hoziermicrofics

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may 18th - chain inspired by Sedated

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may 17th - scratch inspired by Sedated

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may 16th - meadow inspired by In A Week

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may 15th - loss inspired by Work Song

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may 14th - acquiesce inspired by Sedated

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may 13th - fox inspired by In A Week

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may 12th - resurrect inspired by Work Song

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may 11th - sedated inspired by Sedated

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honey┊april 30┊@hoziermicrofics┊evance┊wc: circa 800┊tw: none

Evan’s hands chased her, his veins prominent and bursting blue-green against his pale skin - evidence of his exertion. How he still had energy, Emmeline didn’t know, until she found herself managing to escape him niftily, dragging her sore legs along to dance away. There was something about their pairing that had sparks flying, rejuvenating in the way a fire on one’s coat-tails might be - and exhilarating.

She tutted, seeing his lips soundlessly form the endearment, his lungs straining - pushed too fast too soon since their spar. Nevertheless, his intent was conveyed well through his dark eyes.

”Don’t honey me,” came her chastisement. Traces of humour up-ticked her lips treacherously.

”Em! Don’t-?“ Evan reluctantly stilled, looking like a kicked puppy - or perhaps a hound. He’d been fierce, pinning her down like that, his nose dragging across her neck. He’d inhaled deeply, despite that she must have smelt repugnantly like sweat from their bout of roughhousing. Nostalgia from childhood ridded them of their senses and having them brawl like children in his family’s gardens again - not that many would claim either had much to begin with.

She’d laughed, and he’d felt the fluttering of her heart in her neck. It dispelled his caution: he relaxed atop her, grinning. His weight was crushing. Ensue, a classy - if she did say so herself - scream.

He’d frisked her first, looking for injuries, and then he’d stared, less like the shameless friend from childhood who’d watch her as she did just about anything, never masking his attraction, but like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Couldn’t comprehend a world to act in where he hurt her - his… there was no word for what they were, best friends and lovers and sweethearts and flames and matches and proto-stalkers maybe.

”Don’t,” Emmeline agreed, but only half heartedly. Something in her chest niggled. He wasn’t playing their game - the one they always did - the taunting and the teasing, the driving each other crazy. He had stilled and he stayed still. Frozen, like a Grecian statue, not the chaotic renaissance painting she knew him to be.

A beat. She quit, soft-hearted, moving forwards. Emmeline reached for his hands where they’d fallen to his sides, and slowly he sprang back to life, “You’re lanky. It didn’t hurt much. You didn’t hurt me.”

”I’m sorry,” he forced out anyways, mouth dry. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close. The hands on her shoulder blades hovered, like he was readjusting and reconsidering his every movement in relation to her.

Anyone but her. He could get into a million fights, had managed seven in four days, once. But that’s because they weren’t her. He could hurt anyone but her.

”Forgiven,” she hummed.

In return, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and murmured, the briefest shuddering in his voice before he levelled out again, “Now, you don’t, Em. Listen, m’kay?” No forgiveness yet. In their world, pureblood circles, being so forgiving was nothing short of dangerous. No apologies either, but it didn’t matter so much when it was him. He only needed her to follow the rules: he only needed her to be safe, above all.

She was always too good for it, for them. The slivers of moonlight slipping through the cracks of his curtains, shining into his dark room, that was her.

Like the moon, her smile was beautiful, a waning crescent, “Telling me what to do? Seriously?”, and then, with a scarcely secretive pleasure - she could hardly hide from him that she enjoyed and encouraged the liberties he took and the lengths he went - in his own, exceedingly obsessive ways - for her who felt so much but received so little, “I suppose, you could find a way to make it up to me…?”

”Greedy,” Evan accused, finally at ease. Wisely, he added, drawing her closer, “I’m not taking you to see that moving image this weekend, if that’s what this is about.”

“Why not?” Her lower lip jutted, a practiced pureblood princess pout. Something challenging dilated her eyes.

”Because-“ he scolded like a man who’d had suffered for a long, long time and come to enjoy the fit of it, his breath ruffling her black hair, “-you know why.”

He drew back, cupping her chin, a flat stare directed her way despite the tugging in his heart - it couldn’t be healthy, how attracted the both of them were when the other made themself a nuisance, but nothing about society’s top one percent screamed healthy in the first place  “-you always laugh, you crazy woman. I want to hear the ambience of screams when I watch a horror, love. That’s what they’re for.”

“Amycus Carrow snogged me in the back of the showing room, once.” Emmeline supplied with innocent (not) eyes. “He knew what he was doing with his hands-“

”Alright! Down, minx,” he withdrew her hands from around his shoulders, holding each by the wrist, “Amycus, of all men. That prick-“ He cut himself off.

“Sunday. Remind me which seats specifically?” He pressed a slow kiss to both of her palms, “He doesn’t know nought. I’ll show you hands.”

Evan’s reward for looking so damn fine when jealous was a peck on the lips, quickly transformed to something more.

(the end bit about the movies was inspired by @multishipperofgaydeadwizards whose posts sparked my curiosity in this ship)

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prompt: crawl @hoziermicrofics wc: 647

moonwater (remus lupin/regulus black)

cw: implied sexual content, this is the closest to smut you’ll probably ever get out of me. somewhat dubious consent because reg had one drink but trust he’s mostly sober, anyways enjoy!

“fuck you.” regulus spits into remus’ face, grey eyes cold and careless as he turns to walk away from the older boy.

remus grasps the younger boys arms, tugging him harshly to turn around and lock eyes with remus’ sad gaze.

“don’t be like that” remus pleads, amber eyes alight even through the dark room.

“you said you didn’t want me. i’m leaving you alone. so let. me. go.” regulus grits out, tugging harshly at the arm in remus’ hold.

“that’s not what i said. i said i’m not going to kiss you when you’re tipsy regulus.” remus groans out, sounding slightly whiny.

regulus’ gaze grows infinitely harsher as he turns, free hand lifting to forcefully tug his forearm out of remus’ tight grip before gripping remus’ chin in his hand.

“you want me?” regulus questions, brow raised.

remus nods dumbly, throat growing parched as he loses himself in swirling grey irises.

regulus smirks, letting go of remus’ chin which has the older boy scrambling to close to mouth.

regulus straightens, expression turning serious.

“i had one drink over 3 hours ago, i’m coherent. if you want me, you’ll follow me” regulus says calmly but firmly.

he doesn’t wait for remus to respond, turning and walking confidently out of the slytherin common room.

remus stands dumbfounded before scrambling to chase after the younger black heir.

remus finds him waiting down the end of the corridor, once he catches remus leaving the slytherin common room, he continues his walk.

remus follows, catching him in quick strides as he’s quite a bit taller than the curly haired boy.

they make their way through the castle, remus barely even paying attention to anything outside of regulus’ moving form.

not once does the slytherin turn around to check if remus is till following, just blind faith that remus wants him bad enough.

which he does.

it’s only after a couple of minutes that remus recognizes the corridor they’re in before a door appears out of the thin air to their left.

regulus leads him into the room of requirement and remus is pleased to notice that it’s charmed to look like a dorm room.

no house specificity but there’s accents that just scream regulus, such as the dark bedsheets with green accents with bookshelves decorating the walls.

whilst remus admires the magic, regulus makes his way to the bed in the middle of the room, loosening his tie before tugging his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoning the top buttons.

he sits on the edge of the bed, the picture of debauchery and remus is weak in his knees when he catches sight of him.

remus grows nervous and starts to fidget where he stands.

“what do you want remus?” regulus’ voice floats through the room, coating remus in warmth as he shivers softly.

he bites his lip, shyly fluttering his eyelashes as he gazes at regulus in shyness.

he shrugs softly and regulus seems to soften almost immediately.

“undress for me.” regulus says softly, not demanding but there’s a sense of authority that trails through his tone that has remus immediately complying.

he’s in his boxers before he realizes what’s happened.

remus goes to walk to regulus, eager to touch and please the dark-haired boy but he’s stopped as regulus holds a hand out in a halting motion.

remus makes a wounded sound, pitiful in nature as he pouts slightly.

regulus smirks cruelly, staring into remus’ eyes before stating clearly, “crawl.”

remus flounders for a response.

“crawl to me.” regulus demands greedily.

and remus sinks to his knees.

soft plush material encompasses his knees and palms as he crawls his way to regulus.

regulus who watches him in awe, gaze grower darker and more predatory the closer remus gets to him.

“oh, you’re going to be fun.” regulus taunts softly and remus whines low in his throat in response.

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Late Lament

Prompt from @hoziermicrofics

May, day three prompt: Grave

415 words, Quirrell POV, Pandora Lovegood mention, rated T, CW: Death mention

Author’s note: In this piece, Quirrell has survived Philosopher's Stone. He teaches Muggle Studies so Dumbledore can watch him. The events surrounding his possession by Voldemort are not generally known.

“Professor?”

One of the students had stayed after Muggle Studies.

He hadn't noticed.

It was a sure sign of his mental state. The Dark Lord had been unkind, leaving him for dead. Deservedly so, yes, but it wasn't an easy path back. He lost concentration sometimes, still.

Quirrell looked up to find Luna Lovegood staring at him, her luminous eyes unblinking.

"How may I help you, Miss Lovegood?"

"I heard you used to teach Defence Against The Dark Arts."

It was a peculiar thing, to be spoken of in the past tense so often whilst one was still alive. He was a ghost haunting his own life.

"I did."

"Then I'd like to ask you, sir, what happens after we die, do you think?"

His mouth worked silently for a moment, then stopped. She was thirteen years old. What a thing to have on her mind.

"Excuse me?"

"When we die," Luna repeated, voice soft and lilting. "Is it scary, or lonely, do you suppose?"

How he'd rated this particular interrogation was unclear. Perhaps because he was younger, or more approachable; perhaps because he was another Ravenclaw, or a bit odd, himself. In any event, he was chosen.

Quirrell started to ask why such a question weighed on her, then caught himself at the last second. Pandora, of course, her mother.

He remembered Pandora from school. A willowy, almost elven girl with eyes the no-colour of light reflecting off water. His strongest memory of her was a half-burnt fringe, lost during a potions experiment.

"I don't think it's scary, no, or lonely," he said slowly. "Do you recall being in the womb?"

"No," Luna said. "But I imagine it was nice. Warm. Cosy. Like napping at the beach."

"But not scary or lonely?"

Luna sat down at the desk closest to him and folded her hands atop it. She still regarded him with those large eyes that granted her an air of surprise.

"Not scary, no. Peaceful, maybe."

He nodded, deciding what to say next. Miss Lovegood's position was a difficult one. Herself, grieving; her father, grieving. The world, indifferent.

"I think it sounds peaceful, too. And I imagine that's what the grave must be like," he spread his hands, scarred palms facing up. "Still. Gentle."

The girl cocked her head to the side and was silent. Quirrell watched for some time before he realised she was watching him watch her, too.

"Thank you, Professor," she said. "I think my mother might've liked that answer."

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prompt: wound @hoziermicrofics wc: 608

cw: graphic depictions of injury, s4 canon divergence

steddie (steve harrington/eddie munson)

“he needs to be-“ an angry voice breaks through the blinding pain encompassing his entire being.

eddie groans, interrupting whatever squabble must be happening next to him, as intense fire spreads through his abdomen.

“hey, hey don’t move, you’re alright” steve’s panicked tone reaches eddie’s ear as his hands hold him softly yet firmly from moving from his position on the ground.

eddie swallows back the saliva pooling in his mouth, eyes opening slowly to meet the slightly desperate yet fond expressing of steve harrington.

“can’t believe i’ve got king steve playing nurse to lil ol’ me” eddie jokes weakly, his voice coming out hoarse, laughing softy before wincing immediately as he feels his abdomen contract in pain.

he can feel warmth seeping through his hellfire t-shirt and he knows if he was to look down, he’d be met with thick blood from where there’s obviously an open wound in his stomach.

steve laughs half-heartedly, sniffing harshly as he looks down to eddie’s open abdomen, turning pale before looking back at eddie with a determined expression and shaky smile.

“you can’t die on me munson, it took forever to carry you back here” steve complains as his voice breaks, eyes growing shiny as he pushes eddie’s curls out of his face.

“where’s here?” eddie asks back, his breathing shallow as he tries to distract himself from the pain

steve sniffs, clearing his throat as if shaking himself out of a daze, “uh, we’re in your trailer-” steve starts before he notices eddie paling as his eyes grow wide in fear.

“-out of the upside down! we’re in hawkins! the gate is closed,” steve rushes to reassure the older boy and eddie slumps in relief.

“you’re okay,” steve mutters harshly before robin walks in behind steve, armed full with threadbare towels and the good whiskey wayne was saving for eddie’s 21st.

“buckley and harrington as my nurses? some people would kill to be in my position” eddie’s joke falls flat for the most part as robin only offers him a soft —albeit slightly strained—smile.

she hands the materials to steve as they strategically work together assembling a makeshift bandage to wrap around eddie’s midsection.

“this is gonna hurt, i don’t know how else to sterilize it before wrapping so you’ve gotta hold on for a bit before we can get you to dr owen’s alright?” steve mutters hastily, placing one hand on eddie’s chest as he instructs robin to hold down eddie’s legs.

eddie just about screeches at the first wipe down of his midsection as the alcohol burns straight through his flesh.

steve makes soothing shushing noises as robin panicked-ly yelps as she struggles to maintain her hold on eddie’s legs.

the process is quick but lasts for eons for eddie, they make quick work of getting eddie up, holding him between the two of the them as they clamber out and situate eddie in the back on steve’s car.

“owens said he’d be at the byers, we have to take the backroads, police will be patrolling to check for casualties” robin remarks as she moves to clamber into the back of steve’s car with eddie.

steve pauses, “will you, uh, will you drive?” he asks weakly, sounding oddly choked up but eddie’s too delirious from the pain to pay much attention to that right now.

there’s a quick hushed argument before steve’s in the backseat, his cologne and natural musk calming eddie slightly as he tugs the younger boys hand into a tight grip.

he refuses to let go the entirety of the drive, fading in and out of consciousness though his grip remains just as tight

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~april 23: show - gilderat - canon compliant - @hoziermicrofics - word count: 503~

Gilderoy has absolutely no clue about how he ended up in a bright white room with even brighter lights. He actually had absolutely no clue about anything. He tried to recall any memories he had, anything to prove he had a life, but before he could get to it, a nurse walked in.

He was short and chubby and had blonde hair, he looked very similar to someone he knew- should have known. He was holding a clipboard with papers full of information that Gilderoy couldn’t see. “Hello,” he glanced down at the clipboard, “ah, yes, Mr. Lockhart. I’ll be your primary caretaker while you’re here, so I thought I would introduce myself. My name is Dr. Porter.” 

“Peter…” Gilderoy asked. He didn’t know who “Peter” was, but apparently he was important enough for it to be the first thing that he remembers. “Peter is that you?”

“No, Mr. Lockhart, I’m not Peter. I’m Dr. Porter-

“Then where is he then?”

”I do not know, I was unaware that you knew anyone by the name “Peter”, but I’m sure we can try to find him for you.”

“He’s missing,” Gilderoy decided. “Everyone… they- they think he’s dead, but I know he’s not! I know-“ 

“Mr. Lockhart!” Dr. Porter said with extreme sternness in his voice. “Your memories have been erased by reasons we don’t know. We think a spell backfired, but you are clearly not in the right headspace right now. Your memories will come back at a very slow rate, if at all. You’ve just woken up after a few days, and this Peter… probably isn’t real. Later I’ll have Mrs. Pollen comes in to give you your medication to help get you fixed.”

“But, I don’t need medication, and I am in the right headspace, and I don’t need to be fixed, I’m perfect. At least that’s what Peter told me.” 

Gilderoy whispered the last part. He has a vague idea of who Peter is, but he is still missing so many pieces. He remembers mourning someone, Peter probably, but he can’t be gone. He knows he is alive. He has to be. No matter who he was, he knew, at some point, he was important to Gilderoy. 

Dr. Porter sighted, and clicked his tongue. He said that he would be back to check on Gilderoy in around two hours, and that tomorrow he would get to meet some of the other patients. 

After he left, Gilderoy tried to take in the room around him for any hint of, well anything. Anything that could show him that he remembers more than broken whispers and a name. As he was scanning the room, he saw something on the windowsill. He squinted to try and get a better look at the grey blob, only to find that it was a large grey rat.

A very familiar grey rat.

He has no idea, not even a sliver of a clue, but Gilderoy knew without a doubt in his heart, that that rat, was Peter. 

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may 10th - flesh inspired by In A Week

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may 9th - crawl inspired by Work Song

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may 8th - scum inspired by Sedated

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may 7th - discreet inspired by In A Week