cielorinrin

[cielorinrin]

Monster under the bed

[cielorinrin]

My newest Drarry (and Severitus!) fic has been revealed! This was posted for the 2024 Severitus Big Bang, a fest celebrating the father-son relationship between Harry Potter and Severus Snape, in all forms (bio parent, father figure, mentor, etc.). I explored an alternate reality where Severus married Lily, not James, and the ways in which that might have led to Harry's life being drastically different from how it was shown in canon.

Title: The Fall of the Hosue of Evans Rating: Explicit Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy Word Count: 142,000 Summary: After spending fifteen years living in hiding in America following his mother’s murder and his own near-death experience, Harry Evans and his father Severus are obliged to return to England for a compulsory year of education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But never fear—everything’s gonna be just fine, he just has to get through nine months of maintaining a secret identity, putting up with a trio of really weird godfathers, feeding the fantastic magical noodle he found in a sewer, and dodging the wrath of the surliest, prickliest, finickiest roommate one could ask for. Associated Works: This gorgeous typeset from my partner on this project, kitsunerei88! Notes: Be sure to read the tags on AO3, and the lovely cover art was commissioned from @ muraeaka on twitter!

Read it on AO3

Teaser

“Quodpot,” Harry said, still marvelling at the slick subway tile lining the showers and gleaming fixtures. The ceiling overhead was already blanketed in a thick fog of steam, and the air was getting heavy with humidity. How was it the bathrooms here were nicer than his and his father’s entire apartment back home? “And I haven’t actually played.” He hadn’t even flown on a broom before, honestly, but confessing as such right now might send Malfoy into cardiac arrest. “Ugh, ghastly name,” Malfoy groaned, shucking his Quidditch jersey and pelting Harry in the face with it as he set to work on his bottoms next. Harry quickly turned his back, letting the jersey drop to the floor. He wasn’t Malfoy’s house-elf, even if Malfoy spoke to him like one. “Step lively,” Malfoy called out, voice fading with distance. “I haven’t the time to bring you up to speed so you don’t embarrass our House and then shower.” “Surely there’s a book or something I could read on the subject…” Harry groaned, carefully stepping backwards after Malfoy. If he slipped on a bar of soap and got an eyeful of Malfoy’s undercarriage, he was going to leave, just leave, Apparate right through whatever wards were blanketing the campus and damn the Trace and all threats concerning it. Blessedly, though, he bumped up against one of the long benches fronting the stalls and settled down, focusing on the far wall while Malfoy told him all about the evolution of the Snitch from bird to ball and then moved on to a lecture concerning the different broomstick manufacturers and their respective strengths and weaknesses. “And frankly, the Nimbus line hasn’t matched the quality of the Firebolt since—towel.” Malfoy snapped his fingers at him. “Towel, Potter.” “Summon it yourself.” “With what wand?” “The one you’ve got up your ass…” Harry grumbled beneath his breath.

[cielorinrin]

What if, instead of complaining about the lack of fics, I write my own damn fics?

[cielorinrin]

Real af, I just finished rereading (emphasis on RE because I don't know how many times I've reread those fics) everything on the tag and I am once again starving.

i kind of read every sakuoro (sakumo hatake x orochimaru) fic on ao3. kind of because i skipped those who didn't get my attention. but now i am already starved and i might read everything. i need more. i crave it. give me more sakuoro [bites the chair]

[cielorinrin]

OROCHIMARU HEADCANNONS(with some cannon)

- I still love that this badass is canonically non-binary. In my mind they use they/it/snake pronouns

- they are Gray Asexual and Demi Biromantic

- I agree with the headcannon that they were a shy child

- Orochi secretly has a lot of PTSD related to dead bodies cause of their parents' deaths

- their experiments are actually a comfort mechanisms

- They used to be married to Sakumo and was Kakashi's other parent. However after Sakumo's death they broke and kinda.........lost themselves in their comfort job , leaving their young child alone.

- Yes this means Kakashi and Mitsuki are half siblings

[cielorinrin]

save me sakuoro

sakumo and his goth gf orochimaru

[cielorinrin]

These days I've read too many fluff fix-its. But not enough XDD

/inspired by blackkats A Snake In the Grass, a Wolf At the Door/

[cielorinrin]

Imma be honest with y’all. The sole reason I started shipping SakuOro is because I found it really funny that a main theme in the fics was literally just that Orochimaru’s pussy was good enough to make Sakumo rethink suicide.

[cielorinrin]

一 “…Yoshinaga…seriously… let go of my hand” “don’t wanna!!!”

[cielorinrin]

eyes

[cielorinrin]

post-mortem photographs [hpdm]

synopsis: when harry volunteers for the ministry mandated search and seizure of dark pureblood properties, he doesn't expect to be met with a memory in a picture.

content: rated mature, angst, major character death, harry is sad but he's also numb, draco is adorable, unhealthy coping mechanisms, slight dissociation, symptoms of ptsd (referring to the war and harry's childhood), post second wizarding war, no explicit romance; heavily inspired by @longdaytogo 's art and blurb

word count: 3k

masterlist

harry is suddenly hit by vicious unease the instant he steps foot inside the grounds of the manor. he is still unaware of the true reasonings behind his wanting to take part in the ministry ordered cleanup and seizures of dark pureblood residences. the war just ended, and yet he’s still fighting.

“it’s not healthy,” is what hermione told him, but harry doesn’t think he cares very much about that at the moment. he wants the opposite of it, really—he doesn’t want the time to be able to think.

he vaguely registers the path he took just a few months ago as he goes up the malfoy manor. despite the lack of death eaters and carnage, somehow, harry feels more dreadful walking up the steps.

his breathing is fairly normal, not the ragged ones he took as he was brought as prisoner. it’s a sunny day with clear skies, and he’s wearing dry shoes and clean clothes.

still, he feels like escaping, apparating himself out of this stained property, just to isolate himself and have a good cry. but if he does that, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop. so he continues walking.

as he walks up the spiralled stairs and down the long corridors, it hits harry that not only is he in the place where voldemort took residence for a year or so, but he is also where malfoy spent his childhood in—the malfoy ancestral home.

the eerie quiet is interrupted by the sound of a crying child, followed by murmured hushes from a corridor further up the walkway. harry moves towards the sound and is greeted by a long line of portraits, all old and dead. they glare at him and immediately disappear into their paintings. harry wonders if it’s because he’s there to seize their ancestral home, or simply because he’s freely strutting about the halls despite not being a pureblood. regardless of their being portraits, harry still hopes it’s the former.

he continues down the path and spots the source of the noise—a young boy in a portrait crying, fisted hands covering his face. harry feels palpable heartache for him, to be the only youth among hundreds of portraits whose only source of entertainment are beratements and scoldings. harry feels the loneliness in his bones, as well as in his memories.

the portraits near the boy’s tell him to “pipe down,” that a malfoy crying is “unbecoming” and to “cease immediately”. before harry can tell them that reprimanding a clearly distressed child will bring them nowhere, the portraits disappear, leaving only harry and the little one. harry lets out a morose sigh, approaching the portrait to ask if he’s alright, only to stop dead in his tracks.

the boy must have been around six or seven when the portrait was taken. with flowing blond hair and a not-so-pointy chin, draco malfoy wears a white dress shirt with a ruffle collar, paired with a navy waistcoat and an amber bolo tie necklace. harry thinks distantly that he doesn’t have any memories of malfoy in anything other than his slytherin uniform or his preferred black suit and trousers.

he observes the painting silently, with a pounding heart. malfoy hasn’t noticed him yet; he’s begun hiccuping now and has abandoned trying to hide his face behind his fists.

he’s so small. much smaller than when he became the first wizarding kid harry met, than when he first asked for harry’s hand in friendship. harry’s never liked malfoy, he doesn’t think, but seeing young malfoy brings him an unambiguously great amount of pain.

this crying malfoy reminds him of dark bathrooms, screaming ghosts, and bloody floors.

harry exhales loudly, making malfoy finally open his eyes and look up at harry. he sniffles and wipes away at his tears. “who are you?” he asks in gasping breaths.

“i was hired to look over your house.” harry replies. he doesn’t think the child knows about anything that’s going on outside his portrait.

malfoy regards harry, still with furrowed brows and wet lashes. “it’s a manor,” he says after a few moments. of course, malfoy was raised to never tolerate any sort of belittlement of their name or their fortunes. with the company he’s had for however long he’s been here, harry should not be surprised with this child’s priorities.

“where are mother and father? will they be coming for me soon?”

lucius malfoy was immediately sentenced to spending the rest of his life in azkaban when he was captured at the battle of hogwarts. narcissa malfoy, on the other hand, was exiled from the country and, from what harry has heard from others, is currently residing in the south of france with distant relatives. this is a seven-year-old malfoy that has no awareness of what the future will bring, harry reminds himself.

“they’re taking care of business outside the country right now. that’s why they hired people,” he reasons. wealthy people usually work outside of their countries, he remembers from the dursleys’ envious complaints about this very thing.

malfoy is once again silent, only looking at harry. harry stares back and lets his eyes take in the other details of the portrait. there is a burgundy curtain behind malfoy and harry almost smiles at the irony of it. a bouquet of flowers are on the floor, however; and there’s no furniture visible in the portrait. he looks back at malfoy, who is still staring at him, and his mouth twitches at the thought of this young boy holding the bouquet and smiling for an extended period of time just so the artist can paint him.

“you said my parents hired you?” he finally addressed harry. “yes,” harry raises his eyebrows at the boy. he predicts an order from the young malfoy coming very soon and sighs internally. “i can arrange for you to keep me company, then.”

this is what he gets for being considerate.

“you can just ask me nicely, you know,” harry looks around and finds a table a few metres away. he starts walking towards it when he hears a small noise emit behind him, not unlike a whimper.

“i’m not leaving, i’m just getting something to sit on. keeping you company, remember?” he grins softly at the boy and places the table a few steps in front of the portrait. malfoy’s wearing a frown now, but harry notices his red ears and offers another smile.

“i’ve even asked for house elves as company, but none came,” malfoy says to him after a few awkward minutes of silence. “dobby always comes whenever i call for him, but even he never came!”

a bucket of ice; the innocence of young malfoy allowed him to forget the reality of the situation.

but malfoy keeps on talking, “i’ve been here for a while now. perhaps a few weeks? i’ve asked the other portraits how and why i happen to be here but they simply ignored my questions, the gall. i’m the heir to this family and they can’t even answer such straightforward questions!”

harry is getting lightheaded from the similarity of their speech patterns. of course, what did he expect? this is only a younger version of malfoy, not an entirely different person. but more than that, he can’t help but notice the continuous use of present tense, making him nauseous for an entirely different reason.

“great-great-aunt belvina and grandfather cygnus are especially rude. i understand they are older and, thus, better-informed, somewhat, but do they need to be so disagreeable? ‘cease your whinging, child’ this, ‘you are being quite an unsightly child’ that. it’s very annoying,” he rants, but harry is only half listening. he came here to calm a crying child, not to listen to petulant tirades from his former nemesis. “they never even call me by my name! speaking of, you never did tell me your name. what am i supposed to address you as?”

“harry is fine.”

“harry?!” malfoy exclaims, making harry wince at the sudden increase in volume. “how about your last name?” malfoy is leaning so forward that if harry didn’t know any better, he would be afraid that the boy would fall out of the portrait.

“presley. harry presley.” harry provides and sees how malfoy visibly deflates from his revelation, or lack thereof. “why, were you hoping for some other harry?” malfoy’s whole face reddens as he avoids eye contact with harry. harry thinks he hears a mumbled, “not particularly” before silence once again takes over the corridor. this time, however, it’s not eerie or awkward. a rather bashful stillness takes over them before harry asks about the flowers on the floor.

the fading red on malfoy’s face comes back as he suddenly remembers the bouquet’s existence. “mother was insistent i hold her beloved english rose shrubs,” he pouts and picks up the bundle, rearranging them and then placing them in his arms. “she’s quite proud of her garden,” he grins at harry, as if he is also proud of narcissa malfoy's garden. harry, on the other hand, is merely forcing a smile onto his face. malfoy doesn’t have to know that their estate has long been destroyed, not even able to grow weeds from the amount of dark magic the soil has absorbed during the death eaters’ reign at the manor.

“will they be coming soon?” malfoy asks. harry hums in question and malfoy gives him an obvious roll of eyes. “my parents. you said they’re out of the country for business?”

“oh, yeah. they’ll be back soon,” harry feels guilt for lying, but he’d feel even more guilt if he tells the boy his parents most likely will never be coming back, ever. his remorse is somewhat appeased by the lucid light in malfoy’s eyes, and a slight smile on his lips.

“you shall keep me company, then,” he drawls loftily in that signature way of his that he has even at seven years old.

“yes, i’ll be staying for a while. do you have any messages for your parents? i think i can relay them when i leave for the day.” the light dims. harry, surprisingly, also feels dismal at the thought of leaving.

“it’s dreadfully boring here,” malfoy says in a way that harry suspects he wants to replace the word boring with lonely. “i would like if they took care of their business shortly.”

harry looks at him with expectancy. malfoy raises a brow in return and harry realises his message was complete. he doesn’t know whether to be concerned that he didn’t ask for souvenirs, or that malfoy didn’t offer any words of affection. but what does harry know, anyway.

“alright, i’ll tell them that, then.”

malfoy offers him a nod and, finding a willing listener in harry, tells him of stories from his childhood. or, harry guesses, were things that occurred to the seven-year-old malfoy quite recently. he tells harry about that one time pansy and theo fell face first in a puddle of mud near the forests of the manor as he and blaise watched, giggling as he reenacts the episode.

he recounts stories of his new toy dragon (“that breathes real fire, harry!”) from diagon alley, his first flying lesson (“i was a natural, of course.”) and his new broomstick, and his potions tutoring sessions (“potions is fascinating so i like attending classes for it.”) from his godfather.

harry quietly listens, noticing that malfoy still points his nose up tauntingly, and the way his haughty air of confidence seems to permeate the conversation even now. as opposed to his absentmindedness earlier, harry now tries to absorb all that he can, overlapping this young malfoy with his malfoy—noticing their similarities and differences. one easy to smile, light dancing in his eyes, with the red of shyness colouring his face; the other a mere husk of a boy, always bearing a gloomy aura, with the grey of ash marking his arm and life.

“say, harry,” malfoy starts. “do you know of anyone named harry potter?”

harry startles, although he really should’ve known malfoy would know of him at this age. he was the reason voldemort was defeated in both wars, after all. “yeah, i know of him. i think it would be ignorant of me to not know, no?”

malfoy again goes red in the ears, fiddling with the paper holding the bouquet. harry thinks it endearing and laments the fact that he will never see these habits on the malfoy he knows. knew.

“once i go to hogwarts,” harry looks up at the malfoy in front of him. the one with rosy cheeks and a gentle smile, “i’m going to be the best of friends with harry potter.” he says this with such conviction and pride that harry feels his chest constricting.

harry looks up at the manor’s high ceiling, breathing hard and slow, willing his tears away.

“i made father buy me all the books on harry potter and i insisted mother read it to me at night rather than those useless beedle fables. did you know he was born a month, three weeks, and five days after me? that means we’ll be in the same year at hogwarts, so there’s a relatively high chance of me befriending him!” he exclaims, excitable at the concept of spending his seven years at harry’s side instead of opposite him.

june fifth, he remembers abruptly. harry remembers a litany of sweets, a rowdy slytherin table and an excessively gleaming malfoy.

his gaze strays from young malfoy and onto the plaque under the portrait: draco lucius malfoy, dated the 5th of june, 1987. malfoy would be turning 18 in three days and the reality of the situation once again strikes him.

harry suddenly wants to protect this boy, wants to gather him in his arms and tell him if he could do it again, he’ll grab his hand. he’ll hold a conversation with him instead of throwing around scalding insults and actually make an effort in maintaining a friendship. they’ll play quidditch together, draco would help harry with potions and harry would help draco with defence. they’ll eat together at the great hall and drink butterbeer at the three broomsticks and laugh under the tree at the black lake.

draco would help harry with the triwizard tournament, maybe even go to the ball with him. he would comfort harry after sirius died, and he would go with them to hunt horcruxes.

he wouldn’t be covered in scars that harry inflicted on him. he wouldn’t have been forced to make choices that killed him inside. he wouldn’t have been engulfed in those bright sentient flames in the room that became his perdition.

“swear to me that you won’t tell anyone?” draco brings harry back to their conversation, to existence. the number of times he’s drifted during this conversation is terribly concerning. “yeah, i promise,” he smiles ruefully, knowing that his promise is futile, both because he won’t be able to keep it (he needs to talk about this with a mind healer, or at least hermione), and because it’s simply pointless.

draco malfoy is dead. keeping or breaking this promise won’t change anything.

“listen, draco. i need to go—”

“not this soon? you haven’t even been here for an hour!” he whines.

“i know, i’m sorry. i just, i have other work to do, yeah? i told you your parents hired me to look over your house?”

“we have house elves for that. can’t you stay a bit longer? if you leave the other ones are going to come back and their discussions are absolutely banal,” draco pouts more, using the bouquet as a pointing tool. curiously, none of the petals are disturbed. “and they’re rather crass towards me.”

“i’ll make sure they’re moved then, so you don’t have to talk to them anymore. but i really do have to go. the house elves have been dismissed from the manor, that’s why they couldn’t attend to you when you called for them. so i’m here, along with a few others to look over the property, ok?” harry reasons. he stares at draco almost pleadingly, while draco simply regards him with a furrowed brow.

“fine,” draco relents. “but you’ll come back soon?”

“i will, don’t worry about that,” he smiles. a genuine one this time, mirthful instead of sorry.

“and you’ll relay my message to my parents?”

“yep, you can count on me.”

“alright, then. farewell for now,” he nods at harry, giving him a reluctant smile, like he doesn’t believe that harry will really come back for him, so harry adds on a promise of “i’ll see you later” before draco disappears into his portrait. harry watches the boy go, and turns to leave down the corridor he came.

he passes by a junior auror on the way back and requests to move draco’s portrait to a more isolated, but comfortable area, preferably in a wing the hasn’t been tainted by the war. hopefully draco won’t be too disgruntled by being moved.

the auror seems to be displeased at the fact that a non-auror is giving him orders, but he’s harry potter so they oblige. harry thinks using his name for things like this, personal sentiments, is more than acceptable given how much he sacrificed for the wizarding world.

walking down the stone path back to the gate, he recalls pale, slender fingers, cold on his own amidst the scorching flames. despite the touch being only a slight brush of limbs, harry thinks his right hand will be perpetually frigid.

he recalls shorter fingers toying with wrapping paper and baby pink rose petals, and blood rushing to pink cheeks and even pinker ears.

he leaves the manor feeling choked and a little worse than when he arrived. harry finally lets the tears fall, hot against his cheeks and glistening under the bright sun of wiltshire. all the same, he knows that he’ll be coming back.

it’s the only way he’ll be able to feel draco’s warmth again, after all.

[cielorinrin]

Broke: yeah fanfic is cool and yeah the characters have crazy chemistry and a crazy bond so it’s great that it’s being realized in fanfics but like, you know, it isn’t like real, it isn’t what the canon characters would want, you know. So like u can’t say that the ship is the best interpretation of the characters—

Woke: fanfic is a great way to realize the hidden potential in a lot of great works bc—

Bespoke: most times fanfic is more true to character than the acc film. Most times the relationships in fanfic are more true to character than the ones on paper. Most times this happens bc fanfic is made for love and creation sake while film and books are made with profit in mind

[cielorinrin]

"smart appliances" fuck u i want them dumb as a brick and incidentally as sturdy and enduring

[cielorinrin]

Doodle exercise

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[cielorinrin]

I never hated on any ship whatsoever (unless it's a kid and an adult, yuck) so this post isn't really about me but I have seen shippers like that and like???

To be clear, logic isn't a criteria in my shippings. I can ship characters from different shows if the vibes feel right. But to hate on one thing, then ship it when it's mlm, it's not only hypocritical but also fetish-y

Just to share, I prefer Zukka over Zutara because I saw the "that's rough, buddy" scene and thought, "ah their ship dynamic would be really silly lol" and then proceeded to read Zukka fanfiction.

something i really don’t understand about the atla fandom is that some people will rant and rave about how you shouldn’t ship Zuko and Katara because ��Katara has a lot of trauma surrounding the Fire Nation because the Fire Nation killed her mom and stole her dad away to war” and then those same people will turn around and ship Zuko with Sokka as if Sokka is not literally Katara’s brother

[cielorinrin]

no one ever talks about how young snape actually was when he became a professor at hogwarts and how he's the youngest in the staff. i want more fics where he's the baby of the staff and treated as such. like i wanna see everyone being protective of him

[cielorinrin]

Short Tsukkiyama story, no plot just angst

Words: 592

He stood frozen, the candy bar hanging loosely from his hands as he stared across the aisle at Yamaguchi. He hadn’t been spotted yet, but the sight of Yamaguchi chuckling began to ease the tension that had taken hold in his chest. Tsukishima unwittingly stepped forward, relief almost overflowing his veins, but then the realization took hold.

Yamaguchi. With Oikawa.

Yamaguchi laughing with Oikawa without a care in the world, like Tsukishima hadn’t been the one to make him laugh just two weeks before in that very same spot, like he wasn’t even needed.

And why should they need him? He was far too grumpy, far too rude, far too judgmental. Tsukishima remembered how it felt to absently say something scathing. He recalled with a distant ache the feeling of shame and guilt that had risen unbidden when Yamaguchi and Oikawa failed to laugh, when his words had just stopped coming for fear of ruining things again. That never happened to Oikawa. Not to proud, invigorating Oikawa, who could carry conversations without a thought. Tsukishima’s cold care could never compare to someone who could express his love and affection without shame. Oikawa lived and breathed attention and exuded confidence in every breath. Tsukishima’s confidence always came off as demeaning, his smiles threatening, his comments cutting.

Doubt took root in Tsukishima, paralyzing him where he stood. He could see as Oikawa reached behind Yamaguchi for a fruit, casually wrapping his arms around Yamaguchi’s waist and smiling as he swung him around to face him. There was an effortless grace in his movements that Tsukishima’s lanky limbs could never match. Yamaguchi smiled up at Oikawa in a way he hadn’t smiled at Tsukishima in a long time. The kind of smile that reached his eyes, that brought a happy flush to his cheeks, that made him look like a glowing star. The kind of smile that says “I love you”.

Tsukishima took a slow step back, eyes unable to break away from the scene. A bitter feeling was building in the back of his throat, muscles stiffening and fingers trembling. He wanted to look away, to shun the image from his mind and refuse to accept it. Refuse to accept that there could ever be a world in which Yamaguchi didn’t need him anymore, a world in which Yamaguchi moved on happily and he was left behind. But as Oikawa grinned back at Yamaguchi and tugged him closer, Tsukishima’s eyes tracked every miniscule movement. It was in his nature to watch, to anticipate motion and build a wall so vast no opponent could ever breach it. Yet as he tracked the smooth sweep of Oikawa’s hand across Yamaguchi’s face, there was nothing he could do to block the realization that Yamaguchi had stopped waiting for him.

Tsukishima felt a sharp sting in his chest and abruptly took a step back, removing Yamaguchi from his sight. It was strange, really. To anyone watching, there was no visible change in Tsukishima’s countenance. He always held himself a bit stiffly, too tall and lanky in his own body. With each step he took, however, he could feel his mood darkening. He supposed he could have tried to loosen up a little bit, to be more open to Yamaguchi. Tsukishima knew, though, that he could never compete with Oikawa’s exuberant affection. Not in the way that Yamaguchi wanted, or deserved. And if he never stood a chance, why even try?

He didn’t glance back up at Yamaguchi and Oikawa when he left. They wouldn’t have noticed either way.