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yet-another-greek-myth-gay · 5 years ago

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Since I am currently very deeply invested in Hogwarts Mystery, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time developing my version of Jacob’s Sibling in my mind. I’m kind of proud of the character I created, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put her out there in the character universe of Hogwarts Mystery OCs.

Now, full disclosure, I’m not an artist. I don’t have any beautiful drawings attached to give you an idea of what I’m visualizing (at least, not any I drew). More or less, this is just going to be a bunch of word vomit about the character I’m crafted, and I’ll probably go back and edit it a bunch of times as I think of more details. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d love to hear people’s opinions of her! Thank you to anyone who reads, and I hope you like her as much as I do!

BE WARNED THAT THIS CHARACTER SHEET CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR HOGWARTS MYSTERY.

FULL NAME: Helena Winifred Bancroft.

NICKNAME: Most people call her Nellie; only her mum calls her Helena. She also occasionally gets Nel, and Jacob used to call her Pip, short for Pipsqueak. Her and Rowan also had unique nicknames for each other, with Nellie calling Rowan “smart girl” and Rowan calling Nellie “sweet girl.”

DATE OF BIRTH: March 11th. She’s a Pisces.

BLOOD STATUS: Half-blood.

FAMILY: Nellie’s family consists of her mothers, a pureblooded Auror named Juliette and a muggle school teacher named Carolyn, and her half-brother Jacob. (Juliette is mum, Carolyn is mama.) Both her and Jacob’s respective fathers were muggle men that Juliette was involved with in the past, and neither are involved in their lives. The Bancroft bloodline is matrilineal, and while not necessarily famous, prides itself on producing particularly powerful witches.

BACKGROUND: She grew up in a small coastal community, where she was an avid swimmer, frequent visitor of the beach, and overall just a total water baby. Her family was comfortable financially, but chose to live fairly humbly, and Nellie was content with that. While she occasionally played with the local muggle children, most of Nellie’s time was spent either following Jacob around like a little shadow or playing with the fairies that lived in her mama’s garden. (She spent all her time telling them how pretty they were, so they tolerated her.) Unsurprisingly, she was a bit of a loner.

HOUSE: A proud Hufflepuff, just like Jacob.

DREAM: First and foremost, to find Jacob. However, in the long term, she’d really like to own a Hippogriff sanctuary and work as a breeder (with entirely moral methods, don’t worry). They’re by far her favorite creature, and she wants to spend the rest of her life working with them.

DEEPEST SECRET: That she wonders all the time if Jacob is worth saving. Growing up, he was her best friend and her hero, and there was no one she loved more. But watching how he changed in the last year or two prior to his disappearance, and hearing some of the stories at school, she honestly wonders if the loving brother she remembers exists anymore. And if he doesn’t, is the boy he left behind someone she wants to bring back?

She’s also been hiding a growing resentment toward her mum. While Jacob’s disappearance took a toll on them all, she sometimes feels like her mum’s put so much of her emotional energy into missing Jacob that she doesn’t have enough left to love her anymore, and she secretly hates her mum nudging her to find Jacob, even if it’s at the cost of her own happiness and safety.

...sometimes she wishes it had been Ben.

MOST TREASURED OBJECT: For years, it was her seashell locket, a gift she’d gotten from Jacob for her sixth birthday, with the little sculpture Barnaby made her for their Valentines Day date coming in at a close second. Now, it’s a spare pair of Rowan’s glasses, which Nellie had kept on hand since their first year, given how often Rowan misplaced hers.

WAND: Nellie’s first wand is ten and a half inches long, made of pear wood with a unicorn hair core. Her second, which she purchases in her fifth year, is eleven and a quarter inches, with an alder wood base and a phoenix feather core. Lastly, her third, which she gets after she graduates and keeps for the rest of her life, is ten and two thirds inches long, built from beech wood, and possesses a unicorn hair core.

PATRONUS: An African Bush Elephant.

ANIMAGUS: A Kooikerhondje dog.

BOGGART: Jacob’s corpse, shambling towards her like a zombie, sobbing about how she failed to save him.

BEST MEMORY: Jacob trying to teach her spells when he came home for his first break in his first year of Hogwarts. She would’ve only been five—they’re six years apart—so it’s a faint memory and she couldn’t do any of them anyway, but it was still happy enough to stick with her.

WORST MEMORY: The year Jacob disappeared, their mum mandated that he come home for breaks. (He’d been staying at school the past few years, but with everything that was happening, their mothers wanted to keep an eye on him.) He was on edge the entire time, bitter and aloof, and when Nellie tentatively tried to get him to play, he exploded at her about wasting his time. In that moment, his face twisted and red with rage, his tall, lanky body looming over her, Nellie didn’t recognize her brother at all, and that scared her more than anything. For the longest time, that was her worst memory.

Now, her worst memory is being in that forest grove, staring down at Rowan’s unmoving body, her gaping mouth and empty eyes. Even decades later, Nellie has dreams about it. Certainly, no memory will ever be worse than that one.

QUIDDITCH: After being trained by Skye, Nellie played as a Chaser for two seasons and a Beater for one, before retiring to a reserve chaser. There just wasn’t enough time, and she didn’t really have the competitive spirit for it. However, she remained friends with Skye, Orion, McNully, and Erika, and still enjoyed training with them to keep her skills sharp.

GREATEST STRENGTHS: Nellie is an overwhelmingly compassionate person. Her mama likes to joke that Nellie could spend all day waiting for a scoop of her favorite ice cream, and she’d still offer it to the first gloomy person she saw on the street. (Basically, if there’s a little pink heart next to a choice, that’s the one she’s making. Empathy is definitely her highest stat.) She never fails to go out of her way to help people, even if it’s to her own detriment. She just has a very warm energy, which makes it easy for people to feel safe confiding in and depending on her.

GREATEST WEAKNESS: Unfortunately, Nellie’s compassion is a bit of a double edged sword, and she can be guilty of stretching herself too far trying to please everyone and, subsequently, letting herself fall to the wayside. She’s also embarrassingly naive (a negative consequence to her desperate belief in the inherent goodness of people), and has a tendency to get a little too emotionally invested in things. She also stakes a lot of her personal value in her ability to keep others happy—if she isn’t capable of keeping those she loves safe and content, she feels she has no value at all.

APPEARANCE: In short, Nellie is about as far from intimidating as any one person can get. She never surpasses five feet tall, nor does she develop past her scrawny adolescent physique. Her face is round, with a little button nose and big ocean blue eyes. She’s covered from head to toe in freckles, and has a slight case of buck teeth with a tiny tooth gap, though nothing she considered worth getting braces over. She also has a scar on her thumb from the time her mum tried to teach her how to whittle. It didn’t go well.

However, her most defining physical characteristic is her hair. Curly and sandy blonde, she grew it long for the first fifteen years of her life, only cutting off the occasional inch to keep it healthy. It was very carefully maintained, because although Nellie doesn’t consider herself a vain girl, she loved her hair, which grew to reach her thighs at its longest. It was the only feature of hers she considered genuinely and objectively beautiful, and she prided herself on it. In the summer after her fifth year of Hogwarts, she chopped all that treasured hair off into a bob, her only reasoning being that it was more practical. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Rakepick had grabbed her by her exceptionally long braid when she’d tried to run to Merula’s aid in the Buried Vault.

STYLE: Nellie dresses exactly how you’d expect a stereotypical Hufflepuff to dress. She favors bright, pleasant colors, likes embroidery and floral print, and values comfort over anything. Her current favorite outfits both involve overalls, with one consisting of denim overalls with embroidered butterflies on the chest pocket and a white t-shirt, and the other being a pair of faded overalls that she personally painted with flowers, despite being an absolutely terrible artist, and a yellow turtleneck. She pretty much always wears a pair of light weight, embroidered boots, and is never seen without her seashell locket.

VOICE: I picture her sounding similar to AnnaPantsu. There’s a reason she was able to make the choir, after all! (Even if she ultimately surrendered her spot to Merula.)

BEST SUBJECT: Unsurprisingly, Care for Magical Creatures. Her kind nature and respect for all magical beings makes her a bit of a natural. She’s also proven herself to have a knack for Divination. She’s no Seer, but she’s pretty good at deciphering omens and swears that she does sometimes see visions in crystal balls. She’s also decent at Transfiguration.

WORST SUBJECT: Anyone would suck at Potions if Snape spent the entire class glowering at them the way he does at Nellie! It’s awfully hard to focus when your professor is breathing down your neck, staring dismissively into your cauldron like you’ve already made a mistake. She also just has a really poor memory, so any class that requires her to follow a sequence of meticulous steps is going to be one she struggles with. She also has difficulty in History of Magic for a similar reason—all of those dates and names just go in one ear and out the other.

BEST FRIEND(s): Rowan. Nellie loves every member of her eclectic group of friends dearly, but Rowan was her first friend, and will always, always be her dearest. For whatever reason, they just clicked perfectly, and completely got each other. Her death changed Nellie irreversibly. For at least a year after Rowan’s death, Nellie wore the spare pair of glasses she’d kept for her everywhere. Even once she stopped, they were almost always in her bag. Nellie was eventually able to manage again, but she never really moved on.

The runner up was undoubtedly Bill. He completely adopted her as (yet another) younger sibling, and they never quite lose that closeness, even when Jacob comes back into the picture. After all, Jacob can’t replicate the experiences Nellie had with Bill. While he was doing his part to protect Nellie as best he could, and that’s admirable, it wasn’t him that was by Nellie’s side throughout every trial she faced at Hogwarts. It was Bill, and Jacob would never be able to imitate the connection that gave Bill and Nellie.

In the wake of Rowan’s death, Nellie also develops a surprisingly close friendship with Erika Rath. They’d already been developing a friendship, but Rowan’s passing was the catalyst for them growing closer. During one of her training sessions with Erika (which Erika had told her she could sit out of, given the circumstances, but Nellie insisted), Rowan’s glasses fell off, and cracked. The damage was minor and entirely fixable, but Nellie had a complete breakdown, allowing herself to cry for the first time since Rowan had died. And Erika sat there with her, holding her tight, the entire time. While the rest of her friends were tiptoeing around her, not sure what she needed and scared of saying the wrong thing, uncomfortable in the face of such overwhelming grief, Erika took everything Nellie threw at her in stride. The fits where all Nellie could do was scream and cry, the anger that had her beating her fists against the ground and snarling threats brutal enough to make her sick, the guilt that left a hollow pit in her stomach and made her wish it had been her instead. Every ugly thought, every wave of emotion, Erika stuck with Nellie through them all, keeping her grounded her during a time where she felt she could completely drift away. It’s impossible to describe the sort of bond that gives people.

WORST ENEMY: For a while, it was Emily Tyler. With Merula, at least she has qualities that Nellie can respect—her ambition, her bravery, her fierce determination—and they’ve had a few moments where it feels like some genuine bonding has occurred. She may not approve of a lot of Merula’s behavior, but at least she can sort of understand her. But Emily Tyler is just so superficial and mean spirited, and Nellie simply can’t stand her. Now, though, it’s easily Patricia Rakepick.

LOVE INTEREST: Barnaby Lee, though not at first. Nellie housed an absolutely fierce crush on Skye Parkin for a while, but it quickly became apparent that Skye didn’t return her feelings. To Skye, Nellie was like the sister she never had, and Nellie didn’t want to jeopardize that. There was also some sort of tension going on between her and Merula in their fifth year, but nothing ever came of it. After the events that transpired in the Vault, Merula decided Nellie wasn’t worth the trouble. It’s one of her biggest regrets.

Barnaby was actually crushing on Nellie long before she had any romantic feelings for him—ever since that first duel, actually, when she completely whooped his ass while apologizing after every blow. (A scene I actually explored here.) It took a little while, but Nellie eventually fell for Barnaby’s good heart and noble nature. He may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he never fails to make her feel cared for. He can make her laugh when nobody else can, and although she’d loathe herself if he got hurt for her sake, it honestly feels a little nice to have someone trying to protect and take care of her for once, instead of the other way around. They also both love magical creatures, so a lot of their “dates” just consist of them hanging around the Care for Magical Creatures paddock and feeding whatever they find. Random little fun fact, Nellie’s pet name for Barnaby is just to say “Barnaby dear” as though it’s one word, and it never fails to make Barnaby feel super giddy.

PETS: Whoo boy, Nellie’s pets. First and foremost, there’s Astrid, her Lesser Sooty Owl. A remarkably intelligent bird, Astrid is usually found occupying the rafters above Nellie’s head, watching over her like a worrisome mother. She usually sleeps in Nellie’s dorm, rather than the owlery, and has a habit of picking at knots in Nellie’s hair (and, surprisingly, Rowan’s as well) with her beak as though she’s trying to straighten them out.

While she adores Nellie, Astrid is notably less fond of Klepto, her mischievous Niffler. If Astrid is like Nellie’s mother, Klepto is like an obnoxious toddler, always causing trouble and fussing for her attention. He’s remarkably clingy, enough so that Nellie’s taken to hiding him in the dorm rather than keeping him in the grasslands. (She can’t help it! He throws a fit if he can’t sleep pressed against the soles of her feet!)

Then there’s Flora, a particularly slothful fairy who has taken to riding in the pockets of Nellie’s robes, content to spend the rest of her life being carried around and lavished with compliments and sweets. Her and Astrid have a sort of tenuous truce, since they both have a bit of a fierce streak when it comes to defending Nellie.

There’s also a Hippogriff and a Common Welsh Green on the grounds, both of which Nellie is determined to befriend, but that’s still a bit of a work in progress at the moment.

FUN FACTS:

• Nellie ends up going grey—or white, rather—fairly early. Her hair’s almost entirely white by the time she turns thirty. She’s insecure about it for a while, then decides to just embrace it. It looks elegant, and Merlin help the person who tries to tell her otherwise.

• Given how incredibly physically affectionate Nellie is and how much she adored Rowan, it’s no surprise that she almost always kissed Rowan on the top of the head when saying goodbye. Just like she did in the forest grove, chest tight with anguish but eyes painfully dry.

• Barnaby and Nellie are married by the time they’re twenty. Maybe it’s a result of almost dying young on multiple occasions, but Nellie wasn’t keen on waiting. She didn’t want to take the risk of never getting the opportunity.

• Nellie has always wanted a big family. After how fractured hers became when Jacob disappeared, that desperate desire only increased. Fortunately, Barnaby, with his tiny, miserable family, wanted to create a large, happy one just as badly.

• On that note, they end up having five daughters: Ivy (Ravenclaw), Jade (Ravenclaw), Miri (Hufflepuff), Aurora (Slytherin), and Rowan (Hufflepuff). Many were surprised Nellie waited until her last child to name one after Rowan, but the truth was, she just wasn’t ready. She’d always known she wanted to, but it always felt too soon.

• As a frequent visitor to the Burrow, Nellie grew close with all the Weasleys. She actually babysat Ron and Ginny a far bit after she graduated Hogwarts.

• Bill and Jacob never get along. Though Bill can logically understand that Jacob was trying to protect Nellie, he can never really forgive Jacob for the distress he put Nellie through. And while Jacob understands that Nellie needed support and he wasn’t there to provide it, some part of him resents that Bill stepped into his role as Nellie’s brother.

• Although they were once close as sisters, Nellie and Skye’s friendship definitely changed for the worse in their sixth year. The drama surrounding Nellie getting trained and befriended by Erika all occurred in the month leading up to Rowan’s demise. Having Skye—someone Nellie considered a close friend—be so caught up in her own grudges and jealousy that she called off their friendship in a fit of anger not even a week after Rowan had died, while Erika—a friend she had only just started to make—acted as her rock throughout the whole grieving process, really changed Nellie’s perspective on Skye. To be fair, Skye did eventually apologize, and they picked up the pieces as best they could, but things were never the same.

• While Nellie focused more on the changes her friends went through after the events in the Buried Vault, there’s no denying that she changed as well. She hardly slept her entire sixth year. She cut off all her hair, and she jumped with every loud noise. Her naivety, one of her defining traits, withered, and left only wariness behind. She went from trusting everyone, to trusting no one. Then Rowan’s death came, and she crumbled completely. For a long time after it, she couldn’t function at all.

Thank you to @treebels, for the lovely artwork.

#i know she's a little lame but i really love her okay #she's like my baby #my meticulously constructed baby #hogwarts mystery #harry potter #hogwarts #hphm #hphm oc #jacob's sibling #helena bancroft #nellie bancroft #hogwarts mobile game #spoilers #hphm spoilers #hogwarts mystery spoilers

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missconstancehardbroom · 5 years ago

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A Visitation

Zelda stared at her sister sleep through her reflection in the mirror, unconsciously, Zelda ran her right hand through her shoulder trying to reach the self-induced welts that now adorned her back. She could still feel Hilda’s shaking fingers as the younger witch applied a soothing balm on the welts on her back earlier that evening.

She hated it.

She hated this.

She hated the fact that her sister had once again seen the vulnerability she thought she had already overcome since her brother had died. She hated that her baby sister had seen her in such state, what must Hilda think of her now?

What was she thinking in the first place?

Does she really think she would do well as the matriarch of the Spellman Household when she could even barely keep herself together?

Weak.

That’s what she is, weak.

And now, for such weakness, her family is in shambles in the eyes of the church. Because of her incompetence as the head of her household, her family suffers.

Half-mortal

House arrested

Excommunicated

All of this happened because of her incompetence.

She felt her finger twitch and her stomach turn. She could feel her chest tighten as another onslaught of her senses engulf her. It was overwhelming, this sense of regret, this feeling of being not good enough.

Not good enough for the church.

Not good enough for her family.

Not good enough for her niece.

“You are not my mother, Zelda! So stop acting like you are!”

Sabrina’s voice keeps ringing inside her head and she couldn’t help but close her eyes. Sabrina was still a child, despite of her claims that she is an adult now, there are still many wisdom of life that her age has not taught her yet. Her niece didn’t mean what she had said, it was just the heat of the moment and her girl just wanted to retaliate for being called out as a 16 year old child and not as a grand magus.

She really didn’t mean it.

Does she?

Zelda could feel her heart beating in her chest, her breath coming is short gasps, her right hand clutched at her shoulder. She felt another sense of overwhelming disappointment toward herself and it is killing her

This is too much, she must feel something else.

She needs –

“Zelds?” Hilda’s voice startled her out of her thoughts and nearly made her jump off her seat. She quickly blinked the tears away in her eyes. She realized that she had been too deep in her self-loathing that she didn’t realized her sister has woken up.

“Sorry, did I woke you?” Zelda onced again wore her mask of impassivity before she turn to look at her sister trying to prop herself up from her bed. Those words felt strange as she says it, it was as if it was another person who spoke it and not herself.

“No, ofcourse not, I was just - are you alright?” Hilda moved to get down from her bed to approach her sister, but Zelda just waved her off.

“Ofcourse I am alright, sister.” Zelda replied. She headed to her bed and laid on her back, but realizing that it feels uncomfortable and it quite hurts, she turn to her side, facing her younger sister.

Hilda just sat on her bed, staring at her and it made her feel even more uncomfortable. She doesn’t like the feeling of being watched, it is too much.

“What?!?” she snapped,

“Is there anything you wanted to talk about?”

“There is nothing to talk about.” She tried to dismiss her sister, but obviously, Hilda didn’t realized it.

“Are you sure?”

She did not replied, she had known her sister too well and whatever she will say, the younger Spellman will just find a way to coax her into talking so she just closed her eyes and let herself drift into a dreamless slumber, but it seems like her sister would not let her.

“Zelda?”

“What?” She hissed, her eyes snapping open to glare at her sister, but much to her surprise, her sister was fast asleep in her own bed. She felt the cold chill of November air enter their room. That is when she realized that Hilda had forgotten to close the windows on her side of the room.

She was planning to wake her sister up to close to the window, but realizing that Hilda was actually smiling in her sleep, probably because of some cheesy dream she is having, the red head decided to close the window herself.

Slowly she walked towards the open windows but something caught her eye as she looked out to their front lawn.

A girl, not older than 8 years of age, was staring intently at her. The girl’s pale feet was bare and muddy, the child’s golden her was a mess but her hands… those tiny hands were waving at her, as if saying hello.

Zelda

She heard it again, that voice.

Grizelda

The girl kept on waving at her.

“Hilda,” she calls out her sister, her eyes still focused on the girl in their yard, “sister, wake up!” She hissed, but the only response that she received was a loud snore from her sister.

Zelda

There was that voice again, calling her.

“Hilda, wake up!” Zelda nearly yelled at her sleeping sister, but when she shifted her eyes towards Hilda’s bed, she noticed that her sister remained asleep.

Something is not right, she could feel it.

She looked outside once again and noticed that the girl was no longer on their lawn. She leaned out of the window and that is where she saw her, walking towards the woods. The girl stopped in her tracks, and once again looked at her direction to wave good bye before she continue walking away.

Zelda doesn’t know what made her do it, perhaps it was that urge to protect the child or the urge to quench her curiosity, she decided to teleport herself outside her house and ran towards the last spot where she saw the child.

Her bare feet stepped towards the edge of the clearing, heading to the direction where she had last seen the child. It was not safe for children to walk around in the woods in the dark, most especially in temperature like this.

She suddenly felt goose bumps on her skin and that is when she realized she was in her sleeping dress without any cloak or robe on. Zelda decided to teleport back to the house and grab something to protect her from the cold when she heard it again.

Zelda

There was that voice again, calling out her name.

She tried to follow the direction where she hears the voice, it kept calling out her name.

That voice. The voice sounds very familiar and yet foreign to her, it was as if it was trying to awaken something dormant in the deepest recesses of her mind and yet… whatever it is trying to waken remained asleep, unmoved in her mind..

Zelda…

She hastened to follow the voice. She could feel her feet touching the muddy ground and normally she would’ve frowned, but at that very moment she couldn’t care less.

There was the girl again, standing a few feet away from her, as if waiting for her, but when she was about to call the girl, she ran away.

“Wait!” the girl kept running, so Zelda hastened her steps, crouching and swatting the branches that obscure her sight from the child.

But she lost the girl.

Zelda got deeper and deeper into the woods trying to grab hold of the girl, but it appears that the girl was much faster than she had expected.

Zelda… Grizelda…

“Who are you? Show yourself!” Zelda scanned her surrounding, she could barely see anything.

Giggles

Mirthful giggling of girls were the only response she received.

Girls…

Then she heard it again, the voice calling out her name, but this time it is no longer a soft whisper but a melodic voice calling out her name as if it was part of a song.

Through her peripheral vision, she saw a flash of white cloth ducking behind the trees. She tried to call it to stop, but the girl kept running, as if it was playing a game of tag with her.

The girl was in fits of laughter as they run and it only made Zelda felt more annoyed. Why was she chasing this girl anyway? What was the point?

As they reached another clearing, the girl tripped and this made Zelda gasp, That’s going to hurt, she taught to herself. She was expecting to hear the girl cry because of a scraped knee, but instead, the girl just laughed as she brushed the dirt off her gown and turned to look at her.

She looked familiar. Those goofy grin and mirthful eyes. The blushing cheeks and breathless laughter. She knows this girl, but she cannot remember.

The girl bit her lip and waved at her direction. She was not waving at her, she realized. The girl was waving at someone behind her.

She turned around, there was no one there. She looked back towards the girl and the girl was no longer there. She cursed herself, how could she be so careless, this could be a trap damn it.

Why do you hate my creation so much?

There was this voice again, but this time it was no longer singing, it sounded like it was in tears.

“Who are you?” she challenged the voice, “show yourself!” she felt her body tensing, her knees shaking, her lungs constricting. She clenched her jaw her magic fizzing through the tips of her finger.

Do you truly hate my creation that much that you find ways just to torment her?

“What are you talking about?” Zelda’s voice began to tremble when she felt the buzz of her magic died down.

I made you. Do you know that?

Zelda took a step back, confusion and fear filled her thoughts, she felt like she needs to run away from here but her legs felt like lead and she could barely move her body. She just stood there shocked and in as much as she wanted to deny it, she is scared.

I hear your thoughts.

Why do you hate my creation?

All of a sudden Zelda felt like something began to run down her cheeks. She tried to swat it with her fingers but she realized it is not some insect that ran down her cheeks.

It was her tears.

She did not realized she had been crying.

Why do you try to destroy yourself?

Zelda looked up to the sky and that is when she realized that he voice was coming from the moon itself. She watched in silence as the moon grew brighter, blue and golden light filled her vision until she saw dark spots, it was as if the moon was trying to blind her.

But then the blind spots started to take form, a shadow, a silhouette of a woman walking towards her, reaching for her.

And that is when she felt it, hands, cold hands cupping her cheeks, wipping the tears away, and that is when she sobbed. She sobbed like a child. She doesn’t know what was with those hands but she felt like she had found a long lost home that she had never known.

Those hands.

Those cold hands that warmed her soul.

Zelda closed her eyes when the silhouette leaned towards her, their foreheads touching.

I made you as perfect as you are.

Please don’t break my heart.

And with those last words, the silhouette kissed Zelda’s forehead before it stepped away from the witch but Zelda tried to stop her. She grabbed the hands that were touching her cheeks earlier, this is not the first time she encountered the lady from the moon. This was not the first time she held her. This is –

“Who are you?” she cried as she kept on tugging the lady’s hand, “Please tell me who you are.” She begged, but the lady just kept on moving away, the hands that she was clutching earlier turned into smoke, but still, Zelda reached out, “Please don’t leave! Please! I just found you!”

She ran towards the light, but it was moving too fast for her feet to follow, the trees are getting in her way, the shrubbery hindering her legs from moving.

She must make her stay.

She needs to make her stay.

“Wait! Ah!” she yelped when she realized she had stepped into a ravine and she found herself falling. It was as if the air was knocked off her lungs when she finally hit the grassy grounds.

“You have been here for a while.”

Zelda snapped her eyes open only to see the young girl she was chasing earlier looking down at her, but this time, the girl was no longer alone. There was another girl standing beside her.

The other girl was much older than the girl she was chasing earlier. She was more or less the same age as Sabrina, she thougt.

“Zelda,” the older girl called her name, as she stared at the girl’s face she realized who it was, the girl smiled at her, “Better wake up before you forget how to.”

Before Zelda could react at the girl’s cryptic word, she felt the girls pushing her towards a pond she did not realized was there.

She yelped as the ice cold water came in contact with her body making her gasp out to breathe in some air.

She found herself sitting up from her bed, her face drenched in cold water and her hair a complete tangle of mess.

She is awake. It was just a dream. And Hilda was standing on her side of the bed, worried, with a pitcher on her hands.

“Did you just doused me in water from the fridge?“ Zelda’s eyebrow arched, her anger started to simmer in her gut.

“What?” Hilda replied sheepishly, “Do you think I have a choice?”

#zelda spellman #hilda spellman #This is from a tumblr post I saw and I though since I am in quarantine I should start writing #oneshot #maybe?#caos #chilling adventures of sabrina

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dicebox · 4 years ago

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The Hand of Fate

Jerrica Reder only had moments to scream out in fury and terror before the sea took her.

She was sinking beneath the waves before she could even gasp in a desperate breath, the makeshift ballast chained to her ankles pulling her down, down, down into the dark, cold depths below. She thrashed in vain, arms straining uselessly against the ropes binding her, her lungs burning in her chest. As she looked up, the sun over the surface was already a dim, far light. It flickered out entirely as she sunk deeper still and darkness claimed her.

There was nothing but the dark, empty void around her as the pressure in her chest gave way, and Jerrica breathed in the first gulp of sea water. It was cold, colder than it had already been on her skin, ice filling her lungs.

With her last thoughts, she twisted her eyes shut, and tried to think of home. Everything was darkness.

Then, she was on her back, sprawled out on hard stone. She was no longer sinking. All she could do was gasp breathlessly, the taste of the air coarse and strange in her mouth. She was no longer drowning.

Jerrica opened her eyes. The sky above was a dull, bleak grey, the sun bright on the horizon, but giving off no warmth. Her clothing was no longer soaked with seawater, but she could still feel the chill of the deeps down to her bones. She sat up, rubbing at wrists as she found herself freed of the ropes and weights. Her breath hitched tightly with a thrum of fear as she looked outwards.

An endless expanse stretched out before her, empty save for chunks of grey rock floating in the nothing, some carrying hints of architecture, some nothing but jagged edges of stone. Somewhere in the distance, a whale's call echoed mournfully and Jerrica couldn't help but shiver.

Ahead of her, a rusted buoy floated in the nothing, its lantern flickering weakly. She stood and shambled weakly over to the edge of the floating island of rock she found herself on and looked down to the sheer nothing below.

"You're far from home, aren't you?"

Jerrica turned about with an unsteady stumble, her hand fumbling for a knife that had long since been taken from her. A man with pure black eyes stood before her, staring impassively. It was then she knew where she was. And who he was.

But the image she’d had in her mind from the stories had never painted a picture of a man so young, so seemingly harmless. He was a thin thing, barely older than a boy, dressed in plain clothing. If not for the promise of a yawning entropy in those black eyes, she would never have imagined why anyone would fear such a man. But those eyes were not that of a man.

She scoffed out a bitter breath, despite the dull thrum of terror in her heart. “So they were right all along. Come to collect my soul, eh?”

“Oh, that’s of no interest to me. Not in keeping it here, at least. But you, Jerrica, are quite interesting. I want to offer you something.” The man with black eyes said with an ethereal calm, staring at her still, and Jerrica couldn’t decide whether it was better or worse to meet that empty gaze.

"Do you now? What's the catch?” Jerrica sneered defiantly at him, if only to show something other than fear. Regardless of his show of mere idle curiosity, his focus was upon her, and that was as terrifying as being cast into the sea. “I get to live for a year and a day, before you drag me back down here? Or do I gotta send a hundred souls to you in trade?"

The man with the black eyes did not smile. He did not blink. But for a brief moment, his eyes might have narrowed with a hint of annoyance. "People always seem to think I want their souls. They drastically overestimate the value of their own. The passing of a soul will happen regardless of my will and most likely without my notice. The pleas of the dying can be so very boring."

"Feh. Well, what do you want?" Jerrica blinked as she spoke, and when she did, she was standing on the deck of the whaling ship she had been thrown from. She swore, looking around, but there was no one but herself and the man with the black eyes.

Then he did smile, ever so faintly, without any warmth in those empty eyes. “You act as if you know me. If you do know the stories they tell of me, then you must know what I wish to offer you. The question is... what would you do with my mark?”

“What do you expect me to do with it?” She asked, as if she didn’t know the stories. As if she wasn’t stalling, desperately trying to gather her scattered, terrified thoughts.

The lips of the man with the black eyes curled in the barest shadow of amusement. “What you do with the gift I offer is your choice. As is everything that shall happen from this moment.”

Jerrica turned her back to him without an answer, glaring out at the emptiness. The Void was blissfully silent. A whaling ship, its hull torn open, floated in the distance in between massive pillars of grey rock, as if the emptiness was a sea of its own.

She did know the stories, to be sure, all of them gruesome in one way or another. Witches reading entrails upon whalebone altars. Ancient kings making pacts in blood. Underworld kingpins who could walk through walls or turn themselves into hordes of rats in order to maintain their grips of terror upon the slums. Every story was ultimately the same. Someone given a great and terrible power. And then the blood would flow.

“Do you want to see her again?”

She tensed as the voice pulled her from her brooding thoughts, her fingers curling tightly until her fists trembled. “Don’t you dare speak her name.” She snapped, as if she could make any demands of him. As if he didn’t seem to know everything already.

And as if the Void itself was reading her thoughts, Jerrica looked back to the man with the black eyes, to see him standing in the cramped parlor of a tiny apartment. Sitting before the fireplace was a young girl with a ragged mop of red hair, her excited flailing of a toy horse frozen in time.

It was either a cruelty or a blessing that the Void didn’t show Jerrica the child’s face. She couldn’t muster the strength to step any closer to her daughter, to see how she’d grown in the time she’d been gone.

“I will tell you this. You may choose to reject my offer. But if you do, she will live her life without you. In time, the memory of your face will fade away entirely. But she already is living her life without you, isn’t she?”

Jerrica looked back to him again with a surly sneer, but she bit back the obvious retort on the nature of choice. After a heavy breath in and out, she replied quietly, “Tell me one more thing, first. If you brought me here, did you do it? Did you save those worthless shits?”

The man with the black eyes shifted his shoulders in what might have been a bored shrug. “Two days ago, leagues east from where your ship drifted, a sudden squall scattered a pod of whales as they were near the water’s surface. A calf was separated from his mother. The seas as stormy as they were, he and his mother were unable to find each other. He drifted aimlessly for those two days, right up to your ship. Your crew killed him, squeezed every last ounce of oil from his drying corpse, and carved their dinner from his flank. Then they pulled into Dunwall three days later. The captain paid everyone an extra half-share for their silence and now they are toasting their good fortune and drinking away their guilt.”

“Was it you, you black-eyed bastard?!” Jerrica shouted with a fresh flare of fury. “Did you change their fate?!”

And when she blinked, she and the man with black eyes were standing in a silent tavern, the frozen sight of carousing whalers all around them. The whalers who had tied her up and thrown her into the sea. The captain was among them, toasting, laughing, and she wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle him. But all Jerrica could do was scream at the man with the black eyes. “Tell me, damn you!”

“I think you already know the answer. Has the sea ever been fair to you, Jerrica? Is fate not the same?” The man with the black eyes said, perfectly calm. “Raging and treacherous. Untameable and unforgiving. And yet... call it fortune, call it coincidence, for if neither existed, people would not risk everything.”

“There is always that chance of something unexpected, isn’t there?” There was almost the faintest twinkle of amusement in his empty eyes. “But the unexpected only delays the inevitable. The sea always claims its due. Isn’t that what they say in Morley?”

“You like to talk, you know that?” Jerrica spat. “Answer the damned question!” “Your crew will credit me for their fate. They will clutch their little charms of whale bone and recite the half-forgotten rites, as if such paltry things could ever catch my interest. It was not their prayers that caught my interest, Jerrica. It was you. You are not the first to die in such a way. Oh, how the others cried, and begged, and pleaded for mercy.”

The man with black eyes paused for a long moment, looking off into the Void, his gaze distant, as if momentarily distracted by some thought. “But not you.”

She was standing on the deck of her ship, behind the group of whalers who had crowded near the railing, looking down into the sea. Most had their heads bowed in fearful reverence as they watched the waves. Watched where Jerrica had sunk down into the depths.

“They could have died on that whaler. Whether by thirst, by starvation, or by fist and blade as they turned upon each other to determine who would be cut up for meat first. But they lived and they think you did not. They think they stopped the inevitable.”

“Am I not dead?” Jerrica held her arms out, gesturing to the emptiness of the Void. “Because this sure ain’t bloody Dunwall!”

“You are not dead. Yet. I will only hold you here for so much longer.” The man with the black eyes paused briefly. “I will tell you one more surety. What do you think your former crewmates will do the next time they so desperately need good fortune?”

“What do I care what the sodding bastards do? They’ll probably drink themselves to death.”

“Don’t you lie to yourself enough already, Jerrica? Will you really just let them go on their merry way, until they decide to do this again? They’ve tasted blood, now...” The man with the black eyes paused, looking at the frozen captain still standing on the deck, tense and grim faced. “And what of your lover? He let you into his bed, but not his heart. Or so he tried to tell himself. Of course, did you let him into yours? Perhaps if you had, he would have told you of the pathetic little cult infesting his ship. Perhaps if he had brought you into that circle, it would have been someone else who just happened to draw the shortest straw.”

They were in the captain’s cabin now. It was empty save for Jerrica and the man with black eyes, but she could almost smell the thick scent of cheap whiskey and cheaper cigarettes, and as she couldn’t help but rest a hand on the crumpled sheets, she could almost feel the warmth of the bed. But the Void didn’t carry such sensations. There were only her bitter memories.

“You drew the straw just as they all did. If it had been another, would you have stood by and watched, as they all did? Would you have tied the ropes around your crewmate and thrown them into the sea?”

Jerrica turned and picked up a bottle off of the desk, gripping it tightly before she threw it hard against the cabin wall. It shattered with barely a sound, all the more revealing itself for the facsimile that it was.

“Tell me, will he be the first one you kill?” The man with the black eyes asked, as if he knew her answer. “Or the last?”

“Who said I’m going to kill anyone?” Jerrica groused, with a sinking feeling in her heart that he did know, even before she did.

“What else would you do with a second chance? Go back to Morley and beg in the streets like so many others? Is that not why you left? And all the while those who you worked and suffered alongside walk freely, after they threw you into the sea like a spoiled catch?”

Jerrica clenched her fists until she thought her fingernails would draw blood. She wanted nothing more than to smash the smug calm from the man with the black eyes’ face. She wanted nothing more than to go home to Morely, to her daughter.

And yet, she wanted nothing more than to look the captain, her captain, in the eye, and spit in it. Him and all of those who had been on that deck, unable to look her in the eye as they’d beaten and restrained her, mumbling blasphemous prayers as they’d thrown her overboard.

The man with the black eyes was staring at her, unblinking as ever, but for a moment there might have been a flicker of distant, amused triumph.

She scowled. “Fine. Give me your mark. But I’m not doing nothing for you. I’m not cutting out anyone’s guts for some sodding witchcraft.”

“My mark is yours to do with as you will. Do try to remember that.”

It was only when the back of her hand began to burn that Jerrica remembered the pain of drowning, how the icy water filled her lungs with a chilling burn, searing at her from the inside out. This was almost the same, a cold fire gouging a brand from bone to muscle to skin, until the dull gleam of the Outsider’s mark shone on the back of her hand, brighter and bolder than any of her sailor’s tattoos.

“I look forward to seeing what you will do, Jerrica.”

---

The sea was all around her again and it was all Jerrica could do not to scream in panic and fill her lungs with seawater once more. Everything was spinning as the tides took hold of her and she flailed uselessly against the crushing weight of the water.

Then she struck the hard, rocky shore, and as the waves drew back, she drew in a desperate breath of the rot and the smog of Dunwall. Jerrica pushed herself up enough to stagger a few steps further across the stony beach before she slumped to her knees, and retched out seawater and bile.

Laid out ahead of her were the familiar sights of the docks and slaughterhouses of Dunwall’s whaling district. It wasn’t home, it would never be home, but it was her port.

Jerrica looked down to her hand, where the eldritch rune had been seared into her skin. It hadn’t just been the dream of a drowning mind.

She could not decide whether that was better or worse, that it had all been real.

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eisforeidolon · 5 years ago

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Episode: Raising Hell

So, uh, basically I have no idea why anything in this episode happens or what its point is supposed to be. Having looked up who wrote it somewhere in the middle, I am completely lacking in surprise.

I mean, the first bit pretty much sets the tone. Chatty Corpsy spouts exposition a mile a minute, then gets killed, and the ghost stands over her and spells disembowel. Is that actually supposed to be scary? Funny? Anything but an absolutely bizarre waste of my time?

A bunch of dudes with basically nothing but FBI jackets and a bullshit story to back themselves up with convince an entire town to camp out in the local high school for two days without anybody figuring out they're full of shit. You know, what with smartphones existing and all. Plausible!

Furthermore, I have become convinced that everyone in this writer's room genuinely believes there is nothing scarier than a bunch of random antagonists standing around in a room pontificating at each other. It's all demons do anymore. It's all angels do anymore. Oh, fucking look, here's a bunch of goddamn ghosts doing it, too! A fucking thrill a minute, I tell you.

Also, you know how the episode with H.H. Holmes was actually scary? Whether or not you think it's in questionable taste for them to use real life serial killers at all, the reason they included him was because the whole murder castle deal and semi-mythical legends about him made for a scary premise they actually used in the episode. I ignored the thing with it being Gacy before in Lebanon because there was more important stuff going on, but contrast the current writers' choices with him and this Jack the Ripper guy with the use of Holmes. Here they're just throwing out the names of real life murderers to try and make their villains scary in the cheapest, fastest way possible. Just like bringing back “Bloody Mary” that just kills whoever, this loudmouthed windbag has nothing to do with the name they're stealing to try and make him scary.

Also, the spell demon guy did is keeping the ghosts in, right? Sure, it's going to fail, but at the moment, it's supposed to be an impassible barrier, yes? So why, exactly, is it necessary for Sam to call in his goon squad to join the four of them in wandering into the danger zone to shoot at 'em? Seriously, why? Shooting them dissipates them for a few seconds, maybe minutes. They’re not laying out additional salt or iron lines or doing anything that might genuinely help contain the ghosts, they’re just putting themselves in danger because ...? The mooks could also be better spent guarding the major entrance points to the town and/or the townies and/or doing research back at the bunker into what they're going to try next after the barrier fails. But those things would actually make sense and prevent the shambling zombie that is the writers’ pathetic attempt at a plot in this episode being pushed into something vaguely resembling action.

I am shocked, SHOCKED I tell you, that Rowena is now suddenly unable to do something with her powers that she did before. Hey, remember when she stole that page out of the damned book to make herself more powerful to unseal her full powers (even though they touted her as the most powerful witch ever to begin with) and that was in season 13, well after the ghost-crystal-bomb thing? But LOL, now she's even weaker? This is exactly why nothing matters anymore. Things that worked previously (angel powers, witch powers, the Colt, whatever) suddenly and randomly don't work to do the exact same jobs for … reasons. The thing that makes it even dumber is they could have said that the ghost containing spell and crystal ghost sucking spell interfered with each other somehow. Still at a bullshit level of convenience, but it doesn't involve making everyone and everything's powers completely arbitrary just because fuck continuity, that’s why!

Then Ketch shows up to save the Winchesters from their sudden attack of brain damage. The show has provided an entire. fucking. town. full of angry ghosts straight from hell. But actually bother to write a scene of Sam and Dean legit getting over their heads in a believable way? Why fucking bother when you can just make them astoundingly incompetent. It is literally unbelievable that Sam and Dean would not recognize those people as possessed fucking immediately. Yet they stand there with rock salt filled shotguns doing sweet fuckall confronted by three fucking ghosts so Ketch can make a big entrance. Is there a rule on a board somewhere in the writer's room that Sam and Dean have to be made to look incompetent at least once an episode? Is this some kind of revenge for having to still write the main characters they're so clearly bored with? Are these idiots just so fucking stupid they don't realize how insulting this is? Did they run out of money for extras and the stunt coordinator?

Also, someone explain to me how tiny flakes of metal are going to be less harmful to a human body than rock salt. I'll wait. They just really really wanted Ketch as one of the BMoL guys to have some kind of specialized gadget but couldn’t give him something actually potentially useful for the situation at hand.

Again, these writers really want to be writing a bad soap opera with occasional supernatural elements. So despite that it's the final fucking season, we have time for Rowena and Ketch flirting. Not to mention that they also give the only major female character even more relationship drama with the Jack the Ripper guy later. If it's not questionably skeevy, it's not Bucklemming!

Also, Castiel is not good at inspirational speeches, just like he’s frustratingly almost never good at anything else these days (those healing powers that were working last week? ha! forget it!). Anyway, why do they keep having him make them? Are we as the audience supposed to find them convincing though they never work on the target? Are we supposed to feel bad for all the ~*feelings*~ Castiel supposedly has despite being an angel who isn’t supposed to have emotions the same way humans do? I guess this particular one is to further show that Dean’s still mad (which I am absolutely 100% behind) but eh, whatever. Though I guess that still ranks it above most of the episode sitting at a solid WTF, no really, WTF?!

Now we get to the part where they bring Kevin back for no fucking reason beyond that he's a “fan favorite”. None of it makes a single tiny speck of sense. Let's skip right past the fundamental absurdity of how Chuck apparently did this for literally no reason just to be a dick when he was actively trying to pretend not to be a dick. Kevin has a “bad boy” reputation (come the fuck on) because God Himself cast him down - so him being in hell would have to be fairly common knowledge, for it to result in him having a reputation. Except literally no demon Sam & Dean ran into between 11.21 and now taunted them with it? Crowley, who was still alive and fucking King of Hell through season 12 never noticed and either told the Winchesters or tried to trade on it? BULL and SHIT. This is pretty close to the same scale of insult to continuity and the audience’s intelligence as these two fuckwits suddenly writing Lucifer as the older brother.

Then in typical fashion, Sam & Dean discuss their plans to totes send Kevin to heaven in front of demon guy just so they can be told OH NOES! He totally can't go to heaven! So sad! The poor widdle woobie! Fuck off with this shit, show. Not even to mention that they take the word of a demon as gospel truth when there is no time crunch or clear lack of better options. It's all those many many hits to the head, I guess. That I do actually find quite sad. I mean, I don't actually want Kevin hanging around like a bad smell while they divert from actually important shit to try and get him to heaven where it makes no sense for him not to already be. But at the end they don't even arrange some way to keep in touch just in case the fucking demon might be (gasp) lying?

Hey, I did actually like the exchange between Dean and Sam over Chuck poking his corresponding wound. Oh, look, it's Sam's “I'm totally lying” face, followed by Dean's “I totally know you're lying but I'll let it go for now, Sam” face. It was a great moment that required very little dialogue to work quite well. It's such a shame nobody's making a show about these two characters! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The absurdity keeps on coming, too. In the whole two days they've been wasting time in Sunshine Daylightville they never discussed how long the spell would last? Oh, right, they were too busy wandering into the ghost zone to shoot at 'em for shits and giggles to care about that, I guess. Not to mention the whole “just cast it again!” is remarkably blasé about it requiring a 'fresher the better!' human heart.

More ghosts blathering at each other. Yay. This supposed Jack the Ripper guy is just always in the right place at the right time to hear all the gossip, knows every random thing he could possibly need to, and already has the power to intimidate and attack other ghosts. He's basically ghost!Asmodeus, who also steals AU!Michael's original idea of how to get through the barrier, because we really needed time spent discussing the world's most obvious plan. Also, we've seen ghosts able to attack and absorb the power of other ghosts, but it was because they had already been doing it for a while. This guy is just as fresh out of hell as everybody else, but he's more powerful and knowledgeable and totes threatening!!! Well, I'm convinced and not on the verge of napping from boredom.

Naturally for reasons, Rowena goes into town entirely by herself without protection with their only real hope of containing the ghosts before the barrier breaks down instead of anybody insisting on her going with backup. That's what anybody with a brain would do!

Of course no one asks where Ketch has been the whole time. Or even thinks of trying to test him after he was last seen literally knocked unconscious in the middle of ghost central where we know there are plenty of ghosts angry enough to be capable of possession. Nope, why would anyone even think to do that? Everything in this “plot” that happens requires all of the characters to be completely fucking stupid.

I'm going to assume by “you” Ketch meant “you Winchesters” because Mary wasn't there. It probably didn't, because Bucklemming, but fuck it. It's the least egregious stupidity in this episode that's a cornucopia of choices for the worst.

I … actually like the scenes with Chuck and Amara? So, you know, that's something!

Then the episode ends with the guys looking at all the ghosties still shooting up from hell and wring their hands about what they're going to do and maybe they should get on that! Again, if Sam's flunkies aren't all dead, why aren't their worthless asses already researching this shit over the past two days? It's not like it's new news that there was a big open hole to hell at the center of the problem and there was honestly nothing but wrangling some cranky civilians to interfere with trying to think ahead to that.

In summary, this episode is a constant showcase of the problems that result when you set incompetent morons who don't recognize their own inadequacy to write characters who are actually supposed to be intelligent experts at their work. It's a joke – except not at all funny.

#writer incompetence #anti bucklemming #negativity for ts #negativity all the way down #long post #spn 15x02 #spn season 15

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safetypinsymphony · 5 years ago

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“Is it a plot twist, or is it just lying?” and brief thoughts on the SPN road so far

To paraphrase an exchange from Bob's Burgers: Is it a plot twist, or is it just lying?

This seems to be an evolving theme of Supernatural's Season 15. I haven't been keeping up on my reviews here, dern it, but after some mild kerfuffles I've experienced between various fans (including myself), I'm re-inspired. Or perhaps incensed.

“Writers lie.”

When we first learned that God is a right asshole and as such, opened a rift in Hell before checking out to leave our intrepid heroes to deal with the undead invasion spilling forth—and then decided to check back in just to start fucking with the Winchesters again—I wasn't overly bothered, but nor was I particularly thrilled by the implications. I was begrudgingly interested to see what was evolving.

Well.

Kinda like watching a slo-mo train wreck, as it turns out. We're witnessing how this canon ret-conning is already starting to fray. How playing fast and loose with what the show has established as the rules of its universe is creating this “It was all just a dream” Dallas-esque meta embarrassment.

Seasons back, when the show first shattered the Fourth Wall by introducing the SPN books and conventions into its own mythos, that self-awareness was a really risky move. To this day, you either love it or hate it, but it managed to hold together because of the infrequency with which it was explored, and the skills of the writers at the time. (Even then, we got Season Seven, Time for a Wedding, arguably one of the more tasteless episodes of the whole series.)

As Dabb and company are choosing to further explore Chuck-as-God-and-puppetmaster, one of the show's important thematic cornerstones, that of the value of <i>freewill</i>, is taking a big hit. And the show knows it. They've had Dean come right out and air his disgruntlement with it several times already. So we get it, yeah, it's a thing. It's what Dabb is using to propel this last season (along with rampant fanservice and as many returning characters—dead or alive—that he can shoehorn into 43 minutes).

Now, I do loves me some fanservice on occasion, and there are certainly quite a few characters who died in rather inglorious ways and probably deserved better send-offs than they got, but I'm not sure 'hanging a flag on it' does enough to compensate for what this means in regards to the past 14 years of the show. In asserting that all of the past canon has been little more than Chuck's manipulations, it also means that the viewers' investment into the whole of the SPN universe has been hung on a lie within its own framework. “Ret-conning” doesn't even come close to describing this level of narrative dishonesty. (Wow, that sounded dramatic, but it's kind of true, you know?) By undermining the canon of the past 14 years, the current show creators have made Gamble, Carver and yes, even Kripke unwittingly complicit in this snake oil operation.

If SPN were just a movie, two hours designed from the jump to play out this way, I might think it was a little cheesy but oh well. I'm not that invested. (See 'Cabin in the Woods', which was a helluva fun neo-horror romp, in a similar vein.) But this is FOURTEEN YEARS we're talking here. That's a loooong time to be invested in a narrative, just to have the latest showrunner unseat all the canon that came before him. The only thing that matters one iota now? Season 15. It, apparently, is the only “true” canon. The only canon where “Chuck” is revealing his hand and operating with any in-world narrative legitimacy.

Thanks, I hate it.

I'm not going to pretend I like what Dabb is proposing. The segment of fandom hungry to bust Sam and Dean's so-called co-dependency is pretty stoked about it, naturally; they see classic SPN as toxic and unhealthy (and let's be real, in the way of a certain ship).

But here's the thing that gives me The Feels™, and it's not turning the Winchesters (or Cas, for that matter) into domesticated, well-adjusted Hallmark Channel leading men. (That's what, you know, The Hallmark Channel is for.) And it's sure as hell not invalidating the canon of the show I fell in love with.

It's urban legends, black humor, the endless highways and guttering neon. It's two brothers raised on the fringes of society, their unbreakable fidelity, finding comfort wherever they can since tomorrow, they may meet the business end of a rugaru. It's the colorful characters they meet along their travels. It's Led Zeppelin, greasy spoons and ancient tomes. It's faith and heart and sacrifice.

Unless Dabb dismantles these things too. At which point, a pox upon him and his house. Writers may lie, but this would be universe assassination.

●●●

Oh! I was going to mention some episodes too, lol. Here are a few quick take-aways, since I've already blabbed on enough.

Episode 3: RIP, Rowena. I looooooved the line, “But I believe in prophecy. I believe in magic.” That was SO her. Of course an ancient witch, the most powerful in the game, would live (and die) on those words. And kudos to the show for remembering it put that Sam gun on the mantel in Season 13, iirc. Pretty sure we'll see Rowena again before the grand finale, though.

Big happy for the suggestion that Sam is a witch-in-the-making. Also glad Cas finally got his brain wrapped around the fact that Dean was pissed at him but he didn't need to take it anymore. Dean has some valid reasons to need space from Cas, and it's a handy way to get Cas off doing his own thing (as Misha is not contracted for every episode).

Berens did a solid job writing this episode, but I'm glad we've wrapped the customary 3-episode season premier. I had high hopes for myriad crusty, decaying dead shambling around a grim world, but instead we got a handful of ghosts, literally running around in broad daylight. The first two episodes were … clumsy.

Episode 4: 'Atomic Monsters', was written by my favorite current SPN writer, Davy Perez, and he did not disappoint! Something about the way he writes dialogue sounds so naturalistic to me, and he manages to tap into authentic feelings in the characters without feeling rushed or contrived. I believe his stories. I never get thrown out of his episodes.

The episode was lovingly directed by Jensen Ackles. The guy flat out knows what to give us. That whole beginning red scene, with Dean and his John Wick bad-assery and then … then we get a Sam who has never eschewed his demon blood addiction. It was chilling and gorgeously actualized and I might have watched that bit more than is healthy.

And we got to revisit Becky Rosen, who is now a fangirl—like many of us—but she's grown up and assimilated fandom enjoyment into her daily life. Perez did a great job in saving Becky, as a character. She isn't the butt of anyone's joke anymore. She isn't a dangerously unbalanced fan. She's just … one of us. Thank you, sir.

Episode 5: Fun stuff in this one! Brotherly banter, Sam and Dean dressed as sort-of Fish and Game employees, a brilliant turn by actress Anna Grace Barlow reprising Lilith (no one saw this coming!), werewolf brothers as yet another example of monsters that aren't as cut-and-dried as hunters might like, and more 'visions' from Sam wherein Sam is Lucifer again, and Dean still has the Mark of Cain. YUM.

But there were also a couple some not-so-fun things. The girls glamping in the beginning was just plain silly, the fight scenes had too many jump cuts (imho), but mostly, why on earth would they leave the God gun in the glove compartment of the Impala?? I noted that back when Dean put it in there, Episode 2 I think it was, but I seriously doubt they wouldn't have locked it up safely after that. Please, foo. Don't make our characters stupid.

By episode's end, Dean is clearly frustrated and demoralized by their predicament. It's clear Sam and Dean will be taking turns buoying each other's flagging spirits this season. As co-dependent as ever. I am here for this.

●●●

This post has gone on long enough, so I think I'll hold Episode 6 ruminations for a separate entry, and maybe dish about where we think the series is heading, for a finale. Anyone reading this probably has a numb butt by now. Anywho, thanks for hanging in with me, gang! Talk at you later...

#Safetypin stuff #S15 meta #S15 episode reviews #such as they are #pinch o' salt

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chubbyooo · 5 years ago

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Blurred Lines Chapter 52 - Power

don’t worry y’all I’m not gonna leave you in suspense too long here we come with the next chapter :D

Terri and Zash learn about the nigthsister coven of Dathomir

Terri was speechless as the imposing figure of Mother Ysum shambled towards them, she was doing her best to not look scared, she wasn’t really sure how effective it was though. Mother Ysum frowned at them now up close Terri could properly see the age of the woman, her face was lined with wrinkles her movement slow and creaky but Terri could see that this was a wise person regardless.

Zash stepped forward bowing before Ysum “Mother Ysum it’s an honour to meet you forgive me but I thought the nightsisters were just a myth to scare the acolytes” Ysum’s face stretched into a slight smile looking down upon Zash

Terri slinked back not wanting to get in the middle of this meeting of the minds, Ysum turned to the chamber around her “yes well I assure you we are quite real” she paused “although we have seen better days” Terri had never heard of the ‘nightsisters’ maybe it was before her time. She had only read about witches in storybooks she had to admit the idea of being a witch was a little cool but it had to be the right type, she didn’t want to be the jaded old woman type more like cool aloof hero.

Terri caught herself before the daydream distracted her too much, Zash stood up straight trying to meet the height of Ysum unfortunately missing by about a foot “yes I have to say your lair seems a little empty no matter how impressive this place is” Ysum nodded seemingly bearing down on Zash. Terri had no idea how Zash was keeping her cool Terri would have ran away already, it didn’t help that Zash’s form reminded her of Lusi in danger. Terri tried her best to put the thought to the back of her mind remembering Lusi wanted this she had to stay strong.

Ysum gestured with her hand and a luminescent green energy began filling the chamber forming a weird gaseous visage “unfortunately there were those who fear our... unique take on the force” the visage swirled into what seemed like a battlefield “and fear makes people do crazy things, but I don’t need to tell you that Zash” Terri’s eyes widened how did she know Zash’s name? Terri looked to Zash who was still staring down the Rattataki seemingly unfazed.

Zash folded her arms “quite, people usually like to destroy what they can’t possibly understand” Terri felt a bit out of place with these two wise woman squaring off and then just her “at least I have an answer for what the conflict was about” Ysum nodded seemingly confirming Zash’s suspicions “You spoke of a deal” Terri had completely forgot about what Ysum had said she needed ‘assistance’ whatever that meant

Ysum continued to stare down Zash “I did, but first I’d like to know what you want” they stared at each other for a long second Terri had never felt this tense in her life, she couldn’t even tell if they were allies or if there was about to be a fight talk about sith egos.

Zash eventually conceded “I have come here seeking secrets, I have seen that there are ways of enhancing ones own potential and that some of them may lie with you” Terri sighed she was hoping to be done with the ancient secrets and powerful rituals but that seemed unlikely.

Ysum let out a small chuckle “you wish to learn the ways of the nightsisters?” Zash frowned she seemed almost offended by the doubt Ysum cast

Zash nodded “if that can enhance my own ability then yes but I think I’m looking for something more specific” Ysum nodded considering the statement

Ysum turned around “then I’m afraid I have some bad news you cannot learn the ways of the nightsister if you are not one” Terri frowned were they gonna become witches? “and for that you would need to have this planet in your blood” Zash raised her eyebrow clearly not believing what Ysum was saying

“in my blood? is this some spiritual message” her words dripped with sarcasm but to Terri’s surprise Ysum seemed almost amused by the words

she gestured around her the green mist coiling around her arms “no my dear I mean you need it ‘in’ your blood, the green mist that you keep seeing we refer to that as spirit ichor and those from this planet carry it’s essence within us” the mist coalesced into a staff shape and then suddenly a real staff appeared in it’s place “that is what gives us our magic” Terri was stunned no wonder she sensed immense force power from the ground, she looked to Zash who was looking increasingly agitated.

Suddenly though her anger all melted away “Is it at all possible to learn this power” Terri was impressed she’d let go of all her anger just like that she really wasn’t your average sith.

Mother Ysum shook her head “I’m afraid not without prolonged exposure to the ichor, but that doesn’t mean the magic is useless to you” Zash raised her eyebrow “you said you wanted to enhance your force power there are many rituals with such applications” Terri groaned oh great more rituals

Zash seemed intrigued however “what’s the catch you’re not just giving this away” Ysum seemed amused by Zash’s tenacity Terri had to imagine she hadn’t spoken to someone this wise in years

Ysum nodded “of course not Zash nothing is free, for such a ritual ingredients from many locations are required, as I’m sure you’ve noticed I am not exactly fit for such ventures. I’m proposing you get the ingredients required as well as others I require and in return I will help you with your ritual” Zash nodded considering the deal

Zash thought for a long second “how will we know where to find the ingredients” Terri did wonder these could be anywhere how were they going to find them

“most these ingredients once grew on Dathomir but have since dwindled but across the galaxy certain planets have a small piece of Dathomir in them” Terri wondered if Ysum enjoyed being vague she certainly did it an awful lot

Terri wanted a straight answer “uh um what do you mean a small piece of Dathomir?” Ysum turned to Terri and she instantly regretted speaking up as Ysum stared right through her

The green mist rippled into an image of planets “long ago I foresaw this issue and set up small colonies on planets across the galaxy that either contained a potent ingredient or had the right conditions for such to grow. The ichor was imbued in seeds and promptly planted allowing for our magic to continue and these ingredients to be harvested.” Ysum paused dissipating the map “unfortunately it was only a failsafe so certainly not feasible with the main colony destroyed” Ysum turned back to Zash letting Terri finally relax

Zash frowned at Ysum “I still don’t understand what you’re getting out of this we get our ritual of power and you get ingredients? seems like there’s more to this” Ysum let out a raspy chuckle

Ysum raised her eyebrow “isn’t it obvious I can then restart my colony” Terri frowned with just ingredients?

Zash chuckled “I’m pretty sure you need people for that” Terri had to agree with Zash this seemed sketchy

Ysum smiled “you’d be surprised” Zash’s eyes widened looking to Terri, Terri shrugged unsure if she was crazy or super powerful “as well as that however I will be able to contact the scattered nightsister clans for a more useful rebuilding” Terri sighed in relief ok that was a little bit better

Zash frowned “how do I know you won’t just steal the ingredients when I get back” Ysum’s eyes narrowed at Zash

“first of all I keep my word but do I really look capable of that” Terri honestly had no idea this witch stuff was powerful “regardless we need each other if you want your precious power so you’re going to have to trust me” Zash pursed her lips clearly keeping her anger locked down

after a long pause Zash responded “Fine you have a deal we’ll get your ingredients as well as ours” Ysum smiled Terri wasn’t sure if this was a good idea she may need to ask Zash about the plan later

The mist formed a piece of parchment in Ysum’s hand “here is your list of ingredients and locations good luck my dears” Zash took it without a word and gestured for Terri to follow her out walking out quickly.

Terri shuffled up to Zash and once they were out of earshot spoke up “um Zash are we actually gonna let her restart her coven?” Zash held her chin clearly pondering the question

Zash frowned “I’m not sure but after we have my power we can think about putting a stop to it if it’s evil” Terri frowned she guessed there was something to that although it seemed like a risk “I’ve seen what this ritual could do though Terri I think it’s worth it” Terri wasn’t sure how to feel about it but she knew she was supposed to trust Zash

Terri stammered “well gee Zash ok I guess”...

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crapitskizaru · 6 years ago

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Hi sweetie! Btw I love your posts so much they make my day!💖 Could I get a very dominant law scenario where he shambles’ you to him all of a sudden? (I’m sorry I’m so nasty lmao I just really love him)

Hi!💖 Can I have a nsfw scenario with a dominant law shambles’ing his male s/o to him out of nowhere? Sorry if this is kind of weird~

You stretched your legs and leaned back, setting yourself comfortably on the railing. A trace of sweat sent a shiver down your spine, the courtesy of the day being almost unnaturally humid, merciless sun pouring waves of heat from above. Everything, from the wooden planks on the ship to Sanji’s Tequila shots, was steeped in warmth, to the point when the only thing you could think of was going back to your cabin and spending the rest of the afternoon under a cold stream of a shower.

The reason why you still endured the hellish weather was the distant, yet still enjoyable sight of your captain. He was currently sprawled on the sunbed in a nice shade, hidden a little behind the tangerine trees, a Tequila shot in one hand and a crumpled magazine in the other. His eyes were covered with mirror glasses, so it wasn’t completely obvious whether he was actually reading. As long as you’ve known him, he might as well be checking someone out and easily getting away with it.

You smirked a little when seeing Luffy trip and land face-flat on the ground when trying to get the ball. The Strawhats have been playing volleyball for way too long now, but at least it provided some entertainment. Especially since you were far enough from the middle of the ship where the court was, hopefully out of the ball’s range.

On the opposite end, Law ditched the magazine. Your eyes couldn’t help but wander along those inked muscles, black tattoo lines, the glistering, shiny sweat that covered his chest. Somehow radiating with his usual, contemptuous attitude, he necked the Tequila shot in one go.

“(Name), watch out!”

You were far too busy wondering how would it feel to have those sinful abs of your captain’s underneath your fingers to notice Zoro’s rather misaimed serve. Your body didn’t even get to react in time to the ball flying straight at your figure, eyes managing to squint shut at the last second as you awaited the hit.

Thankfully, it never came. Somewhere on the court, Sanji’s relieved exhale made you peek one eye open, searching for the ball. Of course, there it was, Law’s effortless smirk plastered across his face as he spinned the ball on his finger, his Room now enveloping the ship. Despite the distance of a whole court in between you two, you felt a rush of excitement at this sight. If he was that quick with using his powers, how much time would it take for him to strip you down?

“Hey, Tra-guy, give it back! I wanna play!” Luffy’s yell quickly drew attention away from you. So the game went on - in spite of the impossible heat still pouring down from the sky, the Strawhats, covered with sweat, continued to play as if it was barely a warm-up, some of them having a couple shots in between the sets.

You got so caught up in the game, your eyes finally managed to avert from your captain and actually watch the ball’s course. Luffy, Sanji and Usopp were leading, a few points ahead of Zoro’s team.

“C’mon Zoro, don’t you screw this one up!” Nami yelled as the swordsman prepared for a serve. “I don’t like to lose!”

“Got it. Darn, what a witch...” you giggled at the resignation in his voice, the ball thankfully making it over the net for his own good as Usopp launched to receive, passing to Sanji. The blonde, stumbling, managed to get to it, swinging it to the other side of the court. Or, he would have, if it wasn’t for Nami’s block, making Luffy use his powers to-

Suddenly your vision was cut out, the sight in front of your eyes changing immediately. You were still watching the court, although from a different perspective now.

“Enjoying the game?” a voice rasped by your ear, the famous smirk almost audible, you didn’t even have to turn around and see it on that handsome face of his.

Law, to say at least, was surely enjoying himself. He leaned back on the sunbed, taking off his glasses, hand travelling to rest on your waist as if everything was normal.

“Did you just shambles me to your lap?”

“You seemed so lonely out there. Someone had to take care of you,” he murmured. “Besides, your obvious staring was getting rude. ”

Suddenly he pulled a little bit closer and painfully dug his fingers into your skin. “Are you really that thirsty for me?”

You turned to snap something back, but he caught your gaze first and started smearing open-mouthed kisses all over your face while rubbing his palm in between your legs. As always, his presence was overwhelming, the sight of him cutting off your common sense, his gaze shutting down rational thinking.

Law was already moving to your neck when you moaned loudly, feeling his bare chest brushing along yours. If the heat was annoying you before, now it became almost unbearable, your captain’s body positively dripping with it.

You felt his hand gently squeezing the skin on your inner thigh and it was enough to make you moan once more, this time louder. He peeked over your shoulder to check if the Strawhats noticed anything, but they were either so focused on the game that they didn’t pay attention, or really didn’t want to acknowledge the sight of horny Law.

Either way, it didn’t matter. The grey eyes currently boring into yours were enough of a view for the wash of desire to rise in your stomach as he kept rubbing your crotch in a disturbingly slow manner.

“Please, captain,” you moaned. “I want to be alone with you.”

“And just why is that?”

His words made you huff with annoyance as you changed the position on his lap to capture his lips. He kissed back, but the affection was shallow, teasing, and above all, unsatisfactory.

“You’re so irritating.”

He chuckled and leaned back against the sunbed once more. “Tell me exactly what you want, (Name)-ya.”

A drop of sweat ran down his neck as he poured himself another shot and emptied it with one swing. With how appealing his abs looked, you couldn’t help but wander your fingers along them, rubbing and scratching while trying to keep eye contact with the man. You loved the stare he gave you, even though he didn’t seem even half as worked up as you were right now.

“I want to take a shower,” you muttered, smirking. “It’s so hot in here.”

For a few seconds his eyes observed you in silence, and before you managed to catch a glimpse of movement, the scenery changed, the Strawhats’ shouting and yelling now replaced with the humming of a shower stream. He was there, beside you, his hand still on your waist as water dripped down his already half-drenched hair, washing off the sweat on his chest and soaking his shorts.

You immediately launched into his arms, the heavenly feeling of cold water cooling down your body still not enough to tame the wild arousal in your gut. Your hair and clothes were already wet, but you just turned the tap, strengthening the water stream.

“Am I that hot?” he smirked, pushing you against the wall and pressing his lips against yours, making you groan straight into his ear when he rubbed his crotch in between your legs. The sinful fingers already made work of your clothes, pulling them down to pool at your ankles as you felt him palming your arousal.

“L-Law~” you couldn’t help but moan from the quick pace of his pumps, fingers tangling in his wet hair. “Fuck!”

“Is that how you’re supposed to call me?” His thumb grazed over your tip, teasingly, slowly, making sure you felt every move and every bit of pleasure. You barely noticed when he reached for a body lotion, smearing it along your length and increasing the motion to the point when you already found yourself at the edge of a climax.

“Captain!”

“That’s better,” he rasped against the skin of your neck, giving it a harsh bite, the vulgar sound of his sloppy movements faintly muffled by the stream of a shower. “And just so you know, we’re not leaving this place until I’m satisfied.”

#trafalgar law #one piece scenario #xoxobb #one piece imagine #one piece imagines #trafalgar law imagines #trafalgar law imagine #<3 #dinofilth

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meshugana1 · 6 years ago

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"On Halloween night a where it's full of scares and fright, one soul wanders to find some 'treats' of his in the form of women he likes to bone. But as this holiday has taught us that girls can carry a lot of tricks especially one group which which usually are ideal for sorting out these kinds of pricks." To clarify, all the girls turn one man into an anthro Black cat with 6-breasts,green eyes,a slutty witch costume but just hat, toe/heel showing witch stockings and jack-o-lantern bell collar.

William zipped his pants up and left the young princess to tidy herself up in the bushes. How he loved Halloween. Even the stuck up girls put out. Must be the full moon or that escapist feeling in the air this time of year. It was the perfect time for a guy like him. He didn’t even have to put much effort into his costume. Just a white t-shirt, a pack of cheap cigarettes rolled in the sleeve, his hair slicked back with pomade, and jeans with a pair of cheap boots. It was the total Brando package, and he didn’t even have to spend thirty bucks. It already paid for itself, that was the third bimbo so far that wrapped her lips around his seven inches and the sun hadn’t even set yet.

As he rounded the corner, he already spotted his next conquest. The first thing he saw was tits, huge juicy ones. They were attached to a pretty face too, beautiful tan skin, really sexy eyes, and hair like a wildflower. Her costume didn’t hurt her figure either. Pink, nearly transparent silk, covered her fabulous tits and even her goofy airy silk pants couldn’t hide an ass that went on for days. God love the genie look. William sauntered over with his usual confidence, the bulge in his jeans was obvious and warned of exactly what he wanted. “Sup pretty lady? You seem like you need some company, my night is free if you like what you see,” William said. The woman looked William up and down. ‘What was it about this night that made it so easy?’ She thought. This would be the forty-third boy she came across trying to take advantage of her, it was too easy really. “Well thank you, young Master, I am but a humble genie, and I would love to repay you. So, your wish is my command Master,” She said. She held her hands in front of her chest and popped her hips slowly to a rhythm William could not hear. “Well then, I think first I’ll wish for you to give me a little pussy, then—” “WISH GRANTED!” She said snapping her fingers. There was a flash and a surging of smoke from her feet. William coughed and waved the air clear, and spotted the crazy girl’s ass bouncing away. “All you had to do was so no, crazy bitch,” William said. He did what he usually did when he was rebuffed, he reached he’d down to readjust his semi-turgid best friend. He patted his left leg, where it usually rested but felt only thigh. He checked the other but found nothing still. He gulped, jamming his hand into his jeans. He felt skin, on a night like tonight he would always forgo underwear, it just got in the way. But as he rubbed his crotch, he didn’t feel his shaft, nor his balls, nor his head. He just felt a little…tingly? He didn’t give up searching, but then, on a downstroke, his index finger slipped inside him. His knees shook, his finger was wet, and when his nail grazed a sensitive little bud of nerves, the mystery was solved. “MY COCK TURNED INTO A CUNT?!”

William ran hard, pants dangling by an ankle and dripping pussy exposed to the nippy air. He gave no thought to his direction, his eyes stared ahead blankly. He rounded the corner and struck something soft, then two bodies crashed into the ground. His bare ass rubbed into the ground and the long grass tickled his pussy. “What the hell dude? *Pbbbrrrbbtt* Watch where you’re going!” The woman said. William looked at the victim of his panicked dash. The first thing he saw was an enormous round belly attached to an incredibly sexy woman. Her breasts were glorious and her ass was the stuff of legends, if she could lay off the burritos, she would’ve been another fine woman he would love to let suck him off if his circumstances were different. “Uh, sorry,” William said. He tried to raise himself off the ground, but the shock from his sudden transformation was setting in and they remained rooted to the earth. “Oh! I’m so sorry, *fffwwweeeeeenn* I guess ‘dude’ is a bit offensive huh? My bad, *Splorttt*” she said. Why would she say that? He thought. Then he remembered his state of dress, and what he was unintentionally exposing to her. “Wait, NO! I’m not trans, I was cursed or something, I don’t normally look like this I swear!” “Cursed? *Brrrrrrrbbbb* Really? *Flablatch* No way! I can totally help! I’m Stacey and I’m a witch in training,*fffffffffffffffffffffffffffp*” she said. Fifteen minutes ago he would’ve thought she was some crazy pregnant chick, but now the scales had fallen from his eyes and he would grasp at any straw. “Really!? Oh please help me, I’ll do anything!” “No problem. *Rrrrrppppppttttt* I understand what you’re going through too, just brace yourself. *Ppppppppppppttttrrrr* I probably can’t fix all off this but I think I can put one thing back to normal at least,” Stacey said. William was a smidge confused. There was only one thing wrong with him so how could she miss? Stacey began speaking, and letting out a long, high pitched fart, in a language William had no hope of knowing. Her rate of strange words increased along with her gas. Then she just stopped, and William felt a twinge in his chest. He pulled up his shirt and saw his nipples had become puffy and erect, and his pecs started to look a little fatty. He then felt a tremendous sense of vertigo and the ground rapidly approached him. Then his chest trembled and surged forth with such force that it knocked him off balance. He had fleshy bags attached to his chest topped with large, puffy nipples. He couldn’t say the word, he wouldn’t say the word. “Well, *Blort* that’s all I can really do without making it worse. You got a doozy of a spell on you. *Sprrrutut* I hope that get’s you back to normal a bit, bye! *Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*” Stacey said. She turned and waddled away, the sounds of gas still echoing into the night.

William shambled against a fence. Twice, how could the same thing happen to a guy twice in less than an hour? It was like being struck by magical lightning, then getting hit by a magical meteor. He felt his…chest, dangle and bob with every step. He knew this fence, it was some recluse middle-aged ladies. He used to be tall enough to peer clear over the top, now thanks to that gassy bitch he was a foot too short. William didn’t even have the will to put his pants back on. What was the point? All people would see of his living nightmare was a costume of a gender-bent freak. He continued on his hopeless march when he rubbed himself against a soft pair of tits coming around the corner. “WHAT?! How dare you touch me so casually!” William heard, he didn’t care. What else could happen to him. Going to jail would be an improvement at this rate. “Are you ignoring me you little bastard? You think you can fondle a goddess and get away with it? I know your type little man. You think you’re just a real tomcat, don’t you? I can tell you’ve already been given a few lessons, but they clearly aren’t enough for someone like you,” The woman said. “What? Oh god no, no! Please don’t, it was an accident! Leave me alone!” William said. He didn’t wait for an answer and turned to run. His shorter legs pumped as hard as they could but nothing was moving around him. The woman held her hand out, suspending him in the air. “You want to be a little Tomcat? Fine! One little change though, I’d hate to erase your progress!” She said. William flailed in the air. Three times, three fucking times! His clothing dissolved into nothingness, exposing his new breasts and pristine pussy completely. His short body began to contract even further, reducing him to just barely above four and a half feet. What remained of his masculine form began to melt away. His arms became supple and graceful, so did his legs. His waist contorted into a tiny shape, his legs became slender at the calf but tremendously thick in the thigh. His ass tingled, then it felt like it was falling out, becoming a tight, round fanny. All his muscles faded away, his facial features softened, going from the hard face of a rugged man to a supermodels visage. No trace of him was left. Then it got worse.

The hairs on his arms having nearly gone were returning with force. Same with his legs. Before this evening, he was gifted with very light flaxen hair. But his hair growing in now was black as black. It was probably the same on his head, he could feel it coming down his neck and slipping past his shoulders. It was getting thicker and thicker, soon it coated his arms and legs so entirely that he could see no skin beneath any of it. His new fur shined glossy. There was a pinch atop his head as pointed ears, much better suited for his new shape. Another pinch came above his engorged bottom as his spine lengthened nearly four feet. Unceremoniously he dropped toward the ground. He twisted and distorted his body on the way down without effort. His arms and legs hit the earth first, catching him. “There, now you look the part, Pussy. Maybe you’ll think better of trying to cop a feel on a goddess with your filthy paws,” she said. She turned aggressively on her heel, then left down the sidewalk leaving William to lick his magical wounds.

He sat there a while, squatting, feeling his tail flick back and forth. “FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK! Why?! Why me?! I didn’t do anything and now the universe has fucked me FOUR FUCKING TIMES! Now I’m a big tatted cat bitch?! Of fucking course! Why not? Who cares?! Is that all you got? Can’t get any worse so bring it the fuck on! What’s next? Antlers? A cock on my forehead? How about a whole buncha titties? Could always use more of those right?!” “Well, now that you mention it that doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” came a small voice behind him. Every hair on Williams body stood on end. Every muscle tensed and he shot into the air nearly fifteen feet, landing in the recluses yard. The hair all over his body stood on end and his arms and legs remained stiff and outstretched. “Holy Titania, sorry didn’t mean to scare you kitty,” the voice came again. William turned and saw something he both feared and begrudgingly expected. It was a tiny blonde woman, no more than six inches tall, floating there in a green dress. “Let me guess, you’re gonna change me too? Fucking great, FUCKING GREAT! Well, get on with it you little freak. Do your fucking worst!” William said. “Hey! Don’t you yell at me you little bitch! I know you’re having a rough night, fella, and maybe if you were nicer, I would’ve helped you out. But now? Well, you reap what you sow!” She said. Yellow light shot from her hands and struck William below his breasts. He felt a cramp, followed by three others. Then his shoulders slumped as four new pairs of breasts, each one equal to his first set, weighted him down so much he was forced nearly to all fours. “There, enjoy what being an asshole gets you,” the fairy said. With that, she turned and left in a blinding display of speed.

William plopped down on his round bottom and grabbed one of his middle tits. They felt so heavy. His chest began to heave, then the tops of his original pair of jugs began to moisten with his tears. It was so unfair. All he wanted to do was get his dick a little bit wet, that’s all. What was so wrong with that? Now he was a freak, a six titted cat freak. What was he going to do? Where could he go? His family wouldn’t recognize him now, none of his friends would care beyond wanting to fuck him. He was screwed. Stuck crying in the cold and the grass. “Perfect!” He decried. “I’ll say,” a sultry voice said behind him. He wasn’t surprised this time. His new ears picked up the creaking of the porch ages ago. The woman was simply stunning, beautiful olive skin, a voluptuous figure and a sexy as hell witches costume. “You look like you’ve had a rough night,” she said. “Oh yeah, sniff, how can you tell?” William said. “Well, the tits give it away. Come on up here, no need for tears.” “Like hell there isn’t,” William said as he sulked up the steps of her porch, “Look at me! I’m practically a monster.” “Hardly, I’ve seen monsters before and you are quite far from that. I’d even say you look pretty cute.” “Oh what, are you a witch too or something?” “Yeah, isn’t the costume obvious?” She said with a smile. “Oh.” “Don’t worry little kitten; I’m not going to hurt you.” “Might as well, everyone else with magical powers is.” “Actually, I was going to ask if you might want a job.” “A job?” “Yup, interested?” “What kind of job could I do like this?” “Well, most witches have familiars, but I’ve never really gotten around to it. I’m not exactly proactive, but when such an opportunity lands in ones lap it is unwise not to take advantage.” “What does a familiar do? I don’t have to do anything crazy or satanic do I?” “Satanic, really? I just run a little store of oddities and antiques. I guess you’d run the counter sometimes, organize, anything else I need, maybe test out new magical items I acquire, that sort of thing. And of course, you’d be living here with me. What do you think?” “You’d want a giant titted cat monster running the store while you’re at lunch?” “I have a myriad of items at my shop kitty; they’re almost all of a magical nature. There are more than a few that would change the way you look to something a bit more socially acceptable. So, what do you think?” William didn’t need much time to think. “What choice do I have?” William extended his hand to her, “I’m William.” “Pleasure to meet you, I am Saveta, but you’ll call me Mistress when it’s just us from now on,” Saveta said as she clasped his outstretched hand. William felt a surge coming from her hand that left him weak in the knees. “I don’t know about that Mistress, sounds a little too kinky. Wait what? I just called you Mistress instead of Mistress. Oh crap, is this magic again?” “Yeah, sorry. It’s best you don’t think too hard about it until you’re used to it. But here, a little welcome home present,” Saveta said. She lifted her hands and seemed to produce a choker from nowhere. It looked expensive. It was jack-o-lantern shaped, of course. Saveta placed it around Williams’ neck, it fit perfectly. The moment she clasp was locked it disappeared, and William was bathed in a blue-hued light. A witch’s hat, nearly identical to his new Mistress’s appeared on his head. It even had holes specially placed for his ears. “A hat?” William said. “The bell has a pretty nice feature too,” Saveta said. She curled her finger and flicked the bell, sending the ring into Williams’ ears, then she did it again. The bell began to glow, then Williams world seemed to collapse in on itself. Where he was once sitting, he now was suspended in mid-air. As he fell to the chair, he contorted, catching himself on the seat cushion. He felt claws, whiskers, and warmth from the fur now covering his entire form. “Mrrow?” “Useful right? Just for when company is over. And two more hits to change back,” she said striking the bell twice. William popped back into his human-ish form. “That feels so weird!” “You’ll get used to it; you can do it yourself too you know, should the need arise. Now come along inside, I’d like to take those tits for a test ride before anymore trick or treaters arrive,” Saveta said delivering a swift and sharp smack to Williams’ bottom, that answering more questions about what she meant than anything else.

The End. Hope Y’all like it!

#Halloween #MTF tf #TF #anthro tf #anthro cat tf #multibreast #breast expansion #ass expansion #animal tf #request

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lazywonderlnds-blog · 7 years ago

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FIC: What’s My Age Again?

Pairing: Harry/Draco Rating: NC-17 Word Count: 12,249 Kinks/Tropes: Top!Harry, Bottom!Draco, Quidditch Player!Harry, Ministry Worker!Draco, Confident!Harry, Bisexual!Harry, Hung!Harry, Rimming, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Rough Sex, UST, Flirting Warnings: Minor recreational drug use Summary: Harry Potter has had enough of pleasing the public, and his reckless tendencies are finally getting out of hand. The Quidditch World Cup is only a week away; as Captain of the English National Team, Hermione has assured him that his immaturity won’t be tolerated by the Ministry. And then Malfoy shows up. (Inspired by the blink-182 song of the same name.) Links: AO3 Notes: WOW, I’ve been working on this forever and here it finally is! Likes and reblogs are, of course, greatly loved and appreciated. ❤️

* * *

“ No one should take themselves so seriously With many years ahead to fall in line Why would you wish that on me? I never wanna act my age

What's my age again? ”

- blink-182

* * *

Harry’s flat was in utter shambles; Hermione had come by in the middle of her work day to help him restore order.

Some time last night while he had been out having a pint with Ron and Dean Thomas, somebody had come into his London apartment and trashed the place.

Not just somebody, though — it had been Emily, the cute little blonde-haired witch he’d been dating a year now, who had turned out to be not so much cute and little as she was needy and suffocating. This disaster was the proof, if he’d needed it.

With a wave of his wand, Harry repaired an electric lamp that had smashed into a million pieces across his hardwood floor, sending it flying back into place on an end table. The leather couch beside it had been slashed to ribbons, as well — the stuffing had been everywhere — but Hermione had already taken care of that one, and an hour later it looked good as new.

“I suppose this means we’re not dating anymore, does it?” said Harry, lifting an eyebrow as he surveyed the flat, trying to spot anything they’d missed. Hermione finished straightening the clock that sat on top of his mantel and then turned to look at him.

“That seems like a safe bet considering the 'WE'RE OVER' in red lipstick on your bathroom mirror,” she agreed sardonically, looking exasperated. “What happened? Just a fortnight ago Emily was telling me she thought you might be thinking of proposing. How do you get from that to this? I mean, my goodness, Harry.”

“Proposing?” he echoed, latching onto the word and ignoring the rest of Hermione’s question. “She said she thought I’d be proposing?”

“Well, yes.” Hermione took a seat on the newly-repaired sofa, brushing some hair out of her eyes and fixing Harry with a probing stare. “You’ve been together a year and a half now, she seemed to think that was the direction it was heading. I did, mind you, bring up the fact that you continue to refuse to move in with her, which hardly bodes well for a marriage, but you know Emily.”

“Selective hearing,” said Harry dourly. He felt his irritation mounting. “Well, bollocks to her, then. Crazy wench.”

“Harry!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, though he wasn’t. He was confused, yes. Monumentally pissed off, absolutely. But sorry? Not even a little bit. “Good to be rid of her, to tell you the truth. Couldn’t bloody stand it having her here every time I came home from practice. Didn’t even let me take a bath without bringing me a sodding tray of tea and biscuits. Like I can be arsed to eat biscuits when I’m trying to have a fucking soak.”

Hermione, to his surprise, had started chuckling.

“It’s not a bloody joke, Hermione! You try having a relaxing bath with soggy bits of food floating around the bubbles.”

“Why hadn’t you broken up with her, then?”

Realizing he didn’t have much of an answer, Harry merely shrugged.

“So, then, what was it?" she scoffed. "What could you possibly have done to provoke the bedlam we just spent an hour cleaning up?”

“It wasn’t just one thing,” he said, rolling his eyes as he sat down beside Hermione. She lifted an eyebrow. “She’s been cross with me all week. Last Saturday night it started, because of that Ministry event. The fundraiser one, can’t remember what it was for.”

“The one you didn’t show up to,” Hermione said dryly.

“She went off on me like you wouldn’t bloody believe when I told her I wasn’t going,” he went on, ignoring Hermione’s tone entirely. “Should’ve heard the things she was saying. Told me that I haven’t got my priorities straight and I ought to start living up to my name.”

A hand flew up to Hermione’s mouth, suppressing what was clearly laughter. Harry didn’t bother hiding his own grin.

“It was really something, I’ll tell you that much. I guess what finally did it, though, was, er — well, I may have forgotten we’d had a date the other night and gone out with the team after practice. It wasn’t on purpose or anything, though!” he said quickly. “Not like I deliberately blew her off.”

“Harry,” Hermione deadpanned, reminding him forcefully of their years at Hogwarts together. He might have blown off a Transfiguration essay for all the reproach that was soaked into her voice. “While I don’t condone this tantrum she’s thrown, I really do think you owe her an apology. That was incredibly insensitive.”

“I know —”

“And if you were so fed up with her, you should have just broken up with her —”

“I know, Hermione —”

“I mean, really, Harry, there’s just no point, you’re making yourself as miserable as you’re making her —”

“I know, Hermione!” he barked, exasperated.

“Well, why didn’t you do it, then!” she retorted immediately, looking beady-eyed and disapproving. Any trace of humour had drained from her countenance. “You could have saved us the trouble of repairing your entire flat this afternoon!”

“I dunno, do I?” he said irritably, standing up from the sofa and dragging a hand through his wildly messy hair. This was a lie, though — he did sort of know why, he just wasn’t keen on discussing his aversion to engaging in any sort of serious conversation. “I didn’t want to deal with it, I suppose. I’d bet you a hundred Galleons she’d have done the same thing if I’d broken up with her, anyway, she’s barking. At least this way it saves me a row.”

Hermione made a throaty noise of disbelief. “What, you think you’re just never going to talk to her again? Harry, you still have to properly end it!”

“You’re joking, right?” Her face made it very clear she was not. Harry scoffed. “This is what she did to my house, Hermione. Imagine what she’ll do to me.”

“You know, Harry, you are being a bit immature about this —”

“Oh, not you too,” Harry snapped, mood plummeting the instant the word ‘immature’ had left her mouth. His temper was not easy to stoke these days, quite the opposite of the way he’d been before the war — although Harry supposed that might have had something to do with the fact that, in the last few years, he’d stopped taking anything all that seriously. “Like the Prophet isn’t bad enough.”

“I’m just talking about your relationship, Harry,” Hermione said sharply. She stood up now too, and there was a stern look on her face like she’d moved past exasperation and on to genuine annoyance. “But, you know, if you want my honest opinion, I do think you’ve been acting incredibly immature these last couple years, and it’s only been getting worse.”

“Funny, I don’t remember asking your honest opinion,” he sniped, but Hermione, apparently, had had enough.

“I knew something like this was going to happen,” she snapped, gesturing around the flat which had only an hour ago looked like a nuclear test site. “It was bound to, eventually, the way you’ve been acting! Like a — a —”

“Go ahead, say it,” Harry bit out. He knew the word she was dancing around — it had been used in conjunction with his name for months now in the media, ever since some sneaky, pathetic reporter had stalked him long enough to get a candid of him hitting a joint, and then sold it to the Daily Prophet for what Harry was sure had been a very large sum of gold.

“Like a teenager!” she yelled, face pink with emotion. Harry scowled. “You miss nearly every Ministry event you’re invited to, and when you do go, you end up completely sloshed and saying something controversial; you get caught doing Muggle drugs and don’t even make a statement about it, not even an attempt at smoothing things over; and now you’re blowing off dates with your girlfriend and driving her to destroy your flat! Honestly, Harry! I’ve been maintaining for years now that you need to go about this post-war stuff in your own way, get it out of your system, whatever this is, but … but this is where I draw a line! Harry James Potter … I am disappointed in you!”

“Great!” Harry yelled, and his unchecked emotions caused the lightbulb in the electric lamp he’d repaired to explode. Hermione jumped. “Brilliant! Only would you mind being disappointed in me somewhere else? I was looking forward to lighting up a couple joints and premeditating my next really immature publicity stunt!”

Hermione swelled like an angry cat. “Oh, I can’t stand when you get like this! It’s completely useless arguing with you!” Snatching her purse up from a chair, she marched over to the fireplace. “I have to get back to work. Do not forget to be at the pitch at six tonight for the first dry run. The other team will be there to see the stadium and the Israeli Head of International Wizarding Relations will be there as well to meet Kingsley. And Malfoy, since Bosley won’t be there.”

The name sent another burst of irritation flooding through Harry’s veins; in a fit of childishness that the Prophet would dearly have loved to know about, he grabbed a nearby candle and chucked it across the room, where its glass holder shattered against the opposite wall. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Remind me again why he’s going to be there? Did Bosley and everyone else in the Department die, or something?”

“Bosley’s got a terrible case of dragon pox, so he’s appointed Malfoy to go in his stead. Do not start a fight with him, Harry, I have never been so serious in my life. So help me god, I will hex you within an inch of your life if you make us look bad in front of the Israelis. It’s unprecedented for the Cup to be held in the same country twice within such a short time span, and since the last one here was in —”

“Ninety-four, yes, I’m well aware of that, Hermione, thanks.”

“Then you know you need to be on your best behaviour if you expect it to be hosted here again within this century!”

“I’m not gonna start anything with him! Merlin’s fucking tits. I thought you had to get back to work, I’ll see you tonight.”

Hermione, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, took a handful of Floo Powder from a vase on the mantel and disappeared into the green flames. Harry looked around at the glass all over his floor and, with a deep, resentful sigh, went to clean it up.

* * *

The Cup was especially exciting this year; not only was it being held in Britain, but the English National Team was playing. Hermione, who had quickly risen to become Senior Undersecretary to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in their years after Hogwarts, had been deeply involved in the process of getting ready for the 424th Quidditch World Cup.

Traditionally held every four years, the Cup had been postponed in ’98 due to the British Ministry’s need for recovery following the end of the war. Spain had been the winners of the last Cup in 1999, and with Britain in place now to nab the 2003 trophy, Harry had been feeling the pressure from all sides, particularly Fancourt — the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports — who never missed a chance to let Harry know he’d be counting on him in August.

And now it was August, the Cup was a week away, and the only thing spoiling what should have been the best week of Harry’s life was Draco sodding Malfoy.

After finishing a makeup year at Hogwarts and graduating with only one less N.E.W.T. than Hermione, Malfoy had, in spite of his déclassé name (and because of his excellent marks), managed an entry-level job at the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Within four years, he’d risen far enough that he’d become a prominent figure in the Department, and had apparently been hand-chosen by the Department Head — Cadmus Bosley — to represent him tonight when his Israeli counterpart came in.

The stadium was in exactly the same place as it had been when Harry had gone to see the World Cup at fourteen. Only a week away, hundreds of witches and wizards from all over the world with cheap tickets had already begun to gather on the campground outside. Harry arrived at an Apparition point specifically for Ministry officials and the players themselves.

It was ten after six when he walked out onto the pitch, flooded with lights. He saw a good deal of people high up in the air, soaring around the stadium on their brooms, while those in more professional-looking robes were standing in a group in the centre of the field. The only immediately-recognizable one out of the group from a distance, white-blond hair shining like a beacon, was Malfoy.

“There you are!” Hermione said when she saw him, looking incredibly exasperated. Kingsley shot Harry a wink, and Harry smirked at him in return. He glanced once at Malfoy, who lifted an arrogant eyebrow, and then looked away again with every intention of pretending he didn’t exist. Fancourt grabbed Harry’s hand in his turn and shook it once, firmly, with a jovial little “Good to see you, Harry, good to see you!” With those greetings (or lack thereof) out of the way, Hermione directed Harry’s attention to the Israeli wizards. “Harry, this is Moshe Mizrachi, the Israeli Minister for Magic. Minister, this is Harry Potter, our Seeker and Captain.” There was the inevitable lift of eyes to take in his scar, and Harry only just managed not to scowl. “And this is Noam Peretz,” she went on, indicating a second wizard, “their Department Head for International Wizarding Relations. Mr. Peretz, Harry Potter.”

“Delighted, Mr. Potter, truly,” Mr. Peretz said warmly, shaking Harry’s hand and looking up at Harry’s forehead once again. When he tore his eyes away, they landed back on Hermione, then shifted to Malfoy. “I was hoping to go over security details, then …”

As the talk shifted back to business, Harry figured he’d be allowed to sidle off and join the rest of his team, a few of which had landed once they’d seen the Ministry officials wandering off. Harry spared one last glance at Malfoy, who was pointing something out in the stands to Mr. Peretz, before turning and spotting Killian Vance — one of their Beaters — landing a few feet away.

“All right there, Harry?” he said, grinning brightly. “Bradley and I were taking bets on whether you’d show up or not.”

“The hell kind of Captain do you think I am?” Harry scoffed, halfway between amusement and guilt. It was always fairly easy to ignore what the media had to say about him, but when his reputation began cropping up like this, among his friends and his colleagues — when he was forced to face the consequences of his rapidly-deflating sense of responsibility — Harry always felt a small pang of uncertainty.

But he didn’t like to think too much about that if he could help it.

“You’d’ve got away with it if you hadn’t,” Killian said, and judging by the conspiratorial wink, he thought he was paying Harry quite a compliment. Harry tried not to let his exasperation show.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was engrossed in a deeply complicated conversation with Jeremy Fowler, England’s Keeper, revolving around tactics for the game next week. This made it even more irritating when Malfoy interrupted them.

“Potter,” he drawled, cutting Fowler off mid-sentence, and Harry felt his hackles instantly rise. Fowler looked nonplussed, and after going back and forth a few times between the looks Harry and Malfoy were giving one another, he apparently decided scarpering was prudent. “We need to discuss —”

“I was in the middle of a conversation, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “You’ve got no fucking manners, do you?”

“Language,” Malfoy said breezily. Harry clenched his jaw and forced his fists to remain at his sides. Malfoy seemed to have noticed them, because a look of dark amusement crossed his arrogant face. “As I was saying, we need to discuss your behaviour over the following week.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your behaviour, Potter. I’m referring, of course, to your penchant for acting like a moronic teenager every time you’re out in public these days.” Harry opened his mouth, ready to start yelling if he wasn’t allowed to throw a punch, but at the very last second managed to swallow back everything he wanted to say. Hermione was about twenty feet from them with the Israeli Minister, and she’d given him a sharp look after having spotted him with Malfoy. He could feel his nails digging into his palm and wondered if he’d broken the skin. Malfoy watched him through all of this with narrowed eyes, perhaps waiting for his outburst; a smirk touched his lips when he appeared to have decided it wasn’t coming. “Very good, Potter. You’ll want to continue exercising discretion until the Cup is over. I know the only thing that comes naturally to you is acting bull-headed and reckless, but if you embarrass the Ministry this week, there will be hell for you to pay. Is that clear?”

“If that’s the case,” Harry retorted sharply, “you should stay as far away from me as possible, since you’re the only thing that’s making me feel like doing something reckless right now, Malfoy.”

“I’m flattered, truly,” Malfoy said with an ostentatious roll of his eyes. “Do I have your word, then, Potter? No drinking in public, no Muggle drugs, no —”

“What, I can’t smoke any weed this whole week?” he said, mock-surprise colouring his voice with sarcasm. Malfoy’s pouty lips thinned with irritation and Harry could see a muscle working in his jaw. “I dunno, Malfoy, I really can’t promise something like that. You know me, bull-headed and reckless is all I know. Besides, how else do you expect me to relax? It’s like me telling you not to take it up the arse anymore — would you really be able to give that up, Malfoy? Be honest.”

The sight of Malfoy spluttering incoherently was so satisfying it nearly made up for the destroyed flat that morning.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry said solemnly, ridiculously proud of the way he was successfully holding back his laughter. Laughter, of all things — to think he had been only seconds away from getting drunk instead of coming to this thing seemed impossible now. “Before you ask me to give up something I love, think first about how you’d feel if someone asked you to give up something you love —”

“Shut the fuck up, Potter!” Malfoy shouted; then, seeming to come back to himself, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Harry thrilled to know how quickly he’d gotten right underneath Malfoy’s skin.

“Language, Malfoy —”

“Potter, I swear to god, one more word,” Malfoy snapped. Harry’s teeth clicked shut and he grinned broadly over them. “Since you are utterly incapable of taking anything seriously —”

“That’s not fair, Malfoy,” Harry interrupted him. Malfoy looked ready to tackle Harry to the ground. “I would seriously love to eat your arse right now —”

“Oh my god,” Malfoy threw his hands up in capitulation, cheeks positively flaming. Harry simply couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter. “You’re completely fucking incorrigible. You know what? See if I care. In fact, I hope you make an arse out of yourself, Potter; then Hewitt can play instead of you.”

“You’d rather see me put in my place than win the game?”

“Oh please, arrogance looks terrible on you, Scarhead.” Malfoy made a tch-ing sound of disgust in his throat. He looked completely flustered, the blush on his face having spread down his neck, and Harry was only mildly interested to note a stirring of arousal in his belly. Arrogant and intolerable as he might have been, the reality of Malfoy’s physical appeal was unavoidable, and he looked especially delicious right now, worked up on nothing more than Harry’s taunting. He supposed he really wouldn’t have minded eating Malfoy’s arse, in fact. “Anyway, seeing as this is utterly pointless — goodbye, Potter. I so look forward to seeing you watching from the sidelines next week.”

Harry didn’t bother saying anything else, and Malfoy didn’t bother waiting anyhow. His eyes found Malfoy’s arse as he sauntered away, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Shagging that contemptuous sneer off his face was unrealistic, maybe, but thinking about it suited Harry just fine.

* * *

He’d only smoked marijuana three or four times since the incident six months ago when that incriminating photograph had appeared in the paper, and before having had his row with Malfoy, he’d had no intention at all of lighting up between now and the Cup.

Of course, there was nothing so tempting as the forbidden fruit, and Harry had always been particularly susceptible when it came to things he wasn’t supposed to do.

There were two things on his mind that night as he sat drinking a lager amongst a rather large group of his friends, in a pub just down the street from Ron and Hermione's flat: Malfoy, and the eighth of weed trapped inside an airtight jar in his bedroom closet.

The latter briefly shifted to the back of his mind, however, when the former walked into the pub ahead of a nameless, dark-haired bloke who was holding the door for him.

Nobody else seemed to notice Malfoy’s presence; Malfoy saw him within moments, though, and Harry smirked as soon as their eyes met.

For having chucked a glass candle-holder across his flat that morning, he was remarkably pleased to be seeing Malfoy now. And perhaps he was acting like a teenager, to be getting off on something as trivial and petty as a schoolyard rivalry; maybe it was immature to be thinking about how good it would feel to have his cock buried in Malfoy’s perfect arse when he should have been thinking about keeping his head down until the Cup was over; but for the first time, it occurred to Harry that maybe, if it meant enjoying himself this much, he rather deserved be childish while he was still young.

Didn't he?

He swigged back the rest of his beer and banged the empty glass down on the table. Dean hollered cheerfully.

“Harry, that was your third, wasn’t it?” Hermione said in a voice of forced casualness; beside her, Ron snorted into his own glass. She shot him a quick, disgusted look before leveling her watchful gaze back on Harry. “Just remember you’ve promised to cut yourself off after three —”

“Oi! The man just got dumped, Hermione, let him live a little tonight,” said Dean, to which Harry laughed and Hermione merely scowled. “What’s he gonna do, go streaking through London?”

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy, Dean!” Hermione snapped. Harry rolled his eyes, but nobody seemed to have noticed. “I’m looking out for him. Something which I hope you take into consideration,” she added suddenly, whipping around to look at Harry with blazing eyes. “Getting broken up with was a direct consequence of the way you’ve been acting and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, you know what?” said Harry tightly, standing up from the table. “I’m only twenty-three fucking years old, Hermione. I spent eleven years in a cupboard under some stairs and the next seven working up to the task of killing an evil fucking maniac, so guess what? If I feel like acting like a teenager, then I’m gonna act like a bloody teenager, all right?”

“Harry,” Ron said stiffly, standing up as well and dropping a protective arm across Hermione’s shoulders. “Slow down, mate.”

Hermione, for her part, looked completely gobsmacked and even more horrified; a pinch of guilt settled in Harry’s stomach immediately and he let out a little sigh, thumb and forefinger lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m sorry, Hermione — I just … really need you to lay off me for a bit. It’s a bloody pain in the arse being hounded by reporters and having my life splashed across the news for everybody to judge at their own fucking leisure. It's worse than ever with the Cup around the corner.” He paused, saw Hermione’s lower lip wobbling precariously, and sighed. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione. Really. It’s not your fault I’m on edge.”

“It’s all right, Harry,” she said softly. One of her small hands found his arm and squeezed. “I … well, we can talk tomorrow. Go on and get another drink.”

He flashed her a grateful smile and, not needing to be told twice, headed off towards the bar.

Malfoy’s back was to Harry, facing the bloke he’d come in with; he looked positively edible in a tight pair of trousers that clung to his arse perfectly, and his date seemed to be well aware of this, for there was a hungry look in his eyes. Harry was a little surprised by the surge of irrational possessiveness this created, but only a little.

Three beers in and having only that afternoon been reminded of the sort of passion Malfoy could inspire in him, Harry thought it was actually rather unsurprising he should feel jealous of anybody else commanding the blond’s attention.

When he got to the bar, Harry ordered loudly enough that Malfoy would hear, and on cue he spun around. Harry laughed delightedly even as his groin tightened.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy sneered, sizing Harry up with narrowed eyes. “Front row seats to watch you make an embarrassment of yourself once again, Potter. I’ll just get a letter ready to send to Fancourt, shall I? He’ll be devastated — I know for a fact he was looking forward to wanking himself raw at the sight of you on your broomstick next week.”

“Are we talking about Fancourt or you, Malfoy?” Harry said pleasantly. Malfoy scoffed loudly, his eyes going impossibly wide. He had turned to fully face Harry now, having apparently forgotten the bloke standing behind him. “Because Fancourt has kids; meanwhile, you were blushing like a schoolgirl at the thought of me eating you out today, so …”

“Potter!” Malfoy screeched. The blush had returned, and Harry barely managed to keep from punching the air in triumph. God but Malfoy looked good like that. His date was scowling deeply now, but Malfoy still did not turn back to him. “You’re an uncivilized fucking brute.”

“You’re blushing again, Malfoy.”

Malfoy spluttered, and the flush deepened prettily.

“Erm — Draco?”

Malfoy turned a withering glare on his date, who shrank back in surprise. “I’m in the middle of a fucking conversation, Connor,” he said hotly. Harry didn’t bother hiding his laugh.

“Well excuse the fuck out of me!” Connor scoffed. “We’re supposed to be on a date, are we not?”

“Meaning what?” said Malfoy, sneering. “I can’t talk to anyone but you? Merlin help me if that’s the case.”

Connor looked to be somewhere right in the middle of bewildered and angry.

“I’ll just bloody leave then, shall I?! Since you’d so much rather flirt blatantly with Harry fucking Potter in front of me!”

“Flirt?!” Draco screeched. The barkeeper set Harry’s beer down in front of him — Harry took it with a little nod and a smile and leaned back against the bar to watch Malfoy ream into his date with an expression of polite interest and his free hand stuffed casually into his jeans’ pocket. “Don’t be an idiot, Connor. First of all, I came here with you tonight because you asked me out four separate times and finally wore me down like some useless, lumbering moron. Second, that was fighting, not flirting, halfwit, but it’s no wonder you can’t tell the difference. And third, even if I were flirting with Potter, I hardly think it’s within your jurisdiction to get upset about it, so you can shove your indignant little tirade right up your arse, Connor.”

Wide-eyed and dazed-looking, Connor seemed unable to form speech for a moment. Harry took this opportunity to chime in.

“If I were you, I’d hightail it out of here,” he suggested mildly.

Malfoy glared at him. “You’re next, Potter.”

“And I’m beside myself with enthusiasm, Malfoy, believe me.”

With another scoff and a resentful sweep of Malfoy’s body, Connor slammed his drink down on the bar and stalked away.

“Was that completely necessary, Potter?” Malfoy said waspishly.

“Me?!” Harry laughed incredulously. “The hell did I do?!”

“You stood there like an arrogant toerag!”

This gave Harry pause; he blinked rather owlishly at Malfoy, who spotted the look and scowled.

“As vapid as ever, aren’t you, Potter?” he said. But Harry wasn’t really listening; a smile was coming over his face, for a memory had surfaced — or rather a memory of a memory. At one time, it had caused him greatest despair to know what his mum had once thought of his dad, but as he’d gotten older, and as he’d learned how little black-and-white there was to the world, he’d grown rather fond of knowing his parents had overcome a history of … not getting along.

His mother had once referred to his father as an arrogant toerag — Harry could recall it perfectly now, it had been one of Snape’s memories, he and Lily in their fifth year at Hogwarts.

I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag, she’d said. You don’t have to tell me that.

He didn’t know why it should feel so delightful that Malfoy had unwittingly described him the exact same way Lily Evans had once described James Potter. It just did.

“Malfoy, d’you wanna have a cigarette with me?” he asked suddenly. Malfoy blinked several times in succession.

“What?” he said finally.

“A cigarette. Do you want to have one. With me.”

“Wh —” he started, and then broke off, looking irritated and a little bit interested, although Malfoy probably didn’t intend for him to see that last bit. “A cigarette?”

“Yes. With me. I don’t know how else to explain it, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be a smartarse, Potter,” he snapped. Harry grinned. “Fine … since you’ve done away with my date for the night anyhow. Lead the way, then.”

Harry drained the rest of his beer and gestured towards the door with his head. He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket and waved it at Hermione, who had spotted him and Malfoy from across the pub and looked puzzled. She looked like she very much wanted to follow him and ask what was going on, so he was relieved when she didn’t get out of her chair or alert anybody else at the table to what was going on.

He and Malfoy walked to the edge of the building, where a very thin alley divorced it from an overflowing diner. Pulling two cigarettes out, he placed both between his lips, used a Muggle lighter to spark the ends, and then handed one over. Malfoy took it with a strange, indecipherable expression on his face.

“What’s that look?” Harry half-laughed, cigarette between his thumb and first finger as he took a long drag.

“Nothing,” Malfoy insisted too quickly. His cheeks reddened, and Harry knew he’d realized how it had sounded. “You’re being irritatingly charming.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that, Malfoy.”

Malfoy scowled. “It was an insult, Potter.”

“How was that an insult?” Harry laughed.

“Because I’m saying you’re not usually charming!”

“Malfoy, you don’t even know me, how can you say what I’m usually like?”

“I’ve known you since we were eleven, moron.”

“We’ve spoken three or four times in the last five years.”

“Exactly — there’s not much to know about you, Potter. You’re all surface-level.”

“Is that why you’ve been blushing around me so prettily all day?” Harry smirked.

To his credit, Malfoy rolled his eyes rather believably, but the instant color in his cheeks was a dead giveaway. He must have felt it there, because he scowled again.

“Think what you want,” he said, sucking on the end of his cigarette and letting a lazy trail of smoke out from between his full lips. Harry was visited by a sudden, powerful urge to lick inside Malfoy’s mouth and taste the acrid, bitter tobacco on his tongue. “I would never pay you a compliment, Potter — it would give me hives.”

“You know, you’re really rather cute when you’re annoyed with me.”

“I’m not cute, Potter,” Malfoy said tetchily. “And I’m always annoyed with you.”

Harry leaned one shoulder against the brick wall of the building and flicked away the ash at the end of his cigarette. He said nothing, and watched in amusement as Malfoy began fidgeting under his scrutiny. How had he never noticed before how responsive Malfoy was, how beautifully he reacted to Harry’s relentless teasing? He wondered now how far beneath Malfoy’s shirt that flush had spread.

“Why did you ask me to come out here with you, Potter?”

Harry considered the question a moment, and then he pushed off the wall and tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the street. Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together. Grinning, Harry plucked the cigarette from Malfoy’s hand as well, cupped his soft cheek with his free one, and without even a suggestion of reluctance leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth. Malfoy froze, but within seconds he began responding to Harry’s coaxing, drawing his lips apart with a gasp and letting Harry slip his tongue inside. He felt a moan vibrate between them and threw down Malfoy’s cigarette so he could get a hand on his waist instead.

It tasted bitter from the tobacco and whatever he’d been drinking, but underneath that was the distinctly sweet taste of Malfoy, and it was this that Harry couldn’t get enough of. Their tongues twisted and curled around each other, panting breaths passing frantically between them as they devoured one another. Harry bit down sharply on Malfoy’s pouting lower lip, earning a hiss and a shove in his chest, but Harry held him close and fused their mouths back together impatiently. Malfoy actually whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in Harry’s worn-out English National League t-shirt.

“Come back to my flat,” Harry said against his jaw, kissing and nipping his way down to Malfoy’s neck now, itching to taste that flushed skin. Malfoy shivered and tightened his fingers; Harry felt sharp nails piercing him through the thin material of his shirt.

“Why?” Malfoy demanded croakily. Harry slipped his hands down from Malfoy’s waist to the swell of his arse and squeezed, pulling their hips together. He could feel Malfoy’s hard cock slide against his own and groaned into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Why the fuck do you think, Malfoy?” he growled. “I can’t eat your arse out here in front of The Red Lion, can I?”

“You’re very presumptuous, did you know that, Potter?” Malfoy said breathily.

“D’you really want me to back off?” he mumbled into Malfoy’s neck. “Because I will.”

Malfoy didn’t answer right away; his head tipped back slightly to expose his long, pale throat as it was sucked and licked at, and Harry chuckled against his skin.

“No,” he said finally, in a weak, helpless sort of voice. “I don’t.”

“Brilliant. Take my hand.” He pulled away and held his palm out, meeting Malfoy’s eyes challengingly with a smirk — after a moment of hesitation Malfoy took it and they spun on the spot, Harry leading him through the unbearably tight pressure of time and space to his flat.

* * *

He Apparated them directly into his living room, and they weren’t there for more than a few seconds before Malfoy pounced on him.

He laughed delightedly, twining his arms around Malfoy’s slim waist and pulling their bodies flush, hips slotting and cocks rubbing together through their clothing. Malfoy moaned into his mouth, having apparently abandoned any reserve he’d still been holding onto back at the pub.

Harry licked hungrily between his lips, tasting the silky-smooth lining and marveling, somewhere in the back of his mind, at the fact that just this very morning he’d come home to find the living room in a state of utter disrepair — a present from his ex-girlfriend. And now here he was, in the very same room, backing Malfoy up towards a couch which had been slashed to ribbons before Hermione had mended it.

“This is completely moronic,” Malfoy breathed, even as Harry began hurriedly popping the fastenings on his shirt. When his fingers slipped for the third time, he growled low in his throat and simply tore the shirt open, buttons flying haphazardly and landing noisily all across the hardwood floor. “Potter, you fucking barbarian, are you kidding me!”

“First of all,” Harry said lightly, nipping at the corner of Malfoy’s jaw as he pulled the shirt off his bony shoulders, exposing an unearthly amount of gorgeous pale skin. Striped gruesomely across his front were the faded scars from a hex cast long ago in a Hogwarts bathroom. Harry determinedly ignored them for now. “I hardly think moronic is the word to use; second, I’m obviously not kidding, and if you promise to stop whingeing long enough for me to get my mouth on you, I’ll repair the bloody shirt for you later.”

“As if I’d trust you to handle silk —” Malfoy started, but he cut off with a beautiful little gasp when Harry cupped him through his trousers, squeezing lightly around the outline of his cock.

“Malfoy?” Harry said into his ear, stroking him slowly, nowhere near enough. Malfoy whimpered, hands lifting helplessly to Harry’s shoulders and digging his nails in. “Shut up.”

And finally, Malfoy did.

Harry kissed him soundly, sucking at his lips and biting teasingly at the lower one, a vivid shock of heat coiling his belly tighter when Malfoy started fingering at the hem of his tee and then lifted it over his head. Those delicate, slightly cold hands immediately started mapping out his hard torso, but Harry didn’t give him long to explore before he was pressing Malfoy back onto the couch and falling to his knees between his legs.

Malfoy arched up obediently to let Harry drag his trousers and pants down his long, slender legs, and at the sight of his stiff, leaking cock curved up against his tight stomach, dribbling pre-come onto the sparse trail of fine blond hair leading down from his navel, Harry felt a little bit of his sanity drain away.

“Shit, Malfoy, you look so fucking good.” He lifted Malfoy’s legs under the thighs, propping them securely over his shoulders and using his thumbs to spread his arse immodestly, the sight of his tight, pink little pucker making Harry’s cock throb painfully where it was still trapped in his denims. He leaned forward and breathed hotly across it, in reaction to which he felt a full-body shudder move through Malfoy’s willowy frame.

“Potter,” he moaned weakly, shifting his hips like he was trying to get Harry’s mouth on him faster. “This is … this is …”

“Long overdue?” Harry supplied cheekily; he used the pads of his thumbs to stretch Malfoy’s hole just barely, too tight to open him up much more than that. Malfoy made a high keening noise that brought a satisfied smirk to Harry’s face.

“I was going to say absurd.”

Harry snorted but didn’t reply — instead, he passed the flat of his tongue hard across Malfoy’s clenching hole, cock twitching at the sharp, musky taste of him. He groaned and tightened his grip on the fleshy globes of Malfoy’s perfect arse, holding him open and prising his hole as far open as he could. He used the tip of his tongue to trace around the rim and had to redouble his efforts when Malfoy bucked against his face.

He took his time, ignoring his fattening cock in favour of paying his full attention to working Malfoy’s dusky hole open with his mouth. He stabbed the pointed tip of his tongue shallowly inside, dipping slowly, methodically in and out, only stopping long enough to place a glob of spit onto his twitching pucker and then work it inside with his tongue. Malfoy let out a wrecked sob that went straight to Harry’s cock.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Harry snapped, having seen Malfoy’s hand snaking down to his prick, slim fingers an inch away when Harry spoke. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Malfoy, or I’ll stop.”

It appeared to cost Malfoy a great deal to comply, but the fact that he did made Harry feel dizzy with lust. His cheeks were filled with a pretty pink color and some of his golden blond hair had fallen in his face, giving him the appearance of some beautifully-debauched angel, one which Harry was frantic to continue tearing apart.

He pushed in farther this time, dropping his jaw open and pressing his tongue as deeply inside as it could go. He felt Malfoy clenching spasmodically around the wet muscle as he fucked him with it, his hands now gripping his thighs both to assist in holding himself open, and because Harry could see them there. Saliva dripped copiously out of the corners of his mouth and slicked Malfoy’s arse, making the slide easier and loosening him by degrees.

“Fuck … Potter, if you don’t stop I’m gonna — god, I’m gonna come …” The last word was elongated into a devastating moan. Harry’s fingers dug into the meat of his arse but he pulled himself back, swiping a thumb across the loosened hole and rudely dipping it inside, all the way to the knuckle, causing Malfoy to buck and cry out.

“Stop moving,” Harry said, mild yet brooking no argument. Malfoy let his head fall against the back of the couch, chest heaving, eyes shut, golden lashes brushing his effeminately high cheekbones. He looked like he was praying for patience. Watching him closely, Harry pulled his thumb out and replaced it with his middle finger, gliding it in easily through the wetness he’d put there. Malfoy keened but stayed still. “You’re doing so good,” Harry breathed, stuffing a second finger in beside the first and placing a wet kiss to the inside of Malfoy’s thigh.

He built up a rhythm with two fingers, occasionally leaning in to add more spit and ease the friction. Malfoy gasped and moaned beautifully each time Harry brushed deliberately across the sensitive little nub of his prostate, making sure to give it a firm rub on every third or fourth stroke, keeping Malfoy at the very edge of an orgasm.

“Potter!” he sobbed out when Harry squeezed in a third finger and only sped his pace up further. “I’m serious, if you don’t stop I’m gonna —”

“Good,” Harry bit out, slamming his fingers into Malfoy’s arse with brutal enthusiasm, reveling in the slick squelching noises they made. Malfoy’s prick was bobbing helplessly, untouched, smearing pre-come across his hard belly with nothing to rut against but air. “Come for me, then. Go on.”

Harry looped an arm around Malfoy’s thigh, using the leverage to hold him down, and stilled his fingers deep inside his arse, rubbing relentlessly against his prostate. Malfoy’s back tried to arch off the couch only to be held in place by Harry, a moan ripping savagely from his throat as his body convulsed through what looked like an immensely powerful orgasm, ropes of come shooting out of his twitching prick and landing on his chest and his chin. Harry pumped his fingers through it, slowing down as Malfoy’s body first loosened and then began trembling.

“S-stop, please, stop,” he gasped, trying to fumble away from Harry, but Harry continued to hold him down, moving his fingers leisurely through Malfoy’s still-clenching hole. He sobbed weakly, the muscles in his stomach fluttering visibly beneath the skin.

“Did you just say please?” Harry smirked. Malfoy scoffed feebly and Harry finally pulled his fingers out. He got to his feet and bent over him, brushing their lips together.

“Fuck off, Potter.”

Harry laughed against his mouth. “It’s terrible manners to cuss at somebody who’s just given you an orgasm.”

“Have I told you how much I hate you?”

“Not recently, no,” Harry said, kissing him again. Malfoy lifted his neck into it eagerly. “I gathered as much, though,” he added, smiling and pulling back. “Get up on your knees and turn around for me.”

Malfoy let out a tiny huffing breath that seemed as though it was meant to convey annoyance but really just sounded adorable. Harry grinned dopily to himself as Malfoy lowered his legs and shifted onto his knees, turning to face the back of the couch and tentatively resting his hands on it.

“You’re unreal,” Harry said reverently, leaning over him to sweep some of the hair away from the back of his neck and press a kiss to the warm skin there. Malfoy mewled and arched back into him, but Harry stopped him with a firm hand on his lower back.

His cock was painfully hard at this point, and it was with an audible groan of relief that Harry finally pulled it out of the confines of his jeans and divested himself of the rest of his clothing, wandlessly conjuring lube onto his pulsing shaft and stroking the length of it several times before stopping himself. Malfoy, he saw, was looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and rosy lips parted as he watched, the pink flush of his cheeks deepening to a hearty red that made him look much younger.

“Jesus, Potter,” he exhaled, a whiny quality to it that made Harry’s cock twitch in his hand. “What the fuck.”

In spite of himself, Harry laughed as he grabbed Malfoy’s arse again and spread his cheeks, pushing his cock between them slickly.

“You couldn’t just be the bloody Chosen One, could you?” Malfoy said weakly, hands gripping hard at the back of the couch when Harry gripped the base of his straining cock and lined it up with Malfoy’s loosened rim. “Couldn’t just be sodding Boy Who Lived. You had to have a massive prick too, didn’t you?”

Instead of responding to this, Harry tightened his hold on Malfoy’s hip with one hand, and with the other guided his thick length past the twitching muscle of his hole. Malfoy let out a wrecked moan as Harry sank into him, slow but steady, not stopping until every last inch was being relentlessly squeezed by Malfoy’s sinfully tight walls. His pale hands were gripping the back of the sofa so hard they lost what little colour had been there in the first place.

“Shit,” Malfoy hissed, even as he pushed his hips back, forcing Harry’s cock deeper. “Shit, shit, shit …”

“That good?” Harry laughed, bending forwards to press a series of wet kisses between Malfoy’s sharp shoulder blades. “Fuck, you feel fantastic. How are you so tight?”

“Because I’m not a slag, Potter.”

Harry pulled out slowly and then rammed back inside, wrenching a gut-twistingly erotic gasp out of the slim blond beneath him.

“Are you insinuating that I am a slag?” Harry asked casually. He’d stopped moving, buried to the hilt inside of Malfoy’s arse; he could feel Malfoy shivering, and without really knowing why he was doing it, he found himself stroking his fingers soothingly down Malfoy’s sides. Or perhaps worshipfully was a better word.

“Yes,” said Malfoy, though the biting sarcasm was lost amongst the trembling of his voice. “That is exactly what I’m insinuating. Now do me a fucking favour and start moving, you utterly incorrigible twat.”

Grinning broadly, Harry slid his fingers through the back of Malfoy’s hair and gripped hard, pulling his head back so his throat was bared vulnerably. It was a devastatingly appealing sight to behold. He could see Malfoy’s eyes widen, could even feel his breathing increase again, but didn’t let go.

“Do you think demanding things is going to work out for you right now?” Harry whispered, leaning over his body and letting the heat of his breath ghost across the side of Malfoy’s neck. “Because from where I’m standing, you have very little leverage at the moment, kitten.”

“Fuck you, Potter!” It came out as more of a whine than anything else. Malfoy must have been aware of this, because he let out a shuddering breath. “Fuck, just … fuck me already!”

“Can you say please again? I quite liked the sound of it before.”

“Who the fuck are you?!” Malfoy ground out. He tried to thrust his hips back again, but Harry held him steady with the hand not tangled up in his hair. “Just move your cock!”

“That didn’t sound like a ‘please’,” Harry said lightly, and for good measure rocked his hips, knowing by the way Malfoy shuddered that his cock had passed across his prostate. “Come on, kitten … it’s not hard. Just say it, and I’ll fuck you stupid.”

“Stop calling me that!” But again, Malfoy’s words came out as more of a whine than anything really forceful or commanding. Harry let go of his hair and instead moved his hand so his fingers were wrapped gently around Malfoy’s throat; not tightly enough to feel pressure, but firm enough so it would be impossible not to imagine what the pressure would have felt like. To his utter delight, Malfoy responded to this beautifully, arching his back and digging his fingers deeper into the couch.

“Say it,” Harry breathed into his ear. Malfoy whimpered. “I know you wanna come again. I’ll make it so good for you. Just say it.”

He tightened his fingers minimally and felt Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed.

“Please,” he rasped.

“Please what?”

Malfoy made a sound halfway between a moan and a garbled wail. “Fuck me, you bastard! Please, please fuck me!”

Grinning in triumph and with a powerful surge of possessiveness making his spine tingle, Harry let go of Malfoy’s throat, gripped his hips hard, and started pounding into him with little abandon. Malfoy’s hands scrabbled frantically before gaining purchase and he looked to be holding on for dear life as Harry incessantly pulled out and slammed back in, ceaselessly burying his aching cock in Malfoy’s perfect arse with a reckless sort of urgency. The slick, wet squelching sounds of the lube and Harry’s own pre-come with each devastating thrust only heightened the whole experience.

Malfoy was making the most delicious gasping sounds each time Harry pounded into him, his cock hard again and beading pre-come at the tip. He seemed to have figured out that Harry wasn’t going to let him touch himself, because he wasn’t even trying. At the edge of his own orgasm, Harry waited until he felt Malfoy start shuddering and shaking beneath him to pull out all the way. This earned him a high, mewling sound of protest out of the blond.

“What the fuck!” Malfoy sobbed, pressing his forehead into the couch as his body shook. Harry could feel his heart slamming into his ribs and took several deep breaths, sweat dripping down his back.

“Turn over,” he said a bit breathlessly. Malfoy looked over his shoulder and Harry saw that his full, sensual lips were bitten raw.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Why did you stop, I was … I was so fucking close!”

Huffing out an impatient breath, Harry manhandled Malfoy onto his back, lengthwise across the couch, and climbed on top of him, between his spread thighs. Their cocks slid together when Harry bent over him, crushing their mouths together into a searing kiss that Malfoy instantly deepened with his tongue.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” Malfoy breathed when he pulled away for air, and even as he said it his fingers were twisting around the black mess of hair at the back of Harry’s head, tugging lightly. Harry chuckled and nipped at his jaw, moving his hips, dragging their pricks together wetly.

“Ask me how much I care.” Harry licked a broad stripe up the side of Malfoy’s neck and shifted his hips, using one hand to line himself up again and start pushing inside that unbearably tight heat.

“There’s not much you do care about these days, is there, Potter?” Malfoy said faintly, voice breaking as he was stuffed full once again. His back arched up off the sofa, hands coming around to Harry’s back where his nails dug in sharply. Harry hissed at the pain.

“Sure there is,” he said tightly, bottoming out and rocking his hips, biting his lip to hide a grin when Malfoy gasped, knowing he’d found his prostate again. “They’re just not the things everybody expects me to care about.”

He started up a tedious rhythm, pressing in deep and then pulling out just as slow, savouring every sensation, every little nuance as Malfoy opened up for him and let some of his uptight façade fade away. His eyes kept fluttering shut despite an obvious effort not to let that happen, something which tugged strangely at Harry’s chest. His nails dug into Harry’s back each time his prostate was grazed.

“Fuck …” Malfoy whimpered after several minutes of this, moving his hips impatiently and bringing his hands around to Harry’s chest, digging his nails in there instead. “God, Potter, I’m close again … faster, please …” The bratty, demanding quality had almost entirely disappeared from his voice, leaving him sounding breathless and desperate and fuck, the sound of it went straight to Harry’s cock.

“I’ve got you,” he said gruffly, losing his own teasing tone as well, the orgasm he’d only temporarily pulled back the reigns on creeping up again with a vengeance. Malfoy’s slender cock was straining between them, smearing their bellies with slick, and Harry finally wrapped a hand around it, tearing a broken cry out of Malfoy’s swollen pink mouth. He dragged the foreskin down, exposing the sensitive, reddened head, and flicked his thumb across it. Malfoy’s hips bucked and his nails dug into Harry’s skin harder.

“Don’t stop,” Malfoy whimpered frantically, and this time, Harry had no plans to. He increased the speed of his thrusts and tugged relentlessly at Malfoy’s throbbing, weeping prick. “Don’t stop, oh my god, I’m coming, d-don’t stop!” Indeed, the words had barely left his mouth when Harry felt his walls clenching down around his cock, body tense and jerking as Harry worked him through his second orgasm, sharp nails drawing blood where they’d latched onto his biceps. It took only moments for Harry to tip over the edge as well, burying his face in Malfoy’s neck as his cock pulsed and throbbed and spilled out what seemed to be an endless amount of come into Malfoy’s clenching hole. It was leaking out around him as he slowed, rocking his hips each time he bottomed out, and finally stopping altogether even as his heart continued to throw itself feverishly against the walls of his ribcage.

He lifted his head when he’d gotten some semblance of a normal breathing rhythm back and looked down at an oddly open-faced Malfoy, whose grey eyes were, for the first time in memory, not cold and calculating but bright with wonder.

“That was … something,” he said, and Harry laughed before he’d even realized he was going to.

“Something,” he echoed, nodding his head and letting his eyes roam freely across this new Malfoy’s face. “Yeah. Definitely something.” He paused, and then leaned down slowly to kiss him again, glad when he met no resistance. It was messy and unhurried and utterly opposite to any other kiss they’d shared so far tonight. When he pulled away, he felt something essential shift between them, and he couldn’t find the necessary will power to stop himself asking, “D’you wanna smoke a joint with me?”

He expected scoffing at the very least, and so was extremely surprised when he received nothing worse than a lifted eyebrow.

“You’re not serious?” Malfoy drawled.

“Er — I think I am, actually, yeah. It’s great after sex, and I’d really like to see you high.”

“Muggle drugs, Potter?” Malfoy lilted. “Really? You’re supposed to be refraining from doing anything stupid until the Cup is over.”

“C’mon, Malfoy, just this once? It feels great, I promise. I won’t tell anyone.”

Malfoy scoffed. “I should hope you wouldn’t. I’ll hex your bollocks off if you tell anyone about this, either.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. So is that a yes?”

Malfoy paused, looking up at him uncertainly, and finally said, “How long does it last?”

“Dunno, like … couple hours, I guess. Definitely no more than that.”

Another, longer pause. “Fine,” Malfoy said suddenly, and Harry nearly whooped with enthusiasm. He could plainly see Malfoy holding back a smirk even as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

After Vanishing their messes, Harry pulled nothing more than his pants back on and waited with a smirk on his face as Malfoy tried to put his shirt on as well, only to have Harry grab his hand and pull him away.

“I’m cold, Potter!” he said as he was dragged to Harry’s bedroom. Harry pulled a jumper out of his dresser and tossed it to him. “What is this?” Malfoy asked, and Harry looked over his shoulder to see him sneering at the Nirvana logo on the front.

“Muggle band,” he explained. He pulled a glass jar from the back of his closet and brought it over to the bed. “You can sit down, you know.”

Malfoy did so hesitantly, his eyes fixed on the jar Harry had just opened.

“What’s that called again?”

“Weed,” said Harry, pulling an already-rolled joint out and closing it back up to set on his bedside table. “It’s really not a big deal. Muggles have got some really nasty shit they do; this stuff is harmless.”

“So it’s legal, then?” Malfoy asked sceptically.

“Well … no, but —”

“Didn’t think so,” he said airily, but Harry definitely thought he could see a smirk lurking beneath the arrogance. “You’ll never change, Potter. If there’s a rule, you’ll find it and break it.”

“Yes, well, all the fun things are against the rules, aren’t they?” He crossed the bed to where Malfoy was sitting and held the joint up for him to see. “Look, it’s like a cigarette, except it’s got weed in it instead of tobacco. Tastes better, too.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He narrowed his eyes at it suspiciously. “What does it feel like?”

Harry stuck it between his lips, grabbed a green Muggle lighter off the nightstand, and sparked the end to life with a few deep puffs. He held it in several seconds and then blew it out in a hazy cloud.

“It, er — feels sort of fuzzy, I guess?” he said thickly, holding it out for Malfoy to take. “Try not to take too big a hit, though. It’ll burn your throat first couple times.”

Malfoy took it daintily between his thumb and first finger and held it to his lips. Harry knew immediately that warning him had been the wrong thing to do, because Malfoy had clearly taken it as a challenge and sucked in a deep breath that immediately came back out as a hacking cough. Trying his best not to laugh too loudly, he Conjured water into an empty glass and handed it over.

“I told you that would happen,” he said, grabbing the joint and taking another hit for himself while Malfoy soothed his throat and came down from the fit.

“That’s fucking bollocks,” Malfoy rasped, and snatched the joint to try it again.

It took only fifteen minutes for Malfoy to wind up on his side, cheek pressed into a pillow, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. They’d smoked through the whole joint and Harry felt as pleasantly buzzed as Malfoy looked.

“You have really soft pillows, Potter,” Malfoy sighed, nuzzling his nose into it briefly and then letting out a highly contented sigh. Harry smiled and scooted closer, tangling their legs together and even boldly dropping an arm across Malfoy’s waist. Malfoy didn’t seem to mind one bit. “It’s like … a cloud or something. Did you Charm them to feel like clouds?”

“No, you’re just really fucking high,” Harry laughed.

“Oh.” Malfoy wrinkled his nose, and then he did something Harry couldn’t have anticipated: he moved even closer, and kissed Harry right on the mouth. “I can’t believe we fucked.”

“I dunno,” Harry mused, brushing a piece of silky hair away from Draco’s face. “I can sort of believe it. I mean, we were eventually gonna either fuck or kill each other, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re too charming to be the real Harry Potter.”

Harry snorted. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you want, Potter,” Malfoy saw around a yawn. He’d begun rubbing his foot against Harry’s leg. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he said. “I reserve the right not to answer, though.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but it was half-hearted. “When you said earlier that you don’t care about the things people expect you to care about … what did you mean by that?”

He hadn’t been expecting that, and for a moment it gave Harry pause. He dipped his fingers beneath the Nirvana jumper and trailed them lazily across the warm skin of Malfoy’s back.

“Just … the whole thing, I guess,” he said finally. “It’s like they expected me to keep being the fucking Chosen One even after the bloody thing I was chosen for is done. I mean, look, I’d fight Voldemort a hundred more times if that was what I had to do, but that doesn’t mean I wanna spend my life being everyone’s personal goddamn hero. I just want a fucking break, y’know? They want me at all these stupid fucking Ministry functions just because it gets people interested when they know I’m there.”

“Typical,” Malfoy drawled.

“Yeah, it is bloody typical. Fancourt would probably pay me to settle down with some bird and start a family. Every interview I’m forced into, that’s the question: ‘When are you getting married?’ and ‘Will you be an Auror when you stop playing Quidditch?’ and ‘How many kids do you want?’ It’s never-fucking-ending. I’m only twenty-three, I mean, fuck. Give me a fucking minute to enjoy the first time I’ve ever been able to do whatever the hell I want, you know?”

He realized suddenly that he’d worked himself up and let out a long, slow breath. His head was still fuzzy, however, and it wasn’t difficult to bring himself back down. Especially not with a high, sleepy-looking Malfoy right there, curled into him.

“So was this some sort of rebellious act, then?” Malfoy asked. There was something unreadable in his eyes when he said it. “Bringing me back to your flat and fucking me?”

“No,” he said at once, studying Malfoy’s pretty face and delicate features while something utterly familiar but long since felt began growing in his chest and making it tight. “You are … wonderfully unexpected, Draco.”

The use of Malfoy’s first name was a tangible presence between them, especially potent when their eyes met. Harry tried his hardest to ascertain what was going on in his head but found it impossible to read his expression.

“What do you care about, then?” Malfoy said; it could have been a deflection, but Harry fancied there was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

“I dunno … enjoying myself?” He shrugged one shoulder as best he could when he was lying on his side. “Just … living, y’know? Having fun. It’s why I decided to play Quidditch instead of becoming an Auror. I guess maybe one day I might do that, but I doubt it.”

“What’s ‘one day’?”

Harry heaved a sigh and removed his hand from Malfoy’s back, using the pad of his thumb to drag down that bitten lower lip he’d been so focused on all night. Malfoy nipped lightly at the tip, bringing a fond smile to Harry’s face.

“No idea,” he said. “I’m only twenty-three. I’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Malfoy yawned again, the fingers of one hand idly tracing a scar he’d found on Harry’s chest. “As long as you win us the Cup, you have my permission to make an arse of yourself however you see fit.”

“And that’s all I need, is it?” Harry said, smiling helplessly. “Your permission?”

“If we’re going to continue shagging, then yes.”

Harry’s chest seemed to expand and he knew that if he could look at himself, he’d see a hopeless tenderness in his eyes as he raked them over Malfoy’s face. “And are we? Going to continue doing this?”

For the first time tonight, Harry saw a hint of something uncertain, even anxious, appear on Malfoy’s face.

“Only if you want to,” he said quietly.

Without hesitation, Harry leaned in and kissed him; he felt Malfoy smile into it and a hurricane of butterflies erupted in his stomach.

“I definitely, definitely want to.”

Malfoy nodded, clearly trying to suppress his grin. “You know, Potter, those Muggle drugs are useless.”

“Why do you say that?” Harry laughed.

“Because all it’s done is make me tired.”

“And adorable,” Harry added, smoothing a thumb across one pink cheek. “Really adorable.”

“I’m always adorable, Potter. Don’t be stupid.”

With that, his grey eyes disappeared behind his lids, and Harry felt his heart must surely burst right out of his chest when Malfoy tucked his head under Harry’s chin, let out a deep, satisfied-sounding breath, and went to sleep.

* * *

He managed to make it all the way to the day of the World Cup without any bad press, although Harry thought this probably had something to do with the amount of time he and Malfoy spent in his bedroom. The ease with which they fell into a comfortable routine of being around each other might have been eerie had it not felt so utterly, perfectly natural.

True to his word, he didn’t say anything even to Ron and Hermione. It didn’t bother him, mostly because his evenings spent shagging Malfoy breathless had brought him around to the conclusion that he liked him — quite a lot, in fact — and had every intention of making him his boyfriend before August was over. It was a refreshing feeling, being so into somebody, for he realized now that he hadn’t felt this way since he had dated Ginny. The fact that it should be Malfoy to make him feel this way again became less surprising the more he thought about it and the more time they spent in each other’s company.

On the day of the match, there wasn’t much time to see one another. Malfoy was up to his ears with work to do and Harry was busy talking his team through their repertoire of plays one last time. However, just ten minutes before the crowds were due to be let into the stadium, Malfoy pulled him away under the guise of needing to speak with him; they went up to the top box, empty for now, and Harry wasted no time at all shoving his tongue inside that sweet-tasting mouth.

He was absolutely, unequivocally convinced that it gave him his edge during the game, and when they won by a landslide (Harry catching the Snitch forty-five minutes in, when his team was down twenty points), he screamed himself hoarse sixty feet in the air with the weakly-fluttering Snitch clasped tight in his fist and his head full of Malfoy.

One of England’s Chasers, Nerissa Murray, hosted a celebration at the enormous flat she shared with her girlfriend, and it was here that Harry was finally able to get Malfoy alone.

The flat was on the twenty-fifth floor of a building in the heart of London; it was nearing midnight when Harry, clutching his third beer, pulled Malfoy away from a bloke who was attempting to chat him up and out onto the balcony.

The view was stunning, and yet all Harry found himself looking at was Malfoy.

“So,” Malfoy said airily, leaning back against the railing and looking far too pretty to be allowed, “Defeater of Dark Lords and now World-Famous Quidditch Star to boot. Not bad, Potter. Not bad at all. You might even say I’m impressed.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry laughed, digging his pack of smokes out of his back pocket and handing one to Malfoy. As was his wont, he used his green Muggle lighter to spark the end of it before lighting his own. “That’s my lifelong goal realized, then.”

“You’re very funny.”

“That means a lot coming from you, Malfoy,” Harry teased, blowing out a long stream of smoke and then kissing his soft cheek. “I have something for you, by the way.” He pulled the Snitch from the game out of his jumper and pressed it into Malfoy’s free hand.

“What — the Snitch? Potter, this is … this is your World Cup Snitch, don’t be ridiculous. It’s a trophy in and of itself.”

“Yeah, well … I figure, you know, you’ve never got to touch one before, have you? Seeing as I always beat you to it in school.”

"Oh, ha bloody ha," Malfoy scoffed and elbowed Harry hard in the ribs. “Twat,” he added, but when he tried to hand it back, Harry closed his hand around it again.

“I’m taking the piss, Malfoy,” he chuckled. “Really, I want you to have it.”

“Why?”

“Because I fancy you, you great bloody git. Fuck, why do you have to be so difficult all the time?”

Malfoy’s jaw hung open and there was a suspicious look in his eyes that couldn’t entirely hide the burgeoning hopefulness Harry saw underneath. It made him feel warm all over and he had to use a massive amount of willpower to stop from kissing him again.

“Remember you said if I won the Cup for England I’d have your permission to make an arse of myself however I wanted?” he said, tapping some ash off his cigarette over the railing. Malfoy merely lifted an eyebrow.

“I … might recall having said something of that nature. However, I was indisposed thanks to your stupid Muggle drugs, so I can’t be held accountable for any claims I made.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said pleasantly. “You said it, and I caught the Snitch that won us the game. Now I’m going to exercise my right to make an arse of myself.”

“And what is it, exactly, you plan on doing?” Malfoy drawled.

“I was thinking I’d ask you on a date, for starters.” He grinned widely when once again blatant shock registered on Malfoy’s face. “Maybe see if you wanted to do dinner tomorrow night after you’re done with work. Go from there, see what happens.”

“This is arse-backwards, Potter!” Malfoy hissed, voice low to avoid anyone inside hearing them (although it was doubtful over the blaring music). Fist still clutched around the Snitch, he whacked the back of his hand into Harry’s shoulder. “You can’t just fuck me for a week straight and then ask me on a date!”

“Well, why the hell not?” Harry retorted. “Never heard you complaining while my cock was up your arse. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to do anything reckless until after the Cup, remember?”

Malfoy opened his mouth like he was going to argue and then seemed to fall short of anything to say. Instead, he smacked Harry’s arm again, harder this time.

“You bloody wanker,” he said, and a moment later he’d crushed their mouths together so hard Harry dropped his cigarette in surprise. He laughed into the kiss and wound his arms around Malfoy’s waist, pulling him close and working his tongue between those ludicrously addictive lips.

“Is that a yes to the date tomorrow?” Harry said against his mouth a minute later, delighting in the little irritated huff Malfoy let out in response.

“You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”

“Only when I’m serious about something,” Harry hummed, and for good measure slid his hands down to Malfoy’s arse and squeezed. He leaned forwards again and brushed their lips together, loving the way he could feel Malfoy shiver in his arms. “C’mon … say yes. I’d really like to take you out, Malfoy.”

Malfoy must have dropped his own cigarette as well, because he lifted the hand that wasn’t closed around the Snitch and brushed some of Harry’s fringe away from his forehead, not scowling anymore but not smiling either. He looked contemplative now.

“When you say you fancy me …”

“I mean I really, really like you,” Harry said.

“You said yourself we don’t know each other, Potter. All you’ve done is shag me the last week, you can’t know you like me.”

“Well, that’s why I wanna take you on a date, isn’t it?” Harry pointed out, eyebrows raised. “To get to know you better?”

For a long minute, Malfoy said nothing. Then —

“All right.” He gave a little nod, and Harry broke into a megawatt grin.

“You mean it?”

“Yes, you insufferable, gorgeous prat. I mean it. And you’d better take me somewhere nice, or the deal’s off.”

“Brilliant,” Harry laughed, and nearly lifted Malfoy right off his feet when he kissed him again.

The hell of it was, maybe twenty-three wasn’t going to be so bad, after all.

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #top!harry #bottom!draco #anna writes

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