#Carpet Cleaning Wands

[steamaster]

CRB Machine - Steamaster

[kikuism]

felt so accomplished and productive today taking apart the old vacuum cleaner: washing the filters choked with 8 years worth of dust, removing all the hair wrapped around the roller brush, emptying the dust cup. it's fully functional now....spent a good hour or so vacuuming the entire upstairs

[coyotelip]

wolfstar microfic: sword || wolfstar raising harry pt1 || @wolfstarmicrofic || wc: 433 || all parts on ao3

"Moony, Moony, look!” Before the door of the house could even open, Remus heard Harry's joyful voice on the doorstep.

The boy wasted no time in running to the living room to find Remus sitting on the couch.

“What do i have to look at?” Remus asks Harry gently as he runs over to him and grabs the man's knee with one hand, while the other lifts the toy in his hand. It's a very beautiful duplicate of the Gryffindor sword, covered with bright stones, but reduced to a child-friendly size. In the flow of his joy and excitement, Harry almost stabs the end of the imitation blade right into Remus' eye.

“Hey, careful there, wild lion,” Sirius appears in the doorway to the living room, still dressed in his leather jacket and warm scarf, but unlike Harry, he left his shoes at the entrance. “We've already discussed the muddy shoes on the carpet!” the man hugs the boy from behind and easily lifts him off the floor, carrying him back to the entrance.

Remus, meanwhile, cleans up the little mess of melted snow that Harry left behind with a wave of his wand. Standing in the doorway, he watches the now familiar scene of Sirius slowly undressing the toddler, taking care of every button and clasp until he frees the child from all the warm clothes and lets him run to his room to play with his new toy.

“A sword, huh?” Remus finally speaks up when they are alone. Meanwhile, Sirius takes off his outer clothing and comes closer. “I thought we agreed to something innocent? What happened to all the children's brooms and stuffed lions?”

“It's good to see you, too.” Sirius kisses him lightly on the pursed lips, smiling gently. “He already has five lions of different sizes and three functioning brooms. So the choice was between a sword or a toy potions set, and something tells me you'd be less than happy to have to clean up traces of simulated sticky things, vampire blood, and silver powder from every surface in the house later.”

Remus looks up at the ceiling, thinking for a second and wrinkling his nose at the thought of the mess. “So the lesser of two evils? But next time, nothing aggressive. We'll buy him a small telescope or something.”

“Yeah.” Sirius wraps his arms around Remus's torso, pressing his body, still cold from the street, against his warmth, and kisses his neck. “Actually, I have a gift for you too... but not here.” the man winks with a conspiratorial smile on his lips.

[randomshyperson]

Ribs - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

Summary: It's an afternoon like any other, but you and Wanda are grown up now. | Song Based.

Warnings: Mutual Pining, friends to lovers, fluff., some typical trope angst, high school. | Words: 1.755

A/N-> Old work that I found lost in the drafts, is part of a new collection "Song-Based". This one is based on "Ribs" by Lorde.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | Series Masterlist

-&-

The drink you spilt all over me

"Lover's Spit" left on repeat

My mom and dad let me stay home

It drives you crazy getting old

Your apologetic chuckle echoes through the room and mingles with Wanda's. She was wet - from the tip of her shirt to the hem - as was your left hand that had just accidentally turned the cup over your best friend.

"Fuck, Wanda, I'm sorry." You repeated once again, stumbling away from her and unknowingly allowing her to breathe normally without having you all over her. You left the glass in the kitchen sink and grabbed the first dishcloth you could find. "Here. To dry."

As she tried to lessen the damage to her wet blouse, you found another cloth to wipe up the drink that splashed on the floor, offering Wanda a wink as you caught her staring.

"Do you think your parents are going to kill me? They specifically told me to behave." Your comment makes her laugh slightly, and Wanda gives up drying her blouse.

"Don't worry, just wipe it off and I'll cover you." She assures, walking past the puddle. Your joke, whatever it was, dies in your throat as Wanda pulls the blouse off her body, and exposes her pale back and bra lock to you. 

Your face burns, and you immediately turn your attention back to the wet floor.

She leaves the kitchen for the bedroom, probably in search of a clean T-shirt, and if she notices your silence or misses your come back, she doesn't say anything.

–//–

You finish cleaning the kitchen floor first, and when Wanda comes out of the room - now wearing a large T-shirt that makes her look like she's not wearing shorts at all - you are in the living room again, tracing your fingers across the pictures on top of the fireplace.

Listening to her footsteps on the carpet, you comment on the photo you are looking at: 

"It seems like yesterday." Wanda looks at you curiously, and you point to the photo, turning your face to her. "Elementary school. You and me on the slide, Wands. It seems like yesterday, but it's been years. How crazy is it that we're already going to college?"

Wanda smiles fondly, moving closer to look at the photo. "Totally insane." She murmurs, chuckling softly when she has the picture in hand of the two of you playing together. "You haven't changed a bit, detka." 

You shrug, looking at the other pictures. "I like my hair better now." You comment, getting a hum in return. "And you have changed. You do look prettier." Wanda raises an eyebrow, surprised, and you look away. "N-not that you weren't pretty before, I mean..."

She giggles, returning the photo to the fireplace. "Are you drunk?"

You snort in embarrassment. "How could I, I knocked over all the wine." 

Wanda giggles again, stepping away before you can get any closer.

She walks over to the radio you forgot to turn on and decides to change Lover's Spit which has been on repeat for the last 30 minutes to something else.

You take a deep breath to yourself, trying to keep it together before staring at the picture for one last time.

"It's kind of scary, Wanda." You mutter. "We're growing up so fast."

Wanda looks over her shoulder at you. "At least we're growing up together." She reminds you, and it brings you such immediate peace that you feel silly for ever having felt fear.

“We can talk it so good

We can make it so divine

We can talk it good

How you wish it would be all the time”

Wanda carefully adjusted herself on the pillows, fearing that the slightest movement would wake you up and end the moment completely. Hours into what you called "hang around her place" as you two had always done since elementary school, and between stealing wine from her parents' shelf, dancing to music on the carpet, and pillow fights, you crashed together on the couch. You spent some time making small talk, dreaming about college until you said you had a funny video to show her on Tik Tok and Wanda ended up lying on your side. 

You fell asleep just before sunset, halfway through Little Women that you decided to watch after you got tired of the app, and Wanda was having the best and worst time of her life.

The best, because she felt too good with your body tangled up in hers, snoring softly against her collarbone. And worst, because you were her best friend - probably her only real friend - and it was terrifying how good that feeling was when she knows she was not supposed to feel like this about a friend.

She swallowed dryly, once and then twice, trying to keep her heartbeat under control inside her chest, fearing that the sound would wake you too. The movie played quietly on the carpet, Wanda had dropped her cell phone and simply didn't have the heart to move away.

She just stayed there, almost static for a good few minutes, feeling you breathe against her skin and warming her whole body at once.

Despite her efforts, you started to wake up. Maybe it was your favorite dialogue starting in the movie. She continued to stare at the ceiling, fearing that you were going to reprimand her for allowing you to snuggle with her without protest.

Instead, you chuckled low and squeezed a little tighter.

"Sorry, darling." You mumbled sleepily. "I'm not moving. 'm tired."

Your warning made Wanda chuckle with butterflies in her stomach. She figured that permission for her to move had just been granted as well, so she did, not letting go of you while she found a more comfortable position. You grumbled softly, your soft breath chilling the skin on Wanda's neck.

Perhaps to gain a little ground, or perhaps just because she wanted to, Wanda brought her hand to your hair, biting her lips at the immediate sigh of satisfaction she received when she began stroking them.

It took a moment, but you spoke again. "Wands, you are my favorite person in the world." You whispered against her pulse, and Wanda was sure you can feel it quicken. She froze, and before she could tense up, even more, you sighed. "Promise me nothing will change when we went to college."

She frowns and resists the urge to face you. "Why would anything change?"

You swallow dryly, one of your hands moves down to play with the edge of her T-shirt, and Wanda knows she is blushing at the feel of your fingers rubbing against her hip, but she says nothing about it. Just waiting for you to clarify what you meant.

"Like... Bucky and Steve." You mutter. "They were inseparable before Yale, but now..."

"We're not like Bucky and Steve, Y/N." She assures you, finally looking down. It takes you a moment to meet her gaze again, and Wanda understands that it's because, in this closeness, it becomes difficult to talk about anything. "Nothing is going to change between us. It's you and me forever, remember? Just like we promised."

Your gaze wavers, between the green irises and the pink lips, and Wanda hopes that everything changes between the two of you. 

"I'm going to miss this." You confess with a small smile. "Spending afternoons around your house."

Wanda smiles as well. "Spilling drinks on my favorite blouse too." She teases making you giggle and release her to tickle her. Wanda struggles to get away from your hands, but you fight back, and between giggles, you end up on your back on the carpet as you fall off the couch, increasing the other girl's laughter. She covers her face for the next minute. "Sorry, but you had it coming."

You giggle as well, sitting up leisurely until you are at the height of her face again. "I think I might just move to your dorm." You tell her. "I won't survive if I can't talk to you."

"Your fault for choosing another course." She tries to joke because you are looking at her in a way that makes her heart unlearn to beat properly. You smile, and you don't stop, just stare and stare until Wanda finally builds up the courage to break the distance.

The brushing of lips is as fast as the blink of an eye, but it freezes you. You sigh with your eyes closed, like Wanda, and are ready to surrender to the absurd attraction when the front door opens and you jump away as if you've been burned.

It is Pietro and Yelena returning from the summer club and they are loud enough to drown out the sound of your racing hearts, trying to disguise what they were doing. 

"Mama's gonna kill you, Wanda." Pietro suddenly emerged from the kitchen, with the bottle of wine she had forgotten to put away.

Wanda left the couch, never meeting your gaze again, with the perfect excuse to flee to the other commode.

Yelena threw herself into the seat she was occupying.

"How do you manage to spend all day locked in here? It's fucking hot." She commented, only noticing your awkward compartment because you were biting your lip so hard it was going to hurt. She frowned. "Did we interrupt something?"

You grimaced. "Don't start." You cut her off in desperation, looking back to check if Wanda or Pietro had heard the joke, but the two of them were arguing in the kitchen about the wine. "Don't say anything. Not today. Please."

Yelena looked worried. "Shit. We did interrupt, didn't we?"

Suddenly you seem almost on the verge of tears. Yelena has no chance to despair. You take a deep breath and push your emotions away at once.

"Oh, honey, you need to tell her." Yelena says, looking at you with compassion.

You deny it with your head, forcing a smile. "We're friends, Lena. I don't want to risk losing that."

The blonde sighed in defeat, looking into the kitchen as well to make sure none of the twins were coming back. She taps the seat next to her and waits for you to sit down.

"You like her. For a long time, Y/N." She insists in a low tone. "Being friends will never be enough if you like her that way."

You twiddle your fingers together, and when you hear the twins approaching, you nod to Yelena. "I'll tell her one day." And that ends the matter.

[texasjen13]

Hi Jen! Love your blog.

I need to tell you about the hypocrisy that has been going around in this fandom. I hope you will publish my ask because fans need to know how they are being manipulated.

I need to tell you about soultruths whose previous name was mysticalcarat. I know anons on your blog have speculated she is from Alba's side. She is but there something else you need to know. This blog has been created by acricleofstars. She has the same writing style and same opinion about tarot readings done for celebs. Circle has done readings for Chris in the past but now she has changed her opinion. The reason why she has created another blog to attack tarot readers is she can't do it openly as she and her group interacts with sideways for getting info. Soultruths threatens about legal action and so does Circle. Another similar opinion shared by both of them. Soultruths has reblogged posts from Circle. It is definitely her.

Another thing CaptRegina and her group has started working for ALba's team. They are cleaning her image of being a troll to his fans. They started doing it after VanityFair Carpet debut. Everyone can check Mid's blog and see for themselves what they did yesterday. They have also stopped defending Chris. Mid keeps posting asks calling Chris a p*do. Do you see what is happening?

Tlq and team real have been an apologist for her racism and CaptRegina and her group are now pushing she is not a troll and is living her life. Alba needs a clean image in HW to land roles. Bad reputation doesn't get anyone anything. CaptRegina wand her group is about to flip very soon like Maddy and Ginger. I request everyone to be careful and not believe their lies.

CaptRegina and her group needed money. Everyone remembers their scam and how they tried to earn money in the fandom. They have accepted to work for Alba just like Tlq and team real.

Thanks for sharing this I for one would never flip sides on Chris and Alba is a prickly little troll 🧌 who is out for his money 💰 💰💰💰. I call little gold digger even though she has her own money, she still is a gold digger, there are two types of gold digger’s one they don’t have a job and use a man for his money and two they have a job but don’t spend their money but their man’s money Instead. I’ve seen both

[fw00shy]

Accio is the only spell I know

part 2 of Slow Days, Bad Habits because I wanted to know what happened next

When Draco took someone home in LA, there was no cobblestone path, no chirpy doormat to prime guests as they walked up to his door. Instead, they entered through the garage and walked past the shelves of ancestral junk straight into his living room, where he forgot to clean up the takeaway from last night. It felt a bit like exposing all his guts to a stranger, and Draco blushed, plucking a fortune cookie wrapper from the carpet while Harry was distracted by a set of photographs hung up on the wall.

"You were so young in these," Harry said. He pointed to the one in the middle. "This is from first year, yeah? When you had your hair slicked back like a helmet."

"I'll never forgive Mother for that haircut," Draco said. He peered over Harry's shoulder and shivered with disgust. He wished he'd never been that boy.

"Oh come on," Harry turned, grinning. "It wasn't so bad. I thought it looked rather fetching, actually."

Draco raised a brow. "Really?"

"Really — well, I'd never met someone so blond in my life before. The perpetual sneer, however —"

"Let's not talk about the past," Draco said. He crossed the living room to the kitchen, his fingers drumming over the wine rack. "Cabernet? Pinot? Or, I've got a chard in the ice box —"

"Any will do," Harry said. He'd followed him into the kitchen and pulled out a chair from the little table in there.

"Oh," Draco said, watching Harry sit down at the scratched up table. Harry's skin looked sallow under the harsh lighting. Draco had thought they'd be in the living room — he hadn't thought — if he had known, he'd bought better lighting for the kitchen. He hadn't thought this through at all, this was a mistake, truly —

"Is everything alright?" Harry asked.

"Sure," Draco said. "Sure, let me just pop the cork—" he took out his wand — "Accio!" 

The wand flew across the room and hit Harry between the eyes. Draco watched with horror as the spot welted up and reddened an increasingly concerning shade of crimson.

"If you were trying to kill me —" Harry started, rather churlishly. 

"I wasn't!"

"— you missed. Again." Then he laughed and Accio'd the wine to himself, where he drank it straight out of the bottle.

"That's disgusting," Draco said, but he took the bottle and swigged when Harry offered it back. 

"It's lonely in LA," Harry said. He sighed, sinking into the chair. "I've been here four years and nobody knows who I am, which is great for the most part, but then there are moments when I feel — I feel like a part of me's gone missing. Like I look in the mirror and I can't remember who I used to be." He looked over at Draco. "I'm not like you." He smiled. "I change wherever I go. You haven't changed at all."

Draco tensed. "Let's not talk about —"

"The past, I know, I know," Harry said. "Say, you go to that farmer's market a lot?"

"Every week," Draco said.

"Even when it's raining?"

"It never rains here. That's the best part about LA. Sunshine every day whether you're up for it or not."

"And you like the sun?"

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Not really, no."

"You really haven't changed," Harry chuckled.

Draco frowned. "I don't know why you keep saying that."

"Saying what?"

"Saying that I haven't changed. That's — I don't like that. I've changed. I'm not Draco Malfoy anymore—"

"You've changed your name?"

"What? No. You know what I mean. I'm not the same boy who — who was a bully and a snob —"

"Still a bit of a snob. Not that I mind." He raised the bottle. "Snobs serve great wine."

"Are you even listening to me, Potter?"

Harry tipped back in his chair and grinned. "You really haven't changed a bit."

"Look here, Potter, I'm trying to apologise and —"

"Apology accepted," Harry said.

Draco blinked. "What?"

"Besides," Harry continued. "I think you've got my words all mixed up. Which, again — typical Malfoy behaviour. What I mean is you're still the same inside. You've changed your mind but not yourself. Even if you believe different things now — better things, in my opinion — you're still a posh git."

Relief spread warm across Draco's chest. "So you don't hate me?" 

"No, on the contrary. Being here's the first time I've felt at home in a long time. And you've still got that —" He blushed, looking away.

"Got what?"

" — nevermind."

"Tell me."

"No, I —" Harry's blush deepened. "It's a secret."

"I can keep a secret," Draco said. He lowered his voice. "Whisper it in my ear."

"Okay," Harry said. He leaned forward, cupping Draco's ear with his hand, his breath hot. "You've still got that cute dimple in your cheek."

Draco sat up, his hands flying to his burning cheeks. "Merlin!" he squeaked. Then he asked, maybe a little too eagerly, "Really?"

"You're so funny," Harry said. "Really."

"I've got a secret too," Draco said. 

"Whisper it to me," Harry said, offering up his ear.

"Okay," Draco said. He scooched their chairs closer, his hand on Harry's thigh as he leaned in and said, "You haven't changed either. You still drive me insane."

Harry's eyes squinted in confusion. "So does that mean—"

Draco kissed him on the nose. Then he pressed their mouths together, his hands on Harry's waist.

"I never know what you mean," Harry said, breaking away with a ragged breath. "At least, not at first."

Draco closed his eyes and breathed against Harry's neck. He thought about what Harry said, about how he'd changed his mind but not himself. Why had he spent so many years denying who he used to be? That Draco who made those mistakes was the same Draco who learned from them. One could not exist without the other. Was that so bad?

"But do you know what I mean now?" Draco asked.

"Yes," Harry said. "Do you?"

"Yes," Draco said. Harry's arms came up around Draco. Draco sighed, pulling him in closer.  And in that moment, he finally felt like himself again.

[atimeofyourlife]

@steddie-week Day 4- Hurt/comfort

cw abuse

Steve always felt on edge when his parents were coming home. It wasn't so bad if it was just his mother on her own, she was just distant most of the time. But his father was an asshole, and his mother was never able to stand up to the man no matter how much her son got hurt in the meantime.

This time felt worse. They'd only been home twice since Starcourt, and they hadn't returned to Hawkins at all in the eight months since the earthquake. Since Vecna. Since Steve had nearly died while saving the world. Again. The first time he'd spoken to them post-earthquake had involved them only wanting to know if the house had survived unharmed, and his father berating him for nearly thirty minutes for not answering their calls sooner, despite the fact that the phone lines had been down for a while, and emergency and official calls were the only ones getting through. And ignoring the fact that Steve had been in hospital for nearly two weeks as a result of his injuries, so he was unable to be home to answer the calls if they'd even gone through, he had pointed this out multiple times and got told not to be disrespectful. That his excuses weren't good enough.

As soon as he got the call that they were coming home, he started to withdraw from the party. Not completely, not disappearing. But not spending as much time around them, and not allowing anyone to come to his house. It wasn't anything against them, he was just spending every spare moment cleaning the house from top to bottom and didn't trust the kids, or Eddie, not to mess it up. He loved them, but they weren't the tidiest of people. Any one of them could enter a tidy room and within minutes it would look like a tornado had passed through.

He knew nothing he did would be enough, it never was. His father would find the tiniest faults, even things that weren't his fault and tear him apart for them. A few specks of dust in a corner that was nearly impossible to reach. A smudge on the outside of the window in the second guest bedroom. Sun damage to the curtains in the office that Steve didn't even have a key for. The black stain that wouldn't come out of the white carpet where his mother had dropped her mascara wand. The dent and bloodstain on the wall from where Steve had been shoved in anger for the first time.

All he wanted was to survive the few days they would be home, staying out of their way as much as possible. He'd signed up for as many extra shifts as he could, knowing it would make his father mad that he wasn't home, but he would be out of the firing line most of the time. He'd warned the others as soon as he knew the return date that they wouldn't see or hear much from him while his parents were home, and made it clear that no one was to even try calling. That he'd get Robin to pass on anything important after their shifts together.

Right from the first moment, it was bad. His father reprimanded him for coming home so late, not accepting that Steve had been at work. He was constantly talking about how poor the state of the house was, even though Steve had done everything short of hiring a team of cleaners to come in. How disappointing Steve was to still be working minimum wage, to not be applying himself, not trying to get into college. How frustrating it was that so many of their neighbors had left in the aftermath of the earthquakes, that they no longer had informers to keep them updated on all the wrong things that Steve was doing with his life.

His mother was horrified at the scar on his neck and, once she glimpsed them, the ones on his sides and back. But not in the way that she was concerned that her only child had been seriously injured in the earthquake. In the way that she was concerned about what it meant for their image. She started to push him to change how he was dressing, encouraging him to wear polo shirts that were buttoned right up, or turtlenecks to hide the scar. A range of different serums and oils and moisturisers, all with claims to improve the appearance of scars, started appearing in Steve's bathroom, along with pamphlets for the benefits of plastic surgery to reduce scarring. More than once he heard her crying on the phone about how ugly he was now, how now his looks were compromised, he had nothing left going for him.

The only thing that kept him going through it, was knowing that they wouldn't stay long. Then he'd be free to crawl back in with Eddie and be held until it felt alright. He'd be able to spend as much time as he needed with Robin. He'd be able to host the kids and keep up with them again. Little things helped, like seeing Robin on their shared shifts, or Eddie popping into Family Video whenever he wasn't busy with his job at the mechanics. But the stories and jokes they told made it hurt worse, knowing he was missing out.

One morning there'd been a big blowout fight. His father making it clear that by the next time they were home, Steve had better have a plan for what he was going to do in life, because if he was just going to be content working a job that was below the status of someone bearing the name Harrington, he would need to find another place to live. Steve left much earlier than he would have, claiming that he needed to do inventory before the store opened. He nearly went to Eddie's, but that would make it too easy for him not to go in to work.

When he got home, the first thing he noticed was that the car was gone. He couldn't help but get his hopes up, despite knowing they could just be out for dinner. On the kitchen counter was a note in his mother's loopy handwriting. Saying that they'd be gone for a few months, and that Steve had better remember what he'd been told. He just screwed up the note and left it where it had been sat, before heading back out, to the place he felt the safest.

The trailer was empty when Steve got there, but he let himself in with the key he'd been given months before. He only bothered to kick his shoes off before crawling into Eddie's bed. Finally being able to relax as he breathed in the familiar scent.

He hadn't noticed that he'd drifted off until the bed dipped with Eddie's weight. "Hi, sweetheart. They gone now?"

Steve just nodded, curling into his boyfriend's side, craving the soft touch.

"That bad, huh? What do you need?"

"Just you. Missed you." Steve mumbled.

"You've always got me. And I missed you too. So much, Stevie. But didn't you want to talk about it?" Eddie laid down next to Steve and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

"It's the usual. But as well as being a disappointment I'm ugly now too."

"You're never ugly. If it's those scars, they prove how strong you are. That you survived. That you kept everyone as safe as possible. And they can never take that away from you. We could get a place together, somewhere where their opinions don't matter."

"Love you," Steve whispered, leaning up to kiss Eddie, the first time in more than a week.

"I love you too. You are the best person I know, and you mean the world to me."

-

The next time the call came in saying that his parents were coming home, Steve was not there to hear it. He had a home with Eddie and Robin. It was small, but more of a home than the large, empty house in Loch Nora could be any day. Steve only left a note telling his parents where they could shove their opinions, along with his keys to the property. No contact number, no forwarding address. No way for them to destroy his peace and happiness.

In the notes I made before writing this, I specified that it would be actual hurt/comfort and not hurt/no comfort because my brain has just wanted to be in angst mode recently. Also on AO3

[deconstructthesoup]

How the library changes based on the chapters in Slay the Professor:

Chapter 1: "The interior of the library is unassuming. The walls are lined with shelves that are full of old books, the floors are made of wood that creak gently underneath your feet, and you can imagine that it would have been a nice place before it was abandoned. The only real furniture of note is a librarian's desk sitting near the door to the basement, empty except for a single, pristine blade."

The Wizard: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves are designed in a whimsical fashion, filled with spellbooks, magical wands, and small cauldrons. The floor is now carpeted and plush under your feet, with designs that bring to mind the changes of the phasing moon, and there is a skylight overhead that lets in the moonlight. The door to the basement has the same moon-phase design, and looks almost inviting. Even the desk is different, with a curved and delicate design... but the pristine blade is still the same."

The Warlock: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves are seemingly made out of the roots of gnarled trees, and all of the books are bound in what looks like snakeskin. Packed dirt lies beneath your feet, and the floor is lined with roots that threaten to trip and snag. The door to the basement is no longer a door, but a series of vines intertwined in a thick, near impassable curtain. Even the desk is different, seemingly carved from an incredibly large tree root... but the pristine blade is still the same."

The Creation: "The library has changed since you last saw it. Cobwebs line the bookshelves, which are filled with books that look old to the point of disintegration. The floorboards appear in danger of collapsing under your feet if you take a false step, and you get the sensation that you are the first person to come here in a great number of years. The door to the basement, on the other hand, appears to be reinforced steel, meant to be keeping someone inside. Even the desk is different, the wood rotted from age and withered over time... but the pristine blade is still the same."

The Scientist: "The library has changed since you last saw it. Lights flicker overhead, illuminating shelves that contain lab equipment and jars full of animal remains alongside books that appear stitched---not out of leather or cloth, but out of skin. The floor is a cracked tile with stains of an unidentifiable nature, and... oh, god. The door to the basement has been blasted off its hinges, and the desk has been overturned, leaving the pristine blade lying on the floor."

The Academic: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves now reach up twice as high, towering over you and making you feel incredibly small. The floor is covered in a rug with a design that resembles an eye, giving off the sensation of being watched. The door to the basement, like the bookshelves, has doubled in size, inscribed with lettering in languages you cannot understand. Even the desk is different, now circular and large enough that a stepstool is needed to reach it... but the pristine blade is still the same, perched on the very edge."

The Archivist: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves are no longer bookshelves, but rows and rows of file cabinets, some open to display files inside. The floors are hardwood, yet much sturdier than the first time you came here, barely registering your footsteps. The door to the basement appears to be just a simple office door with an illegible nameplate. Even the desk is... well, not very different at all, just a little more clean than before. But the pristine blade is still the same.

The Doctor: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves now resemble a series of large rolling carts, filled with old magazines and medical tools that appear to be stained with blood. The floor is linoleum and just as bloody as the tools, speaking wonders to the individual living here. Even the desk is different, resembling more of an examination table than anything else... but the pristine blade is still the same.

The Dragon: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves are now made of carved rock, and contain treasure chests full of precious gems and metals alongside the gilded spines. Everything else in this place is made of stone, right down to the door---no longer a door, but a boulder to be rolled to the side. The desk is now just a slab of rock coming up from the floor... but the pristine blade is still the same."

The Inventor: "The library has changed since you last saw it. The bookshelves more closely resemble display shelves that you would see in a workshop, and there are odd little clockwork contraptions resting alongside the books. The floor is now made of industrial-like metal, causing the sound of your footsteps to be almost deafening. The door is surrounded by pipes and has a clockwork design on it, giving off the impression of a complicated mechanism. Even the desk is different, now just a worker's bench placed carelessly in the corner... but the pristine blade is still the same."

The Substitute: "The library has changed since you last saw it. It is a patchwork of so many different libraries, blended together in an ill-fitting design that seems on the verge of falling apart. The only thing that's clear---the only thing that makes sense---is the pristine blade, still sitting on the desk."

[steamaster]

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[barry-j-blupjeans]

Arcade Carpet and Totally Chill, Nothing Can Prove Otherwise with Dealer's Choice :3

object + emotion prompt list here! send some in!

18. Arcade carpet

4. Totally Chill, Nothing Can Prove Otherwise

--

"Sir," said the tiny fancy boy at the prize counter, "are you using wizardly magicks to make the funky fresh carpet pattern into penises?"

The air was rich with the smell of sweat and obtrusively smelling cleaning products. Taako had been on shift for exactly four hours so far and it was not getting any better. It wasn't getting any worse, either, but who could say what would come next? The lights were just as flashy and headache-y as usual. Taako had snuck to the sound booth (read: the computer that controlled all the music that had a neon label that said SOUND BOOTH) and lowered the music to a reasonable level, but some godly power had turned it right back up.

Honestly, who could blame him for having a little fun? The worst day at a children's arcade was better than the best day at a court-ordered anger management class. Or however that saying went. He usually wouldn't revert to messing with the decor until about five hours into his shift, but he was feeling a little spicy today.

Plus, it's not like anyone could prove it was him.

"Nah," Taako said, leaning against the counter. "It's always been like that."

"It— it hasn't," the fancy boy says. He's got a light-up wand that he got from Taako's counter earlier. He'd been in here for an hour or so already, methodically going around the building and figuring out how to get the most tickets. He'd already come up to Taako four times to ask about game mechanics. "It was triangles and circles before."

"Mmmmh, nope," Taako said. "It's always been dicks."

The fancy boy frowned, looking at the carpet again. He took a few steps back towards the gaming area and then stopped.

"No, sir, it stops here," he said. "It's— it's very clearly not penises from this point onward— oh, well, now this is just rude, sir."

The floor magicked back to normal, except for about a two-foot circle around the fancy boy. When he took a step, the far superior, expertly crafted pattern followed him like a shadow. He scurried back up to the prize counter, a scrutinizing look on his face. He then glanced over his shoulder, as if someone might be watching their interaction. Honestly, Taako figured that if someone was spying and able to hear over the suddenly deep chorus of Fireflies by Fantasy Owl City, they deserved to hear every word.

But the fancy boy seemed to think the coast was clear. He leaned over the counter and said, in a low voice,

"Is magic not banned in here?"

"Read the sign, kid," Taako said, pointing the the sign above his head that read "NO MAGICKS ALLOWED IN THE ADVENTURE ZONE©." In smaller text, below it, it read, "for full Adventure Zone© magic related rules and services, please see one of our friendly PARTY MEMBERS for details."

"Yeah, but you just did magic," the fancy boy said. "So there's no like, barrier or runes to stop magic use inside the building."

Taako liked the turn this was taking. He raised his eyebrows at the fancy boy.

"You could say," he said. "And why, pray tell, are you asking?"

"Well," the fancy boy said. "If I pay the games the normal, non-magical way, it'll take me approximately nine hours to get enough tickets for the detective kit you have on the wall."

The fancy boy pointed at the wall of prizes. Near the very top, above the long plush snakes and the bin of Hot Wheels, a shiny play-pretend detectives kit was sitting, priced at 14,000 tickets, which was truly absurd.

"Only, I don't have nine hours, sir," the fancy boy said. "And frankly, I don't have the pocket money for five hours. So if, maybe, we could turn a blind eye to the rule— which seems very important and I respect that— then I could be out of here in about, uhm! Thirty minutes, tops. And then you don't have to deal with me and the birthday party that's about to start."

Both of them looked at the mom trying to wrangle her excited child through the doorway. The child had a pin on that said "BIRTHDAY GIRL". She looked like a feral cat.

"That's a tempting offer, little man," Taako said. He glanced around. No one was gonna come up to the prize counter any time soon. These kids were too sugar-powered to care about anything more than beating each other in stupid arcade games for babies. "You get me one of those fucked up bears—" Taako pointed at the wall behind him once more. Slightly below the detective kit was a poor attempt at a teddy bear, which looked more like a failed demon exorcism. "And we've got a deal."

"Deal," the fancy boy said, holding out his hand. "It's nice doing business with you Mr…" he squinted at Taako's name tag. "Tay-co?"

"You never pronounce my name like that again and we're good to go, kid."

[mrsarnasdelicious]

Blue Jones NSFW Alphabet

A = After (what they’re like after sex)

He sucks at aftercare. He needs aftercare. Tell him he's done well, help him clean up and snuggle him. Hold him, rock him to sleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself it is of course his cock, guy is hung and he is so fucking proud of it.

On you, your tits and your ass, because he is a letch.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Doesn't cum very much, but has a very short refractory period. Loves to see you swallow, but loves it more to watch it drip from your pussy/ass.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He is a major exhibitionist. He fantasizes fucking you on stage, in front of a big, awed audience.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Very experienced, with a lot of diverse kinks, might even had some bisexual encounters under his belt.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Girls on top, hands down. He loves seeing your boobs bounce and let you do all the heavy lifting.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He tries to deflect your assertion by joking sometimes, but it never lasts long, because he craves it so much.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He's quite well groomed, actually, keeping the top trimmed and the balls shaved.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He'll pretend not to give a shit about romance and gentler aspects of your sexlife, but it is all a lie. He adores it when you are not just sexually intimate, but also romantic. He needs your affection like he needs oxigen.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Daily, at least three times. Especially when watching the girls perform. Guy just is horny all the time.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

FemDom, Edging, voyeurism, orgasm denial, masochism, humiliation and body worship (giving).

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His office, the bedroom, the hot tub and his personal seat in the club.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It's easier to ask what does not turn him on. All you have to do is be near him. Or when he is on stage, or when he is bossing the girls around. He's always turned on.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Pegging, bodily waste and daddy (tho he pretends that isn't the case)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

BOTH. He loves getting head and he adores eating muff. He is fucking good at eating puss too, especially when you praise him!!!

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

If he is left in charge, he will be fast and rought, too greedy to calm it down, but if you take charge, he loves it slow, with looots of edging.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Absolutely! All you have to do is say the word and he is throbbing and ready for you!

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

You know he will not knock anything he has not tried yet, man's read the kama sutra and stuff. He is very risk taking in every aspect of his life, so also between the sheets.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can go for five round in a good long session. He usually lasts average, but with edging, he does very well in endurance, too.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Oh he wants to use a lot of toys on you, but you usually have him deep in subspace before the can really get the chance to. There are times, when he has behaved himself exceptionally well for a full week, he's allowed to use your magic wand to drive you into absolute overstim.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He thinks he wants to tease you, but this never pays off well for him. He looooooves it when you tease him, though. Rile him up, draw it out, make him lose his mind!

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Oh you know he is loud! He moans and whines like an absolute pornstar. And he cannot shut up. Constant begging and dirty talk.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Blue really really wants to be dommed, but there is always his ego that needs to be broken down first, every single session. He will never grow into it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He has an oddly graceful cock. He's cut, quite thick and proportionally long. He's quite veiny, but it fits him.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Resting Mood: Horny!

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He zonks off right away, sessions take a lot of him emotionally and he has been on his feet most of the night, he needs his beauty nap.

[bi-focal12]

Idolish7 fanfic- Morning (1,210 words)

a friend showed me this clip of Idolish7 and i've been binging the show ever since

this is my contribution to the fandom lol

--

“Iorin,” Tamaki whined, slumping into the doorframe of their dorm bathroom, still dressed in his pajamas. “Where’s my toothbrush?”

Iori continued straightening his school tie in the mirror, sparing an irritated glance towards his team member. “I’m not your mother.”

Tamaki’s head slumped lower on the frame. “But Iorin, it’s not there.”

“Where else would it be?” Iori shot back, thankful that Tamaki’s closed eyes allowed him to stealthily tally up the toothbrushes scattered around the sink. 

Iori’s toothbrush was resting upright in the cup meant for toothbrushes, as was Sogo-san’s and Yamato-san’s. Nagi-san’s- an obnoxiously pink, wand-shaped thing- was beside the cup at least, and Mitsuki’s was balanced on the tiny line of counter ledge the same way he’d done since they were young, and Nanase-san’s was in the shower like a heathen. 

Tamaki’s toothbrush was not there. 

“King pudding,” Tamaki mumbled. 

Iori stomped on his foot and Tamaki jerked to attention with a cry. “Don’t you dare fall asleep!” Iori chastised. 

“But-”

“Either go find it or go buy a new one, but if you’re late getting back I will leave for school without you.”

Tamaki yawned. “I’ll just have a mint.”

Iori frowned. “That’s unsanitary.”

“Then I’ll ask the manager for one.”

“That’s rude.” Iori pushed past Tamaki to exit the bathroom. “She’s way too busy already to go running errands for you.”

Tamaki groaned, letting Iori’s small nudge of his shoulder turn into a slow-motion pantomime of being shoved to the ground. “I just won’t go to school then,” he said, curling up on the hallway’s dirty carpet. 

Iori huffed and stepped over Tamaki’s limp body to make his way towards the kitchen where Sogo-san, predictably, sat at the table nursing a warm cup of tea. 

The mug was halfway to his lips when he noticed Iori’s approach and he paused, smiling. “Oh, Iori-kun. Good mo-”

“Tamaki’s on the ground because he’s lazy and can’t find his toothbrush and won’t go buy a new one and if he tries to leave the house with me without cleaning his mouth I might kill him.”

Sogo-san hardly blinked while Iori explained the situation, and only after a long sip of tea that had Iori tapping his foot on the ground in impatience did he finally say, “You’re not really a morning person, are you, Iori-kun?”

Iori frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sogo-san smiled gently. “You’re just normally a lot more…level-headed.”

“I’m being level-headed,” Iori huffed, “I went and got you, didn’t I?’

Sogo-san blinked. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Iori, maturely, resisted the urge to groan aloud and walked (not stomped) to the fridge instead to pour himself a glass of orange juice. As he watched the glass fill with bright pulpy liquid, he mentally recited, it’s good for you, there are antioxidants, it helps your gut and when he felt marginally more relaxed he turned to Sogo-san. Calmly. 

“You manage him for Mezzo, don’t you?”

Sogo-san made a so-so gesture with his head, mouth twisting with uncertainty and what were probably thoughts he wouldn’t dare let escape his polite mouth. 

“So manage him,” Iori demanded, downing his glass in one go and depositing it in the sink where it belonged. He wrinkled his nose at the myriad of cups still littering the counter from yesterday. 

Iori lived with a horde of pigs. 

Sogo-san continued to drink his tea, lightly tapping out the melody to one of their most recent songs on the tabletop with the soft pad of his fingertip.

The clock continued to tick away. 

Iori marched to the chair directly opposite him and stared- maturely and unflinchingly. 

Ten seconds, Iori predicted. 

Sogo-san’s tapping turned more forced, his gaze darting anywhere but Iori. 

Eight…

“He’s not my responsibility, you know.”

Iori lightly tipped his head in acknowledgement, then let his gaze track pointedly over all the empty chairs surrounding them. 

Six…

“Tamaki-kun needs to learn to do things for himself,” Sogo-san pointed out. “This could be a learning experience!”

Iori raised his eyebrow. 

Sogo-san’s mouth twisted. 

Four…

“This isn’t even Mezzo related. Not really.”

Iori scoffed. 

Three…

“Maybe…maybe he’s already gone looking for his toothbrush?” he suggested hopefully. 

Two…

Iori discreetly held his breath, hoping to punctuate the perfect silence permeating the dorms. There was absolutely no toothbrush-related ruffling. 

One. 

“Oh, fine,” Sogo-san sighed, rising unhappily from the table and pointing a finger towards Iori, “but I’m not his keeper.”

“Uh-huh,” Iori agreed lightly. 

“I’m not,” Sogo-san repeated, denial thick on his tongue as he walked toward the bathroom, tea still in hand. 

“And I don’t have a thing for idiots,” Iori murmured under his breath. 

There were still fifteen minutes before he and Tamaki needed to leave for school so maybe he could just shut his eyes for a-

Nanase-san suddenly pulled out the chair beside Iori and shot him a grin far too sunny for the early morning hour, placing two plates of toast down. “You don’t have a what?” he asked pleasantly, sliding one toward Iori. 

Iori squinted in the face of such brightness, then cleared his throat.

“Nothing. Is this all you know how to make?”

Nanase-san’s bright smile melted into a frown. “I told you I’ve never lived on my own before,” he complained. 

Iori took a bite of the offering, pleased. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“I am not,” Nanase-san denied halfheartedly, too used to this particular insult to rise to the bait like he had when they had first formed Idolish7. 

Iori would just have to try harder, then. 

“You didn’t even make anything at all! How’re you gonna stay healthy for the group if you’re skipping meals, huh?”

Iori spared a glance at Nanase’s overly sincere expression to ensure he wasn’t making things up but no, Nanase’s best rebuttal was an earnest appeal to Iori’s health. 

How cute. 

Iori cleared his throat. “How could I cook with Tamaki-kun making such a fuss?”

“What? Tamaki’s still asleep in the hallway.”

A spike of irritation shot through Iori. After he’d gone through all that effort to get Sogo-san to solve the problem, too. 

“He better not be. I’ll kill him.”

Nanase-san laughed, unfairly awake and amused at such an early hour. His right hand rested comfortably on the back of Iori’s chair. “You’re not much of a morning person, are you?”

Iori was…not sure what kind of a person he was, yet. 

Still, he knew he found delight in giving Nanase-san a hard time and, mature as he was, Iori couldn’t see a reason to give that up when it made him feel so pleasantly warm. 

Iori shrugged carelessly, tucking away any hint of the smile he felt growing in his chest. “Maybe I’d be cheerier if you didn’t burn my toast.”

“What?” Nanase-san exclaimed. “No way! I didn’t burn anything!”

Iori stared at him blanky until Nanase-san began to fidget, his cheeks taking on a bit of the color Iori worked so hard to see everyday. 

“Well,” Nanase-san mumbled, eyes darting away, “you ate it anyway so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

Iori rose from the table and placed his empty plate in the sink, where it belonged, lips curling upward only with Nanase-san at his back. 

“I’m very polite, Nanase-san.”

“Polite my ass.”

[solitaire-sol]

02. Soft

For: @prongsfoot-microfic Month: December 2023 AO3: Link Notes: Merry (possibly belated) Christmas, and equivalent holidays, to everyone who celebrates them! I just wanted to put out a little Christmas fluff to break my lack-of-posting streak. <3

They’d spent the day out-of-doors, tramping through snow-covered fields and wading through thigh-high drifts like colder, friendlier quicksand, competing to build the most ostentatious snow sculpture before trying to stuff snow down the back of each other’s coats. By the time James and Sirius had returned to the house, the coats in question thoroughly soaked when the snow-stuffing had become an impromptu wrestling match, twilight had already fallen and the village had been illuminated by festive lights and flickering tapers in red and white wax.

Christmas had come to Godric’s Hollow, or at least it was nearly there, and the air was layered with pine and cinnamon over the fresh, clean, cold scent of new-fallen snow. James and Sirius wandered back to James’ house, where the windows were glowing in warm welcome despite the fact that no one was home: James’ parents had gone visiting, as they did every holiday, and James would normally go with them except that Sirius was there, which took priority. James had been apologetic when he’d informed his mother and father, but Euphemia and Fleamont hadn’t seemed at all surprised-- The boys were old enough to look after themselves for a night or two, and the ‘old folks’ had departed with only a few cursory warnings against burning the cottage down.

After the two of them had stamped the snow from their boots, discarding their sodden coats in the mudroom, they'd only had to glance at each other before they were racing for the stairs, elbowing each other mostly-playfully as they clattered up the carpeted steps and separated at the landing: James darted into his room, then into the adjoining bathroom, while a hastily-slammed door from down the hall signalled Sirius' disappearance into the guest bath. Taps were turned, prompting hot water to rush out from pipes charmed to convey the perfect temperature, and the billowing steam fogged up the mirrors in each bathroom. Sirius, still his mother's son, couldn't help but take the time to wash and detangle and mostly dry his hair; so that by the time he made his way back downstairs, James was already in the kitchen, a towel around his shoulders and his hair still damp from the bath as he applied frothy whipped cream to two mugs of hot chocolate with far more care than he showed in Potions.

James looked up as Sirius entered the kitchen, passing him the mug with a cartoonish dog gazing mournfully up on the side; their fingers brushed together, just a little, and something in Sirius was warmed by more than just the hot bath, more than just the heat from the ceramic under his palm. James' mug had an out-of-proportion deer on it in the same cartoony style, both cups were bought as a joke the year before, but they were 'their' mugs and saw plenty of use whenever Sirius came to stay. The mugs were a set, after all, just as Sirius and James made a pair.

Hot chocolate successfully procured, the boys made for the plush sofa in the living room, where Sirius stoked the embers in the fireplace with a flick of his wand as James flung himself onto the couch with reckless disregard for the whipped cream and molten chocolate in his hand.

“Budge up,” Sirius ordered, causing James to grin at the faux-authority in his tone, and there was a good deal of jostling and wriggling before they found something that suited them-- Half-sprawled across the length of the sofa, Sirius' back wedged in the corner of the backrest and the couch's arm, James' back to his front. Long limbs and lean bodies slotted together with zero room to spare, and something that might still have attracted covert stares and curious speculation in the Gryffindor common room could be as easy and as natural as it felt. Sirius reached behind him with his free hand and seized a handful of the thick quilt draped over the sofa’s back, pulling it forward and draping it over James, who picked up the edge and tucked it around them like a two-occupant cocoon.

It might have surprised those curious Housemates to hear the surprisingly gentle cadence of the conversation that followed, which rose and fell according to the whims of the boys now cuddled together on the overstuffed sofa, the twinkling lights of the large evergreen in the corner creating a private constellation in the firelit dimness. Christmas at the Potters' was nothing like Christmas with the Blacks, who acknowledged the holiday in the way they did so many other things: With a deliberation that was at once both slightly ostentatious and severe, all overworked house elves and enormous silver punch-bowls that had once belonged to some storied precursor who’d flavored his glühwein with his enemies' blood. Sirius had years of receiving gifts from his parents, and occasionally they'd even been things he wanted, but there had been nothing like Christmas with James' family, all three in ridiculous jumpers that Euphemia knitted and Fleamont loved and James wore with pride. Their tree, always a superb specimen from the woods around the Hollow, was always all but smothered beneath the tinsel and enchanted tapers and sugared gingerbread, and hidden among the branches were multiple ornaments shaped like the letter 'J,' each in a different style, one for every year of James' life.

When Sirius spent his first Christmas with the Potters, Euphemia presented him with a jumper of his own, and James' gift had been an elaborately wrought letter 'S' to hang next to the other ornaments on the tree. "I'll get you another one next year," James had promised, and Sirius had laughed and called James a sop and pretended to study the weave of his jumper to hide the gratitude in his eyes.

James had been as good as his word-- James always was, when it mattered, and Sirius mattered to him, even if James showed it through deeds and not quite through words. It was evident on that night, in the way that James could be quiet with Sirius, in the way that the boy who always carried himself as if he were centre-stage could drink his hot chocolate and speak only when he felt like it, not when he felt he had to. That these feelings were returned, nebulous and as-yet-undefined as they were, was obvious in the way that Sirius allowed himself to enjoy the sweetness of the hot chocolate and the milky flavour of the cream, childish tastes that he'd never been allowed to develop but which, like so many other things, he was able to experience through James' presence in his life. Sirius had been honed by his family until he'd become as bright and as sharp as a blade; but with James, with James alone, there was no need to bring that blade to bear. James could disarm Sirius without really having to try, perhaps because James so readily showed Sirius the vulnerabilities that James would otherwise never admit he possessed.

When the mugs were emptied and set on the coffee table, when the logs in the fireplace were burning low and neither James nor Sirius felt inclined to stir them to life, the clock on the mantel began to chime. “Midnight,” James observed, relaxing against Sirius and smiling into the firelight, his fingers twisting idly into the fabric of Sirius’ sleeve. “That makes it Christmas Day. Happy Christmas, Padfoot.”

“Happy Christmas, Prongs,” Sirius replied, his voice soft, his eyes softer. Sirius didn’t quite smile, still somewhat unused to the way that James could make him feel-- Like the first day back at Hogwarts with his friends, like Monty and Effie smiling at him over the breakfast table, such times with James were too precious for Sirius to take lightly, and he would never quite master James’ knack for cradling everything in a grin. Even so, if only for a moment, it seemed like the world beyond the front door had faded into a pleasantly indistinct haze, and all that really mattered was that cosy living room and that glowing fire and the quilt that smelt faintly of lavender, the lingering sweetness on his tongue and the warm, solid weight of James against him, as if that was how they were always meant to be. James’ breathing flattened and slowed as he drowsed, ever able to fall asleep with an ease that Sirius sometimes envied, and Sirius let himself follow suit, his murmured words almost lost beneath the steady crackling from the fireplace.

“You mean the world to me.”

[audrxyweasley]

As a fun little tumblr exclusive to coincide with the third chapter of Rebuilding Bridges, my angsty post war Percy-centric fic focused on him being forced to finally go about repairing the gaps between him and the Weasley’s, here’s a draft snippet opening to the upcoming forth chapter: Charlie, which I’m hoping will be ready to post for Saturday!

An unpleasant headache rang out in Percy’s ears as he awoke on the floor of his office, not for the first time, picking dry strands of carpet from his parched tongue as he flipped himself over onto his back, shielding his eyes from the light and attempt to settle his stomach somewhat before even considering bringing himself to sit up. He felt his gag reflex stirring regardless, and he swallowed a vomit flavoured burp with a groan as he watched the ceiling spin above him.

“Morning, Mister Weasley!” Audrey said with an infuriatingly chipper tone, “seems I’m in charge today,” she continued as he forced himself to the side and pushed himself into a sitting position on weary arms, leaving his glasses on the carpet behind him as he pressed his face into his knees. Maybe there should be some shame in his assistant seeing him like this, but whenever his brain began drifting down that familiar path he was forced to reckon with the states that Audrey had found him during the war, bloody arms still seeping out onto the same well cleaned carpet from lazy attempts at who knows quite what as she’d strolled in with the same calm professionalism that he recognised from within himself as a lie.

“What on earth are you on about, Audrey?” He forced out when he was eventually certain that his stomach wouldn’t follow, although like most of these mornings, he made no attempt to move from the carpet. In the same well executed reminder, Audrey forced open the curtains, a slight twitch on her lips at the wince it elicited from Percy as he attempted to shield his eyes and overbalanced, crashing back down onto the carpet with a desperate retch that warranted little more than a tut in return.

She smoothed down her skirt as she began sending paperwork every which way with a few pointed jabs of her wand, “you’re going home, Mister Weasley, Minister’s orders,” she replied in the sort of tone that made it very clear she was simply humouring him, “bumped into him in the lift with your Father you see, not sure what you’ve done, but they both seemed rather unhappy.” She glanced down to him on the carpet with a wrinkled nose, “personally I can’t begin to see why,” she muttered sarcastically before continuing, “I’d use the floo if you can manage it without spewing on some poor bag carrier, I reckon you’ll leave behind much more than an eyebrow at the apparition point, otherwise.”

Clearly the Ministry gossip wheel had been turning against him, Percy realised with a bitter scowl. If his day managed to get worse, he thought, it would be noteworthy, perhaps worth awarding some twisted medal dedicated to making him suffer. The chances of that, however, were minimal, Percy desperately reassured himself.

Sadly, Percy had never much had anything worthy of assuring in the first place.

[ask-elland-n-will]

Nosy, drenched from the rain outside and with muddy paws, chirped happily, pleased with himself. It was time for a little mischief.

Spotting the Prefect walking in the corridor, the Niffler started waddling towards him with a determined glint in his eyes, his little feet leaving a trail of wet paw prints on the floor. He stopped right in front of of the red-head and stared up at him with a smug look, his face beaming with cheeky intent.

Without a second's pause, the little menace began to wildly shake his soaked fur, sending water droplets flying all over Will’s clothes. A perfect spray pattern, if Nosy did say so himself.

But Nosy wasn’t done yet, oh no. He pranced around with his muddy paws, leaving prints all over William's once-pristine shoes. The Teal King acted dumbfounded, honking as if to say, "Oh no! Was that Nosy? Nosy is so, so sorry."

To add a final touch, Nosy, still wet and muddy, started to hug the Prefect's leg, smearing dirt all over his pants. Nosy snickered to himself before looking up at William with the most innocent, wide-eyed look he could muster. "You are not angry at little old me, right?"

"No."

Those were the first words that left the prefect's mouth, and he instantly knew that he done goofed. It was a mistake, telling this particular niffler a "No". Will was the one who required further training on how not to keep the teal waves from crashing down on him. And oh, he felt a tsunami coming, judging from the cheeky squint of Nosy's eyes.

"Bath first, NOW!"

Another crucial mistake, born out of panic. Partially from the content of the command, and partially because his voice treacherously cracked at the last word. Can nifflers sense fear? Merlin, please let the answer be negative.

Hands busy with books, William couldn't even get his wand out for a quick "Protego" when the downpour began. And if that wasn't enough, he watched in dejected confusion as Nosy stepped on Will's shoe. Once. Twice. Oh, it was not an accident, was it?

"Having fun?" Will said, reproachfully, but deep inside found it amusing as well. Not that he would show it. For educational purposes. But he already had dirt on the lower part of his uniform, Nosy can't make it dirtier than that with his little paws.

"Good noble nifflers do all that before entering the house. They shake off the water and dirt."

Will did as he said, shaking his head, making a mess of his hairstyle. He had to blow the hair off his face, accompanying it with a nudge of his head as his hands were busy.

"They step on the little carper at the entrance to clear their paws."

And Will illustrated that with one of his free feet, "wiping" his shoe on the carpet rather comically.

"Then they wait patiently until their human friends take them to clean up. Don't you want to be like a good niffler, Nosy? Model niffler?" Will cooed, hoping at least some of it is understood. "Bath for you, for sure. If you—"

He didn't get to finish as he watched Nosy ready himself for a hug, and Will twisted on the spot as if avoiding the bludger on the pitch. Carefully still: he'd never want to step on Nosy's shoes in return.

"No hugs before a bath, mister! Tsk, tsk."

Whether he succeded in making it to the nearest table to put the books down and levitate Nosy to the bathroom or not, Will was ready to gamble. This was as good of an opportunity for learning as any. As for the dirt on his own uniform — there's nothing a spell could not fix.

[stevebattle]

Dirt Dog (model 1100) by iRobot, Bedford, MA (2006). The Dirt Dog is designed for heavy duty cleaning in home workshops and garages. The main difference between Dirt Dog and its Roomba cousins is that it has no vacuum, "it uses only brushes as the pickup and it has a very simple interface, there is only a single button on the unit. Under the unit are a set of two brushes about 6" wide (one behind the other) to throw debris into it's on-board bin and a single 5" wand on the side to move material from the edge towards the center for pickup, this is what enables the unit to clean near walls and other impediments. There are two knobby drive wheels to allow it to climb over some items such as floor mats and such." – iRobot Dirt Dog, by Phil Bumbalough.

In fact, the original Roomba was not envisaged to have a vacuum at all. "A few months from product launch, we demonstrated one of our prototypes to a focus group. The setup was classical: A facilitator presented Roomba to a cross section of potential customers while the engineers watched from a darkened room behind a one-way mirror. The session was going well, people seemed to like the robot and it picked up test dirt effectively. Then the facilitator mentioned that Roomba used a carpet sweeper mechanism and did not include a vacuum. The mood changed. Our test group revised the price they’d be willing to pay for Roomba, cutting in half their estimate from only minutes earlier. We designers were perplexed. We solved our energy problem by eschewing a vacuum in favor of a carpet sweeper—and it worked! Why wasn’t that enough for the focus group? Decades of advertising have trained consumers that a vacuum drawing lots of amps means effective cleaning. We wanted customers to judge our new technology using a more appropriate metric. But there was no realistic way to accomplish that. Instead, our project manager declared, “Roomba must have a vacuum, even if it does nothing.” " – Don’t Fear the Robot, by Joe Jones.