WHY DID THIS NOT HAPPEN? HUH?!

Lukadrien is just <3 Rush draw hahahaha

cuddling with the genshin boys

pairing gn!reader x venti, xiao, childe, albedo

genre fluff

warnings none

synopsis the genshin boys' habits when you cuddle

venti

ehe

in all seriousness, venti will probably giggle at how cute you are when you're in his arms, especially when you fall asleep in them or blush at one of his many overbearing compliments

isn't afraid to brag about you in public... after all, he's a bard and will probably sing all about you in his songs too, even more so when he's completely drunk lol

probably loves to twirl you around in the tavern and make you blush or hook your arms together

whatever form of cuddling you're proposing today, he loves all of it. big or little spoon, whether you're sitting on his lap or not, he doesn't mind as long as he can feel you snuggled up against him

venti has the ability to bring you to his favourite places in all of teyvat; beautiful meadows of flowers, mountaintops with views of entire nations below, shimmering pools and lakes that look surreal, caverns filled with glittering crystalflies

but he'll often bring you to a favourite spot of his under the large tree at windrise, the place where he first met you

lets you lean against his chest or his shoulder as he brings out his lyre, the sweet music filling the otherwise silent air around you, and literally every word he sings is just gushing about how amazing and beautiful he thinks you are

smiles like an idiot if you go out to collect flowers to braid into his hair,,

if you wake up from a nightmare or you're having trouble falling asleep anytime, he'll kneel down next to your fatigued form, lulling you to sleep with that melodious voice of his and the calming notes of the lyre

xiao

at first, he's not used to displays affection or physical touch, he probably hasn't touched another being in a gentle way for as long as he can remember

xiao was a little stiff and awkward the first time you tried to cuddle with him

over time though, he grows to crave the feeling of your touch- why does he look forward to it so much? why does he yearn for the way you hold him?

doesn't have much time during the day to waste because of his duties, but you always manage to pull him into bed at night to cuddle before you attempt to convince him to go to sleep (which he never does bc "adepti don't need sleep" but,, he might just try for you)

always the big spoon. always insists to protect you

secretly loves being held by you though. he's never felt so comforted in someone else's presence. so please hold this poor touch-starved boy. maybe even give him a massage because i know for a fact he's stressed out

he feigns reluctance for cuddling but in all honesty, he's always craving your tenderness and the feeling of holding you

secretly loves it when you run your fingers over his scars or kiss them gently

makes sure his arm is always wound around your waist or wrapped around your wrist or grasping your hand, he has to be holding onto you tightly somewhere. it makes him feel more secure

kisses your forehead when he's feeling brave

when you fall asleep in his arms, he'll cradle you like a precious treasure, and set you down on the sheets ever-so-softly like you're made of glass. afraid that he might be too rough for your fragile mortal body

never lets you go, even if you both end up falling asleep

childe

childe will cuddle you at any time of the day, anywhere in the world. this man is so in love with you and isn't afraid to show it regardless of what the situation is

always has his hands all over you. even in public. will sling his arm around your shoulders whenever he's introducing you to people or intertwine his fingers with yours while you're walking together

in love with the feeling of your skin on his

because he's often away for missions for days or weeks at a time, he always wants to make the most of being with you and will absolutely shower you in his love whenever he has the chance

teases you a little too much. when you think you're just about to get comfortable he'll start prodding at you or tickling you. worst part is, he knows all the spots that make you squirm, and will not hesitate to chase you around the house just to pick you up off the floor, and then carry you back bridal-style

thinks you're absolutely adorable when you protest and always squishes your cheeks together, and then leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. maybe a few more

he loves to stretch out on the couch or the bed so you can lay down on his chest, one arm draped lazily over your body and another twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers

talks his head off around you, he just can't shut up but you adore him and all the stories he tells you about his missions, his family, and snezhnaya and all the things he's planning to do with you in the future

will definitely be the kind to pull you back into bed in the mornings, whining with those endearing blue eyes for you to stay just five more minutes

when you flash him that sleepy smile of yours his heart will melt. he'd do anything just to see you like that on the daily

albedo

like xiao, albedo is usually quite hesitant with physical shows of affection

people might frown at the way you're sitting on him in the library but who honestly cares. he's often busy reading something or sketching or planning his next experiment, but he can't help but give in to you

lets you perch on his lap, his non-dominant arm wrapped around your waist while he scribbles something on a notepad, his chin resting on your shoulder

king of multitasking

will absentmindedly press soft kisses to the back of your neck, his warm breath sending a jolt up your spine, sometimes even letting his hand fall to your thigh

doesn't speak much but you'll know by the way he holds you how much he adores you

albedo is constantly hyper-aware of your feelings, body temperature, whether you're feeling stiff from sitting down too long... etc

he'll drape his coat around your shoulders if he feels you shiver, or put down his work to move you closer to the fireplace, gently rubbing his hands up and down your form to warm you up a bit before leaving to "get you something"

will definitely come back to you with warm drinks or meals (or strange-looking potions that he insists you take)

holds onto your chin gently as he tips your head up to feed you. he will definitely not let you resist his spoon-feeding. he doesn't do it as a joke or to tease you but seriously just wants to take care of you because he knows how the bitter cold of dragonspine can affect humans sometimes

will use the fact that you're cold to cuddle you even more

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draco-tomlinson

3 years ago

Louis coquette layout

like or reblog if u save it! 🎀

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draco-tomlinson

5 years ago

Darling!!!!!!!!!! I dare yo to write an alternate Deathly Hallows where Draco yeets the Elder Wand.

Challenge accepted. Here’s my first venture into HP fanfiction, I suppose. :)

“HARRY POTTER IS DEAD!”

There’s something to be said about shock.

Something to be said about going into shock, but he can’t be bothered to care at this moment. The words slip from his grasp, falling aside as worthless details and half grasped concepts.

They aren’t real, nothing feels real, because as much as he’s hated Harry Potter, as deeply as he’s despised him, he’s never dreamt of his corpse. Not once, not even at his darkest, not even with his Aunt Bella egging him on as the muggles screamed…

He’s never wished Potter dead, even if he hated himself for it.

He freezes as the Weasley girl screams, as her father grabs her tight as he can to hold her back from the Death Eater’s loud cheers. Draco can see him – the object of his envy and hatred and irritation and complete and utter loathing – in the Half-breed’s arms, draped haphazardly like a delicate princess. It almost looks like he’s sleeping, like this is all some sick joke, and the stupid prat’s Chosen One powers are about to kick in at any moment.

But then Draco looks at Granger and Weasley, looks at the shock in their eyes, the broken and haunted way the tears gather in their eyes, and he knows this is real. This isn’t school years, where his worst secret is the humiliation lingering after Potter’s rejection in first year, where his biggest concern is winning the Quidditch game just to show Potter up or the House Cup to give the finger to Dumbledore.

This is real, and it’s terrifying, terrifying in a way he’d barely tasted in sixth year, half-mad with desperation and the burden of that brand on his arm, the dark ink marking him as evil and wrong.

(“Draco, years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please, let me help you.”)

He hadn’t let the old man help him, had watched Severus Snape kill him, and he feels a pang for the optimistic fool doomed to die. He never set out to make the wrong choices, but he did anyways. There were no choices, there had been honor, and duty, and loyalty, but never a choice.

(What’s the right choice when every action leads to a death? When inaction leads to death? What is the right choice when your father bartered away your ability to make them for the loyalty of a madman drunk on power?)

Malfoys don’t have choices, they have responsibilities.

He’d been damned from the start.

“SILENCE!”

No one speaks, no one breathes, not even Draco. His eyes linger on Potter, blood-spattered and dirty, as if he’d tumbled through dirt before ‘Avada Kedavra’ struck. He wonders if it hurt, if Potter had been afraid.

Potter’s a Gryffindor, so he doubts it – what they lacked in subtlety and intelligence they made up for in fool-hardy bravery.

(And isn’t that the conundrum Draco’s struggled with, surrounded by the Dark Lord’s suffocating presence, the toxic feeling lingering in Malfoy Manor – is it better to be a brilliant coward, or a brave fool? – Potter’s corpse doesn’t offer any answers)

“Why didn’t you tell her? Bellatrix? You knew it was me. You didn’t say anything.”

He’s never been ready for Potter’s death, even when the opportunity arose not once but twice – first at the hands of his family, second at the hands of his friends – he’d been so stupidly unprepared that he’d saved him, lied for him, even after the bathroom and all the bad blood accumulated over years of bitterness, years of envy and what he wishes he could call hatred.

He’d never had a choice, but he let himself have one.

His family asked him to save them, and he chose Potter, for reasons neither of them understand. ‘Understood,’ he corrects, ignoring the blathering of the Dark Lord as he glides across his field of destruction and blood, ‘Neither of us understood.’ Because it’s past tense now – hate is now hated, envy is now envied – and he still doesn’t know how to feel, even as he knows how he should feel.

Malfoys are calm, collected. Malfoys are perfect, in composure as well as pedigree. Malfoys don’t cower, nor do they fight.

As the snake strikes in the cover of tall grass, Malfoys strike in the dark, underhanded methods and crafty exchanges (money makes the bloody world spin, and the Malfoys have more money than they have emotion).

He should be happy, should be smug, perhaps, over the death of the Boy Who Lived. The other Death Eaters are – ecstatic, actually – but he’s not the same as them, even if it would be easier for his entire family if he were. Potter is the Boy Who Lived, and he’s the fool unwilling to see him dead – the boy who had no choice – stuck on the subtle tug of his gut as Potter’s heart beats, as his green eyes glimmer.

Draco hates himself for noticing that too, for not being what he should be for his family.

“Draco, come.”

His mother beckons him, lips pulled tight in a twisted mockery even he couldn’t call a grin. It’s forced, so disgustingly forced that he could scream, rage the way the Weasley girl tries to. Malfoys are calm, Malfoys are collected, and the look in his mother’s eyes – the whimper half released from his father’s throat – is anything but.

Draco walks from the right side numbly, staring at Potter’s corpse even as the Dark Lord embraces him.

He shivers in revulsion, sick as the man his family has served faithfully for so long embraces him as family. He’s stiff, goosebumps trailed down his pale – damn near translucent – flesh feels the Dark Lord’s words.

Draco is released and his mother embraces him next, but his eyes still linger on the corpse that should not be, the last person he’d ever thought would die – even though Potter was the only non-muggle the Dark Lord truly wanted to die.

No one calls him back, not that he expects them to, but he’s (mildly) disappointed all the same.

He wonders if Potter would have attempted it, self-righteous in his own beliefs that Draco couldn’t be truly evil, truly wrong, if he’d defied the Dark Lord to let him live. He probably would have, might have called him a git or pathetic, and it’s nearly enough to make Draco laugh.

How far he’s fallen, to crave the predictability and reliability in banter with his greatest rival. That mutual irritation… They got under each other’s skin in ways no one else could, even if Draco hadn’t killed anyone.

“…Longbottom.”

He ignores his surroundings, ignores his mother’s soft attempts to coax him out of his self-imposed silence, ignores his father’s whimpering and the ashen appearance that’s such a far cry from before…

Before life became real, and actions had consequences, and his choices led to death and pain for people who didn’t deserve it.

Somewhere between Albus Dumbledore’s death and Potter’s, he’d changed.

Life used to be so clear…

But his father had been abandoned to Azkaban, cast aside in his own home for the Dark Lord’s acceptance. His mother had suffered – quietly, in ways those who didn’t know her wouldn’t see – in ways she’d never suffered before. And Draco… Draco…

“…You knew it was me. You didn’t say anything.”

He doesn’t know himself anymore.

“Draco,” his father murmurs, and he pulls back, tearing his gaze off Potter for the first time since Voldemort’s loud declaration set in this cold, this numbness, settling in his limbs as if it was meant to be there.

His mother strokes his hair, nearly as tense as he is.

His father… looks pathetic. His once luminous blonde locks are stiff and dirty, as worn down and decayed as the rest of him. He’s lost weight, enough for his cheeks to appear sullen and sunken in, enough for his perfectly tailored robes to hang off him in ways not befitting a Malfoy.

He shoots his father a glare, furious at the tears he can feel prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“What?” He demands, ignoring Longbottom’s nervous words, the exaggerated gestures he makes as he speaks, drawing the crowds of right and wrong’s attention.

“We must leave, Draco,” Narcissa interjects, eyes cold and empty. There’s a kindness in her touch that her perfect face can’t convey. “Now.”

But he shoves her away, because his eyes are back on Potter – infuriatingly, stupidly, fixated on the boy turned man he couldn’t hate no matter how desperately he wanted to. Steady breath, in and out.

“…a boy who made all the wrong choices…”

He feels his mother eyes linger, demanding answers he can’t give, perhaps is unwilling to give.

Longbottom’s shouting now, speaking of sacrifice and how Harry Potter’s stupid heart had beat and bled for them all – and honestly, after all the years and pain and suffering, how could they not already know that? How could they question that, when he only hated those who aligned themselves with pain, with hatred and wrong choices.

Unexplainably, there’s a twitch.

Corpses don’t twitch, and it’s small enough for Draco to nearly brush off, to dismiss it as a fight of fancy for his not-hated rival, but he knows Potter. Knows Potter far more than he likes admitting, and he sees his right hand – the same hand he extends towards the snitch every match with that infuriating grin – twitch again.

Potter can’t sit still, never has been able to…

And Draco knows the truth before Longbottom draws the sword of Godric Gryffindor from the dirtied Sorting Hat, knows it as Voldemort laughs.

“Harry’s heart did beat for us! For all of us! And it’s not over!”

Harry Potter grunts, louder than the rapid tempo of Draco’s heart, and he flings himself from the Half-Giant’s arms to the cold stone floor of the half-destroyed courtyard.

The Dark Lord turns, smug grin turning as the gasps reach his ears…

Potter’s wild-eyed, hands grasping for a wand that evidently wasn’t there, still glaring at Voldemort defiantly.

Draco Malfoy is a boy who’s never had a choice, burdened by his family’s legacy, by the weight of expectations and tradition and self-importance piled on by his father. He’s always followed his father’s rules, his father’s ambitions…

He’s been perfect, as close as he could get.

He’s been obedient, even as it tore his soul and mind apart.

He’s been cool, even as screams scratch at his throat, demanding to be released.

But when the Dark Lord turns, when he frowns and his eyes narrow into dark slits, Draco makes another choice, ripping his arm from his mother’s grasp.

“Draco—” His father tries, but he’s already gone.

“…all the wrong choices…”

“Potter!” He shouts, ripping the wand straight from Voldemort’s bony fingers. Potter’s emerald eyes – still glimmering, Draco can’t help but notice – snap onto him, hardened and suspicious, until they notice the wand he holds in a death grip.

He tosses the wand, ignoring Voldemort’s angry shout for another wand, and Potter catches it, looking alive and confident…

“CONFRINGO!”

Nagini hisses, sent flying towards the Death Eater’s as Voldemort yells again, sending waves of flames towards Potter and – fuck – him. They both jump over rubble, ducking between pillars as they run.

“If we die,” Draco hisses, dodging another furious attack from Voldemort, “I will kill you again, Potter.”

Potter sends him a curious look, one that makes him catch his breath.

“If we die,” He echoes, lips curling upwards. “Tom won’t succeed, not this time.”

Draco blinks, nearly struck by another jet of flames he doesn’t notice.

“Who the bloody hell is Tom?”

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draco-tomlinson

3 years ago

190 notes View Post

draco-tomlinson

5 years ago

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draco-tomlinson

4 years ago

Under the Stairs

Summary: Sirius has about 0 control over his hands during dinner. That’s about it. Oh, and sex by the stairs.

Warnings: SMUT (18+), kinky, dirty talk, exhibitionism, kinda and bad writing. If I missed any please dm me.

Notes: It’s gay, man. And I am so, so sorry for how long this took. This took so long, I’m sorry.

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

“Sirius!” You smacked his hand away from your thigh for the fifth time that night. You were just trying to enjoy your dinner surrounded by your friends and family and Mr. Grabby Hands next to you was making it hard to do so. Like, couldn’t you eat in peace? Was that so much to ask for?

Sure, you missed the animagus more than anyone could understand, but Merlin’s beard, he was exceptionally grabby tonight and it was starting to get on your nerves, especially since Harry was just across the table with his best friend’s family. All nine members and then some, but did Sirius care? No, not at all. Did he ever care? Nope. Once, he fucked you against the wall separating your shared room and Lupin’s room. He truly held no shame.

Keep reading

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draco-tomlinson

3 years ago

oh my god i LOVE them