Who would have thought that Draco Malfoy could grow to like having a cat around, especially an obnoxious one with eerily familiar green eyes?
Bookmarked by moonlit_dreams
08 Nov 2019
He had also, more disconcerting than the constant presence, taken to calling the cat Harry. Even if only to himself, he could admit this developed because of its close resemblance to Potter. The only difference is that Harry is his friend. Harry looked unbearably sad when Draco told him his reasoning behind the name, how Potter wouldn’t even accept his hand but it didn’t matter, because Draco had Harry now. He had jumped down from the shelf - dangerously rattling the stored ingredients in the process - and demanded cuddles, distracting Draco from the lingering sting of Potter’s rejection.
“He was fine, you know, it was predominantly the shock and then he just wanted your attention.” The sentence doesn’t register at first, doesn’t make sense, until the wriggling creature in his lap demands more petting. Draco stares down, ready to defend Harry because he wouldn’t - except that yes, he would. Harry turns into a grumpy, devious little bugger, when Draco isn’t paying him enough attention, not keeping up his usual commentary on basically everything around him. It’s not that he needs to be entertained exactly; he just doesn’t like being ignored. Draco understands that, too well if he is honest.
But Harry doesn’t want to hear more about Potter - thank Merlin, next Draco would have told him of the sonnets he wrote for the git, the good ones, mind, not that embarrassment from second year - but is nuzzling into his neck, warm and affectionate where he presses as close to Draco as possible.
Draco drops a kiss on his head, more out of instinct than anything else, and moves to get up despite the cat on his lap, when the weight suddenly changes. Harry becomes heavy, bigger and Draco stares at black clothes uncomprehendingly.
HE NEEDED A KISS TO CHANGE BACK IM HOWLING!!!
But Draco could never say no to these eyes, not even back in Hogwarts.
He gave you a potion that was supposed to trap you in your Animagus form, looks like that worked well enough. It’s probably going to wear off over time. Father mumbled something about True Loves Kiss -
Stepping out and seeing Potter nervously drumming his fingers on the counter, Draco finds he doesn’t mind the term hiding half as much anymore and intents to do just that, when he finds Mr. Parson rather excessively transformed the door to become part of the wall, sealing his only escape.
But here he stands, his entire future waiting to be written. He could accept, let things develop and satisfy that part of him that always wanted Potter - his attention, his smiles and his joy. All he has to do is say yes, and he would have an actual chance to achieve what he dreamt of since he was eleven.
SO PUREEE I LOVE ITTT
Sometimes, Harry can't help but wonder why such strange shit always happens to him.
Bookmarked by moonlit_dreams
25 Oct 2019
“The house is trying to get you to bring Malfoy here.”
Honestly, out of all the things he’d expected, his house being sentient and trying to play matchmaker hadn’t even made the list. “The house wants a Black living here again, so it’s trying to set me up with Malfoy?
“I’m afraid I did. The visions will stop if you get Malfoy to live here with you.”
“Calm down? I am thirty minutes from what is likely the most important interview of my career. Hipworth Potions Co. – Britain’s foremost supplier of potions since 17-bloody-81? If I get this position my career is made and I assure you that I will not get this position if I do not find my good robes, which I know you—mmph!”
Other Harry cut him off quite effectively by taking hold of Malfoy’s head in both hands and kissing him soundly.
And above all, you’re going to quit worrying about this because you’re absolutely brilliant and that position’s as good as yours, even if you went in there wearing a burlap sack. It’s going to be fine. Now.”
Malfoy blinked at him before recovering a bit of his composure. “I am brilliant, aren’t I?” he murmured as he started up the stairs.
Other Harry shook his head fondly and watched him disappear over the landing before he headed down the hall to the laundry room.
Harry stood in the hallway after they’d disappeared. Even though he’d seen lots of other scenes between the two of them play out, it always threw him a bit how comfortable they seemed around each other. How happy they looked together. How every lingering glance showed just how obviously they were in… love?
Malfoy collected a few magazines before he went deeper into the stacks and spent a few minutes perusing the shelves of academic journals. A few times he half-turned in Harry’s direction, and Harry quickly ducked out of sight before he could be spotted. He squeezed by a book cart loaded with teetering stacks of the tawdry romances that Mrs. Weasley pretended she didn’t read and followed along as Malfoy went deeper still, back into the used book section where he browsed through dusty leather-bound tomes for long enough that Harry’s left knee to begin to ache from standing.
“As it so happens,” Malfoy said conversationally, “I am neither blind nor deaf, and you haven’t gotten any better at stalking people since Hogwarts.”
“Well,” Malfoy said. “Now you’ve said hello, so if you’ll kindly bugger off and leave me to it?”
He didn’t sound all that irritated when he said it; really, it was pretty damn close to the wry amusement Harry heard all the time from the Malfoy in his house, just a few short steps from what had become Harry’s favorite tone from him. The one that was theatrically put-upon and exasperatedly fond in a way that said you’re an idiot and I love you anyway all at once. His pulse quickened at the notion that the Malfoy in his house and the one standing here in front of him might be the same person after all.
After changing into a clean pair of underpants, Harry crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over him, listening idly to the sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpane. He didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the hall until they’d nearly reached his bedroom. They hesitated by the door, then came inside. Harry sighed and didn’t roll over.
“Really, haven’t you done enough?” he said to the house.
“Potter,” Draco drawled. “I haven’t even started.”
Harry sat up and stared at Draco, his Draco, with his wet clothes and rain dampened hair. “You came back.”
“I never left,” Draco said. “I was about to but your barmy house yanked the door out of my hand and slammed it shut.” “And then it showed me exactly what I’d be missing if I left.” His shirt came next, and he shrugged out of it and let it fall to the floor as he stalked over to the bed. “Budge over. It’s bloody cold out here.”
“I won’t move in with you yet, you know,” Draco said.
“There’s that modesty again,” Harry said, giving Draco’s ankle another tap before he dragged his toes along Draco’s instep. “I haven’t asked you yet.”
“Mmm,” Draco said with a smile. “But you will.”
“I will,” Harry agreed. “And you’ll say yes.”
“Yes,” said Draco. “I believe I will.”
“I will,” Draco said without turning around.
Harry faltered. “You will? But… You haven’t seen… I haven’t asked you yet.”
Draco turned back to face him with a smile. “Do you remember our first night together?”
Harry blinked, momentarily thrown. “What? Yes?”
“Well, this is what the house showed me.” Draco reached out and plucked the ring from the box and slid it onto his finger. “I saw us, and I saw how happy we were, and that’s what convinced me to go back upstairs to you.” He held out his hand and tipped his head to one side as he admired his new ring.
After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.
Bookmarked by moonlit_dreams
25 Oct 2019
“Soulshare?” Stiles frowns. “What’s . . . you know what, that’s a stupid question. I’m going to assume it’s exactly what it sounds like. Okay, fine. How can I have some mystical soul bond with someone I’ve never met?”
“Did, though,” Peter says. “You were young. Then you left. I waited.” He closes his eyes. “Waited for you. Now here you are.”
Stiles is glad that Peter’s talking to him, even if the information he’s imparting is somewhat unnerving. “Oh. I . . . I don’t remember that, I guess. I don’t have many memories of when I was a little kid. But, uh, I’ll take your word on it. I mean . . . I’ve been dreaming about you for a long time. I dreamed about . . . about the fire and stuff.”
“You can do this,” Peter repeats, holding Stiles’ gaze. His eyes are red, now, a brilliant crimson that something inside Stiles responds to, humming like a tuning fork hit at just the right angle.
The glass ripples and suddenly dissolves, falling around Peter in a rush of fine sand, too smooth to be of any danger.
“Cool,” Stiles says, impressed with himself.
Peter hauls himself to his feet, using the wall to support himself. “Shall we?” he asks, and he’s very suave and nonchalant for approximately two seconds before he collapses, folding into Stiles’ arms.
“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Stiles agrees, getting an arm underneath Peter’s shoulders and half-helping, half-carrying him along.
Peter holds up a hand to stop him. “It’s not terribly uncommon for The Sight to be treated as a mental illness, and Stiles’ circumstances made it particularly likely, for two reasons. The first is that it came on early. Most magical talents manifest during the late stages of puberty, by which point the spark is mature enough in some ways to handle them, even if they’re problematic. I’m not entirely sure why that happened with Stiles – sometimes it just does, without any sort of explanation – but my guess is that it had something to do with me. I’ll come back to that in a minute.
Peter dips his head in a nod. “You moved away, Stiles became a somewhat troubled child, and then, when Stiles was eleven, Kate Argent murdered my family.”
“Why?” Tom asks.
“Because she was psychotic,” Peter says. “She believed that werewolves were no better than animals, and that killing them was fun. It’s really no more complicated than that. There were only a few survivors. Laura and Derek weren’t in the house, and I somehow survived inside, but was severely injured. I spent the next six years in – do you know what a locked-in state is?” he asks, and Tom nods. “Unfortunately for Stiles, my pain became his pain.”
“All those nightmares,” Tom mumbles.
Peter nods. “Mine. He dreamed of the fire. You have to understand – I never meant to hurt him. I wasn’t aware of what was happening and I don’t know that I would have been able to stop it if I was. But it seems that the connection between us, and the trauma, might have woken his talents early. Thus leading to the clusterfuck that’s been his life.”
BITCH I LOVE HIS FIC AHH!!!!
01 Jun 2009
'The first time it happens Owlman decides it must be a fluke... Not the sex – he always knew that was going to happen sooner or later – but the part where he wakes up with the Jokester drooling in his hair.'
For those who don't know, Earth 3 is a DC Comics canon alternate universe where the moral opposites of the characters we know and love live. Owlman is that universe's Bruce Wayne - a feared crime lord who makes Patrick Bateman look tame. His arch nemesis is the Joke(ste)r, a former comedian turned vigilante who fights crime with gag-themed props and SHEER AWESOME.
Bookmarked by moonlit_dreams
24 Oct 2019
He closes his eyes... it is simple, and it is nice – body heat, the way the Jokester's limbs tangle with his own. Owlman does not allow himself many indulgences, but on this occasion he is willing to just relax for a few hours... and when he wakes up he will deal with whatever crazy scheme the other man has concocted in the interim.
When he feels the bed rock from side to side as the Jokester clambers out of it he grunts in vague annoyance, thinking that the clown is off to use his bathroom (to leave make-up stains in the sink and flecks of mascara on the mirror) – but instead of running water he hears the sound of fabric rustling and the raising of a zipper. He opens one amber-flecked brown eye to see that the Jokester is half dressed... for some unfathomable reason.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
"I thought we were done for the night."
"So I'm going home."
Owlman folds his arms across his chest and glares murderously at him, unable to think of anything to say.
"– Thanks for a swell time though big guy. Be seeing ya," the Jokester adds lightly as he heads towards the door.
Owlman reaches out for something to throw at the retreating figure, then realises that he destroyed the lamp and the owl statuette the first time his nemesis stayed over. He socks his pillow with his fist in annoyance and settles down to try to sleep.
... But somehow the moment of drowsy contentment is gone. The rumpled state of his bed sheets begins to annoy him, as does the fact that they now smell of sweat, come and whatever cheap cologne it is that the Jokester wears.
I hate that goddamn clown.
"What was Johnny Quick doing in Gotham?" Owlman continues to press his fingers against the Jokester's ribs, thinking that it is high time for him to teach the little speed junkie a lesson he won't soon forget. The sight of the inky discolouration spreading across his nemesis' pale skin asserts Owlman's possessive instincts (nobody marks the clown but him).
"Owlsie, Owlsie," a series of reassuring pats are placed on the villain's shoulder, "what I'm hearing, is that you don't like the casual 'booty call' arrangement. You expect a little more commitment from me. I'm fine with that, but in return I'd like it if you stopped paddling around in those warm waters of denial..."
"Ooh, OH!" the Jokester exclaims gleefully, wagging his finger back and forth between the other two. "I get it! I'm the other woman!"
"No you're not. Shut up."
"So I'm your one and only? Are we, uh, 'going steady' as they say? Aww – kiss me you romantic fool!"
Owlman lets out a growl of frustration and clamps his hand down on the back of the Jokester's neck, pushing the slighter man towards the bedroom and forcing him to stumble across the room with his head down. "Get in there and don't come out until I say so."
"But Owlsie," he protests in a high, whining voice, "I don't want to go back in the closet!"
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
11 Sep 2014
Accidental bonding. Breaking and entering. Conspiring, however unwillingly, in the strange one-man war Malfoy's waging against detention. This isn't the normal school year Harry anticipated having, but at least it's not boring.
Bookmarked by moonlit_dreams
04 Oct 2019
Snarling, Draco snatched the pillow from his bed and swung it at Harry’s face so hard that it knocked his glasses askew. Fucking Slytherin, coming up with a way to hit Harry that didn’t involve touching. Mostly Harry felt irritated that he hadn’t come up with it first. Malfoy hefted his pillow, ready to swing it again at any sign of retaliation.
He glared, weighing the satisfaction of hitting Malfoy with his own pillow against his desire to avoid getting into a pillow fight like a couple of first year girls, and hadn’t quite made up his mind when McGonagall and Pomfrey returned from Pomfrey’s office.
“No they’re not! One of them’s mine and I want it back you stupid arsehole!” he said. Then, “It’s got my spit on it, why would you even want it?” he pointed out, trying to be reasonable with Harry even as he lunged forward again.
Only, Harry had never been anything even approaching reasonable when it came to Malfoy.
“Oh, is that how you claim things?” Harry asked, and against all his better judgement he licked a broad stripe across the cover of the book. “Now what?”
For a moment, Malfoy was so horrified he stopped struggling. Then he threw himself forward, redoubling his efforts. “Give me my book back!” he shouted.
“No! Never!” Harry shouted back, entirely unconcerned with the spectacle he was making, how all of his classmates were staring at him wrestling with Malfoy. All that mattered was he had Malfoy pink-cheeked and furious. He couldn’t keep from grinning, though that only served to make Malfoy angrier.
Malfoy did it again, and again, and then gave it a try with Harry’s wand. The manacles held firm. Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
“The door!” Harry hissed at Malfoy. “Lock the door!”
Malfoy spun and aimed Harry’s wand at the door, but before he could cast, it swung open. Filch made it two steps into the room before he realized he wasn’t alone.
For a moment they all stood frozen in varying states of horror and, in Harry’s case, embarrassment. Then anger descended over Filch’s expression like a thundercloud.
“You!” he said, taking another step forward.
“Er,” said Harry, tugging helplessly at his bonds. He really should have taken the time to look into the possibility of that floor-opening-beneath-him-and-swallowing-him-whole spell when he’d had the chance. It’d come in dead useful right about now.
“I regret nothing,” said Malfoy, putting his chin up and squaring his shoulders like he was facing a firing squad, and if Harry hadn’t been securely chained to the wall, he probably would have slapped him for being such a stupid melodramatic bastard.
Filch took in the scene, at the empty top of his desk, the empty corner. “You,” he said again, stabbing a finger at Malfoy. “You’re the one! You’ve been Vanishing my things!”
Then Malfoy tensed and Harry saw what was about to happen a split second before it actually did.
“Malfoy,” he warned. “Don’t you dare.”
“Sorry, Potter!” Malfoy said, and sprang forward, shoved past Filch, and darted out of the room. So much for never giving Harry away.
“Malfoy!” Filch snarled, grabbing for him and missing by inches.
“VIVE LA RESISTANCE!!” shouted Malfoy as he went sprinting off down the corridor with Filch in hot pursuit.
Leaving Harry all alone, chained to the wall in his underpants.
“Fuck,” he said.
An experience which might very well be over by now if Malfoy hadn’t tried to get out of it by blaming the entire thing on the bond. Harry hadn’t felt so much as a whisper from it in well over a month now, but Malfoy had spun a fantastical yarn about how it’d been plaguing him for weeks and honestly, the story didn’t make very much sense. The only thing it had convinced McGonagall of was that the pair of them should go straight for the infirmary to be examined immediately because, after all, madness was one of the potential dangers of this sort of bond and Malfoy was raving like a bloody lunatic.
Which, if she’d bothered to ask Harry, he’d have told her that Malfoy was just naturally this way and it wasn’t the bond at all. But she hadn’t, and Harry still couldn’t quite look her in the eye, so he hadn’t brought it up.
Now he and Malfoy were sitting side by side on one of the hospital beds while Madam Pomfrey and McGonagall conferred in Pomfrey’s office about the results of the dozens of diagnostic spells they’d cast over him and Malfoy.