fools on parade (cavort and carry on)

fuckjamespotter:

a wild child au in which lily is just as if not more dreamy than alex pettyfer

read on ao3

---

i. there’s absolutely nothing for us here

[…] it’s better than a reputation

as a miserable little tyke

He arrives at boarding school a week after he drives his Mum’s new boyfriend’s Harley Davidson into the Thames.

He didn’t plan on being there. It’s why he refuses to get out of the car.

A kindly, rotund woman in a grey pantsuit knocks on the door of the back seat; he rolls down the window and she smiles in at him.

“Bags are in the boot,” he says, not looking at her.

“That’s charming, Mr. Potter,” she tells him, “but I’m not a footman. My name’s Mrs. Evans, I’m your headmistress here at Abbey Mount.”

“Look,” he starts, turning to face her, “I—”

She stops him. “Listen to me, Mr. Potter. I find that negotiation is rather like a nightclub; not something I tend to enter into. Now,” she opens the door, “come along.”

Keep reading

this night

apalapucian:

[ao3]

A short, dark alley. Dead end on one side, just another street on another. Traffic is scant, both of the people and vehicle kind, and James notes, rather unhelpfully, that this is one of those fancy villages with enough budget to pave their main roads with terracotta bricks.

He backs up one more step and finds himself against the wall – why is there a wall here anyway? – and one of his companions in the cul-de-sac exhales a snicker. “What now then, pretty boy?” he asks James, and James doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t know, honestly.

He doesn’t even clearly remember how he ended up here. Three against one, no more energy for his magic to be of any use, and his brain a useless, throbbing, spinning mess in alcohol.

“Who are you?” James asks them, his words tangling around his mouth, his eyes drooping beneath his specs. “I’m magic. I can take you. I’m – magic.”

The others laugh. “Magic, god. I reckon you’re the kind of fucker Jeanne can take out even sober.”

“Who?”

He doesn’t get an answer – but he does get a punch to the face. His glasses get skewed on his face at the impact, and the discomfort of having awkwardly shoved, possibly damaged glasses on a face gets eclipsed by the immediate pain blooming on his jaw.

“Not anything much now, are you?” one of them says, and James doesn’t know if it’s another person talking, or the same from before. Come to think of it, maybe there’s just one of them?

“I’m magic,” James just says again. He feels like laughing. He shouldn’t, and he really should probably stop saying he’s magic, in case a ministry official is around monitoring the streets or, worse, his magic decides that now is the time to go erratic, but – well, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Here, in general, what have you.

He sees the guy raise his arm again, fist tight and lips in a sneer, and James braces for it best he can.

But it doesn’t come. Another person has appeared, and he’s on James’s side, apparently, because he’s holding the guy’s arm back. James can’t make him much in the dark. And in his inebriation.

“Leave.”

“Who are you?”

“Sirius Black.”

Ah. Sirius Black. Sirius Black, James knows.

Keep reading

jiilys:

thank u!!! if you want to 100% see all of them i tag them with ‘caroline does social media’  but thus far we have: 

• that loves you (aka the first one)
  
• this one made a pig of me (aka lily joins the chat)
• the instagram captions one 
• the one i did for andy (aka A Mess™)
• leave the bottle by the door (aka the most sappy one)
  
• and shut me up (aka band au)
• can i be (aka tutor au) 
• my sort of thing (aka more basic hs au)
• open heart, open container (james and lily getting married) 
• call if you care for me (Someone Maybe sets a fire) 

glad u like them!!!

fuckjamespotter:

She’s outside the house, arms full of bags full of groceries, looking straight at him, and it’s a mean glare.

“What?” he asks, sitting on the hood of his car—Sirius and him, drinking pink milkshakes. Sirius slurps his, obnoxiously.

“You need to stop,” she says.

“Stop what?” he asks, knowing that he’s beginning to yammer, repeat everything she says. She talks smart, anyway, it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“That.” She tries to shift the bags to point at the car stereo, manages for a second, almost loses the contents of the cooler bag, milk and yogurt and ice cream.

“What, this?” He’s pretty sure he’s said the word ‘what’ in every interaction he’s ever had with her. Sirius has given up on them both, uninterested, lying against the windscreen, sunglasses up and sweating.

“It’s too loud,” she says, shifting a bag to her hip, she’s starting to strain under the load and hates the way he’s looking at her, like, even though they’re arguing a slight, a slight argument, he is ready to rush out and grab the bags if she drops them, mouth open, he’s about to offer and she will refuse if he does. She has to make this quick.

“What’s wrong with Drake?” he asks. Sirius snorts.

She rolls her eyes. “Drake, Post Malone, Ellie Goulding. It’s not good music. Anyway, I don’t care, but it’s too loud. If you’re going to play shit music you should turn it down. Also,” she’s blabbering, has to get it out, he’s started smiling at her like he knows something she doesn’t, like he’s winning, they’re standing out the front of their respective houses and her ice cream is melting and she’s trying to tell him off and he’s enjoying it, “why are you out here, anyway? Can’t you play the music inside the house?”

“First off all,” he starts, hands in pockets, stoops a little to make his point to her, still smiling, “you seem to paying special attention to the music I listen to—“

“How can I not, it’s so loud—“

“—and secondly, you’re the one out here arguing with me in the heat, when you should be going inside to play some Nina Simone or Florence and the Robot or whatever obnoxious music you listen to—”

“It’s Florence and the Machine,” she snaps.

He grins at her, ravenous, full-blown killer-watt bulb, and says, “Gotcha.”

She pauses for a second, mouth open, about to drop the shopping, floored, he’s so irksome, and then says, “Look,” and loses her grip completely on the shopping, the bags almost go down, but he surges forward, grabs half-her and half-the-bags and keeps her up, manages to keep the shopping up. They were supposed to be arguing.

She fumbles, mumbles. “Thanks.” She says it quietly, so perhaps she didn’t say it at all, but she can’t not say it.

“You’re OK, Evans,” he tells her.

She balances the shopping in her arms, goes straight for the door, pauses on the threshold. “Turn it down!” she yells to him, in the street.

She can still hear him laughing when she closes the door, pauses, frantic, against the wall in her dark hallway, breathing hard. Damn him, she thinks. Damn him to hell.

herhmione:

there is NOTHING better than a true power couple… the only two people who can keep up with each other, constantly testing one another, intimidating together, intimidating apart, an unrelentless, unstoppable force, the only two characters able to truly mellow and understand each other, god damn

bantasticbeasts:

padfootdidit:

padfootdidit:

so i’m back from holiday and,

who wants a ‘the princess diaries’ jily au?

update: coming soon to a hellsite website near you

the princess diaries jily au written by padfootdidit and @bantasticbeasts

😎😎😎😎😎