multifamdomfan

[multifamdomfan]

from your WolfStar one shot fic offer? If you're still taking them, do you have any ideas about smut or fluff dynamics that the two have? It's always cool to see how people think of them 🫶

Thank you and much love! You're amazing 💕🐾🌙

I'm not sure if this is exactly what you mean but this is how I interpret their relationship.

---

💛 Fluff – "The Quiet Kind of Love"

Remus and Sirius are opposites on the surface, but their fluff is all about how well they fit despite it — or maybe because of it.

Remus is the calm, steady rhythm. A bit of a recluse, bookish, and practical. He often second-guesses himself, convinced he’s too damaged to be truly loved.

Sirius is the storm. Charismatic, loud, impulsive. But under the bravado, he’s desperate to be wanted — not for his name or rebellion, but for who he is.

Fluff for them is hard-won. It’s the result of trust slowly built through years of shared dorm rooms, long nights in the Shack, pranks gone wrong, and the comfort of someone who sees every unspoken wound and chooses to stay anyway.

Examples of their fluffy dynamic:

Sirius throws himself dramatically onto the couch whenever Remus says no to something (“Moony, you wound me—how could you deny me a cuddle?”), and Remus just sighs and lifts his arm so Sirius can tuck himself under it.

Remus reads aloud to Sirius, usually while Sirius lies with his head on Remus’s lap. Sirius pretends to fall asleep but really listens to the sound of Remus’s voice like it’s the safest sound in the world.

Sirius always carries chocolate in his coat pockets, “in case Moony needs it.” Remus pretends to roll his eyes but always takes it.

They share a toothbrush, a bed, a wardrobe—not because they have to, but because neither really likes being apart.

Their fluff is soft, understated. They don’t need grand gestures. A touch to the wrist when passing in the hallway. Quiet laughter over morning tea. Knowing each other’s favorite records and playing them when the other’s sad. It’s two broken boys finding comfort in each other’s corners and realizing they don’t have to heal to deserve happiness.

---

🔥 Smut – "All That Tension Has to Go Somewhere"

There’s so much tension in Remus and Sirius’s relationship — years of it. Raised eyebrows across the Great Hall, fleeting touches during full moons, long stares while pretending to talk about something else.

Their smut isn’t just sex — it’s a battlefield, a sanctuary, a confession booth. Every touch is layered: I missed you, I want you, I’m scared, I love you. And they show love the only way they know how: with their hands, their mouths, their bodies, where words are too dangerous.

Power dynamics:

People assume Sirius is the dominant one because he’s louder, cockier, and more physically confident. But Sirius wants to be wanted, and he melts when Remus is firm, focused, and in control.

Remus surprises him — quiet, yes, but intense. Patient. Devastating in his control. He knows how to touch Sirius like he’s tracing a map he memorized long ago.

Sirius is needier than he wants to be. He craves closeness, chases it, and when Remus gives in, Sirius is all-in, wild and reverent.

Scenarios:

The first time is urgent and a little clumsy, all teeth and frantic hands, years of tension breaking in a thunderclap of passion. They don’t know where one ends and the other begins, and they don’t care.

Later times are slower, full of whispered jokes, half-bitten smiles, and soft sighs. The kind of intimacy that says: I trust you with the worst of me.

After full moons, Remus’s body aches, and Sirius is gentle. They make love then, not for lust but for comfort — Sirius pressing kisses to every scar, murmuring, “You’re still mine.”

Their smut is messy with emotion. They don’t just undress each other — they unravel. And afterward, Sirius clings like he’s afraid Remus will vanish. Remus just holds him, silently saying: I’m not going anywhere.

---

💔 Angst – "Love in a Time of War"

If fluff is what they built, and smut is what they can’t help, then angst is what they survive.

There is so much pain in their story — the kind that starts small, with misunderstanding and distance, and grows into betrayal and isolation.

Pre-Prison Angst:

In the First Wizarding War, trust is currency, and everyone is watching everyone else.

Remus starts pulling away, paranoid about the werewolf prejudice in the Order, about Dumbledore never quite looking him in the eye, about Sirius maybe... not trusting him either.

Sirius watches Remus withdraw and panics—he acts out, gets reckless, becomes colder. He doesn’t know how to say, Please don’t leave me too.

When they fight, it’s brutal. Sirius accuses Remus of keeping secrets. Remus accuses Sirius of only knowing how to run. Neither of them says the real fear: I love you, and I might lose you to this war.

Azkaban:

Sirius rots in a cell, reliving the night James and Lily died, over and over.

“It was Peter,” he whispers into the stone. “Not Moony. Not Moony.”

He dreams of Remus’s face—first furious, then blank. He wonders if Remus believes he did it.

Remus is devastated. He’s convinced Sirius was the traitor. But he still loves him. And that love eats away at him.

He spends years not dating, not healing, half-living.

Post-Prison (OotP-era):

Their reunion is bittersweet.

They’re both different now.

Remus is quieter, sadder. Sirius is reckless, half-mad with grief and confinement.

They love each other, but it’s fractured. There’s still hope… but it’s afraid of being spoken aloud.

Remus treats Sirius like something fragile. Sirius treats Remus like he’s already gone.

They sneak kisses behind closed doors, but they don’t talk about what it means.

Remus starts to plan for a world after the war. Sirius just wants to survive the next day.

And then Sirius dies.

Remus doesn’t cry at the funeral. He just stands still.

Because there was so much they didn’t get to fix.

Remus Lupin was Sirius Black’s first love, and last regret.

Sirius Black was Remus Lupin’s once-in-a-lifetime, lost to time.

---

TL;DR Summary

Tone Description

💛 Fluff Found family, forehead kisses, quiet loyalty. Reading together, shared cigarettes, sunlight after rain.

🔥 Smut Tension-fueled intimacy. Power exchange, mutual worship, urgent and tender. Love in every touch.

💔 Angst Mistrust, betrayal, prison bars, war wounds. “I loved you the whole time.” Tragedy and silence.

[multifamdomfan]

🦉 Name: Aurelian "Auri" Dumbledore

Era: Mauraders Era

---

🌿 Basic Info:

Nickname: Auri

Pronouns: He/Him

House: Ravenclaw

Sexuality: Omni

Blood Status: Half-blood (unknown origins)

Wand: 10¾", hawthorn wood, unicorn hair, springy

Patronus/Animagus: A dove

Height: 5’8” (stops growing early, he’s secretly a bit self-conscious about it)

Build: Lean, delicate-boned, with long fingers — looks like a poet or painter

Hair: Soft, curly dark blond (fades toward light brown), often a bit unkempt

Eyes: Pale gray-blue, almost silvery in the right light

Accessories: white rectangle glasses and painted nails (he can't say no to Dorcus)

Birthday: December 11

---

✨ Backstory:

Auri was a war orphan whose magical potential drew Dumbledore’s attention while he was still an infant. Something about the boy — a deep gentleness beneath all that grief — compelled Albus to adopt him. Auri grew up surrounded by books, magical theories, and an elderly wizard’s eccentricities rather than traditional parenting.

Though Dumbledore was distant and often preoccupied, he still gave Auri a sense of security and quiet love, which shaped him into someone deeply introspective and understanding. Auri doesn't carry the Dumbledore name like a badge of honor — in fact, he tends to avoid name-dropping it at all. He wants to be known for who he is, not who raised him.

---

🌙 Personality:

Soft-spoken, emotionally intuitive, and quietly witty — he doesn’t need to be loud to make his presence felt.

Observant to a fault; he tends to read too deeply into people’s behavior and second-guess their feelings.

Kind, nurturing, and patient, but with a tendency to self-sacrifice and bury his own needs.

Loves art, magical theory, and gentle things like tea ceremonies, celestial maps, and caring for magical creatures.

He feels things deeply but rarely shows the full storm — his smiles are soft, his eyes say more than his words ever do.

Has a subtle mischievous streak. He’ll charm a hallway to smell like cinnamon just because someone mentioned missing home.

---

🌧️ Flaws:

Conflict-avoidant to a fault — he’ll say “it’s okay” even when it’s absolutely not.

Tends to shut down emotionally when overwhelmed, withdrawing into himself with a distant smile.

Overthinks every interaction, especially with people he cares about — his silence sometimes gets mistaken for coldness.

Holds himself to impossible standards, trying to be a “gentle, unshakable” presence like he believes Dumbledore wants.

Secretly afraid of being ordinary, even as he avoids the spotlight. He feels like he should be extraordinary… but doesn’t always believe he is.

---

📚 Likes:

Quiet corners of the library

Magical sketchbooks

Enchanted music boxes

Lunar charts

Feeding Thestrals

Drawing people when they’re not looking

---

I would put Marlene but I think that we all collectively agree that she's a lesbian and I don't have enough room for Mary

[multifamdomfan]

Can you write à BITCHKILER (Barty and Sirius) fic with like violence and enemies to lovers and make it sad!!! Please🙏

Burn the Bloodline

The dungeons of Hogwarts were colder at night. Not the kind of cold that you could rub out of your hands, but the kind that sank into your bones and whispered reminders of the things you’d rather forget.

Sirius Black leaned against a damp wall, one boot braced against the stone, his Gryffindor tie loose and his jaw bruised from a fight with Mulciber the day before. He wasn’t hiding — Sirius Black never hid — but there was something about this corridor, just outside the Slytherin common room, that drew him like a curse he couldn’t shake.

He heard the footfalls before he saw him.

Barty Crouch Jr. always walked like he didn’t care who heard him coming. Like the world owed him a place and he was coming to collect. The torchlight caught his face first — pale, hollowed, angular, with dark shadows under his eyes like bruises made from secrets. Sirius watched him slow as he noticed the silhouette leaning in his path.

“You’ve got to stop stalking me, Black,” Barty said coolly, not stopping. “People will start to think you’re obsessed.”

Sirius gave a lazy smirk. “Please. I’d rather shag a dementor.”

Barty kept walking until they were nearly toe to toe. He raised a brow, looked Sirius over with the kind of sneer that felt like it was carved into his face.

“Funny. You kiss like you’re desperate for someone to devour you.”

Sirius shoved him before he could stop himself. Not hard — just enough to make Barty stumble back a step.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it,” Sirius growled.

“I didn’t,” Barty replied, brushing imaginary dust off his robes, “I endured it. Like I endure detention. Or listening to your voice.”

The slap of tension between them was so sharp it could have sliced a throat. Sirius’s hands curled into fists. His heart was hammering for reasons he didn’t want to name. And Barty — Barty was too calm, too collected, which meant something inside him was breaking in ways even he didn’t recognize.

Sirius grabbed the front of Barty’s robes.

“You’re not better than me,” he spat. “No matter how many pureblood lies your daddy shoves down your throat.”

Barty’s laugh was short and bitter.

“Oh, Sirius. You hate your father so much, you became his mirror just to spite him.”

That was enough. Sirius punched him — hard. Barty staggered back, lip split. But instead of retaliating, he smiled, blood in his teeth.

“Feel better?”

Sirius looked at his bruised knuckles. “No.”

Barty nodded once, as if he understood. As if they both did.

⸻

It kept happening after that.

They stopped pretending to ignore each other. They found each other in shadows — empty classrooms, stairwells, alcoves behind tapestries that smelled like mildew and dust. Always starting with anger, ending in something uglier. Something needier.

Kissing like it was violence. Biting like it meant control. Pulling each other close only to push each other away again harder.

One night, after a late patrol, Sirius found Barty pacing near the Black Lake. His wand was clenched so tightly in his hand it looked like it might snap.

“What happened?”

Barty didn’t look at him. “My father. The usual. He thinks I’m wasting my potential by not leading the Ministry someday. Told me I was embarrassing the name.”

Sirius exhaled slowly. “Join the club.”

Barty turned on him then, sudden and furious. “Don’t—don’t pretend we’re the same.”

“We’re not?” Sirius snapped. “Both of us born to rot in gold cages. Both of us trying to claw our way out before we suffocate.”

“I’m not trying to escape,” Barty snarled, stepping closer, “I’m trying to burn the whole fucking cage down.”

There was a moment of silence. Sirius stared at him, really stared — at the frantic fire behind his eyes, the tremble in his hands, the wounds that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

“Then let me help you,” Sirius whispered.

But Barty just laughed. A cracked, exhausted sound.

“You help people like me die slower.”

⸻

It was never gentle between them.

Sometimes Sirius would show up at Barty’s bed in the middle of the night, breathless from a nightmare he’d never admit to. Sometimes Barty would drag Sirius into an empty corridor after a duel and kiss him like he was angry at his own mouth.

They never said what it meant. Never talked about what they were doing. It was safer to pretend it was all hate.

But it wasn’t.

There was one night — a rare one — when Barty sat beside Sirius in the Astronomy Tower, both of them wrapped in blankets and silence. The stars blinked like they were keeping secrets.

“Do you ever think it could’ve been different?” Sirius asked quietly. “If we’d been born to different families.”

“No,” Barty said, almost immediately. “People like us don’t get peace. We just get better at pretending we don’t need it.”

Sirius didn’t answer. Just reached over and took Barty’s hand.

They didn’t talk again until dawn.

⸻

Then came the war.

They graduated. Lines were drawn. Friends vanished. Lily and James whispered about the Order. Regulus disappeared into shadows Sirius couldn’t follow. And Barty — Barty started wearing long sleeves even in the summer.

Sirius cornered him outside a pub in Knockturn Alley one night, weeks after rumors started circling.

“You did it, didn’t you?” he said, voice shaking. “You fucking took the Mark.”

Barty didn’t answer. He just stared.

“I thought you wanted to burn the cage,” Sirius continued. “Not become its fucking jailer.”

Barty looked tired. Older. Like the fire inside him was burning through him now.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly.

“Then explain it to me.”

But Barty couldn’t.

And Sirius didn’t ask again.

⸻

The last time they saw each other before Azkaban, it was in a forest. A real duel, this time. No school walls. No witnesses.

Sirius was bleeding from his temple. Barty’s robes were scorched. They circled each other like wolves, hearts cracked and howling.

“You still think I’m worth saving?” Barty asked, voice trembling with something too deep to name.

Sirius’s wand hand was shaking.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to lose you.”

And Barty — for one terrible, beautiful second — looked like he might drop his wand. Might come back.

But then the flash of green lit the air. Not at Sirius — never at Sirius — but at the aurors arriving behind him.

Barty ran.

Sirius didn’t chase him.

⸻

Azkaban came for both of them.

Different reasons. Different trials. But both locked away by fathers who failed them.

Sirius never said Barty’s name again. Not when the dementors hovered. Not when his cell turned to ice. Not even when the visions came — of Barty’s mouth, Barty’s laugh, Barty’s hand gripping his like a lifeline.

But years later, when Sirius escaped, he found himself in the ruins of the Crouch estate.

The house was cold and dead, like its memories.

In the study, beneath layers of dust, he found a journal. Half-burned. Torn at the spine. The last page read:

“If Sirius Black had asked me one more time, I might have said yes.

But I was too scared to be loved by someone who saw the fire and stayed.”

Sirius stood there, eyes stinging, heart breaking.

“Too fucking late,” he whispered, tucking the page into his coat.

But he didn’t leave.

Not until the sun came up.

[multifamdomfan]

Happy Late Pride Day to most talented Asexual writer on tumblr!!!

Sorry for being late

[multifamdomfan]

Hi! I'd like to request a ficlet of Rosekiller flirting, but, instead of normal flirting, they're comparing each other with obscure books.

Annotations of a War

Characters: Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr

Setting: Sixth Year, Slytherin Common Room, 1:37 A.M.

Mood: Flirtation disguised as literary warfare

Warnings: Sharp tongues, ego clashes, books as weapons of seduction

---

The Slytherin common room smelled like old parchment and smoke. Most of the students had retreated to bed, and silence reigned like a jealous queen. Only the fireplace dared make noise, its green flames flickering ominously against the stone walls. On one of the leather armchairs lounged Evan Rosier, sprawled sideways like a painting of lazy aristocracy. His shoes were off. His tie hung loose. And in his hand, an obscure book: Nihil et Aeternum: An Inquiry into Magical Futility.

Barty Crouch Jr. sat on the floor like some cursed academic monk, back against the foot of the armchair, legs stretched out, pages fluttering in the heavy copy of The Blood Ink Theorem. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour. Neither had Evan. Not because they didn’t have things to say, but because they were both waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It came, as it always did, with a sigh.

Evan yawned. Loudly. “You read like you’re trying to convince a corpse to fall in love with you.”

Barty didn’t look up. “You talk like you’re waiting for someone to be impressed by your ability to pronounce Latin with flair and absolutely no comprehension.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from the boy who annotated The Martyrdom of Mind with, and I quote, ‘finally someone understands me.’”

Barty snapped his book shut and twisted to glare at him. “At least I don’t use The Veil is a Metaphor as a personality.”

“You’re upset because I understand it,” Evan drawled. “You just liked the bit where the protagonist tried to drown his therapist in a Pensieve.”

“I liked it because it was an accurate depiction of your emotional intelligence.”

Evan’s grin was all teeth. “Admit it, Crouch. You get off on thinking you’re the smartest person in the room.”

“And you get off on being the most tragic,” Barty shot back, standing up with slow, deliberate movement. “You’re like Vesper’s Final Elegy—style over coherence, an aesthetic of suffering. And just like the book, I keep hoping I’ll find something beneath the posturing, and all I get is another empty metaphor.”

Evan stood to meet him, expression flickering between mock offense and genuine interest. “You think I’m an elegy? Darling, that’s almost poetic. Would you like to read between my lines?”

Barty stepped into his space, close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “I do read between your lines, Evan. Every sneer. Every quote you think makes you look clever. You’re desperate to be understood, but too much of a coward to admit it.”

“Oh?” Evan’s voice was a purr, sharp at the edges. “And what does that make you? A walking contradiction? Daddy’s perfect little political puppet who spends his nights translating banned Romanian blood rituals for fun?”

“At least I don’t pretend apathy while screaming for attention in footnotes.”

“I am mysterious,” Evan hissed, smiling.

“You’re a walking prologue that thinks it’s a climax.”

Evan laughed. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

“And you’re so fucking transparent.”

They stood there, the heat between them more volatile than the fire behind. There was no softness here—just barbs and brutal honesty masquerading as foreplay.

Evan’s voice dipped low. “You want to break me open like a book, don’t you?”

Barty smirked. “Only so I can highlight the parts that lie.”

For a moment, it looked like they might kill each other. Or kiss. Or both.

Instead, Evan reached over and snatched the book from Barty’s hand. Flipped it open. Scanned a page.

“You annotated this chapter with ‘agony should be efficient.’ You’re insufferable.”

Barty leaned in again, this time whispering, “You underlined an entire paragraph in On Death’s Doorstep just to write ‘me’ in the margins.”

Evan shrugged. “I have flair.”

“You have trauma.”

“You’re aroused.”

A dangerous pause.

Barty’s voice was quiet. “What if I am?”

Evan didn’t answer. He just handed the book back, his fingers brushing Barty’s with electric intent. Their eyes locked, unblinking. Challenge hung heavy between them like fog.

“I like books that bite back,” Evan said.

Barty’s smirk returned, lazy and lethal. “Then you’ll love me.”

Evan stepped back, deliberately slow. “I think I already do.”

They didn’t kiss. That would’ve been too easy. Too cliché. Instead, they returned to their books—spines cracked, pages dog-eared, tension mounting.

Their war would be long.

And beautifully written.

[multifamdomfan]

Bark and Bittersweet

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Sirius Black

Word Count: ~3,000

Summary:

After successfully becoming Animagi, the Marauders celebrate their triumph. But when Remus gives Sirius a bar of chocolate, things take an unexpected turn — and not the romantic kind Remus hoped for. Dogs, after all, shouldn’t eat chocolate. And Sirius is very much a dog now.

---

The bar of chocolate had been meant as a thank you. A quiet, soft thing in the middle of all their chaotic triumph.

It was the night after the full moon. The night after James, Sirius, and Peter had done what no group of students had done in a century — become illegal Animagi to stay with their best friend in the woods. Remus hadn’t stopped smiling since waking up. Not just because he hadn’t been alone, but because his friends had stayed. They’d stayed.

And Sirius — Sirius had never looked more proud of himself. Or more infuriatingly smug.

Remus had gone into Hogsmeade alone after classes that afternoon, seeking out a bar of Honeydukes’ best dark chocolate. It wasn’t grand. But it was personal.

Sirius loved chocolate.

At least, he used to.

---

“Sirius?”

“Yeah?” The reply was muffled through the pillow Sirius had wedged under his chin. He was sprawled across his bed in their dorm, robes half-off, his hair a dark mess from rolling around on the floor in dog form not an hour earlier. James was near the window, tossing a Snitch between his hands. Peter sat cross-legged on the carpet, looking half-asleep.

Remus hesitated in the doorway. “I, er... got you something.”

Sirius turned his head. “What, now? Moony, unless it's a crown or a personal thank-you poem written in iambic pentameter, it can wait. I’m emotionally exhausted from being perfect.”

James groaned. “If I hear one more word about your 'flawless dog form,’ I’m going to hex you into a real mutt.”

“I am flawless. You saw me, Prongs. My fur literally shimmered.”

“You face-planted into a tree,” Peter mumbled.

“I dodged that tree with grace,” Sirius said with a wounded sniff.

Remus rolled his eyes and walked over to Sirius’ bed, pulling the chocolate bar out of his bag. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “I thought you’d want it. As a… thank-you. For last night.”

Sirius blinked, and the snark in his expression softened. “Oh. That’s actually…” He pushed himself up, sat cross-legged. “That’s really nice, Moons.”

He took it and immediately bit into it, still in the wrapper. “Mm. Brilliant.”

Remus sat at the foot of his own bed, watching with a warm kind of glow in his chest. “You were amazing, by the way. Last night. I mean it.”

Sirius beamed through a mouthful. “I know. I mean, I do live to impress.”

James snorted. “You live to flirt with death via your own stupidity.”

“I flirt with everyone, James. Don’t take it personally.”

---

It started twenty minutes later.

Sirius groaned and clutched his stomach, bent over on his bed. “Ugh. What—what is happening to me?”

“Indigestion?” Peter asked, wide-eyed.

“You eat like a starved troll,” James offered unhelpfully.

Remus’ brows furrowed as Sirius let out another sound—half groan, half whimper. “Pads?”

Sirius looked up. “I think I’m dying.”

“Oh, come on—”

“No, seriously,” Sirius said, wide-eyed, “I feel awful. My head’s spinning, my stomach’s doing the bloody tango, and I think I’m going to vomit my soul out.”

Peter scooted back. “Don’t vomit on me.”

Sirius lurched up and made it to the washroom just in time. The sound of retching echoed unpleasantly through the dormitory.

James blinked. “What the hell did you give him, Moony?”

Remus stared at the now-empty chocolate wrapper on Sirius’ bed.

“Just chocolate. I’ve given him chocolate a hundred times before…”

But something twisted in his gut. A detail he hadn’t thought through. A single, horrifying realization.

Dog.

Sirius was now—is now—a dog.

And dogs can’t eat chocolate.

---

James helped Remus half-carry, half-stagger Sirius back to bed. He was pale, sweaty, mumbling nonsense about the betrayal of loved ones and cursed sweets.

“We can’t take him to Pomfrey,” James muttered.

“I know that.” Remus’ voice cracked. “If she finds out you’re Animagi, you’re expelled. You all are.”

“We’ll stay quiet about it,” Peter said nervously. “Just… don’t mention the chocolate.”

Sirius groaned again, curling up like he did when he transformed back too quickly. “I think I saw the Grim.”

“You are the Grim,” James said.

“Oh.” He blinked blearily. “Then I guess I saw a mirror.”

Remus conjured a cold compress and pressed it to Sirius’ forehead. “This is my fault. I should’ve known.”

“Don’t be daft,” James said. “How the hell would you know that he’d suddenly have dog biology?”

“I should’ve thought. He ate it not long after transforming back.”

Sirius opened one eye. “Moony, I didn’t know either. Not like they covered ‘animagus digestive side effects’ in Transfiguration.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“You’re cute when you’re guilty,” Sirius mumbled, and promptly passed out.

---

It was hours before Sirius was stable. He drifted in and out of sleep, too warm one moment, shivering the next. Remus never left his side. He charmed a basin for emergencies, adjusted the blankets, and kept a cool cloth on Sirius’ forehead, like he’d seen his mother do when he was a child and came down with fevers.

James left at some point to drag Peter out of the dorm before either of them accidentally let the secret slip. The room was quiet now, except for Sirius’ uneven breathing.

“Why do you have to be so bloody reckless,” Remus muttered. “You just… you do things. Stupid, brave, ridiculous things. And I… I never know what to do with you.”

He reached for Sirius’ hand without thinking, holding it gently, thumb brushing across knuckles still damp with sweat.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. “You always eat my chocolate. You always steal it and act like it’s your God-given right. I thought…” He shook his head, lips tugging into a small, sad smile. “I thought it would make you smile.”

Sirius stirred slightly. “Did,” he mumbled.

Remus froze.

“Did make me smile.”

“You’re awake.”

“Not really.” Sirius shifted and blinked up at him, dazed. “Didn’t mean to make you panic. Just felt like I swallowed poison and all my internal organs declared mutiny.”

Remus huffed a dry laugh. “You sort of did swallow poison. To dogs, anyway.”

Sirius groaned. “Guess I’ve officially crossed into full dog territory now. Great. What’s next? Chasing squirrels? Barking at the post owl?”

“You already do that,” Remus said. “I’ve seen you bark at the post owl.”

“…Fair.”

A long pause followed. The room fell still again, shadows from the moon casting silver lines across the floor.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Sirius said quietly. “I would've been alright.”

“No,” Remus said. “You wouldn’t have.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Sirius said, surprisingly sincere. “Really. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I gave you the chocolate.”

“I ate the chocolate. You could’ve handed me a broomstick covered in glitter and I’d still eat it if it was from you.”

Remus glanced at him. “Why?”

Sirius gave a tired smile. “Because it’s you.”

Remus’ breath caught.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Sirius said. “You’re the one thing that makes all this madness worth it. Becoming Animagi, sneaking out every month, nearly throwing up my intestines… I’d do worse. For you.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“Probably,” Sirius said with a faint grin. “But I meant it.”

Remus looked down at their hands. “You scared me.”

“I scare you all the time.”

“Not like this.”

Sirius rolled his head to the side, meeting Remus’ gaze. “You’re cute when you worry.”

“You’re insufferable when you’re sick.”

“You still haven’t let go of my hand.”

Remus flushed, but didn’t pull away.

Sirius’ voice softened. “You don’t have to buy me chocolate next time.”

Remus gave a breathy laugh. “What, should I knit you a jumper instead?”

Sirius smiled. “No. You could just kiss me.”

Remus blinked. “You—what?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re delirious.”

Sirius smirked. “And yet, you’re still blushing.”

“I am not—”

“Moony.” Sirius’ voice was sleepy again, warm and raspy. “You like me.”

Remus swallowed hard. “I do.”

“Good.” His hand squeezed Remus’. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. After I stop dying.”

“Good idea.”

Sirius’ eyes fluttered shut. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” Remus whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “I’ll stay.”

And he did.

---

End.

[multifamdomfan]

Happy Pride month!

[multifamdomfan]

What if I rewrite Harry Potter where Dumbledore 's plan was to make Harry Potter the chosen one and make sure that Harry stayed alive so that they could kill him at the right moment but Voldemort wanted to make Harry his weapon and put a piece of his soul in Harry on purpose. It was Draco's job to make sure that Harry does Voldemort's will without realizing it. Draco was given that task right before their first year at Hogwarts. No one fully believed or trusted Harry when he was telling the truth, it made Harry mad but anger is a messy emotion that makes people think illogically. That's something Draco took advantage of and in this au Draco and Harry become lovers when they reach their teenage years and Harry is a Slytherin. The main plot of each year is the same Harry Potter is morally gray. Harry's main motivation is that Harry was small and powerless for so long at the Dursley's so now he wants to make sure that he's never in that same position again even if he has to make compromises. This isn't a huge detail but in this Harry would be half Latino, have a blind eye because the scar is bigger and covers half his face, and curly hair.

[multifamdomfan]

Amazing Jason Grace

Leo had a mission. A very important, very serious mission.

Said mission? Getting Jason Grace to smile.

It had been a rough day at Camp Half-Blood, full of drills, strategy meetings, and a particularly nasty run-in with some rogue storm spirits that had left Jason brooding. Leo, being the ever-helpful and absolutely amazing friend that he was, couldn't let that stand.

So, as Jason sat by the campfire, staring pensively into the flames, Leo strutted over with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels like he had nothing suspicious planned. Jason barely acknowledged him, which only made Leo more determined.

Leo cleared his throat dramatically. “Ahem. J-Man. Jay. Big J. Lord of the Thunder.”

Jason sighed, rubbing his temples. “Leo, what do you want?”

“I’m just here to serenade you, amigo. Because I am a wonderful friend.”

Jason gave him a wary look, but before he could protest, Leo clapped his hands together and launched into a song.

"Aaaamaaaazing Grace… how sweet the sound…"

Jason groaned, but there was the barest hint of a smirk trying to escape. Leo took that as encouragement.

"That saaaaved a wretch like meee—" He paused and pointed dramatically at Jason. “That’s you, by the way. The wretch.”

Jason shook his head, biting his lip. “Leo—”

Leo wasn't about to stop now.

"I once was lost, but now am foooound…" He gasped, eyes widening in mock surprise. “Dude. That’s you again. You were literally lost! You fell out of the sky like a dramatic Disney princess!”

Jason rolled his eyes, but his lips definitely twitched .

Leo grinned and kept going, belting the next words with all the passion of a man on a mission.

"Was bliiiiiind, but now I seeeeee—"

He suddenly grabbed Jason’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “SEE, JASON? DO YOU SEE THE GRACE IN THIS SONG? IT’S LITERALLY ABOUT YOU!”

Jason let out a sharp exhale, and—there. A chuckle. A real chuckle, shaking his shoulders. Leo grinned triumphantly.

“There it is! There’s my Amazing Grace!”

Jason shook his head, laughing now despite himself. “Leo, that was terrible.”

Leo gasped, placing a hand over his chest. “Terribly brilliant, you mean.”

Jason shoved him lightly, still smiling. “Sure, man. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Leo beamed. Mission accomplished.

[multifamdomfan]

The Best There Is

It wasn’t some grand revelation.

Crowley didn’t wake up one day and suddenly realize, Oh, I love him.

No, it had settled in gradually, like a vine creeping up a wall—tangling around his ribs, curling through the cracks in his unbeating heart. A quiet, inevitable thing.

He knew before he knew.

It was in the way he always found himself at the bookshop, even when he hadn’t meant to go there. The way he made excuses—just passing by, angel, thought I’d pop in—as if he didn’t always end up here anyway.

It was in the way he liked when Aziraphale fussed over him, even when he grumbled about it. The way he found himself lingering on the little things: the way Aziraphale’s hands moved when he spoke, the way he hummed under his breath while organizing books, the way his eyes lit up when he found a first edition of something-or-other.

It was in the way he always reached for Aziraphale first.

And it was in the way Aziraphale let him.

For millennia, Crowley had gone about his existence with a comfortable distance between himself and the rest of the world. He kept people—demons, angels, humans—at arm’s length, never letting them get too close. He was fine with that. It was safer that way.

But Aziraphale had never stayed at arm’s length, had he? Even when they were supposed to be on opposite sides, even when Crowley had every reason to keep away, Aziraphale had just... been there. Stubborn, infuriating, unshakable.

And Crowley, despite himself, had let him stay.

Then one day—without meaning to, without realizing—he looked at Aziraphale and thought: Oh.

Oh.

He loved him.

And his first thought, his honest first thought, wasn’t Oh no or This is dangerous or even He’ll never love me back.

It was:

Well, obviously.

Of course he loved Aziraphale.

How could he not?

Aziraphale, with his stubborn softness, with his ridiculous posh way of speaking, with his impossible, infuriating kindness. Aziraphale, who had spent thousands of years stubbornly clinging to his humanity, even when Heaven would have preferred him to let it go. Aziraphale, who made the world feel less bleak simply by existing in it.

Of course Crowley loved him.

And—honestly—Crowley didn’t think he could do better.

Not in the oh, I’m settling kind of way. No, more like in the there’s no one in existence better than this, so why would I even think about anything else kind of way.

Because if he wanted someone charming, Aziraphale was effortlessly so.

If he wanted someone brilliant, Aziraphale had a mind sharper than any angel (or demon) Crowley had ever known.

If he wanted someone who saw him, really saw him, down to the pieces that even he sometimes couldn’t bear to look at—well.

Aziraphale had been looking at him for over six thousand years.

And he had never once looked away.

Crowley thought about that for a long time.

He thought about it as he sprawled on Aziraphale’s couch, one booted foot hanging off the edge, watching the angel putter around his bookshop. Thought about it as Aziraphale turned to him, offering a warm cup of cocoa despite the fact that neither of them actually needed it. Thought about it as Aziraphale smiled at him—soft, bright, a little exasperated, like Crowley was something dear.

And Crowley, with all his centuries of cynicism, his sharp tongue and sharper wit, his bitter, unshaken belief that the universe was mostly a cruel and stupid thing—

—Crowley looked at Aziraphale and thought:

If this is who I love, then I’ve already won.

Because in all his years, all his schemes, all his running and hiding and surviving—this was the one thing he had never actually dared to hope for.

That he could love someone like Aziraphale.

And that maybe—just maybe—Aziraphale could love him back.

[multifamdomfan]

Simeon Snape

Gender: non binary (they are misgendered a lot so they don't bother correcting anyone anymore)

Sibling: Severus Snape

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor

Their worst fear: Becoming a burden or a failure in the eyes of the people they love.

They're constantly caught between wanting to prove themselves and feeling like they're inherently not enough. Their fear isn't just failure — it's the idea that:

They tried their best and it still wasn’t good enough.

Their intellect, ideas, or sacrifices weren’t valued.

They were replaceable, forgotten, or worse — resented.

It’s the fear that:

> “I gave everything I had… and it still didn’t matter.”

Personality:

They are highly intelligent — not just in the academic sense but also in problem-solving and invention. They are a natural tinkerer and thinker, with a thirst for knowledge that never quite goes away.

They often feel out of place in more action-oriented or physically aggressive environments, but they try to compensate through innovation. They’re the person who brings blueprints to a swordfight — and makes it work.

They have a rebellious streak born from feeling misunderstood or underestimated.

There’s often a tension between their inner idealist and outer misfit. They may be sarcastic, brash, or even reckless on the outside, but deep down, they’re incredibly driven to do the right thing — and often carry the emotional scars of trying to live up to others' expectations.

They grew up feeling out of step with others, which made them emotionally guarded and wary of vulnerability. But once they trust you, their loyalty is unshakable.

They feel emotions deeply, even if they rarely show them. They might internalize guilt or failure and hide their pain behind jokes, impulsive actions, or obsessive work.

Despite all the emotional baggage, they are funny, animated, and charming — often without trying to be.

They may be seen as unserious at first, but their humor is often a coping mechanism for stress and a way to connect with others without being too emotionally raw.

At their core, they are someone driven by belief — in friendship, in love, in doing what’s right even when it’s hard.

They are often seen fighting against external expectations, but the truth is they hold themselves to the highest standards of all. Their sense of failure is deep, but it comes from how much they care.

Flaws:

Impulsive

Struggle with self worth

Emotional Repression

Avoidance of Responsibility

Conflict with Authority

Summary:

They are a wounded genius, reluctant hero, and hopeful dreamer. They stumble, mess up, lash out, and second-guess, but they always try again. Their journey is one of self-discovery, emotional maturity, and learning to trust — in others, and in themselves.

They are the person who would stay up all night building a device to save a friend, charge into a fight even if they’re scared, and still make a sarcastic joke to defuse the tension. They’re the heart, brains, and soul of any group they’re in — and the kind of person whose growth arc is unforgettable.

Fate: The Mirror of Erised is the magical mirror that shows a person their greatest desire. It's not about seeing things as they are, but rather their deepest aspirations and longings. After the betrayal and losses Simeon went insane for staring at it for too long and refusing to leave because it was so much better than reality. He saw all his friends alive and didn't join the death eaters and they were all laughing together with him.

[multifamdomfan]

You Carry My Heart (and Also My Books)

---

Aziraphale’s announcement came at precisely 8:03 a.m., just as Crowley was about to take his second sip of coffee in the bookshop.

“I’ve read everything,” the angel said, with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for war declarations or realizing one has misplaced a rare first edition.

Crowley blinked. “Everything?”

“Every book in the shop. Every. Single. One.”

He looked dramatically at the shelves around them as if they had betrayed him personally. “Twice, in some cases.”

Crowley leaned back in his chair, balancing it dangerously on two legs. “Even that weird one you swore you’d never touch again because it had a typo on page seventeen?”

Aziraphale let out a sigh. “Yes. Even that one.”

That’s how they found themselves wandering into a sleepy little secondhand bookstore on a foggy Tuesday morning.

It was the kind of place that smelled like ink, wood polish, and stories. The shelves were tall and crooked, books stacked like precarious towers, and a sleepy cat blinked slowly from the front window, curled around a copy of The Bell Jar.

Aziraphale was glowing. He nearly floated across the room like a cherub in a renaissance painting, fingers brushing over spines, murmuring little delighted sounds under his breath.

Crowley trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets, already bracing himself. He had a vague suspicion that this was how mortal husbands felt in furniture stores—equal parts love-struck and doomed.

“Here,” Aziraphale said brightly, turning around with a small stack. “Just for now.”

Crowley held out his arms and received:

A Treasury of Obscure English Proverbs (with a ribbon bookmark)

A faded hardcover titled 17th Century Pickling Practices

And Murder at the Abbey: A Cozy Mystery

Crowley glanced down. “Bit of light reading, is it?”

Aziraphale was already wandering off, distracted by something with gilded pages. “Oh hush, you love it.”

Crowley groaned. “I do not.”

He did.

By the fourth stack, he had to actually adjust how he was carrying them—arms wrapped under the base, hugging them to his chest like an overburdened librarian. The books were taller than his chin now, and every time he blinked, he swore another one was mysteriously added.

“Angel, I swear to Satan, this is heavier than some of the souls I’ve ferried.”

Aziraphale peeked out from behind a shelf with a sheepish smile. “Oh, dear. You should’ve said something.”

He walked over and reached for the stack. “Let me carry a few—”

Crowley backed up.

“No,” he said, offended. “Absolutely not.”

Aziraphale blinked. “But—”

“These are yours, angel. That makes them sacred. What kind of demon would I be if I let you strain your arms with literature?”

“You were just complaining about how heavy they are.”

“That was theatrical complaining,” Crowley sniffed. “Part of the whole performance.”

Aziraphale tried not to laugh, failing miserably. “You’re ridiculous.”

Crowley leaned closer, balancing the mountain of books expertly. “Maybe. Do you want to know what else is ridiculous?”

He wiggled his eyebrows and Aziraphale swatted at him affectionately.

They spent another twenty minutes like that, Aziraphale wandering between aisles, occasionally reading a line out loud that made him chuckle, while Crowley grumbled (with increasing fondness) and followed behind him like a lanky, well-dressed mule.

Eventually, Aziraphale glanced at him as they approached the counter.

“Lunch?” he asked sweetly, eyes sparkling.

“I swear, angel, if you make me carry a lasagna and three more books—”

Aziraphale leaned in, brushing a kiss against Crowley’s cheek. “You can pick the place.”

Crowley paused. “...Fine. But I’m ordering two desserts and you’re not allowed to judge me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the books were rung up, Aziraphale gently slipped his hand into Crowley’s free one, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. Crowley glanced at him and softened.

He’d carry the weight of the world if Aziraphale asked him to.

Books were nothing.

---

Later that afternoon, Aziraphale curled up on the shop sofa with one of his new reads and a blanket over his lap. Crowley, lounging beside him with sunglasses slid low on his nose, peeked over the top of his own novel (Dinosaurs and Other Prehistoric Creatures: A Children’s Encyclopedia, which he claimed he was only reading ironically).

“Angel,” he said, nudging Aziraphale’s foot with his own.

“Hm?”

Crowley looked at him like he hung the stars. “Next time you run out of books… just tell me sooner.”

Aziraphale smiled into the pages. “Oh, my dear. But then I wouldn’t get to watch you carry the world for me.”

Crowley flushed.

But he didn’t argue.

---

[multifamdomfan]

All Too Well

An Ineffable Husbands fanfic

Post-S2 / Angst, Heartache, Hope

---

Crowley doesn’t cry. Not in the way humans do.

He doesn’t collapse into sobs or reach for tissues. His heartbreak is more insidious. It coils in his chest like a viper, striking each time he lets his guard down. Every tick of the clock, every shadow at twilight, every damn cup of tea left unfinished in the morning reminds him of the angel who left.

And tonight, he sings.

Correction: he scream-sings.

The Bentley is yellow.

It hadn’t been yellow yesterday. Or the day before. Crowley had slid into the driver's seat half-hungover and wholly exhausted, eyes hidden behind sunglasses even though the sky was moonless, and there it was. A bright canary yellow. Soft. Warm. Kind.

He blinked.

"Oh, come on."

He stepped out of the car, circled it twice.

"No. Absolutely not. You are not doing this to me."

The Bentley gave a soft, almost apologetic creak.

Crowley snarled. "You can't just turn into his favorite color like that."

The car remained yellow.

With a long, shaking sigh, Crowley got back in. Slumped in the seat. Let his head fall against the wheel. The leather felt... warm. Comforting.

Like Aziraphale's hand on his.

The radio clicked on.

> "I walked through the door with you / The air was cold..."

"Oh hell no," Crowley muttered. "No, no, no."

But he didn’t change the station.

Didn’t stop his fingers from tapping the beat.

Didn’t stop the tears from building behind his glasses.

> "And I might be okay, but I'm not fine at all..."

Crowley slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The Bentley purred forward, tires singing against the rain-slick streets of London. It was 1:37 a.m. The city was asleep. But Crowley wasn’t.

He never really slept these days.

"You remember it too, don't you?" he whispered, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. Not at himself. At the memory of Aziraphale in the passenger seat, mouth half-open, staring at a sign he read aloud like it was poetry.

"Sconehenge. Oh, how delightful.”

Crowley had laughed, for real, that day. Aziraphale had looked at him with such soft amusement.

The same way he'd looked just before the kiss.

Crowley gripped the wheel tighter.

"Bloody Heaven. Bloody...everything."

He wasn't even sure where he was driving. The car had ideas of its own lately. Probably heading back toward Soho, toward the bookshop. Toward home.

Except it wasn’t home anymore. Not since Aziraphale left.

---

The chorus hit like a brick wall.

> "You call me up again just to break me like a promise / So casually cruel in the name of being honest..."

Crowley pulled over.

The Bentley coasted to a stop under a streetlamp, yellow light pooling on yellow paint.

He ripped off his glasses. Threw them in the passenger seat. Let his head fall back against the headrest.

"You absolute bastard," he whispered. "You said we were a team. Said we could be our own side."

His voice cracked.

"Why wasn't I enough?"

The car made a low, sad sound. The kind of groan it used to make when Aziraphale braced himself during fast turns.

Crowley chuckled bitterly. "You're grieving too, huh?"

The engine hummed, almost like a purr.

"He'd hate this," Crowley mused. "Me scream-singing mortal pop songs in a lemon-colored car."

He cleared his throat and sang again, softer this time.

> "And I know it's long gone and that magic's not here no more / And I might be okay, but I'm not fine at all..."

The memories came unbidden.

Aziraphale laughing as Crowley magicked a thunderstorm just to soak a rude cafe patron.

Dancing in the kitchen, the glow of the refrigerator light casting halos on Aziraphale’s golden curls.

Aziraphale saying, trembling, *"I forgive you."

Crowley had kissed him.

And Aziraphale had let him.

And then left.

---

Eventually, the car circled back to the bookshop. The lights were off. The window display unchanged since the day he left. A faded sign: Closed for Renovations.

Crowley stepped out. Stood on the curb. The air was sharp.

He looked up.

"You said you'd fix it. You said you'd change them from the inside."

He didn’t expect a reply.

He walked to the door. Rested his fingers on the glass.

And then, on a whim, he reached into his coat.

Pulled out a small, blue scarf.

Aziraphale's.

Left behind at some long-forgotten picnic in 1973. Smelled like books and sugar and something achingly Aziraphale.

He pressed it to his lips.

Whispered, "I remember it all too well."

The Bentley waited.

Yellow.

Unmoving.

Loyal.

And the song played one last time as Crowley stood in the streetlight's glow, scarf in hand, praying to a Heaven that never listened, hoping—just this once—it might.

---

[To be continued...]