#guttertrash

do you have any witch H / vampire L recs, or witch H / witch L ? somehow, just after october i‘m really in the mood for those hahaha

idk if you already did a rec list on those, sorry if you have!

thaaanks (: <3

Hi! You're very welcome! I've done some vampire recs, but not specifically witch/vampire pairing fics or witch/witch fics ! So here are some fics that fit what you're looking for...

the school of extraordinary lovers by @stylinsoncity

"We keep telling the other, I love you and I love you, and we do, though we both know where the knives are." - Laura Van Prooyen

harry is a third-year witch and violinist at Laitswold, the only magical academy in the UK, with dreams of taking on the world, and hopefully breaking the centuries-old curse on his family while he's at it. he does not dream of facing off against his childhood rival and duet partner, but louis is back in town after six years abroad, so that's exactly what happens.

Nocturnal Creatures Are Not So Prudent by patdkitten / @babyarcanacasey

Louis spins a finger in midair, like he’s indicating someone to turn around, staring pointedly at Liam as the faucet turns itself on and the can rinses itself in the sink behind him. Liam, moon burn him, doesn't rise to the bait, choosing instead to lean back on his stool and wrapping his hands around his own mug.

“Anyway, like I was saying and that you were ignoring, there's this new club near my school and I want you to go with me. Could do you some good, getting out once in awhile.”

Louis is a white witch with a little black cat named Hemlock and a best human friend Liam (they're a lot like Samantha Stephens and Louise Tate). When he's dragged out to a new club Liam's heard about from a friend and classmate, Louis comes face to face with that which witches do not touch: a charming vampire by the name of Harry.

domestic monsters (series) by g_uttertrash / @g-uttertrash

Harry is a witch from a long line of power, an ancient line that’s one of the strongest left alive in their hemisphere. He can cast spells without a word if need be, fly on a broomstick, and has a black cat (a kitten, really) named Felix that is his animal familiar. He can shape galaxies in his cupped hands and can destroy them just as easily. He can choose exactly how to use his power, for encouragement and support, or for more nefarious causes if he wishes to.

And as fate would have it, he’s scared of haunted houses.

(Harry is a witch who carries around a stuffed pumpkin, Louis is a vampire with too much time on his hands, and their best mates Zayn & Niall aren't exactly what they seem...)

Wish You to Ashes by LetTheMusicMoveYou / @letthemusicmoveyou28

There in the middle of the candle triangle on Harry’s dining table, is the source of all Harry’s turmoil. His ex, Louis Tomlinson, in all his glory. Literally.

Louis is sat on his bum looking confused, not a stitch of clothing on him. It takes him a few beats to comprehend what’s going on as well, and when he does he attempts to cover his crotch with his hands.

”Harry?” He glances around the kitchen then. “What the fuck?”

Harry shrugs, a bit helplessly. “I don’t know. I was trying to banish you, not summon you.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Banish me, really? Very mature Harry.”

2 YEARS AGO (late-November)

“Night Syd,” Bet called, closing the door, and drawing the lock.

“She be goo’” Jocelyn replied. “Fresh face, farm-girl thin’.”

Bet grabbed a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. She poured out a couple fingers for each them. She looked troubled, like her mind was elsewhere. Jocelyn watched while the glasses were set, and then:

“Wot’s goin’ on, Be’,” asked Jocelyn.

Her long-time business partner shook her head. “Joss, I can’t do this anymore...”

Jocelyn shot her a look. “Somethin’ ‘appen? Ya go’ anothah lit’le one ta...”

“No,” said Bet. Her voice was cold. “And you know why.”

“‘Spose I do,” she agreed. “Sor’y.”

“This business. It’s making me cold, Joss.”

“Wot?”

“I don’t see people as people but as items.”

“An’...” started Jocelyn. “I ain’ seein’ th’ issue.”

“Things have only gotten worse for use since Yvgeniy and now these Alliance idiots...”

“They ain’ bein’ th’ brigh’est...” Jocelyn trailed off. She looked around their brothel. “We close down, an’ I be out’a work, yanno.”

“Brennandam, Hatherford... be an innkeeper in the middle of nowhere. Bake pies and tend to little old ladies. Joss, you built this business from the ground up.”

“Nah. We di’.” She smirked. “Can ya jus’ pic’ure me waitin’ on some woman named Mama Mary or Lady Thea or, I donnae, Peggy?” She snorted.

Bet pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re missing the point...”

Jocelyn knocked back her whiskey. She poured another glass. “Wot is et?”

Bet took her own glass. Just as she was about to answer, four pings and accordant puffs of glittery smoke filled the ground floor.

“Ge’ doon!” Jocelyn yelled.

The brothel went silent. After a few seconds, boots — running toward the entrances — thundered inside. The Alliance troop from the other night, the one who had pelted her with the gold piece, stepped forward. He was flanked by two thugs in Ashvane uniforms.

“Where you at, woman?” he yelled.

Jocelyn made a few quick hand gestures to Bet. Bet crawled over to the bar, grabbing four bottles of lager. Jocelyn followed her, and took two of the bottles. The clouds of smoke were beginning to dissipate. Jocelyn spotted one table on its side, then another, and another. She mapped a route in her head. “We kin ge’ to th’ cellah’s storm door,” she said, using her finger to trace their path along the floorboards. “We got’a be quick.”

“Joss...”

“Yer righ’,” she whispered. “Mebbe we coul’ be like, beekeepahs or somethin’.”

Bet smiled, a small though hopeful one. She nodded. She watched Jocelyn’s fingers count down from 3. When she closed her fist and moved fast toward the basement, Bet followed, close behind.

“Come on ya fuckin’ bitch!” shouted the soldier. “Ain’t no gettin’ away from us.” His voice slid an octave, slipping into something darker, more sinister. “We’re everywhere...”

Jocelyn pushed Bet through the cellar door. “Go where we said,” she whispered before closing & locking it. She could hear Bet start to weep, tone matching the sound of the stairs’ creaking. Jocelyn crept behind the bar. She felt along the well, finding a steak knife and her set of knuckles. If I can hold out, she can get out, she thought. She hurled a bottle of lager across the room and the other to a spot opposite that. They shattered in quick sequence. The soldier with his two hired thugs investigated the one furthest Jocelyn. She snuck from one overturned table to the next. The men were increasingly agitated. She knelt on a piece of glittery glass. She could hear it crunch and feel the searing pain — sharp and hot — before her body surged with energy. She guessed it was the azerite. She knew that ping sound anywhere. She didn’t really care. She rushed the three men, dazing the Alliance member with a punch to the temple. The Ashvane thugs turned to watch their charge crumple to the ground. One of the thugs looked at her. He was skinny and eerily familiar.

“Oh... oh fuck...” he said. “We gots ta go. That’s Joey—”

Jocelyn smashed the side of the man’s face. Blood and teeth fell out of his mouth. She remembered him, too. From a decade prior. He fell to the ground, too, sobbing. Jocelyn motioned for the other thug to drop his weapons. Which, to his credit, he did. Jocelyn knocked him out with a shot to the back of the head.

Five minutes and a full pack later, she was on her way out the door. She rounded the corner. A woman lie in the street, bleeding and whimpering:

“Be-hind...” sputtered Bet.

Jocelyn spun about just as a blow was about to land. The man was massive, glowing flecks dusted his arms. She punched with her right hand — blocked. It left an opening. She stabbed him under the ribcage with the steak knife. He relented, falling to the ground. She reached down, retrieved the serrated blade, and picked up Bet.

“Come on,” she said to her wounded friend. “Hatherford, yea?”

Bet nodded weakly. Jocelyn examined Bet’s wound. It was a large slice up her left side, narrowly missing any arteries.

“C-can we re...retire yet?”

Jocelyn kept pressure on the wound as they limped toward the small village. “Oi ... ya ‘ang in there, kid,” she said to the woman of about 30. “I go’ ya. Stay wit’ me.”

“Aye, skip,” she said, exhaustedly.

Hi, anon! Here are some HL fics in a Hogwarts setting! If you want a longer rec like this, just fill out the suggestion box on the pinned post! I think a Potter Direction rec would make for a good longer one! But anyway, here are a few that I think you might like!

fake it 'til you make it by tempolarriefics / @tempolarriefix

“So.” Louis clears his throat, trying to prompt the curly haired boy into speaking.

“You want me to what?” The boy asks incredulously, speaking slowly in a way that emphasizes the absurdity of what Louis has just asked.

Louis clears his throat, hoping he doesn’t look as completely mortified as he feels. He shrugs nonchalantly before squeaking out, “To go to the Yule ball with me, to make my ex-boyfriend jealous?”

or, the one where Harry and Louis are seventh years at Hogwarts and while trying to make Liam jealous, fall in love along the way.

if you'll be my star, i'll be your sky by g_uttertrash

Louis smiles in the smuggest, most infuriating way, like he knows every thought filtering through Harry’s mind. He probably does.

“I thought you were a student, yeah,” Louis says, voice quieter now, leaving Harry to lean over the baluster somewhat to hear. “But I hoped you weren't.”

(or, Harry Potter AU where Harry takes a teaching post at Hogwarts and gets a little more than he expected when he meets the fit Transfiguration professor, Louis, who looks oddly familiar... Featuring Messrs. Horan, Malik, and Payne as well, along with some familiar faces from the HPverse)

Sun-Dappled by QuickedWeen / @becomeawendybird

The walk back from Stormwind Cathedral was quiet. There were the occasional clerics and merchants, politicians and mercenaries talking about some nonsense or another, but otherwise, the City was still. Jocelyn liked that. 

She walked into the memorial park. She sat by the fountain, looking round. There was a merchant leaning against the wall to her right ( @zeehva ) and someone else, one of those goat people, off to her left. Somehow, she felt safe here. She reached into her pack and removed a small pad of paper, bound in black leather, and a pencil. She opened it to a page she had marked with a red ribbon. She touched the nib to the surface and began to practice. 

Writing was something that did not come naturally to her; she had never really had a need for it, neither for reading. This realization troubled her greatly. Dr Hayes had told her to stop comparing herself to her brother, but the more she learned about him, the more difficult it was to not do so. Indeed, Jocelyn’s work was passable, though just barely. Her reading comprehension, even less so. Earlier that evening she had been invited to some ‘literary conclave’ by an admittedly friendly usher. Jocelyn did not know what either word meant. The woman had told her it was a place for poets and writers, storytellers and singers to come together and share their creative work. The only creative work with which Jocelyn was truly familiar were sea chanties and drinking songs, and she strongly suspected that this ‘conclave’ would have had little use for either.

Though she was invited to attend, she had politely declined. 

She was mortified by her ignorance - why would she share it with people she did not know‽ 

All of this weighed heavily on her as she began to practice her penmanship. Her hand still shook a bit, but she had gained more control over it as the months had passed. At least it’s kind of readable, she thought. After writing the letters, she began to speak them softly to herself, attempting to solidify what she had been learning. She carefully repeated each letter for about 30 seconds a piece, until she ended on L. That one gave her pause. “L…” she whispered. I know this one. 

Jocelyn flipped back through her book, finding I. She sounded out the different pronunciations, settling on the one she had heard outside the conclave earlier that evening. “L-i…t…" She continued in this fashion until she reached the spelling litararee. She read it aloud: “Lit-a-ra-ree.” It was not quite the way the usher at the event had said it. She itched her brow. She attempted different spellings, different sound combinations, yet for some reason she thought the second E looked incorrect. She replaced it with a Y. (One of the Northshire Clerics had told her that about that trick.) 

As the night grew darker and the gas lamps flickered to life, she became more and more frustrated. She closed her eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. She could see the letters she had written floating about in an imaginary space, combining or drifting away from one another. Some letters, like the extra R, simply dropped away. She did not know why, nor did she question it, but instead let it happen. Breathe in. The extra A disappeared, too. Breathe out. The word snapped together. It was a word she had seen and heard before. She gasped and opened her eyes: 

“Literary,” she said, quiet yet firm. Stronger still: “Literary.”

Jocelyn’s heart beat quickly. She felt like she had accomplished something, something of import. After taking a moment to celebrate this small victory, she packed up and walked toward the park’s seaside entrance, her gait lighter, her mind just a little more at peace than it had been the day before. 

* * * * * 

“Wot’s tha’?” asked Jocelyn, nodding toward the small carved figure in Myzariel’s hands. She sounded as drunk as she felt. 

“You drink with me for hours, barely able to move your chest and had a need for walking assistance, and only now you’re asking?”

Jocelyn laid down on her simple bed, grimacing. Myz sat next to her, having walked her back from the Cathedral and subsequent diversionary visit to Stormwind Cemetery. The void elf’s eyes glowed purple-tinged white amidst the gas-lit tones of the street lamps outside the bedroom window. 

“Was thinkin’ ‘bou’ othah things,” she slurred. “Ya were there. Ya know tha’.” 

“You humans, always so eager to slip into stupor.” 

Jocelyn scoffed. “I know I’m stupi’. Ya donnae need ta remind me.” 

“Stupor, not stupid,” corrected the void elf. Why do I bother with such things, she may have thought in that moment. “You’re smarter than you think.” 

Once again Jocelyn scoffed. She turned onto her right side, the healthier side, and used her arm to prop herself up. “I ain’ smar’,” she said. 

“You kept yourself from dying. You made one of the hardest choices... I don’t know if I could’ve done what you did.” 

“My frien’s, they kep’ me ‘live.” 

“Good friends,” said the void elf. She turned the small wooden figurine on which she had been whittling. She ran her fingers along its smooth surface. “But it was you who kept yourself from dying,” she iterated.

Jocelyn lay back. “Donnae why,” she said. 

“Can’t help you there,” said Myzariel. 

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Myz took out her whittling knife, finishing off a few details. The scraping was all that could be heard. Walnut shavings drifted noiselessly to the floor. Jocelyn thought about the past week and a half — the confrontation and exchange with Vynette; the discovery of the wine cache; the crocolisk and Zeehva and Mrs Stanley; and her emerging recognition that she was, indeed — just as people had been telling her for months — not entirely stupid. 

“Ya mean tha’?” asked Jocelyn. 

Myz glanced up at her. “Yeah, I can’t help you,” she said, characteristic cynicism creeping into her voice. “Only you —”

“Nay, nay,” interrupted the human. She coughed and groaned from the pain. “I mean ya think I ain’ stupi’? Even though I talk funny, donnae ‘ave li’eracy, all o’ tha’?” 

“You don’t need to read to be smart,” said the elf. She blew dust off the carved piece. “And having an accent doesn’t make you stupid.” 

Jocelyn thought about the words, spoken in the blackness of her bedroom. She was realizing she was meant to be seen for all that she was in the daylight; she was nothing less than — as Dr Hayes had said — a survivor. She liked that thought. “Ya din’t ‘ave to walk me ‘ome,” she said. 

“Yeah, I did. You’re drunk.” 

Jocelyn knew she was right. “Say, can I ge’ ya some brekkie sometime? I donnae if’fn ya like bacon, bu’ I do, yea.” 

Myzariel folded her whittling knife. She blew a bit of sawdust into the floor, and ran her finger over the small thing on which she’d been working. “Love breakfast, especially bacon. Alright,” she agreed. 

Jocelyn closed her eyes. “Thank’ee,” she said, falling asleep. 

Myzariel sighed. She looked down on the human not with pity, per se, but a touch of sadness. She set the small wooden object on Jocelyn’s nightstand: a whittled corvid, her best approximation of a rook. The bell outside tolled thrice. “You can take me to breakfast tomorrow,” she said quietly, curling into a ball; at least the chair was comfortable and spacious enough for that. She watched Jocelyn breathe, soothed by the gentle repetition. “Sleep well,” she whispered. 

Jocelyn awoke in the Unit 8 office. No one had come by all day; she knew they were small, but she imagined at least one staffer would stop by. Or maybe the war took them out. Who knew? In that moment, who cared? The throbbing in her chest — she’d felt it once before, after her last professional brawl. She had needed help then; she was certain she needed help now. She had started bleeding at some point during the day; one of the bone shards must’ve popped through her skin. She started talking to herself to stay awake. 

“Ya cannae bothah th’ ol’ woman or th’ girl. Ya cannae,” she said. She clawed her way off the floor, fingers grasping anything solid. She couldn’t use her left arm; when she tried, she could feel things moving inside her that should not have been. She crawled over to a filing cabinet, and used the drawer handles to pull herself up. She stood there, leaning against it, for a few moments. Her vision was clouded with purple stars, and her ears, an infernal ringing. She almost collapsed again, but fought through the head rush. She looked throughout the office for a first aid station. It was on the other side. She grunted her displeasure. Of course, she thought. Her knees were already weak, and gods help her if they gave out again. She examined the room, looking for anything that — 

“Go’ ya,” Jocelyn whispered, kicking her leg outward to drag one of the banker’s chairs — a wooden one with castors — toward her. She almost toppled over, but kept a firm grip on the file drawer’s handle. She lowered herself into the chair and moved her legs just enough to take her across the room. She opened the first aid kit. It looked well-used — and just as well-stocked. She took off her leathers, undershirt, and underclothing. This is gonna hurt, she thought, grabbing one of the Kul’Tiran trauma bandages and two of the gauze trauma pads from the kit. She grit her teeth. She used the trauma pads to press down on the spot whence the blood. She cried out. She snatched a bottle of alcohol from the kit and saturated the dressing with it. It was like someone had covered her in petrol and set her alight. She gasped from the sting, the pain. Judging by the smell of the wound, a mild infection had already set in. She almost puked. 

Jocelyn unwound the Kul’Tiran trauma bandage. She held it in place with her arm as she wound it round her torso. It was a constrictive bit of cloth, tightening with every wrap. She could, once again, feel things moving in her chest. Then the stabbing sensation. She remembered that, too, from her final brawl. Like someone poked a hole in her lung. Fuck me. She rummaged through the kit for the largest bore needle she could find. Her breathing was erratic. She was losing consciousness. Fast. She found a hypodermic, bit down on the plunger, and ripped it out of the needle, spitting it off to the side. Her stomach turned. She thought about the people she was getting to know. She thought about the Director. She pictured her dead brother, that woman’s fingers down his throat as she caressed his hair. 

Jocelyn held the syringe firmly with her right hand. She looked for an open spot where the bandages had not been applied. Do it ... do it now, she thought. The room was dimming. “Do et now!” she screamed, plunging the needle into her chest. The needle pierced the pleura surrounding her upper lung, between two of her shattered ribs. Frothy blood jet through the top, spattering the floor and wall. She gasped. Like she had been holding her breath for minutes. Her lung inflated. She slumped over in the chair, exhausted, needle jutting out. 

After a few minutes, she grabbed the syringe and pulled it out, leaving it amongst the rest of the bloodied items. She felt her pulse. Stable. Her breathing. Stable. Her ribs. Stabilized, hurts like hell. She grabbed her tank from the bloody pile. She worked it over her head. She didn’t put her left arm through the hole. 

Jocelyn didn’t want to die alone, like her brother. She wanted to be near someone she cared about. She crawled across the office floor, managed to stand, and descended the stairs, one painful step at a time. She walked across the threshold. She waved the stable maid over. 

“Need yer ‘elp,” she sputtered. 

The stable made stared. “No shit, lady.” 

“Take me to a cot’age.” 

“Not the cathedral?” 

“A cot’age, jus’ ou’side th’ gates.” 

“Yeah...” she said, whistling a guard over. She spoke in low tones with him. In the end, they saluted each other. “Come on, lass. We’ll get ya some help. Just tell me where. Old Barney, that guard there, he’s gonna look after the horses.” 

Jocelyn merely nodded. She was slipping in and out of sleep. But even still, she knew when the started moving. She watched their progress from outside her body. Like a bird looking down on a field. The horse’s gentle trot helped calm her, as did the stable maid's gentle humming. 

Mrs Stanley... Zeehva... they can help. 

17 Years Ago (Mid-October), 17 ADP

“You... you have to go...” sputtered Kasyade. She wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth’s corner. “Ship’s a lost... ungh!” She doubled over. The Stormic guardsman had done a number on her ribcage. 

“I cannae leave ya!” Jocelyn whispered sharply. She pressed on the gunshot wound under her mentor’s shirt — only to have her hand swatted away. “Yer mah ... I cannae!”

“You have to go,” she iterated, yanking a pewter chain from her neck. “Anglepoint Wharf, Boralus. Find Dmitri.” She dropped the jewelry into Jocelyn’s hand. “Wait these fuckers out... in the... the cargo...” She seemed to be fading fast. 

Jocelyn pocketed the jewelry. “Eyes open, Kas... I’m coming back...” She scurried down below into the cargo holds, listening to the Stromic Guard storm the ship, wiping out the crew. She found a large crate and hid inside: shields. Heavy and useful. She buried herself under three or so. Hours passed. Once the footsteps receded and the voices stopped echoing, Jocelyn popped her head out of the crate. Nothing. She eased herself out, toe tips reaching toward and finding the floor. She crept around the ship, back to where she had seen her mentor. The Captain had been executed, hanged from the midsails. She couldn’t find Kasyade. She couldn’t find anyone. Her home was ruined. Fuck. She snuck down the gang plank and stole a catboat — single sail and low profile. She pushed off from the marina and steered the boat out of the harbour before flying the sail. There was a steady east wind. That was something.

17 Years Ago (Late November), 17 ADP

“So Kasyade say: ‘Go to Dmitri’ and you come see Dmitri. Is this what I am hearing?” asked the younger crimeboss to his captive audience. Jocelyn was literally being restrained by a man she had heard only referred to as ‘Boris.’ 

“Is tha’ wot I say?”

“So much hostility toward Dmitri from someone who does not know him...”

“Sor’y. Is tha’ wot I say, sir?”

The crimeboss crossed his arms. “Boris. Leave us.”

Boris leaned across the desk. “All she had on her was this...” he said, dropping her brass knuckles with a thud. Dmitri nodded, and placed his hand over the weapon. He waited until his henchman left:

“Stupid people come see Dmitri with gun and crossbow,” he mused. “Knuckles, very personal.” He turned the weapon over in his hand, stopping at a small marking. His eyes went wide. “Either you are very, very stupid for having neither, or...” he said, raising his pearlhandled revolver; Jocelyn didn't flinch. Dmitri looked impressed: “...you are her...”

“I be, yea.”

The gun was placed back in the desk. “Dmitri has heard about you, Joey. Yes, you are Joey... Kasyade called you Knuckles; she also said 'do not make angry’. Joey sounds happy to Dmitri.”

A codename? For her? What the hell?

“You have locket,” said the man, taking a sip of coffee. “Let me see.”

“Wh-why do ya nee’ et?”

“Locket is ticket.”

“Ticket?”

“Ticket to play. No one play without ... da, how you say ... collateral.”

“I donnae wot game you be talkin’ ‘bou’, bu’ I ain’t lookin’ ta gamble.”

“Exactly. You give Dmitri locket, then Dmitri is collateral — right now, locket is only thing keeping you alive. We can change this.”

She was catching on. It wasn’t so much that Kasyade wanted her to have the emblem back to remember her family as much as it was she wanted to offer her protégé a down payment on a life — her own life.

“When do I ge’ et back?” she asked, taking off the locket, sliding it across the desk. 

“When work for Dmitri is finished.”

“When’s tha’?”

Dmitri’s face brightened. “Long time. Here. We get you apartment upstairs. Stay quiet. Watch Boris. Watch people watching Boris. You see?” He held the jewelry, its metal chain dangling. Jocelyn was uneasy: 

“An’ when you be done wit’ me —”