Head Empty Only Venti Knows Jackshit About Braiding, He Just Spawned In Like That And Uses Magic To Upkeep

larry pastel lockscreen 🌸

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Rise of the Guardians Imagines:

X   Imagine Jack’s face when you try to fix his hair

X   Imagine Bunny protecting you from Pitch’s nightmares

X   Imagine Jack saving you from falling through the ice

X   Imagine ice skating with Jack on his pond

X   Imagine moving away from your hometown after seven years, and Jack being there for you

X   Imagine Jack helping you with nightmares

X   Imagine being Jack’s best friend, until you get a date and Jack ruins the date with his powers

X   Imagine Jack watching you and your children play

X   Imagine you and Jack on your wedding day

X   Imagine Bunny helping you because you’re sad about moving, and you’re losing hope about settling anywhere else

X   Imagine being Jack Frost’s twin sister and having a thing for Bunny, but he keeps pushing you away because he’s an animal and thinks you can do better

X   Imagine helping Jack and the Guardians fight off Pitch even though you’re a mortal and getting hurt

X   Imagine accidentally falling into one of Bunny’s holes

X   Fruitless Attempts (Jack Frost x Reader)

X   Imagine seeing Jack for the first time after the summer months

X   Kitchen Fire (Jack Frost x Reader)

smile for the kamera aether!

🥞࿓⃨ louis yellow moodboard ࿓̼

Venti: An evening breeze really sets the mood for becoming my disciple, don't you think? We could do it right now. You'd just need to make me a small offering.

Aether, handing him a random nearby object: I pledge my faith to Lord Barbatos, god of the wind, freedom, and attention whores.

Venti, through laughter: Hey! That's blasphemy! You should be more careful, or I might just have to rain divine punishment upon you. (Empty threat)

"I wish you could just admit you made a mistake" "I didnt make a mistake, I like it with salt" *while stirring coffee*. Any pairing you want and it doesnt have to be romantic.

I had a blast writing this!! Some domestic!drarry for the soul :)

Coffee

~

Harry wakes to the smell of coffee and the sound of clattering in the kitchen. The light streaming in from the windows makes him blink blearily, the blankets warm where they wrapped around his legs. He reaches groggily over to the other side, where Draco usually slept and touched only air.

For a heartbeat, just a heartbeat that old panic comes back, of waking up and finding the other person gone. Harry’s spent too many mornings like that; Draco having slipped away some time before dawn, the bed cold and so, so empty. He clenches his hands, fists slipping on the sheets. It always took awhile for him to calm down, to be reminded that he was here, in their apartment in Diagon Alley, all old windows and exposed brick.

Draco had picked the place out, half-forgotten on a small side street, the windows boarded and the door locked. Harry had thought he was crazy at first, crazy for wanting an old wreck like this was.

But they had cleaned it up nicely: exposed beams and huge windows with emerald shutters, hard wooden flooring covered in soft rugs. Pansy had done most of the decorating - Harry wanted too much red and Draco wanted too much green. The flat was now a comfortable amalgamation of them both - broomsticks on the floor, Harry’s coffee mugs and Draco’s crystal wine glasses, a Muggle television and an old pensieve that Draco had bought from god knew where.

It felt like home. Harry’s never really felt like that before, having a place to truely call home.

He gets out of bed slowly, wincing at the bright lights. There’s a mess of clothing dumped on one of the chairs; he grabs something at random (Draco’s - only he would bother to buy a sweater this nice) and pulls it on, padding into the kitchen.

Draco’s perched on the counter, a newspaper in hand. Harry watches him, all tousled blonde hair and long legs and the faintest edge of a rosy blush on his cheeks. The sun hits him from behind making him look like he was glowing, the entire room lit up by the beauty of his smile.

Harry remembers a time long ago, back to the War and the fighting. Draco had been colder, harder, painted in shades of grey instead of gold. Still beautiful - he always had been beautiful - but nothing close to what he was now.

He could have watched Draco for hours, flipping through the Prophet idly, the smell of warm coffee in the air. Draco notices him before long though; he rolls his eyes, tossing the newspaper over Harry’s head and onto the sofa behind him. “Creep,” he says, though there’s no venom behind the words. “How long have you been watching me?”

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t bother to hide the smile on his face, like he might’ve so long ago. He’s long learnt that Draco was Draco - he never needed to hide anything around him. “Few minutes. You know we have a couch right?”

“Oh really?” Draco says in mock surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Maybe you’re just stupid,” Harry says and Draco lets out a long laugh.

“Bitch,” he mutters and flicks his wand. The mail comes soaring into Harry’s hands, the door swinging slightly behind it. “Here’s all your precious fan mail by the way.”

Harry scowls, examining the parchment in his hand. “How do they keep finding us?”

“Probably a tracking spell or something. How come I never get any fan mail?”

“You have the fucked-up Death Eater guy.”

Draco pours. “Yes, but he’s a fucked-up Death Eater guy. You get all the admirers. No one has ever sent me a condom before.”

Harry shudders. “Oh please no,” he says, dropping the stack of mail onto the coffee table with a groan. “That was one time! One time!”

“It was an extra large!” Draco calls out as Harry shoves his way into the kitchen, slamming an empty mug onto the counter. Ron had gotten it for him as an 18th birthday present - one of those tacky souvenir ones that seemed to have sprouted up everywhere after the war. The Bae Who Lived was stamped on one side, along with a lipstick mark that did not resemble Harry’s lips at all.

Draco had now stretched himself out on the counter, legs dangling idly over the edge. His arm was out and bare next to him, the Dark Mark covered up by beautiful flowers, rendered in soft purples and blues and greens. It was a Muggle tattoo for the most part, with the exception of one single hydrangea - in ever shifting colours of pale pinks and soft teals. Draco had designed it himself - they still had the parchment sketched on the wall in the bedroom.

“Move,” Harry grumbles, unceremoniously shoving Draco off the counter. “Why are you even up so early? It’s not like we have practice or anything.”

Draco gives him a disbelieving stare. “It’s almost 8.”

“Too fucking early.”

“Go to bed earlier then.”

“I did!” Harry shakes his head. “You’re the one keeping me up all night.”

“Well,” Draco says, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I’m sure I could wake you up by - “

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Harry scowls into his empty mug, running a hand through his hair. “The only thing I want to be woken up by today is the Lord and coffee. I need coffee.”

“Pot,” Draco says, gesturing vaguely towards the coffee machine. “My boyfriend. The handsomest idiot in the world.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Harry grumbles as he pours himself a huge cup. Draco had an unusual talent for making incredible coffee, despite not knowing how to use a french press about 6 months ago. “I defeated Voldemort, right? That’s got to count for something.”

Draco laughs. “Please. You’re an idiot.”

“Am not,” Harry scowls. He finds the milk in the fridge, adding copious amounts to his coffee. “Where’s the spoons?”

“This is your fucking loft too,” Draco mutters. He hands Harry the spoon from his own coffee mug, smirking as he did. “Honestly. Remember that headline a few weeks ago? ‘Harry Potter; the Hidden Mysteries of the Boy Who Lived?’”

“Vividly,” Harry mutters, now rummaging around the cupboards for the sugar. “Made me sound like some sort of bloody celebrity or something. Anything Skeeter writes is trash.”

Draco hums. He kicks his feet out in front of him idly. “True. It’s a load of bullshit anyways. Hidden mysteries my ass.”

Harry flips him off. He finds the sugar in a jar next to the stove and adds a few heaping spoonfuls to his coffee, the rich scent already helping with his headache. “I’m mysterious!” he protests. “And handsome. And attractive. And devastatingly intelligent.”

“Apparently not,” Draco says, “Seeing as you just put salt in your coffee.”

Harry freezes. He turns back towards the stove. For the first time he notices the small black letters on the side of the jar. Sea Salt.

He inwardly groans, turning back to face Draco, who had a shit-eating grin on his face. “No. I meant to do that.”

“I wish you would just admit you made a mistake,” Draco sighs, watching as Harry serenely stirs his coffee. “Gryffindors.”

“I didn’t make a mistake,” Harry mutters, clinking his spoon against his mug. “I like it with salt.”

“Oh really?” Draco says. Harry sees the glint in his eye and gulps. “Then you wouldn’t have a problem with drinking it?”

Harry swallows, hard. Shit, he thinks. Draco’s eyes are full of challenge, that streak of competitiveness that made him fall in love in the first place.

Harry slowly raises the mug to his lips. “Fuck you,” he says and chugs the whole thing. Halfway through he regrets it - it’s burning hot and excruciatingly salty, like drinking warm ocean water. He never could turn down a dare though, draining the cup to the dregs.

“See?” he says, slamming the cup down in front of Draco. “Delicious.”

Draco gets to his feet, smiling wickedly. He crosses over to the stove, picking up the jar of salt. “Delicious?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, trying to hind the grimace and the lingering taste still in his mouth. “I could drink this all day.”

He regrets the words as soon as it leaves his mouth. Draco grins, his face turning evil. “Well then,” he says. “It’s a good thing I love my boyfriend so much then.”

Fuck.

“Draco - “ Harry starts, but Draco just winks.

“Love you,” he says, and then dumps the entire pot of salt into the coffee.

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“It was Helen’s face that launched a thousand ships, but you unleashed Achilles. How were you to know that poets would sing of his rage? – that innumerable men would meet their deaths at the end of his grief-stricken spear? How were you to know when you went to battle in his armor that you would never return to him? – that you had brought about his death as surely as your own? He wept – and his mother in the depths of the sea heard his cries. He wept – and he dirtied his face, and tore at his hair, and wished for death. Eternal glory was not worth the price he paid. It was not worth the loss of you, Patroclus, whom he loved as his own life. What was Achilles to do when his heart burned with you on the pyre? What was he to do when his home became nothing but ashes in a golden urn? He was nearly a god – son of a goddess, best of the Greeks. He fell to an arrow, the poets say, guided by Apollo himself. The poets are wrong. He was nearly a god – but he was mortal, and he fell to that great mortal weakness: love. You would have followed him anywhere, even into death. You must have known that he would do the same.”

— you were his Achilles’ heel | K.L.

Requested Mistletoe kiss UwU

• louis tomlinson pack.

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