DBShipsWeek, ficlets of flustered men
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Vegeta pushed himself up on his tiptoes and thumbs, his eyes blazing with determination as pearls of sweat glistened on his forehead and trickled down his temples. The only noise in the silent chamber was the gentle whir of the gravity simulator and sweat drops connecting to the white tiles before they'd burst.
â...9998âŚâ Vegeta grunted as he rose up, upholding his unprecedented concentration as he dropped himself into push-up position again.
Bulma's shrill voice blasted through the speakers, slicing right through his razor-sharp focus, and causing him to lightly jump in position.
"Vegetaâ"
"What is it now, Bulma?!" Vegeta barked, cutting her off. It wasnât the first time she'd interrupted his sacred training regime today. Without even casting a glance at the screen, he could tell that she was rolling her eyes through the little huffs and sighs she was emitting.
"Listen, Vegeta. I sent the kids away with Mom and Dad, so we..." she trailed off.
"So we what?" His patience was wearing thin.
"Well, if you'd grace me the courtesy of looking at the screen while Iâm talking to you, you'd see why," she said on the verge of becoming angry.
Vegeta tilted his head to see what she was talking about. He inhaled sharply when he saw what she was wearing. His eyes connected to a lacy negligee, the cups almost bursting with her breasts. Immediately turning red as a beet, he could only utter, "Oh..."
Want to see all my flustered men ficlets? You find them here.
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hi! i love your fic recs. i was wondering if you had any recs for long drarry fics with like little to no smut or like where it's more implied and not really explicit
Hi anon, I certainly do! Here are some amazing T-rated long fics, canât rec them enough đđź
Like Lightning at your Fingertips by potterwatch (2019, T, 43k)
The problem with living with another insomniac is, eventually, they find out youâre an insomniac, too. When Harry and Draco return for their eighth year, they think theyâll see very little of each other. Then McGonagall assigns them to room together. And the castle starts breaking. And thereâs that thing with Potterâs magic.
A Piercing Comfort by talithan (2013, T, 44k)
When Harry Potter hits the lowest point of his life so far, it is not his friends who keep him honest. With Draco Malfoy's patience and guidance, Harry learns to stand on his own. The thing is, after the factâhe's no longer sure he wants to.
Turn From Stone by @harryromper (2019, M, 45k)
Harry knows thereâs nothing he can do to stop Hermione (war hero, historian, author of the reissued âHogwarts: A Historyâ) once she sets her mind to something. Even an extremely risky last-ditch effort to restore the ancient castle and lay its newest ghosts to rest. What he wasnât counting on was her insistence that Draco Malfoy be part of the plan.
A Room Up There (And You In It) by @the-starryknight (2020, T, 59k)
When Preservationist Draco Malfoy was assigned to work on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, he was excited to delve into the gorgeous Black family antiques. His excitement quickly ended when something in the House decided it did not like his presence one bit.
A Young Radical's Guide to Love by @blamebrampton (2013, T, 66k)
Memories of the war are still fresh, which is all the excuse Decent People need to do appalling things. In this quietly waged conflict, Draco Malfoy is happy to be on the right side of things for once, and even happier to find heâs not alone.
Running on Air by @tinyhistory (2014, T, 75k)
Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.
Dwelling by aideomai (2017, T, 83k)
Curses, James and Lily Potter ride again, several Ministry balls, a teenage Summer of Love, a grim young adult dystopian winter, a few different Draco Malfoys, secrets and the problems re: not having any, alternate lives, impossible lives, real lives, allusions to Dirty Dancing, and just because it's not called the Mirror of Erised doesn't mean you shouldn't know better.
Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run by waspabi (2016, T, 93k)
âYou're a wizard, Harry' is easier to hear from a half-giant when you're eleven, rather than from some kids on a tube platform when you're seventeen and late for work.
Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by nerakrose and dustmouth (2018, T, 96k)
Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry.
Way Down We Go by @xiaq (2019, T, 109k)
In which Harry and Draco both run away from their pasts and conveniently choose to hide in the same tiny American town. It's super.
By the Grace by @letteredlettered (2020, T, 140k)
Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.
Away Childish Things by lettered (2018, T, 154k)
Harry gets de-aged. Malfoy has to help him.
Twist of Fate by Oakstone730 (2012, T, 302k)
Draco asks Harry to help him beat the Imperius curse during 4th year. The lessons turn into more than either expected. A story of redemption and forgiveness.
Summary: A 17-Year-old girl battles extremely with living in a world of Humans and Vampires. She was taught to hate vampires all of her life, leaving her to loathe their existence. But one dark night, she is faced with the one thing she hates and also, fears. But what happens when the very same creature she hates so much saves her, taking her into his warm home. He doesn't seem to have any intention of hurting her which confuses her. Should she run, or stay?
Note: This is my very first time making mood boards and I just wanna say that they are sooo addicting! I absolutely love making them. And I have @browniefic and @chloelapomme to thank! Those two wonderful people have inspired me to begin making mood boards of my own for my stories.
But first, I wanted to start making mood boards for my oneshots and then I was going to make boards for my actual fanfics. I hope you like them! âşď¸đ
âOh my God, that was, like, the saddest thing Iâve ever seen.â
That was the first thing she ever said to him.
~
Victor Trevor, the bastard, had dragged him out of the lab, then made him drive a car full of giggling idiots for three hours to Swanage, then had abandoned him to get drunk with additional idiots from Birmingham who had driven even further. And now one of the idiots from Birmingham, the American girl with too much hair, was criticizing his stone skimming abilities. Â
âIâd like to see you do any better,â he said, shortly.
The girl raised her eyebrows and made a face at him, then went to look for a stone of her own. Â
âThe water is too turbulent here,â he said.
The girl kept looking, until she found a smooth white stone, really too large for the purpose, being almost the size of her palm.
âIt calls for a calmer day than this,â he said.
Then the girl drew back her arm and lobbed the stone, which skimmed perfectly, touching the water five times before sinking into the water of the bay. Because of course it did.
âIf you want to skip rocks in this kind of water you need to pick a bigger one and kind of⌠loft it over the breakwater. Just like that,â she said, waving vaguely at the sea.
âSkim stones.â
âWhat?â
âHere we call it skimming stones. Not skipping rocks.â
âAnd itâs pech blini in Russia and hacer ranitas in Spain. We didnât pitch your tea into Boston Harbor just to keep doing everything the same way you did.â
The words were bellicose but for once he was able to pick up on the tone, and when he looked through the ringlets that the breeze was blowing into her face, he could see that she was pinching her lips together to keep from smiling.
âI remember,â he said, slowly, âThe great skimming stones debate that provoked the revolution. We learnt all about it at school. Thatâs why we burnt down your White House. That and your willful mispronunciation of aluminium.â
The girl burbled a laugh, and it was not as unpleasant as it mostly was when girls laughed. The âwithâ not âatâ made all the difference.
Because he was eighteen years old and still desperately trying to pass for normal, Sherlock said, âIâm Will.â
She was twenty-one, and Mary Morstan and the rest of her pseudonyms were well into the future. So because it was the simple truth, she said, âIâm Rose. Nice to meet you, Will. I can teach you how to skip rocks properly if you want. Though itâll wreck your attempt to look all Byronic and interesting.â
Sherlock frowned, though he wasnât quite sure what Byronic meant, honestly. âI wasnât trying to look like anything.â
âOh come on. Alone, staring out over the sunset sea, the wind ruffling your hair. Very âAdieu, Adieu, my native shore.ââ
âThis is my native shore, I just wanted to look at the tide pools. Anyway, why are you here?â
âI,â she said, grandly, âAm way too close to shitfaced and I need to take a break for an hour. And I thought you looked Byronic and interesting. Where are there tide pools?â
He angled his head to their right. âBack that way. Maybe half a mile.â
âLetâs go see them!â
âIâve seen them. And you arenât wearing the appropriate shoes for climbing.â
Rose looked down at her cheap flip-flops, shrugged, and said, âGod hates a coward. Come on.â
~
Theyâd looked at the tide pools, and Rose hadnât complained as they scrabbled over rough Purbeck stone to get to them. Being a small woman, sheâd asked for a hand up on two occasions, but she didnât complain, and she was genuinely interested in the sea slugs and anemones they found.
Then theyâd moved on to another section of swimming beach, and now she was trying to teach him to skip rocks.
âOh! You almost had that one,â she exclaimed, as his latest effort sank.
âWhat sort of trajectory am I trying for?â he asked. âIt really isnât obvious.â
âUmmmmâŚâ and she pitched another stone, which made four hops before sinking. âI mean, I guess, like fifteen or twenty degrees. But it depends on the rock.â
âWell, thatâs helpful.â
âYou just take the rock and then you know how you have to throw it. Itâs mostly practice.â
âYouâre very good at it.â
âItâs what Iâm best at,â she said, and the next stone made six skips before it sank. âYou got a projectile and need it put someplace specific, Iâm your girl.â
âReally?â
âReally. What are you best at?â
He thought about it for a minute.Â
âDeductions. Thatâs what Iâm best at.â
âLike⌠in geometry? If AB equals BC then A equals C?â
âSort of. But itâs not just that. I can do it for other things. And people.â
âHow?â
âJust like in geometry. You use if-then logic and come to the appropriate conclusion. Except most people arenât aware of all of the givens, and I am.â
âO-kay,â she said, slowly, âSo, like, what can you deduce about me?â
He cocked his head, doubtfully, and asked, âYou want me to do that?â
Rose shrugged. âWhy not? What have I got to hide?â
Sherlock wished he hadnât mentioned it, now. It would spoil what had been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. She was only asking because sheâd never seen him do it⌠nobody really wanted his deductions. Everyone had something to hide. Â
But she had asked and declining would be nearly as offensive, he supposed. So he let himself really look. Excessive dark-blonde hair, no jewelry, black midriff-baring top with thin straps and no bra (irrelevant, he chided himself), well-developed lean musculature particularly in the shoulders. Mid-priced wide-legged flared jeans clumsily home-hemmed, since she fell between the âpetiteâ and âregularâ lengths. He walked behind her, continuing his examination, and smiled. The grey plaid flannel shirt she had knotted around her waist had a great deal of relevant information. Â
Returning in front of her, he asked, âMay I have a look at your hands?â Rose complied, extending them forward, palms up. Her hands, with their emerald-green fingernails and distinctive musculature, had almost everything else he thought he could get, except-
âAnd a better look at the tattoo, please?â
Rose smiled and raised an eyebrow at that, but complied, slipping a thumb under the waistband of her jeans and tugging them down another inch or two to reveal a small, stylized design of a leafless tree struck by lightning (and incidentally a crest of pale hipbone and just a flash of red plaid underwear).
âSatisfied?â she asked.
âEntirely.â And Sherlock was. Â
âSo what do you deduce?â
âNot much, Iâm afraid. Youâre an American-â
âWell that was a toughie,â Rose teased.
âFrom Iowa. Youâre a natural linguist but youâre studying chemistry. You played softball seriously, as a pitcher, until a rotator cuff injury which you opted not to have corrected bought your sporting ambitions to an end within the last year. Upper middle class family, strict parents. You currently live with a wire-haired terrier you dislike, youâre sentimental, and youâre a keen amateur cook.â
And that had done it, of course. Her face, which had formerly seemed naturally happy, had closed off and become hostile. She took a step away from him, and said, coldly, âHas Victor been talking about me behind my back?â
âYou know Victor Trevor?â Sherlock asked.
âEverybody knows Victor. Answer the question.â
âNo, he hasn't. I told you. I looked and I listened. Teeth straightened in adolescence, a selection of newish mid-priced clothes, spending a semester abroad? Well off but probably not rich family, then. You know, at no notice, idiomatic phrases in two separate languages describing an unusual activity? Clearly, thereâs a gift for languages. The mild splay of the fingers in your dominant hand and unusual muscular development in your shoulders, along with your obvious aptitude for throwing suggests softball and pitching. The slight pull and hesitation when you draw that arm back would allow any doctor to diagnose a rotator cuff injury, a career-ending one without surgical correction, and yet you lack scars. Thus softball is over.â
Rose cocked her head and looked at him, but at least the anger was gone. So he continued.
âThereâs particularly contoured dog hair common to wire-haired terriers on your jeans, meaning itâs fond of you, but none on your shirt, meaning you donât pick it up, and you arenât fond of it.â
âMarcoâs a drooler and he scratches. Anyway Iâm more of a cat person.â
âCats eat you after youâre dead. They donât even wait until theyâre starving, just mildly peckish.â
âTrue, but on the other hand, Iâm dead in this situation. So who cares?â
Sherlock nodded slowly, âVery practical. Youâve got enough minor knife and burn injuries to your hands to suggest you spend a lot of time cooking but your forearm development isnât substantial enough to indicate professional work in the field. I can tell you study chemistry because of the marks on your shirt. They never properly clean the lab benches off and you lean into the edges and get some trace amounts of peroxide or acid on the material⌠which then produces distinctive straight lines of bleaching the next time the shirt is laundered. I have some of the same ones, see?â
He gestured to his trousers, where the bleaching effect occurred on him, given his greater height. Â
âHuh,â Rose said, âI never really thought about that. So why Iowa?â
âAh, I was right!â
âNot really. Nebraska. But just across the river from Iowa.â
Sherlock sighed. âAccents are difficult with anyone young enough to have watched television as a child.  But the Iowa accent is marked by monopthongs and âTâ-glottalization, and you have it.â
âI have no idea what those things are,â Rose said, musingly, âBut since most people around here think New York and L.A. are the only two cities in America thatâs actually really good.â
Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his face with pride, and so he kept on, âYouâre sentimental because that flannel is battered and youâve fixed three different tears rather than just discarding it, even though it was never terribly expensive.â
âI saw Nirvana in this shirt.â
Sherlock frowned, wondering if she meant she was Buddhist, and then recalled the band.
âThat tattoo,â he wrapped up, âIs a Marius Cook, done about five months ago. Iâve made a bit of a study of the major tattoo artists of the United Kingdom, youâd be surprised at how often itâs useful. Youâve been of legal age to get tattooed for some time but waited until you were well away from home and then did it instantly but kept it someplace easy to hide, thus: strict parents.â
~
It was dark, now, and someone had pulled out a guitar and was strumming amateurish chords. Sherlock and Rose had looked at one another and, in a moment of pure intoxicated understanding
~
The semen had more or less dried on her thighs by the time Rose decided that Will wouldnât be back, even to collect his shirt. She sighed and rubbed her stubble-burned face. Then she pulled on her underwear and jeans, and sat and looked up at the stars, which were slightly more mobile than they ought to have been.
Sheâd liked him. He wasnât handsome, but five years and twenty pounds of weight gain would probably have made him so. And he was sweet.   Clumsy and inexperienced, yes, but intelligent and fun to talk with⌠essentially, sheâd been very happy with the encounter and now she feltâŚ
Cheap. Which was undoubtedly what her mother would have said about anyone who fucked a man who sheâd just met and was expecting to never see again. So Rose had a bit of a self-pitying snivel, and cried about her troubles.
Eventually her natural good humor resurfaced (she had the beneficial confidence of someone who had taken a birth control pill every day for the last three years) and she said, smiling to herself, âJilted by a gentleman. If I can get ruined and discarded by a redcoat I can have my own Gothic novel.â
 She collected the blanket and Willâs shirt, then ambled back to the party, which was still in full swing, although the Oxford contingent seemed to have gone. Her flatmate Magda spotted her and called out, âThere you are, you whore. Whereâd tall dark and skinny run off to?â
âI think I frightened him away,â Rose replied, lightly, âEnglish boys are all prudes. Are there any more of those screwdrivers?â
Magda gestured wildly at the five gallon drinks cooler behind her. âAbout half.â
âGood. About half sounds just about right.â And she wadded Willâs shirt up, tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, and poured herself a drink.
~
They both forgot all about it. The vodka helped Rose do a great deal of this within the first twenty-four hours. Then there was the fact that Byronic-and-interesting Will was neither the first nor the last of a long string of men that would eventually span four continents, some of whom would disappoint her in far more spectacular fashion. By the time she buried Rose and became Mary, she could skim stones without even vaguely recalling that summer afternoon. Â
Sherlock didnât forget much, and so deleting Rose took an effort of willpower. He performed a few subsequent experiments with sex and came to the conclusion that it was unlikely to be productive of any good and indeed, subjected him to undesirable sentimentality. Cocaine was a far more efficient euphoric and asked much less of him, in the end. The choice to purge his files on the subject en masse was therefore simple logic and had nothing to do with wishing to shed the recollection of a callow, prematurely-ejaculating version of himself. Â
When, much later, he plugged the memory stick marked AGRA into his laptop and began reading the files, the name Rose Addison didnât stir even the faintest reminiscence.
~
âOh no. Oh my God, youâre- You died! You jumped off a roof!â
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Treachery
The war has dragged on into a stale dĂŠtente until Draco Malfoy Snatches Hermione Granger from a Muggle park. His plans could upset the balance of the war, tipping things toward the light. What Hermione doesn't expect is that he'll upset her treacherous heart as well. DRAMIONE. ONE-SHOT.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The Hunt for Jonathan Morgenstern 1/1 - Sequel to -Â The Warlock and the Unclaimed Omega
Square Filled: Hunt @shadowhunterbingoâ
Rating: T
Ship: Malec
Tags:
Alternate Universe, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Magnus Bane, Omega Alec Lightwood, Winged Alec Lightwood, Bingo Square: Hunt, Hunters & Hunting, Mpreg, Beating, Kidnapped Alec Lightwood, Magic, Canonical Character Death, Fear, Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Protective Magnus Bane, Magnus Bane Takes Care of Alec Lightwood, Worried Jace Wayland
Summary:
Magnus holding his omega, knew that he had one last task to do, to hunt down Jonathan Morgenstern, when this will be over, Magnus can sigh in relief, there be no more threat and they could live happily ever after.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Drained 1/1
Square Filled: Virgin Shadowhunter Energy @shadowhunterbingoâ
Rating: Teen and Up
Ship: Malec
Tags:Â Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Feels, bingo square: Virgin Shadowhunter Energy, Virgin Shadowhunter Energy, Sick Alec Lightwood, Mental Health Issues, Magnus Bane Saves Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane Saves the Day, Parents Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Immortal Husbands Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Tags Contain Spoilers, Future Fic
Summary:Â Catarina was there to diagnose his husbandâs condition.The Clave was down, Jace was the one to step up until his adoptive big brother would be back to shape because as far as Catarina told him, there is no escape and the result is death.