[I'm sorry, I made Sirius dead and it's not really shippy. But I have a thing for punk!Marauders and the timing worked out.]
"Harry, I know it's been rough since the...thing, but you made us come all the way to London for this?"
Hermione opened her mouth to admonish Ron, but even she couldn't find the words to defend the cacophony pouring from the speakers. Truth be told, neither could Harry, but the sounds and the smells and the spiky-haired maniac jerking around the stage were strangely familiar, although his only prior exposure came from yellowing album covers and stories told around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place.
"Sirius loved the Sex Pistols," he said, and joined the chant of we're so pretty, oh so pretty, we're vacant!
Oh my. XD Given that I don't usually write next gen, age differences, or incest, do you want to give me a backup pairing? I don't know if I can do this one justice.
[Oh hey, Seamus was a mechanic in the last fic I wrote. Grease monkeys FTW. Also, I clearly know nothing about cars.]
As a doctoral candidate and part-time librarian, Hermione had neither the time nor the money to take her car to the garage every other month. But according to the fit Irish mechanic at Scully's Auto Body, it was such a rusted heap of scrap metal that she was lucky it didn't disintegrate on the freeway.
Having a sensible fear of fiery automotive death, Hermione found herself in Scully's more and more frequently, especially on days when the Irish mechanic wasn't wearing sleeves. And if she blushed violently whenever he ran his hands fondly over her car and said he was going to "slick her up good," it was a testament to her refined upbringing.
But the next time she blew a tire, Hermione felt it best to leave the heavy lifting to the professionals.
[I've never had a good handle on writing the Homestuck universe, so here you go! It got a bit long because Dave's a wordy dude.]
It's easier to believe that your bro isn't your bro (for unprotected-graduation-week-fuck's sake, you've had that one cracked forever) and that your mom is some kind of bitchin war goddess who's also a massive prude (you are godlike in your mad brains and general awesomeness, and your bro totally lacks the game to pull a fucking deity) than it is to believe that your bro is really gone. But you saw it, you saw the monster with too many heads and too many teeth crawl right out of your kindergarten nightmares and into the subway car, you saw it make minced garlic out of your bro with a single swipe of its two-foot claws. You didn't let him go until the weird old lady with goat feet dragged you away and said she was taking you somewhere you'd be safe
( ... )
Oh my god, I read this while I was at work and completely forgot to respond to it but it made my daaaaaaaaaay. Karkat as an Aphrodite kid is so... weirdly appropriate, I love it.
Thanks, bb. <3 I kind of wish there'd been more room for Aphrodite!Karkat. He'd run around trying to patch up everyone's faltering romances and being generally obnoxious.
[This is an awesome prompt and micro-fic doesn't do it justice.]
"While your compassion is laudable, dear, do you really think this is proper? Mr. Holmes is still an unmarried man."
Joan thought about the club Sherlock had taken her to the night before, pulling her into a tight embrace on the dance floor so he could whisper into her ear why the short man in the corner had murdered his secretary. She thought about human skulls on the mantle and obscene novels in the bookcase and the dark edge of a tattoo peeking out from under rolled cuffs. She thought about Sherlock stumbling in with lipstick on his collar and a jazz tune on his lips, and she thought about Sherlock clinging to her in the alley behind a busted opium den, hands clenched in the neat cotton of her uniform.
"I have been called by God help the suffering, mother. And Mr. Holmes needs my help."
Comments 17
<3
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"Harry, I know it's been rough since the...thing, but you made us come all the way to London for this?"
Hermione opened her mouth to admonish Ron, but even she couldn't find the words to defend the cacophony pouring from the speakers. Truth be told, neither could Harry, but the sounds and the smells and the spiky-haired maniac jerking around the stage were strangely familiar, although his only prior exposure came from yellowing album covers and stories told around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place.
"Sirius loved the Sex Pistols," he said, and joined the chant of we're so pretty, oh so pretty, we're vacant!
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OMFG, I love this!
Thank you so much!
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Ron/Lily Luna
Film noir
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How about... Seamus/Hermione, QuickLube oil change place
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As a doctoral candidate and part-time librarian, Hermione had neither the time nor the money to take her car to the garage every other month. But according to the fit Irish mechanic at Scully's Auto Body, it was such a rusted heap of scrap metal that she was lucky it didn't disintegrate on the freeway.
Having a sensible fear of fiery automotive death, Hermione found herself in Scully's more and more frequently, especially on days when the Irish mechanic wasn't wearing sleeves. And if she blushed violently whenever he ran his hands fondly over her car and said he was going to "slick her up good," it was a testament to her refined upbringing.
But the next time she blew a tire, Hermione felt it best to leave the heavy lifting to the professionals.
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(Or if you'd rather, Karkat and Dave. Percy Jackson AU/fusion.)
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It's easier to believe that your bro isn't your bro (for unprotected-graduation-week-fuck's sake, you've had that one cracked forever) and that your mom is some kind of bitchin war goddess who's also a massive prude (you are godlike in your mad brains and general awesomeness, and your bro totally lacks the game to pull a fucking deity) than it is to believe that your bro is really gone. But you saw it, you saw the monster with too many heads and too many teeth crawl right out of your kindergarten nightmares and into the subway car, you saw it make minced garlic out of your bro with a single swipe of its two-foot claws. You didn't let him go until the weird old lady with goat feet dragged you away and said she was taking you somewhere you'd be safe ( ... )
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Also, Dave feels. ;_;
This is a fantastic fusion, seriously. ♥
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"While your compassion is laudable, dear, do you really think this is proper? Mr. Holmes is still an unmarried man."
Joan thought about the club Sherlock had taken her to the night before, pulling her into a tight embrace on the dance floor so he could whisper into her ear why the short man in the corner had murdered his secretary. She thought about human skulls on the mantle and obscene novels in the bookcase and the dark edge of a tattoo peeking out from under rolled cuffs. She thought about Sherlock stumbling in with lipstick on his collar and a jazz tune on his lips, and she thought about Sherlock clinging to her in the alley behind a busted opium den, hands clenched in the neat cotton of her uniform.
"I have been called by God help the suffering, mother. And Mr. Holmes needs my help."
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