[ boys not dying (romantic). ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic halloween wheel prompt: dementor. happy spooky season! 🕸️]
drarry | word count: 306 | rating: t
_ _ _
“Expecto patronum!” Potter practically snarls, and the soul-sucking creature shrinks into the rafters, up and away.
“You might’ve tried that sooner,” Draco calls from the floor, rasping, recovering.
“Shove off,” Potter answers, low, dropping to his knees, his hands a frantic skitter down Draco’s front, checking for anything fatal. His brow draws down, fingertips faltering. “You’re freezing.”
“Must be the specter of death,” Draco says, smirking through a shiver.
“Not funny,” Potter throws over his shoulder, rising, eyes again on the fresh-shattered glass of the windows.
Draco hisses beneath his breath, the sight of more of the charcoal-cloaked bastards sweeping inside.
“Could use a happy memory if you’ve one to spare,” he hums, and it’s half a joke, but Merlin’s sake, there are three of them closing in now, and the haunting howl of more resounds from just beyond the ramshackle walls of the safehouse (safe— HA).
“I’ve got it,” Potter says, because he’s as stubborn as he is self-sacrificial.
Draco grunts as he stumbles to his feet, the aftermath of a near-miss Bombarda still reverberating over his ribs.
“Pardon me,” he says, tipping Potter’s face toward him, fingers featherlight on the bowstring of his jaw. Potter huffs, forced to turn.
Draco meets his mouth, the kiss a hot press, searing and quick— he feels Potter melt toward him, buckling.
He breaks away with a breath that could be a laugh, in another light, a different landscape.
A smile snakes over his face at Potter’s expression, soft and stunned. He takes the moment, a few hastily-strung seconds, committing it— the lilt of his lips, the flush fanning fast over the crook of his throat— carefully to memory. Draco pulls his wand, angling away, pressing back-to-back, battle ready.
“That should do the trick,” he murmurs, the warmth in his sternum still burning bright and close.
Regulus hates mornings. Sleeping in and going to bed late always felt the most comfortable for him. He made sure to go into a career that allowed him to work his own hours, and writing was perfect for that.
James loves mornings. He’s an absolute romantic, and truly believes that the moment sunlight peeks through his window a new day, with new opportunities started. That no matter how bad the night was, he gets a new chance that day.
Now, when Regulus wakes up, no matter how grumpy he is, the moment James starts giving him sweet kisses he can’t help but smile. He enjoys the rays that enter his room when the sun is still waking up too.
He has no need to start his day early, but there’s nothing that he loves more than doing it with James. Regulus cooks while James prepares their tea and then he cleans everything up while James changes. And every day, James will come down with a tie and silently give it to him.
“You always make them look nice, love.” Big golden eyes stare at him, lovingly. Regulus always obliges.
Regulus started having fun and tried to play in different ways each time. His careful fingers are always finding ways to brush James’ neck while working on the last touches.
“You look handsome,” Regulus makes sure to tell him.
He can’t hate mornings. Not when they are so full of sun. So full of James. So full of love.
@croptopjames submission | 1.5k words | NSFW - dom/sub, praise, degradation, spanking, gagging | part 2
Dedicating this to euge @ecstarry for brainrotting with me and lune @sommerregenjuniluft because we talked about dancer james once. Love you guys <3
Regulus walks the length of the studio assessing the attire of his dancers. He has a strict policy of professionalism that he makes no exceptions for, and James has been pushing his luck recently.
He had hired James as an apprentice only a few months ago, but he was already regretting the decision. Not because of James’ abilities, but because of his utter lack of respect.
James is a brilliant dancer, don’t get him wrong. He came from the most prestigious modern dance conservatory in the country, and Regulus had managed to sign him right out of school.
He’s inclined to say James wasn’t worth the work, but that wouldn’t be completely true. He may make Regulus’ life a living hell, but he’s fucking gorgeous on stage, all lean muscles and strong lines. It’s captivating to watch, even more so when he gets to see it up close.
As Regulus makes his way across the room, he catches sight of James in the back sporting gray joggers and— he has to take a minute to register what he’s seeing. Is that a fucking crop top?
James just flashes a knowing smirk, staring Regulus down. He’s been called out for wardrobe infractions at least three times this month, and it’s starting to get old.
“Sirius,” Regulus calls out to his brother, but more importantly, his rehearsal director. “Can you start the warm up? I need to have a word with Potter.”
A few snickers sound throughout the studio because his employees can be fucking children sometimes, and Sirius nods, getting up from his spot on the floor.
Regulus turns toward the door, knowing James will follow him, and makes his way to his office down the hall.
He only has to stand behind his desk for a minute, arms crossed, before James waltzes in, closing the door behind him.
“This is grossly unprofessional, you do realize that,” Regulus deadpans.
“I do realize that,” James responds innocently, batting his lashes.
Regulus runs his eyes over the man standing in front of him, something he didn’t want to do in front of everyone in the studio.
The top hits a few inches above his navel and exposes the soft lines of his abs and a stripe of dark hair that trails beneath his joggers.
“Eyes up here,” James says, bringing Regulus’ attention back to the matter at hand.
He gives James a stern look and leans forward on his desk.
“How many times do I have to tell you this won’t be tolerated in my company?” he asks.
James’ eyes darken and he leans forward to mirror Regulus. “Not sure. Will you tell me again?”
The audacity of this man… Well, Regulus thinks, maybe it’ll stick this time.
He reaches across the table casually, stroking a hand across James’ face. The dancer leans into it, fluttering his eyes shut for a moment, before Regulus reaches around his head to grab a fistful of his hair.
James opens his eyes and a slanted smile pulls at his mouth.
“Keep your hands on the table,” Regulus says before pushing James’ head down onto his desk. “Don’t move.”
James goes willingly, bending in half over the desk like a dream.
Regulus walks around to stand behind him, admires the curve of his ass and the ridges of his spine where they’re exposed under his shirt. He runs his fingers over them, eliciting a small shiver from James.
Regulus dips his hands into the waistband of James’ joggers, sinking his nails into the soft skin, before roughly pushing his pants down around his ankles.
James’ breathing picks up, his anticipation getting the better of him. Regulus would love to draw this out, but he’s afraid he hasn’t got the time today.
He smacks James’ ass once, causing the other man to jolt and let out a soft whine.
“Stay quiet,” Regulus commands.
James nods in confirmation. A lie, most likely.
Regulus lets a finger wander through the cleft of James’ ass, circling his rim in slow and deliberate movements. He keeps his eyes on James’ face where it’s pressed against his desk. His eyes are shut, mouth open.
“You’re so pretty like this,” Regulus says. “When you’re not talking back to me.”
James makes a needy noise pressing his hips back onto Regulus’ finger, searching for a fullness he knows is coming.
Regulus smacks him again across the same spot as before. “Don’t get greedy. You know how this works.”
James nods again looking at Regulus now. His pupils are absolutely blown and it’s all Regulus can think about. The desperate want in his eyes.
“Tell me,” Regulus instructs.
James rolls his eyes back as he starts to lightly circle his rim again.
“Words, James.”
“You’re in charge,” James breathes.
“And I can do whatever I want with you,” Regulus adds.
“Whatever you want.”
“Good boy.” Regulus pulls his hand away again, but James doesn’t get a chance to protest before it’s being pushed into his mouth. “Now suck.”
James moans around his fingers, hollowing his cheeks and making a show out of it. He knows this undoes Regulus every time, watching as he listens so well, follows every command. It’s a high he’ll be riding for the rest of rehearsal.
“That’s right baby, get them nice and wet for me,” Regulus praises, bringing his other hand up to grab at James’ hip, keep him from moving too much.
When spit starts to drip down his chin, Regulus pulls his fingers away, and the noise James makes is fucking filthy. A keen he’s sure the whole company just heard, and that just won’t fly.
Regulus moves his hand from James’ hip up into his hair, yanking him back until he’s hovering above the desk.
“James, what did I fucking say,” Regulus hisses. “Do you need something in your mouth? Hm? Such a slut for it you can’t follow simple directions?”
James moans loudly, a please falling from his lips somewhere in there.
Regulus releases him and he falls back onto the desk with a whine.
Going back around his desk, Regulus fishes through his bottom drawer with his clean hand, finding what he’s looking for. A dress code appropriate t-shirt he keeps for times like these, when James just can’t help himself. He shoves it in James’ mouth harshly then pats him on the cheek.
“There you go baby. Now you can tell me just how much you like it.”
And James does without a second thought, immediately filling the room with muffled noises.
Regulus resumes his position behind the dancer, running his spit-slick fingers against James’ hole.
“Ready?” He asks.
James is a mess, barely there at this point even though Regulus hasn’t even done anything, but he nods anyway, and Regulus pushes a finger in slowly.
“Always so tight for me baby.”
“Mmph,” James moans around the shirt. He tries to fuck his hips forward into nothing, desperate for some friction against his neglected cock, but Regulus holds him still. He should know by now that he’ll stay untouched until Regulus allows it.
Once he feels James is ready, he adds another finger, leaning down to spit into the place where they slide into James. He increases the speed, crooking them to brush the spot that reduces James to a moaning mess.
He sees James’ eyes roll back again as he makes a muffled sound, so debauched and fucked out already.
For the first time, Regulus notices his own wetness pooling in his briefs, but he ignores it. This isn’t about him.
“Can you be a good boy and take another,” Regulus asks, and James nods enthusiastically. If he wasn't gagged, Regulus knows he’d be begging, has heard it enough times to memorize the sound.
Regulus pulls out completely, watching James’ hole flutter briefly around nothing, before pushing three fingers back in.
James balls his fists against the desk, barely moving his hips, trying so hard to be good. Regulus decides to cut him some slack.
“Fuck yourself on them baby, it’s okay.”
James obeys immediately, pushing his hips back wildly and making ungodly sounds that he wishes he could hear unobstructed.
Caught up in the image of James losing control, Regulus reaches around to touch his neglected cock where it’s been leaking onto the floor. He collects the precome beading at the tip to soften the slide, and pumps James slowly in time with the movement of his hips.
“You close? Gonna come for me?” Regulus asks, sugar sweet.
James barely responds, but the crease between his eyebrows gives him away. Regulus knows it means he’s heading toward the edge of the cliff.
Quickly, before it’s too late, Regulus pulls his hand away, pulls his fingers out, leaving James empty and neglected once again.
He smacks James’s ass roughly, then digs his fingers into the flesh, punishing.
Leaning forward, he puts his mouth right up against James’ ear, “Only good boys get to come, James. I expect you back in rehearsal in five minutes wearing that shirt in your mouth.”
James sobs into the fabric, ruined and undoubtedly aching, and Regulus leaves him there to clean himself up.
Penny's trying her best to reconnect with her father.
Penny is trying, she's really trying, and she wants to reconnect with her family. She's introduced her dad to Arven, who's clearly starving for parental affection, and she's invited Nemona on one of their Galarian raid adventures. She even brought Juliana over once or twice.
All of her friends say about the same thing. Your dad is really cool, Penny. You're lucky to have him. Arven acts like an old man and is already developing dad hobbies, Nemona is the perfect enthusiastic daughter that Penny could never be, Juliana has a good-natured personality and is willing to try anything at least once.
It's just… Penny isn't any of those things, not really. She's quietly snarky and kind of a bitch sometimes. She's introverted and likes her veevees more than people. She's fatigued easily and doesn't know how to communicate, so she does shit like pressuring Juliana into a series of heartbreaking battles because she doesn't know how to talk to her friends.
She wonders, sometimes, why people still like her or hang around. She's depressed and self-loathing to the point of toxicity, feeling guilt for so much as touching people.
"Man, you need to get better taste if you consider me a friend," she joked once, to Juliana.
Juliana had just… slowed down. And stopped. Which was a crucial mistake that made Penny feel like launching herself off a cliff. (Not that she'd die, just that it would be a way to escape the social situation.)
"Well, maybe I'm allowed to like whoever I want," she said, quietly at first, then her face screwed up. "I want to yell at you sometimes, that hey! You're liked, actually, and it's frustrating that you won't accept that!"
"Sorry." Poison, poison, poison. That's all she feels like she's made of. Unwanted muk.
"I'm sorry too."
"Why?" It came out more sarcastic than Penny had intended. Why would anyone apologize to me? I'm good at enduring it. I can endure so much. Why would you treat me with this softness?
"Because you deserve better," Juliana said.
If she's poison, if she deserves it, then it makes sense. She knows how to cope with enduring the shame and the guilt. She doesn't know how to cope with knowing full well the weight of what was done to her. She can only ever handle it when it's buried under layers of dissociation and metaphor.
She didn't know how to respond to that. It was a compliment, but she doesn't know how to accept those. Even when her dad compliments her, and her dad is the most genuine person she knows, she just feels an overwhelming wave of embarrassment.
"Do I?" Penny had asked.
"Yes. And just because you've been made to feel like that, doesn't change the fact that you deserve nice things."
Penny had sat with that for a while, thinking about her therapist from Galar who never got far with her anyways because she didn't trust anyone. About the time she cut her hair short, thinking that maybe if she just conformed, she'd be left alone.
It didn't help, in the end. The bullies just found some new attribute to pick on. She thinks those sorts of people are like Sharpedo with the scent of blood, who figure out you're trans and autistic long before you realize it yourself. If she'd come out as trans back then, she would have had the protection of a label and a community, and no one wants to be labeled a transphobe but everyone's eager to harass the guy who is just a bit too feminine.
Making herself miserable in advance never stopped anyone else from tormenting her. Pre-emptive punishment for her own perceived failure was never a viable strategy, and now she's left at a safe school with people who want to be her friends, flinching at shadows. And it's not fair to anyone.
She knows that she's damaged, she's not worthy of calling herself traumatized but she does feel fundamentally altered. Stunted. She doesn't know how to interact with genuine kindness.
But she wants to learn, damnit. She wants to believe that maybe the world doesn't hate her. So she asks her dad for help, for the first time in years.
He's overbearing as usual, broad movements and loud voice. She positions herself against the wall and wears her headphones, fidgeting with the dial so it cancels just enough noise but not too much.
"I'm really proud of you, Penny," he says, ruffling her hair. "Look at you! Getting your own furniture, that's a sign that you're becoming an adult. I can't believe my little girl's growing up so fast!"
"It's… not that," she mumbles. "Just. Arven's helping me clean. I wanted to get some of the dust out and sort some piles."
"Arven, huh?" Her dad's working on building the frame of the bookcase, while she's dusting off her books and measuring and figuring out how to sort them. "He's a good kid. Real hard worker, too!"
Penny isn't sure how to explain that it's a trauma response. So she doesn't explain. Except the longer she thinks about it, the more pissed off and frustrated she gets, that Arven has it so bad at home, that he's mature and responsible and won't ever have the chance to be a kid again while she can afford to be a kid for much longer because of her dad's hard work.
"Hey, what's that face for? Turn that frown upside down," Peony jokes, poking at her cheek.
She doesn't smile. "Arven doesn't have a good home life. That's why I invite him over so much."
She's fucked things up, she's ruined the mood. This was supposed to be about father daughter bonding and she's dropped this. She's never going to talk about her feelings ever again. Her dad puts down the allen wrench, watching her. She just wants to hide.
"That's good, then. That you're giving him that chance. Ah, I know I'm not the brightest at picking up on these things," he admits, and frankly the autism is probably hereditary but he's not ready for that conversation yet, "but I'll do the best I can, okay? For you, and for your friends. All you have to do is ask."
And asking for help is such a mortifying fucking ordeal that she'd rather swallow a ghost pepper, frankly, but it's supposed to get easier in time. Allegedly. It's such a simple thing, the first thing babies learn, but it's been beaten out of her. She's the sort of girl who can endure anything, who can endure the impossible. But asking for help makes her want to sob.
"I'll try," she says, and this time it's not a platitude but a genuine hope.
Regris let out a surprised chirp when Keith dragged him down by the fabric of his hood. What started with a nuzzle that drew a low, hissing purr from the back of Regris’s throat, ended with Keith lightly brushing his lips against Regris’s. It was over in an instant, but Keith lingered, pressing their foreheads together as he took a few shaky breaths.
[ boys doing laundry. ♡ for the @drarrymicrofic september prompt: fold ]
drarry | word count: 254 | rating: t | warnings: n/a
_ _ _
He’s never known Potter to be particularly presentable. Shirts too big, hung haphazard over the frame of his shoulders; jeans too wide, low-slung on his hips; and everything always, always rumpled.
He’d have never guessed that Potter knew his way around an iron, could starch a shirt or press a seam. But there it is, evident.
Harry folds the trousers carefully over the wooden hanger, tucking them into the oak armoire, alongside all the others.
“What are you doing?” Draco catches himself asking before he can stifle it, shape it into something softer.
Harry startles, turning to where he’s halted in the doorway, hardly half in the room.
“Er, laundry?” Harry offers.
His own small pile of clothes (one night’s stay turned into another turned into another) sits tangled at the end of the bed.
“You ironed,” Draco says, increasingly eloquent. “You never iron.”
He gestures, pointed, at Harry’s Weird Sisters t-shirt, his admittedly better-fitted denim— wrinkled, both.
Harry scratches beneath his hem, absent, as he sits, thoughtless, (tempting), on the edge of the bed.
“No,” he answers, “not really.” He pulls a sock from the pile, then another, pairs them, tucked into one another. “But you do.”
Like it’s simple, like it’s nothing, easy— that he would know that, would do this.
Draco’s gaze flits to the armoire, thinking of Harry’s careless heart (unguarded), his careful hands (unabashed).
“Right,” he answers, that timekeeping thing in his own chest ticking furiously (helpless), tumbling.
one boy finding his feelings hard to explain. | harry pov | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: incline
drarry | word count: ~125 | ⋆˙⟡
_ _ _
He tries to tell them, but the matter doesn’t seem to stick.
“That’s great, Harry,” Hermione says, eyes barely flicking up from her parchment. “Maybe he can help with that cursed amulet project you were working on.”
“Oh. Nice, mate,” Ron affirms, then draws his gaze up from the chessboard. “You’re not, like, stalking him again, are you?”
Hopeless, they agree, and it’s fond, if not strained. Harry can’t help feeling he’s closer to helpless.
So, maybe he hasn’t expressed himself clearly.
Maybe, “I think Malfoy and I are friends now,” doesn’t quite strike the heart of it.
Maybe at its center, the feeling is something more like:
Drowning. Diving. Floating. Flying.
Maybe like:
Draco’s throat is an incline. He’d like his lips to scale it.
