tag 9 people you want to get to know better

thanks for the tag <3 @tragicallyinevitable

reading: physical book, working my way through the picture of dorian gray, and then fanfic, been reading a lot of marauders christmas fics but i think i’m about to start dear your holiness

last series: i’m counting the taylor swift doc

last film: the polar express & when marnie was there

last song: the fate of ophelia, my beloved

sweet or salty: 100% salty. i love sweets but i NEVER get tired of salty foods

coffee or tea: tea! cold, hot, whatever. i love tea

working on: trying to finish my prequel to sweet child o’ mine as soon as i can, then to start working on the sequel again. and then during the times i’m stuck in those stories i work on my marauders loooooongfic that I’ll probably never finish

no pressure tags: @humongousrunawaytiger @lady-stardust1972 @jily4evr @remuuuuuuu @stuffidoandwrite @outromoonyy and everyone else who’d like to participate <3

thank you sm for the tag! 🥺

reading: i started to read harry potter for the first time and i'm currently reading chamber of secrets.

last series: heated rivalry! (been watching hannibal as well this week and vol 2 of stranger things)

last film: how the grinch stole christmas <3 (one of the few christmas movies i like)

last song: angel of small death & the codeine scene by hozier

sweet or salty: salty salty salty.

coffee or tea: none… i genuinely hate both (sorry) but i wish i liked coffee at least

working on: tbh apart from my college thesis (which it's on hold during the holidays because i need a fucking break) i'm not writing anything else. i used to write fics i would never publish but it's been a while since i wrote anything, i do miss it tho.

*i don't really talk much with anyone here, so i don't have anyone to tag. however, if you follow me and are seeing this post feel free to write your answers, i would love to read it! happy holidays <3

​"What do you want for your birthday, Prongslet?" Sirius asked, bouncing Harry on his knee. "A broom? A baby hippogriff? I know a guy. Don't tell your mum."

​Harry looked thoughtful. He tapped his chin. "I want a wedding."

​Sirius choked on air. "A... a wedding? You're five. You can't get married."

​"Not me," Harry scoffed. He poked Sirius in the chest. "You."

​"Me? Who am I marrying?"

​Harry sighed, a long, suffering sound.

​"You and Moony," Harry said like it was obvious. "Cake. Dancing. And you stop sleeping on the sofa."

​"We're just friends, Harry," Sirius tried weakly.

​Harry gave him a look of withering pity. "Uncle Padfoot. You eat off his fork. You pick the onions out of his soup. You steal his jumpers. You turn into a dog just so he’ll scratch your ears. You are not friends. You are... codependent."

​Sirius’s jaw dropped. "Where did you learn that word?"

​"Mummy calls you that," Harry shrugged. "Get married. I want cake."

pairing: Oliver Wood x reader

summary: after Oliver Wood saves you from an embarrassing situation you promise to help him out with anything he needs. When you both fail Divination you find your chance to help him out, even if that might enter in conflict with your blooming feelings

content: fluff, angst

notes: ravenclaw reader, no bookworm stereotyped; minor canon inconsistency

wc: 15k

You had been greeted by warmth and the heavy scents of wood and leather mixed together as you seeked refugee in the Quidditch store. Discretely standing in a corner of the store, you peered through one of the display windows only to see the boys still there, engaged in what seemed to be animated conversation with your friends. The sight of the boy that had seeked your attention for the last year and that you were desperately trying to avoid now was talking to your friends, and you were quietly praying he would just go away before one of them cracked.

“Excuse me”

You startled and turned to your side. Brown eyes were staring down at you with a bit of impatience, his lips pressed in a polite smile. You realized then that you were standing in the middle of the asile, and you pressed yourself against the shelf to let him pass. He did so with a bit of difficulty, his broad body slightly gracing against yours as he passed by.

“I’m really sorry”

“No problem”

Borrowed Water and Warmth - O.W

Oliver Wood is your friend. Of course you’d let him borrow your shower after Quidditch practice. But everything after that makes you wonder if friend is really the right word.

The air smelled like fall where it wafted in through your cracked window. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you climbed into bed, tucking your legs under the covers for warmth.

There was finally a chill in the air, a hint that summer was really on its way out in exchange for changing leaves and costume preparation.

You grabbed your History of Magic notes and a fresh peice of parchment, ready to copy your notes in the name of studying and try to ignore the thoughts about the upcoming quidditch match this weekend.

Happy birthday to AO3 🎂🎉

When I opened tumblr this morning:

All I Need is You

✨Draco Malfoy x Reader

💭 Smut MDNI • Possessive but sweet smut(?) • Draco is stressed and this is stress relief(???) • Established relationship • Riding

—

The dormitory is still.

The other boys must’ve gone to bed hours ago—judging by the embers in the hearth and the absence of laughter or footsteps. Draco’s tired. Bone-tired. That particular brand of exhaustion that no sleep ever seems to mend.

His tie is askew. His hands are cold. His day has been long, and sharp, and full of faces that look at him like they already know what he’s meant to become.

He doesn’t expect you.

But you’re there.

As if summoned by some fraying thread of want he hadn’t realized was unspooling, you’re curled in his bed like a secret: the duvet pulled to your chin, your legs tucked in, cheek nestled into his pillow.

But what stops him—what undoes him—is the sight of his sweater draped over your frame. Slouching off your shoulder. Swallowing your wrists. Worn like it was meant for you.

His breath hitches.

You blink up at him, unfazed. Still warm from sleep, lashes low.

“I was cold,” you say. Your voice is soft, full of that knowing kind of innocence. “And it smells like you.”

Draco’s mouth parts. Nothing comes out.

He swallows once. Drops his bag. Loosens the clasp of his robes with quiet, deliberate fingers.

There’s something almost holy about the stillness.

You shift slightly, giving him room. But your gaze doesn’t waver. And that sweater—it’s an old one. Worn at the cuffs. Faintly threaded with cedar and something sharper, alchemical. It clings to you like memory. Like possession.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, a little smile playing on your lips.

“I know.” His voice is low, husky from disuse. “I can’t help it.”

And it’s true.

Because right now, all the noise—the name, the legacy, the pressure—falls away. All that’s left is you.

Warm in his bed.

Wearing his sweater.

Looking at him like he’s something worth returning to.

He moves slowly.

Not out of hesitation—no, never with you. But with reverence. Like if he’s too quick, too clumsy, you’ll vanish into the shadows with the rest of the things he doesn’t let himself want.

His robe comes off first, folded with the kind of precision that once made his father proud and now only makes his chest tighten. The weight of it hits the chair with a whisper. His tie, then. Drawn from his collar like a noose unknotted. The buttons of his shirt slip free one by one, his breath shallow, each layer peeled back revealing a boy who’s spent too long pretending not to feel.

You haven’t moved. Only watched.

The way your eyes track his hands. The rise and fall of his chest. The way you hold the duvet just a little tighter, not from modesty, but from knowing. From feeling that something is about to break between you, and choosing not to rush it.

He sits at the edge of the bed, facing away. Elbows on knees, head bowed. You hear the shift in his breathing before you see it—the way his spine curls ever so slightly inward, like he’s folding beneath something heavy and unspoken.

You speak his name. Just once.

It cracks something open.

He turns to you, quiet and slow, and the expression on his face… raw. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to want this, want you, this deeply.

“I think about you,” he says softly, voice fraying. “More than I should.”

Your fingers reach for him without thinking, curling around his wrist, guiding him down beside you. The bed shifts with his weight. He’s close now. Too close and not close enough.

You lean in.

The first kiss is featherlight. Barely a brush of breath and skin. He freezes—then sighs, low and shaky, into your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

The second kiss lands slower. He tilts his head, chases your warmth, lets his hand rest on your thigh over the sweater’s fabric. Still polite. Still restrained.

But the third?

The third has heat.

His mouth opens just slightly. A quiet exhale against your lips. His fingers flex.

The kiss deepens. Lingering. Gentle. Not desperate, but intentional. Like he’s tasting something he’s dreamed of for too long, and he doesn’t want to wake up yet.

When he pulls back, barely, his forehead rests against yours. His voice is quiet.

“I don’t want to be careful with you,” he confesses. “But I will be.”

And just like that, he kisses you again—slowly, sweetly, as if trying to memorize the way you sigh against his mouth.

The next kiss begins with a sigh.

His, not yours.

Soft and aching, exhaled against your lips like he’s breathing out every restraint he’s clung to all day. His hand finds your thigh again—only this time, it stays. Lingers. The wool of his sweater rides up slightly beneath his palm, and the bare skin he finds there makes his breath catch.

“You shouldn’t wear things like this,” he murmurs, low against your mouth, “if you don’t want to be touched.”

The tone isn’t sharp. Not teasing, either.

It’s honest.

You shiver beneath him, whether from the weight of his voice or the chill he leaves in the wake of his fingertips, you aren’t sure. But he notices. His mouth curls just barely as he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, until your lips part willingly for him.

His hand ghosts higher.

Over your hip. Along your waist. Pushing the hem of the sweater inch by aching inch until his knuckles brush the warm skin beneath your ribs.

And then—he stops.

Not because he’s uncertain. But because he needs to look.

He pulls back just far enough to glance down, to see you there, flushed and panting, the wool of his sweater bunched high around your waist, your thighs bare and welcoming. His gaze darkens. His throat works.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His hand returns to your body like it belongs there—skimming up your ribs, palm splayed wide, drinking in the heat of you. You arch into him, silently offering more. Always offering more. And he takes it, but gently. Like you’re made of something fine.

His mouth follows next.

A kiss to your jaw. Another to the hollow beneath your ear. Then down, across your neck, his tongue catching slightly on your pulse point as his fingers curl beneath the fabric and finally—finally—skim across your breast.

He groans softly against your throat.

You whisper his name. It sounds different now. Fragile. Needy.

He shudders.

His hand moves slowly—teasing, exploratory, like he wants to memorize the shape of you. And when he brushes over your nipple, already stiff beneath his touch, you gasp.

“You’re perfect,” he says. Almost too quiet to hear. “You’re… fuck, you’re perfect.”

He kisses you again, and this time, there’s no mistaking the need in it. But still, even now, he’s gentle. Controlled. Every press of his body is a question, and every sigh you give him is an answer.

It’s not fast.

It’s not frantic.

It’s Draco Malfoy, stripped down to nothing but want, worshipping the one person who lets him feel safe.

He doesn’t move to undress you at first.

He’s content to explore the edges. The sliver of thigh beneath the hem. The curve of your hipbone where the fabric rides high. The delicate rise of your stomach under wool. It’s maddening. It’s not enough. But Draco Malfoy has always had a talent for restraint, and here, now—with you—he wants to savor every second he’s allowed to pretend he’s not selfish.

You shift under him.

Not in invitation. In trust.

And that breaks something. Gently.

His lips return to your neck, trailing lower now, until his breath ghosts just above your collarbone. One hand lifts—tentative at first—to the hem of the sweater, bunched beneath your ribs. His fingers trace the edge, slow and reverent.

“Can I?” he asks.

Not because he doubts your answer, but because the asking matters.

You nod.

He lifts the sweater with aching patience. You sit up just slightly so he can pull it over your head—and it’s almost tender, the way he does it. Like he’s peeling back armor. Not fabric. His sweater pools beside you in the bed, warm from your body. His hands don’t return to your chest immediately.

They find your face first.

He cups your cheek, brushing his thumb beneath your eye. His gaze flickers between both of yours, like he’s memorizing the moment.

You’re bare from the waist up now, the firelight painting soft light across your skin.

And still—he doesn’t rush.

He leans in. Kisses you again. This one is different.

It’s quieter. Like something spoken in a chapel.

Then his mouth finds your collarbone. One kiss. Then another. Slower. Downward. His hands finally settle on your sides, thumbs grazing just beneath the swell of your breasts.

You let out a quiet gasp. Not from surprise. From the tension—the unbearable closeness of not being touched where you want it most.

He feels it. Hears it.

His lips curve faintly against your skin.

“You like this,” he murmurs, half to himself.

And then he does touch you. Lightly. Palms up, fingers splayed, he cups your breasts with gentle, steady hands. His thumbs brush over your nipples, teasing but delicate. No squeezing. No claiming. Just the pleasure of learning what makes you sigh.

You melt into him.

One of your hands finds his wrist. Not to stop him. To anchor him. He’s trembling.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily against your sternum. Nods once.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits. “I don’t think I know how to be casual about you.”

Your heart stutters.

He presses a kiss between your breasts.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he says, almost like a vow. “I want you to remember this. Every second of it.”

And you will.

You already do.

The moment stills between you.

Your chest is bare, rising and falling beneath his gaze. His hands are reverent. His mouth is soft. You’ve never seen him like this—not angry, not guarded, not bitter—but stripped down in a different way. Quiet. Trembling. Looking at you like you’re the first warmth he’s allowed himself in months.

You reach for him.

Your fingers trail down the line of buttons on his shirt, undoing them one by one. He lets you. Doesn’t move. Only watches. Your knuckles brush his chest through the thin fabric—he shudders beneath your touch.

When the shirt parts, you pause.

Draco Malfoy is beautiful in the low light. Not just his skin, pale and dusted with fine golden hair, or the slender muscles beneath. It’s the vulnerability. The way he bears himself without armor. The way his breath hitches when your palms finally rest on his chest.

“Are you cold?” you ask gently.

He shakes his head. “No. You make me feel…”

He trails off.

Instead of finishing the sentence, he leans into your touch. He bows his head, resting his forehead to yours. One of your hands lifts, fingers curling into the back of his hair, and the other slides down his chest, soft and slow, until it brushes the waistband of his trousers.

He kisses you then.

A deep kiss. Full of the words he didn’t say.

And as your fingers toy with the button at his waistband, he exhales sharply against your mouth. His hand comes up to cover yours—he’s not stopping you. Just feeling it with you. Sharing it.

You undo the button.

He kisses you harder.

The zipper next. His breath catches. You draw back just enough to meet his gaze—his pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising like he’s barely breathing.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he says, voice thick with heat and tenderness. “I just… don’t want this to end quickly.”

“It won’t.”

That’s a promise.

You help ease the fabric down his hips. He lifts slightly, helping you, until the trousers fall to the floor with a whisper and he’s left in just his briefs. You settle beside him again, both half-dressed now, skin meeting skin in all the most devastating ways.

He pulls you back into his lap, cradles you with careful hands. One hand strokes up your spine. The other finds the back of your thigh and lifts, guiding it over his hips until you’re straddling him—bare chests pressed together, mouths rediscovering one another in slower, deeper waves.

His arousal presses up against you, hot and thick through his briefs. You feel it. He knows you do.

But still—he waits.

Because this isn’t about release.

It’s about being seen. Held. Touched in ways that feel like truth.

And for once, Draco Malfoy isn’t thinking about legacy, or pressure, or what comes next.

He’s thinking about you. Warm and soft and real in his arms.

Every shift of your hips drags a low, trembling sound from deep in his chest. The kind of noise he’d never make for anyone else. His hands are everywhere now—your back, your hips, your thighs—grasping without force, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you with his palms alone.

You roll your hips against him again, slower this time, and feel the hard line of him twitch beneath the thin fabric of his briefs.

“Fuck—” he hisses through clenched teeth, eyes fluttering shut. “You can’t… you can’t do that again.”

But you do.

Because the way he reacts—the way his body arches into yours, the helpless stutter of his breath, the need trembling in his voice—it makes your head spin. It makes you want to give more, to feel all of him, to press him down until he forgets everything but you.

His mouth crashes against yours, desperate now. Less delicate. Still careful, still reverent—but shot through with something fraying, something needy. His fingers dig into your hips as you grind against him again, bare thighs brushing, your core slick and pulsing beneath the thin barrier of your underwear.

You feel the wetness smear between you both. Feel the friction—the pressure—building with every roll of your bodies.

He’s panting now. So are you.

Gasps and quiet moans traded between kisses, between breathless confessions neither of you can form into words.

You reach between you, hand trembling, and press your palm to the front of his briefs.

He jerks beneath you with a strangled sound.

“Oh, God—darling, stop—”

You freeze. Eyes wide. “Did I—”

He’s already shaking his head. His hands cup your face with trembling reverence, lips parted, flushed to the tips of his ears.

“No. No. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just—” His voice drops, throat raw. “If you keep going, I’m going to finish in my bloody pants like a thirteen-year-old, and I—” he cuts off with a dry, helpless laugh, forehead falling to your shoulder. “I don’t want it to happen like that.”

The admission is boyish. Human.

And somehow, it only makes you love him more.

You hold him there, arms curling around his back, your heart pounding against his chest like it’s trying to tell him something urgent.

He speaks again, quieter this time. A rasp at your ear.

“I want to be inside you when I come. I want you to feel it. All of it.”

You breathe in shakily. “Then take your time.”

He leans back just enough to look at you—and whatever’s in his eyes then, it burns.

“I intend to.”

You’re both trembling.

Breathless and flushed, skin slick with sweat and want, still barely clothed and wound so tightly around each other it’s a wonder you haven’t unraveled already.

Draco hasn’t let you go. Not once.

Even after stopping you—pulling your hand away with a groan that sounded equal parts grateful and tortured—he kept you in his lap. His arms around your waist. His lips brushing along your collarbone as if kissing you might steady him.

It hasn’t worked.

He’s still trembling. Still aching. Still so hard it’s almost painful.

And you… you’re just as undone. Your hips twitch in his lap with every breath, underwear soaked through, thighs trembling around him. Still clothed. Still untouched in the way that matters most.

“Draco,” you whisper, voice hoarse with want. “Please.”

He groans again. Presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, just below your ear. His hands tighten at your hips. Not to move you. Just to feel you. Anchor himself.

Then, voice low and wrecked:

“I should take these off you,” he murmurs, fingers curling around the edge of your underwear. “But fuck, I don’t want to wait that long.”

He shifts the fabric to the side, slow and deliberate, exposing your slick heat to the press of his briefs.

“I want to ruin them,” he whispers into your throat. “Want you so wet for me it soaks straight through.”

Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth.

And when his fingers slide lower, finally—finally—past the soft folds and into the heat of you, you keen into his touch. He groans again, head falling to your shoulder.

“So fucking warm,” he mutters. “So soft. Merlin, you’re—”

His fingers slide through your wetness, slow and reverent, not quite entering yet, just feeling. Exploring. Worshipping.

When you reach between you, fingers brushing his length through his briefs, he hisses. You tug at the fabric, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. He shifts just enough to push them down over his hips with one hand, still holding you close with the other.

And then—

Your bodies meet. Skin to skin.

The tip of him presses against you, hot and hard, dragging slick through your folds. You both still for a moment, breathing hard.

His hand returns to your hip, the other splaying across your back.

“I want you like this,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Just like this. On top of me. Wrapped around me.”

You nod, eyes glassy. “Okay.”

He kisses you once more, slow and sweet, and as he begins to guide you down, inch by inch, the stretch of him makes your mouth fall open.

You gasp. He groans.

And when you finally sink onto him fully, when your hips meet his and he’s buried deep inside you, both of you trembling, held chest to chest in the low dormitory candlelight—

He exhales one broken word against your skin:

“Mine.”

He holds you. Just holds you. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath shuddering as your walls flutter around him. like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other wraps tight around your waist, keeping you anchored, keeping you his.

“I dreamed of this,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “So many nights. Woke up aching for you. Wanting to feel you like this—with me. Wrapped around me.”

You don’t move at first.

Neither does he.

He’s buried inside you to the hilt, thick and pulsing, your walls fluttering around him like your body still hasn’t caught up to what it’s been given. He holds you so close your breath stutters—his arms wrapped tight around your waist, nose brushing the curve of your neck, lips parted against your skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel…”

His voice fails him. And instead of finishing, he groans—long and low—hips rolling just slightly up into yours.

You gasp.

The drag of him inside you, slow and so deep, pulls a trembling moan from your lips. He feels every inch of you—tight and wet and perfect—and he presses his forehead to your collarbone like he’s trying to keep from coming apart right then and there.

You move next.

Just a gentle lift of your hips, not fully off him, just enough to feel the length of him shift inside you. The motion pulls a sound from him so raw it makes your thighs shake. His fingers dig into your hips, grounding you.

Then again. Another roll of your hips. A deeper grind. And this time, his mouth falls open on a gasp.

“Merlin—darling—”

He’s panting now. Head back, throat bared, eyes half-lidded as you begin to ride him properly—slow at first, just letting him feel the pull and press of you, your pace careful but deliberate. And then, gradually, the rhythm builds. Each drop of your hips sinks him deeper. Each shift of your spine draws a ragged curse from his lips.

He meets you halfway.

Not taking over—but unable to stay still. His hips lift to meet yours now, gentle thrusts rising into you each time you descend, until your bodies move together, friction mounting, sweat gathering between your chests.

It’s not rough. But it’s not gentle anymore, either.

It’s desperate.

Your name leaves his lips in a gasp as your walls clench around him.

“Don’t stop—don’t you dare—”

You don’t.

You ride him like you were made for this—like every lesson your body ever learned was just to prepare you for the way he fills you, holds you, loves you. And when his hands frame your face, pulling you down for a kiss that’s all teeth and whimpers and whispered mine, you know he’s close.

So are you.

“Look at me,” he begs, voice cracked open. “Please. I need to see you.”

You do.

And in that moment—your eyes locked, your bodies grinding, his hands fisting the sheets to keep himself from coming—you swear the whole world narrows to this. To him.

The rhythm has shifted.

Neither of you are measured anymore—your movements are too frantic, too close to the edge. You ride him with a desperation that borders on worship, your hands braced on his shoulders, thighs trembling as you grind down, chasing the pressure that coils tighter and tighter with every thrust.

Draco’s grip on your hips is bruising, though he doesn’t mean it to be. He’s trying to hold himself back, to keep control, but his hips are jerking up into yours now, harder, faster, like his body’s betraying his composure.

His mouth finds your shoulder. He bites back a groan there, muffled and breathless.

“You’re going to make me lose my mind,” he chokes out.

You gasp. “Draco—”

“I know.” He kisses your throat, your jaw, your cheek—fast and trembling, like he can’t stop. “I know, I feel it—I’m there, love, I’m—”

Your lips find his, open and gasping. The kiss breaks apart with every breath you steal from each other.

He looks at you. And for once, his eyes hold nothing back.

No walls. No shields. Just him—messy and breathless and yours.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And that’s what shatters you.

Your body tenses, thighs tightening around his hips as your climax crashes through you like a wave, sudden and staggering. You cry out, clinging to him, head thrown back—and that is what undoes him.

“Fuck—yes—”

Draco groans your name as he thrusts up once, twice, then stills deep inside you. You feel him spill into you, pulsing thick and hot, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you can barely breathe—and you wouldn’t dare ask him to loosen them.

You both shake.

He holds you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses into your shoulder, your collarbone, the side of your neck. His hands stroke up and down your spine like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re real. That you’re his.

The silence after is heavy—but not empty.

It’s full of heartbeats. Breath. Warmth.

Full of you.

And when he finally speaks again, it’s soft and wrecked and still trembling:

“Stay here tonight.”

You nod against his shoulder.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for months.

“Always.”

You’re both still for a long while.

Your bodies are flushed, limbs tangled, breath slowing inch by inch. Draco doesn’t let you move—not out of possessiveness, but out of need. His arms are wound around your waist, keeping you pressed to him, your chest against his, the beat of your heart a steady rhythm beneath his ear.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s no need.

Eventually, he lifts his wand with a hand that barely steadies. One whispered “Tergeo” and the warmth of magic trickles between your thighs, cleaning without fanfare. A second spell draws the rumpled blanket up over both of you and banishes the slight chill in the air, filling the bed with a soft, comforting heat.

You’re boneless against him, cheek pressed to his collarbone, legs tucked around his waist. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to your temple, and then to your hair.

His voice is barely audible.

“You’re too good to me.”

Your fingers trail across his ribs, light and slow, like you’re sketching patterns only you can see. You hum against his skin, the sound hazy with sleep. “That’s because I love you.”

He exhales through his nose. Not a laugh, exactly. Something softer.

“I don’t deserve that.”

“You do.” You lift your head just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes in the dim candlelight. “Draco, you do.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then reaches to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear before morning.

“You terrify me,” he whispers.

You smile gently. “Why?”

“Because I think if I lost you…” His voice cracks. He doesn’t finish.

You kiss him, soft and slow and anchoring.

“You won’t,” you murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence that follows is warm. Heavy in the way a blanket is heavy—comforting. Safe. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead to yours.

“Stay like this.”

You nod. Your fingers lace with his beneath the covers. “Always.”

And that’s how the night ends.

Not in fire or fury.

But in peace.

Two hearts quiet.

Two bodies held.

And the unshakable truth between them:

This was never just desire. It was devotion.

Who'll Stop the Rain? - WIP snippet from Sweet Child O' Mine Prequel

hello again. i wasn't planning on posting two snippets today, but it IS halloween, and this chapter literally takes place on halloween so how could i pass up the opportunity? but this is what i've been working on and what i (hopefully) am going to begin publishing by the end of the year! there will be five chapters that are more short stories than chapters, that take place over various times in their lives before adopting faye. hopefully that's something exciting because i'm having such a fun time writing it and filling in some of the gaps from sweet child o' mine, and yeah! enjoy x2 <3

POV - Sirius (i wasn't meaning to post two sirius POVs today but hey uh happy early birthday i guess sirius)

1,303 words

TW - Marauders Halloween

Smoke, it had emitted from the Godric's Hollow house Sirius hadn't seen in months. The memory of seeing it came rushing back to him--jarringly--in the middle of picking up a very late dinner for he and Remus, so he knew instantly what had happened.

Peter had betrayed them.

Sirius’d dropped his basket of food from his arms and rushed out of that Muggle shop as quickly as he could, finding an empty alleyway and Disapparating immediately.

Now flames filled his vision, engulfing the house of which trapped his best friends and his nephew, along in his heart with the deepest sense of dread he'd ever felt. The source came from the upstairs bedroom--Harry's bedroom. A moment ago, Sirius couldn't have told you where in the region their house was. Now he remembered every nook and cranny of it.

He ran to the front door and tried to turn the knob, but--"Fuck--!" He recoiled immediately at the heat of the metal. Shaking hands pressed against the wood door--it was hot, too, which had to mean the flames reached all the way to the bottom floor. Fuck, it was one thing to murder his best friends, his family, but to destroy every trace of them, too? Sirius had never thought Voldemort so goddamn evil before this moment, when he pounded on the door frantically and sobbed.

Where was Peter? Did he go inside? Was he the cause of the flames?

He kicked the door--hard--once, twice, before hearing an echoed cough and, "Leave, before I k-kill you!" Sirius about collapsed with relief at the sound of his best friend alive--damaged, possibly burning to death, but still alive. He was still alive.

Sirius whipped out his wand tucked into his boot like Remus instructed him to do for when he went out everywhere--"just in case"--and shouted, "DEPULSO!" The door splintered, wood flying everywhere, and the first thing he saw was the bannister holding the kitchen up collapse, framed pictures and the shelf holding cookbooks and painting supplies Sirius and Remus had gotten Lily over the years clatter to the ground.

The next thing he saw were three soot-covered Potters--James all but shoving his wife, holding their son, out of the door, following behind them quickly and holding a shaking hand out with his wand pointed at Sirius' face. Behind a pair of cracked glasses, his eyes widened with recognition, then an immense relief he'd never seen on his face, before James' arm all but collapsed at his side and he croaked, "Sirius?"

"Fuck, James," Sirius whispered, feeling his tears heated up by the flames near them rush down his cheeks, "fuck, you're okay. You're all okay, holy shit--" He pulled James into a crushing hug, of which shaking arms came up around him and the heavy lean of his best friend's body folded into his. James never let anyone take his weight. But Sirius felt all ninety kilograms slump in his arms.

Another crumble of the structure behind them had them shooting away, followed by a cough from Lily, who cradled Harry close to her chest. James went over, gently guiding them away from the house--Sirius followed, a bruising grip on his wand as the momentary relief of his friends' lives faded and he remembered the cause of this.

"Where is he," he demanded, voice cold. He'd never wanted to kill someone so badly in his life.

James coughed again--they needed a doctor, St. Mungo's. But Harry couldn't be Disapparated--he was too young. "I think he exploded ...?"

"Exploded?" Sirius blurted, blinking. Wormtail?

"Yeah, he, uh ... I don't know." James put his hand on his head, blinking dazedly as they paused a good ways from the house.

"He tried to kill Harry," Lily said, her voice low and even deadlier than Sirius thought his has been, but his fists and jaw clenched at the statement.

"Peter tried to kill Harry," he repeated quietly, staring at his ragged-breathing nephew in Lily's arms. Both the Potters looked up, blinking at him.

"What? No, Voldemort." James blinked again, slower. "What do you mean Peter? Where is he?"

Peter isn't here? Sirius guessed he didn't need to be present to betray them, did he? All he had to do was slip the information to Voldemort--he supposed he just expected him to be.

But no. Because Pettigrew was a coward, and he wouldn't have been able to face James, their best friend since they were fucking eleven-years-old, and let him see that he led their greatest enemy to kill him, his wife, and his one-year-old son. He's a coward, and a bastard, and Sirius regretted every day he ever called him his best friend.

"I don't know where he is," Sirius said with a tight jaw, looking over James. He stood strangely--eyes distant like he wasn't really there. So did Lily. They needed doctors, badly. "Did you hit your head or something? What do you think happened?"

James slowly shook his head, looking back in the direction of the house. The flames reflected off the cracked glasses on his face. "I ... don't really know what happened ..."

"Who do you think led Voldemort to you?" Sirius snapped angrily--not angry at James, of course. He never could be. But fuck, it was pooling up in his chest that he couldn't stop the venom in his voice. "Who's the only one who knew where you were? Why do you think I remembered where you were?"

James swallowed, the light of the flames glistening off the sudden onset of tears in his eyes. In the most heartbreaking voice Sirius had ever heard, he choked out, "Wormtail ...?"

They stared at each other for a few moments, hundreds of thoughts flowing between them in a silent conversation like they'd always been able to do, before James' fists slowly closed at his sides, his jaw tensing, and the tears in his eyes turning angry, before he muttered, "Wormtail ... where is he."

Sirius blinked, surprised but ruefully satisfied at his anger. "I don't know."

"I'm gonna kill him."

"James," Lily breathed sadly, rocking Harry with shaky arms.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him, Sirius. How dare he--"

Harry's fussing voice cut him off, and the anger quickly dissipated as his head whipped in their direction. He immediately came to his wife's side, a trembling hand reaching up and brushing Harry's brown hair--almost black with the amount of soot and ash in it. "Is he okay? Are you okay?"

"I think so," Lily said, voice quiet and trembling, as well. Seeing them in such a state made Sirius' heart ache more more than it already was. "He--he needs to be looked over, though. He's just--he's small, James, and that was so much smoke. What if he--"

"He's gonna be fine." James wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his side and kissing the top of her head. "He's gonna be fine."

Sirius didn't know if he was trying to convince her or himself. He held Lily, and by extension Harry, to himself for a moment, stroking both of their hairs and attempting to stay the comforting, steady husband and dad he'd always fought to be, before he tilted his head slightly towards Sirius. He could only see half of his face, partially lit up by the still burning house, as he said in a deep, venomous voice, "Find him."

The emotions dimmed and his sense of smell and hearing intensified as he shifted into Padfoot, stopping only briefly to nuzzle his friends' legs before sniffing the air, finding a faint trace of the rat in his mind, and darting off.