advanced defence

anonymous asked:

could we get some fluffy headcanons of Fury with a female s/o? (ノ≧∀≦)ノ


- Two words: P o w e r    c o u p l e. 

- When you’re with her brothers, you play a game where you try to see how long you can kiss each other without the boys noticing. 

- Every week, you have a ‘date night’. Where she ensures that she’s free for the whole day so she can treat you like the queen she thinks you are. 

- She revels in calling you her girlfriend at every given opportunity. 

- Fury teaches you self-defence and advanced techniques on how to take down opponents far bigger than you. 

- She’s the big spoon. 

- Every kiss and every touch is feather light and soft and sweet. Until you ask for more, then she gets bitey. She’s all or nothing.

- During her downtime between missions, you insist that she take a relaxing bath with you. 

- Everything you wear, and however you have your makeup that day or lack thereof, she always acts as though it’s the most beautiful you’ve ever been. 

- You both have matching ‘Hers’ and ‘Hers’ bath towels hanging in your bathroom. 

- You play Life is Strange together a lot and she always points at Chloe and Max, whispering, ‘That’s us..’

- Nephilim wouldn’t bat an eyelid at same sex relationships. So Fury is aghast at the appalling attitudes some humans have. 

- She owns this shirt

anonymous asked:

prompt: Professor Graves

Credence’s eyes are burning and his head is pounding. The school library is entirely empty; he’s surrounded by several piles of scrolls and books, half of which are completely useless, because of course Professor Graves had to give them an assignment on topics that weren’t covered in books that were outside of the Wampus library, which he of course couldn’t access as a Pukwudgie. 

Credence is certain that Professor Graves looks down on him, the sole Pukwudgie in Advanced Magical Defence. The rest of his classmates are Wampus, with a handful of Thunderbirds scattered in the for variety. He’s used to their dismissive glances, to being the last to be paired for the practical portions of Magical Defence. But he will do well in his theory, even if no-one wants to work on spellwork with him. He doesn’t mind. Any sort of attention from Professor Graves thrills him, makes little shocks skitter down his spine every time the man looks at him, every time their fingers brush when he’s returning homework. 

Credence thinks about him, sometimes, at night when he can’t sleep. He carefully recreates his professor’s face in his mind, strong jaw after slicked hair after dark eyes, until he can fall asleep feeling yearning for something he cannot name. 

The candles in the wall sconces flicker. Outside, the sky is dark. Gradually, the school settles, students and staff alike turning in for the night. He’s so absorbed in his work he doesn’t notice.

The moon has passed its highest point in the night sky when the library doors burst open and Credence jerks upright, almost toppling from his chair in fright, his quill skittering across his page and leaving a jagged dark smear behind. 

“Mr Barebone,” says Professor Graves, mouth turned down in a grim frown, “What are you doing in the library at two in the morning?” 

Credence’s stomach drops. He hadn’t meant to stay here for so long, but he couldn’t for the life of him find any information because Graves had assigned them an impossible topic. 

“I didn’t – I’m sorry, sir, I – I lost track of time –” Caught off-guard by the world’s most terrifying Magical Defence professor, the words won’t come out right, and Credence clamps his mouth shut miserably. 

Graves fixes him with a look that could probably turn him into a pile of smouldering ash. Feeling like a stupid First, Credence shrinks down into his chair. “It’s five hours after your curfew,” the man says, sharply. “This is a suspension-worthy offence, Barebone.” 

The breath catches in Credence’s throat and he can’t breathe. Suspension. He thinks of his Ma, who he hasn’t seen in eight years, the bite of the belt all the way to his bones, long hours spent kneeling beneath an unkind cross. Distantly, he can hear himself saying, “No – no sir, please – please, you can’t –” 

“Oh, I can’t, can I?” Professor Graves says, moving closer to his table. “Principal Hyslop might have something to say about that.” 

The thought of kindly Principal Hyslop staring mournfully over his desk at him – we risked so much for you, Barebone, what a shame – fills Credence with a terrible feeling. He feels sick. 

“Please sir,” he says, voice trembling, “please, you can’t tell Principal Hyslop. I – I don’t have anywhere to go, sir, please don’t suspend me, please, don’t tell him, sir, I’ll do anything, sir, please…” 

Professor Graves’ steps echo through the library, though Credence’s gaze is fixed upon his white-knuckled hands and he can’t see. A chair at his table scrapes on the floor. Professor Graves settles into a chair, and then there are fingers on his jaw. He flinches, but the fingers are surprisingly gentle, guiding his face up until he has no choice but to look at Professor Graves in the face. 

“’Anything’, Barebone?” his professor asks him, almost mocking in his gentleness. “That’s an awful lot to promise.” 

He is closer than Credence thought. His breath fans out on his cheek. Credence meets his eyes, skips away, returns shyly. Looking at Professor Graves’ eyes he has the sensation of looking down from the top of a cliff, the sea churning beneath him, and not knowing how to swim. 

“Any sort of punishment you see fit, sir,” he says. “Only – only please don’t tell Principal Hyslop.”

His professor examines his face again. The moment yawns out before them, Credence suspended in the darkness of his eyes like a dragonfly in amber. Evidently, he sees something he was looking for; a tiny smile curls up the corner of his lips, and Credence feels like he’s had all the breath punched out of him. 

“Tell me, Barebone,” he says, conversationally, casually. “Have you ever sucked cock?”

 Credence inhales sharply, trying to pull his head away, but his jaw remains gripped firmly in his professor’s grip. “I – I -,” he says.

 “Answer,” the man says curtly.

 Credence shakes his head once, face burning.

 “Perhaps not tonight, then.” Graves releases his jaw and Credence’s hand springs up automatically to rub at it. “Stand.”

 “Wh – what?”

 “Stand up, Barebone, unless you’d rather we go for a little walk to the Northern Tower – “ and Credence is up so fast he sways slightly on the spot. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. His hands curl into fists at his side.

 Graves has to tilt his head to look up at him, but despite their height differences Credence still feels powerless. “Come here.”

 When Credence hesitates, his professor makes an annoyed noise deep in his throat before flicking his fingers, and Credence comes stumbling forward, nearly pitching into Graves’ lap, pulled forward by his belt loops and magic. His hands almost collide with Graves’ shoulders to steady himself but he corrects at the last moment, yanking back and returning to curl into anxious fists by his sides.

Graves looks amused. “Hands on the table.”

 Credence begins to turn around so his hands are in front of him on the table, but Graves clicks his tongue. “Lean back against the table,” he says, “and keep your hands there.”

 Leaning back against the table, hands behind his back, Credence feels horribly exposed, from the long line of his throat down to his knees. He swallows, the saliva in his mouth suddenly thick.

 Graves kicks his ankles apart nonchalantly, and then pulls his shirt from his trousers with ease. Another casual wave of his hand and Credence’s jersey disappears, reappearing on the table on top of his essay, folded neatly. Credence shivers, and it has very little to do with the chill October air. His chest feels very hot and then very cold on the next breath.

 Graves undoes the lowest button of Credence’s shirt, and then the next, and the next. Credence’s stomach quivers, leaping away from the man’s fingers. Graves make a little noise like he’s just bitten into a sweet pastry, and the back of his knuckles are ghosting along Credence’s stomach, then around to his waist and flank. The other hand curls around his hip; Professor Graves’ hand brackets his pelvis easily, thumb pressed against the point of his hip and fingertips skimming the notches of his spine. Though the touch is feather-light, Credence can feel every bump, every hair on the back of his hand, burning hot against his skin.

 His fingers trace the long rungs of his ribs, from their origin at his spine and curling around to his front, beginning with the lowest just above his navel and climbing steadily. It feels – it feels quite nice, actually, and Credence feels his shoulders uncoil, the tight muscles at the nape of his neck relaxing, and his head tilts back.

 But then Graves skips the last few ribs – Credence’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now – and his fingers skim over his nipple. There’s a sharp, sudden bolt – something arcs down inside him, a force connecting the point where Graves has touched him and the secret place between his legs.

 Credence’s eyes fly open and he spasms straight up. “Oh!” he cries.

 Graves looks startled for the barest moment, but then his mouth curls into a smirk. “Sensitive one, are you?” he asks. It’s that same tone as before, that makes Credence want to sink to the ground and bury his head in his hands; nearly kind, almost gentle, but there is something in the tone that makes Credence want to skitter away.

 He nods, shakily.

 Then Professor Graves’ fingers are back, tracing back and forth over Credence’s nipple, whisper-light. With one pass, the pads of his fingers brush the very tip of his nipple; the next, the nail of his thumb presses into the areola. Credence gasps with each one – he can’t help it, oh, there’s warmth and heat inside him that he never knew existed, curling and coiling and twisting. It feels good – so good –

 And then Graves’ clever fingers come together and pinch, taking a hold of the areola and pinching it up and tight and Credence hears, distantly, someone making a whining noise and realises it’s him. The sharp sensation bolts through him, twice as powerful as the gentle pleasure from before, and Credence’s legs are feeling so shaky that he’s very grateful for the table behind him, holding him up.

 “Very nice,” Graves says, approvingly, and those words fill him up. He arches his back, seeking those fingers again, please, please

 “Oh,” says Graves, and he sounds ever so slightly out of breath. “You liked that, did you?”

 “Y-Yes, sir,” Credence says. His fingers clench and curl against the table.

 “Hmm,” Graves says, and then his hand is back, and the other hand leaves his hip and now there are two, one pinching and the other pulling and Credence rises on his toes but also curls in, leaning into the sensation. A bead of sweat slides down the side of his neck. Every inhale makes the world tremble at the seams.

 Professor Graves chuckles, deep and dark, and the sound arcs right through him. He repeats the action, one hand pinching him from the base of his areola while the other latches around the other nipple and tugs. He’s using his nails now, worrying the flesh and Credence can’t think of anything, not of his essay, not of the threat of suspension, just those sharp points digging into his skin like mean little teeth. “Uh-uh-uh!” he stutters. It feels so good but it hurts.

 Graves releases his nipples, and Credence thinks his legs might give out entirely because the release is somehow just as tortuously wonderful as the grip. He gasps through clenched teeth, but then his Professor’s palms soothe over his chest, gentle now, a warm pressure over his nipples. He is so sensitive he thinks he can feel Graves’ pulse through the palms of his hands on his chest.

 He feels electric.

 “Barebone,” his Professor says. He doesn’t sound kind any more, but he doesn’t sound unhappy, either. Not kind, not cruel.

 Credence opens his eyes and finds his head is fully tilted back, blinking up at the ceiling. “Yes, sir?”

 “You have two options. You can get up, leave, and go to sleep in Pukwudgie, and this will go no further.”

 Credence swallows.

 “Or you can stay, and we continue.”

 Credence eases his head upright, looking down. Graves is staring right at him. In the golden half-light of the library, his eyes are not black, as Credence had once thought; a sunburst surrounds those pupils, the precise colour of Wampus fur, of a gold coin, of the sun in the evening sky. His face is not as expressionless as it usually is; his cheeks are stained just a touch darker, and there is an indent in his lips where he has bitten them.

 “Please,” Credence says, hesitates, and then keeps going because otherwise he’ll never say it, “Please, don’t stop.”

 Graves’ face is utterly blank for a moment, and then the twin sunbursts of his irises disappear, so widely blown are his pupils.

 “If you want to stop, all you have to do is say so,” he says. “Say stop, and you’ll be dressed and back in your dormitory, and no one will ever know.”

 Credence licks his lips. “But sir,” he says, “I don’t think I want you to stop.”

 Graves smiles, lazily, languidly, all teeth.

 Something skitters down Credence’s spine, a little burst of fear and yearning, and explodes like a firework somewhere in the cradle of his hips. Credence can’t help the broken little moan that escapes his throat, and his head falls back again.

 “Ah, ah, ah,” Professor Graves says, and one of his hands reaches up again, brushing Credence’s throat and holding onto his jaw again, dragging it down, forcing Credence’s head upright. “You’re going to watch now, and you won’t look away, will you, pet?”

 This angle makes it harder to breathe, and he can feel his shoulders burning already in their strained position, but Credence nods obediently.

 Graves’s hands skim his chest again, up to his collarbones and then down to his ribs. His stomach tenses minutely but his professor merely reverses his direction, back up to his throat and then down to his hips again, hot rough palms against soft skin. On the next drag up he catches Credence’s nipples again, and Credence inhales, arching his back and trying in vain to get him to do that again, touch him again, it felt so nice –

 But Professor Graves denies him. His hands continue their slide up to his throat and then back down again, and this time they unbutton his trousers with neat efficiency and then his pants are around his knees and –

 Graves’ hands still. “Christ,” he says.

 Stark clarity bursts through Credence and he recoils, hands coming up off the table and reaching around to cover himself.

 Credence has never told anyone, has never dared tell anyone. When he was a Fourth he’d outgrown the underwear he’d brought with him from the Second Salem Church. It had fallen to Queenie, his only friend in Pukwudgie, to show him how the magical mail order system worked, and as a joke she’d ordered a pair of lacey underthings along with the rest of it, and the moment Credence had slipped them on in the privacy of his bedroom he’d known he never wanted to wear anything else ever again. The lace curls daintily around his hips, the satin caresses his skin in a way union suits couldn’t dream to imitate; he loves them, loves them, but it’s a secret he’d thought he’d take to the grave.

 Literally, as it turns out.

 He tries to take a step away but stumbles, caught as he is with his trousers tangled around his legs. But Professor Graves’ hands shoot out to catch his elbow before he can fall, drawing him back and half onto his lap, enclosed in his arms.

 “Look at you, pet,” Graves says, but the tone isn’t scornful like Credence had expected. It’s something quite, quite different – something quiet, reserved for Sunday mornings and for prayer. Worshipful. Reverential. He dares sneak up a look. Professor Graves looks like he’s just watched Moses part the Red Sea, a hundred men fed with twenty loaves of bread, collected manna from morning dew. Something miraculous, something Biblical, something holy. “Look at you,” he says again.

 Credence swallows. The saliva is thick in his throat.

 “Credence,” Professor Graves says, and Credence startles a little, because he’s never called him by his first name before.

 “Y-yes, sir?” Credence replies.

 “Do you want to continue?” And Mercy Lewis help him, Graves sounds so oddly gentle in a way he never has before, Credence thinks he might melt into a little puddle of warm and happy goo at the man’s feet if it meant he could hear him speak to him in that tone again.

 “Y-y-yes,” Credence manages. He swallows again. “Yes, sir, please.”

 Graves brings his hand to the back of Credence’s head and Credence jumps at first, but the hot weight of his palm remains steady and warm. Something about it anchors him. He feels more substantial, less like he might be whirled away by a breeze and more present.

 “Good,” Professor Graves murmurs into his hair. “Good boy.”

 Credence is basking in that when Graves pushes him back up, and he stands, hands going back to the table. Graves drags the chair forward and Credence’s legs are forced farther apart, one on each side of Graves’ thighs. His Professor brings one hand up, slowly, slowly, running it up Credence’s leg from his knee to his hip. He strokes Credence’s skin through the underwear. They’re not even Credence’s nicest pair – white, almost entirely lace, covering him modestly – but Graves brushes his fingers over the lace like they’re the finest things he’s ever seen. Beneath the fabric, Credence’s taught muscles quiver.

 He hooks his fingers over the hems on either side and slowly, agonisingly, draws them down, and Credence’s cock bobs free, slapping into the skin of his stomach, head purple-red and angry. The library isn’t cold, but a shiver runs through him from toes to the crown of his head, hairs on the backs of his arms prickling. The underwear hadn’t even hidden all of it but like this, lace bunched obscenely beneath his testicles, Credence feels filthy.

 “Now,” Graves says, voice dark again, and Credence rocks up onto his toes and back down again, “I told you to keep your hands on the table, didn’t I?”

 Oh. Credence nods, once.

 “Answer me,” Graves says sharply and Credence’s cock jumps at that, smacking into his belly. A thin line of pre-cum rolls obscenely onto his thigh.

 “Yes sir,” Credence says, voice small.

 “And you moved them away, didn’t you?”

 “Yes sir.”

 “Do you need me to use a sticking charm to keep them in place?”

 Credence’s knees actually buckle at the idea, eyelashes fluttering down onto his cheeks. “If – if you’d like, sir,” he says cautiously.

 “Mmm,” Graves purrs, “you would like that, wouldn’t you, pet?” Credence watches as he spins his wands between his fingers, once, twice. “Epoximise.”

 Credence tugs experimentally, but the palms of his hands remain firmly stuck to the surface of the desk. His breath explodes out of him and he shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other, because Graves is leaning back into the chair with one leg crossed over the other looking like he could stay there until the sun comes up, just watching Credence tugging uselessly at his bonds.

 “You should stop struggling,” Professor Graves says casually. “I might be more inclined to give you what you want if you ask me nicely.”

 Credence stills immediately, leaning back against the desk and watching Graves from beneath his eyelashes. He nibbles at his lower lip, worrying at it between his teeth. Graves’ eyes skip from the long line of his throat, his poor abused nipples, the dip of his waist, and then his cock, head purple-red and angry, drooling against his belly, framed by the white lace underwear. His eyes skip back up to Credence’s.

 Something gives inside Credence, and he’s sinking. He feels like he’s fallen into a pool of syrup, sinking and floating all at once, and nothing in the entire world exists except for the way Graves is staring at him, his dark eyes, his large hands settled on the arms of his chair, the broad press of his shoulders inside his suit.

 “What do you want?” Professor Graves asks him, gently, persuasively.

 “I – I – “ Credence tries, but his face is burning. He closes his eyes and tries again. “Please,” he says, voice a high whine, “please sir, please will you touch me?”

 Fabric rustles and then yes yes yes, Graves’ hand is on his hip again, then back down to his leg, joined by the other, easing his underwear off. When the underclothes reach the vicinity of his knees Credence feels a hot breath of air against his cock, and he makes an aborted little wail, eyes screwing shut, fingers scrabbling against the table for all that they can’t actually go anywhere.

 “Was that nice, pet?” Graves says and he’s right between his legs.

 “Yes sir,” Credence says, gasping now. “Oh – oh – “

 “Tell me what you’d like, now,” Graves says again, so sweetly, so coaxingly.

 And Credence doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, though he has a fairly good idea it involves Graves’ mouth and his cock, the hot breath over him again, all tongue and wet and completely merciless. “Please,” he begs, because he wants to ask but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what to ask for. “Please.”

 “Tsk,” Graves says, and Credence thinks he might become the first ever case of spontaneous self-combustion. “You beg so prettily for me, pet. Look at you. How could I deny you?”

 And then his hands are right there and he’s pressing his lips against Credence’s navel, then his stomach, then the point of his hip and down to his thigh, open-mouthed and wet now. Credence whimpers, because every press is so hot against his skin, every point those lips touch is searing hot, imprinting onto his skin and sinking through, to muscle, to nerve, to bone. He thinks, dizzily, that if he dies right now, when they find his skeleton, they will surely find the marks of Professor Graves’ lips pressed into the bones of his thighs.

 Credence can’t breathe, oh god, he’s going to die right here and he’ll be the first ever wizard to die of pleasure, but what a way to go. Pinned as he is, he can only turn his head to try and muffle the noises exploding from his chest into the skin of his shoulder.

 Graves moves back, and Credence keens, hips arching, aborted little circles in mid-air, chasing that warmth, that heat, the perfection that is Professor Graves’ mouth.

 “Ah, ah, ah,” Professor Graves says, and he flicks his fingers and Credence’s head turns of its own volition, fixed and frozen so he has no choice but to watch. “You’re going to let me hear every noise you make, pet.”

 And then Graves bites, sinks his teeth into the softest part of Credence’s thigh. Credence is vaguely away of someone moaning, high and keening, nearly a wail; it’s him, he thinks, dizzily.

 Credence barely has a moment to savour this new sharp sensation before Graves moves away, pressing his lips to the bite gently, gently, butterfly kisses and kitten licks against the delicate skin of his inner thigh. He presses a last kiss, harder than the rest, to the centre of the bite before raising up and before Credence can say anything else he leans forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock.

 Credence jerks, curling in, hips arching, the wails cut off abruptly as he gasps, gulping down air like a drowning man. Sensation arcs through him, a force of nature, an earthquake or a tsunami or a thunderstorm, threatening to drown him.

 Graves moves, cold air whispering over the kiss before another presses down, and another, and another, and another. Then a wet stripe of tongue against his length, and Graves takes his cock inside his mouth and sucks. He pulls back, swirling his tongue around the head and then back down, mouth burning, taking him in and swallowing around him.

 Credence is trying to get his mouth and tongue to cooperate, a babbling, incoherent mess. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, sir, please, more, oh – “

 He comes, wailing, his world contracting to the feel of Graves’ mouth around him, and everything is burning white, pulses of pleasure sparking and skittering and exploding out again, his universe reborn. His knees really do buckle and he arches weakly, his poor shoulders straining at the joints as they hold most of his weight. But he doesn’t notice, really; he’s sinking into that lake, enveloped, surrounded.

 He’s dimly aware of Graves tapping the backs of his hands and they’re free from the table, and then being bundled into an enormous fluffy towel, gathering into Graves’ lap right there on the floor of the library. He thinks he might have fallen asleep for a little while. Professor Graves soothes him, pressing soft kisses against his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids. He has the vague impression of green flame and the familiar scent of Floo powder before he’s being cocooned in warm blankets on a sofa, a hot cup of tea pressed into his palms.

 “Good boy, well done, you were so good, so perfect,” Graves says, so softly, so gently, Credence thinks he might float off again. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s sweet, herbal, and leaves the taste of roses on his tongue. The sweetness centres him, and the long heavy weight of Graves’ body against his. He yawns.

 “Christ,” Graves mutters, bringing up a tempus charm with a waggle of his fingers. It’s past three in the morning.

 Credence opens his eyes muzzily. “Sh’ go,” he mumbles into his cup.

 Graves’ hand ceases its slow winding through his hair. “Do you want to go?”

 Credence thinks for a moment. Now that he’s an upperclassman he has a room to himself. And tonight’s – well, yesterday – was a Friday, so no one will be expecting him. He shakes his head slowly, jaw cracking back into another massive yawn.

 Graves takes the cup out of his hand and Credence burrows into his side. Tomorrow, he thinks sleepily, tomorrow he can worry about all of this. For now, he just wants the gentle safety of Graves’ arms, the angle of his jaw on Credence’s crown, and the soft private comfort of the sofa, a little world unto themselves.

Further ideas in a world where the Dresden cast works at Hogwarts:

-Bob completely ruining Binn’s after-life by being his typical wise-ass self .  For fun.  And being completely accurate in his corrections.  

-The annual “First Year Races” on Mouse and Fang.

-Karrin as guest lecturer for Muggle Studies.

-McCoy and McGonagall have a history.  I repeat: a “history.”

-Side note: have we ever found out who Harry’s grandmother is?  No?  Hmm…

-Butters teaching an advanced class on supernatural physiology.  And Advanced Defence Against The Dark Arts.

-Harry, Butters, William and Molly teaching a class on how to blend in with Muggles.  It eventually devolves into an Introduction to Popular Culture course, filled with quotes.  And some very interesting choices in fashion, without breaking the ruling on school uniforms.

Cautionary Tales

“Don’t put your wand there, boy! What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost buttocks, you know.“
"Who d'you know who’s lost a buttock?”
“Never you mind…” 

—Alastor Moody

“What happened?! Sirius said…well…just… Are you okay?!”

“Well…I’m mostly in one piece.”

Mostly? Do I need to fetch a Healer?”


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mossjesus  asked:

I like to think that the D.A continued definitely after the battle of hogwarts and led to many advancements in not only defence against the dark arts, but muggle/wizard relations as well

The D.A was personally responsible for getting Muggle and wizard relations figured out, as they all got into positions of power in the ministry and just fucked everything up man. Old traditions were out the window. They installed wifi, electric lights, actually told the muffles about the existence of magic, and made life a whole lot easier for both sides of the coin.

-Mod Cas