keeping up a lively conversation about Gilderoy Lockhart’s hair.
Ginny was sitting half in Harry’s lap, like if she didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from getting up to help, or to pace the castle, or to walk out to the Forest and not come back. She was holding his hand, her freckled thumb running over the words written into his skin.
Ron thought about sitting with Luna, instead. Percy tried to laugh at one of Ginny’s jokes, and Ron didn’t know how to be kind like that. Ginny held Harry’s hand. Ron had thought for a long terrible stretch of heartbeats that he had lost two brothers yesterday.
He could sit with Dean. He could walk out to the Forest and punch Aragog in his ugly eyes, because normally when he walked away from everyone he loved it was because he was scared and maybe change was good for the soul.
Ron pushed his hands through his hair. He crossed the Great Hall, swung into a seat next to Harry, and filled his plate with lukewarm pasta.
The day after the battle, Luna Lovegood climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, because it was the furthest she could get away from everything. She laid on her back on the cold stone and cast balls of light and enchanted birds to chase each other across the ceiling until she felt like descending down to the ground again.
The day after the battle, Neville Longbottom went down to the greenhouses to see what the damage was there. He had sat all night and all morning in the infirmary, fetching water for Anthony Goldstein and holding Dennis Creevey’s hand and folding extra blankets down over Professor Sprout’s cold feet. Madame Pomfrey had banished him to go get a spot to eat and some sleep, so he walked down to the greenhouses to see what was salvageable.
Whole panes of greenish glass stood jagged and shattered. Protective spells had put out any fires, but stray blasts of magic had killed beds of vegetables and flowers and taken almost all the silver-green leaves off an olive tree that twisted in the corner of Greenhouse 4.
Neville went in through the door, even though there as a broken hole in the glass wall big enough for him, and almost fell back through it when Hannah Abbott stood up from the row of pots she’d been crouching behind. Dirt streaked every crease of her hands. “Hey,” he said, and let the door click shut behind him.
“Hey.” When she saw where he was heading, she added, “The olive’s still alive.”
The bark was rough under his hand, gnarled from decades of slow growth. He could hear the green magic whispering down its xylem.
“I was thinking I’d try to mend up the walls, close this place up again,” said Hannah. “But I wasn’t sure I could do it alone."
"Alright,” said Neville. When Professor Sprout argued her way out of the infirmary and thumped downhill with the wind throwing her cloudy hair in her face, she found every pane of glass healed and Neville and Hannah asleep on the softest patch of moss in Greenhouse 2.
The day after the battle, Parvati Patil sent an owl to Lavender Brown’s parents.
The day after the end of it all, Hermione skipped lunch and found her favorite secluded corner of the library instead. The chairs stood silent and sober, all gouged dark wood. The high windows threw light gleaming across the polished table, catching on the dust motes drifting through the air above it.
She dumped her carry-all down on it and reached inside– up to her elbows, her shoulders. She tried not to feel like it was eating her alive and she pulled out protein bars and unicorn horn and crumpled wanted flyers.
She wasn’t sure when it had gotten so cluttered– sometime before the night in the ditch outside the little Scottish village with the awesome curry shop. Sometime after the time they hid out from a storm in an unknowing Muggle’s barn, wrinkling their noses at the itch of hay as they ate their dinner. Hermione had taken first watch, listening to the thunder roll over the shallow hills outside, and she’d gone through her bag pouch by endless pouch. Harry had twitched in his sleep with every flash of lightning, but everything in her bag had been where it was supposed to be.
She summoned a wastepaper bin to hover beside her and got to work. Quills and ballpoint pens went in a neat heap to her left. Books she stacked by subject matter around her, except for the ones she flew back to their homes on Hogwarts shelves. She checked potions ingredients for decay, tossed the bad ones and wrapped the good ones back up in their oiled cloth and ziplock bags.
She ate a protein bar while she piled duct tape and the radio and a travel-sized magnetic foldable Muggle chess set and a depleted first aid kit all up around her. She threw the wrapper away and wondered if the smell would ever come out of the bag’s insides, or if she should just buy another one.
The day after the battle, they started putting the stones of the castle back into place. They put bones back together, first, skin and knit muscle and tendons. McGonagall escorted every statue and suit of armor back to where it belonged.
Sue Li sat atop a pile of rubble and ate the biggest chocolate bar she’d ever seen her life. She thought she could still taste a film of Polyjuice on her tongue, but she told herself that was dumb. She dropped little pebbles down the ragged tumble of stones, counting their bounces and calculating averages, until Astoria Greengrass showed up with a glass of water and a pasty and put them down beside her.
Astoria got her hands dirty every chance she got, put her back into sweeping up glass shards or hauling bandages or Wingardium Leviosa-ing stone blocks the size of a horseless carriage. She would stay in the castle as long as she could, finding odd tasks and errands and corners to lurk in. When she finally went back to the Greengrass family estate, it would be to pack her bags, kiss the old house elf on the cheek, and steal her dog away with her.
The day after the battle, Ron went out to Hagrid’s cabin in the stubborn chill of the afternoon and sat in his pumpkin patch. He didn’t go knock on the rough-hewn door, and Hagrid didn’t come out, but after twenty minutes Fang trotted into the yard and patiently got slobber all over his shirt.
Ron watched the sway of the shadows beyond the Forest’s edge. Buckbeak’s old tying post stood among the twining squash vines and their giant fuzzy leaves, the metal ring hanging empty against weathered wood. He thought about Ginny brushing her thumb over Harry’s scars and wrapped
his hands over the pale marks that curled around his wrists.
When the air started biting and the sky started darkening, Ron pulled himself back to his feet and climbed up to the library. He had never lived there, never really liked its labyrinth of stacks and dusty air, but he knew the way there better than he knew the way to the Quidditch pitch or the Room of Requirement or all those other places he liked so much more.
It was empty, except for Hermione, and he was glad. She squeezed her last book into her bag and looked up at him, shoving her hair back off her forehead.
“They doing dinner down there?” she said, her dry throat rasping on it.
He shrugged. “Mum’s organizing, I think. It– helps, I think."
She nodded, looking down to do the clasps up slowly, one by one.
"I just wanted to go back to the tent,” said Ron. “Be alone. It’s quiet."
"I won’t get in your way,” she said. “It’s still pitched down there."
"I know,” he said. “With you, I meant.”
“That’s not alone,” she said. “I’m not quiet,” she said. She clasped and unclasped the bag.
“Words. Accuracy. I never claimed to be the clever one."
"But you are, Ron–"
"Hermione,” he said. “Come with me? You shouldn’t be sitting here alone. Come home.”
They went down the grass through chilling air. Ron could hear his mother in his head, telling him to take her bag and carry it for her, but he just reached out for her hand.
The day after the end of it all, Ron laid on the floor of the tent, counting stitches in the canvas, while Hermione read Hogwarts, A History like she didn’t have it memorized. She read her favorite parts aloud, stopping mid-sentence when the tent flap rustled and opened.
“Ginny’s sitting on Neville until he agrees to sleep in a real bed and not a pile of shrubbery,” Harry said, stepping inside and shutting it up behind him. “She got Luna to help because she says otherwise Luna will just fade into a corner and not come out for food.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m not intruding, right?"
"Don’t be daft,” said Ron and patted a bit of floor next to him. “C'mon, join in, Hermione’s trying to bore me to sleep. I suspect it’s an act of caring concern.” Hermione threw a pillow at his head without looking up from the pages.
The day after the battle, they fell asleep in a tangle in the center of the tent that they had lugged across their country, across these long, cold days of the war. They had danced here to the radio, had chewed protein bars, played chess and bled and yelled at each other.
But the war was over and they were growing into it, slow, staying up too late as they leaned into each other and whispered on this threadbare rug. They meant to wobble to their feet and get to bed, but Harry was clinging to Hermione’s hand and none of them wanted to go.
They would get too old for this– hard floors and the way Harry’s neck was cricked up on Ron’s bony shoulder. Hermione’s snoring would get worse and Ron would have to sleep with four carefully arranged pillows to stop his back from aching in the mornings, but Harry would always have a place here. He had slept on Ron’s bedroom floor at fourteen, leaned on Hermione outside his parents’ broken home.
In the weeks after the battle, Hermione would track down her parents and move back home, and they would all help the Weasleys rebuild the Burrow. Harry would move in Andromeda Tonks’s spare room. “We’re almost like family, after all,” she’d say briskly, shooing him into the house and showing him where she kept the tea, Teddy’s diapers, and the whiskey. They’d come for visits and talk through the night in each of those homes, curled up under Molly’s quilts or out on the Granger’s back porch swing or over fingers of firewhiskey with Andromeda.
In the months after the war, he and Ron would get a flat while they went through Auror training and Hermione would crash there five nights out of seven. Her university textbooks would take over their countertops, shelves, tables, and floor and Harry wouldn’t tease them (too much) for how hilariously long they tried to pretend it was the couch Hermione slept on.
Every home Ron and Hermione lived in, for the rest of their lives, would have a place for Harry– a spare room or a patch of floor or an old sofa. He would know how Hermione took her coffee, and his favorite cereal and Ginny’s favorite oatmeal would always been in the cupboard, and their children would have giggly cousin-sleepovers in magical tents they pitched on the living room rug.
When the kids came shrieking in to wake them at absolutely unacceptable, ugly hours, Ginny would groan curse words they’d repeat gleefully among themselves, but Harry would let them grab his hands in their little sticky ones and pull him barefoot and messy-haired out into the morning.
so moana becomes a wayfinder, teaches the lost ways to her people, and becomes chief. she and maui never speak again, because there are rules
they don’t speak for the same reason that the ocean couldn’t just give maui back his hook, for the same reason it couldn’t return the heart itself, for the same reason the ocean couldn’t just simply deliver moana to it’s destination. there is a balance, a give and take, and they must make a decision. they cant talk about this decision of course, but they must make it, so they do. moana sees a red hawk above her for most of her life, but they never speak, never touch.
the ocean never forgets her, never ignores her. it answers her call, loves her, but moana only allows it to move and play with her in the dark of night, where her people cannot see her. she is already a legend, she who fought with maui, who traveled to the land of monsters, who returned the heart of te fiti with her own two hands, who saved the world. many of her people think her adventures a myth, and thats how she wants it - she never speaks of it. she won’t allow them to know how the ocean loves her, for they must follow her because she is their cheif, their master wayfinder, because she can lead them to new lands and new places. she must be followed for what she will do, not what she did.
she travels across the seas, from one end to the other. she starts three more villages, brings her people to new islands flush with greenery and hope and the promise of a future. she learns the earth as well as she knows the sea, because she needs to learn which of these islands can sustain her people, their farming, their building. and she marries. she chooses a man who has broad shoulders and smiles a lot, one who loves the sea. she has three children, and leaves him to raise all of them as she sails to find a new island. she never stops searching the ocean, the wind in her hair, the water below her.
her husband never asks for her heart, and she never gives it. she’s loyal to him, and she brings her people into a new age of discovery and trade. when her eldest son is fully grown, when her hair streaks silver, she steps down and names him chief, allows him to lead their people and does her best not to let her shadow overpower him.
time passes. her husband dies, and she mourns him. her children marry, have children of their own, and each of them love the sea with a ferocity that is born of her blood.
all but one - her eldest child’s eldest child, the girl set to be the next chief, pania
Destroy the physical representation of the spell i.e. if your spell was contained within a jar, break the jar and dispose of the pieces
Disassemble the spell and cleanse each component individually
Place item in a bath of sea salt and dried herbs that are associated with cleansing and banishing - leave overnight and disassemble the spell when finished
Cleanse the item with moon or rain water and disassemble if applicable
Place the item in a black box to negate its effects
Bury the item for 3 days, retrieve it, then dispose of it
Bury the item on the night of the full moon and retrieve it at the next new moon
Create a sigil or written incantation with the intent of breaking the spell and place the item on top of the paper - leave in place overnight
Create a written incantation that includes the details of the spell - bury, burn, drown, rip apart, or throw it away
Light a black candle that is surrounded by sea salt while focusing on the intent of negating the spell - recite an incantation if you wish, and allow the candle to burn down; sweep the sea salt out your back door
Breaking and warding spells others have cast upon you:
Perform a “Return to Sender” spell - find a black taper candle; turn it upside down; cut the tip off and leave the wick in place; carve “return to sender” and the target’s name
(or a description of them)
into the candle; light the candle upside down and let it burn down completely
Leave a Witch Bottle outside of your home - it should contain items like: pins, needles, broken glass (to shred their negative intentions towards you); your name and the names of those who may be affected by this negative energy plus an incantation for protection (e.g. your loved ones, pets, anyone who lives in your home); and lemon juice, lime juice, or sea salt (to purify their negative energy so that it may not get to you)
Create a mixture of charcoal, chili powder, and sulfur powder - sprinkle around the perimeter of your home to stop a spell in its tracks
Alternately, you may combine these ingredients, add to a hollow pendant, and wear on your person to protect you from the effects of a spell
If you know the details of the spell that has been placed on you, write them down on paper; while focusing on breaking the spell, hold the paper in your hand, and then rip it to shreds; throw the pieces in the trash, or bury in your backyard
If you don’t know the exact details, write down the effects you have been feeling if you think they have been caused by a spell or malintent directed at you; follow the steps above
Submerge yourself in a bath of sea salt and light frankincense incense - place the incense on the edge of the tub or somewhere safe in your bathroom - to cleanse yourself of any negative energy that has been directed at you
Place an energetic shield over yourself or your home that is designed to negate negative energy
Close all loopholes
When crafting a spell, remember to create a fail safe (e.g. “this spell will be broken if X occurs”)
Add timed conditions to your spells (e.g. “this spell will be broken on the night of the next full moon” and include a specific date)
Be specific when describing the target that will be affected by the spell (whether it’s you or someone else, be sure to include taglocks whether it be their name written or spoken aloud, DNA such as hair, fingernail clippings, etc., or a photo of the target)
Use ingredients, supplies, and tools that match your intent
Employ a method of protection before casting spells, whether the intent is malefic or not
Cleanse your space and tools before and after performing a spell to “wipe the slate clean”
Let’s talk about an Ariel who walks away—limping, mouthing inaudible sailors’ curses, a sea-brine knife in her belt.
Ariel traded her voice for a chance to walk on land. That was the deal: every time she steps, it will feel like being stabbed by knives. She must win the hand of her one true love, or she will die at his wedding day, turn to sea foam, forgotten. The helpful steward tells her to dance for the prince, even though her feet scream each time she steps. Love is pain, the sea witch promised. Devotion calls for blood.
But how about this? When the prince marries another, nothing happens. When Ariel stands over the prince and his fiance the night before their wedding, her sisters’ hard-won knife in hand, she doesn’t decide his happiness is more important than her life. She decides that his happiness is irrelevant. Her curse does not turn on the whims of this boy’s heart.
She does not throw away the knife and throw herself into the sea. She does not bury it in the prince and break her curse—it would not have broken. She leaves them sleeping in what will be their marriage bed and limps into a quiet night, her knife clean in her belt, her heart caught in her throat. Her feet scream, but they ache, too, for the places she has yet to see.
Ariel will not be sea foam or a queen. There is life beyond love. There is love in just living. Her true love will not be married on the morn—the prince will be married then, in glorious splendor, but he had never been why she was here.
Ariel traded her voice for legs to stand on, a chance at another life. When she poked her head above the waves, it wasn’t the handsome biped that she fell for. It was the way the hills rolled, golden in the sun. It was the clouds chasing each other across blue sky, like sea foam you could never reach.
(She does reach it, one day, bouncing around in the back of a blacksmith’s cart, signing jokes to him in between helping to tune his guitar. They crest up a high mountain pass and into the belly of a cloud. Her breath whistles out, swirls water droplets, and she reaches out a hand to touch the sky. Her feet will scream all her life, but after that morning they ache just a little bit less).
I want an Ariel who is in love with a world, not a prince. I don’t want her to be a moral for little girls about what love is supposed to hurt like, about how it is supposed to kill you. Ariel will be one more wandering soul, forgotten. Her voice will live in everything she does. She uses her sisters’ knife to turn a reed into a pipe. She cannot speak, but she still has lungs.
Love is pain, says the old man, when Ariel smiles too wide at sunrises. It’s pain, says the innkeeper, with pity, as Ariel hobbles to a seat, pipe in hand. At least you are beautiful, soothes the country healer who looks over her undamaged feet. The helpful steward had thought she was shy. Dance for the prince even though your feet feel stuck with a hundred knives.
Her feet feel like knives but she goes out dancing in the grass at midnight anyway. She’s never seen stars before. Moonlight reaches down through the depths, but starlight fractures on the surface. Ariel dances for herself.
She goes down to caves and rocky shores. Sometimes she meets with her sisters there. Mouths filled with water cannot speak above the sea, so she drops into the waves and they sing to her, old songs, and she steals breaths of air between the stanzas. She can drown now. She holds her breath. She opens her eyes to the salt and brine.
Ariel uses canes and takes rides on wagons filled with hay, chickens, tomatoes—never fish. She earns coins and paper scraps of money with a conch shell her youngest sister swam up from the depths for her, with her reed pipe, with a lyre from her eldest sister which sounds eerie and high out of the water. The shadow plays she makes on the walls of taverns waver and wriggle like on the sea caves of her childhood, but not because of water’s lap and current. It is the firelight that flickers over her hands.
When she has limped and hitched rides so far that no one knows the name of her prince’s kingdom, she meets a travelling blacksmith on the road with an extra seat in his cart and an ear for music. He never asks her to dance for him and she never does. She drops messages in bottles to her sisters, at every river and coastline they come to, and sometimes she finds bottles washed up the shore just for her.
They travel on. When she breathes, these days, her lungs fill with air.
Some nights she wakes, gasping, coughing up black water that never comes. There is something lying heavy on her chest and there always will be.
Somewhere in the ocean, a sea witch thinks she has won. When Ariel walks, she hobbles. Her voice was the sunken treasure of the king’s loveliest daughter, and so when they tell Ariel’s story they say she has been robbed. They say she has been stolen.
She has many instruments because she has many voices—all of them, hers; made by her hands, or gifted from her sisters’ dripping ones. Ariel will sing until the day she dies with every instrument but her vocal cords.
She cannot win it back, the high sweet voice of a merchild who had never blistered her shoulders red with sun, who had never made a barroom rise to its feet to sing along to her strumming fingers. She cannot ever again sing like a girl who has not held a dagger over two sleeping lovers and then decided to spare them. She decided not to wither. She decided to walk on knives for the rest of her life. She cannot win it back, but even if she could, she knows she would not sound the same.
They call her story a tragedy and she rests her aching feet beside the warming hearth. With every new ridge climbed, new river forded, new night sky met, her feet ache a little less. They call her a tragedy, but the blacksmith’s donkey is warm and contrary on cold mornings. The blacksmith’s shoulder is warm under her cheek.
Her feet will always hurt. She has cut out so many parts of her self, traded them up, won twisted promises back and then twisted them herself. She lives with so many curses under her skin, but she lives. They call her story a moral, and maybe it is.
When she breathes, her lungs fill. When she walks, the earth holds her up. There is sun and there is light and she can catch it in her hands. This is love.
hiiii, here are a bunch of fics I’ve enjoyed and loved reading throughout the month of february. I recommend that you read these great fics in march, if you haven’t already. there are SO many good and unique AUs this round, so please check them out!!
(all fics with a star are my favorites and if there are two stars then it was a favorite favorite)
Harry is the world’s most persistent seduction-baker, a questionable dog-sitter, and Louis’s biggest fan. Louis hasn’t written in years, is trying to pass loneliness off as cynicism, and absolutely hates his fans. It’s probably destiny.
With seven years of blissful marriage behind them and four wonderfully unique kids to brag about, Harry and Louis seem to finally have life all figured out and under control. How much more real could it get?
Very real it turns out, when Harry reluctantly leaves home for a 5 day business trip leaving Louis to manage their rambunctious, hyperactive household. Do they really have it all under control or are they just faking it?
Featuring all the usual suspects, inside jokes, embarrassing moments and of course, Harry and Louis’ wild antics + the addition of their four equally wild and outrageous kids.
“You… you still have the dress form I got you for your eighteenth birthday? You’ve kept it for ten years, Harry?” Louis’ eyes flick around Harry’s studio. It’s big and modern, with floor to ceiling windows that help flood the room in bright sunlight, just like the lobby. However, he can’t stop staring at the faded, but present, heart surrounding the “H + L” written delicately in Louis’ handwriting in the center of the mannequin.
Louis is a songwriter who is nominated for a Grammy and he needs a suit. Fast. He seeks out help from a very popular, very mysterious designer who just so happens to be his ex-boyfriend.
✰ Step 1. The night before spell preparation, leave the blue goldstone outside or in a window; somewhere it will be in moonlight. This both charges the stone and fills it with the properties to cover and protect you during the night.
✰ Step 2. The next day, fill a small bag or bottle with basil, blackberry leaves and/or seeds, any type of thorns or bits of bramble branch (be sure these are small enough to fit in the container), sea salt, and the charged blue goldstone ~ which looks like the night sky (adding to the spell theme!) and possesses protective properties.
✰ Step 3. Once everything is in the container, seal it however you see fit ~ If it’s a bottle you can drop wax onto the top, glue it shut, etc. If you used a small bag, you can tie it with a string or ribbon with a color that matches your intent (black would work well), or make it a drawstring bag if you’d like the option to open and close. As you seal your charm, recite the following (or write your own chant in it’s place) as you visualize your intent:
“Under cover of night
Stars light guiding my plight,
I am protected Against danger,
Against negativity or ill-will,
Against all harm
As with me,
I possess this charm
Protecting me physically and magickally,
I will arrive safe at my destination"
Any time you feel it needs re-charging or if you’d like to give the charm another boost of energy to work with, say this (or your own) chant each night you carry the charm while you travel home while holding it tightly in hand. Let me know if you have any questions or comments!
a/n: i want more reggie asap like riverdale give us more reggie please i need it in my life. i also had a lot of fun playing around with like kind good protective reggie instead of jerk jock reggie!! asshole to the world but never to his girl!💙💛🏈1️⃣4️⃣
prompt: 55- “don’t you dare lay a finger on her” & 86- “you know it’s okay to cry”
you walk out of the gym still clad in your cheerleading uniform, the hall filling with the loud commotion of kids as they pour out from their classes.
you see the jocks exit their locker room rowdy from practice you assume, as you make your way toward your locker one of the jocks bumps into you sending you toward the ground
“watch it idiot” i spit annoyed picking myself up of the floor “me watch it? how about you watch your mouth vixen” he steps closer to me trying to intimidate me. i place my hand on his chest pushing the jock out of my face
“you think your tough because your a bulldog?” i giggle and roll my eyes at the teen “get out of my face Chuck”
i try and move past as a crowd gathers but he’s hands dart to my arm and he pulls me back pushing me up against the lockers “no can do princess” he snarls
“seriously chuck stop being a meat head and let me go” he steps back and i glance at him before walking forward only to have chuck grab a handful of my ass as i pass
i freeze turning on my heel “what the hell chuck!” i yell feeling sick to my stomach “oh c'mon (y/n), i had to see if the rumours were true” he bites his lip and runs his hands over his head taking a good look at my body
i suddenly feel self conscious in my uniform and lookas a crowds gather “CLAYTON!” a sudden voice yells
i search for the voice as none other than reggie mantle steps through the sea of jocks and shoves his friend into the lockers behind him just like the boy had done with me.
“ah chill mantle im just having fun with the hottest little river vixen, right (y/n)” the jocks get giddy pushing on each other like ‘bros’
“it’s fine reg forget it” i mutter to the raven haired boy turning to leave the scene “yeah reg it’s fine” chuck tease slipping past the boy and walking briskly toward me to get one last touch of my ass
i squeal disgusted in the boys actions, and like lightning reggie is next to me in a flash shoving the dim witted boy up against the lockers holding him up by his sweat shirt
“don’t you dare lay a finger on her” he warns getting into his face “you hear me” he shouts and the boy nods vigorously “okay okay reg chill” he drops the boy down and I turn walking away as fast as my legs could take me.
“did i hear that chuck & reggie were fighting over you today!” ronnie gushes as we prepare for the big game.
i roll my eyes applying another coat of mascara to my lashes “jeez v it wasn’t like that at all” i exhale placing down the wand and turning to face my two best friends “chuck was being a handsy dick and reggie stuck up for me thats all”
they share a puzzled glance “wait what do you mean handsy?” betty pushes worry washing over her face “he just grabbed my ass a few times and yeah I don’t want to talk about it can we just drop it?”
“(y/n) that’s not nothing you-” and by some grace of god cheryl bounds into the locker room “let’s go sluts show time”
“god i hate the kids at this school” i mummer before following the raven and blonde headed girls out and onto the field.
we stand along the track as the bulldogs rip through their banner jogging onto the school field as the bleacher erupt in cheers. we do a few cheers and flips before it was the opposing teams turn to enter
i make my way over to the drinks table and catch chuck and his mates staring me down like a piece of meat making gestures that would only make a girl feel sick to her stomach
and like clockwork tears dribble down your fast as fast as they appear “(y/n?)” i cuz sand turn away from the boy quickly wiping my eyes before turning back to the jock “reg hey” i smile
“your crying” he states and i shake my head denying it which only causes me to cry even more “im sorry it’s stupid i shouldn’t be crying im fine” i choke and he shakes his head stepping closer to me
“hey hey” he places his hands on my shoulders in attempts to comfort me “you know it’s okay to cry?” he questions dabbing a few of my fallen tears with his thumb
“do you?” i tease earning a laugh from him which cause me to giggle to myself “um yes for a fact i do, your looking at a dude who cried during the fault in our stars”
my eyes widen “no way” he shrugs his shoulders “guilty, but if you tell anyone im afraid I’ll have to kill ya” he said as a matter of fact. i hold my hand up “scouts honour”
i wipe the remaining tears off my face and take a few steady breathes trying to block out chuck and he’s idiotic friends
“forget Chuck okay? a guy like that doesn’t deserve a pretty girls tears okay?” i look up into his eyes and smile to myself “thanks reg” he smiles shyly.
“anytime (y/n/n)” he plays with his helmet and i glance down to my shoes to nervous to say anything else
“mantle lets go!” he turns to his coach as he yells for him “coming coach” he yells back glancing at me looking slightly guilty
“im sorry ive gotta go” and i shake my head touches his shoulder softly “it’s fine it’s fine!”
“goodluck” he smiles at me and i blush “thanks reg” he waits glancing at me “what aren’t you going to wish me good luck?” he sasses and giggle.
“you won’t need it but” i throw my arms around the boys next and stand on my tip toes kissing him
“good” kiss “luck” kiss “reg” kiss
i take my hands away from his neck settling them on his chest as his still linger around my waist “woah that was way better” i smile giddy as he re joins our lips “good luck my little vixen”
“MANTLE” he rolls his eyes “im coming coach im coming!” he yells giving me another kiss before rushing off to his team turning around and smiling giddily at your as a blush covers your face.
Louis is the commodore’s son who is forced to become a part of Harry’s crew when he is captured.
A gust of salty air pushed over the deck as the information
resonated in the night sky. The only audible sound was the continuous wallop of
waves wrecking against the ship. Louis kept his breathing even and his eyes
locked with Malik’s, refusing to be the first to break.
“Now, that is interesting.”
Malik’s head whipped towards the quarterdeck, his eyes wide
as they settled by the wheel of the ship. Louis gawked as the entire crew bowed
their head in respect. Some mechanically took a few steps back. Malik
straightened his spine and clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes
downcast. Instinctively, Louis followed suit and trained his eyes on the deck
beneath his knees.
The lethargic sound of heels clicking against wood resonated
across the sea. Footsteps descended the staircase, every assured step creating
a menacing aura as it grew closer. Perspiration gathered along Louis’ palms as
the rhythmic sound halted in front of him.
“Captain,” Malik greeted.
Louis watched out of his peripheral as Malik’s boots
shuffled back a few steps. Sweat matted the hair along the nape of Louis’ neck
as he waited for something to happen. He felt as if a sharp blade was twisting
his gut as the silence became tangible.
There was a metallic slide of a sword being pulled out of
its sheath, the sound startling Louis out of his cocoon of sterile shock. His
shoulders jumped as the tip of a blade flattened underneath his jaw. Louis’
distorted reflection stared back at him in the polished metal. Engraved rose
petals twisted his appearance as they crawled up the length of the sword. The
sword lifted and took Louis’ chin with it.