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thebestofoneshots · 6 months

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Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

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Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 7.6 K Warnings: None Prompt: Time to wrap it all up, and perhaps receive one or two surprises. This IS a Wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it. Proofread by lovely: @aremuslupinsimp

Chapter 42: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Wednesday, December 23rd

The art store was small, but filled with colours all around. Small little black cabinets with golden numbers on top behind the counter, and walls lined with different paint pots and colours, a wall with wooden frames and delicately separated boxes that held paint brushes of all different sizes and shapes and, by the bits you’d read, also materials.

At the top of the cabinets there was a small display of colourful markers and pens and other things that you knew muggles used but you weren’t too familiar with. Apparently, they used stick glue instead of sticking spells to adhere stuff. You wondered how much of this stuff Sirius actually knew about and vowed to bring him to this place with you one day.

And while you did appreciate art, thoroughly – you’d gone to multiple museums, both muggle and wizarding through your trips – you had no idea what the difference was between gouache and acrylic, or why the “Rembrandt” that claimed to be made out of oil, where much more expensive than the “Winsor & Newton” ones that claimed the same. It had to be because of the quality, right?

“Good evening, may I help you?” a young man, probably in his late twenties asked as he approached you. He was dressed in rather formal clothes and had a pair of thin-rimmed golden glasses. You would have probably considered him attractive if you hadn’t been accustomed to Sirius’ dashing looks or Remus’ lovely smile. You really were lucky to be surrounded by handsome and pretty humans, you thought, thinking of the rest of your friends.

You must have looked as lost as a Bowtruckle in the middle of New York since he looked like he would try to be overly polite.

“I’m looking for a gift, my boyfriend loves to draw, but I’m… not really good with all the supplies and stuff, I was thinking perhaps a nice set of pencils and a sketchbook. I’ve been looking through the paints as well, but I don’t think he’s the kind to do the whole canvas thing, at least not while we’re in school.”

“Well, does he colour his drawings?”

You thought about it for a moment, what he’d shown you were mostly sketches done in pencil, though there were some with an underlayer of red and or blue. “I think he uses some for the base of the drawings.”

“Does he overline them?” The expression you gave him when he asked made him clarify it. “After the pencil sketch is done, does he add a pen or marker to finish up the details?”

Sirius did not do that, but you also thought how complicated it would be to do such a thing with a quill instead of the pens and trinkets the muggles had invented so you nodded in response. “Yeah… not that often but I’m sure he’d like something to be able to do it.”

“All right, follow me,” he said as he motioned to one of the furthest walls. “This is where we keep all of our sketchbooks, the thicker the grammage the stronger pens and markers it will hold. Also, some can even hold watercolour, not sure if he’s into that too.”

“Do you have like – a book on the basics of watercoloring? I feel like he might actually be interested in that.”

“We do,” he said with a nod and moved to the other side of the store bringing you a few options. You picked one of them and then looked through the sketchbooks. There were different sizes and colours and the pages felt really different on most of them. Some were especially made for watercolours and some were for drawing. You took one with about 100 pages for watercolour and one with the same amount of pages but with a bit less grammage for sketches.

They both had a black cover with golden elegant trims that you thought would definitely go with Sirius’ look, although one opened from the side, making it more of a panoramic view while the other one stayed horizontal. You handed them in to the guy and he took them to the counter as you continued looking around. You leaned into the watercolour section and started to look at all the different options available.

“If this is the first time he’ll do watercolour, may I recommend you buy a set?” he asked politely as he showed you a small wooden case, when he opened it there were all sorts of small blocks with different colours on them. “These are my favourite brand, but really gentle with beginners, they also come with this interesting thing,” he added as he handed you a small brush with a clear section at the top. “It comes with water, you don’t have to dip your brush that often, really useful once you get the hang of it.”

“You have more of those?” you asked and he nodded, showing you the different sizes of brush ends. After a while, and with a lot of his help, you ended up selecting about 5 different brushes and the colours that you’d fill the small wooden box with as well, which you thought was fantastic since you could fill it up with whatever colours you chose and not a set palette.

“You’ll also take the marker set, the watercolour book and the sketchbooks, correct? Anything else?”

“Uhh… Am I missing anything that he might need?

“Does he draw portraits or landscapes?”

You thought back of the Remus drawing he’d shown you, and then of the one you had chosen not to see. “He draws portraits and anatomy studies. Though I’m sure I’ve seen him doodle other stuff too.”

“He might like this book then,” he told you as he handed over another book. It was about proportions and hand drawing and a lot of very advanced-looking stuff, you smiled.

“This one as well, please…” he was about to finish the bill when you stopped him, looking down through the glass display and pointing towards something, “Is that a penknife?”

“Well, yes,” he replied, “Although sharpeners are used more often nowadays, some people still prefer them.”

“I’d like one of those as well,” you added with a smile.

“Excellent.” The man gave you your total and then handed every single thing in a thick paper bag. “You said it was for a gift, right?”

“Yes,” you nodded and he walked to the back of the shop, pulling a very elegant and sturdy black box, he eyed the bag as if calculating if everything would fit and then handed it over to you along with a black and gold ribbon with the name of the store repeated over and over.

As he handed it over he pulled it back for a second and gave you a smile. “That young gentleman is very lucky to have you as a girlfriend.”

“I think I’m just as lucky as he is,” you responded with a small smirk as you took the box.

“Would you like me to call you a cab?”

You thought about it for a second. Your house wasn’t that far, and with a short levitating spell you wouldn’t have to carry much stuff either, but the Knight Bus did mention they’d be very busy and you had been walking all day. “Yes, thank you.”

The man called for one and you waited inside the store until the cabbie arrived. You gave him your address and he took you straight there. You took the lift of your building, using your wand to unlock the secret –magical- floor your parents had purchased in London and waited.

When the two, golden doors of the lift opened to your drawing room, you sighed. Leaning down to take off your shoes. “Mom? Dad?”

No answer. “What time is it?” you whispered to yourself as you looked at the clock, quarter past ten? That art store surely has late closing times, you thought as you leaned back down to pull your bags up and drag them to your room.

There was a note on the table along with what looked like a delightfully looking salad and steak.

We’ll be home late, serve yourself. See you tomorrow darling.

You sighed and after placing the bags on the table, and using a warming spell on the food, you ate. Once you were done, the plate disappeared from the table and instead, a chocolate cake showed up. You smiled, at least they knew you liked sweets. You took a few bites from that and took it, along with your gifts, to your room.

That’s when you remembered you had promised to tell your friends when you arrived here so you quickly scribbled a few notes. Sending your owl –Resse– back to the Potter’s and Barnaby –the family’s owl– to Beth. Then you took some Floo powder and leaned over the fire.

“Tom?” You asked as you peeked through his chimney.

“Sly sprite?” He asked as he leaned over. “I was starting to worry,” he said as he left a book on the side. “You got home, all right?”

“Yeah!” you said with a smile. “And I got a bunch of good stuff at the store too, it was worth it.”

“It better have been! Beth is home too, we stopped by hers first.”

You chatted with Tom for a little while more and ended the call when you started to yawn and he followed right after. With that, you went for a quick and warm shower and then back to bed.

Thursday, December 24th

There was a soft knock on the door, you stirred on your bed but didn’t wake and then there was another one. “Sweetheart? Breakfast’s ready, come eat.”

“On my way,” you said as you sat on your bed and rubbed your eyes a couple of times. The day was bright, you’d forgotten to shut your windows at night and now you had the perfect view of the Thames through your window. You thought back to Hogwarts and how all the splendour of it had been made by magic, while the splendour of London had mostly been made by muggles.

The high skyscrapers, the Ferris Wheel across the river, the towers, palaces and bridges, all muggle-made, and without magic, it was fascinating. You didn’t understand why wizards had so many prejudices against them –aside from the whole burning on steak part, muggles seemed to be quite incredible and determined people. Perhaps you should have taken that muggle studies optative.

“Sweetheart?” you heard your father’s voice, a bit more stern than your mother’s.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you said as you shook your covers off and grabbed your wand from the nightstand. “As if they hadn’t been home hours after I got here,” you mumbled as you fished for a pair of slippers under your bed.

By the time you got out of your room both your mom and dad were sitting on the living room table. Your mom was wearing a beautiful cocktail dress while your dad had a perfectly fitting black suit on with a small cape, draped elegantly behind his chair. You were still wearing a band shirt you had stolen from Sirius a while ago, and that you had been wearing under Remus’ jumper before the trip. “Lovely to see you,” you said with an awkward smile, “it’s been a while.”

Your father looked up from his newspaper with a cup of coffee in his hand only for a second, nodded and then went back to read. Your mom gave you a sympathetic look and nodded for you to sit down. After a couple of minutes, your dad bent the newspaper and placed it on the side of the table.

“We’ve heard plenty of your Hogwarts Adventures,” your father said looking at you. “You’ve been doing a masterful job at maintaining our house’s name relevant.”

You frowned at that, that had never been your intention.

“You were incredible in the broom race though you lost,” your father said. “And you’ve won two quidditch matches–”

“That was a team effort…” you said, your voice growing smaller as his hand dismissed you.

“You’ve kept your grades high and you’ve even entered the duelling club…”

“Not to mention her Theoretical Magic grades,” your mom added with a smile.

“And you’re dating one of the Black kids.”

You swallowed. You had mentioned in your letters that you and Sirius had gotten along now that you were in the same house, but you hadn’t specifically mentioned you were dating him.

“The disowned Black kid,” your father continued.

You straightened a little, you had discussed with your dad the things that happened back in your vacations with the Blacks. It hadn’t been particularly nice talk, but you weren’t going to back down, his political means could not be worth more than his morals. And things had been rather tense between the two since then.

When two people had such intense ideological differences and desires, they were bound to clash against each other, especially when those ideologies juxtaposed against the other often, being only furthered by the fact that you were –at least on breaks– living under the same roof.

Your priorities had been wildly different and you weren’t shy about letting him know, which caused your relationship to deteriorate quickly. Not to say you –or him– had been particularly rude to each other, but you were much colder. It was almost Christmas, and you didn’t want to start a fight with him, let alone over something that you were most definitely not going to yield on.

“I think it’s all right. He might have been disowned by his family but he still stays in contact with some of the other Blacks like Alphard and the other disowned child… whatever her name is…” Andromeda, you thought as you tried to process the fact that he had just said it was fine. “Just try to avoid mentioning him in tomorrow’s dinner. I’m sure Walburga wouldn’t be particularly pleased.”

“Tomorrow’s dinn– Walburga will be coming?”

“Of course not, they have invited us to their Christmas dinner,” he said. “It’ll be hosted in Rosier Manor, I believe.”

“Whose manor?” You asked, your breath going short along with your question.

“Mr. Rosier,” your mom repeated. “All important wizards will be there.”

“I’d rather skip Christmas altogether.”

“I’m sorry, darling. This isn’t a matter of preferences. You will go and then we’ll let you do whatever you please for the rest of the break. Visit muggle London as much as you want or dally with your friends, I really don’t care as long as you maintain your composure during tomorrow’s dinner.”

Your leg was bouncing slightly under the table. “I don’t believe I will be welcomed in that house.”

“You will be welcomed because you are my daughter and I’m me,” he said with an air of finality. “We need to present a strong family front, play your part and you’ll be rewarded.”

“Right, my part,” you said bitterly. You wondered if your mother was playing her part too, they were in love, that wasn’t questionable, but sometimes it felt like she became nothing more than an addition to his recollection of what a perfect life should look like. Did he marry her because of the love he felt for her or because she’d look like a delightful trophy wife by his side on political dinners? Had she not been as beautiful as she was, had she not been well educated, would he have married her either way?

You wondered, when had Silas become the man he is now? When did his greed for power become so intense he would sacrifice his morals to achieve it? When you were smaller, you thought they loved each other, even now, you saw when they looked at each other with those adoring eyes, but… there was a tale of sacrifice weaved in between their story, and with one party constantly bending to the other’s wishes, you weren’t sure you could still call it love.

When devotion became toxic, was it still something that came from love, or had it become something else altogether?

“Indeed darling, we ask for nothing more than one night. Then you will not be bothered, free to go wherever you want and with whomever you please. Does that sound like a fair deal?”

You sighed and nodded, “One dinner.”

Your mother smiled at that, letting out a nervous breath and then reached for your hand. “Your clothes for tomorrow are already in your closet, I also got you some nice potions and make-up.”

“Thanks, Mum,” you said with a short smile and looked at your food. It looked delicious, it was French toast with berries and fruit on top –probably there to appeal to your sweet tooth and convince you to go– but you didn’t feel hungry at all. Especially not at the thought of having to go to Rosier Manor. As if you didn’t see enough of Evan at school, now you had to go see him on the break as well, bIoody brilliant. “Breakfast was great,” you said as you stood up. Both of them decided to ignore your almost intact plate, “I’ll be in my room in case you need anything else, you know like me playing the role of the perfect child of the politician if your friends come around or whatever.”

Your mom gave you a reproachful look while your dad gave you an impassive one, you raised your eyebrows at the two of them, almost tauntingly before you turned around, walking back to your room and letting the door close behind you gently –it was not the inanimate objects fault that your parents were acting like pricks.

You sat on your bed and took a deep breath before you saw a small owl by one of your windows, you let him in and took the rolled parchment from his feet before feeding him some water.

Dear Vix, Hope this letter finds you all right, Sirius was moaning about you going along Beth and Tom and not inviting him to buy Christmas stuff it was draining! Now I was not going to write to you about it because he said he would punch me in the face but I had to write anyway since mum and dad wanted you to have our address so you could come here through floo anytime. Hope you’re having a great time, Sirius and I went flying with Pete today (he lives a few houses from us, did we tell you?), and while it was nice not having to worry about Sirius distracting himself from snogging you, we missed you still. Mum and Dad send greetings to your parents, hope you’re also having a blast. Your bestest friend, James P. PS. Mum sent this tea for you, she said she thinks you’d like it with how much sweet stuff you eat and stuff. PS 2. Love you, but I bet you’re missing me more <– That was Sirius.

James’ stupid letter made you chuckle, especially the last bit, as if it had been necessary to point out that Sirius had been the one to write it. You placed the letter into a small box in your bag and smiled as you walked to pick up some of the stuff you’d be giving your friends as their gifts.

You picked up some wrapping paper and started wrapping all of their gifts, the owls would have to do a couple of trips to take them all to their place, but you’d make sure to leave them plenty of food throughout the night, so they could continue their trips and the presents would be at your friend’s beds in the morning.

You had gone through most of the smaller gifts first, writing small, and neatly written Christmas cards on them. Then you went for the bigger ones, the books you’d gotten for Lily, some of the stuff for Mary and Marlene, James’ pack, and of course, Remus and Sirius’.

It wasn’t until then, that you realised how overboard you had gone with your gifts. You’d gotten Remus so many books, both magical and muggle, that you almost felt guilty you hadn’t gotten Lily and James more stuff. And then you tried telling yourself it was because Remus would spend Christmas alone and he deserved at least a bit of happiness, you weren’t deliberately playing favourites.

And then Sirius’ pile was clearly a mess, you had all the music you’d gotten, the shirts, the penknife that you wanted to engrave with his name (you were researching for the right spell to do it) and a bunch of other stuff for him. Besides, you still wanted to make the playlists, so before you finished packing the bigger boxes, you started testing the recorder. Now there wasn’t exactly a step by step guide on how to record music, but there was a small booklet that showed you how the thing worked and you spend the rest of the day figuring it out, listening to music and making a playlist for each of your friends. Using all the songs you thought they might like.

When you were done with that, you continued packing all the stuff. Deciding to send all the music back to the boys’ room at Hogwarts so they could leave it on Sirius’ stash. Well, all of them except for the David Bowie tape you had specifically gotten for Sirius and that would look great with his shirt and the rest of the gifts you’d gotten him.

You went out to get some food at some point during the day, and there was another note from your parents telling you they were off at an event. Well, good riddance, you thought as you went back to your room with a sandwich in your hands. You picked one of the books you’d gotten for yourself and you spent almost the rest of the day reading it while jamming to one of the playlists you’d made. A copy of the one you’d made for Remus since you thought it went well with the book you’d chosen to read.

You fell asleep before your parents got home, with the book still in your hands and the music playing softly in the background until the cassette ran out of tape and was softly ejected by the machine. The sound it made had been so soft it didn’t wake you at all.

Thankfully, you had remembered to leave enough water and food for the owls, since they had spent all night doing trips back and forth to your house and your friends’.

Friday, December 25th

You woke up by being pecked in the face by a very big and very angry owl.

“Oi!” you complained. “What’s wrong with you?” The owl chirped and picked you again, this time on the ear. “Bitch,” you mumbled as you pushed him back lightly, only for him to pick you in the finger again.

You gave him an upset look and he pulled back just a little, tilting his head towards the window, and the lack of food and refreshments.

“Oh, so that’s why you’ve been attacking me non-stop?” you asked as you stood up from the bed, failing to see the pile of wrapped gifts at the end of it. The owl chirped in response, a scowl that you weren’t sure was his natural face shape or an actual scowl directed towards you. “I’m sorry,” you added, “Barnaby and Reese must have eaten them all. They did many trips last night, you know?”

The owl chirped again, a little angry as he flew towards the window, as if saying «I too flew many trips last night» looking as indignant as a Towny Owl could. You added a few of the special snacks you kept for Reese just to keep him from biting you again. You looked at the name tag and realised who the owner of the owl had been.

Eun-ji, Minho had told you about her, she was his family’s owl and apparently, the name meant something like “kind”. So much for a kind owl, you thought as you looked at her, gobbling up Reese’s treats. You leaned over when you noticed there was a small letter attached to his feet and took it in your hands before the owl flapped his wings and left.

Merry Christmas Star Seeker, Hope you’re having a great time. Thought of giving you a special thanks for that one time you –quite literally– pushed me towards my crush and got us to start a conversation, that, well, you know how great it ended! Even for a Gryffindor, you’re really nice, so I thought of getting you something for you to get some more hate from your fellow Gryffindor, Eun-ji must have left the gift near your bed.

You turned to the side in the middle of reading and stood agape, there was not only a green and silver wrapped gift in what looked suspiciously like the shape of a snake, but there were also a bunch of other gifts wrapped in all sorts of colours.

Anyway thanks for everything, hope you have fun and all. I’m looking forward to beating you all next time we play, Love, The one and only, and your favourite Slytherin, Minho Cha.

You rolled your eyes at the last bit, it had been very Slytherin of him, but since you knew Minho, you also knew he was playing it off as a joke on his own house, which made a joke inside a joke and you thought it was actually kind of funny.

You took a deep breath and walked over to your bed. There were all sorts of gifts prompted there and you decided to unwrap Minho’s first. There was a small, green snake plushie with a bow on it that had a small pendant with something written on it: “From the snakes that love you dearly,” and then it had the names of all of your Slytherin friends: Minho, Comet, Nox, Reggie, and even some you weren’t expecting like Dorcas and Solacis. You thought it was an adorable little thing, even if –and you were certain of this– your friends would absolutely hate it. Well, not Lily, she’d also think it was adorable.

And thinking of her, was that you picked the next gift, wrapped in pink and yellow paper, and with her a small dedicatory on the corner, you instantly knew it was from her, her neat and perfect handwriting being the dеad giveaway. You smile as you read her small dedication. She wished you a very, merry Christmas and promised to tell you everything about the train with James as soon as you saw each other in person. She wrote something along the lines of not being able to put it on paper, which made you laugh.

When you opened the present you were thrilled, it was a small leather notebook, dark red with golden trims and your name on the cover. Not Vixen, not Starshine, or any of the other nicknames that you had come to own and love since you arrived at Hogwarts, but your name. You smiled as you traced your fingers over the letters. There was a pen on the side, golden and apparently of some interesting muggle technology that wasn’t that popular in the wizarding world. You thought it was fascinating. When you opened the notebook you realised there was something written, again in her handwriting.

You’ve had more adventures this year than I’ve had in my lifetime. I think it’s time for you to start writing down some of them, in case you ever want to revisit them. If journaling is not your thing (which I feel like it would be because I know you), you can just use this notebook however you want. You know grocery lists, songs for mixtapes, your favourite lyrics, poems, quotes, Sirius’ doodles, your doodles, dried flowers, stickers, whatever you want, it’s your space, and you may use it as you wish! Love, Lily

You thought the idea of having your own journal was brilliant, you always admired her for keeping hers so incredibly neat looking, and perhaps being able to let some of your feelings go on a blank page would be better than keeping them bottled up. You doubted you would be nearly as consistent as her, but you decided to add your first couple of words in there, detailing the gifts you’d gotten and the few you still had yet to open.

You’d gotten a box of your favourite candies from Mary and some incredible quidditch trading cards from Marlene, but she had also added some makeup to her gift because if not you and James would have gotten the exact same thing and you were her favourite between the two. You got a spellbook and a muggle prank book from Tom “to further your career” according to him. There was a large, embossed book from Nina, which you discovered was an annotated version of one of your favourite books and a small set of runes from Sybil. You had gotten her a deck of cards and a book about premonitions.

There were candies from Nox and a muggle book lantern from Neil Perry, you had both complained at some point about reading with your wand and you thought the solution he’d found was adorable. Peter had gotten you a book about canines, packed along with a small fox-themed bookmarker and a note that said “Thank you for not busting my make-out session and Merry Christmas.” He also added, “PS. maybe with this one you’ll be able to tame Pads.” Which had you wheezing with laughter for a while.

It took at least a minute to go for the next gift, it was a small box that said to be handled carefully. You opened it according to the instructions. “Shut the fuck up!” you said the moment you realized what was inside. A small Felix Felicis vial. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” you repeated over and over again. “How did he even get his hands on it?”

You picked up the paper from behind it, there was a small note.

Okay say it: aside from Sirius, I AM your favourite Marauder. You might be wondering, “How the hell did James get his hands on this?”. Well dear, I must say, I have contacts. AKA my parents are expert potioneers and I somehow convinced Mum to brew one and that’s how I got my hands on it. Now, I could have given it to any of my friends but I get the feeling you might be needing some of this soon enough. You know, from things I’ve seen and such (please don’t waste it on a quidditch match, though). Anyway, I know you’ll use it well, hope you have a very Merry Christmas! Your favourite marauder AND bestest friend, Prongs.

You chuckled when you finished reading and went back to look at the vial with incredulity. Brewing one of these potions was arduous work, and it took weeks, which meant James must have had convinced Effie to do it even before she’d met you. Never underestimate James Potter, you thought as you grabbed onto the vial and placed it around your neck with a chain, casting a disillusionment charm on it so it wouldn’t be so obvious you had it with you. You thought the gift was brilliant.

After that, there were only 2 gifts left. You picked the one with a silver bow first. It was a square box, about 12” wide, and had been wrapped in the same paper as James’, which made you guess who it might be from. There were chocolates and a small letter on top, neatly closed and with your name written on the back with Sirius’ almost perfect calligraphy. There was also a paper covering something, but you picked the letter up first.

You know, I tried writing a love letter, but James wouldn’t stop making ridiculous comments about it not being profound enough and I feared I’d end up writing something close to the painfully ridiculous letters he used to write to Lily so I had to stop myself. Who would have thought it would be that hard to put thoughts into words? I suppose if I were like Remus it would come out much easier but, unfortunately, you’re stuck with me. Actually no, fortunately you’re stuck with me, I’m delightful.

You laughed, he’s not wrong.

Anyway, I suppose what I wanted to express in those dreadful attempts of being a poet was that I’m incredibly thankful that you came to Hogwarts and that you came back to me. I’m grateful that you tolerate me and my moods and that you love me for who I am, flaws and all. I wasn’t sure I’d ever found that kind of love, one that I even doubted it existed, and yet you’re always there to tease and make me laugh and– I already sound like James, but you know what I mean. You always know what I mean. As you see, I am far from a poet, but there is something I like to do and I thought that perhaps, you’d enjoy it more than this terrible love letter. You know, you and Remus were the first to ever see a sketch from my book, and I was feeling all sorts of things after I offered, and yet, you were there, reassuring me and telling me I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to. You know Walburga, it wasn’t much of a choice for me, so it truly meant the world, and fed me the courage I needed to let you see that part of me. And when you two finally saw it and praised me for my skills, for what I did with my own hands… You make me so incredibly gleeful, it’s almost scary how much power you could hold over me. But frankly, I’ll let you hold it all you want. All right, enough of the sappy stuff, Merry Christmas Starshine, you know you shine brighter than my own star. Hope you like your gift. Love, Sirius

See the letter here

You read the letter a few more times, smiling at the little details and jokes Sirius had sprinkled all over. And then you pulled on the bit of tissue paper covering the very last thing in the box and when you finally saw its content you couldn’t help but swear again, “Son of a bitch!” you whispered.

There were still some small pieces of paper over the small portrait, and you carefully brushed them out to be able to lift it from the box. The image was a hand-drawn portrait of you. You had a big smile and were looking at what would be the camera if it were an image. It looked like it might have been from one of the pictures from Marlene’s party although Sirius had changed the outfit, you were wearing an oversized sweater and his leather jacket. You could tell it was his because it had one of the enamel pins you had gotten him as a gift on the lapel.

There were touches of colours in the strokes, not quite painting the drawing but rather giving it relatively bright edges that made it look special, unlike any other doodle. And of course, he had framed it, it was a simple yet elegant frame, dark oak and with small carved details on the sides. On the left bottom corner of the drawing, there was something written in French:

À l'étoile la plus brillante. Amour,

And then, instead of his name, he signed with a small and elegant star doodle. You smiled again, it was one of the loveliest things you’d ever gotten, even if it was a portrait of yourself, the fact that Sirius had been the one to draw it, made it the most special of things. There were portraits upon portraits of you in your house, with magic that allowed you to move and smile, and even talk sometimes, but none of them held as much value as the frozen drawing Sirius had given you.

Eventually, you placed it on your night table and picked up the last gift still sitting in your bed. His box was smaller than Sirius’, about the size of a book, which had you assumed he had gotten you something along the lines of that.

You opened the book and found a small, pocket-sized book. It was a Sreath Bàrdachd, according to the golden script at the top. You hadn’t quite realised as you pulled it from the box, but it was handmade. You looked at it in shock as you flipped to the 50+ pages, all in carefully and methodically written cursive, his handwriting.

Later you realised it was something between a book of poems and a compilation of quotes from different books. You admired the booklet for a few more minutes when you spotted that there was a small letter, still waiting for you inside the box. You pulled it off and broke the seal with a small sword letter opener Nox had given you as a gift.

As you did, a small chain fell from the letter and you picked it up. It was small and dainty, just long enough to wrap around your wrist, which made you wonder how he’d guessed the size. The chain was simple, and it broke off into two different sections, one with a small crescent moon and then another one with a small star. It also had one small gemstone in between the bigger charms. You looked at it with a smile and held it in your hand as you read the letter.

Hey there, Little Witch, Hope you’re having an incredible Christmas. By the time you read this, you’ve probably seen the Sreath Bàrdachd, and knowing how clever you are, you probably already know what that could mean. Yes, It’s a book of poems, but also a bit more than that. I knew Sirius was making you that incredible gift of his, and I didn’t want to fall behind. Prongs didn’t tell us what he got you but he seemed pretty confident he’d have the best gift of all. Did he? Never mind, don’t tell me, it’s a silly competition. Either way, I thought you might like having one of these. Mum used to have one, which is why I know they exist. She told me a good friend gave it to her and she has kept it ever since then. I remembered borrowing it from her once when I was little, and she taught me how to carefully flip through the pages as she read to me. She also mentioned it was a silly girl’s thing but I thought it was amazing, and went on to make my own. Although wonky and, with quotes from children’s books, she thought I was quite a mastermind for making it by myself. Of course, I put a lot more effort into the one you have with you now. Or perhaps the same effort but with better skills. If you’ve flipped through the pages, which I assume you have, since you’re incredibly curious, you’ve probably seen some familiar quotes. There’s stuff from books we’ve both read and stuff that only I have read but that I thought you might like. Some of my favourite poems too, and some quotes from movies that only you’d be able to get. There are even lyrics from songs, some that we really like, some that Sirius has heard so many times that I already knew them by memory, and since the two of you like similar music, I assumed you’d know them too. Also, there’s a small bracelet in the letter. I’ve cross-charmed it, in case you ever lose the Sreath Bàrdachd (I truly hope you never do), the gemstone will shine as you approach it. I’ve also added a few luck charms that, while they won’t keep you away from trouble –I don’t think anything could– they may give you some luck while navigating it. Don’t hit me for saying that, you know it’s true. Love, Moony. PS. Prongs told me about your little quarrel with Sirius on the platform, Sirius definitely misses you more.

See the letter here

By the time you finished Remus’ letter, you were smiling as brightly as you had when you read Sirius’. You were so lucky you had found such incredible people in Hogwarts. Your bedsheets filled with torn wrapping paper were a testament to that. You spend the rest of the afternoon listening to some more music and reading through the book Remus had made.

He had been especially careful with his handwriting which you thought was adorable, and there were a lot of quotes from Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Grey. He had written in pencil –so you could erase it if you wanted, not that you would– that it was your fault he was obsessed with his writing now. Taking poems and quotations from both, the book aforementioned and The Ghost of Canterville. You hadn’t read the latter yet, but you were almost counting the days to go back to school and ask him to lend you his copy.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, and you had to leave the warm comfort of reading and listening to music in favour of changing into the clothes your mom had chosen for you. You sighed as the alarm clock you’d set earlier went off, and then went straight towards your closet. The dress she had picked was simple, yet elegant. It wasn’t a long dress like the one she’d probably wear, but a more youthful one with clever intricate details on the sleeves and a midi skirt.

“Thank god it has sleeves,” you whispered to yourself as you pulled the edge of the sleeve of Sirius’ shirt up. While your skin looked almost smooth, the lighter (almost silvery) shapes where the new skin was growing over the gush Moony had made were pretty evident. You supposed makeup and a spell could make them less visible, at least for a while, but that would have probably taken you a lot more time to achieve.

You plopped the black dress on, smoothing the sides as walking towards your vanity where your mum had left all the potions and make-up. You sighed, remembering how much more fun it had been to dress for the Gryffindor parties than it was to dress for this one. With the black dress and the pearls on your neck, you felt a lot more like you were about to walk into a funeral rather than a party. My own funeral, you thought with a laugh when you remembered whose house you’d actually be going to.

You grabbed a pair of red, not-too-high heels, put them on, and took another look in the large mirror by the window. You looked lovely, at least there would be no complaints from your parents on that aspect. What they might complain about was the fact that you took a bag with an undetectable extension charm and filled it with a few of the books you’d gotten as a Christmas gift. You also took the journal Lily had given you and Remus’ Sreath Bàrdachd. And you weren’t sure who’d be attending that party but you sure hoped you’d be able to sneak into a corner and read a book rather than having to interact with some of the most disagreeable friends of your parents.

“Sweetheart, are you ready?” your mom asked from the kitchen.

“Yeah, coming,” you said as you grabbed a few more trinkets and dumped them in your bag, just in case.

You were about to leave the room when you saw a small glistening thing in your bed and you went straight to grab it. It was the bracelet Remus had given you, and even if it took you a while to put it on, and you continued looking between your wrist and the door as you tried to get the clasp to do its job, you thought it was worth it. I could really use that extra luck. You thought. You accommodated the necklace Sirius had given you and that you never took off and then took off James’ potion and placed it on your bag since it might be safer there than around your neck.

One last look in the mirror to make sure everything was in order and you walked out towards the living room.

“You look delightful, darling,” your father said as he spotted you walking out of the room.

You gave him a half shrug in response and then managed to mutter a “thanks” that you hoped didn’t sound as bitter as it felt. After another moment of silence, your mom grabbed her bag and finished clipping on one of her earrings.

“We’ll take the floo?” you asked.

Your father shook his head, “They’ve sent over a Portkey,” your mom explained and motioned to the table, there was a small, fancy-looking invitation right in the middle.

“Nice,” you said as you used your wand to levitate the object and move it right in between your parents. Perhaps if it had been floo, you could have sneakily said James’ address instead of Evan’s and escaped the party altogether. Once there, your parents wouldn’t make a fuss about it in order to not make your insubordination evident. But of course, you weren’t that lucky, and you’d have to take the portkey and you’d have to go to the party.

“In three,” your father said as he moved his hand towards the invitation, “two… one… go.”

The three of you placed your hands on the invitation at the same time and you felt the very familiar pull on your lower back, in less than a second, the entire world distorted around you, and then, you weren’t in your house anymore.

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A/N: Aww that was so cute wasn't it? Now it's time to strap on, we're about to dive head-first into the darkest side of the story, and it's going to be fun and sad and just a rollercoaster of emotions in general. Love, Lils xx

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ravencincaide · 7 months

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A Hit Beyond Rock Bottom

Summary: You may not be able to bond with your children but you were still going to be a good mother, a wonderful mother. You would not abandon them and you’d make sure they didn’t unnecessarily suffer in this cruel cruel world. If only Dazai and Chuuya would let you.

Pairing: Dazai x Chuuya xfem! Reader (skk x fem!reader)

Author note: An independent part two for Happy unhappy home!Check that fic out if you’d like more angst, skkx reader new parents and see more of what happened right before this scene!

Warning: Cursing, depression/ postpartum depression, New parents/exhausted parents =bad choices/reactions, Angst,

Enjoy~

The water was warm.

Yet against your freezing body it felt almost burning. Boiling. Scalded your skin on the feel- yet left the flesh normal coloured, barely tinted pink in comparison to its usual pale shade. As you stare at your hand, you understood that it couldn’t be as hot as it felt. And yet each shift- each rocking back and forth motion seemed to hurt you. The manifestation of imaginary pain. A pain you just wanted to stop as much as the responsibilities and the lonely suffocation feeling. And yet the more you thought of leaving the safety of the bathroom- of the bathtub, the more it filled you with dread. It made the tears stream harsher down your cheeks. Thankfully your crying was muffled by the sound of the running water.

-art

You held the twins closer to your chest, cradled them. Rocked them back and forth, back and forth in the water. Here, in this tub, in this warm liquid they’d be safe and comfortable, They were protected, sheltered in their mothers embrace. Fed and clean. Not loved- not yet at least but tolerated and guarded. You were going to shelter them- from the darkness, from the yelling downstairs, from the world that only consisted of pain. You would save them from all this suffering.

-heart

They were not loved; but at least not abandoned. They were cared for and their every need met. Even if you did not bond with them- you wouldn’t forsaken them. They were yours; your two precious ginger balls of anything-but-joy. Yours- they came out of you and you had put so much into their care and well being at expense of your own. They were the physical token- the manifestation of your deep love for your partners. More accurately- for your once partners; Dazai and Chuuya. The thought of their names broke something in you. Reminded you of your earlier argument;

“– we think you might have postpartum depression”

The way they looked at you–the iciness in their eyes- as if you were a murderer. No, as if you were worse than a criminal. All because there was something so inherently wrong with you that you couldn’t love them; your twins. A sob tore through your chest, then another as the twins let out a sleepy coo’s. As if sensing your distress amidst their slumber. You brought them even closer to your chest. Then bit your lips hard- so hard you tasted blood- to hold back the wail which threatened to spill into the open. No.. Quiet. You had to be quiet. The twins were snoozing. A good mother would let them sleep. Rest peacefully. A good mother would make sure her babies were fed and happy and sleeping in her embrace the way they were supposed to. The way things were always supposed to be. Happy, cared for and safe.

You couldn’t love them but you could be a good mother for them. You were going to do everything right for them. You would make sure they were safe and peaceful. You would make sure they did not experience the painful reality that was this world; protect them from the agony that existed all around you. The endless torture- the human existence.

“ SWEETHEART!”

The sound of the smashed bathroom door snapped you out of your trail of thoughts. It made you aware of water overflowing out of the bathtub and then the paddling of feet right through the mess.

“ No, don’t take them from me. They’re mine, MINE, STOP!” you screamed as you felt hands grasp at you. You felt them grab at your arms, trying to pry them away from your twins. Two male voices hollered- the sound rang painfully in your ears. They were more desperate now, trying to take your twins out of your hold “ They’re mine! Don’t take them from me!” you screamed just as the babies were torn out of your grasp, away from your chest.

You felt panic set in, and rushed to stand up in the tub, desperately trying to follow Chuuya out of the bathroom. You felt lightheaded, dizzy and yet forced your body out of the tub. You stumbled, your ankle bruised as your feet made painful contact with the bathroom floor. You ignored it trying to run and yet--- You were blocked by Dazai’s chest; his hands on your shoulders; they pressed down painfully onto your skin. He was holding you back from going after Chuuya, from going after the twins.

You realized you were screaming- making inhuman wails of anguish. You were trying to escape his hold, thrashed and screamed in the inhuman fear of not seeing or hearing your babies. The terror of never seeing them again.

“ -donna” you managed to shake one hand off your shoulder and did another desperate attempt to leave the bathroom. But Dazai held you back; he pushed you further and further away from the door and towards the bathtub. His now free hand grasped at your chin, trying to get you to look up and face him. To look at him. You thought he was saying something- could see his lips moving but all you could hear was the rushing water around you and your own desperate cry

“ THEY’RE MINE, I’m their mother, you can’t; YOU CAN’--”

Slap

The force of the slap threw you to the ground; your knees made contact with the bathroom floor and the several inches of cold standing water there. The coldness of it sippied into your body, chilled you down to your soul. But not as much as the sudden silence in the bathroom. You didn’t realize what happened. Stumped by the fact that your normally controlled lover would dare raise his hand against you. To hurt you, to humiliate you. You. If not his lover then at the very least the mother of the twins- the children. Your children.

You said nothing, did not even look at him as Dazai knelt down to your height a few paces away. He wasn’t touching you anymore. Did not even reach out to check on you, to comfort you. Just stared at you as if you were no different from anyone else in his life; no different from any of his so-called students.

“ I have never had a reason to hit you. You’ve always been a smart girl- don’t give me another reason to do it, again. If you’re sick- get help.” You felt a shiver- a fear induced shudder settled in your body as Dazai stared you down. The distance between you was so painfully obvious. The clear indifference on his part hurt you more than the thumbing of your cheek and the pain in your knees.

Why couldn’t he see that you were doing your best? That you just wanted to be a good mother, and a good partner. That you just wanted to be appreciated for everything you did. That you just wanted to be his and Chuuya’s wife.

“ They’re fine!” Chuuya’s voice echoed from outside the bathroom. “ Heard that Mackrel?! The twins are fucking fine- thank fuck for that”

You heard Dazai breath out a sigh- an frustrated hissing noise. His eyes searched you for a moment longer, searched your gaze. But you didn’t meet his eyes. Did not even look at him as the tears streamed down your cheeks.

In ice cold fashion Dazai stood back up. He fixed you with one final pointed look. A sharp glance filled with detest and anger. Like you were his enemy. Then he brushed past you and out towards the wailing twins and Chuuya outside. He did not care about anything else besides them. No, he left you all alone on your knees amidst the still gushing water. Left you all alone to do whatever you wanted, seemingly completely indifferent to whatever happened to you.

More tears rushed down your cheeks, your hands balled into fists. Your cheek stung, your throat hurt. Yet not as much as the sound of your twins wailing and the words of sweetness and comfort spewing out from Dazai and Chuuya’s mouths. Words of praise and affirmation they so easily uttered towards the babies, yet not towards you.

The kind of words that just told you, you had just lost it all. Your family, your lovers and most probably, most frighteningly; your twins.

Authors note:... Happy ending and resolving it all? Nope not this one either. Better luck next time?

This fic exists thanks to all the people who wished to see how this series of fics would end. Thank you so much for your continued support and motivation. I know this one does not entirely fit the style but trust me, I have a plan with it (or well more of an idea really)

Click here for: Part 1 and part 2; or Check out Raven's masterlist. For next part see: The word that made the difference

©ravencincaide 2024. Do not copy/repost/translate or spread my work(s) without my explicit permission. If you see any of my work(s) reposted/copied anywhere else without my consent, please inform me!

#desperate times call for desperate measures #bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuuya nakahara x reader #bsd dazai #dazai x reader #chuuya x you #dazai x you #skk x reader #new parents #angst #bsd angst #skk parents #raven cincade's works #raven cincaide

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yourantag · 6 months

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Do NOT Let Him Cook (Morningstar!Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: Happy White Day! I'm probably not posting more than this and the other fic I was supposed to post Valentine's Day (which, as you can see, I failed in doing) for March. I will, however, be posting a little more in April cause that is my birthday month! Expect a few indulgent fics. This fic is honestly just crack, so if you need something silly and sweet, here we are! Genuinely, do not let this man cook. Word count: 2.2k words Summary: It's White Day, a day of reciprocated love. Of course, Helel has to give you something in return for your wonderful Valentine's gift. Now, if only he could figure out how he turned a tart into a fruity croissant...

There were very few things Helel feared. The first, of course, was you. He held your heart in his hands as you did too, yes, but no one could get him to obey them quite like you could. It was loyalty, it was devotion, one reciprocated through blood and love. To possess such power over him is somewhat of a marvel, something to fear, even just a little.

The second was your death, the thought of you leaving his side forever. He'd tear apart the world, commit sacrilege in the holiest places, and declare war upon the gods before he'd let someone take you from him. Still, he cannot control plagues, time, or the hostility within the hearts of humans. Life is delicate, even Helel cannot deny that.

The third thing he feared, Helel learned, was baking.

It seems simple enough, really. Chuck a few ingredients in, mix it, then toss it in an oven. Easy, right? Looking around him now, with smoke billowing off the charred tray (and wow, he didn't know metal could burn like that), Helel was completely at a loss.

"Ah, these don't seem quite right." He muttered, scratching his cheek. All Helel wanted was to give you something in return for your Valentine's gift, something special. He had consulted many people, even asking some of the prisoners, as odd as that sounded.

Most didn't give any good responses, only saying "please let me go" or "you're going to pay for this." Terrible advice, really. Not even on topic, either, but it could be worse, he supposed. So, he went to ask his favorite person to bother.

"For the love of- just make them cookies or something!" Nebuchadnezzar had exclaimed, absolutely done with Helel's ramblings. He looked about ready to chew his tongue off so he could finally know peace again. At least death wouldn't ramble about their lover for 15 hours straight.

It had been a decent suggestion, so Helel had taken it. Perhaps he shouldn't have, considering the disaster that was most of his creations.

The counters were covered in flour, the fine powder dusting the area like snow. Splatters of batter, egg, and butter painted some places like abstract art. The worst place of all, funnily enough, was the table. It was completely clean, presenting only a few delectable looking treats.

Sadly, they were not exactly what they were made to be. Somehow, Helel had managed to make bread instead of cake, a croissant instead of a tart, and now small bricks instead of cookies. He carefully tapped one against the counter, wincing as the wood chipped under the force. The cookie, however, was fine.

'I... can't give them this.'

Helel smiled awkwardly, wanting nothing but to slam his face against a wall. He had thought "it couldn't be that hard!" and look at him now. It was pathetic, to the point he genuinely considered just asking a servant to make something instead. However, that's literally something he could do any other day. It didn't carry the significance he'd want it to.

You had given him the head of the rebellion's leader, which most would find horrifying but he found terribly romantic. The best Valentine's gift, truly. Sure, he couldn't give you something of equal value, but he could try and match the sentiment. Helel knew you loved effort and thought, so he would do his best to give you something of that in equal measure.

So, he couldn't give up. Helel once again turned to a different page in the cook book, praying to himself that he didn't fuck up this time. He couldn't possibly mess up sugar cookies, right? They were simple, so surely no matter what they'd be fine.

He was cursing himself wasn't he?

He poured the ingredients, carefully measuring them as he went through the motions. It went smoother this time since he just made cookies (if he could really call them that). With practice under his belt, Helel managed to make a tray of cookies.

"Now I roll them in sugar before baking... where's the sugar?" He looked around, grabbing at the jars in front of him.

"That's flour... that's baking powder... or is it baking soda?... that's powdered milk... wait why do we have powdered milk? Oh!" Helel smiled as he finally found what he was looking for. He didn't know how the chefs managed to get anything done with nothing labeled, but that was the beauty of not being a chef. He didn't have to know, and perhaps he never would.

So, he popped open the glass jar, pouring in the crystalline fragments into a bowl. They glimmered innocently in the light, small gems that melted upon one's tongue.

Helel quickly tossed each cookie ball into the bowl, placing them back onto the tray afterward. Making sure they weren't too close together, he arranged them one last time. Finally, he placed them in the oven. The timer would let him know when they were ready.

The man sighed, moving quickly to wash the dirty dishes. He knew he could leave it to the servants, but at this point, he just wanted to get rid of the evidence of his failures. Sure, most of his baked treats looked... fine, but the first few looked as though it had gone through someone's digestive system already.

After all was said and done, Helel felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. If this was what the chefs dealt with on the daily, he was going to have to give them a raise. All this for some desserts? Really? They deserved to be paid more for this misery.

Checking the timer, he nodded to himself. 10 minutes was enough time to snack on something. Helel let himself drop into a seat, groaning as his weary legs finally got to rest. He grabbed the cake-turned-bread, cutting off a small slice. The cookies were a definite no, and he had his suspicions about the croissant, but the bread seemed fine.

'If I get poisoned from this, they're never going to let me live it down.'

You would absolutely make fun of him. Morningstar, the King of Babel, dying from his own creation. It sounded like a story Shakespeare wrote, really. Helel hoped more for his pride rather than his life that he wasn't that bad at baking.

Taking a few bites, he found that he wasn't dying yet. Which was relieving, of course, but to his surprise, the bread also tasted not bad. Sweeter than most breads, but nothing unbearable. It was probably going to be one of the few things he could actually share with you.

At the chime of the timer, Helel took the cookies out of the oven, letting them cool. That would give him another few minutes to start packing things up. Should he use red ribbon or white? It's a White Day gift, yes, but you told him red reminded you of him.

Humming, the young king started slicing the bread, gently placing the slices in a nice container. Perhaps he should pack some jam in the basket too- it would go well with it.

Helel glanced at the first batch of cookies, opting to dump them in the trash after a brief moment of contemplation. Could they be used as projectiles? Honestly, yes. Was he going to let anyone know he failed that badly? Never.

Finally, he took a bite of one of the croissants. It was fine as well, just odd. The fruit fillings and cream were distributed well throughout the pastry. If it weren't for the fact that it was supposed to be a tart, Helel might have been proud.

Packing those up as well, he placed the 2 containers in a basket, grabbing a few jars of jam and a butter knife. By then, the cookies were sufficiently cooled. Though, after taking another look at them, Helel wondered what he had done wrong this time.

Unlike the first batch, these cookies were puffy. They weren't like cream puffs, but they were certainly not cookies. Had he mixed up which of the powders he was using? He really wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

The other pastries he had packed weren't made to be what they ended up as, but tasted fine anyway. Maybe, these would be the same.

So, shrugging his shoulders, Helel tossed one of the "cookies" in his mouth.

And instantly he regretted it.

It was salty. Not salty in the pleasantly seasoned way, but salty as in if he had drank salt water it would taste better than this.

Spitting out the abomination, Helel glared at one of the jars. Of course he mixed up the sugar and salt, of course. Still, he at least had something other than this. He'd just have to dispose of these.

If you didn't find him.

The door clicks open, and Helel can't decide whether he wants to scream or jump right out the window. In the doorway, as he expects, is you. You're always welcome in his eyes, his wonderful, perfect significant other. However, at this particular moment, he really wishes you weren't here.

"Helel? What are you doing here?"

Though you ask, you already seem to at least know he was baking. Not a very hard assumption to make, all things considered, but that just makes things harder for him.

"I was... baking." He says, giving a strained smile as he slowly grabs the tray of cookies. Hopefully, if he's quick enough, you won't even notice him toss the entire thing in the trash.

'Please do not ask about these, please don't notice-'

"Is that a scone dusted in salt???"

Helel was going to throw himself off a cliff.

"...I was trying to make sugar cookies."

The look you give him simply reaffirms his decision.

"I... see. What's the occasion?" You draw closer to him, staring curiously at the basket. He's thankful he managed to add a blanket on top beforehand, though it would've been nice if he had tied a ribbon around the handle, too.

"It's White Day, so I wanted to give you something special." Helel responded, dropping the tray with a sigh. It was too late to hide it, so why bother?

You hum softly, lips curling into a smile. You grab one of the scones, taking a bite before he can warn you. Yet, instead of spitting it out like he expected, you chewed as though nothing were wrong with it.

"Are- are you okay?" He can't help but ask. He had tried one right before you came- he knew they didn't taste good. So, how was it that you ate the entire scone without even cringing in the slightest?

"Yep, I'm fine. I'm sure you already know, but these are salty." You laugh, quickly grabbing a glass of water and chugging it. Despite the concern he feels, Helel can't help the way his chest warms.

"Well, yeah, I was going to warn you about that. Can't believe you ate it all- I spat it out immediately. Why did you eat it anyway?" He can't help but ask. You weren't one to shy away from being honest. The fact you looked him in the eye and told him it was salty was proof enough. You weren't scared of him, so why would you put yourself through that?

You give him a smile, tilting your head towards the window. The sun is high in the sky, letting all know that it was sometime in the afternoon.

"You've been here for... I'm guessing at least 5 hours. I don't know how you haven't collapsed yet, but that's not the point right now. The point is," You take his hands into yours, kissing each of his knuckles. "I see your effort, and I don't want to let it go to waste."

Helel, for all his cruelty, his hatred, his grief- cannot be anything but in love for you. To love is to be seen, to be known, and it seems that for all his life, that's exactly what you've done. Seen him, known him, but most of all, loved him.

So, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing kisses from your palm down to your wrist. He lingers there, letting you cradle his face as he closes his eyes.

It wasn't perfect by all means, but he thinks that this small moment is worth more than anything he could've ever orchestrated. Helel doesn't need endless praise, gifts, or overwhelming acts. All he needed was a bit of acknowledgement, a bit of love.

"Happy White Day, my sun.”

ALTERNATE STORY:

Helel did not realize he was that bad at baking. He completely blames Nebuchadnezzar for everything.

"HELEL, HOW THE FUCK DID YOU MANAGE TO MAKE A MONSTER!?"

"HIS NAME IS FREDERICK KREIBURG AND HE'S SORRY TO SAY THAT HE'S FRENCH!"

"WE AREN'T EVEN IN FRANCE! WHAT DID YOU ADD TO THOSE COOKIES? THE CREMATED REMAINS OF YOUR DAD!?"

"...that explains why the sugar was so dusty."

"...Helel Morningstar Babel-"

"Ahaha... ha..."

Yeah, Helel was going to kill his brother if you didn't end up killing him first.

#idv #identity v #identity 5 #idv ithaqua #ithaqua x reader #idv fanfic #identity v fanfic

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oonajaeadira · 9 months

Text

I'll Leave a Light On For You

Fandom: Bloodsucking Bastards / Max Phillips

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n. (There is a little description, but it’s still you. Believe me, it will make sense. We’re dealing with the supernatural here.)

Rating: T.

Warnings: Angst. Character death. Allusions to the atrocities of war and its lasting effects. Max is a vampire. Traumatic soul memory. Me assuming I know anything about French culture of the 1930s.

Summary: Max has reservations when it comes to love, and for very good reasons.

A/N: This is my entry for the @pedrostories Secret Santa event. While I played one selfish card in my hand and wrote something of a companion to Light Only Shows You Where the Shadows Are, this can still be read as a standalone.

To my giftee, the amazing and wonderful @artemiseamoon : First of all, I admire you so much and I was really nervous to write for you. But I looked among your generous prompt choices (omgs thank you for so many good choices) and was surprised to find Max as an option. I wasn’t going to choose him at first but then my eye caught “past lives” and something in me zinged. Soul mates, angsty romance, second chance at love… and I’ve been itching to write an angsty Max. I know you are a fan of soft and whump, so all those elements had a party in my heart and here we are. I really hope you’re having a nice holiday and a good time off. Happy Secret Santa, Arte. <3

What we’ve been told is that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

That’s almost correct.

The truth is…it’s not just your current life.

It’s all of them.

Max hardly remembers the fear, the pain, the cold of his draining. Even though he knew what was coming, bought into the cult, the human instinct of fight or flight is hard to dismiss no matter how well they’ve been prepped and it was to be expected. But it was a flash in the pan and once he came around to the undead side of things, those pesky human responses were all quickly forgotten.

For a time. Until he saw your light and–

Anyway. Human instincts. Pffft. Adorable. Trading the constant possibility of fear for that of glee, of rapture, of delight? Human instincts are trash. Not to mention their senses, poor suckers. The things they can’t see can’t hear can’t smell can’t taste? Tragic.

If only the feelings weren’t heightened too. It makes some things–some people–hard to ignore–

Feelings were something he could also have done without in his human life–the latest one anyway–and did whatever he could do to avoid.

It wasn’t until he died that he understood why.

As the life drained out of him and the delirium set in, there was a rushing sound, a pull through his soul like the drag of blood from his body, and he was laying, feeble, wailing, bloody and naked among the limbs of his mother.

But not the mother he so recently remembered, the one that showed her approval only when he provided her with some accomplishment worthy of crowing about to her society friends. No, this one was gentle, kind, held him and sang to him, lived her life for him until she died of fever when he was only five years old.

Max saw it all, from within himself and without, remembered the pull of his heart and watched the tears fall down his little face as they nailed his mother’s body in a pine box and put it in a hole at the top of a hill under a tree.

He always imagined he heard her singing to him in the grasses after that.

The world welcomed a new century, and not long afterward, he was a young man, looking to take over his father’s wine fields. But the chance was stolen when an archduke was shot. Max–Pierre, as he was called then–and all of the close friends and cousins he had were thrust into a great war.

He was the only one to walk out of the fray. And when he came home, he found his father’s fields had been burned and that nothing remained.

That was a dark time. Ten years of looking back rather than looking forward. Ten years–it went by so fast–while he watched the world around him try to repair itself and find its footing again, not realizing that the roots of evil still grew beneath the soil.

He kept his head down and his hands working wherever he could.

But then he met a woman.

And she was Pierre’s life. Max’s life. Before he was Max.

It happened in the winter, just before Noël. And her name was Yaëlle.

Max remembered that before she even told him as he watched the story of this strange old life.

Yaëlle. It means “beautiful one.”

“It also means ‘goat,’” she’d said. “That seems more fitting.” She never thought of herself pretty, and perhaps she wasn’t fashionable and maybe she was stronger than she was dainty, with a weak chin and curly dark hair she couldn’t control. But the light in her eyes when she laughed–and what a laugh, like a little bird–the sway of her hips and the confidence in her carriage, her air of easy care and comfort caught his heart like a surly bear in the prettiest trap.

She’d simply been passing through the marché de Noēl, looking but not stopping, taking the kerchief off her head so the snow could land in her curls, when a child approached her selling buns in the shape of a cross and she gave the child a franc before sitting down at the statue of some cardinal or other in the center of the square.

She could have sat on any of the other benches, but she chose to plonk down next to Max. Next to Pierre.

“You want this?” she asked, offering the bun. “Not really my thing.”

How could she have known he was hungry? That he was lonely? That he was facing the market rather than the river because he was trying not to succumb to his inclinations, a pull to walk out onto the thin ice and let himself be taken by the stream?

He was instantly entranced by her. He felt himself smiling. Something shifted within. A destiny.

“You sure?” he asked.

She peered at him, scrutinized his whole self like she could see a glow around him and was looking for its source.

She found it in his eyes.

“Absolutely. I already ate three hand pies today. The last thing I need is more bread.”

He laughed for the first time in a long while. They talked. He ate.

On Christmas Eve when everyone was at the evening’s mass, she was there again, sitting alone, and this time it was he who had hot food and came to join her on the bench while the night was silent and cold and the stars were twinkling.

It was then that he learned why she was not in church–her folk did not observe Noēl. And she learned why he was not in church–he had lost his faith, that everyone he had ever loved was taken and there were not enough candles in the sanctuary to light for all of them.

“What if I lit one?” she’d asked.

“Who would you light it for?”

“For you. So you don’t have to sit in the dark.” When he was only silent, she said, “You fought in the Great War, didn’t you.” And when he looked away–when he shut her out–she continued. “My husband fought in that war. And he never could find his heart again. He said he loved me, but I don’t think he ever really did, not all the way. But I loved him all the way and when he put an end to his own life I thought I would have to do it too. Instead, I sat in the dark for a long time. It’s something I can see in a person. I can see you’re sitting in the dark.”

They stayed quiet for a time on the bench under the statue of the cardinal and when the church bells started to toll–signaling the magic of the empty square would soon be disrupted by the mass emptying into its streets–she stood and pulled her coat around her.

“My home is down that street, a little one with a red roof. It’s warm and I’ve plenty of hand pies--I made too many. I’ll leave a candle in the window until I’m asleep. You’re always welcome there, Max.”

And then she smiled and turned down the avenue where she’d pointed.

He blinked. Just before she reached the edge of the square he called out, “My name isn’t Max. It’s Pierre.”

She turned and gave a sly wink. “Good to know. I think once you get a belly full of my pies, you’ll let me call you whatever I want.”

He only sat long enough to watch the churchgoers file out of the holy service, many of them with people they loved, humming, happy, cheeks glowing in that way when one steps into a fresh cold world after being an hour or two soaking in the warmth. And once the square was empty again, he stood, gave only a fleeting look to the river, and then walked resolutely down Yaëlle’s street.

A little house with a red roof and a candle in the window.

He stayed for supper and came back many nights after.

And then one night he never left.

Max recalled the rest of that life with a lurking despair. While he couldn’t quite remember how it went, something in him carried it through to the life he’d just left…and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was yet.

A few years of joy, of the greatest love he’d felt since his childhood. Like the mother he’d lost, another woman who was gentle, kind, held him and sang to him, lived her life for him until she couldn’t anymore.

They never celebrated Noël as the others did, but in their own way. For a handful of years they would go sit on the bench in the square and hand out pies to their neighbors and anyone who came to join them where they sat. They would listen to the singing in the church and watch the stars scintillate overhead. They would leave their shoes by the fireplace and wake up to find gifts they’d bought for each other with the little francs that they had. And they would never talk about what they would do in the future, because they knew it would be this and that’s all they aspired to and it would be a happy life.

And Max watched Pierre forget about the rot that still ran its roots through the soil.

And one day soldiers came to town when he was out in the fields and they took Yaëlle and some of the other dark-haired, joyful, bird-laughing folk about town and murdered them. By the time he returned for the evening, the soldiers had gone and left him nothing but a ravaged house and a body to bury.

There’s nothing he could have done, the mourning neighbors told him, the tide was rising. If he had fought them, they would have shot him too.

Pierre said that it would have been better that way.

Pierre stopped working in the fields when he started to hear his mother’s voice singing among the grasses again…now joined by Yaëlle’s sweet alto.

He had one more Noël in that life. He drank as much as he could take without falling over and stumbled out to sit on the bench in the square, weeping once the churchgoers had gone. He didn’t say a word, but Max remembered what Pierre was thinking then.

Love hurts too much. It is always taken. It’s not worth the trouble.

And then Pierre fell asleep on that bench and never woke up again.

There wasn’t much time between that first life and this one, maybe a few decades in the dark. Just long enough for a voice to reach him in the void–a voice he knew well and loved with his whole heart for only a short time–to say,

“That was a good first try, Max. Let’s give it another go, okay? Another place, another time, when it’s not so hard. I’ll leave a light on for you.”

____

Max’s life had been shorter this time. But he’d learned a thing or two and kept love at arm’s length. Sex was good and companionship was fine, but he wouldn’t invest in anything that could drain him in an instant and leave him destitute.

Now power, that could fill the void.

So when fortune smiled and he was given the choice, he swallowed hard and put his neck to the teeth, traded in his humanity for power that nobody could take away from him…and a heart that had no need for warmth.

He was wrong about that last point though.

And he didn’t even know it until he saw something that humans couldn’t see.

Heard something they couldn’t hear, a long ago and far away voice singing.

Smelled you on the wind.

Followed it to you–a woman, just another human woman–walking out of a bar along some street in the city.

And he saw a light glowing from within you.

You wore another face, another body, but all he saw was you.

Yaëlle.

Beautiful one.

He followed you that night, and several nights after. He was the reason that car swerved before it hit you, the reason you weren’t approached by that seedy guy at the club. He was the reason you kept looking behind you now and then and when you finally saw him–having dinner at the same restaurant, totally by coincidence, you on a friendly outing, him trying to charm a client into a contract–it broke his heart that you did not know him instantly.

He found he was surprised that he still had a heart to break. He’d been so fucking careful.

Max almost gave into the anger, the disappointment. Replayed the pathetic way Pierre let himself be brought down and tried to remind himself not to let himself be broken again.

But then he heard your voice in a way only those who walk in death can.

Let’s give it another go. I’ll leave a light on for you.

____

Heightened feeling is the one drawback of all this power. It’s one thing to latch onto a target, to fixate on some middle manager or accountant or IT specialist until there’s a good time to finally strike. That is an itch that can be satisfied with a well-timed, fear-seasoned, adrenaline-soaked kill.

But love sinks its fangs in and doesn’t let go. It sucks at something that can’t be drained, has no end, can never get enough. It can drive an immortal--a never-ending being of heightened existence--to madness.

There will come a day in the future when you’ll trust him for no good reason, when you’ll understand the monster he is and whisper under your breath against your better judgment, when you’ll invite him in. For dinner.

And he’ll come around again and again.

And then one day, he’ll stay.

And you’ll yawn ask him on the edge of sleep, “Why me? Of all these humans that you could easily enthrall and have without question, why choose this?”

Max will look at you in the darkness and see nothing but your light.

You won’t understand when he puts on a show of an irritated sigh and tells you, “You gave me another chance, sweetmeats,” but you’ll doze in his cold arms, absolutely confident as he is that nothing will ever hurt you again. Including himself.

And that night he’ll stay until you wake.

He won’t have you sit in the darkness alone.

_____

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

#pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories #bloodsucking bastards #max phillips #max phillips x reader #max phillips x f!reader

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runninriot · 5 months

Text

written for @subeddieweek

complete fic posted on ao3

Sweet Thing

rated: E | tags: Client Eddie Munson, Pro Dom Steve Harrington, restraints, sensation play (nipple clamps, pinwheel), 18+ content | snippet, complete fic and tag list on ao3

He shouldn’t have favourites. Shouldn’t feel drawn more to one than to others. They’re all equal, all deserve the best (worst) treatment. It’s a job, a very unusual one but a job nonetheless. He’s here to serve, to execute what he’s being paid for – to make secret fantasies come true and not to succumb to his own.

But ever since the curly haired angel stepped foot into his dungeon some months ago, Steve found it hard to keep it strictly professional.

There is something about that man, Eddie, that messes with Steve’s head in a way he can’t really explain.

He’s good-looking, with dark ink scattered all over his pale skin. Slender but with defined muscles in his shoulders and arms. Has strong thighs, an ass that looks much too biteable, and he has these big, round puppy dog eyes that are especially pretty when they’re red-rimmed and teary.

Eddie is really something to look at and maybe that is why Steve is so hung up on him.

Thankfully, he’s good at pretending.

Can hide the fact that – although not in a physical sense – each session with him is as fulfilling for Steve as it is for the beautiful man currently splayed out on top of the latex sheets.

It’s a real treat to watch him writhe and shiver, his muscles tense from the enormous effort it takes for Eddie to try to hold still.

He fails miserably, can’t keep his arms and legs from instinctively tugging at the restraints keeping him bound to the bed.

Steve leans in close to Eddie’s ear, lips purposely grazing the shell to let the vibration of his voice tickle his skin.

“Didn’t I tell you not to move?”

“Y-yes. ‘M sorry.”

Eddie strains his neck, obviously trying to bring some distance between himself and Steve’s mouth but he can’t get far.

“Y-yes,” Steve mocks him as he repeats Eddie’s stuttering response. “Yes what? Think you forgot something there, sweet thing. Do I have to remind you of the rules?”

Steve grabs him by his throat, the press of his fingers tight enough to force a desperate gasp out of him.

With his other hand, he tightens the clamp on Eddie’s left nipple, turns the screw once, twice until a pathetic little whimper leaves Eddie’s shiny, parted lips.

“Yes, Sir! I’m sorry, Sir. I- please, it hurts.”

Good, Steve laughs to himself, satisfied with the way Eddie already has this trembling in his voice like he’s close to crying. And isn’t that a beautiful thought. Eddie is always so pretty when he cries.

“You gonna behave now and stay still?”

Steve takes a moment to marvel at the view he’s presented with.

Eddie’s eyes are wet, a sheer layer of unshed tears glistening in the dim light of the candles shining down on them from the sideboard to their left.

He is tied down, arms and legs forming an x-shape where he’s spread out like a human sacrifice at the altar. His whole body is a gorgeous work of art. Not only because of the tattoos adorning his skin that is beautifully flushed from his face down to his chest.

His pinched nipples are bright pink from the clamps biting harshly into the sensitive buds.

The picture is perfected by the sight of Eddie’s hard cock straining against his stomach, so desperate to be touched.

Not yet, though. Eddie is Steve’s to play with for a little while longer, is his to be used. And he will drag this out for as long as he can, won’t give Eddie the satisfaction of relief until he is satisfied with his own work.

Steve reaches over to the sideboard, grabs the Wartenberg wheel that’s been waiting there patiently to come into action.

Eddie is a sucker for sensation play. He is so sensitive, reacts so wonderfully to any prickling, stinging, thudding feeling afflicted on his body. Whether it’s with the light, tickling touch of a feather or the quick, sharp burn of hot wax drizzling over his body; he’s so easy to please.

Steve starts on his left, presses the pinwheel against his skin, and lets it roll from his shackled ankle up over his calf. Eddie squirms and whines furiously when the prickling sensation reaches the back of his knee and not for the first time, Steve is glad not to be on the receiving end of things. Eddie’s trembling and twisting gets worse, the further Steve rolls the wheel up the inside of his thigh, playing with the degree of pressure he uses to prick Eddie’s sensitive skin.

He repeats the procedure on Eddie’s right, watches his skin break out in goose bumps while his cock twitches hard at the overwhelming sensation that’s crossing the line between slight discomfort and actual pain - just what Eddie wants.

Eddie gives up on trying to get away, finally accepting that he’s going nowhere. He’s entirely at Steve’s mercy, who keeps going, ruthlessly dragging the pinwheel across the underside of his arms and down his sides, spurred on by Eddie’s pathetic moans.

“Please, Sir! ‘S too much!” He begs as if that could convince Steve to end his teasing torture.

Eddie knows what to do if he wants him to stop. And Steve knows what Eddie can take.

He always gets so whiny when Steve treats him right. He’s a dream to play with. So easily breakable, so willing to give up control and let Steve take him apart in whichever way he pleases.

So beautiful when he slowly loses his mind, pushed closer and closer to the edge until he’s free falling.

The only problem is that Steve has a hard time not to lose himself.

#sub eddie week #eddie munson #sub eddie munson #steve harrington #pro dom steve harrington #steddie fic #ao3

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indigovigilance · 1 year

Note

This has been eating at my brain for 5 minutes, but why does aziraphale wear reading glasses sometimes. Is it for aesthetic? Is it their eyesight? Help

Hi @electronicturtlepaper, thanks for the ask! I gave this some thought, and I propose four reasons that Aziraphale wears reading glasses:

Aziraphale imagines himself having a 50-year old human body

He likes doing things the human way

They are integral to his enjoyment of art

He uses them to communicate with Crowley

Expanded arguments and evidence, as always, below the cut:

Aziraphale likes to imagine that he is a 50-year old human.

I think there's a little bit of a tendency to think of the ineffables as being superhuman. They are, but not the way Superman or Wonderwoman are. We get the best illustration of this in S1E6 when Crowley is driving through the M-25 inferno:

Crowley has something no other demons have, an imagination. Right now, he's imagining that he is just fine, and that a ton of burning metal, rubber and leather is a fully functioning car.

We know from this Season 1 scene that Crowley's imagination manifests reality; in this particular instance, it is to defy the laws of physics, to keep his body from discorporating and his car from falling apart.

Even though the way it's being used feels "super," we can see how the mechanic of "imagination manifests reality" could be used in the exact opposite way by someone who likes to think of themselves as a homely, affable pillar of the community that has owned the bookshop on the corner for as long as anyone can remember. We see other ways this manifests, like not being able to keep up with Gabriel while jogging:

He could think of himself as a battle-ready soldier, but he doesn't. He thinks of himself as someone who likes culture, good food, and fine clothes; cardio doesn't really play into that, so his corporeal form manifests accordingly. By the same token, he's an avid reader, and as far as his Whickber Street neighbors are concerned, has spent all day, every day reading books for the past no-one-knows-how-long; how would he not need reading glasses?

By sheer power of imagination, Aziraphale has manifested himself into needing corrected vision.

Aziraphale Likes Doing Things the Human Way

Keep in mind that this is the angel who absolutely did not fool Nefertiti with a single caraway seed and three cowrie shells, but he sure did put his whole entire soul into learning prestidigitation from the best human magicians of their day, and took French lessons so that he could ask his aunt's gardener for a pen.

Wearing reading glasses to read is part and parcel to a 50-year-old man running a bookshop. Miracling himself some Lasik eye surgery would be cheating, just like using a miracle to make the farthing vanish in a sleight of hand trick. In order to do something the human way, all the normal human handicaps must apply, including myopia.

Aziraphale's Enjoyment of Art is Enhanced by Wearing Glasses

I also think that Aziraphale considers wearing eyeglasses to be an integral part of the human experience of the joy of literature; reading a novel without peering at the page through silica lenses framed by metal wire would be like eating sushi without dipping it in soy sauce. The experience would be incomplete.

But, then again, look at this dork:

He's wearing his glasses to listen to music. Clearly this isn't necessary or even helpful (but as someone who has taken off their glasses so they can listen better to somebody, I can assure you it's very human). So this tells us that Aziraphale's glasses are, among other things, his "I'm enjoying art right now" accessory.

This is further reinforced in the following beat, when he's opened the door, and he's not wearing his glasses anymore:

So sometime between turning off the gramophone and opening the door for Gabriel, he took off his glasses to signal that he has quit shastakovich.exe and is returning to "normal adult responsibilities" mode.

Aziraphale Uses His Glasses To Communicate

...and we know exactly who he learned this from: @goodomensgifs credited for this wonderful gifset, hereafter incorporated by reference because my computer is so mad at me rn and can't handle loading gifs.

Crowley uses his glasses to communicate his emotions a lot. He uses them to show vulnerability. He uses them to show contentment. He uses them to threaten. He uses them to show that he is wounded and defensive. He uses them to demonstrate that he is or is not willing to talk. Aziraphale has learned from the best.

The first time we see Aziraphale leverage his lenses this way in Season 2 is when Crowley returns to the shop after their fight about Gabriel. When he's alone, waiting for Crowley to return, Aziraphale isn't wearing his glasses:

but quickly puts them on when Crowley walks in the door:

Quite a few analysts have published metas on equivocation (@cobragardens and @ao3cassandraic, maybe we should start using an #equivocation tag? Because this is becoming a recurring topic), which I incorporate here by reference. Crowley and Aziraphale have had to learn to communicate without saying a lot of things out loud, and glasses are playing a role in that.

By putting on his glasses, Aziraphale has just put up a big "I'm feeling hurt and defensive" sign; at the same time, Crowley takes his glasses off, to signal that he's ready to talk. Aziraphale peers through his glasses while he's pretending to ignore Crowley, reinforcing that his glasses are assisting him in demonstrating his umbrage.

Aziraphale finally takes his glasses off to tell Crowley that his "you were right" wasn't a good enough apology:

At this point in the conversation, the angel is allowing himself to be more vulnerable and show just how upset he is.

This evidence is taken from limited samples, but it fits with the general dynamic of the characters observed elsewhere.

Thanks for the great prompt, I never would have done this exploration otherwise but it was very rewarding.

Good Omentober!

~~~~~~

If you liked this, you may like:

Clothes + Equivocation = Romance by @cobragardens

The Colors of Crowley by @cobragardens

The Golden Lion by @cobragardens

Angel Pinky Rings by yours truly, @indigovigilance

...and any fan is welcome to drop an analysis request in my askbox!

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #glasses #equivocation #ivoc #indigovigilance answers asks

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mokokone · 2 months

Note

Hello!

Can you do a Kusuriuri x Kitsune! Fem! Reader. Where the reader loves to tease him and prank him.

Thank you <3 ❤️

Author's preface: Kitsunes are known for their mischievous nature and love of playing tricks on humans. These mythical creatures have the ability to shape-shift into different forms, often using their powers to deceive unsuspecting individuals. Despite their playful antics, kitsunes are also seen as wise and intelligent beings in Japanese folklore. Their cunning ways make them both feared and respected in traditional stories and legends.

Word Count: 1196

Trickster [Medicine Seller/Kusuriuri x FemKitsune!Resder]

Kusuriuri stood, pondering for a moment. His piercing cerulean gaze scanned the room, taking in every detail.

Something was amiss.

His Akumabarai (exorcism) sword was missing. He could have sworn he left it sitting on the coffee table.

Surely, the small blade couldn't have flown away. Every corner and crevice was scrutinized, but the sword was nowhere to be found. Kusuriuri's mind raced with questions—who could have taken it? And for what nefarious purpose?

"(Y/n)?" He suddenly called.

After a moment, a young female poked her head through the shoji. Her hair was a beautiful color of (h/c), falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, a vibrant shade of (e/c), sparkled with curiosity. However, the most unique thing about her appearance was that she had fox ears and a bushy fox tail.

Her fox ears twitched slightly as she looked at her master with a sense of curiosity.

"Yes, what is it, master?" You asked.

"Have you seen my sword?" Kusuriuri asked you as you stepped into the room, watching his eyes scan the space in search of the missing weapon.

"No... Why?" you inquired, feigning innocence as you tried to suppress a mischievous grin.

In truth, you knew exactly where it was. After all, you were the one who hid it, as well as a few other items of his.

Though you didn't really have a good reason for doing so, you were just bored and thought it'd be funny to see how long it would take him to notice.

As you watched him search, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for playing this prank on him.

"Hmm, I can’t find it.” He tossed the pillow he had been looking under back down on the sofa. "I'm also missing several of my ofuda as well as some incense from my medicine box." He adds.

“Really? How strange..." You say, hiding a smirk. "Well, I'm sure it'll turn up soon, master.” you tell him before turning on your geta to leave.

“Hopefully...” You hear him murmur, unaware that he had watched you leave.

“Where? Where is it?”

. . . . .

Later that evening, you heard your master sigh in frustration. There was no doubt he was starting to lose his patience.

You poke your head in the doorway again. “What is it now?” You wondered which item he was looking for now.

But, you knew.

Not long after you hid his sword, you also took and hidden his Shunga (Japanese erotic art) picture book.

“Now, I can't find my Shunga magazine,” he answered.

You couldn't help but grimace. “Why do you even look at such gross things?” you scoffed. "It's just a book filled with gross images of women having intercourse with gross men."

Kusuriuri snorts. “Ha, it's entertaining.”

'You ought to be glad I didn't burn it instead of hiding it, you pervert,' you inwardly thought to yourself before giving a smile.

“You've been misplacing a lot of your stuff lately, master," you teased. "I never thought you'd be so irresponsible with your things."

"I am not, my dear," he protested. "I am very responsible. I need my Akumabarai sword and ofuda to fight against malevolent mononoke. I would never be so careless as to lose such important items," He huffs.

"It’s like my stuff is just...disappearing. Almost as if someone has taken them." He adds.

You almost felt a shiver run down your spine when he catches your gaze and could only hope he didn't know. Nevertheless, you shook it off and opted to tease him some more.

"Aww, poor master," you fake-sympathize, a mischievous glint in your eye as you watch him sulk his shoulders. "Perhaps your things have had enough of you and just ran away," you snicker.

"Haha, very funny," he chides. "Look, if you're not going to help, then just go away."

You pout. "Rude!" You stuck your tongue out at him before leaving.

You failed to notice the angry red mark on Kusuriuri's head as blue eyes eyed you both skeptically and intently.

. . . . .

That night, you decided to keep the prank going. Once you made sure Kusuriuri was out of sight, you snuck into his room and opened his medicine box. This time you were going to take and hide one of his Kenshutsu (scales).

You hurried down the engawa to hide it in the garden under a rock. However, before you could, you yelped upon feeling a hand grab your tail.

“Where are you off to, (Y/n)?” Kusuriuri asked.

You sweated nervously, attempting to hide the kenshutsu inside your kimono before turning to face him.

“Um...n-nowhere, master,” You stammered.

Kusuriuri eyed you suspiciously. "Was that one of my kenshutsu?" He asked. "And were you about to hide it in the garden?"

“W-what? N-no way…” You lied, giving him an innocent look.

However, Kusuriuri saw through your lie. After all, he too knows how feels to be a sly fox.

"So, it was you all along," he said, his tone accusatory.

Welp, now you’re caught red-handed! You’re toast. It was nice while it lasted. You didn’t even try to plead your innocence; you just grinned warily at him with a nervous chuckle.

“You little minx,” He quickly pulled you forward, making you shriek as he then grabbed your sides.

“K-Kusuriuri, I mean, master, wait! No, please, I can explain!” You cry out.

Kusuriuri was merciless as he started tickling you, his fingers digging into your sides, making you squeal.

"This is what you get for hiding my stuff." He smiled menacingly.

You doubled over, trying desperately to get away from him. “Ahhhaaahaa, I'm sorry! P-please, have mercy! Hahahahaha~!”

“Tell me where you put everything and I'll let up," he demanded.

“Ack! I’m sorry!”

"Sorry doesn't tell me where you hid my things,” Kusuriuri said, now switching to tickling you under your arms.

With that, you completely lost it! It was painful as you squealed and tried to push him away. You're the one who got yourself into this mess, so you had no choice but to come clean.

“Fine! Your sword is in the kitchen cabinet, and your Shunga magazine is inside the hallow of the cherry blossom tree outside." You confessed, desperate for your torture to cease.

“And?” He prompted, tickling your tummy.

Your laughter was so loud and desperate now that tears were beginning to leak from your eyes. "A-and I promise not to take your stuff without permission. I-I..AHaha..was just bored.”

Kusuriuri's expression soften. He was pleased that you finally came clean as he finally stopped tickling you, much to your absolute relief. But he still opted to tease you.

“Good girl."

Jerk.

Your face was flushed from laughing in pain as you glared daggers at him.

"I'll forgive you this time, but no more pranks, ok?"

You stuck out your tongue at him. “You suck, master Kusuriuri.”

He merely shrugged his shoulders as he walked off to retrieve his stuff. “Not my fault. You deserved it,” he said, but then stopped and glanced back at you.

"Y'know, if you ever get bored again, feel free to come to me. I'm always up for some fun.♡" He smirks devilishly while winking at you.

It took you awhile, but you quickly caught on of what it is he's implying as your face flushed red.

#mononoke 2007 #kusuriuri #medicine seller #mononoke kusuriuri #x reader #kitsune #fanfic #folklore

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ktwritesstuff · 2 years

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The Professor (Pedro Pascal smut inspired by SNL)

Title: The Professor Fandom: RPF: Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Pedro Pascal (professor of Latin American Studies) x Reader (bedraggled PhD candidate) Word Count: ~2000 Summary: As if that SNL skit wasn't going to launch a thousand smut fics... As always, lovingly beta-read by @bs-fangirl. Additional notes below the cut.

Notes: This is my first "real person fic," may God have mercy on my soul. Additionally, my Spanish is virtually non-existent; I've relied heavily on Google Translate and asking my coworkers questions on the sly, my apologies for any errors! As we all know, this is not a story about actual human Pedro Pascal, but the fictionalized version which lives rent free in our heads. And as proper fan girl culture dictates, we keep this shit locked down. But just in case:

This note is for actual human Pedro Pascal and Pedro Pascal only. I don't know why you would click "Read More" on a post clearly labeled "Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU" but if you have, I beg of you LOOK AWAY, SIR. LOOK AWAY. If you choose to proceed, I will not be responsible for any trauma you may suffer as a result. Thank you.

For everyone else, I give you:

The Professor

Professor Pedro Pascal was the head of the Latin American Studies department at your small college. You had never been in his classes as an undergrad–Latin American Fiction and Poetry, and a special seminar on the Magical Realism of Isabel Allende–but it was well known around campus that his family had fled Pinochet when he was a child, which granted him unsurprising street cred among your communist-leaning circle of friends. He had been appointed the interim director of the campus’s Literary Center–after his predecessor was ousted for exposing himself in a virtual meeting.

As the Center’s Graduate Assistant Director, it meant although he wasn’t technically your boss, you were suddenly spending an annoying amount of time working around the throngs of freshman girls who flocked to his office hours. You couldn’t really blame them. He was, if not an outright heartthrob, a reasonably good-looking college professor. A strong face, with a short, rugged beard, a striking Roman nose, and deep brown eyes with the most charming crow's feet. He had a lean physique, with a hint of softness at the belly, just this side of a “dad bod.”

His modest good looks combined with a cheerful disposition and a penchant for quoting the love poetry of Pablo Neruda were like catnip for liberal arts majors. And although you were a card-carrying bra-burning feminist, you weren’t entirely immune.

“Professor,” his office door was open, but you knocked on the frame.

Pedro looked up from the stack of resumes you had been sent to review before the selection panel for a new director.

“Coffee?”

“Mi angelita,” he sighed, rising from his desk to graciously accept the warm cup from your hands. “What time is the first candidate arriving?”

“Noon,” you said. “You, me, Dr. Monroe, the Provost, and Assistant Dean are sitting on the interview panel.”

Pedro looked at his watch.

“Shit,” he sighed. “I have Intro to Creative Writing at 9:30.”

“I’ll set up the conference room,” you said as he shoved his papers into his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder, still carrying the open mug as he raced down the stairs.

“Thank you, Angel. Thank you!”

It was a six month process to find a new director. Six months of staring across the conference table, chewing on the end of your pen, pretending not to be affected by the way he leaned in when you spoke and stroked his thumb across his lower lip in concentration. Or the obscene way he spread his legs in a comfortable chair while speaking with candidates in front of a panel of students.

And having to do it all over again when your first choice–a student favorite–declined the position, to stay in New Jersey of all things. You knew Pedro was relieved to have reached a conclusion; he didn’t care for the administrative duties or politics. He wanted to teach, to be with his students. You admired that about him, he appreciated your organizational skills (and the fact that when you made coffee it counted as a meal.) You worked well together, but now that was coming to an end.

It was past 9pm and you had already closed up the Literary Center for the night, but Pedro was still in his office, reviewing students’ papers.

“I’m done for the night, Professor,” you said. “Is there anything I can do to help you get out of here?”

“That depends,” he said, with a wry smile that had you convinced he was only half-kidding. “How’s your Spanish?”

“Hmm,” you said, stepping into the light of the desk lamp. “¿Dónde está la biblioteca? ¿Como estas? Bien, gracias. ¡Qué lluvia! And that’s all I’ve got.”

Pedro chuckled. “I’ve heard worse.”

“That and un tequila, por favor.”

“Tequila,” Pedro repeated, intrigued. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a bottle of Patron. “That I can help you with.”

Your mouth fell open in surprise.

“Professor,” you deadpanned. “I don’t know if you knew this, but alcohol is not permitted in academic buildings.”

"Lucky for me," he said, picking up the bottle. "I have tenure."

You laughed and Pedro laughed; you offered to run downstairs to retrieve a pair of glasses and a salt shaker from the kitchen while he finished grading papers in record speed.

“I worry about these kids,” Pedro said, three shots deep. “I do! The moment they hear something the least bit troubling, they refuse to engage with the material. Our world exists in shades of gray. They want things to be ideologically pure, when what they need is to learn to discern. To question. To decide!”

“I understand what you’re saying, Professor,” you said.

“Pedro, please,” he interrupted you. “Pedro.”

“Pedro,” you repeated. “I agree, but there’s no reason we need to elevate and spotlight the same tired canon of bigots, abusers, and dead white men year after year when there is so much more out there.”

Pedro downed another shot and pointed an accusing finger at you.

“Look who’s talking,” he said. “Your PhD is in Shakespeare Studies!”

“I know,” you laughed, pouring yourself another glass. “I know, I’m a terrible person.”

“You are not,” he said, suddenly serious. “You have an incredible mind and the most beautiful way of looking at the world.”

You felt languid and relaxed and warm. You liked the way Pedro looked at you. There was something undeniably romantic about getting drunk in the richly furnished office, with its leather armchairs and oak bookshelves, debating the merits of Nietzsche and bell hooks.

“Okay,” you broke the silence. “Okay, here’s a fun fact you can pass along to your successor. There are 3 prints signed by Allen Ginsberg in this building, and you can see them all from this desk.”

“There’s the one on the wall,” Pedro said, pointing to the framed portrait hanging above the bookshelf.

“Yes,” you said, rising from your chair and moving to the other side of the desk. “And there in the hallway, on the right, that's an excerpt from "Howl" they set in the printshop downstairs.”

You perched on the arm of his chair to get closer to his eye-level, pointing through the open door. You slipped, nearly falling into his lap and he placed a hand on your back to steady you. He smelled amazing, like old leather and warm spices.

“And there, in the stairwell, you can just make out the top of his head on that linotype,” you explained. “Do you see it?”

“I do.”

When you turned your head, Pedro was looking at you. Perhaps it was the tequila, but you were almost certain he was staring at your lips, his eyes heavily lidded, smiling lazily.

“You look tired,” you warned. You should have gotten up to leave, but you didn’t want to. You didn’t want this warm, lovely feeling to ever end.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About what?”

“Kissing you,” he said.

You were almost surprised; you had spent so much time trying to convince yourself that your semester-long flirtation was a one-sided puppy crush. You had been so busy with your research and recruiting and planning, you had forgotten somewhere along the way that you were a stone cold fox with tits and ass for days and enough sex appeal to blow the top off Mount St. Helens.

“You can,” you said, turning your body toward him. “I don’t mind.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Fine then,” you turned to stand.

Pedro seized you by the waist, pulling you back into his lap and into a long, slow kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft and his mouth tasted like salt and lime as his tongue brushed into yours with careful, confident strokes.

“That was nice,” your eyes fluttered open as Pedro finally pulled away. “You’re a good kisser.”

“You, too,” Pedro said. “Again?”

You tilted your chin, touching the point on your neck, just below your ear. As Pedro leaned in, working the beginnings of a hickey into your neck, you guided his hands from your waist to your breasts. You pressed against him, moving to straddle his thigh.

“More?” Pedro asked.

“Yes,” you panted. You braced yourself on the back of the chair, one hand on either side of his head, grinding against his leg, feeling hot and wet as he kneaded your breasts with reverent appreciation.

“Mi amor,” he breathed.

“Pedro,” you held his face, nipping at his bottom lip.

“Dime, lo qué quieres.”

“Fuck.” His accent went straight to your cunt. You ran one hand up his thigh, groping at the crotch of his chinos.

Pedro let out an obscene moan and hoisted you up onto his desk. He slid his hands up your thighs, fingers slipping into your panties. He ran his fingertips through your folds, tracing circles around the swollen nub of your clit with an absolute shit-eating grin.

“Qué lluvia.”

You howled with laughter. “I know that one! I know that one!”

“A huevo.”

Pedro rose from his chair, bunching your dress up around your waist. You pulled his shirt free from the waistband of his pants, running your hands up the warm skin of his back.

“Want you,” you sighed. “Want you inside me.”

“Whatever you want, Angelita.”

Pedro pulled your underwear down to your ankles, pausing to retrieve a condom from the wallet in his back pocket, like an over-eager undergrad, pulling down his pants to roll it on. He pressed the head of his cock against your clit. You grabbed him by the ass, wrapping your legs around him to guide him into you.

Pedro flicked his hips into you with short, quick strokes, sending jolts of energy through your core.

“More,” you pleaded breathlessly. “Deeper.”

Pedro lifted your ankles onto his shoulders, pressing into you long and slow until you could feel him bumping against your cervix. You gasped, reaching behind you, scrambling for leverage, knocking the computer monitor off the desk.

“Oh no!” You turned, trying to catch it before it crashed to the floor.

“It’s okay!” Pedro said, taking your face in his hands to guide your gaze back to his eyes. “It’s a shitty computer. It’s fine.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back, grabbing for his chest with one hand as he fucked you.

“So soft,” he moaned against your ear. “So fucking good for me, Angel.”

“Give me your hand,” you said, guiding his fingers back to your clit. “Up and down, right there. Oh God.”

You grabbed Pedro’s shoulder to brace yourself.

“I’m close,” he warned.

“Not yet,” you pleaded. “Just a little more.”

You could feel your own climax building inside you. You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.

“Oh God!”

Pedro came inside you with a gasp as your inner walls clenched around him. He slowly withdrew, supporting your legs, and easing you onto your back, scattering papers and pens onto the floor. He kissed your neck and your breasts as his hands explored the curves of your body.

You woke the next morning on the couch in Pedro’s office. You were lying on top of him; your head on his chest. He had his arms around you, your head was pounding as you squinted into the daylight.

“We got fucked up last night?” you said.

“Yup.”

“It was nice."

"It was," Pedro agreed, kissing the top of your head as you blinked sleep from your eyes.

"What time is it?”

You grabbed his forearm, turning it so you could look at the face of his watch.

“Oh shit,” you gasped. “I have Freshman Seminar in half an hour.”

“I already missed my morning classes,” Pedro moaned, letting his head fall back against the armrest.

“Do you want to explain to Dr. Monroe why I can’t teach her class?” you said, rising from the couch and searching the office floor for your underpants.

“No,” Pedro said. “She scares me.”

You pulled your underwear back on, finding your bag, you used the satin scarf tied around the handle to cover the love-bites blooming on your throat and chest. You dabbed concealer under your eyes and added a fresh coat of red lipstick.

“Would you like to have lunch together? Not at the Caf. Somewhere nice, like a date.” Pedro asked, sitting up. He looked endearingly child-like with his bedhead and giant brown eyes.

You paused, checking your reflection in your compact mirror.

“Can we do that?” you asked.

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “You were never my student and after this week we won’t even work together any more.”

“Oh,” you nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“I’ll pack things up here and meet you after class.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

#rpf: pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #hot for teacher AU #mr. ben has us in a chokehold #mr. ben snl #pedro pascal x you

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ladyofthenile · 10 months

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At times, I think we birthed art to cope with the flames around us—brought on by us, burning the world for us, igniting the hate in us, heating the blood in us, consuming the innocence in us. Sometimes, I think we birthed art because we set fire to everything good and let passion take its course.

#A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.#He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight #art is a human response to all things good and all things burning.#letfireburntonight

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roseharpermaxwell · 1 year

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Bite-Size Drarry - Under 10k (Part Four)

Pausing my RWRB reading (I have an ask about firstprince fics too and I’m working on it!) to answer this, which is the nudge I’ve needed. I’ve done this for Dramione before (under 5k), but I especially love tempting readers to Drarry.

Short works are the unsung heroes of fandom. They don’t get enough love, which makes me so sad, because you definitely don’t always need 100k to deliver a stunning story. These are your bedtime stories, your palate cleansers, your individual serving sizes of serotonin. It’s okay to enjoy these even if you only read slow burn 100k+ fics, I promise. Live a little!

This is a sampling of some amazing favorites, but I’m always reading new things and will add to it regularly. If you find something you love, I know the author would love to hear it, and so would I! Take a deep dive into their work to find other gems.

Here's Parts One, Two, and Three if you missed them.

Bite-Size Drarry - Under 10k (Part Four) below:

Stay by @orange-peony. E, 7k. The day Draco Malfoy finds out that the Manor has finally found a new owner is a Tuesday. It takes him less than two minutes to realise that he’s screwed. He has nowhere to go. Things go from bad to worse when he finds out that he's been assigned a new probation officer. Harry bloody Potter.

Sorry i was never good (like you) by @tigerlilycorinne. T, 7k. “What is your name?”

Michael Corner puts his cup of tea down. “You already know my name,” he says. He points to them each in turn: “Draco Malfoy. Michael Corner. We went to Hogwarts together.”

“You are the one Harry Potter took to bed last night, correct?”

Draco has a questionnaire he calls the Boyfriend Check for Harry’s boyfriends. Because he’s roommates and friends with Harry, and he needs to make sure they’re up to snuff.

And also for other reasons.

A Love That Knows of Itself by @sleepstxtic. M, 7k. After an accidental bonding, Harry is forced to confront some longstanding feelings concerning a certain Unspeakable.

Epitaphs in Autographs series by @vukovich. E, 7.1k. (MCD) A series of works surrounding death, imperfect relationships, flawed coping, and humanity.

Knead, then let rise by @softlystarstruck. T, 7.2k. Malfoy stumbles back into Harry’s life via the laundry room. A story about baking bread and tripping over words and falling in love.

Interpersonal Relationships Year 7, Unit 3: How to Have Sex Like a Responsible Adult by InnerLilith. E, 7.3k. Harry came to Hogwarts to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He did not come to Hogwarts to obsess over Draco Malfoy. He definitely did not come to Hogwarts to channel that obsession into…supervising Draco’s sex education class?

Whatever, Harry saved the world. He could handle sex ed. Right?

Draco Malfoy and the Broken Room by @aprofessionalprotagonist. T, 7.3k. A drunk and morose Draco gets trapped in the Room of Hidden Things with Potter of all people. Now, he’s got to figure out how to make peace with the Golden Boy long enough to get out.

everything you should say by icarusinflight. E, 7.4k. They're not friends. But when Draco offers help, Harry takes it.

The Re-Fenestration of Potter by @cavendishbutterfly, @iota. E, 7.5k. Harry wants the Prophet reporters to stop following him and Draco wants Harry to stop climbing through his window at all hours of the night…even if he’s taken to leaving it open, just in case. Everything is bearable until they both get doused with Draco’s latest batch of Wolfsbane, and then suddenly nothing between the two of them is bearable at all.

of course i cum fast, i’ve got a snitch to catch by swoons. E, 7.5k. Strangest of all, Potter never lasts more than two minutes — and that’s if Draco’s being really, really generous with his time-keeping.

It should be off-putting, but Draco’s just intrigued. Perhaps that’s why he’s watched Potter wank in the showers so often.

The Exhale by spqr. T, 7.5k. Hermione makes a soft, concerned sound. "Harry, look at this." She shows him an article with a photo, but the photo's not moving; it must be a Muggle newspaper. "NASA have just landed a rover on Mars. It's called Curiosity, and look, this is so--I don't know if it's sweet or sad, but--it's all alone out there, and they programmed it to sing itself Happy Birthday." Nothing is wrong, but Harry starts crying.

Lovesick by @corvuscrowned. T, 7.6k. People keep spiking Auror Harry Potter with love potions. Healer Draco Malfoy keeps having to pick up the pieces.

But it's getting harder and harder for Draco to watch Harry fall in love with everyone except for him.

Dating Potters by @goldentruth813, @mzuul. M, 7.7k. Scorpius and Albus have been together for awhile now and decide it’s time to have a family dinner and come out to their fathers. What they’re not counting on is the fact that they’re not the only ones with secrets to share.

Play Dates by bixgirl1. E, 7.7k. Harry never thought seeing Malfoy as a dad would affect him this way.

What I Thought by @bafflinghaze. E, 7.8k. Draco thought they were in a relationship. Harry thought it was just sex.

First Week of Eternity by InnerLilith. E, 7.8k. Moving in with the colleague you’d like to fuck is a bad idea for anyone. It’s worse when you’re a card-carrying member of the eternal dead. It’s exponentially worse when your already garlic-obsessed colleague-slash-crush-slash-roommate has recently discovered his distant Italian heritage.

In which Draco tries desperately to hide that he’s recently become a vampire, and Harry tries desperately to feed him.

The Trouble with Good Sense by RorouniHime. M, 7.8k. When you fill a hotel with flying quills, hands-on demonstrations, and too many Aurors, someone is bound to get cranky.

The Dinner by @brightowl-fics. E, 7.9k. Draco had been trying to beat the sunset, walking along the cobblestone road to the Chateau where he would be staying that night, when he saw the door. Le Billet Doux, said a painted red sign. Below it, réservations non requises: ‘no reservations required.’

in a rambling way by @fw00shy. T, 7.9k. Ron knocked Hermione up, and now Harry's got to figure out how to clone himself so that his friends don't split up fighting over him. Falling for Draco again was never part of the plan.

Check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous by @lqtraintracks. E, 7.9k. Auror Harry has a crush on Unspeakable Draco, and Draco's dared to give him a lapdance when they're out for Friday night drinks.

Keep Me Here by @academicdisasterfic. E, 7.9k. Teddy/Harry/Draco. The one where Teddy is pining, Harry is in denial, and Draco is impatient.

Driving me crazy (but I'm into it) by @thecouchsofa. E, 8k. Draco’s fucked a lot of people. He’s fucked models, Quidditch players, members of the Wizengamot, even a Muggle actor, but none of them come quite as prettily as Harry Potter.

Leeward by @teacup-tai. M, 8.1k. There’s a polaroid kept in the back of Harry’s nightstand drawer. Just the one. It’s Muggle and slightly yellowish. There are many other photos in a box in the back of Harry’s cupboard under the stairs—the one he almost never opens. A hidden box of hidden memories. After four years since their break up, Harry and Draco meet again at Dean and Blaise’s wedding. Now, between the turquoise sea and the white sand dunes of Fuerteventura, they will need to face their feelings.

in between two tall mountains (there’s a place they call lonesome) by @oknowkiss. E, 8.2k. In the shadow of a mountain on the Oregon coast, there may or may not lie a shipwreck, on which there may or may not be a magical relic, lost hundreds of years ago. Harry's been tasked with finding it, and Draco is there to take notes, and they're stuck in a campervan pretending to be married, and it's all going to be just fine. That's what Draco's gotten rather good at telling himself, anyway.

Born Slippy by @dracoladon. E, 8.3k. Harry finds that it's less 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor' and more 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, decide Malfoy's quite fit, actually, and decent company after your friends traitorous abandonment, floor.' With Malfoy lying next to you.

(Un)Anticipated by @p1013. E, 8.3k. Though he won't ever admit it—not even years later, when Draco's giving Harry shit about it right before they go to sleep, the bedside light just dim enough to hide the worst of his blush—it takes Harry an embarrassingly long time to realise that something is wrong. It's not like he's trying to pull regularly. If he wants to get laid, he gets laid. He is, after all, Harry Potter.

But it's not until it's a Saturday morning, and he's languidly stroking himself off in the shower with long, slow pulls that he feels deep in the pit of his stomach, that Harry realises that he's been at this for quite some time, and while it feels amazing and his toes are curling and his balls are pulled up tight…

Nothing's happening.

Contretemps by @moonflower-rose. T, 8.4k. Draco Malfoy has been living like a model citizen. If only he could convince Potter.

Say Anything by megyal. M, 8.5k. Draco has a crush on Harry and tells him in French.

Flight Patterns by @mosrael. E, 8.6k. Up in the air, Draco can become anyone he wants to be, or cease to be anyone at all. When he puts on his flight attendant's uniform he's just one more smiling face in the crowd, a forgettable interlude in his passengers' day. Not a petrified boy, not a criminal, not a Wizard just trying to keep it together as best he can.

That is until a certain someone interrupts his flight patterns.

Stories in E Minor by @huldrejenta. E, 8.7k. Draco has found his place in the Muggle world. He's got his music, he's got his neighbours and he is content. Until a certain someone from the past enters his life again.

Look For Me In The Sun by @wolfpants. M, 8.7k. Harry and Draco are on the run in America after a mysterious string of werewolf-like attacks in the Muggle community causes the Ministry to impose new and harsh anti-werewolf legislation. Giant trees, crashing waves, seedy motel rooms, and the long and winding coastal road awaits them, but will they ever be able to go back home?

Bored by vorabiza. E, 8.8k. Harry and company are bored, so Harry is encouraged to tell the others a sexual fantasy that becomes a little more romantic than they are expecting.

Howl by @tackytigerfic. M, 8.9k. After an encounter with a vicious werewolf, Draco Malfoy wakes in a field hospital with a mangled shoulder, a furry little problem, and an inconvenient crush on Harry Potter. Potter, meanwhile, is still trying to save the world, only this time he wants Draco right there with him while he does it. Taking part in a rebellion against a corrupt regime isn't always glamorous, but at least sometimes there are organic farmshop pastries and fancy hotel bedsheets. Just don't ask about that smell of burning.

Along Came Potter by huldrejenta. T, 9k. Potter shows up at Draco’s flat. Then he shows up again, and again, and again.

Fuel to the Fire by @eevans22, @holygnocchi. E, 9.1k. Sure, Luna always means well. But suddenly Harry is temporarily living with the man he’s been pining over since they started Auror training, who compliments Harry’s cooking, gives him thoughtful thank you gifts, and looks indecently attractive stepping out of the shower. Something’s got to give. And Harry suspects it will be him.

Just a trial run by @tenthousandyearsx. E, 9.1k. In which Harry wants to get into sex work and Draco would prefer to keep him for himself.

Before the Cold Sets In by @crazybutgood, @vukovich. T, 9.1k. Sometimes, the person you should be planning your life with is already in it. Or, how Harry realised that true love is at the bottom of a tea cup.

sex in trees for beginners by @phdmama. E, 9.1k. The bottle lands on Malfoy and sends out its customary poof of smoke and sparks. Harry hasn’t quite figured out the pattern, it’s not like blue means truth and red means kissing. Malfoy’s poof is a deep pink-purple and there are definitely sparks happening as well. It’s really pretty, actually, and Harry sort of loses himself in watching the colors until suddenly he realizes everyone is quiet and staring at him. “What?” he asks, glancing around. “What did I miss?” Malfoy sighs. “The bottle gave us a dare.”

Phoenix by @kedavranox. E, 9.2k. Harry's got a fantasy.

Starting Again by @tamerofdarkstars. T, 9.2k. Harry felt the situation rapidly slipping from his grasp and suspected he’d never really had hold of it to begin with. “You want me to be friends with Draco Malfoy because you think that will stop him from being... sad.”

“Bingo, give the boy a prize.”

The Things They Never Say by bixgirl1. E, 9.3k. Harry and Draco don't know how to talk. So they do other things instead.

to be a bit of warmth for you by softlystarstruck. M, 9.3k. As some of the only eighth years to return to Hogwarts, Harry doesn't know how he and Draco will manage to be roommates for a whole year without resorting to violence. But Draco is too quiet, and too thin, and wears layers of sweaters that he tucks over his fingers. So they fall into an unspoken routine, one that soothes Harry as much as it helps Draco, one that's so much easier than Harry thought it would be.

Until it all falls apart, and Harry realizes he holds the world in his hands.

Wooing with Woodwork by @henrymercury. T, 9.3k. According to Ron, Harry needs to make a move on Draco in the next month or he's going to receive a howler he won't want Draco to overhear.

That Draco will overhear is fairly inevitable given they're cooped up in the same DMLE office all day, or off investigating together, and they go home to the same flat at night.

All I Have to Do by @fluxweeed. E, 9.5k. The Patented Daydream Charm (Adult Edition) allows you to enter a top-quality, highly realistic thirty-minute sexual fantasy. Solitude and privacy spells advised. or: Draco finally has some alone time; Harry just needs to nip in for a book.

Sinking to Swim by @pheaphilus. T, 9.5k. When Unspeakable Malfoy gets his latest assignment at the Department of Mysteries, he can't help but curse his own luck. What are the chances that he would have to seek out the elusive Harry Potter for help?

When Draco Malfoy comes to his door, asking for his input into an ongoing project at the Ministry, Harry is skeptical. When's the last time a Malfoy did anything to help anyone but themselves, anyway?

Let Me Roll It by @lagerloutfic. E, 9.5k. “I’m not going to kiss you here,” Harry said, applying a fraction of pressure so Draco’s lips parted. “No?” Draco said, his breath hot on Harry’s knuckle. “No.” --- The thing about Harry was, he hated most people. And there was no one he hated more than Draco’s boyfriend Justin - certified knob and all round wanker. So when he finds out Justin is just as selfish inside the bedroom as he is outside it, Harry can’t help himself.

Sex on Legs in Six-Inch Heels by @tessacrowley. E, 9.6k. Draco Malfoy is a brilliant freelance cursebreaker and the only one who can help the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a very dangerous case, but more importantly, he's wearing six-inch heels, and Harry cannot handle it, he really just can't.

what if, but if, we could kiss (and just cut the rubbish) by @swisstae. E, 9.6k. “Christ, Draco, get your mouth back on me, I need you, oh God, Jesus fucking Christ,” and Draco can’t help how he shivers, the words dripping down his spine like molasses, sticky sweet blasphemous prayers in the heat of the moment. It’s enough to bring him closer to the edge, and when Harry spills down his throat, hot and bitter and musky, Draco comes with a muffled cry, his cock spurting weakly as he spills all over the floor. (Later, Harry will tease him, will whisper Christ, Malfoy, look at you, so hot for me, Jesus and Draco will come undone a second time, shaking in the safe bracket of Harry’s arms around him.) OR: Draco and Harry are not-quite-friends, but then they are. it is A Time. Ron just wishes he had bleach.

The Little Marauders Nursery and Day Care by @digthewriter. E, 9.8k. Harry Potter is the proud owner of a daycare, and his favorite student is Scorpius Malfoy. Scorpius’s dad might be okay, too.

Gryffindors Never Kiss and Tell by @drarrytrash. E, 9.9k. The gang realizes that everyone has kissed Harry except Draco. Draco proceeds to do a terrible job of pretending he doesn’t want to kiss him too.

That's all for now 💚 Give the authors some love! I also adore hearing if you found a new favorite fic or author.

I’ll be regularly adding to this, so if you’re seeing this as a reblog, feel free to check my Master List of Recommendations for the most current list. If you see yourself and you’re not tagged, or I've got a broken or misdirected link, please let me know!

#drarry fic rec #drarry fanfiction #drarry fanfic #hp fanfic #drarry

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