the cold kiss

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  • Me: is confused
2

Your lips are cold, dude

procraesthetics  asked:

I wonder what would happen if Dudley grew up in the wizarding world but still as a muggle? like kind of reverse AU where his parents are dead and he has to go to Lily for whatever reason? do you think he would become bitter like Petunia about magic?

Lily remembered her sister, how there had been a time she was curious and delighted about magic, before it slowly sank in that she could look and not touch.

The last thing Petunia had said to Lily before she died was a chilly goodbye, ending a holiday dinner where they’d had a shrieking row in the entryway. Petunia had said freak and Lily had hissed better than this, better than this being my whole fucking world, Tune, do you even see yourself, are you happy–

And now here was Dudley Vernon Dursley fussing himself to sleep as Lily walked the halls of the Godric’s Hollow house. His tiny soft hands with their tiny soft fingernails curled under her chin, the same way Harry always had.

She passed James, who was gently bouncing his way up the hall the opposite way. “I think he’s asleep,” James mouthed over Harry’s tousled head. His hair was the same mess, bent down to peer at his sleeping son.

Lily stopped where she stood, her nephew heavy on her chest, her husband smiling, her sister buried. “James,” she said. “How are we going to do this?”

“Oh,” he said. “Hey. Don’t you cry, you’ll start them off– unless you need to cry, I mean, you go ahead, hey, sweetheart, hey, it’s alright, you just let it out.” He stepped forward, shifting Harry gently to his other shoulder, and pressed his forehead to hers. “We tuck them in, okay, that’s what we do next. Then we go to our own bed, okay, and go to sleep, and when we wake up it’ll be a new day.”

“A new day,” she said. “Another day– James, that’s the– I’m so tired.”

“So let’s sleep. It’ll look better in the morning,” he said. “And if it doesn’t look better this morning, it’ll look better in the next one.”

“You promise?”

“Better than that. I’ll show you. Every day,” he said and kissed her cold forehead.

Dudley had not shown up on the Potters’ doorstep with the milk bottles. Lily had gotten a phone call from the landline she still had installed in Godric’s Hollow, about an accident, and she had gone down to the Muggle police station to identify the bodies.

The cupboard under the stairs was filled with spiders, broomsticks, and the sewing machine Lily’s mother had given her when she married James– that’s all. Dudley slept downstairs. Uncle Remus taught Dudley and Harry to knock out coded messages through the wall their rooms shared.

In the backyard, beside a rickety porch and an ambitious hedge, James taught them to fly– first on little tot brooms where their toes brushed the grass the whole time, then out of the barrels of practice brooms James used for lessons and coaching Little League Quidditch.

When the boys turned ten, five weeks apart, they both got shiny new Nimbuses on Dudley’s birthday (which came first), and a set of enchanted Quidditch balls on Harry’s, to share. The Bludgers were enchanted to be very kind but Dudley spent long afternoons whacking them far afield while Harry chased the Snitch at his back.

Harry had a scar on his forehead, like a jagged bit of lightning. Dudley had no scars– the car crash that had killed his parents hadn’t touched him where he sat strapped into a car seat in the back, chewing on a stuffed dinosaur toy.

Lily did not believe in lying to the children. She was bare years off being a child herself, and spare moments on the far side of a war. When Dudley asked about his parents, she told him there had been an accident. She pulled pictures off the shelf and wrote Petunia’s old university friends for more.

Photographs came by mailman, the images still and unnatural to Dudley’s eye. Every day he’d gone out to play, for years, he’d been waving at the picture near the back door of his aunt and uncle on their wedding day, and they waved back every time.

“She was very clever,” Lily said. “Your mom liked to know everything.”

“And my dad?”

“Vernon liked… cars?” James offered. “That’s the word, right, Lily?”

“I didn’t know him very well,” Lily said. “He liked drills, I think; he worked for a firm that made them, and he talked about that a lot.”

Dudley brushed his thumbs over the dull edges of the photos. When Lily went off to Auror headquarters the next morning for work, James bundled the boys up and took them on an impromptu invisible tour of Grunnings Drill Manufacturing Inc.

They tiptoed down halls and past water coolers and ringing fellytones. They held hands under the Cloak as they dodged around the machines on the manufacturing floor, thumping and pounding and whirring away loudly enough that Harry and Dudley could whisper to each other under the noise. An elevator took them all the way up to the top floor. Harry whistled cheerily and eerily along with the elevator music while the Muggles slowly edged toward the doors and pressed floor buttons lower than they’d originally wanted.

There were boxes and cabinets and folders and desks and staticky monitor screens full of numbers strewn in endless grids. “Merlin’s knuckles,” said Harry, who was seven and a half and rather proud of this expletive. “People can look at this all day, their whole lives, and not die?”

“Work is hard work,” said James.

“At least mum gets to curse things.”

“But my dad liked it?” Dudley said, peering at a white board that was bleeding enthusiastic marker. “There’s a lot of things, here. Maybe he liked knowing things, too.”

When the boys asked about the scar on Harry’s forehead, Lily and James looked at each other. “You know how sometimes we sit with Uncle Remus and talk about a war?” James said. “Or with Ms. Amelia or Mr. Mundungus.”

“Mr. Mundungus is kinda smelly,” Harry said helpfully.

“It’s not nice to say so though,” said James, and Lily made a face.

“Are we raising them to be nice?” Lily said.

“I’m trying,” said James.

“You talk about a war,” said Harry and shrugged. Dudley nodded.

“There was a very bad man, in those days,” said James.

“Voldemort,” said Lily, and James made a face.

“He was so scary a lot of people don’t like to say his name, even now,” said James. “And he was coming after us because we had been fighting against him, in the war. He came to the house and he tried to hurt you, Harry. But it didn’t work. It hurt him instead, and gave you that scar.”

“Is he going to come back?” said Dudley, who was paler than his normal pink.

“No one’s heard of him since then,” said Lily.

“Where were you?” said Harry, because all his life they had been right there.

“Oh,” said Lily, but her throat closed up.

“We were at Dudley’s mum and dad’s funeral,” said James. “Our friend– our friend Sirius was watching you two. The bad man, he came to the house. He. Well. I.”

“Sirius died,” said Lily, one hand squeezing James’s knee and the other reaching down to brush hair off Dudley’s forehead. “You lived, Harry, and Voldemort vanished. And that’s why sometimes people stare in the streets, baby.” James tweaked Harry’s collar absently.

Two days after they had buried Lily’s sister, the Potters had stood together in the first chills of November and buried James’s brother.

Sirius had been burned off the Black family tree years before. Lily and James had talked to his cousin Andromeda, to Remus, and then they had laid him to rest in the Potter family plot. At the wake, they’d told old jokes about squirrel breath, shedding, and man’s best friend. Remus had fallen asleep on their couch and stayed for a month.

It took a two hour row with HR for Lily to get two passes to the Ministry’s Bring Your Kid To Work Day.

“He’s a Muggle.”

“He’s not,” Lily snapped. “He’s family.”

She had to get permission, sign a million forms, and she also had to take the boys in early so that Dudley could get smothered in the spells that would keep the Anti-Muggle wards around the Ministry from activating on him. “If a Muggle stumbles in somehow, they just see a funny-smelling supply cabinet and turn back around,” Lily told Dudley. He nodded and dragged Harry off by the wrist to go look at the fountain.

The windows were pouring sunlight into the underground room– the maintenance workers had just gotten a win on their contract negotiations and had banished the grimy rain-spattered windows of the previous weeks. The light hit the falling water, the golden statues, and the small excitable crowd of Ministry dependents who were gathering in the atrium. Dudley was fishing about in the fountain for Knuts to toss back out again, elbow-deep, and Harry was laughing and coming up with weird wishes to make on them.

Lily hadn’t said son. She’d said family, and that was true enough, wasn’t it? She didn’t say son– she had a son, and she had a nephew, a ward, another child who came to her after nightmares and scraped knees. It was not less, it was just words.

Lily worried about stealing more things from Petunia. Tuney had shrieked at her, in ladies’ restrooms and suburban foyers, had hissed at her in grocery store aisles and family dinners, because Lily got everything. And now Lily had her son.

Lily could just imagine it– could just see Petunia’s face twisting and chin stabbing at the air. You could have anything, and you took my son– my son!

“You left him to me,” Lily whispered, but that wasn’t quite right. “You left,” she whispered, and that wasn’t quite right either, so she strode off toward the fountain to ask the boys if they wanted to go see the Auror spellwork ranges. Dudley’s sodden shirt sleeves dripped all over the Ministry floors. Harry’s hair fell down into his eyes and they both grinned bright enough to rival the spelled sunlight.

Keep Reading (Ao3)

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2

halla. halla. 

No Promises (m)

“God,” Jungkook spits out, “We told you we worked at a club before, why are you so surprised?”

You roll your eyes at his statement. “You never told me it was a strip club. What were you guys thinking?”

Synopsis: You never thought that your two closest friends would work at a club one day, especially as strippers. Now all they want to do is give you a private show.

[cr.]

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Yoongi // stripper!jungkook & stripper!yoongi

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 7.5k

Includes: sub reader, switch jungkook, dom yoongi, daddy kink, dirty talk, strip tease, oral & face riding, exhibitionism/voyeurism, masturbation, blowjob/throat swab, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, frottage

A/N: for @itsrainingmin and her thirsty ass… happy birthday hoe. the sin for this is toned down a few notches, huhu. thank u @addictedtonamjoon & @seoulscapes for dealing w this dilemma and keeping me on track LMFAO

tossed in some mxm action for u as well booboo ,’:^)


“You guys are… what?” You take a moment of silence to yourself so you can process the newfound information, mind dazing with lucid imagery of your two friends being…

“Strippers,” Yoongi clarifies nonchalantly. “Why are you so surprised?”

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The Kissing Booth

A SnowBaz fanfiction


Simon

Once a year, usually in the spring, Watford stages a carnival for the students.  It’s usually quite humble, mainly consisting of booths selling small magic trinkets, or snacks like cotton candy, sweets and other classic carnival fare.  There’s always the tiny petting zoo over near the Cloisters, and some years Watford even scrapes enough together to bring in a carousel.  Most of the booths are run by student volunteers, and though everything is by donation, all proceeds go to whichever charity the student body has voted on.

           I go every year, mostly for the caramel apples and sweet cider, but this is the first year I’ve been behind the scenes of the carnival and helped at a booth.

           In truth, I didn’t even sign up for it, but Agatha hadn’t had a break all day and needed some cotton candy of her own.

           I should have told her to find Penny, or Trixie or even Minty.  Anyone but me.

           It doesn’t take long for the word to spread that Simon Snow has taken over the Kissing Booth, and mortifyingly the line has doubled in length.  Mostly first or second-year girls, blushing and stammering or swaggering up to the counter with a pronounced sway in their step, with the odd boy interspersed through the line.

           It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me – that honour goes to the time in second year that Baz stumbled upon a spell that made my clothes slowly dissipate, garment by garment, in the middle of the dining hall – and after the first two or three quick, cold kisses I start to calm down, but I’m counting the minutes until Agatha comes back.  How she endured hours of this, I cannot comprehend.  That’s just Agatha, I guess.

           A redhead drops her donation into the tin and her eyes flit around, meeting me for only a split second at a time, her cheeks aflame.  I try to look as non-threatening as I can and lean forward enough that she can close the rest of the space.  She darts in with a kiss that’s no more than a peck before running over to a giggling pair of who must be her friends, a triumphant grin on her face. She must have been dared.  Poor girl.  I hope I wasn’t her first.

           “Well, well, well.”

           My stomach lurches at the cold drawl I know only too well.

           “What are you doing here, Baz?” I say in as civilized a tone as I can manage.

           He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth in a twist that’s a bit too amused to be a sneer.  “When I heard that the Chosen One had taken over the Snogging Booth, I simply had to see it for myself.”

           “Well, now you’ve seen it, so now you can go.”

           “Saving the World of Mages one kiss at a time,” Baz murmurs with a chuckle.  “Not exactly what I was envisioning.”

           “I’m only covering for Agatha,” I retort, “she’ll be back in five minutes if you’re wanting her services.”

           He scoffs.  “I’d rather not snog your girlfriend, thank you very much.”

           “She’s not my – forget it,” I shake my head.  I’ve told him at least a dozen times, but it never stops him.

           “She must have been really desperate for a break to put you in charge,” Baz drawls on, his voice smooth like honey but with too much of a bite to be sweet.  “You’d think she’d at least pick someone attractive for the Kissing Booth.”

           It stings, but I don’t flinch.  “What, someone like you?” I spit back too fast.

           His eyebrows shoot up in delighted surprise as I realize my mistake.  “You flatter me, Snow,” he purrs, and I feel my cheeks heat up, but I furrow my brow tighter and hope it passes for anger.

           “Is there a reason you’re still here?” I growl as the burning spreads from my cheeks to my ears.  

           “As a matter of fact, there is,” Baz says, and his gray eyes look cool enough to staunch the flames at the tips of my ears, but the more I glare into them the more the fire rages.  “I’m here to torment you.”

           “Great, well you’ve done that.”

           “I wanted to see what you’d do.”  He leans on the edge of the counter, bringing his face far too close to mine for comfort. “What would the Mage’s Heir do if his nemesis showed up at the Kissing Booth?”

           “You can torment me any time,” I shoot back, “you’re holding up the line.”

           “Oh, yes, well,” he feigns conern, “I wouldn’t want to keep anyone from their kiss.”

           “Then go away.”

           His eyes narrow and he pretends to think.  “Mmm, no.  I don’t think so.”

           “Baz, I’m warning you.”

           “Terrifying,” he drones, “but this is too much fun.  Besides,” his eyebrow flickers up, “don’t you owe me a kiss?”

           I flash him a smirk of my own.  “Aw, Baz. If you were so desperate for a kiss, you could’ve just asked.”

           Baz, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye.  “You think of that comeback yourself?”

           “There’s a fee, you know,” I ignore him, barely having to raise my voice above a murmur for him to hear me, he’s so close.  “You haven’t paid the fee, so I don’t owe you anything.”

           He doesn’t drop his eyes from mine, and the cool gray takes on the spark of a challenge.  Out of my periphery I see him reach into his pocket, and there’s the clatter of coins dropping into the tin.

           I should punch him.

           I should spit in his face.

           I wanted to see what you’d do.

           I take him by the lapels and crush his mouth under mine.

           He makes a muffled sound of shock.  To be fair, so do I, but mine is more angry than it is surprised.  I kiss him hard and rough, and it’s a bit of a juxtaposition because his mouth is oddly soft.  A face like his, you’d expect his lips to be made of marble, cold and unmoving, but he’s the farthest thing from unmoving.  I can’t tell if he’s struggling or if he’s kissing me back but his lips are so, so soft and I want to bruise them, mark them, bite them…

           I only stop when a series of wolf whistles reminds me that there are at least ten people watching us.

           Trying to salvage the illusion of control, I break away harshly, still gripping him by his collar.  The cocky smirk has dropped from his smooth features and now his face mirrors mine, a matching scowl, like I’ve crossed a dangerous line.  I probably have.

           “Was that what you wanted?” I growl.

           He doesn’t answer, just holds my gaze another few seconds before pushing back from the table, his lapels slipping out of my hands, and stalking away.

*** 

I don’t see Baz at the carnival after that, and I stay as long as the booths are open, perusing the same counters and feigning interest even after having looked through their contents three times.  I keep Penny company where she mans the popcorn booth, drizzling caramel over every few cartons, and I even get bored enough to hang around Agatha back at the Kissing Booth for a little while, until one too many patrons have asked if I’m available for service.  When she and Penny are freed we pet the goats at the petting zoo, the ones that Ebb has graciously volunteered for the event, and take a few spins on the carousel.  Only once the light has begun to fade and the signs are being lowered from their booths do the three of us part ways.  Even then, I offer to help Ebb get her goats back safely.

           Basically, I’m doing anything I can to put off going back to the room, but eventually I can’t avoid it any longer.  I’ve wandered the grounds enough times that the sun has properly disappeared behind the distant hills and I can barely see the ground in front of me. Even then I’m tempted to consider crazy alternatives like spending the night at Ebb’s place, but I’m pretty sure that would be against school rules anyway, and besides, I’ll have to face Baz eventually.  There’s no undoing what’s happened.

           When I finally trudge back into the room, he’s staring out the window at the moat, presumably trying to intimidate the merwolves, but he turns at the sound of the door.  His expression, though I don’t see it for long before I look away, is hard to read. Wide eyes and a furrowed brow, like he’s still mad at me for my stunt earlier, but there’s a bit of a questioning edge there, too.  Almost a where were you edge.

           Normally I have to start any type of conversation, but tonight he wastes no time. “What the hell was that, Snow?”

           There’s no question as to what he’s referring, and I can’t help but get angry again.  “Me? You’re the one who had to start something!”

           “Well, you didn’t have to react so drastically,” he mutters, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall by the window, the moonlight casting its glow on his skin and making him even paler than usual, almost transparent.  I half expect fangs to slide out from his lips for no reason and complete the picture.

           His soft, soft lips.

           “You were egging me on,” I seethe, the memory igniting the rage that I’d felt in the fractured moment before kissing him, “it’s your fault anything happened.”

           “Proud little hero,” Baz says with the slightest smirk, “can’t back down from a challenge.”

           “You know I can’t, not in front of people.”

           “Wouldn’t want them to think the Heir is a coward.”

           I feel like a balloon in me is swelling and deflating at once.  “But that’s just it, Baz,” I insist, anger momentarily aside.  “If they think I’m afraid, what reason do they have to hope?”

           He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second I think maybe he understands. I want so badly for him to understand.

           “No reason,” Baz eventually says, turning to look out the window again, “not with someone like you as the Chosen One.”

           I want to groan, to kick something, to shake him by the shoulders and make him look me in the eye and for once not fight me.  Have we ever in our lives made eye contact without there being some challenge between us?

           “Why did you have to get in that line?” I shake my head.  “There are so many other ways of tormenting me, lower-stakes ways.”

           “To be fair, I’ve already exhausted most of those,” Baz murmurs with a little shrug of his shoulders.

           “When have you ever been fair?”

           “Touché.”

           I’m tired of standing here at the door, so I kick off my shoes and sit down on my bed, trying not to think about how much closer I am to him now, still at the window, looking as vampiric as ever.  His gray eyes are positively silver in the moonlight, and the black of his hair looks silkier than ever, as if it’s soaking the rays directly into him. He almost glows.  I have to laugh a little, because more than once Baz has mockingly compared me, with my bronze curls and sky-blue eyes, to the sun, but he himself wears a halo of night.  If I am the sun, then Baz is most certainly the moon.  Distant, cold, mysterious, almost too pristine to touch.

           His gaze returns to me suddenly.  He raises an eyebrow in a wordless inquiry, and I realize I’ve been staring.

           “What exactly was it you expected me to do?”

           “At what point, Snow?” he gives a humourless laugh.  “You had more than one opportunity to react.”

           “When you paid the fee.”

           His tiny smile disappears.  “It doesn’t matter.”

           “It does.”

           “Drop it, Snow,” he says, the hardness returning to his eyes, and I know I’ve cornered him.  Drop it is Baz’s way of betraying himself, of saying there’s something that he doesn’t want to tell.

           “Was I supposed to kiss you?” I ask.  For some reason I have to know.

           “No.”

           “Then what?”

           “I don’t know, Snow, punch me.  Push me. Beat me to the ground.  Something.”

           My brow furrows in confusion.  “Wait. You wanted me to hit you?”

           He shrugs, more with his head than his shoulder.  “One of us has to get hurt, right?”

           I rise to my feet, and I’m face-to-face with him again, only his eyes are different this time.  Whereas at the booth he had betrayed no hint of doubt at our closeness, now there’s a flicker of something in the silver, something that feels a lot like the way my heart is racing in my chest, and it dawns on me.  He was putting on a show at the carnival, acting like nothing I could do would get to him, just as I had been.

           If they think I’m afraid, what reason do they have to hope?

           One of us has to get hurt, right?

           And suddenly it makes sense.

           There’s only a few inches between us, so it feels almost natural when I lean in and press the gentlest of kisses to his lips.

           He doesn’t kiss me back this time, but he doesn’t move away either.  “What was that for?” he asks when I draw back a second later.

           “You act like we’re so different,” I say wonderingly, “but we’re the same.”

           “How?”

           “What do you think we’d be if we didn’t have to fight each other?”

           I don’t miss the split second of longing in his eyes.  “Keep dreaming, Snow.”

           “Because I bet it would involve a lot more of this.”  I bring a hand up to his neck, my fingers instantly lost in the wavy tips of his hair and it’s exactly as soft as it looks bathed in moonlight.

           Baz closes his eyes like he has to collect himself.  “You’re the hero.  I’m the villain.  What more do I have to say?”

           “Fuck that,” I chuckle, “we both know that’s not true.  You’re a boy, and I’m a boy.  That’s all.”

           “Tell that to the rest of the world.”

           “I don’t care about the rest of the world,” I shake my head adamantly, “I want to know what you think.”    

           “About what?”

           “If there was no act, no reputation, no role to play,” I murmur, “if we were just two boys, what would you do?”

           Baz returns my gaze a moment, searching my eyes.    

           Then his lashes close and he’s kissing me, and my eyes drift shut again like I’m sighing in relief.

           I let my fingers tangle higher up in his hair while my other hand grips the front of his shirt like earlier, only without the anger of the afternoon.  He angles his head further and guides the kiss deeper, his hands gently gripping my waist and pulling me closer.  I melt against him, my mouth moving with his, my head swimming with his citrusy scent, and I can’t hold back the moan that escapes my throat when he takes my bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle tug. Suddenly I’m floating, weightless, and Baz gives a muffled sound of surprise when I press back a little harder.

           When we finally break apart, both of us gasping and dizzy, I immediately want more, want to line his neck with my mouth, want to feel his breath hitch when I reach the base of his throat, want to hear my name in his sigh.  Would he sigh Snow or Simon?  I want to know.

           “Please,” I whisper, dotting a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “can’t we just be two boys?”

           When I meet his eyes, they’re full of more longing than ever.

           In response, he kisses a soft, slow triangle pattern on my cheek, and I recognize the pattern of the three moles by my eye, and I can’t help but smile.

“We can try.”

Headcanon: Lena has insomnia and whenever she can’t sleep she climbs out of bed and puts on robe and makes herself a cup of chamomile tea in hopes it will help her sleep. She used to open her balcony doors to let the cool night air in and sit curled up on the couch staring at a random spot in her apartment until she finished drinking her tea. But then she met supergirl. Instead of sitting on the couch she goes out onto her balcony overlooking the city ignoring the cold on her bare feet and drinks her tea while scanning the city line for any sign of Supergirl flying. Occasionally she sees blurs of her as she flies in the distance and sometimes Supergirl will see her on a night fly and will stand silently with Lena until her tea is gone and then fly away. Those were her favourite nights…

Until she learned that Kara was Supergirl. 

Now when she can’t sleep she still goes out onto the balcony breathing in the cool air and staring at the city lights finding comfort in that routine. But now instead of Supergirl landing on her balcony it is Kara that joins her as soon as she realizes that she is alone in bed. And they stand there together with Kara’s arms around Lena’s waist, and her chin on her shoulder until long after the tea is gone and Lena’s fingers have started to go cold. That’s when Kara kisses her neck and whispers in her ear asking if she wants to talk about it. When Lena shakes her head Kara just nods placing another kiss on her shoulder where the robe has moved and nudges Lena back inside, placing the cup on the nearest flat surface and heading for their bedroom wrapping herself around Lena to help warm up her fingers and toes whispering in Kryptonian until Lena finally falls asleep. 

I live for clichés. Sitting on a Parisian rooftop, reading poetry in the early morning when the air is crisp and cold, soft kisses peppered across the face, romantic bouquets, walking as if on air throughout an art museum, every corridor empty except for me, pressing post-it-notes with messages to all the walls of my apartment, being unable keep myself from gasping as the heavy burgundy curtains of a opera house reveals beauty. I want it all.

an imp and her wolf

Régis Bossu, Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev and East German President Erich Honecker kiss on the occasion of the 30th anniversary of the German Democratic Republics, 1979
VS
Francesco Hayez, Il bacio. Episodio della giovinezza. Costumi del secolo XIV, 1859