why do i say up so late colouring

anonymous asked:

heyy, i miss reading your naruhina fanfics. Love them. if you have time can you write a short fic about boruto maybe picking out his pink shirt? the spoilers are getting to me haha

For as long as Boruto can remember, pink has always been his colour of comfort. His mind recalls hazy memories of falling asleep on his mother, his cheek nestled against her soft, pink shirt with her heart beating a steady lullaby to sing him to sleep.

He remembers, he loved that shirt. Whenever Hinata carried him and she was wearing that pink shirt, he’d bury his head against the soft fabric and feel the laugh rise up from Hinata’s chest. His little fingers would clutch at the cotton and when he’d close his eyes, pink would still press against the inside of his eyelids, bright and hot as stars.

“Why do you think he does that?” Naruto asks Hinata once as Boruto presses his eyes into Naruto’s orange shirt. The smell is different- a little like noodles, a little like sunshine- but this way, the colour is the same. Pink starbursts behind Boruto’s eyes, lingering before melting into black.

“Maybe he’s shy?” Hinata suggests, her fingers combing gently through Boruto’s fluffy hair.

At her touch, Boruto turns and smiles blearily at the blurry sight of her. He sees a smudge of pink and automatically leans towards it, reaching for her.

“I think maybe he just wants you,” Naruto laughs. Boruto doesn’t get passed over so much as he does just climbs into Hinata’s arms. A happy coo bubbles up as he presses his cheek against Hinata’s warmth, snuggling against the familiar cotton.

It’s partially true; but as Boruto closes his eyes against the pink of her shirt, he watches hot pink ignite in the darkness, imagines that the colour trickling to the back of his throat stirs into a rumble, believes the brightness lingering in his eyes allows him to shoot laser beams.

“Little lion,” his parents called him affectionately for his wild mane of hair. Gold is what makes Boruto look the part, but the pink in his throat itching to be let loose in a roar is what lets him live up to it.

At some point, Boruto knows Hinata figures part of it out, which is of no surprise since she has always been able to understand him best. His childhood is littered with pink memories: a knit blanket he played superhero with, his first apron from Teuchi, a carrier that Naruto proudly toted him in until he outgrew it.  

As Boruto grows older, old enough to choose clothes for himself, he carries the colour proudly with him as he goes with Hinata to buy his first set of training clothes. A tracksuit in black is hardly worth a second look, but the pink lining, bright and hot as stars, is exactly what Boruto wants. It’s powerful and impossible to miss.

But they don’t walk away with just a set of training clothes for him. A sensitivity to pink alerts Boruto to a rack of casual t-shirts in just the right shade of soft pink. It’s been years since Hinata’s carried him, since he’s fallen asleep to the rhythm of her heartbeat drumming away under her pink shirt, but his fingers reach out and clutch the shirts on the rack like second-nature.

The cotton is soft beneath his hands. He picks out a shirt in his size and turns to Hinata with his prize. She takes it, and knowing brackets her smile like she finally understands a secret.

It becomes Boruto’s favourite shirt. He wears it often enough that Naruto ends up going out and buying more of them in bulk; but no matter how many shirts crowd Boruto’s wardrobe, the first will always be the best.

It’s a fact that Hinata accepts, that Naruto understands, and that Himawari questions.

“Why do you wear that shirt the most?” Himawari asks curiously. “What’s wrong with your other colours?”

“Pink is comfortable,” Boruto says. A mischievous grin splits across his face as prepares to launch himself from the chair and onto an unsuspecting Naruto slumbering peacefully on the couch. “And pink is unforgettable.”

He leaps into the air with a mighty roar, a lion constellated in pink and gold.

“Oh,” Himawari murmurs as she looks up to her brother. “I want a pink shirt now too.”

anonymous asked:

Marauders era Remus spends so much time in the library that he sometimes forgets to eat so Sirius brings him food much to madam pinces dismay. Cute. Kisses. Love confessions. Pining Sirius oblivious Remus please and thank you.

lol, sorry, i meant to get this done way earlier, but then i found out trash boys (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3787609?view_full_work=true) updated, and i got distracted. also i said these would be drabbles, but of course it ended up nearly 2000 words, so whatever. i am the person that i am, and the person that i am happens to be wolfstar trash, so here you go.

as for the others, i am working on them. and feel free to send me more, because even if i don’t get to them right away, i will absolutely get to them soon

Remus has four different books open on one table, and is somehow reading parts of all of them. He is not aware that his left leg has been cramping for about twenty minutes, and he’s been gnawing on his lower lip so long he very possibly has a permanent tooth indent in the skin. There are ink stains on his fingers and knuckles from jotting down notes with his quill and absent-mindedly smearing them with his hand. He is not conscious of the passing of time.

Which is why, when Sirius pulls out a chair beside him, sitting on it backwards, it startles Remus enough that he knocks one of his books onto the ground with a loud clatter, eliciting a shushing from Madam Pince, who peers from behind one of the stacks with a glare.

“Sorry,” Remus mouths to her, and then turns to Sirius. “What are you doing here?” he asks in a whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be at quidditch practice?”

Sirius blinks at him.

“Moony, we have quidditch practice in the mornings on Saturdays.” When Remus just squints at him, Sirius laughs and shakes his head. “You honestly have no idea what time it is, do you?”

Remus considers this. The sunlight filtering in from the window beside him has shifted to the other side of the library, he supposes, but it hadn’t occurred to him to associate this with time changing. “Er,” he says.

“It’s nearly seven in the evening. Have you been sitting in here the entire day?”

“No,” Remus says defensively. “I got up to go to the loo.”

“Yeah? How many hours ago?”

“Er…” Remus says. He has no idea. “A while ago.”

“Honestly, Moony, I’m surprised you aren’t permanently stuck in a sitting position,” Sirius says, leafing through the book closet to him and grimacing at the tiny, dense text.

“That’d make full moons interesting,” Remus says amiably, picking up the fallen book and searching for the page he left off on.

“You’d be a weird, little squatty werewolf. All the other werewolves would make fun of you. ‘Oh Padfoot,’ they’d say. ‘Why does such a beautiful canine like yourself associate with such a silly creature?’”

“Not true,” says Remus, turning back to his notes and not looking up. “They might find me a funny sight, but at least I’d still be able to howl like a proper wolf. Not those pathetic yips you make. They all make fun of you behind your back.”

“They do not,” says Sirius.

“‘Oh Moony, why are you carrying on with that dying puppy? For goodness sake, put the poor thing out of its misery!’”

“Oh shut up,” Sirius says bitterly. “You’re one to talk. What kind of ferocious monster spends its entire Saturday reading books? You’re bollocks as a werewolf, Moony, just face it. Such wasted potential.”

“I’ll try to be a more beastly, then, for you. But until such a time, I do have lots of books to read, and you are interrupting. Did you come here for a purpose, or are you just here to torment me?”

“Well, I did come here for a purpose, but if you’re going to be rude about it, maybe I’ll just not even bother,” Sirius teases. “The only thing beastly about you is your attitude.”

“Padfoot,” Remus says testily. Sirius laughs.

“Yeah, alright. Well, I hadn’t seen you all day, so I figured you hauled yourself up in the library and forgot you had a body, or that time was a thing, or that anything outside of your precious books existed, and I deduced that you probably haven’t eaten anything since this morning.” He reaches into his robe pockets, glancing towards the stacks where Madam Pince is shelving books. Seeing that the coast is clear, he hands Remus a couple dinner rolls and a piece of fried chicken wrapped in a napkin.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Remus says, although even as he says it his stomach gives a loud and audible growl. He gives Sirius a sheepish look.

“I know I didn’t,” Sirius says. “But if I didn’t, you would read right through supper, and then go to bed with no food. Again,” he adds a little sharply.

“Er, well, thank you,” Remus says. He unfolds a dinner roll and tries very hard not to stuff the whole thing in his mouth at once. “You pay more attention to my schedule and bodily needs than I do,” he jokes through a mouthful of bread. Sirius gives him a funny look that he can’t quite decipher.

“Yeah, I dunno, I just wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself,” Sirius says stiffly. He stands up from the chair. “Don’t, er, don’t stay in here too late, alright? And drink some water. You’ve probably had nothing to drink all day. I would have brought you some, but I couldn’t figure out how to stuff a full goblet in my pocket.”

“Alright, I’ll finish up here soon,” says Remus, laughing a little. Sirius opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, changes his mind, shakes his head, and just gives Remus a small grin. He drums his fingers on the edge of the table, before giving Remus a brief wave and heading out of the library.

Remus, hiding his small meal from Madam Pince, tries not to think much of it, but finds that he can do little else. even as he pulls his books towards him again. He reads the same sentence ten times in a row.

Despite his promise, Remus doesn’t head back to the common room until after hours. He runs into Professor McGonagall on the way, but she’s so used to see him leaving the library at odd hours of the day, she merely shakes her head at him, and tells him to, “not make this a habit, Mr. Lupin.” Remus doesn’t point out that it already is.

The common room is mostly empty, except for a couple second years chatting in the far corner, a fifth year pooling over a wizard’s chess board, and Sirius, sitting in one of the couch by the fire. Remus goes over to him and plops down next to him.

“What are you doing down here?” Remus asks.

“Waiting for you,” Sirius says simply, looking at Remus with a small smile. “Wanted to see what time you actually dragged yourself in from the library. Did McGonagall catch you again?”

“Yeah,” Remus says. “Let me go with a warning, though.”

“She’s got an endless amount of those for you, though.”

“I guess.” They both say nothing, opting instead to watch the wood crackling and burning in the fireplace in companionable silence. “Why do you do this?” Remus asks suddenly, a few minutes later, making Sirius jump.

“Sorry?” he asks. “Do what?”

“This,” Remus says, gesturing vaguely. “Like, why do you… take care of me so much?”

Sirius looks Remus very intently in the eye for a moment, before turning away abruptly. Remus doesn’t miss the slight tinge of red that colours his cheeks. “Do I?” he asks evasively. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You pay enough attention to me to know when I haven’t eaten. You worry about whether or not I’ve drunk enough water. You stay up late to make sure I make it back to the common room alright. Sound familiar?”

“You make me sound like your mum,” Sirius mutters, still determinedly not looking at Remus.

“Or something,” Remus mutters back.

They’re silent again, but it’s tense. Finally, Sirius sighs and shrugs. “I care about you, Moony. Is that so bad?”

“You care about James, too, but you don’t smuggle food out of the Great Hall for him.”

“True, but James also doesn’t usually forget basic requirements for living,” Sirius says, grinning and finally meeting Remus’ eye again.

“What about Peter, then?” Remus counters, trying not to blush under Sirius’ sudden scrutiny. “He’s basically a danger to himself and everyone around him, and you don’t worry about his safety.”

“Peter’s beyond hope,” Sirius says dismissively.

“You don’t have to take care of me, you know,” Remus says softly. “I can take care of myself.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No. But it does make me confused. I don’t understand why.”

Sirius’ gaze leaves Remus’ and travels down his face, landing on his lips. Remus’ gut twists all the way up to his throat, and he realizes what’s going to happen about a millisecond before it does.

Sirius leans forward and very chastly presses his lips to Remus’. When Remus doesn’t pull away, he presses harder, slipping his lower lip between Remus’. Then he pulls away with a very soft smacking sound, and sits back so fast it’s like he was electrocuted.

“…Oh,” is all Remus says. He searches for something else, comes up with nothing, and repeats, “Oh.”

Sirius says nothing–just stares wide-eyed, like a dog afraid its owner is going to swat it with the newspaper. Remus takes this moment of silence to process how he’s feeling, and is surprised to find he doesn’t feel surprised.

“Oh,” he says for a third time, but this time he says it with a smile. He gently sits his hand overtop of Sirius’. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

They aren’t sure who initiates the second kiss–very possibly it was both of them at the same time–but it’s much less tentative than the first one. Remus wraps his arms around Sirius’ neck and tangles his hair around his fingers. For several minutes there is nothing but the sound of wet kisses and stilted breath. Then, without warning, Remus’ stomach lets out another audible growl.

Sirius pulls away and looks at Remus. “You’re still hungry,” he says, accusatory.

“I’m fine,” Remus says, not wanting to stop. His stomach growls again, and he rolls his eyes. “Well, maybe I’m a little hungry.”

Sirius smiles, wide and amused, and pulls away to stand up. He holds out a hand and pulls Remus up, too. “Come on,” he says. “I nicked some pastries from the kitchens, and I’ve got them up in the dormitory.”

They lace fingers, and Remus lets himself be led upstairs, his lips still tingling with Sirius’ silent confession, leaving him wondering why he ever had to question it to begin with.