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knittedjumpersandleatherjackets · 1 year

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Notoriety - Drarry

Harry Prefers to be known for some things more than others.

Warnings - a/b/o dynamics, alpha!harry, omega!draco, pwp, p in a smut, begging, slight d/s dynamics, i'm wary of tagging tbh don't want it taken down

Harry Potter is known for a lot of things. He has been since shortly after his first birthday.

He's known for defeating the Dark Lord twice, for fighting in a Wizarding War, for winning said war, for being the youngest Professor in Hogwarts, and for being Witch Weekly's most eligible bachelor for eighty-three consecutive weeks.

He's also known for being the coolest godfather ever, the best friend a man could have, and for being the most awesome professor ever. All three of these are the accomplishments Harry relishes in having, clinging to those compliments when the others attempt to be too heavy to carry.

He's been accused of many other things.

Never this. Never in his wildest dreams had he hoped or even allowed himself to hope for this.

Draco Malfoy was willingly in his company, willingly stepping between Harry's spread thighs with flushed red cheeks.

Things were tentative, still just new to them both.

"You have to be the most self-restrained Alpha I've ever come across," Draco murmured, lowering himself to his knees.

No one had ever accused Harry of having self-restraint. Especially not Hogwarts' newest Potion Master. The second youngest Professor to ever be employed by Hogwarts.

"Is that so?" Harry's voice had dipped several octaves, coming out closer to a growl as Draco rested his hands on Harry's thighs. He smelled overbearingly sweet, the scent resting on Harry's tongue and reminding him of Honeyduke's most decadent chocolate.

"I've never had the issue of having to beg before, Harry." Draco looked up through his lashes, biting on his bottom lip. "But if that's what it will take then I'm willing to."

Harry freed Draco's lip with his thumb, smoothing the teeth mark gently. Draco's eyes were almost black as he slipped the digit into his mouth, letting his tongue brush the pad of Harry's thumb.

"Isn't there a three-date rule?" Harry chuckled, pressing down on Draco's tongue, trapping it so he couldn't speak, could use the usual Malfoy snark. "I'm trying to be a gentleman, to court you."

In truth, Harry had wanted to bend Draco over the hardwood of his office desk that day he had approached Harry tentatively on his first day in Hogwarts. He had come to make amends as if Harry could hold a grudge against the man.

As if Harry had a choice. As if he hadn't been half in love with him since they were children. The obsessive stalking, the dreams that had plagued him since he had first presented at sixteen.

There was something confusing about wanking yourself raw every time he spotted the man he was supposed to hate so fervently. Especially in the midst of a war where they had fallen on opposites sides.

But this Draco Malfoy, Professor Draco Malfoy, was no angst-ridden teenager. He was for all intents and purposes, the most attractive Omega Harry had ever seen.

Long graceful limbs, hair that had been grown out just long enough for Harry to wrap his fist in, and an arse that Harry had a hard time taking his eye off.

Harry watched saliva pool along the sides of his thumb, dribbling down Draco's chin as Harry kept his thumb in place, keeping the Omega silent.

Draco mewled, his hands sliding further up his thighs to the button of the Alpha's slacks. Harry allowed Draco to undo his button but caught his hands with his free one when they moved to his zipper. He stared Draco down when he swallowed roughly and dipped his head slightly in deference.

"I'm trying to treat you as I should. Trying to be chivalrous, walking you back to your door every night, buying you flowers, and treating you like a proper Omega should be treated." Harry reminded him. He pressed harder down on Draco's tongue when he attempted to speak. Instead, a garbled moan fell from his lips.

Harry arched into Draco's hands, pressing them tighter to his crotch with his own hands. "Coming back to my own chambers and fucking my fist thinking of that tight little hole."

Draco's eyes rolled in his head as he began to suck on Harry's thumb in earnest, flexing his hands. "You don't want to be treated right, do you?"

Draco blinked, attempting to focus on Harry's words but he was too far gone, his arousal permeating the air like a vat of Amortentia. Harry inhaled deeply, his cock throbbing. Draco flexed his hands again.

"You don't want me to buy you flowers or drop you off at your chambers every night, do you? You want me to drag you back to my own chambers and fill that tight little hole, don't you?" Harry released Draco's hands, batting them away to undo his own zipper. He freed his cock with a hiss.

Draco's hands fell down by his side as his breath heaved and his eyes locked on the almost angry-looking tip of Harry's cock like he was a starving man. "So here's what we're going to do. You're going to prep yourself, get that tight little hole all wet and loose for me. I'm going to stroke my cock and if you're ready before I come then you can sit on my cock. If not, well then I guess it's your hard luck."

Harry released Draco's tongue, spreading the saliva on it over his cock and groaning to himself. Draco watched with rapt attention, quivering in place. Harry smirked, stroking himself from root to tip before Draco spurred into action.

He vanished his trousers and pants, rather than move from his kneeled position, and his scent's potency increased tenfold. Harry groaned again, speeding his hand up and twisting his wrist just how he liked it.

He'd had a lot of time to perfect his wanking ability, none more so than in the last three months since Draco had joined the faculty. He was surprised he hadn't given himself carpal tunnel with how often he had found himself thinking of Draco exactly like this.

The man in question was moaning loudly, bouncing on the fingers he had unceremoniously shoved inside himself. He was sweating, a red flush spreading down his chest. Harry had missed him vanishing his shirt.

"That's it, baby. Just like that." Harry grunted, fucking up into his fist. "Show me how you fuck yourself while thinking of me."

Draco's eyes rolled in his head but he focused on Harry's cock again, adding another finger if his moan was anything to go by. Harry pressed his thumb against the gland that ran the length of his cock and bucked up again, clenching his jaw.

Draco appraised him with hooded eyes before deciding he'd had enough and scrambled up to straddle Harry's lap. When Harry attempted to push his trousers down Draco shook his head, one hand replacing Harry's and dropping himself down on Harry's cock.

"Let me get these off." Harry insisted, hand on his trousers again. Draco shook his head, freezing on Harry's cock as he bottomed out. His arse clenched and the tight heat had Harry restraining himself from thrusting up.

"Leave 'em on. It's hotter." Draco insisted. Harry smirked at Draco's very obvious interest in this power play, leaving him at Harry's mercy. before he could tease Draco about it his words were cut off by a loud growl as Draco began to bounce on Harry's cock.

"So good, so fucking good." Draco whimpered, falling forward to press his face against Harry's bonding gland, inhaling deeply.

"So fucking tight, Jesus Draco." Harry couldn't fight the urge, wrapping an arm around Draco's waist and fucking up into him. Draco was babbling incoherently now, every second word was Harry's name.

Slick dripped down Harry's cock, a sticky mess on his balls and thighs and he was sure that he'd smell of Draco for days to come, all of which drove Harry to fuck into Draco harder and faster.

"Please, please," Draco begged against Harry's neck, his hot breath making Harry's hair stand on end. "Knot me, knot me, knot me."

"That what you want, baby? You want to be the perfect little Omega, taking my knot, huh?" Harry growled against Draco's shoulder before biting down on the soft flesh.

Draco howled, babbling incomprehensibly again. Harry could feel the beginning of his knot, that familiar heat that had his eyes clenching shut. "Don't know if it'll fit, if you can handle me."

"Please, I can. It will fit." Draco wailed desperately. "I'll be so good, I promise. Alpha, please."

Harry tilted his head back as he thrust up, pushing the knot into Draco who screamed. Harry thrust shallowly, pulling at Draco's abused rim. "Please, please."

Three more shallow thrusts had Draco clenching down impossibly tight and cumming between their bodies. He sagged against Harry, hitching sobs as Harry continued to fuck into him, chasing his own release.

"Wan' it, Alpha. Please." Draco whimpered, clenching around Harry's knot. Harry gave in, allowing the sensation to pull him under, his hands clenching into Draco's hips as his vision whited out and he came.

When Harry blinked his eyes open again he smiled gently down at the Omega who was purring contentedly in Harry's arms. Hary stroked a hand up and down Draco's sweat-slicked back and the Omega sat up, clenching accidentally around Harry's knot.

He wore a soft smile, bashful after everything. Harry raised a hand to cup his cheek and pulled him into a sweet kiss, more than aware he hadn't kissed Draco since they were leaving the restaurant they had dinner in.

"Sweet boy." Harry hummed when he pulled away. Draco groaned, attempting to hide his smile in Harry's hand. "How do you feel?"

"So good." Draco stretched, clenching down on Harry again. This time it wasn't an accident. "Think you can go again, old man?"

"You're older than me." Harry protested with a laugh. "'sides, maybe we should let this knot go down first."

"Why?" Draco asked, bouncing himself shallowly. His own cock began to stir with interest and Harry felt his breath catch as he looked over his Omega.

His head was thrown back, one hand against Harry's chest for balance and the other on his own cock. "Alpha, my Alpha."

That one might be Harry's favorite thing to be known for these days.

#drarry #harry potter #harry potter x draco malfoy #draco malfoy #potion master!draco malfoy #professor!draco #professor!harry #a/b/o fic #d/s dynamic #dom harry potter #dom harry #sub draco malfoy #sub draco #drarry smut #drarry pwp

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roominthecastle · 1 year

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I don’t know how aware you are of fanfiction, but the leading ACGAS-ship, or relationship, is Siegfried and Mrs Hall. How do you view that relationship and the fan response to it?

SAM: I don’t read fanfic and perhaps I should, although I would be wary of reading fanfiction about Mrs Hall and Siegfried, only because it might give us ideas! It’s a fascinating relationship based on a very strict and well-established principle, which is that I employ her. I call her Mrs Hall and she calls me Mr Farnon.

At the same time, the real power in the house is Mrs Hall, and I’m wise enough not to question that. It would be extremely unusual for them to have a relationship, but nothing is impossible. I am enormously grateful for her presence and, increasingly, for her wisdom, kindness, and attention. And that is likely to become more important, not less. They’re two people with important histories of marriage, heartbreak, and their own problems with children — either having them or not having them.

And one of the wonderful things about All Creatures Great and Small is that things never happen too slowly. More and more, we’ve rightly chosen to put off emotional payoffs. So I would say to people holding a candle for Siegfried and Mrs Hall, “Never say never.” I haven’t seen the scripts for series four, so I don’t know what happens, but professionally, I’ve never been happier than when working with Anna Madeley. I love her portrayal of Mrs Hall, and Siegfried does too. Beyond that, who knows?

I would love to see it.

SAM: They’re sort of married already. You can tell a lot of story just by holding hands.

#all creatures great and small #acgas 2020 #samuel west #anna madeley #siegfried x audrey #long post #mine #holy cow so many things to love in this interview #sam is such a good sport whenever he's nudged about this ship lol #and he seems to keep running into interviewers who are also sxa shippers hehe #also going from 'i couldn't say really' to launching a full-scale monologue is such a siegfried move #B L E S S #and to be so proship/fic to boot???#*weeps gently*#is this real i am NOT USED TO THIS PAMPERING WTF #THANK

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jujitto · 8 months

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𝖠 𝖫𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 | 🎧 . !! 𝖲𝗁𝖾̂𝗇 𝖰𝗎𝖺́𝗇𝗋𝗎𝗂̀

—★! 𝗐𝖼 ! 𝟣.𝟢𝗄

—★! 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 ! 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾!

—★! 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 ! 𝗒/𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋.

—★! 𝖺𝗇 ! 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝟦 @hannahhbahng! 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍! 💕☺️

Y/N didn't feel like trying anymore. She was tired and just wanted to sleep...no cry. Yeah, that's all she wanted to do. Crying is all she felt like doing. Pushing the door open to the empty space, she was met with silence. Y/N sighed, tossing her bag down by the door, as she shuffled her way through the apartment.

Ricky wasn't home, but he usually was. He would always meet her at the door with a kiss and smile. It had become their routine over the last few months of their living together. But this was the first time she was greeted with nothing but silence. No smiling boyfriend to ask about her day. Especially when she needed him the most. Y/N sighed, going to rummage through her bag for her textbooks.

As a way to distract herself. And yet she struggled to stay focused. The words on the page began to blur and become a jumble of nonsense. Her mind and heart were tired of learning. She just wanted to do something other than University work.

‘Where is he?’ She wondered as she pushed the textbooks away from her. Y/N’s head came to lay against the cool surface of the table. Her fingers traced little shapes into its surface. A long sigh left her lips. The apartment was quiet, the only sound being her breathing. The silence was too much for her to bear so she pulled out her phone to text him.

She quickly typed out a message, sighing as she read it.

**Will you be home soon?**

The message seemed so innocent. And yet to her, she felt as though it came off as her being clingy. She hadn't meant for it to come out that way. She just wanted her boyfriend home. But it was too late to delete the already sent message. Seconds later, her phone buzzed with the sound of a message coming through.

She looked at the device, her eyes reading the message.

**Are you okay? Do you need me to come home?**

**Can you?** Y/N was quick to reply, a wave of embarrassment hitting her as reread the message. Gosh, she sounded so clingy. She hated it. She felt pathetic. Her phone vibrated in her hand.

**Be there soon.**

She had gotten what but why did she feel as if she shouldn't have texted him? Y/N shouldn't have to call him to soothe her tiredness and take her away from this irritating world. And that was her problem. She always needed him to soothe her frustration and needed him to hold her in his arms.

She just wanted him. Time seemed to go slow as she awaited his arrival. Y/N waited for minutes, which seemed to turn into hours for her. The silence was driving her crazy. Some part of her couldn't hold back the tears anymore. So she let them go. The tears streamed down her cheeks and onto the table.

Everything seemed to blur as she cried. So much so that she didn't hear the door opening or the sound of approaching footsteps until she was wrapped in a warm embrace.

Ricky gently shushed her, his thumb wiping away her tears. Y/N just cried in his arms, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Tears had begun to soak his shirt as he held her.

Ricky just held her, that's what he normally did. It became their little thing. Whenever life or school got too hard, he was always the first person she would go to. He would hold her until she calmed down enough to talk or just be there for her.

He didn't know how she felt, and he probably never would but the fact that he comforted her and did his best to try to understand was enough for her. Her cries began to cease, and the tears had stopped streaming down her cheeks.

Y/N pulled back slightly from his embrace, her head resting on his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” Ricky asked as his hand rubbed soothing circles on her back. Y/N sighed, shaking her head.

Ricky knew that would be her answer. She never wanted to talk about what was bothering her, it was something Ricky never understood. Silence settled over them, Ricky’s hand still rubbing circles on her back. “I-it’s all stressful.” She stuttered. Ricky didn't say anything as he listened.

He always listened whenever she decided to open up. Him just listening always seemed to bring her comfort. “University, work, everything is stressful. I-i just need a break from it all.” Her voice tried as she trailed off.

Y/N was tired. She didn't feel like talking, crying, or anything anymore. She just wanted to sleep and forget. Forget her stress, her troubles. Everything. Ricky hummed, his arms pulling her closer. Some part of him wasn't sure what to say.

But then again the other part of him did. “Maybe you should. I know it's probably not what you want to hear but maybe it's what you need to hear.” Ricky spoke. Y/N sighed, knowing what he was saying was true. For the last few months, she had been pushing herself non-stop.

She needed to stop and take some time for herself. She sighed nodding as she looked up at him. A yawn left her, exhaustion starting to kick in. “Let’s go get some rest.” Ricky said, as his hand took hers.

Y/N nodded, following him to their shared bedroom. She sighed happily as she cuddled into the warmth of his embrace. Her mind and body could finally relax. The weight on her chest and mind had disappeared. Sleepily she spoke as she drifted off, “Thank you.” Ricky smiled, pulling her closer as he set a reminder. ‘Give y/n the break she deserves.’ Placing his phone down, he wrapped his arm tighter around her.

He was going to give y/n the break she deserved. He promised her that.

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beesinspades · 11 months

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plea for people who have ace headcanons and write those characters as ace "by default" to tag their fics with 'asexual character' even if it's not explicitly or implicitly mentioned so that I can find them without having to go through a hundred fics that hit me in the face with varying degrees of said-characters thirsting over their partner first

for explicit and implicit mentions of your ace headcanons you can use "asexual [character name]" as well. thank you.

signed: me, a tired asexual whose second main reason for not reading many fics is exactly this

#fanfiction #asexual #ao3 #i'm dead serious #like if a character is ace in your head and you just write them Like That without thinking please tag it as asexual character it 100% count #a fic being rated G or T isn't safe enough it doesn't mean character A won't start thinking about how lickable character B's neck is #i have been faced with sudden s*xual attraction way too many times please make my life easier i'm begging #even if the fic is rated M or E but the character is ace in your head and thus there's no s*xual attraction I potentially want to see it!!!#sorry have to censor that word because it prevents posts from appearing in the tags

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hachiibun · 1 year

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❗ PLEASE NO REBLOGGING TO NON-KINK BLOGS ❗

I'm honoured to have collaborated with the incredible @onetrickponi to celebrate a certain gravity-manipulating shorty's birthday! This has been in the works for a while now, and we're both really excited to finally share this with everyone!

Without further ado, we'd like to present Vigil.

— ♠ —

“I’ve always wanted to die in a church.”

Beside him, Chuuya snorts. “I thought you wanted to die in the Ooka.”

Dazai wrinkles his nose. “Not since it became a tourist trap,” he replies. “That wouldn’t be a peaceful death at all.”

“The amount of thought you’ve put into this disturbs me,” says Chuuya, his own nose creasing. His, however, is due to a low seated, buzzing itch along the bridge of his sinuses that has been lingering since breakfast.

Chuuya won’t give it the satisfaction of culminating into a sneeze, however; instead choosing to quash the soft tingle into oblivion with the sheer force of his willpower alone. Anything else would be unacceptable.

(—as well as fucking candy to the idiot next to him, if Dazai ever gets wind of…whatever this is.)

Chuuya swallows against a spark of itch that ignites in his nose and grits his teeth. When he thinks he can speak steadily he points to the pews with a gloved hand. “Find the flash drive,” he orders. “We’ve got a window of thirty minutes at—the fuck are you looking at, shithead?”

Dazai cocks his head to the side, blinks, and answers with, “Just admiring your striking resemblance to a cherub in this light.” It’s smooth and practiced, like most of Dazai’s bullshittery.

“Why, you–” Chuuya cuts himself off and exhales slowly through his nose. He tries not to wince at the slight whistling sound it makes. With a sharp sniff he stalks off to the sanctuary and begins sifting through the drawers there. Dazai scurries off to the apse with an excited noise, muttering something about how angelic his corpse would look strung up along the mosaics.

Chuuya’s nose gives a foreboding quiver.

It isn’t like Dazai hasn’t ever heard him sneeze, or vice versa. They’ve been working together too long for that. They’ve seen each other express every bodily function possible to man (in addition to the ones that aren’t).

And Chuuya might have even been okay with his current predicament, had it not been for a quip Dazai made last week about Chuuya being a “weakling.” It had stung because Dazai, whose lack of self care is, frankly, appalling, can operate seemingly unbothered by even the most serious neglects of basic needs. Chuuya’s seen him run at peak wit on days of sleeping ninety minutes a night, seen his hair and skin glow on a diet of crab cakes and sake…while on the other hand Chuuya’s the one with the—

Don’t say it. As if ignoring the problem will make it go away. It hasn’t worked with Dazai, so Chuuya is a fool to think it will work with his increasingly sensitive airways.

Chuuya rifles through some bibles, sparing a glance or two at Dazai before deeming it okay to swallow a couple of sneezes and throat clears into his sleeve. He’s perfected the silent stifle over time, which is a feat in and of itself since Chuuya tends to sneeze harshly, loudly, and in multiples. Perhaps the intensity is Corruption at work, but regardless, Chuuya enjoys scaring the living daylights out of people. Usually.

The flash drive is proving to be elusive. The Port needs it, badly, if they have any chance of winning over the west side gangs of the Pier. Chuuya jams a gloved knuckle against the side of his nose as he hitches, squints, and glares at the church pews like they personally offend him.

“Oi, Chuuya,” Dazai whisper-calls from somewhere behind a cupboard. “I think someone’s coming. You find it?”

“No,” Chuuya snaps. The dust of old, flaky books is making his already irritated nose twitch. He shakes his head and the tickle abates. Cocking his head he realizes that Dazai is right; the sound of slow footfalls is getting closer to the vestibule. “Shit.”

Dazai scurries lightly over to where Chuuya is glowering at nothing in particular, and takes him by the arm. “There’s a little den area over there,” he nods to a veiled corner, “where we can stay hidden until whoever it is leaves,” he says.

“Or we can just come back in the morning,” replies Chuuya, snatching his arm away.

“Mori-sama will be disappoinnnteddd,” Dazai sing-songs. Dammit. He knows how to hit Chuuya where it hurts and they both know it.

Chuuya sighs. “Fine.” He stalks over to the den and crouches in the darkness with Dazai just as the cathedral doors swing open. The gibbous moon twinkles through the stained glass windows enough for the two of them to make out one of the western gang’s right hands.

Dazai crouches low and squints through the shadows. “Maybe he’ll show us where the drive is,” he whispers.

“Shut up, slug.”

Dazai holds up his bandaged hands in a familiar, placating gesture. They watch the guy glide down the stone nave, rummage around some boxes along the altar’s steps, sift through a stack of papers, and make himself comfortable on a nearby cushion.

Well, there goes Chuuya’s hopes of a night in. And now with Dazai sitting so close, he’s bound to find out Chuuya isn’t in as good of shape as he claims. Chuuya’s not going to waste all of his energy hiding it, but he’s also not ready to be discovered because he couldn’t keep his damn nose under control.

He’d never hear the end of it from Dazai.

So when he feels a trickle of damp at the edges of his nostrils he takes a slow breath in and times a much-needed sniffle with their visitor’s dropping of a folder. Dazai shoots him a curious, but unsurprised glance, which Chuuya pointedly ignores.

The sneeze teasing the swollen membranes of his sinuses, however, is much harder to ignore. Chuuya knows he can stifle it, but he also knows that doing so won’t exactly solve the problem. The irritation needs somewhere to go, or it’ll just build fruitlessly until he lets them out proper.

He breathes carefully, making sure to hitch silently as he bunches up a handful of fabric from his jacket. Chuuya ducks his head in preparation for the sneeze (or sneezes, if this is indeed a…cold).

Dazai raises an eyebrow as he watches Chuuya curl into himself and shiver with two inaudible stifles. When Chuuya uncurls Dazai can see the bleary, hazy look of someone who still has desperately to sneeze but is trying very hard not to.

“Can you stop, Chibi?” whispers Dazai. Chuuya shoots him a look that is equal parts furious and embarrassed. It’s adorable. But…

“Frankly, I’d rather not get caught because you couldn’t tame your little nose there,” Dazai continues. “Are you suuure you’re good?”

Chuuya gives a curt nod. Which should be reassuring, but Dazai’s smile falters because this is actually very bad. He recognizes the lack of quip, even while hiding like this, means that Chuuya does not trust himself enough to speak. He’s seen it before.

Dazai flicks an errant strand of hair out of his eyes and sighs. “Maybe we really will die in a church, if you keep this up.”

Chuuya’s returning grin is feral. “Y-you wish.” No way in hell will he allow Dazai the satisfaction. The carpets blanketing the enclosed den mean that they can whisper without much of an echo. It’s a small relief, since Chuuya can feel the congestion crawling and pattering away in a far back place of his nose, dormant but threatening.

He focuses on how intently Dazai is eyeing him, knowing well what Dazai isn’t saying. Engaging would be easy, but it would be messy and they’re supposed to be currying favor with the west side gangs, not killing them (or in Dazai’s case, very emphatically bonking them on the head).

Chuuya’s right eye waters with the sharpness of the tickle, as the itchiness swells and becomes decidedly less dormant. He bites his lip. If this keeps up his nose is going to turn into fucking Krakatoa.

Dazai watches Chuuya massage his flaring nostrils through the fabric of his gloves and grins with as many teeth as he can muster. Chuuya’s losing battle with his nose is even more hilarious than the fact that he’s currently sitting on a pile of Communion pamphlets.

It won’t be long now, what with the way Chuuya has gone stiff and rigid. Dazai counts backwards from five in his head. He gets to two before Chuuya’s lip trembles as the itch erupts and overwhelms him.

“Gnt!” Chuuya’s able to pinch that one into submission, though it makes his head throb and the pulsating trickle along his nose intensify with unsatisfied need. “Gnt! Nt! H’Gnt!”

He starts to lower his hand, before—“Gnt!” Jesus fuck, can’t he be done?

The answer is no, apparently, because Chuuya feels his eyes begin to flutter shut and his chest start to jump with silent, building hitches.

Before he can sneeze again, however, he feels a tap on his shoulder. It successfully distracts him from the budding sneeze as Chuuya whips his head around to stare at Dazai’s familiar, shit-eating grin.

Dazai uses the finger he’d tapped Chuuya with to beckon. “C’mere.”

Chuuya sniffs carefully and squints. “Why?”

Rolling his eyes, Dazai grabs him (gently, Chuuya notices, which okay, is a little odd) and smashes his face into his long overcoat (a little less gently).

“Mnflgl?” Chuuya questions.

“Sneeze, Chuuya,” Dazai orders. Chuuya tries to shake his head because one, Dazai’s forgetting how harsh his sneezes are—sure to give them away, and two, Chuuya might hate the guy but he’s not going to sneeze on him.

Dazai seems to read his mind. “The fabric will muffle the sound,” he replies. “And you’ll pay for my dry cleaning.” Chuuya can hear his smirk. Asshole.

But he also wants very badly to sneeze. No; at this point he’s desperate to sneeze. His nose feels like one of his gravity bombs, pulsing, thrumming, and the itch is all consuming. It would feel so good to just let a few out. He really shouldn’t.

“I know you need to,” whispers Dazai.

So, against all logic, Chuuya does.

“Hep-MPPH! MPPHT! H’MPPH!” Somehow, the fabric dampens the sound better than Chuuya thought it would. So he decides he can sneeze a little more.

“Hh…hh…MPPHT! PHT! MPPHT! Hp!…H-Hep-MPPHH!”

He’s beginning to feel dizzy. It’s worth it, though, as the stuffy, spider-crawling prickle along his nose subsides for the time being. God, he’s never had to sneeze so badly in his life. Makes sense it’s now, when he needs to be quiet.

And Dazai—the utter prick—is patting his head, like Chuuya’s some sort of mutt. “You’re a mess, you know that?” he’s saying, fondly, as Chuuya shakes with sneeze after sneeze. It’s a wonder the gang’s right hand hasn’t discovered them yet.

Slowly, Chuuya comes up for air. He thanks some leviathan god that it’s dark, so he doesn’t have to look at what he’s done to Dazai’s coat. He’s not even going to look at Dazai, because this is probably one of the most humiliating things to happen to him in…well, not as long as Chuuya’d like to admit. This is Dazai, after all.

“Bless you,” Dazai says quietly. Chuuya’s head snaps to him because Dazai sounds wrong. Odd. Genuine. Ah, that’s why it took so long to place. Dazai rarely does sincere, and the few times he expresses genuine emotions tend to signify nothing good at all.

“Thank you,” Chuuya mutters between a clenched jaw because he may have made a mess of himself but he still has manners, goddammit. He blinks the remaining wetness from his eyes as he peers at Dazai for a suspended moment.

“Oh, and if you’re curious, the guy left five minutes ago.”

And the moment is over.

Chuuya jumps up. “You utter assho-ho–” He’s cut off by the familiar needling sensation at the back of his nose. Oh no you don’t. Jamming a fist under his septum hard enough to bruise, he points a finger at Dazai.

“I despise you,” he hisses. “All thihh…th…hih…”

Dazai holds a hand to his ear. “What was that?”

Chuuya shakes his head with a tickly sniff in hopes that his nose will make up its mind and move from where it’s currently settled—in the burning, stinging place between sneeze and not sneeze that’s driving him even more up the wall than Dazai is.

Dazai cocks his head at just the right angle that a piece of hair falls into his eyes. “That sneeze looks troublesome,” he observes. “Is it stuck? Like Chuuya’s growth spurt?”

Chuuya growls and kicks a nearby chair leg for good measure, now that they don’t have to concern themselves with being quiet. The sound is hollow and echoes across the large cathedral chamber.

There’s a wrinkled, damp spot on one side of Dazai’s overcoat that Chuuya pointedly avoids looking at. The crazy bastard had let him do that, all for, what? Funsies? To torture him? Chuuya will unpack that for later. It never bodes well to try to make sense of Dazai’s brain. Besides, the much-needed sneeze is still eluding him. If he could just–just…

“Hih…Hept! Hh…Fuck! Shit!”

Dazai sighs. “Okay, I can’t watch this,” he says, striding over to Chuuya. “Stay still, Chibi.”

Chuuya glares at him, irritation evident in his eyes and in his raw, wide-blown nostrils. “If you’re doi’g anythi’g other thad helpi’g, Dazai, I will obliterate you,” he says darkly, throat crackling and sore.

Dazai grins wide. “Relax,” he says. He wiggles a finger. “I know Chuuya’s sneeze spot.”

“What the fuck even is a—” Dazai presses a finger to the bridge of Chuuya’s nose, in the center, and gives it a circular rub back and forth. Chuuya stumbles back and manages a wavering, shaky curse in French before he snaps forward with a fusillade of unrestrained sneezes.

“Hih-ASHHHu! Hep’ASHHU! AHSSHU! AHSSH! AHSSHH! AHSSHU! Merde!…Heh-heh…hih’ASHHU!”

Chuuya sneezes and sneezes, for once uncaring about decorum. It’s a miracle his hat doesn’t fly off. He’s so overcome with finally scratching the itch in his nose that he almost doesn’t feel the tap at his shoulder. Dazai’s extending a packet of tissues that look like they were newly purchased.

“Goodness! I don’t know whether to bless Chuuya or call an exorcist,” he remarks.

“Shut up,” Chuuya mutters around a tissue. With that annoyance out of the way, it’s seeping in just how awful he feels. He sighs, heavy, and rubs at a temple. “Nom de dieu…”

“I really don’t know how someone so little can sneeze with such ferocity,” continues Dazai, ignoring Chuuya. It’s easy to say the man was put on this earth for the sole purpose of making Chuuya’s life miserable. “Hih…ASHHU!” Chuuya’s head gives a throb and things slide out of focus for a minute. He coughs, rough, and pushes some sweaty hair away from his face. How unsightly.

“Oh, and Chuuya?” Dazai makes a burlesque of leaning in and peering at him. “The next time you’re sick, call in, okay?” And then he reaches one lanky arm over and pats Chuuya’s head.

“I never said I was sick,” Chuuya snaps, jerking out of reach. Dazai makes to poke his nose again, but Chuuya evades him with a hoarse snarl. “Stop.”

In response, Dazai gives him a condescending look that Chuuya knows well. It’s the one where he purses his lips and crinkles up his large, dark eyes. The one he knows infuriates Chuuya the most. “Please,” he says, waving a hand. “I knew before we even got here. Just wanted to see how long you could keep it up.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to utter some expletive, he doesn’t know which one yet, but the sneezy feeling decides to return—bristling like a thousand tiny whiskers along the rims of his inner nose. Stifling it to refute Dazai’s point will only make his head pound harder, so Chuuya wrenches to the side with a sneeze. Which, naturally, makes him cough.

“Hmmm, you really don’t sound good, Chuuya.”

“Fuck you.”

Dazai makes a face. “Ew, no thanks. But since you’re already paying for my dry cleaning, why don’t I treat you to a nice bowl of leek soup and tea?”

Dazai is so confusing at times Chuuya could strangle him. Or at least blame him for the acute emotional whiplash.

“Hh’ASSHu! AHSSH! J'en peux plus…” Chuuya twitches his nose to the side and straightens his hat. “Whatever—let’s just find that drive and get the hell out of here so I can go to bed,” he grumbles. It’s not exactly a refusal (because tea does in fact sound nice), but Chuuya is more than done with this place.

“You mean this?” Dazai wiggles a little USB between two bandaged fingers. Chuuya sputters. “Yup. Found it ages ago and switched it with a fake.”

“AAH?!”

— Fin —

#snz #snz kink #hachiisnzart #ch/uuy/a n/akahar/a #b/ungo st/ray d/ogs #o/sam/u d/az/ai #hachiibunart #ppls fics #onetrickponi #my GOODNESS poni your writing #give all the thanks to poni for the wonderful fic and patience waiting for me to finish #seeing all the ppl into b/s/d nowadays is so lovely #i'm still v much into the series and especially this angry shorty #hopefully it shows in my part >;)

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feckyeswriting · 6 months

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Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: Shadow and Bone (TV), The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov Characters: Alina Starkov, The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova, Minor Characters Additional Tags: Post Season/Series 01, Sticking Book and TV Canon into a Blender, Angst, Darklina Tether (The Grisha Trilogy), Enemies to Lovers, vignette style, Inappropriate Use of Magical Grisha Tethers, Mal Whomst?, mal slander, The Darkling’s Ring Kink, Consensual Sex Summary:

Alina knows better than to trust the Darkling. But sometimes knowing one thing and following through on it are two different tasks.

Excerpt:

Panic, hot and tangible, rips through both Palaces. Though tonight was to be a night of celebration for the older Lantsov heir, the thin veneer peels quickly when the nichevo’ya slink through the double doors in a twisted parade of an honor guard.

Alina holds her wine glass in one hand, swirling idly until she sees confirmation. Only when Aleksander presents himself at the start of the long hall’s carpeting does she finally bring the glass back to the table. Guards are scrambling, including Alina’s too-faithful Tamar and Toyla, yet no one has dared to approach the shadowy creatures nor their master.

From behind the dining tables and benches, the Lantsovs lob questions, accusations, and greetings at Aleksander in curious combinations. Alina wishes she was surprised by Vasily’s lack of reaction to the Black General’s sudden reappearance, but she does take comfort in the vindication of her instincts.

“Let me speak to him,” Alina demands, allowing her words to carry along the table in a wave of hushes and bewilderment.

#sarah writes #darklina fic #darklina #s&b #s&b fic

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fiddleabout · 1 year

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(previously on the fabulous adventures of sun summoner ava and the druskelle who’s gonna fall in love with her)

It’s their third day of walking, from one whaling shelter to another, and so far Ava has learned that the druskelle is fastidious to the point of absurdity, that she sleeps on her left side-- potentially due to the cruel burn scar that Ava had seen on the first night, in spite of the way they had both burrowed deep under their respective bearskins until their clothes dried; it starts below her ribcage on her right side and snakes down past her hip, terminating in a splotchy discoloration halfway down her thigh-- that she sleeps light but pretends not to wake up when Ava wiggles closer in the middle of the night for warmth and starts each morning with a set of fifty pushups, and that she’s proven herself impressively immune to Ava’s charming habit of chattering to fill the silence.

She still doesn’t know her name.

Ava’s halfway into a hilarious story-- in Fjerdan, just to irritate the druskelle-- about when she and Diego had managed to prank Frances at the orphanage with an elaborate plot involving a rabbit snare, a basket full of fresh mushrooms, and a piece of twine stolen from the kitchens. She’s taken a detour in her rambling, away from Keramzin and towards her first and only experience in the unsea, stowing away on a skiff in a desperate attempt to keep her little brother safe, and has been on an impressively colorful five-minutes-and-building rant about how the First Army had treated the both of them after her powers became known. She can feel her own frustration building, at the situation and at the druskelle and at the darkling, when the druskelle speaks for the first time in hours.

“--and then the lieutenant, that cunt--”

“Should you really refer to your commanding officer so crassly?”

Ava nearly trips at the sound of her voice. It’s melodious and soft, her accent rounded warmly. The other druskelle on the ship had sharper accents, thinner edges to their vowels: a Djerholm accent, urban and rich, the accent of the children of nobility plucked for elite service. This druskelle, though, has a quiet, rural accent that differentiates her from the rest of the druskelle as her dark hair and eyes had differentiated her from the rest of Fjerda.

“She speaks,” Ava manages to say after a split second. “And here I was thinking that the druskelle had made you take a vow of silence.”

“I speak,” she echoes thinly. “Only when there is something worth speaking to. Such as insubordination.”

“Don’t tell me you’re concerned with me respecting a Ravkan lieutenant.”

“You are a soldier, even if you are a witch,’ she says. She steps around a patch of snow that looks exactly like the rest, and Ava follows automatically. “Soldiers should respect their commanding officers.”

“Well,” Ava says grandly. “Forgive me for not agreeing to let my brother get sent to slaughter. Some of us have beating hearts instead of unwavering obedience to work with.”

The druskelle doesn’t respond. She continues hiking, and Ava nearly drops the bearskin she’d hauled with her for the last two days, wrapped around her shoulders like the druskelle’s cloak is wrapped around her own. An irritation builds in her stomach, itching and impossible to ignore.

“Hey,” she says sharply. “What should I have done, then? What would you have done if it was your brother?”

“I never had a brother,” the druskelle says without hesitation.

“Fine, play with semantics,” Ava says, unwilling to give up. She hitches the bearskin higher around her shoulders and scrambles after her. “Someone you love. Your best friend. Your mother--”

“My parents threw me out,” the druskelle says. She turns abruptly, quick enough that Ava nearly falls on her ass trying to stop from barrelling into her. “They took me on a carriage out into the wilderness and left me there. When I tried to go home, my entire village had been destroyed by an inferni. My parents burned in their beds.”

Ava stares at her, the bearskin heavy at her shoulders. She’d grown up in Keramzin, meaningless and unimportant and dreaming like all orphans do about parents who loved her, a mother and a father who would love her if they were still alive. It had never occurred to her, a war orphan whose only memory of her parents was them trying to protect her when the war spilled into their town, that there were parents who might cast their children aside.

“I am druskelle to protect Fjerda,” the druskelle says, fury snapping in her dark eyes. “To protect other children from losing their families to witchcraft. From people like you.”

“To protect people from me,” Ava says slowly. “People like your parents, who threw you away?”

The druskelle’s jaw clenches, muscles in her neck working in stark lines, faint freckles dark against the flush of anger spreading across her cheeks. “I became druskelle to honor them in their death as I should have when they lived,” she says, voice shaking with anger.

“You hunt people who just want to exist so you can honor people who abandoned you in the woods?” Ava shoves at her shoulder. It’s weak-- she’s exhausted, and hasn’t eaten in two days, and the druskelle has broad shoulders and powerful arms that Ava has become more familiar with than she’d ever want to, thanks to the Fjerdan cold and the unheated huts they’ve been forced to sleep in, and she barely flinches with the effort. Ava slams a fist into her shoulder, stubborn and unwilling to give up. “I never wanted to be grisha. I didn’t ask to be this. I just wanted to keep my brother safe and then--”

A groan snaps through the air, and she cuts off when the druskelle’s eyes go wide. There’s a split second when she’s about to pick up her anger and keep ranting, and then the world cracks below her feet and she falls.

She slams into the side of the crevasse, her shoulder nearly dislocating and an aching pressure around her wrist. Her face crashes into the ice of the ravine when her momentum stops, and she lets out a pained noise through gritted teeth before looking up.

Above her the druskelle is flat on her stomach, both hands closed tight around Ava’s wrist, and they both freeze. Ava hangs from her grip, her entire body aching as it hangs from the druskelle’s hands. She could drop Ava, could just let go and let her fall into the unending dark below her, leave her here to die alone and cold in the middle of the wilderness, and no one would ever find her. The druskelle who killed the sun summoner, a hero to the Fjerdan people for killing the first hope the Ravkan people have had in four centuries..

Ava hangs in her hands and finds the same desperate need to live, the one that had burst out of her when a volcra’s claws had latched onto her on the deck of the skiff and tried to pull her away from Diego, crawling up her throat. Sunlight warms under her skin, but sunlight won’t save her here.

“Please,” she says, aching and scared. The unwavering grip on her arm aches, radiating beautifully down her arm, the only thing keeping her alive. “Please.”

The druskelle stares down at her, hands still tight around her wrist, and Ava watches her eyes narrow and shoulders somehow square even as she lays half-hanging over the edge of the ravine, and then, suddenly, she pulls.

Ava’s shoulder screams, the joint protesting the tension it’s under, until she can get her other arm up and gripping at the druskelle’s wrist and square up her weight. It’s only half a minute, maybe, before Ava is able to reach up and latch onto the druskelle’s arm to help pull herself the rest of the way up and crawl over the edge, sprawl onto the snow, but it feels like an eternity. Her body aches with the effort, but she collapses onto her side next to the druskelle and then rolls onto her back, gasping and shaking and staring at the cold gray sky.

Next to her, the druskelle flops onto her back as well, and Ava’s head rolls to the side to stare at her profile and the way her chest is heaving.

“Beatrice,” the druskelle says eventually. “My name is Beatrice.”

Ava keeps staring at her, at the straight line of her nose and the arc of her cheekbone and the sweep of her jaw. The druskelle who saved her life. Beatrice.

“Beatrice,” she echoes after too long staring. She speaks carefully, testing the way the name feels in her mouth. “I’m Ava.”

Beatrice’s head tilts to the side, precise and meticulous, until she can look at Ava. Her dark eyes are unreadable but her mouth is soft and uncertain, and Ava fights the urge to shift closer and curl herself into Beatrice’s side.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Beatrice drags one arm up and offers it awkwardly across the space between them, and Ava meets her in the middle without thinking about it. Her hand is warm, somehow, despite the cold they’re lost in; her palm calloused and her thumb folding carefully over the back of Ava’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Beatrice,” Ava finally says.

Ava means to let go, but her hand lingers. Beatrice doesn’t let go either, and Ava can barely feel the cold seeping through her kefta-- the bearskin had fallen away, lost into the ravine-- for long seconds before Beatrice pulls her hand free and stands up, only to offer it back to Ava and pull her up to her feet.

Wordlessly, Beatrice strips her cloak off and wraps it around Ava’s shoulders. She fastens the clasp and her knuckles brush against Ava’s throat, and a warmth that has nothing to do with her summoning spreads through Ava.

#s2 of s&b was all over the place but it has been jarring my feelings about #grishava #writing tag #warrior #ava silva #sister beatrice #sun summoner ava and the druskelle who fell in love with her: a fic by me that will probs never be fully written #though who knows #trying to shake off the cobwebs for chef au and needed a palate cleanser

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