#geets writes

[hephaestiions]

dangerous

TW: mentions of death (not of the main characters), arson, murder (?)

When Draco arrives at the scene, the smoke is so thick and abrupt, he thinks he won’t make it out to the other side. The reedy lights of rescue vehicles pulse around the cacophony of panicked screaming distorted through the thick filter. The burning building is a blur of shrouded grey and orange, listing and crumbling, a mess of shattered cement and glass.

For a little too long, Draco thinks maybe Death hadn’t been kind that one time in the Room of Hidden Things. Maybe Death is an old, angry god, cheated of their due.

But he isn’t here to ruminate.

He wades through the smoke and the bodies within it, trying not to think about the reaching hands that brush against his robes and the limp ones that knock against his boots. People are dead, whispers a voice in his head. He doesn’t have time for it. Someday they all end up that way.

On the other side of the building, the air is burnt and thick, but the smoke isn’t quite as terrible. Draco heaves a sigh of relief. His lungs burn. He swivels, ignoring the sick dread in his heart, because he has to be here, he has to be–– there. Twelve feet away, against the foot of a tree, a Glamour flickers. Draco walks towards it. The Glamour disappears once he’s close enough.

“What happened?”

For a little too long, Harry doesn’t say anything. His eyes look awfully blank.

“They were all in on it. I had to–“ he swallows. “I had to take them all out.”

Draco’s heart skips a beat. “Take them all–“

“All twenty seven of the partygoers, yeah. It got messy, too messy and I couldn’t leave it that way. I set the drapes on fire and opened the windows. The breeze did the rest.”

Draco kneels. Harry’s hands are clean and steady in his lap. Draco takes them in his. Remembers the hands, dead and dying, grasping at his movements through the smoke. Merlin. He presses closer, lifts Harry’s left hand to his mouth and kisses the knuckles.

“I could choke you to death right now,” Harry says. His voice is a dispassionate monotone. His eyes are still blank.

“Except you won’t.”

They stare at each other, kneeling at the foot of the trees as the air thickens with smoke and screams. Draco doesn’t need to look to know the fire is still spreading. Harry’s hands twitch against his. His eyelids flutter and his lips part a little. They’re chapped and raw, and Draco desperately wants to kiss him.

“Except I won’t,” Harry murmurs after a while.

Draco smiles. It’s inappropriate and the voice inside his head repeats, reproachful and guilt-ridden, people are dead.

But he isn’t. Harry’s still here, warm– too warm, he needs a fucking cold shower– and alive. Draco tugs on their joined hands. “Enough of this. Let’s go home.”

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, 'dangerous'.

[andrewminyyard]

jean moreau + art

in the nest, there is no art. 

it’s not surprising, given the ravens’ one track hive mind dedicated to nothing but exy, but it was one of the first things that stood out to jean when he came– no, was transported, like property– to tetsuji’s doorstep. 

jean was used to france– buildings with delicate architecture, the clear blue water of the harbour, the soft piano music that seemed to blanket his neighbourhood, drifting in through the open window of his bedroom.

everything in the nest is the antithesis of that. 

there is no music, anything the ravens listen to is approved by riko and listened to through headphones, and none of what riko approves suits jean’s taste.

there are no paintings on the walls. there are no bookshelves. there is barely any light and on the days jean is broken down the worst, absolutely shattered against the butt of riko’s cruelty, he thanks a faith that deserted him for never allowing art into this horror show. 

it would not have survived the darkness of riko’s mind or tetsuji’s discipline. 

by the time jean is dragged out of the nest by renee, barely breathing, barely alive, barely a human being, art is nothing but a foggy relic of a life that doesn’t seem real anymore. a distorted mockery of anything better than pain and torture and exy, exy, exy. 

and then jean meets the trojans.

jean goes to therapy when he shifts to the usc trojans. in edgar allen, there had been no mandated therapy like there was with the foxes. jean didn’t even know the english word for therapy until he met betsy dobson under renee’s insistence. 

with the trojans it’s not mandated but jean notes with open mouthed surprise that jeremy– jeremy knox, #1 on the trojans court, the fucking captain (can you tell it takes jean a minute to come to terms)– goes to the usc therapist. 

renee says he needs it. jeremy tells him he needs it. the coach tells him he needs it. the rest of the team doesn’t really talk to him but he notices that quite a few of them have sessions every week. 

so he scowls a little and thinks fucking fine. and he goes. and the first couple of sessions are basically useless because he just sits there and glowers at the calmly pleasant man who asks jean how he’s fitting in with the team. 

the third session coincides with a bad day. 

he’s speaking before he can hold himself in check, before the conditioning to keep himself in check kicks in, before biting his tongue comes into play. 

“there’s so much fucking light. there’s so much sound. there’s so much music.” 

and his therapist asks him, “is that something that bothers you?” 

“no,” jean says, surprising himself with the truth. “just reminds me of ho– marseille.” 

his therapist recommends getting in touch with more art. “explore interests outside of exy and exercise.” 

so he goes back and he stares at the floor until jeremy tentatively asks him if he needs something and jean looks up and says, “can i borrow your laptop? i just– i need to look up some things.” 

jeremy is only too happy to hand it over, a sunlit smile dimpling his cheek. and when jean later asks him hands shoved into his pockets and face carefully blank if he’ll go with him to the local art gallery, the whole room seems to glow with the force of jeremy’s grin. 

so he visits the museum. stares at the paintings. stares at the lineart. at the charcoal work. at the modern art displays. 

he carefully avoids jeremy’s eyes on the back of his neck. carefully avoids the way his heart clenches when he looks at an abstract painting with enough blue and beige to remind him of home. 

swallows his tears when he stares at a charcoal drawing of a piano that looks remarkably like the one that used to sit in his living room. 

he was sold, he was traded like cattle and fuck– he still can’t, he still isn’t over leaving. he swallows, again and again and again.

crying in front of his captain isn’t an option. 

so he waits till they’re back in the dorm and locks himself in the bathroom for an hour. jeremy leaves him be. 

he steps out, eyes red and voice scratchy, waiting for reprimands or questions or at least awkwardness. but jeremy just asks him, “pizza or pasta?” and then orders when he blinks and says, “...pizza?” 

that’s that. 

except it’s not. 

because jean walks into the dorm a week later and finds a stack of drawing paper and charcoal pencils on top of them left on his bedside table. 

because there’s a post-it note stuck to the top, scribbled on, as though jeremy couldn’t wait long enough to face him,

“you spent more time in front of the charcoals.” 

he draws what he remembers of his little sister’s pigtails. draws what he remembers of the sign in front of the cafe he loved to visit with his mother. closes his eyes and draws renee’s eyes brimming with kindness and writes beneath it, “friend, friend, friend.” draws jeremy’s sleek bmw. 

he stares at the paper, filled with quick sketches with broad strokes of the few memories of happiness jean moreau has known throughout his life.

(jeremy swallows down his own tears when he sees the sketch jean has left on the couch) 

(a candle with the words, “perhaps there is light,” scribbled underneath.) 

[hephaestiions]

“Would you like to–” Malfoy begins before tapering off. Harry looks up from his shirt buttons to see him sprawled on the bed, cheeks and chest still flushed with exertion. His lower lip, kiss swollen and bruised with swallowed screams, is caught between his teeth, something uncertain and delicate flickering in his eyes. 

“What?” 

“Get dinner with me sometime.” 

It takes Harry a few seconds to make sense of the words and then a few more to breathe through the white-hot burst of anger that blooms in his throat, tightening under his ribs. Apparently he’s taken too long, because Malfoy is talking again, and making even less sense– 

“–go somewhere Muggle, or just for coffee or–” 

“Have you lost the plot?” Harry demands, cutting him off. “Get dinner with you?”  

Only when it shuts off does Harry notice that up until this moment, Malfoy’s face had been open, sharp edges softened with honesty. Hopeful, supplies a voice in his head. He shuts it down. Today has been absurd enough. 

“We fuck,” Harry manages through the fury. “How dare you–” 

“Assume that you might be interested in something more than being a whore?” Malfoy supplies with a sneer. “How presumptuous of me.” 

There, Harry thinks, assured and incensed in equal measure by the familiarity of Malfoy tugging on the most painful of his heartstrings. There’s the motherfucker. 

“For someone hell-bent on proving to the world he’s changed, you sure do a terrific job of never living up to the image,” Harry tells him, and wonders as he turns towards the door, why Malfoy’s visceral flinch wasn’t more satisfying. 

– written for the @drarrymicrofic prompt, ‘metamorphosis’. i’ve been in a slump for weeks, and thought of giving this fantastic one a shot. 

[hephaestiions]

Okay, WIP game, you say ‘Uniform Kink’ and my pavlovian response kicks in immediately—tell me everything! 👀🔥

you are!!!! spoiling me!!!! with the asks!!!!! thank you!!!!!!!!! 

when the list for @hpkinkuary first came out, i wanted to squeeze in one fic for myself at least, but alas, procrastination and dry spells. so this is a half-written pwp about draco losing his mind over harry putting on his formal Senior Auror uniform for a Very Important Work Meeting That He Cannot Possibly Be Late To But Is Because His (Husband? Boyfriend?) Draco Is Very Demanding and Very Sexy.  

the title of the wip is very self explanatory 😂  but have an unedited excerpt of draco malfoy having a ‘harry potter in formalwear’ kink the size of wales: 

And Draco– Draco wants to kneel at the altar of Harry's pleasure, and worship him till he cries, till he forgets his name, till he's voiceless with exhausted passion. It helps, he thinks, swallowing, to have such stark reminders of the divinity that drives those desires.

"We have a meeting today with delegates from all over the EU," Harry says, looking back up, self consciously straightening his collar, fidgeting with the top button. "We were asked to put these on, they're a nightmare." He grimaces a little before adding, "And that's without the damn gloves."

"Gl-gloves?" Draco asks, hearing the note of faint hysteria creeping into his tone. This situation cannot possibly become more unfathomably erotic, but somehow Harry has found a way. Really, Draco thinks, mind spilling over with nonsensical tangents, that ought to be the title of Harry's autobiography– It Should Not Be Possible, But Somehow I Have Found A Way. Draco will pitch it to him the moment he's– the moment he's coherent, once his thoughts have found a way to work themselves out of the current spiral of gloves and thigh holster and robes. "Since when does this uniform have gloves?"

inner monologuing while being railed is basically a summary of what i write and it really shows 

ask me about my wips!

[hephaestiions]

So, just saw you mention Blaise/Theo in one of your asks—talk to me about your feelings on them? It’s a ship I just saw some fanart of, and I’m intrigued™️ ❤️

@shealwaysreads bella you really should not have asked (even though i am very glad you did), because i have many feelings and they’re all mostly angst because i only sometimes headcanon theo living past the age of eighteen. but have some very general, broad thoughts on them that have nothing to do with death or being eighteen or anything that isn’t a very soft (or about as soft as hogwarts slytherins get anyway) friends to lovers situation:  

by the time blaise is an eleven year old sitting with an old mouldy hat on top of his head that bellows slytherin after telling him– quite mortifyingly– that he’d do rather well in hufflepuff, he has a lot of rules about living life. some of them are his mother’s– sharp smile and sharper nails and don’t let any of them get too close darling, it never works that way. some of them are survival– you learn after coming too close to death one too many times with too many men who see a little boy with a penchant for adventure as more of a hindrance to a life of leisure with his mother than anything else. and some of them are just him– make acquaintances easily, but make friends only with the people you can afford to care about forever. smile, never laugh, they don’t need to see the way you look when you aren’t faking it. life is a dinner table and you are the host.  

except theo careens into his life with a glass of pumpkin juice he wasn’t keeping an eye on because he was trying to split his attention between a book and the hem of his too long robes that he wrote to father to get fixed, but father said he didn’t have time, and really how much time could it possibly take and oh– blaise! oh, i’m sorry, i didn’t see you there, oh–! and blaise is rushing to simultaneously clean off pumpkin juice and reassure this anxious boy with fidgety hands who keeps looking at his face and then looking away as though he expects to be punched and is a little awestruck by the fact that he isn’t being punched. 

and blaise’s manual of rules to navigate the high, treacherous seas of life is drowned in pumpkin juice and childish adoration that blossoms over the years into a kind of unconditional love that he tries to keep hidden but can’t because it spills like the ink from the spare quill he keeps around because theo chews all of his. blaise is all sharp and all smiles and all sarcasm and witty banter when he’s twelve, when he’s thirteen, when he’s fourteen, when he’s fiftee– blaise, blaise! theo is in the upstairs bathroom, i think he hurt his spine– blaise? and someone no one in the slytherin common room has ever met emerges from beneath the facade, painted with panic and love and a bizarre sort of genuineness that leaves everyone feeling uncomfortable. 

have you ever heard the only exception by paramore? think of it as their theme song. 

they finally get together when pansy has enough of it towards the end of fifth year and takes them both by the arm and shoves them into the bathroom and leaves them there for four hours to ‘sort their shit out’. theo begins to apologise– i don’t know what’s gotten into her– and blaise waves it off– it’s pansy, whatever it is has been in there for a while now. and they sit on the tiled floor and stare at each other for a while and burst into laughter. they laugh and they laugh and they laugh until it hurts too much. and then blaise asks him what he’s thinking and theo says, as if on autopilot, all my thoughts quiet when i’m with you and then blinks, confused, as though he really hadn’t intended to say any of that and then one thing leads to another and they’re kissing, sprawled and awkward and uncomfortable against the wooden bathroom door. 

i actually have less thoughts about theo, and i think that’s actually a pretty accurate representation of his personality in general. blaise is a sword, he has mastered the art of taking up space while remaining immaculately sharp. theo on the other hand... theo is a paintbrush. capable of creating worlds of wonder but a little worn down and weary himself. he is– he’s my little tragedy. i imagine him to be this artistically inclined, quiet boy with a sharp tongue and softness where no one expects there to be any. as the years pass and his father's presence in his life as a tangible influence rather than a distant concept strengthens, the art is leached from him little by little. the smiles bleed away and the softer side is lost under an avalanche of panic and grief when his mother dies and his father starts regularly disappearing for meetings with– with fucking voldemort.

he becomes surlier, someone all his friends flinch away from on his bad days. blaise can only stand on the sidelines and watch because nothing he can do will actually bleed into that dark part of theo's heart that has been tainted by the darkness of his father's words and convictions. theo used to play quidditch but he gives it up in sixth year because his right ankle is too weak from the crucios his father aimed at his legs when theo said in a fit of rage, you don't inspire anything in me except the urge to run as far away from this godforsaken prison as possible. he can't stand on it and the only time he allows himself to cry about it is when blaise finds out and kisses the arch of his foot and says, i will carry you where you can't walk.

i had no actual plan for this answer because i got a little too excited about sharing my thoughts on theo and blaise so it’s going to end at this abrupt juncture, but i have thousands of more words about them in sixth year after theo takes the mark and post-war (some with mcd, some without) that i will not pack into a single tumblr post to spare us all <3 

anyway, if you ever feel like reading 2.6k of E rated Theo/Blaise hurt/comfort in sixth year then here you go. 

thank you so very much for asking and letting me ramble for this long about these boys, it means the world <33 

[andrewminyyard]

I Wish You’d Live (Like You’re Made Of Glass)

Pairing: Andrew Minyard/Neil Josten/Kevin Day  Chapter: 1/?  Word Count: 2k Warnings: Alcoholism, Recovery, Relapse, Canon-Typical Warnings, Canon-Typical Violence Summary:  Kevin Day is used to wanting things he can’t have. Being #1 on the Raven’s Court. Chocolate, though he’ll never admit to it. Skipping Medieval History. Neil and Andrew. Knowing how to be a good son. Being a friend. He is used to being denied. – The alcohol and trauma gets to Kevin, as they all knew it would. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26897950 

[hephaestiions]

Fic Claim: You’ve Got A Second Chance (You Could Go Home)

Title: You’ve Got A Second Chance (You Could Go Home) 

Author: @ohdrarry / hephaestiions on ao3 

Pairing(s): Teddy Lupin/James Sirius Potter 

Rating: Teen 

Word Count: ~16,000 

Content/Warnings: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Recovery, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions 

Summary: “What about James?” James, dear Merlin, not James, not again. His boy, his son, the brightest star in the constellation of Harry’s patchwork family, not him. “I think he’s relapsed.” – They tried this when James was nineteen and Teddy was twenty five. It crashed and burned. Teddy ran away to Finland and James... well Teddy's about to find out what happened to James, now that he's back two years later

Author’s Notes: This was not only my first time writing Jeddy, but also my first time attempting Next-Gen as a whole. I would love to thank @hp-nextgen-fest​– a splendidly organised and cooperative group of creative and lovely people who worked around all my irregularities with the kindest emails. I would also love to thank my beta, G, who is neither on tumblr nor on ao3, but who did beta-work for me whenever I asked and however soon I needed. Lastly, to all the readers who left kudos and comments, to the readers who simply chose to enjoy, to the readers who bookmarked and those who promised to keep up with my upcoming works. Your words and enthusiasm has meant the world to me and has truly boosted my interest in this pairing, knowing that it has such a kind and generous community behind it. 

That said, this fic deals with difficult subjects that I have attempted to write by drawing on my personal experiences and my readings of the subject. It will not encompass everybody’s personal journey and it will not be true to everyone’s paths in their lives. This is a fic about James and Teddy, the people around them and an author who loves them deeply (and occasionally projects onto them). I would encourage everyone to read through the content warnings and heed them for any triggers! 

I hope you love this fic as much as I do, and I hope you are kind to it should you choose to read it. I hope everyone has an excellent day or night and that this labour of love brings you a little joy.