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lacollectionneuse1967 · 9 months ago

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remembering you - bonus chapter

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: theseus comes to your rescue after you've had too much to drink, but will he be able to resist your drunken advances?

fem!reader. theseus x reader.

category: smut

warnings: 18+ smut scene. drunkenness. dirty talk. unprotected penetration. light mdom/fsub.

author's note: wasn't going to continue with this fic, but i made this "bonus chapter." it's more of a smutty resolution than a full-fledged chapter, no plot all vibes--hope you all enjoy!

part one / part two / bonus chapter

The realization of love feels fatal, plummets and plants itself at the bottom of your stomach like some small death. Your heart pounds dreadfully, like you’re in danger. The soar and the swoop.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Theseus. Loves. Me.

It shatters your mind. You shuffle around in the shards to formulate sentences to offer up to Mr. Bragg’s probing, you tell yourself to blink. To focus.

Mr. Bragg had shuffled you into his quiet office with a shaking anticipation, but asked you only silly, useless questions once alone. He was less talkative than you’d expected. Less forward.

It’s dim in his office. Impractically so. Only an oil lamp squats in the far corner, blooming dead orange light into the cigar-perfumed room.

The bronze hinges on his display cabinet and the dull gold knobs and hardware on all his other furniture glint, dark rays of light. Yes, the dark winks at you in this way. He’s seated far across the room. You can’t see him well, he’s half-swallowed in a cushy upholstered chair opposite yours.

“Might we turn on another lamp, sir?” You can’t see and you want to look around. You try not to shuffle in your seat.

“No, no, I can see you just fine.”

You burn with something, you don’t know what.

It’s not the general air of discomfort that’s bothering you, it’s the void, that gap of misunderstanding that you now feel between you and this man. Who is this man, really?

You’d always dismissed Mr. Bragg as a bumbling, meat-fisted man. Sweat on his brow, voice booming through the Atrium most days, spittle flying. Heavy-handed and obvious in his jokemaking and friend-making and all other matters.

You don’t know why the wet shine of his teeth in the dark now reminds you of a wolf. Could he really be what they think he is? You search for any sign of Grindelwald, of extremism or betrayal on his face, but you see only darkness and the barest outlines of his features–eyes, mouth, nose–buried in that.

“Whisky?” He smiles. You can’t see the whites of his eyes.

“What about it?”

“Ha!” It’s a dead noise in his throat. A huff. “Funny. Go on, girl. You’re allowed.”

He pours two inches of whisky into a thick French glass and has to stand to hand it to you.

You drink and try not to make a face. Crude drink, whisky. He stares unblinkingly at your throat as you swallow it, assessingly. When he stands and pours you another, you don’t protest. You gulp it down and speak quickly.

“Mr. Bragg, can I ask, how long have you been this department’s head?”

“Are you enjoying your whisky?”

“Well, yes–Mr. Bragg I was just wondering how you’re-”

“It doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying it very much. You know Mr. Martin–Paul Martin from the Courts–he could down one of my bottles in, say, half an hour?”

You breathe out a laugh and hope you don’t sound exasperated. This is going to be hard. He’s making it hard for you, and you don’t know why.

“Well, I don’t believe that, Mr. Bragg.”

Paul Martin. A Ministry judge. Your mouth works faster than your mind. The whisky sears something like acid in your stomach.

“Mr. Martin joined us around the same time you did, isn’t that right?”

A good quarter of Ministry workers had inexplicably quit sometime before last New Year. The new hires seemed to come out of thin air. You never thought of it as sinister before tonight.

The corner of Mr. Bragg’s mouth twitched. That was the wrong thing to say. You should��ve kept your cards close. The man across from you doesn’t move at all, but in your mind the alarm bells are screeching. You can’t tell if it’s just dark in the room or if the edges of your vision are smudging. Soft black curtains.

“And what is it exactly that you wanted to speak with me about, Miss Y/L/N?”

—----------------

“So, how did you do it?”

Theseus jerks irritably at the sound of Yuta’s voice to see who it is and then, once confirmed, goes back to ignoring him.

He’s still staring at the blank column of space between the pillars where you’d disappeared with the detestable Mr. Bragg, mouthing “sorry!” with this look of sweet apology on your face. Sweet. Everything you did was sweet to him.

“Is it a secret? Bastard really won’t tell us.” George Ambani Kotak slings an arm around Yuta’s shoulders and delivers his line with a mischievous lilt. There’s a bit of stray confetti on his shoulder that strangely suits him–unkempt hair, ill-fitting suit and all.

George and Yuta are the youngest Aurors in the department. Always poking fun at Theseus because they know that he was once the youngest Auror, and they know he usually likes their spirit of boyish rebellion. Keyword: Usually.

“What are you two going on about?” Theseus humors them with his attention, turning away from the space you left at last. He doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel good. It’s not about your unsaid response, he could give a damn if you loved him back. He loves you so absolutely he doesn’t want anything in return. No, it’s something else and he needs to be with you again to make it feel better.

“You think we’re pesky, don’t you?” Yuta whines in mock accusation. The young Hufflepuff has a teasing manner about him that’s almost effeminate.

“That’s because Theseus only likes hanging out with old men. Going down to the pub and talking about footy and the weather.”

“Piss off, George,” Theseus bites. He can’t quite suppress his smile. They make him feel young and old at the same time.

The Armistice ceremony is over and discordant, broken streams of people are trickling out of the Atrium now, emerging from beneath pillars and around corners, sweaty and celebratory with relief, as if at the end of a concert or performance. Mourning and remembering were a sort of duty to be carried out, too. Theseus can understand that.

When he thinks about your reticent angling away from him in the alcove, then your quiet omission, “I just wish that you would’ve remembered me,” he wants to shoot himself. Dramatics, yes, but the thought of letting you down felt worse than anything, was a shotgun blow to the chest in of itself.

“Y/N fucking Y/L/N,” George groans. “How did you do it, man? I mean, actually, what did you do?!”

“You sly fox,” Yuta mutters in agreement.

Theseus frowns at Yuta then, taken aback, understanding the exchange at last.

“Do you fancy Y/N or something?” He still feels at a loss. They must have seen him talking to you earlier.

George looks at Theseus like he’s stupid. Then again, George looks at everyone like they’re stupid. Not a Ravenclaw thing, Theseus doesn’t like stereotypes, just a George thing.

“Everyone likes Y/N, are you kidding me? But the girl is impenetrable.”

“Office siren,” Yuta chirps in.

“According to Ana, half the sports and games department has been trying to get at her all month. We came to the conclusion that she’s probably secretly engaged. Or maybe it’s an Unspeakable thing, who knows? Oh, Merlin, Rawlings is going to be fuming when he finds out about this, he’s been trying to chat her up at lunch for weeks–”

“So what’s your deal anyway? You and her?” Yuta interrupts, physically putting up a hand to silence George. George blinks at the appendage in offense.

Theseus is stunned anew. Flustered, even.

“She… She’s just my friend,” he says firmly. Defensively, maybe. “I care about her a lot.”

There’s a beat before the two boys react. Theseus wants to give you the space to respond to his confession, to define this, before involving anyone else. He hopes Yuta and George can sense that. Or at least sense his protectiveness and uncertainty.

“But why you?!” Yuta grimaces at last.

George bellows at that, heartily. “Oh, Yuta, young Romeo, you had your chance back when-”

Theseus drones out the two’s bickering, but the sound of it makes him inexplicably happy. The unease in his ribcage dissipates and lifts, though not completely. Theseus feels proud to love you. Grateful that, by some miracle, you let him.

He doesn’t care about any meeting you might have. He’s coming to see you, now.

The conviction thumps in his chest like a second heart.

He turns to leave without a farewell.

—-------------

‘This is good,’ you’d told yourself courageously after the first swooning burn of drunkenness sailed through your body, hard and fast and seeping. ‘I feel more confident to ask him what I need to. I’m not unsettled anymore.’

But there was no coherent justification anymore. You were piteously, dangerously drunk.

All you could do was sway upright in the chair and try to aim your gaze towards that warm spot in the dark you were sure concealed his figure.

Oh, god, he was talking about something. You hadn’t noticed, hoped he wasn’t asking you anything.

“-girl like you, no?”

The clipped end of his sentence did nothing for you. You feel sick, want to keel over and hold your head between your knees until the room stops moving. Your skin is buzzing. Living takes on a liquid quality, you feel like you are slipping warmly and smoothly from one moment to the next.

“What? Sorry.”

The dark shape of Mr. Bragg moves then, solidifies as he comes to sit next to you.

“Oh, ho!” He tuts. “Can’t handle your drink, Y/L/N?”

You squint up at him.

In truth, no. This is more than you can handle, and you didn’t really drink to begin with aside from the rare glass of wine paired with dinner.

“It’s…” your retort trails off, you can’t remember why you’d opened your mouth in the first place.

You feel yourself careen towards his thigh, his lap, he is seated on the arm of your big chair now. You slump against him pitifully. You are hardly there. You don’t know if it’s natural, the sharp decline from bubbly and light and talkative to this–sleep. Losing control of your limbs.

Oh, god. Fuck.

Some fucking investigation. You don’t know what would be worse, if he were really betraying the Ministry, an enemy agent, or if he just wanted to take advantage of you.

“M’sorry,” you slur against him and strain to raise yourself back up, unsuccessfully. Everything tastes bad. Even the air that rushes out of your nostrils when you exhale is pricked with the astringent sweet-rot of alcohol. Bitter and syrupy.

You want to jolt up at the feel of his hand on your back, petting you almost, but you can only manage a low judder. You don’t know how long it’s been or what time it is, but you’re going to pass out, you realize, and Mr. Bragg is touching you.

“Don’t,” you hiss, with sudden clarity. “Don’t touch me-”

The bang bang of his office door being knocked on isn’t even enough to raise you. You’re slumped over the side of the chair. Mr. Bragg, however, stands, alertly.

“Not now!” He shouts.

Every second that passes you feel yourself slip away. Light and sound comes and goes. You’re going to be sick.

The doorknob clatters against its own deadbolt.

“I said not now–”

The door clicks and crashes open, magicked unlocked no doubt.

You can only make out Mr. Bragg’s outline. He’s standing, his body conveniently angled in a feeble attempt to block you from the intruder’s view. You don’t need to see to know who it is.

You’re too fucked to smile.

Theseus just stares. Seethes. Burns, not like paper being eaten up, but without end.

“I cans–you have to-” Your nonsensical, drunken slur is enough to break his stillness.

“What’s going on here?!”

Something bridles and puffs up in Mr. Bragg, he clenches his fists and goes red in the face.

“You have no right to-”

Theseus pushes him to the floor with a single hard shove. Mr. Bragg topples over like a beetle.

He doesn’t care about him. He’s an Auror, he’ll deal with Bragg later.

You feel his hands on you, your body sings with affection. He’s trying to help you up by the arm but you’re trying to fall into him.

“Sweetheart, try and stand up,” he says, voice hushed and insistent. He seems like a real Auror now, authoritative and caring. “I think he put something in your cup.”

Your head lolls but you try to obey and make yourself helpful. Fuck, it’s hard. You thought it would help, standing up, but you feel more and more inebriated by the second.

“No,” you shake your head and stumble out of the black office into humiliatingly bright light. The word comes out as a desperate moan, a heave. You feel sick again. You have to concentrate on not slurring your words. “It’s just. I-I don’t really drink, Theseus. Likeatall...”

You stare at your stumbling feet, so strange looking. How strange it is to be drunk and seeing the drab, red Ministry carpets. To be like this and at work.

Theseus is looking around, concerned at the spectacle of the two of you, at how bad it looked, maybe, you don’t know. You just want him to stop looking around and look at you instead. You need his attention, in a babylike and indulgent way. Look at me, look at me.

“Let’s go, darling,” he mutters. “I’ll take you home.”

You gather up words and intent, trying your hardest to formulate a response; it’s then that you black out completely.

--------------------

Mercy, Theseus finds himself thinking, cursing, again. He doesn’t know how many times he’s thought this plea since you came into his life again. God, you made him think it the first night he met you, asking for a kiss, your eyes dark and bright at once, a star-shattered night.

He knows he can’t hold anything you do against you now, though. You’re truly, shockingly, appallingly and hilariously drunk. Your eyes have that sheen, so he knows you won’t remember any of it, that you’re blacked out.

“Please,” he begs you. His arms burn, though he’d never let on. A block back you’d rolled your ankle, hard on the cobblestone, so he is carrying you now, which wouldn’t be difficult if you weren’t thrashing about so much. “Y/N, please tell me where you live.”

“Why?” You cry, frowning at him. Petulant. Bratty. But sweet, sweet like everything you did. He wants to give you what you want, like always. It’s half for show, but he puts on his policeman voice to deny you.

“You’re in no state to be outside your house. I need to get you safe and home to your sister,” he explains dutifully.

The two of you had gotten enough disapproving stares from passing Muggles.

The mention of your sister does seem to jog some essential parts of your brain into sluggish action. You furrow your brow, thinking over something.

Cute.

“No, noooooo,” you whine. “My sister–oh, my landlady! They can’t see me like this, Theseus. I’ll be put out. Isn’t there some spell or-”

He shakes his head silently before realizing that you’re too drunk to notice, he has to speak aloud to get your attention.

“No, no,” he insists. “It’s too tricky a thing to remove alcohol from the bloodstream with a spell. Too dangerous. If I had a potion, maybe a bezoar elixir, I could do it, but this… It’s best to go to sleep.”

“Nooooooo,” you cry again, throwing your head back.

An old woman on the other side of the road frowns at you, openly.

“Fine! Fine,” he hisses, adjusting your flailing form in his aching arms. “I’ll take you to my flat.”

You hiccup and then start babbling indistinctly again. His face burns at the feel of you in his arms, your cheek against his chest.

This was not how he thought he’d find you today. Usually so put together all the time. So withheld and resilient.

Sedated complacency and confused, excitable thrashing seem to be your only two modes now, so this needy, talky drunkenness is something he welcomes–a middleground. Besides, half of what you mumble is nonsense.

It is worse when he can make out the nonsense. It is worse when he kicks open the door to his apartment and deposits you onto his couch.

Theseus drops down on the opposite end of the large couch, exhausted, legs spread, head thrown to the side. Carrying you all this way winded him. Nearly dislocated a shoulder.

It shocks him nearly upright when he sees you trying to crawl towards him.

“Y/N,” he grumbles. He pinches his eyes shut quickly to rid you from his vision, but it’s burned in his memory. You crawling towards him on all fours. Fucking hell.

“Go to sleep,” his eyes are still shut when he says it.

“Theseus,” you don’t sound drunk. Your lips are spit-slick. You sound sultry. Demanding. “I want.. I want-”

“See? You can’t even talk properly, love. Go to bed.” He conceals the panic well enough. He doesn’t want to deny you. If you wanna fall all over him, he wants to let you. But he knows this isn’t right, isn’t respectable.

You stop descending on him like a beautiful punishment and sit back with your legs crossed, just a cushion away from him. You don’t look or sound as drunk as you did before but he knows you are, you’d never act like this if there wasn’t alcohol in your bloodstream.

You tilt your head at him and, for him, it’s torturous.

“Okay. Come to bed with me then?” You sing-song. There’s a ditzy, woozy quality to your voice that wasn’t there before. Hadn’t ever been there. If you didn’t still smell like whisky he wouldn’t be able to resist your advances at all.

“No, no, no,” Theseus stands suddenly, speaking more to himself than you. He paces back and forth across his living room, troubled. This was insane. He shouldn’t have brought you here. He couldn’t say no to you. He knew it wasn’t within his power to.

Clothes falling off your shoulders. Looking at him all dizzy and blissed out. Pupils blown, lips wet.

You hiccup. He wants to tease you for it, but the next words out of your mouth make him choke.

“I-I wish you wore glasses,” you laugh dreamily. “I wanna make you keep them on so I can see them go all crooked when I fuck you.”

His whole body reacts. Throbs. He hisses painfully through his teeth. Tries to shut his eyes again but it’s futile. He could hate you for what you’re doing to him, actually detest you.

“Y/N, please stop talking.”

“Mmm, I thought that-”

“Stop. Talking.”

You giggle again and roll over on the couch, delighted, throwing your arms up above you.

Then, mercy, mercy, you’re trying (clumsily, unsuccessfully, what should be unsexily but it’s not to him, it’s absolutely not) to take off your clothes, pull off your top and tug off your tights. You whine in frustration when you can’t manage it.

You fall back in defeat. He can see you’re past the point of proactivity now. So long as he stays across the room he isn’t in danger. You couldn’t stumble over to him if you tried.

“Help me.” You order with a pout.

“No,” he smiles now, corner of his mouth curling, feeling confident and safe. Settles into the wooden chair at his small, square dining table and looks at you, amused. He’s still hard. “You really should listen to me, Y/N.” He says, a bit hotly.

There’s fondness, but also a sort of angry, disciplinarian edge to his tone.

“I know! I already knowwww,” you retort, grouchily despite the fact that you’re agreeing with him. Oh, the drunken mind…

He should leave. He should carry you to his bedroom and then lock you in there until you sober up or pass out. He flexes his hand at the thought. No, he doesn’t trust himself to touch you now. He hates this, not being able to touch you. He loves you and he hates it.

He’s saying the words, spitefully, before he can stop himself.

“Did you know that your voice gets all high pitched right before you come? It’s cute, actually.”

His voice is a flat line, hard and unforgiving. He’s snappy and harsh and, when you moan softly at his words, he gets up and leaves you alone in his apartment.

“I need to go on a walk. Go to sleep. Don’t move.”

The front door slams shut before you can even attempt to crawl your way over to him.

—-----------------------

You’re awake for several minutes before you can bring yourself to crack open your eyelids. It’s all pounding blackness in your head–a nightclub full of dementors. You’d laugh at the thought if everything didn’t hurt.

Your mouth tastes awful. You don’t know where you are.

“Theseus?” you mutter, rolling over in the very large, very foreign bed, opening your eyes at last.

There’s a small, purple bottle that’s labeled J. Pippin’s Hangover Remedy on the bedside table but even that makes your stomach turn. The thought of drinking any flavored liquid sends a shudder down your spine.

You sit up and force yourself to take a pitiful swig anyway and chase it with the glass of water set there for you. The more you take in the scenery–the neat, cozy room, the water and potion, the newly bought women’s clothes laid out for you at the end of the bed–the more humiliation colors your cheeks.

“Oh, no,” you whine aloud, burying your face in your hands. The last thing you remember is the Armistice ceremony and then Theseus helping you tumble out of Mr. Bragg’s dark office in a whisky-flavored haze. This had to be Theseus’s bedroom.

Which meant….

You’re only wearing your tights and a camisole. Braving the hallway in your half-undressed state, you slip into the bathroom. There’s a toothbrush there too, which you snatch up greedily, eager to rid your mouth of this foul, boozy taste. After a quick, sobering shower and five too-long minutes of scrutinizing your flushed face in the mirror you walk cautiously out into the living room. You put on one of his shirts and boxer shorts rather than the clothes he’d bought and laid out for you. Your hair is damp and dripping, but smells clean and like his soap, like him.

Through the windows, it's a cool and silver morning, the earliest light of day has that nascent, colorless quality. The dark hardwood floors of his apartment are quiet underfoot, and all things are still. Today feels new and clean and you’re hopeful he’ll forgive you.

What did you do last night? What did you say to him? You were so embarrassed, you just hoped that he’d still want you. That he wouldn't take back what he said about loving you.

Theseus looks so funny with his arm jutting out from under him, his bare legs hanging crooked over the edge of the couch. You stifle a laugh despite yourself.

It’s then, smiling at his sleeping form fondly, that you know. You’ve always felt it before, but now you know it. The certainty resting in your heart strengthens and glows.

You stand before him and tug his extended hand. He opens his eyes in innocent confusion.

“What–Y/N-”

“Come to bed with me.”

He stares up at you uncomprehendingly, gaze bleary but fond. He’s so handsome it hurts.

“Come on,” you laugh. “It’s still early. We can still sleep well.”

His oversized form on the small couch sits up. You want to run your hands through his hair, press your hands against the hard expanse of his chest and push him back down again.

“Are you sure?” He asks calmly.

“Come,” you repeat. This time when you pull him by the hand he lets you lead him.

You fall into his bed together and he brings you into him, so impossibly naturally, like muscle memory. You feel your face blush but pay it no attention, you feel so warm and safe in the cradle of his body at last.

You have to tell him. Have to tell him how you feel.

You turn to face Theseus, still cradled in his arms, but the sight of him stoppers your throat.

“I–” You make a noise like choking. There’s a bright red mark down the side of his neck. “Theseus, your neck! What happened?”

He smiles softly at your face, contented and amused.

“I’m sorry to break this to you Y/N, but you might have raked your teeth down the side of my neck last night while I was trying to carry you to my bed.”

You are undisguisably mortified. You gawk at him.

“It’s okay, Y/N!” He laughs reassuringly. “It’s fine, really. Despite you torturing me all night trying to get me to sleep with you, I stood my ground. Nothing happened.”

“Torturing you?!” Your eyes are blown wide and you can’t seem to close your mouth, except to wince. “Oh, Theseus, my behavior–I’m so humiliated, you have to forgive me–”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, all levity in his voice gone, only sincerity. He clasps your hands between your body and his, and you lean into the feeling.

When you still can’t look at him, red-faced and flustered, he leans forward so suddenly you nearly start back.

Theseus licks the column of your neck in a long line, punctuating it with a nip of his teeth that makes you gasp.

“There,” he leans back and smirks at his handiwork. “Got you back. You can stop being sorry for antagonizing me now.”

Your heart is pounding, blood roaring in your ears.

“Besides,” he adds, once it’s clear you’re done being mortified. “I admit that I even find your cruelty endearing. I’ve always hated meanness, but it doesn’t matter with you at all. That’s how I know I’ve been corrupted.”

You let yourself laugh at that. It’s so nice, being in bed with him. Wearing his clothes. Despite the context of how you got there, you feel at peace.

“So,” he starts. “What do you remember?”

You shake your head and purse your lips.

“Mr. Bragg’s office. I tried to question him, it was a mission of mine. He’s not what he seems, Theseus. Mr. Bragg, Mr. Martin, I don’t know who else–they’re real threats to the Ministry.”

Theseus nods solemnly, taking it in.

“Okay, what else?”

You try to remember but the night comes back in fleeting scenes and flickering sensations.

“You kept calling me sweet.” You whisper.

“That’s all then?” He doesn’t contest it.

“But I’m not sweet,” you insist, weakly. “Everyone says I’m not. I wish I was, but I’m not a sweet girl.”

“No,” Theseus grabs your hand again and rubs circles into it with his thumb. “You’re not sweet. You’re kind. It’s a stronger quality, Y/N. One with more conviction and spirit. Trust me.”

You make a face at him, one meant to inspire pity.

“I’m not sweet?”

Theseus exhales through his nose in a huff, baffled, disarmed. Of course you would focus on that part of what he said. He flicks the tip of your nose with his finger and it makes you scrunch up your face. He’s staring at you so lovingly that it makes your teeth ache.

“You taste sweet enough to me.”

And then his mouth is on yours, hot and warm and wanting. Hungrier than you thought he was. You could never gauge how much he wanted you, how badly. It took you off-guard then, the first time you met him in his office, and it shocks you now.

You’re racing to kiss him back with equal fervor. Your skin alights with pleasure every place that his skin meets yours, you come to life under those hands of his.

Will it cease, this awestruck response he elicits? You want to one day get used to Theseus, to the wonder of him in front of you, so you can think straight around him. So you can enjoy him in a measured and rational way without praying on him like a star, without the winded pleasure of disbelief.

You whine when he pulls away from your mouth, but it’s quickly silenced by the feeling of his hands sliding under your shirt and over your breasts, squeezing and massaging them. Your nipples are so sensitive that his fingertips feel almost unbearably good. Painfully good.

“You have no idea the hell you put me through last night.”

“I’m sorry,” you moan.

“I’m not.”

He takes your mouth with his again. The way he kisses you now feels like fucking in of itself, his tongue pressing in and in to your mouth, it feels like him showing what he wants to do to you.

One of his hands drops from your chest and slips under the waistline of the pair of boxers you're wearing. His shirt, his boxers.

“Gonna make me fuck you while you wear my clothes, princess?”

You don’t know how he possesses the superpower of making you blush like a schoolgirl while his hands are quite literally down your pants. The display of shyness seems futile.

He was so gentlemanly at work and in life. You didn’t know such words were capable of leaving his lips, but god they sounded good to you.

“Off,” you manage. “Take them off.”

Theseus obliges you, hands big and warm as they gently lift the hem of your shirt over your head. He helps you shimmy out of the boxer shorts too. His hands move over all that bare skin with reverence, stroking and petting and grasping.

“You’re beautiful-”

“I love you,” the words rush out at once, urgent. You need him to know, they need to be said.

He looks stunned, leans back with a jerk and stares into your eyes with scrutiny and wonder. You don’t break his gaze.

“Do you really?” He says, breathlessly.

“Yes,” and your eyes are welling with tears, you don’t know why. “I love you, Theseus.”

“God,” he groans, pressing you to him in an embrace so engulfing it makes you gasp. His hand snakes around the back of your head, his other arm wraps around your torso–a man, overcome. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

It’s different when he starts to touch you again. Slower. Devout. He stares dead into your eyes with a concentration unmatched when he slips his fingers into you at last, his own eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and lust. It takes everything in you not to look away, the look in his eyes is so burning with desire it alone could be your ruin, make you come undone.

You feel yourself pulse around him, aching and squeezing around his hand. He curls his index slightly upwards so perfectly that every fuck of his fingers, every pump has you moaning raggedly. Your whole body saying yes, yes, yes to the tempo he’s set.

But you don’t want to come like this.

You start shaking your head before you can get any words out.

He’s watching you so intently he doesn’t need any words to read you.

“What is it?” There’s no teasing to his tone anymore, no condescension. He’s all caring dedication. When he slides his fingers out they’re soaked. “You want my cock?”

You nod, feeling strangely drunk again.

He rolls his still-clothed hips against your bare, slick core experimentally and you moan loudly, inappropriately and unabashedly loudly.

It makes him smile.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. So good. What do you want, baby? How do you want me?”

You can’t even think around him, you don’t know what possesses you to say what you do.

“From the back. I want you to take me from behind.”

Theseus’s eyes flash with something dark. His lips part and for a moment you think he’s going to deny you. He did like looking at your face, watching your reactions…

But then he’s getting up onto his knees and flipping you onto your stomach, roughly. The mattress heaves beneath the two of you.

You start to get up on all fours when his hand pushes you down hard, by the small of your back. Your body presses flat into the mattress with a gasp.

“Theseus-”

He straddles your thighs with his so you can’t even spread your legs when he presses his dick into your tight hole.

You whine and moan at the sensation of being stretched open by him. You can’t move at all trapped under his weight, you can’t even lift your hips–you can just bury your head and take it. He rocks his hips experimentally and, when you moan wantonly again, he leans down, bending his body over yours to nip the back of your ear with his teeth before pounding into you.

You know he just told you he loved you but, god, he was drilling you like he hated you, hand on the back of your neck, his pace relentless, pulling out completely before slamming back into you bruisingly. Your walls try to clamp down to slow his speed but it only makes it feel better, him splitting you open from behind.

You hear him groan at the feel of your walls constricting and fluttering around him. You orgasm suddenly and with a muffled whine, wishing you could roll your hips back into the feeling, but you’re still pinned beneath him, quivering and overstimulated.

Dazed, you distantly remember last time you slept with him and cry brokenly. You don’t want that, him pulling out to come in his hand.

“Theseus, I-” you know you’re incoherent, blabbering. Face half-shoved into his pillow. “Please come inside me. I-I want to feel it when-”

“Fuck,” he hisses. The sound of your voice has him coming hard, you feel it shoot warm into your pussy. His pace slows, rocking his half-hard cock a few more times into you before pulls out with a shaky breath at last.

“Y/N,” Theseus turns you back over. His hands are searching, gentle. When he sees your expression, blissful and fucked-out, he smiles, stroking your face.

“God,” he groans, low, collapsing back down beside you. “I could stay in this bed with you forever.”

You hold onto his hand and bring it up to your mouth to kiss it, body still thrumming with pleasure.

After a while, he speaks again.

“Is.. Was that okay?” He asks, and it silences you, learns into something heavier like pain. “I just want to make sure that you’re not… inebriated anymore, not confused…”

“I was never confused,” you murmur, shaking your head softly. “I meant everything I said yesterday night, though I can’t remember what.”

You realize with a start that you have to be honest now, or you’ll cry.

“It’s bad,” you continue. “I can’t ever pretend to feel something I don’t.”

“You pretended not to know me,” Theseus whispers the words into the pillow beside your head, like he’s setting them down next to you. His voice is too gentle and fond to be an accusation, but you still feel caught, like you’re in trouble.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me anyway. And… I was scared.”

“Of what, darling?”

Darling. This man would be the death of you. You’d give him anything he asked for.

"Um," you bite your bottom lip hard, trying to ground yourself with the sharp reprimand of pain. Darling, he called you darling. "I guess, um, I was happy with how you see me now. That when I asked you to kiss me, you did this time. I didn't want to confuse you, I didn't want to do anything that might make it stop. You wanting me, I mean."

You don't feel terribly eloquent or coherent, but he's nodding encouragingly, understandingly.

He nudges your nose with his to get you to meet his eyes, and it makes you smile like you're just remembering how to. He reintroduces joy into your life like an old friend. Like a family member, it comes so naturally to him.

"I don't wanna scare you away either, Y/N. I told you I love you because I couldn't help it, the same way I touched you in my office because I couldn't help it. But I wanna make you mine in every way that I can."

You raise a brow, prompting him to clarify.

"Like what, you wanna...?" You can't finish the sentence, you need to hear him say it.

“I want to marry you, naturally.” Saying the words knocks something loose in him. The strength of his desire is deafening, like downed wine burning low in his stomach, roaring in his ears.

You laugh and he doesn’t understand or care why, he just knows the sound is angelic and smiles with stupid joy in response.

"Oh, you," you sigh. "Theseus, you could have anyone. Anyone."

You don't mean to sound so bittersweet, so distant and reminiscing. He is handsome and strong and good, without even trying, he just is. He is charismatic and confident. The whole room falls into his orbit, is pulled into his gravity when he enters.

It's not that you have nothing in common, but everything you love about him is everything that keeps him apart from you.

He shakes his head, dazed with happiness.

"There's only ever been you. It's always been you."

"I love you too," your eyes prick with tears. "I love you, Theseus. I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I was, that I hid from you, that I didn't say it earlier. But I've loved you since I was a girl, even if I can't believe that you love me, I can still-"

"Y/N," he interrupts you, hushed and urgent. "I feel like it was very hard for you to love me. You seemed so conflicted and confused and pained, especially at the beginning. But, for me, loving you has been like breathing. This,” he raises your clasped hands between you. “This is easy. It’s who I am.”

When you close your eyes and drift off into a light, midday sleep, there are no clouds in the horizon of your mind, no dreams of war, only a small but glowing peace.

taglist: @hotwheelsenthusiasthic @milasmithsblog @msauthor @asyouwish-fromcabin3 @karashawsblog

#theseus scamander #fantastic beasts #theseus scamander x reader #theseus x reader #hp fanfic #fbawtft

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sallowtheories · 2 months ago

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There's times when I just like to take a moment, and remind myself of the time Hogwarts Legacy took place. 1890, meaning the a little over 10 years before the Victorian area ended.

There still hasn't been any world wars in the muggle world, or a major war in the wizarding world (only goblin rebellions. One in 1612 and one in 1752).

This was the time of invention in the muggle world. That for muggles was mostly seen as an exciting time, with the Great Exhibition in 1851. And though it may have been exciting for muggles, can you imagine how stressful it must have been for wizards and witches living around muggles? Suddenly a muggle decides that it's good idea to demonstrate a gas street lamp in 1807, and now London is lit up at night. Now is a witch or wizard to do their thing in the street, without getting caught? And now they had to keep up with all these things muggles were producing, as to not get caught.

But though it might have been stressful, things were certainly made easier by the muggles. King's Cross was built in 1852, which fitted perfectly with Ministry's intention of creating a safe method of transportation for students to Hogwarts in 1827, using some form of muggle transportation, resulting in the Hogwarts Express in 1830 (wonder where they picked up the students before 1852).

Other than Ranrok's rebelion, the Victorian area must really have made an impact on the wizarding kind of the UK, as their newspapers and products are still inspired by the area.

What we see in Harry Potter - the world we are invited into - is a world that came to be, just a short time before the lives of Ominis Gaunt and Sebastian and Anne Sallow. Their parents and grandparents saw the world chance into the style of the wizarding world we know today, and when they started at Hogwarts, many of these things might even have been considered still somewhat knew.

Let me put it like this: Let's say that Sebastian and Anne's parents were 25 when they got them. That would not be strange age to have children, at least not by our standers today. That means that they were born around the year 1850. That was just two years before King's Cross was built. Now let's say that their parents were 25 as well when they were born. That means Sebastian and Anne's grandparents would be from 1825 - 5 years before the Hogwarts Express. Who knows, Sebastian and Anne's great grandparents could have been there at the Ministry in 1827, with a 2 year old baby, taking part in the talk on wether or not a muggle train would be safe for students to travel in.

While it was a time of invention for the muggles, it surely also was so for the wizarding kind.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy sebastian #hogwarts legacy sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow #harry potter #harry potter hogwarts legacy #harry potter sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy theory #sebastian sallow theories #harry potter hogwarts game

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sunder-soul · 2 months ago

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✦𝖒𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑✦

[read 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖛𝖊 here]

Chapter one: The lesser of the two evils Wordcount: 600 Header credit

“Someone’s making Horcruxes.”

If you’re being honest with yourself, whatever mental barrier that lies between the daily mess of to-do lists, deadlines, and humdrum Department bullshit holding back thinking about him, it’s a thin one. Gauzey, permeable, you’ll find him seeping into your mind when you’re staring off into the corner with at a half-finished report, bleeding in when you’re alone and waiting for the elevator, always with a sick sense of self-betrayal and something that stings an awful lot like shame–if you’re being honest with yourself.

A Friday evening at 4:56pm. That’s when McCollin decides to drop this news on you. It’s raining outside, a thick, thorough rain that falls restlessly over the dark city, framed by the single window in your office behind you. Both the lamp on your desk and the city below glow yellow-orange, the only lights left at this time of night so late into winter. That first promotion had come with bumping enough floors that people comment on the view whenever they step into the room, but more often than not they’re politely neglecting to comment on the fact that it’s Muggle London–not Wizarding–that you’re looking out over. It’s no secret that the Ministry maps out its favourites with the floorplan. The press on Riddle dropped off years ago and ever since, so subtle at first that you could write it off, that relentless, incremental push out of the limelight has been growing ever stronger. The job gets more menial, the promotions stop paying well, and slowly but surely new favourites sweep onto stage.

Here, tonight is where you're startled by the sudden sound of your door opening without a knock, and before you can even make some comment to McCollin he’s said the one thing that tears aside any aspersions that maybe one day you’ll be free of what happened.

“Someone’s making Horcruxes,” says McCollin.

You already know what’s coming next, you can feel it sinking fast into your stomach like you’ve stepped out into the dark, yellow-stained night.

“We’re gonna need his help,” McCollin says, and he says it with an apology already saturating every word, he says them heavily like he’s struggling to keep his head up to look you in the eye.

You stare at him, and the rain swells suddenly louder. You put down your quill and watch a bead of ink well at the nib.

The gravity of it is starting to weigh on you, too. They wouldn’t even be considering if it wasn’t already bad, if whatever they’ve been doing is far from working. They’d have to be desperate, very desperate, and you’re wondering what could make them consider their last possible option, Plan Z, what could be so monstrously bad that hauling Tom Riddle out of Azkaban to grill him about Horcruxes is the lesser of the two evils.

You’re thinking about his ring. You’re thinking about his last request. You’re thinking about dark eyes in a dark cell somewhere beneath the ocean and you’re wondering what he’ll be when they drag him out of there–half soulless? Half insane? How long has he been down there, rotting in the darkness, deep in the roots of Azkaban? How many times have you wondered that since you last saw him?

Your fingers are shaking.

“They want you there,” says McCollin, needlessly.

You already knew it. And god, god, here comes that sick shame and that self-betrayal, because somewhere beneath the dread–if you’re being honest with yourself–you know that some part of you can’t fucking wait.

#I'm here and I'm updating the only fic no one ever requests an update for xx #harry potter #tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x reader #me and the devil #white dove #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction

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nihildenial · 24 days ago

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On the Nose by nihil-denial (wc: 1,465)

Pairings: Special Ghoul & Copia's Rats

Rating: Gen

Tags: Fluff, No hurt, Animal love, Copia's rats, Rigatoni the Rat

Summary: Special Ghoul believes he won't enjoy pet-sitting Papa Emeritus IV's twelve pet rats. Perhaps he shouldn't make assumptions that quickly.

It’s difficult to continue daily tasks in a quiet Ministry. Special Ghoul’s routine of sweeping, paperwork, and media management was typically easy because of the flurry of activity that kept distracting him. However, with Papa Emeritus IV, the Ghouls, and Papa Nihil out on tour, Phil was left in charge of most of the ghoul’s daily chores. The Siblings stepped up for a lot of it, much to his relief.

So, that meant he could keep his normal schedule of document reviewing, instgram and email wrangling, sweeping…and now, rat babysitting. He wasn’t looking forward to starting that task today. Rats were considered pests in New York City, only an hour’s drive from the Ministry. Sure, the Rats song was fun to shoot and the cartoon stickers Copia handed out were cute, but the real animals were probably a mess of dirty vermin that the man has managed to look past to find something adorable in.

He probably would get dirt all in his tunic.

Special Ghoul straightened his belt and hung his mask by his fascia as he neared Papa Copia’s room. He closed his deep amber eyes and took a deep, settling breath before he pushed through the heavy velvet curtains.

He feels for the light switch, jumping when it triggers the large lava lamp on the side table. “Fucking hell,” he mutters and continues through the small living area to the bedroom. He switches on the overhead lights and sighs at the large metal structure taking up the entirety of the right wall.

Special stares at it then looks to where he presumes the Anti-Pope sleeps. It’s a twin mattress on the floor, pushed up against the middle wall. The fire Ghoul knows that the man’s coffers are more than full enough for a nice bedroom set. They’re satan worshippers for fuck’s sake; Special needs to convince the man to put his selfish wants first for once.

Special sets the several bags of things on the neatly tucked bed. A packet of paper is sitting innocently on the Star Wars pillow.

He then walks to the floor-to-ceiling cage and comes eye-to-eye with the rodents Copia so dearly loves. Special flips to the first page (it’s a motherfucking table of contents) and then the next, which has a picture and description of each of the twelve pet rats.

Alfredo

Allegro

Buccatini

Crescendo

Farfalle

Gemelli

Gemini

Legato

Minestra

Opus

Rigatoni

Toccata

A star sticker was placed next to Rigatoni’s picture, designating him as Copia’s ‘heart rat’ or whatever that meant. Phil closes the packet and sets it aside. He toes off his shoes outside of the baby crates that surround the cage and carefully steps inside, trying not to step on any of the toys.

Squeaks of all pitches meet his ears. He finally looks up to meet the excited gazes of the rats. They’re squirming, jumping, wrestling and going between the many different levels of the cage. A bunch of them gather on the floor nearest his face. There’s little dirt or visible poop on the colorful blankets and dig box. In fact, the longer he stands there, he notices how they use their tiny arms to lick and wash their faces and bodies.

“Why are you all actually cute?” He asks quietly as a pink nose pushes between the thin bars of the enclosure. He boops it gently. “I can’t let Papa know he was right.”

The black and white rodent jumps away from the bars, scurries up onto one of the hanging hammocks, then bounces back to press against the bars. It repeats it when Special touches the pink nose again.

Oh, it wants to play.

“Okay, okay, let me make sure this is secure before I let all of you out.” He checks the corners of the playpen, fills the thin bowl with water and most of the frozen peas and carrots, then steps back up to the cage. The latch on the bottom area is simple.

As soon as the doors are open, the rats are eagerly scurrying down the short ramp to the cushioned floor. Copia’s instructions say he can let them go by themselves for a bit, so he steps out to observe them.

Special watches their fuzzy, avocado-shaped bodies move with such a feeling of excitement that he finds himself smiling down at them. Geez, he’s turning soft.

A large, golden rat pauses in its place at the platter of peas and pellets to stare up at him. It crawls around its packmates and tries to jump onto the playgate. Surprisingly it makes it almost to the top. Special falls to his knees and grabs the rodent to keep it from escaping.

The animal is squishy, warm, and wiggly. It calms as it relaxes in the radiant warmth of his palm, closing its beady but cute black eyes. According to the papers, this is Rigatoni, a special rat.

Special ghoul carefully pets the rat’s head with a finger. When the rat relaxes more, he caresses the animal’s pudgy body.

It’s calming. Special is holding a tiny life in his hands, and is being trusted unconditionally . He’s a scrappy fire ghoul meant to fight in the pits of Hell and this little creature finds something good enough in him to relax. He has to wipe the hot tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic.

“Hello, Rigatoni,” he croaks.

The rat opens its eyes and stretches its delicate pink arms and legs, climbing up his arm to sit on his shoulder.

Special has seen Copia walking around with a few of the rodents like this. Sometimes he even puts a basket on his stupid tricycle for several rats to ride around in.

More of the rats have finished fishing for peas to hop at the gate to gain his attention. He reaches down and picks up one of the docile black and white ones. Allegro paws at the embroidered ghoul symbols.

“Yes, I’m a ghoul,” he answers the rat.

He has to put the rat back down when it tries chewing off the patch. “No, no. No nibbling off my patches. I know it was a few of you little shits that did that to Papa’s favorite pants.”

He tries to look at them sternly, but their tiny, curious faces make it extremely difficult. Special reads a few more pages of Copia’s instructions.

“You guys want some treats?” He says and laughs at the eager frenzy that causes. He presses the rectangular bits of sweet potato, peas, and walnut pieces in the different balls, snuffle mats, and hammocks.

Rigatoni crawls down his arm to hop back into the playpen to join the search for treats. When he tries to take one of the balls to put more treats in, Toccata grabs it and starts an impromptu tug-of-war. When Phil carefully tosses it in, the grey rat pushes it around with it’s pink nose like a dog.

“Have you seen Special Ghoul?” Sister Gwenyth pokes her head into the Siblings’ communal kitchen.

Brother Ezra shakes his head from where he’s stirring in a large pot. “Not since this morning. He said he was going to feed Papa’s rats.”

She purses her lips and looks to the few other Siblings in the kitchen. All of them give her equally unhelpful answers. She turns and heads back out into the cloister, checking the empty Ghoul crypt once more. She goes back upstairs to the main level and heads towards the papal wing.

She tries not to think too hard about the empty bedrooms as she passes them. She stops outside the curtain, a line of light spilling from under the doorway. “Phil?” She calls.

When she gets no answer, she cautiously steps inside. The living room is empty, so she moves on.

The bed is filled with the Ghoul’s duffel bag and discarded silver mask. She looks over the edge of the playpen by the open rat cage (not seeing any rats or squeaks, which makes her panic) and sees the most adorable sight.

Special Ghoul, asleep in the middle of the large space, with twelve rats snuggling in the junctions of his neck and on top of his chest. He looks so peaceful, his sharp, charcoal grey features relaxed. The rats on his chest are snuggling under one of his hands, their tails sticking out from his fingers. In the crook of his neck is a bunch of curled up rodent noses pressed against each other and moving with their breaths.

She has to physically restrain herself from making noise. Gwenyth frantically captures the moment with her phone and sends it to Copia. She checks that all of them are indeed breathing and snaps another picture before leaving them alone. The tax documents can wait until tomorrow.

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fishwithtitz · 1 year ago

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A Simple Existence (a Papa Emeritus IV x f!reader one shot)

A/N: This one was written specifically for my sweet cheese, my main babe Jen (@copias-juicebox). Her birthday was on Wednesday and this is a very belated present created with her in mind. Girl, you wanted subby sweet Copia, you got him! Love you so much and I'm so happy I met you. Alles Gute zum nachträglichen Geburtstag!

Also, special shout out to @anamelessfool, @eyeslikelilith, and @portaltothevoid for beta'ing and feedback <3

If you'd like to be on my tag list, please comment!

⛧⛧⛧

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Papa Emeritus IV x f!reader / 5.1k words

Warnings: dom/sub relationship, hints at dub-con (if you squint?), oral sex, piv, language, cock worshipping

ao3 link

Over the past few weeks, it had become more commonplace for Papa Emeritus IV to be sitting at his cherry wood desk, pen in hand as he rifled through various Ministry tasks late into the night.

To many, Papa was a figurehead of the church — both through his leadership in the spiritual sector of the Ministry and as frontman of the Ghost project. But so many didn’t realize the influence he had within the planning and implementation of the church and its projects as a whole.

It was almost as if he breathed much-needed oxygen into the lungs of the abbey and transfused his own lifeblood into the theatrics of the band. The Ministry was, to put it simply, his everything. It was something you had come to love and loathe about the man.

Tonight was no different than any other night the past few weeks. Copia sat perched in his worn office chair (the one he’d taken with him from his stay at the abbey in Venice during his time as a bishop), papal paint smeared somewhat from the occasional swipe of his palm against his cheeks as he thought through a complex task. A banker’s lamp and the starlight were the only sources of illumination in the office space — a tell of how late into the evening it had become.

You’d sat up night after night waiting for your Papa to come back to his chambers at a reasonable hour. Most nights ended with you falling asleep as you sat against the headboard in your shared bed or lounged on the loveseat in the sitting room. Tonight, however, you’d had enough. You were worried that the ministry was taking advantage of the Satanic pope’s hardworking and passionate spirit and the last thing you wanted was for him to spiral into burn out. Tonight, you would put your foot down.

It was a short walk from the Papal chambers to Copia’s office. You’d made the trek what felt like hundreds of times and this specific time, it was as if the route had been cut in half. Perhaps that was the speed at which your bare feet carried you, or perhaps it was the simmering frustration you had bubbling in your chest. Nevertheless, you didn’t bother to knock before you pushed on the oaken double doors to Papa’s workspace.

As soon as you shut the heavy door behind you, Papa’s head sprung up in alarm as if he had been shaken out of a trance. You walked into the spacious office, nightgown flowing behind you like an estuary, and stopped a couple of meters away from where he sat.

“Il amore mio, what are you doing h-”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” You found yourself cutting off his tired greeting.

Copia pressed his thumb and forefinger against his temples, gently rubbing them as he closed his eyes in defeated frustration. “I haven’t looked at the clock in a while.”

“It’s nearly one in the morning,” you answered for him, taking a step towards the cherrywood desk. “Come to bed. It’s not doing you any good burning the midnight oil.”

Copia’s hand dropped from his temples and on any other occasion, you would smirk at the sight of the smudged paint on his fingertips. “I assure you that I have plenty of fuel left for this candle’s flame, amore mio,” he said.

“But you’re burning it at both ends!” you retorted, voice raising in a mix of sympathy and frustration. “Copia, it’s not a matter of if you’ll drive yourself into the ground but when.” You moved to round the large wooden desk, and as you approached him, your expression softened. “All of this can wait until tomorrow,” you said, voice slightly calmer now.

You shifted behind him and snaked your arms around his shoulders, resting them on his strong chest. Your lips pressed to the hair atop his head. The salt-and-pepper streaked strands that once were combed back on his head but had since begun to fall into his eyes and around his temples. “Just, come to sleep. I miss you. I miss my Papa.”

And you realized that this man, this hopelessly devoted man beneath the cloak of your arms was the picture of leadership. A perfect blend of authority and quiet strength. Measured. Loving. Dedicated. And when necessary, absolutely ruthless.

Papa sighed at your admission and reached up to place his non-dominant hand over one of yours, his pen still gripped tight in the other. “Il mio amore,” he began, voice apologetic and oddly tinged with dampened annoyance, “you must understand that I am everyone’s Papa. The work I do is necessary to maintain and grow the ministry — our outreach, our education, charity — the very diffusion of our beliefs lies within my leadership.”

At his dismissal, you felt your grip around him loosen, your hands sliding from around his shoulders as you stepped away from him. “You think I don’t know that? You are one man, Copia. You can’t do it all,” you began as you ran your hand through your hair in frustration. You stepped to the side to better face him, hoping to see him — even just a glance at the mismatched eyes you were growing to love. “I’m tired of watching you run yourself ragged trying. And quite frankly, I’m tired of being left behind while you choose your work over everything else in your life.”

Copia’s eyes finally rose to meet yours. His voice changed from his more understanding and apologetic (possibly even patronizing) tone to one of seriousness. “My work is my duty…my oath to the lightbringer, to his infernal majesty.”

The earlier simmering of frustration in your chest came to a roaring boil at his retort and you moved to face him, arms crossed over your chest as you leaned just slightly over his desk. “Well, I suppose it’s good to know where your duties lie.”

With that, you left the office, leaving Copia to ruminate in the reverberating slam of the heavy oak door and the ringing of your words repeating in his head.

Copia tried his best to finish up the task he’d been in the middle of when you’d stopped by his office at the end of the clergy wing, but no matter how much he attempted to focus, he couldn’t drag his mind away from the argument you’d just shared. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he had been neglectful in other areas of his life. After a light yawn escaped from his lips, he decided to pack up his work and return back to your shared room. Afterall, he probably owes you an apology.

He didn’t even remember walking back to the papal chambers, the weight of his exhaustion being so heavy that it dulled his sense of time. Despite this, when he entered your shared room, he still had the wherewithal to show slight shock that you were still awake and waiting for him on the sitting room chaise.

“Tesoro,” he started, walking around the loveseat to approach you, “I am sorry for the way that I spoke earlier—”

His apology was cut off, however, when you held up a hand as if to nonverbally signal for him to stop. His eyebrows creased just slightly in confusion.

“Go to our bedroom and get undressed,” you said, voice devoid of any emotion yet strangely demanding given your usual countenance. As he opened his mouth to protest, you raised an eyebrow, holding your hand up again to silence him once more. With this, Copia’s eyes adopted a slight glimmer and his lips fought the desire to curve into a smirk. He knew what this meant.

He took a step closer to you and his voice lowered as he spoke. “You want to play Papa tonight, dolcezza?” As he approached you, you fought the desire to conform to him, to allow him to take hold of the reins that he so often gripped.

You steadied your countenance and gave him a simple nod in retort.

This time, his lips made the final curve into the smirk he had tried to withhold. As he made his way into the bedroom, his gloveless hand reached towards his neck to loosen his blue cravat (a favorite of yours, he remembered), and unfasten the buttons lining the center of his shirt. He shrugged both of them off and set them on the bench at the foot of the bed before working to remove his pants, belt, shoes, and socks. Soon enough, he was left only in his boxers, and he began to move towards the bed, assuming your insistence that he get some rest.

Instead, you nonchalantly walked by him as you rounded the four-poster bed. “I said undressed, Papa,” you remarked coolly.

He turned to look at you, eyebrows raised once more, before his expression crinkled slightly. “As you wish, amore mio,” he said. Your face remained stoic.

The truth was, as you waited for him to return from his office after your discussion, you realized that you had two choices. You could be angry with him for the neglect he’d shown to your relationship. It would definitely be well-founded, and you had every right to give him a prolonged cold shoulder in retaliation.

Or, you could approach the situation with the empathy you had craved from him. You could help him realize that his ascension to papacy did not require him to work himself to the bone. On the contrary, it should allow him to revel in the devotion that others craved to provide to him.

You’d decided on the latter.

Papa slid the silken fabric of his boxers down his toned legs (oh, how you’d love to worship those legs) and let them pool on the floor below as he stepped out of them. You motioned to the bed with nothing more than a flick of your gaze, and he sat against the edge.

“Back against the headboard, Papa.” Your voice felt weirdly not your own. Not that you were complaining, by any means. You felt a surge of confidence and power prickling through your body and you couldn’t help but wonder if this is what he felt like when he presided over Mass.

Copia scooted his body back to the headboard, back flush against the aged wood, and set his palms down against the pillows. After reaching down to grab his discarded cravat (to which you internally smiled as you noticed the blue hue), your feet carried you towards him, padding softly against the carpet in the papal suite, and you pulled up the sheer organza of your nightgown to reveal the thigh-high stockings you’d adorned while waiting for him to finish in his office. His pupils widened.

Slipping them off with deliberate purpose, you gathered them both in your hands by their length and reached to grab his right wrist. Without hesitation, you looped the black nylon fabric around him and began securing him to the headboard. “You better than anyone know the values of our church,” -the nylon tightens- “the importance of self indulgence” -pull- “practicing the sin of lust” -loop- “showing our devotion to the one below through celebration of carnal desire.” He watched as you tightened the knot, testing its strength, his eyes deeply curious as he allowed this scenario to play out. You then brought forth his cravat and secured his left hand to the other side in symmetry.

You backed away and admired your prize. There he sat — the leader of the Ministry of Satan, Papa Emeritus IV, his Unholy Eminence, looking back at you while restrained against the bed with his infernal eye burning. With what? You wondered. Curiosity? Anger? Lust? Annoyance? Intrigue? He opened his mouth to speak, and you reached forward to press a single finger to his lips.

“You’ve spent so much time speaking on behalf of the church that I think you’ve forgotten how to listen.”

And it was true. All of his duties hung heavy on his shoulders. His ascension to papacy only seemed to increase the workload, and in recognizing his competence, the other senior clergy members dumped task after task upon him that he knew were not required of his predecessors. But, he’d wanted this. He’d yearned for it for so long. How could he stand up against the very ministry that he vowed to serve eternally?

Once more, you lifted up the flowy nightgown to reveal a pair of white satin lace panties. A symbol of purity, innocence — a stark contrast to your actions and the wicked man in front of you. Your thumbs hooked under the waistband and you slid them off, before neatly balling them up in your fist. “Open,” you directed. Surprisingly, Copia obeyed. You smirked and pushed the fabric past his lips and into his mouth, effectively silencing him.

Your attention turned to his legs splayed out before you. His strong thighs sat parallel to one another as they rested against the pillow-top mattress. Stretching forward, you began to run your hands along each thigh, enjoying the feel of the muscles beneath your palms as they lightly flexed under your touch. “I love these thighs,” you murmured, almost to yourself. You moved to straddle him, climbing just above his knees with your legs on either side of his. Lifting your arms slightly, you loosened the front tie to the bodice of your nightgown, then pulled both breasts out of the scoop neck. They sat directly in front of his painted face, and your eyes watched his as they traveled across the expanse of your chest, his kohl-colored lips barely parted. You swore you heard a noise escape from them.

You leaned in, breasts brushing against his bare skin as you hovered your mouth by his ear. “Patience,” you breathed, a smirk evident in your tone. As you pulled away, you licked your lips and continued. “You’ve proven that you’re very good at doling out orders. Now,” you trailed your finger down his chest, pausing at the bottom of his sternum, “let’s see if you know how to follow them.”

You knew at this moment that your attention, your affection, was what he craved. However, you also knew that for him to learn to let go, you couldn’t give him what he wanted so easily. Not just yet. So, you leaned back slightly and hovered your bare crotch against his own. You could feel the heat of the both of you and you smiled, pushing down just barely to push your mons against his length. It involuntarily twitched against you and you used this moment to pull back further, earning you a near whine from him (which you purposefully ignored).

As you sat back against his legs, you looked back down at them, biting your lip. “Fuck, touring has done so much for you. I can’t get enough of these,” you spoke, running your hands along the skin of his quads. “You never have time to let me feel them against me. How sculpted the muscles are, how strong they feel…”

With that, you shuffled your body so that you were straddling his left thigh, your own heat ghosting against the skin of it. You began to press your core down against him, putting pressure against your clit. Looking up, you locked eyes with him. “Do you feel what they do to me?” you asked, beginning to move your hips just slightly, just so, so that he could feel your wetness slipping against him. “How wet it makes me just thinking about touching you?”

Copia groaned against the fabric of the panties in his mouth. It was muffled but audible, which made you realize just how loud it would be without the gag.

“And yet…you deny me? All for your work?” Your voice took on a tone of inquisitive mock innocence and hurt, and you creased your eyebrows for effect. Forgetting about the restraints, Copia moved his arms to grab onto you, but groaned again as he realized he was secured into place.

“What was the saying? ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?’” At this, you reached down and grabbed onto his erection, trapping it between your leg and his as you ground down on the top of his thigh, pussy pushing down much more forcefully. You let out a moan and tilted your head back at the feeling. He was nearly shaking beneath you.

Your hips found a slow yet strong rhythm as you gyrated against him. With every forward movement, your leg squeezed against his cock and he let out a series of noises — muffled whimpers and moans — and eventually, his eyelids tightly pressed shut.

“Is…is pastoral care one of your duties, Papa?” You breathed out, your own voice becoming more lust-dipped as you moved against him. “When you’re taking care of your flock…all of your flock…does that include their desires?” You reached up and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “Aren’t I not part of your flock, Papa?”

He nodded in your hand, eyes nearly ablaze as he all but came undone beneath you. He was so hard it was almost painful, and as you moved above him, riding his thigh like a fucking mechanical bull, your own visage was morphed into one of powerful pleasure. Your tempo increased and you let out a shaky moan at the pressure building low in your abdomen. You were close to feeling the release you’d craved from him for god knows how long. This, along with his own impending orgasm, caused him to spit out the panties from his mouth.

“Dolcezza, please, do not tease me like this,” he whined, words dripping with need. His papal paints were smeared around the mouth and chin from your touch and you bit your lip at the sight. He pulled on the wrist restraints. “Need you,” he choked out. You smirked and immediately ceased your motions against him. His face fell.

“Let’s see if you can use your mouth for something more useful.”

You moved from his thigh, leaving his cock unattended as it dripped for you, hungry and red, nearly pulsating. Suddenly, you stood up and straddled him, bringing your core directly to his face. His increased breath danced across the slick of your pussy and you held back a groan of your own. “If your duties lie only to the church, then maybe you should prove your devotion to honoring the one below.”

Without warning, you slid your hand into his hair and brought his mouth to your wet heat. A strangled groan erupted from him and he immediately dove in, nose against your mound as he fervently moved his tongue between your impossibly slick folds. You reached out with the hand not currently lost within his hair and gripped onto the top of the headboard to steady yourself.

Copia flattened out his tongue and you began to buck your hips against his face, riding him as he broadly licked up and down your clit and to your entrance. You were certain you were making some sort of pleasurable sound, but at the moment, it was as if the world and all of its stimulation paused. The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of his skillful mouth against you, his eyes shut as he ate you out like a starved man.

His tongue moved to flick against your sensitive bud and he wrapped his lips around it before sucking harshly. It was a move that he knew drove you crazy, and the burning in your thighs as you tried to stabilize yourself heightened the pressure. You could feel your own legs shaking, but you continued to grind against him, and for the first time, you wished his hands weren’t restrained so that he could fuck you with his fingers, too.

“You are so good at this,” you hummed out, looking down to watch him as you rode his face. The previous tension from your near orgasm on his thigh was back, and your own reserve was faltering. He flickered his eyes open and growled against your cunt at the sight of you above him, trembling and absolutely wrecked from arousal, and the combination of the vibration of his noises and intensity of his stare sent you reeling over the edge.

You cried out his name, head snapped back as your hand gripping onto the headboard turned white-knuckled. He continued to move his tongue up and down your folds, occasionally flicking his tongue against your oversensitive clit as he helped you through your orgasm.

Eventually, you pulled away sea-legged and released your grasp from his now messed coif, sinking down onto your knees. Your own breath was ragged and you gripped onto his shoulders as you tried to steady yourself. He looked directly ahead at you with a prurient expression, the paint of his cheeks and nose and chin smeared and saturated with your arousal. In a normal situation, he’d make a racy or teasing remark, but he remained silent. It was as if he had finally learned his place.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you placed a solitary kiss to his sternum, relishing in the feeling of his chest hair against your lips and chin. You then moved south, mouth lightly kissing and sucking on the skin of his abdomen, the angular hip bones that framed his cock, and the trail of hair right below his belly button.

His neglected length twitched as your face brushed against it and you smirked, sitting up just barely to look at it. Reaching out, you grasped onto him, grip firm, and began to languidly stroke.

“How could I forget about you?” you cooed, thumb pad pressing against his frenulum before you continued your pace. “You deserve to feel good.” He groaned at the contact and his head jerked back against the solid headboard. You chuckled darkly and licked your lips at the sight of him below you. “The lightbringer would be disappointed if their chosen figurehead didn’t properly spoil in self-indulgent sins of the flesh? Wouldn’t he?”

Copia whined beneath you, but you paid no mind, continuing your slow movements. You lowered your head, breath tickling against the end of him, and began to rub his shaft and tip against your cheeks and lips. “I love your dick,” you said, voice barely above a sultry whisper. You began to press kisses to every inch of his cock, savoring him, worshiping him.

He squirmed beneath you, and unable to restrain himself, he groaned out, “Cazzo, please.”

You stopped and peered up at him. His eyes were shining with tears of frustration and you were sure that the mix of submission and denial was pushing him to his limits. But despite the look of exasperation on his face, you knew him well enough to know what he truly desired in this moment. And he trusted you completely, fully, to deliver him to reverie.

“Let me take care of you,” you said, pressing a kiss to the very tip of him before laving your tongue over him slowly. Copia moaned loudly and his hips twitched up into your mouth, requiring you to hold him down with your other hand. “You don’t need to control everything,” you responded, mouth still pressed against his length.

Had you been looking up, you’d have seen him nod in response, but you were too focused on what was throbbing in front of you to pay him any mind. Lips parted, you descended down his length, taking him as far into your mouth as you possibly could. Copia hissed in response and you smirked around him. You knew that the sudden sensation of warmth would be nearly unbearable, too much, and you delighted in being the one controlling his fire.

You hollowed out your cheeks and slowly popped off of him. With a swift readjustment of your frame, you straddled his thighs (marveling at the drying slick on the left one), and took his chin in hand. “Look at me,” you murmured, and he obliged. Your non-dominant hand traced the contour of his jaw, fingertips now glazed in white and grey paint, and you dipped your index finger between his lips as you positioned yourself over his cock and sunk down.

The Satanic Pope’s mouth dipped open and a low groan slipped past your finger still perched on his lip. Your own center was still sensitive from your recent orgasm and the sensation of fullness was almost overwhelming, so you stilled your movement to allow for the both of you to adjust to the feeling. For the first time, you dipped your head forward and rested your forehead against his own, your hand cupping his jaw. You could feel the sweat slicked between the both of you and you closed your eyes as a soft, shaky breath escaped you.

After a moment of blissful stillness, you opened your eyes to look at the man you currently had caged in by your arms and thighs, and you carded your fingers through his hair. His gaze held a knowing fire that you recognized as one of silent permission, of need, desire, of his own restrained dominance. With that, you gripped at his hair near the scalp and tipped his head back as you lifted yourself almost completely off of his length.

“Out there, you might be the leader of our congregation. You might proselytize to millions of siblings and fans. But right here,” your grip tightened, and you leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, “right now, you answer to me. How badly do you want it?”

“Merda, badly, so badly,” he growled. You pulled away and your telltale smirk returned to your features. He looked positively sinister. His face flushed beneath his skull paint and sweat was beading across his brow. Both of his eyes nearly black from lust-blown pupils. A manifestation of evil incarnate.

“Then take it. Take everything you need.”

And take he did. His hips canted up into you and he slid in to the hilt, flesh pressed against flesh, and you fell forward into his shoulder with a near-howl of your own at the fullness. Your hands found purchase against his pecs and you matched his movements as he pumped into you frantically. Every movement stretched you further, licked flames against the sore muscles of your legs, but you ignored the pain and moved with purpose. Your lips found his and you kissed him for the first time this evening, pouring out your loyalty into the action as his tongue pushed greedily into your mouth.

As you shifted your position atop him just slightly, his cock brushed against your g-spot and you cried out in euphoria. The corners of his lips curled against yours as he panted through his movements, knowingly hitting that spot with every single upward thrust.

You swallowed back another moan as you tried to speak. “Fill me so good,” you nearly slurred as you pulled from the kiss. “Look at me,” you said, voice less commanding and more sweet. You knew your release was imminent and you wanted him to visualize the effect he had on you. How he made your body implode as he dragged you down to hell himself.

Your own words were rushed, nearly babbled as you continued. “Look at how good you make me feel.” His eyes locked with yours and you rested one hand on his chest, the other snaking to grasp onto the nape of his neck, while moonbeams erupted in your skin as your climax took hold. Your jaw dropped just slightly and although your mouth threatened a moan, no sound came out as he fervently bucked up into you.

Your shared motions sped up and you could feel how close he was by the sloppiness of his thrusts as he helped you ride out your release. “Take what you need,” you repeated in a pant. “Take everything you need from me.”

You pushed through the overstimulation and watched as his hands balled into fists in the restraints and he planted his feet firmly onto the bed, fucking up into you like he never had before. His eyes shone with unsprung tears and he was spitting out a slew of curses in Italian, with affirmations of love peppered in throughout.

“Cazzo, dolcezza, I-” And just as hard as he had climbed, he crashed down violently. He came roughly with a sound that sounded like a mix between a groan and a sob, hips jerking as he pumped his spend into you with wild abandon. He filled you so deeply that you could feel him beginning to leak down your inner thigh as he pistoned through his orgasm.

“So good for me,” you purred, pressing a kiss to the place where his hairline began at the top of his forehead, ignoring the sweat-soaked strands that fell into his tear-filled eyes. As you pulled away, you saw one of those tears fall and you quickly swiped it with your thumb. And with that, it was as if the dam had been broken, and both eyes began spilling rushed streams down his cheeks.

You moved to quickly untie his wrists from the headboard and as soon as he was set free, his arms wrapped around your middle and his head fell to your chest. “So good for me,” you repeated, more of a coo this time, and you pressed another kiss to the top of his head as your hands lovingly traced up and down his back.

You sat like that for a while, holding him as he softened inside of you, his tears and quiet sobs the backdrop of your denouement. He almost surprised you when he lifted his head to properly look at you.

“Mi dispiace, tesoro. I don’t know…I’m not sure where this is coming from,” he admitted, thumbs rubbing against the curve of your spine.

You smiled softly, reassuringly, and brought one of his wrists to your mouth. A red mark had formed from the friction of the cravat, and you kissed at it soothingly. “You have needs too, Papa,” you said as you continued to kiss at the sensitive skin. He hummed in response and you smiled again, this time a little wider.

“Thank you for letting me love you.”

And in his eyes, you saw a dawning realization, a comfort of sorts that came to flood his mind. He had known this had been an exercise of shared power, of course, of allowing you to express your needs in a way that the both of you enjoyed, even though you hadn’t previously explored the swap in control. However, as you took the reins, you’d gifted him with something he hadn’t anticipated — you’d guided him to liberation, encouraging him to release his expectations (the ones he’d built up of himself and the ministry) and just be.

Your permission for simple existence was the best thing he hadn’t known to ask for.

image/gif credit: imgur

#ghost band #ghost bc #copia #papa emeritus iv #the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #copia x reader #popia x reader #papa iv x reader #sub copia #dom/sub relationship #ghost fanfic

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gravehags · 6 months ago

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in my head the ministry is gothic revival - the foundations and crypt are much, much older than the 19th century structures that sit upon them but the actual buildings that make up its “campus” are relatively new. gothic but not quite 100% faithful to the original inspiration, definitely with a hint of victorian excess and whimsy. vaulted ceilings, arched doorways, creaky parquet flooring covered by well-worn rugs. lots of nooks and crannies for people to nestle themselves in for a romantic rendezvous. mullioned windows, intricate jewel tone wallpaper, and an abundance of decorative lamps. beautiful with a hint of sinister.

#the ministry #the band ghost

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galaxiasgreen · 13 days ago

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🎆🎇Flowers in the Sky

Ominis oneshot with fluff and light angst [G-rated, 2.6k]

“What do they look like?” he asked into her silence. “Fireworks?” After a pause, she gathered the tips of her fingers together, touched his forehead, and spread them quickly. “Like flowers in the sky,” she murmured. “Blooming outwards in the most vibrant colours you could ever imagine. Just looking at them makes you feel… hopeful.”

Ominis Gaunt had never celebrated Guy Fawkes Night, until one day he was caught unawares in third year.

A/N: Written for the prompt 'comfort food'. Feat. Gibby as the Reader as usual, but with more focus on their friendship. Short and fluffy, light angst. Enjoy! <3

[read on AO3]

Remember, remember, the fifth of November… — English folk poem, 1870

When Ominis was seven, Aunt Noctua invited him over for her birthday.

It was the first time he’d been allowed to leave the house without family supervision. His father, in particular, did not care to celebrate his sister, and since Ominis was his least favourite son, he had no qualms leaving him at her estate for a few hours, if it could give him a moment to forget Ominis existed at all.

Ominis didn’t mind. He got to spend time with his favourite aunt, and that alone was wonderful.

At sundown, she had the house elves prepare a cold dinner of game pie and honey-soaked parsnips that they ate in the morning room, Ominis babbling about his recent achievements, learning more braille words, new facts he’d picked up and new answers to questions he’d learnt about the world. Noctua was patient and listened intently, and when dinner was finished, Ominis sang her happy birthday over a cake three inches wide and plumped with buttercream frosting.

“Happy birthday, auntie,” he finished.

“Thank you, Ominis,” she said, clearly amused. “Would you like a slice?”

They moved to the parlour overlooking the modest gardens, walls a dark, pine green that absorbed enough lamp glow that it left them in relative darkness. With Noctua’s permission, Ominis took the cake to the sofa by the window to eat, digging the fork in by the light of moon.

A sudden, deafening bang from far in the distance made him flinch – he dropped his cutlery, and the plate skittered off his lap and shattered on the floor.

“Ominis! Oh, dear.” Noctua set her plate aside to kneel by the shards. “Are you cut?”

“No, I-I’m sorry, I don’t—”

It clapped again, a pulsing through Ominis’ ears. He shot up and scrambled back from the window.

“What— what is that? Is someone coming to hurt us?”

In seconds Noctua was gently rubbing his shoulders, easing a panic that made his heart beat too fast. “I’m sorry, Ominis, I should’ve warned you. It’s the Muggles in the nearby village, they’re celebrating Guy Fawkes Night.”

“W-What’s Guy Fawkes Night?”

“It’s a festival, don’t worry. Hundreds of years ago a Muggle named Guy Fawkes attempted to explode parliament buildings using barrels of gunpowder— oh, here comes another—”

This time he managed to steel himself against the great clanging that followed, and the ricochet of sharper bursts after that. Noctua hushed him, guiding him back to the sofa. His stomach churned. That noise was like a new log that crackled in a fireplace, only about ten times louder and far more unpleasant.

“They celebrate someone destroying their Ministry?”

“He failed, Ominis. That’s what they’re celebrating. Those loud noises – they’re fireworks. Little explosions of colourful gunpowder in the sky. It’s… imagine a Confringo hex, except brighter, more… beautiful.”

It certainly didn’t sound appealing. Like thunder without the growling build-up or the steadier heartbeat of rain. At least that, Ominis could brace for. Fireworks were one, abrupt beat. How could anyone find that beautiful? Another burst, making the hair on his arms stand.

“Can’t they celebrate quietly?”

Noctua chuckled. “Muggles don’t do life quietly, as you know. Reparo, Scourgify.” The plate mended itself and the rug was cleaned, but there was no saving the smashed cake. “I’ll fetch you another slice.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, expecting punishment.

But Noctua’s voice was a soft lilt, at odds with the cacophony outside. “It’s all right,” she soothed. “My birthday happens to coincide with Guy Fawkes every year. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to the sound.”

She talked much about the holiday that evening. Ominis wasn’t one for the histories of his own people, let alone the Muggles – but this festival piqued his curiosity enough to sit and listen between the staccato march of the fireworks. Despite how barbaric and antiquated the festivities were, there was something oddly charming about Guy Fawkes Night. A celebration of rebels’ folly. At one point Noctua quietened, head lolling to the window when the fireworks grew in frequency, and Ominis could tell she was relishing the spectacle.

“What do they look like?” he asked into her silence. “Fireworks?”

After a pause, she gathered the tips of her fingers together, touched his forehead, and spread them quickly. “Like flowers in the sky,” she murmured. “Blooming outwards in the most vibrant colours you could ever imagine. Just looking at them makes you feel… hopeful.”

She stroked his head then, knowing he would never, truly, understand. Ominis was content with it. He couldn’t enjoy the fireworks, but if she wanted this quiet revelry, who was he to stop her?

It became an annual tradition for them. On the fifth of November, allowed a few hours of recreational time together, Noctua invited Ominis over to enjoy her birthday fireworks together. The cake varied each time, from chocolate to red velvet to Victoria sponge, and though it wasn’t his favourite dessert, nor were the sounds he came to associate it with, something compelled him to accept the invitation each year. That something, the memories of spending one evening where he didn’t have to worry about his parents or Marvolo or whatever Dark Magic they employed in the annals of nightfall, became a comfort he looked forward to every winter season.

And when Noctua went missing, the compulsion dimmed – it would be wrong to celebrate without her, a strike against her memory. So he held off at first year at Hogwarts, clinging to the silent promise to wait until she returned.

She didn’t that year. Nor the second. On those days he retreated to his dorm and drew the curtains around his bed, wondering where Noctua had gone and whether, at that moment, she was remembering those evenings at the window of parlour too, the sky awash with flame and light. He did not understand what it was to look upon colour, but without his aunt to guide him through life, he did understand the feel of monochrome.

By third year, when the pain of Noctua’s disappearance had faded to scars, he was caught unawares during dusk on the fourth, when the rapid drumbeats in the sky signalled the start of Hogsmeade’s annual fireworks display. He’d flinched, startling you as you were crossing the bridge back towards the common rooms before dinner.

“Oh! Are you all right?” you asked, flicking your head between him and the village in the distance. “Is it the fireworks?”

“They’ve caught me off-guard, is all,” he said, taking a breath. Suddenly he could smell Noctua’s parlour, musky with clove and cinnamon and the dust of icing sugar. “I forgot it was the fifth tomorrow.”

“Ooooo, I love Bonfire Night! They used to have a big one in the middle of Waterlow Park, but then they moved further out the city to stop ‘trees catching fire’. Booooo! My friends and I got to run around the fancy, rich people houses asking for stuff to chuck in.”

“Sounds perfectly suited to you,” he mused.

“It was! I love burning things! HAHAHAH!” A firework howled skywards, trailed by a boom. “What do you do to celebrate? Shoot spells up, or something?”

“I’ve never been to a celebration.”

You stopped right in the middle of the bridge. He sighed. Here we go.

“You’ve never been to a Bonfire Night? Never thrown the little twig effigies into a fire? Or gone to a fireworks display?”

“Wizards don’t celebrate Guy Fawkes Night, Gibby. It’s not a tradition for us.”

“But why not? Imagine how different the magical world would be if the Muggle government exploded! There would be chaos!”

He snorted. “Any more than this morning, when you knocked over a crate of Chinese Chomping Cabbages that shredded twelves sets of robes?”

“Hey, I said I was sorry! And they shouldn’t have put that crate so close to me. Garlick knows I’d topple Big Ben if I could.”

“Regardless,” he said, withholding the deep urge to pinch his nose, “I can’t see fireworks, remember? I have no notion what appeals about them. To me they’re simply loud and jarring noises.”

“Ohhhh.” You hummed with thought. “Okay, they are very loud, but I promise they’re really pretty! Like big, brilliant bursts of colour.”

“I’m sure.”

You stopped, and tugged on his sleeve to stop him too.

“So you don’t like Bonfire Night?”

“I didn’t say that.” The bridge was empty, but he lowered his voice anyway. “It’s my aunt’s birthday on the fifth. She’s been missing for a few years now.”

“Oh no. I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is.” Although the truth of it hollowed him out. “I used to celebrate with her at her house. She’d feed me cake and we’d watch the fireworks together. She used to describe them to me, the colours. In hindsight, I think she was ashamed she enjoyed them.”

“Because they were Muggle?”

“Because I couldn’t.”

“Well, we’ll just have to change that, won’t we?” You jabbed a thumb towards the village. “Let’s go to Hogsmeade tomorrow! It’ll be fun, promise!”

“She was right, Gibby,” he said gently. “I wouldn’t be able enjoy them as you do. So thank you, but I’ll pass. Sebastian or Anne might like to go.”

You opened, then closed your mouth, and Ominis was about to let the subject go and tug you along before suddenly—

“OH MY GIDDY AUNT, I HAVE A GREAT IDEA! This is going to blow your socks off! Don’t go anywhere!” You started off, then jogged on the spot. “I mean, do go anywhere! But keep thinking! Thinking thoughts! See you later!”

“What are you—?” But you had already squeezed through the door and scampered ahead. “Wha—? Gibby!”

There was no telling what machinations were concocting in that head of yours. Sighing, Ominis gathered his things, casting an ear one last time to the fireworks in the distance. At least Noctua would be happy he’d made some approximation of a friendship, despite how frequently you befuddled him with your odd Muggle behaviour. Would his aunt like you as much as she liked the fireworks?

Or was it pointless to wonder for someone who was probably dead?

The next day, Sebastian and Anne were chatting about the Hogsmeade fireworks display over lunch, and how excited they were to go.

“Want to come, Ominis?” Anne leant to him and added with a whisper, “Gonna’ ram a sparkler down Sebastian’s trousers. You won’t want to miss it.”

“I’ll shove your head in a Catherine Wheel, how about that?”

“No, thank you,” Ominis said, as Anne kicked her brother under the table. “But I’m certain Gibby will enjoy it.”

“She’s not going either,” she said crossly. “What’s with you two? You’re not going off to snog, are you?”

That was odd. It wasn’t as if you were doing anything tonight – and you’d certainly not expressed disinterest in going yesterday.

“He hasn’t denied it,” Sebastian added smugly.

Ominis scoffed and got to his feet. “Yes, a passionate snogging session. It’s been booked for weeks. Tongue was an extra Sickle.”

He didn’t manage to find you before the lunch hour ended, leaving him in an unnerving state of suspicion. Your ‘ideas’ were about as safe as Garreth’s potions experiments. Every corner he turned, he feared someone would light a rocket or shoot a cannon in his face, but as night fell and the fireworks began outside, his fears slowly cooled to a low simmer. You must have gone, or forgotten. Either was ideal.

“OMINIS! There you are!”

Just as he reached the Slytherin common room, bound for an evening of relaxation, he found you hovering by the pillars with a tub strapped around your shoulders.

“I’ve been waiting for you!” you said, restless with excitement. “Dump your stuff and let’s go!”

“Go where? I thought you were going to Hogsmeade?”

“I had a better idea! Quick, we don’t want to miss any more!”

Reluctantly he left his bag and things aside, and let you lead him through hallways, across bridges and up stairs until you’d brought him to one of the Bell Tower’s balconies facing Hogsmeade and the sky beyond. The fireworks display was in full effect, barraging the air with streams of explosive confetti, but it was bitingly cold.

“Are you going to explain what you’re doing?”

You roped a blanket and scarf around his shoulders. “Yes, just— hold on…” Then you opened the tub’s lid. “Huzzah!”

Flicking his wand, he pieced together the scene: you, holding something out to him rectangular in shape. A tray. So you’d made something. Tentatively he reached forwards, brushing his fingertips over a warm papery baking cup, and the springy cake within.

“Fairy cakes!” you said. “Cakes so small a fairy could eat it. No actual fairies involved, thankfully.”

He took one, skimming his finger cautiously over the cake’s top, catching a small coin of frosting. Vanilla, he recognised, when he licked the spot off his nail. The cake itself had barely risen over the cup’s rim; it really was small enough for a fairy.

“I know your aunt went missing,” you said, lowering the tray, “but it sounded like she really cared about you, and you miss her, so I thought you might like to remember her…”

It wasn’t sadness or loss he felt, that sudden rush up his chest. It was yearning, nostalgia. Just the smell of the cakes and sound of the applauding fireworks, the percussive bass to your melody alto, was enough to coax a pensive smile to his lips.

Yes, he thought. It is nice to remember her.

“This is very kind. Thank you.”

Encouraged, you took a cake for yourself and knocked it against his. “Cheers!” you cried, a toast. “I didn’t know what flavour you liked so I made two sets of six.”

“You spent all evening on a dozen cakes?”

“Oh, pffft, Ominis, I can make these with my eyes closed. I took so long because there’s one more surprise! Try it!”

He took a bite. The flavour wasn’t gentle – it exploded full-force in his mouth, the sharp punch of lemon mellowed by the sweeter notes of elderflower, fluffy, moist and— hard?

The granule rolled along his tongue like sugar – when he crunched into it, it popped, sending a wave down his taste buds like a thousand fingers playing piano. The sensation was overwhelming. Pop pop pop pop pop. He froze at first, trying to understand what was happening, an allergic reaction, poison? – no, you would never – but quickly realised it wasn’t unpleasant at all. Actually it was… amusing.

“Do you like it?” you asked, bouncing. “Do you?”

“What is this? I— my mouth is… fizzing?”

You giggled. “It’s called fizzing candy! An American wizard made it. Not made public yet. He sent some to Honeydukes to sample!”

“But—” His brow tightened. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you make me cake with this fizzing candy?”

On cue, a firework shattered outwards, but no matter how loudly it clamoured over the horizon, it could never smother the sound of your laugh.

“To show you, silly! That cake… that’s what a firework is like. Explosive, and lively, and fun! And since you can’t see them, I figured you might as well taste them.”

It made sense how Noctua described them now. Like a Confringo hex in edible form. Everything, from the flavour, texture and now the fizz, pictured a firework so clearly in his mind it was as if he’d kissed the night sky.

And he supposed… yes, it was rather beautiful in its own way.

You bit into your own cake and chewed with your mouth open, making a noise that sounded like “Fee’s so funny!” as the fizzing candy crackled. “Wha’ do you fink?”

A firework squealed as he grinned.

“It’s wonderful.”

When it exploded, he took another tentative bite and found himself laughing, raising a hand cover his mouth, an attempt to preserve his manners. But you started to laugh too, big and brilliant and bursting, no care to what you looked like and how loud you were.

It gave him more hope than any flower in the sky.

Please like/ reblog/ share if you enjoyed <3

[A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet masterlist] [Divider credit]

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow #noctua gaunt #ominis gaunt x mc #if you squint #gibby #acvasverse #my oneshots #my writing #my stuff

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evereverest2 · 3 months ago

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Mourning ~ a Terzomega drabble

i was wondering how omega might deal with terzo’s murder……….

[CW!!!!!!!!! violence, murder, “cannibalism” …… read at your own risk]

Papa Emeritus III was murdered by Sister Imperator.

We all know it happened. Cardinal Copia took over his reign, toted around his head like the trophy it was. A prize to be won, that head, cleanly cut across the neck as if there was no struggle, as if none of us knew what a fighter our Master was. A photoshoot, as if none of us mourned the ultimate victim of family politics.

But no one mourned quite like Omega ghoul.

We knew of the ghouls, of course. We see them on the stage in all their glamored-up glory, we see them when they sneak upstairs to steal our food, and we are told to avoid them at certain times of the year. But we weren’t allowed to interact with them, not unless they asked us for something. The only exception was Omega ghoul, who often assigned us our duties especially around important events.

So it was a sudden shift when Omega ghoul stopped being in charge of us. Instead it was Master Copia, who while certainly sweet on the outside, always gave me an uneasy feeling that tingled up the back of my neck like a spider.

I was a bit more privy to the Ministry’s secrets than my fellows. I saw Omega ghoul walking towards the Papal residences nearly every night, because I was the one scrubbing the floors down that hallway. Every now and again I would hear what sounded like violence from Master Terzo, but when followed by nothing more, the picture was painted in my mind.

What a special feeling, having this dirty secret. I would give my life for Master Terzo, and though he did not know it, my heart was warm with the feeling of his secret nestled inside of me, never to be told to another soul. If Omega Ghoul had passed me by, I would turn away any of my Siblings from descending down the corridor. If there was an important matter, I would take it on, and ignore the salacious sounds I heard behind closed doors.

But there were no more secret trysts after Master Terzo had gone. I rarely saw Omega ghoul anymore.

Indeed, I no longer wanted to see him. Not after that night.

The night Master Terzo had disappeared I had been called upon for a cleaning. I entered Master Terzo’s office to find it a mess, a mess that made me sick to my stomach. At the time, I hadn’t known of his murder, though in retrospect the thought sends chills up my spine. A knocked over chair, scattered books, torn papers, a broken lamp, even the heavy desk was knocked askew. I put my head down and I cleaned, asking no questions, because as I have come to learn, people like Master Terzo asked questions.

I wish I had kept my head down, though. I wish I had not noticed the crack behind the bookshelf, the crack that widened with ease with only the slightest bit of effort. I wish I had ignored the gentle sobbing I heard echoing from the staircase that led down, I wish I hadn’t followed the noise, I wish I hadn’t seen something I shouldn’t have seen.

Down the dark gloomy staircase, the cries grew stronger. When I reached the bottom, I couldn’t quite understand what I was seeing. It was only when those lion eyes glinted up at me from the limited light that I finally understood.

A skull painted face lie in a basket at the foot of a guillotine. I almost laughed. How ridiculous to find a guillotine here, in a secret passage leading down from Master Terzo’s office. But I was too horrified to find the amusement, for I knew my Master’s head was in that basket.

Imperator was there. She turned towards me. She was calm, too calm as she picked up the basket with the head and walked to me. She grabbed my shoulder and told me, since I was down there, to clean up after him. She walked past me, up the staircase. At first I thought she meant the pool of blood just beneath the guillotine, but as my eyes adjusted to the room, I saw him.

No one mourned quite like Omega ghoul, who I found in that dark room on the night of his lover’s murder. No, no one quite did. For as I stood at the foot of the stairs, I watched Omega ghoul eating the body of my Master. I watched blood pour from his lips, heard the sounds of flesh tearing in his powerful jaws, stood frozen as he glared at me and cried. Cried harder than I’d ever seen a man cry, let alone a ghoul. Sobbed and kept eating his body. My Master’s body. Consuming the dead man as if it could save his heart.

buy me a kofi <3

#dead dove do not eat #terzomega #ghost bc #the band ghost #omega ghost #ghost fanfiction #terzo ghost #omega x terzo #papa emeritus iii #omega ghoul #worship the eversnake

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puuuders · 2 months ago

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Worth the Risk - Terzomega Oneshot

Smut. Minors DNI.

Omega and Terzo have adult fun time for the first time.

A/N - VERY CLICHE "sneaking into bedroom late at night" type shit but it's fun to write.

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The corridors of the ministry were uncannily silent during these hours of the night, or morning, considering it was in the AM. However, everyone was asleep at 1 AM, apart from Omega who cautiously clung to the dark gray walls as he traveled silently down the hall, his steps wide and quick. He would not have to travel far, as his own dorm was at the end of the Siblings hall, only a corner away from the elevator that led to the next floor where the Emeritus hall was located. Unfortunately, though, his destination was the last room, since his newly obtained partner was the youngest in the family and subsequently had his room created last.

Omega’s anxiety was almost tangible, coursing through his body in the form of quintessence that caused his veins to glow a faint white. It was covered in his nightwear mostly apart from his hands, his neck being too bulky to really show it. The crevasses in his horns emitted a soft, dark purple, the colors spiking as he slowed his pace past Secondo’s room. He was not as nervous about Primo. Primo was just as friendly towards the ghouls as Terzo was, yet it was still not a comforting thought for someone to know about his and Terzo’s secret affair. He debated for hours over the phone with Terzo about whether or not the risk was worth it, eventually caving to the temptation after receiving a suggestive image of Terzo’s neck and bare shoulders that were perfectly illuminated from the orange glow of his bedside lamp.

Omega just about broke into a sprint as he successfully made it past Secondo’s room, raising a shaking hand to knock on Terzo’s door. It would be their first entirely private meeting together, and there was no time for Omeg’s nerves to make him hesitate due to the secrecy of their relationship. They could not be caught by a wandering Sibling or Clergy member at any cost. Just as he knocked, the door squeaked open, and Terzo gently guided Omega in by latching onto his fingers and pulling him inside the room.

The room was very dark in nature. The walls were panted black, the bay window draped over with a lacy purple curtain. Black, purple and gold was the theme, which made perfect sense to Omega considering Terzo’s choice in papal attire. Omega was almost distracted by how beautifully the room was decorated, but snapped out of his admiration when the bed squeaked. He looked down at the shorter man, his heart dropping and face heating up in glowy purple blush as he realized what Terzo was wearing.

Lavender lingerie clung tightly to Terzo’s chest and hips, barely concealing his nipples, his bulge very apparent. He leaned back on his hands, his head cocked to the side as he crossed his legs, which were clothed with tight black stockings and garters strapped to his thighs. If the attire wasn’t enough to make Omega’s knees feel weak, then the slight pudge around the openings of the stockings and the way the garters dug into his delicately smooth thighs absolutely was. This was not visible in Terzo’s teasing photos he had sent his ghoul earlier.

The effect of Terzo’s unexpected choice of clothing made Omega’s knees wobble, and it took a simple snap of Terzo’s fingers and his index pointing downward for Omega to act as if his body was not his own, dropping down to sit on his knees. He moved forward, and gently put his clawed hands on Terzo’s knees, looking up at him, grateful that Terzo decided to take the lead. Terzo hummed in approval and arched his back, legs still crossed, exposing the curve in his lower belly and hips.

Feeling his calves, Omega found even the more muscular portions of Terzo’s body felt as dainty as he imagined those thighs and that abdomen would feel. To test his theory, Omega slid his palms upward, gripping his thighs with light pressure as Terzo uncrossed his legs. He found himself to be correct with a gentle gasp, Omega’s thick fingers dipping the skin around his thumbs, caressing with purpose. They were so silky, so smooth. An addictive feeling, the immediately developed emotional dependency causing him to push himself between his legs, rubbing up to his hips, to his waist, turning his head to leave kitten licks across his inner thigh.

”Cosí gentile, caro… Good ghoul.” Terzo sighed, his fingers now running through Omega’s white hair. Omega’s fingers climbed up to his bralette, slipping under the fabric and gliding over his pink nipples, causing Terzo to twitch and shiver.

Omega lifted upwards, still on his knees. He began kissing up his thighs, approaching dangerously close to his sensitive areas, skipping over it to plant his lips on his stomach. His hands slid to his sides, to his back, and then back to his hips, kneading his fingertips into them and teasingly playing with the thin strings that kept Terzo from being exposed.

Terzo moaned quietly as Omega began to leave small love bites across his stomach, moving his hands down to rub his back. Omega tested the waters, sliding his thumb back and forth between Terzo’s legs, growing closer to what he really wanted. It had grown twice in size since this worship began, growing warmer by the second.

“You want it, do you not?” Terzo whispered, moving his right thigh to encourage Omega more inward. “Do you want it?”

“I want it.” Omega whispered back, harshly, desperately. His fingers glided over the panties, rubbing Terzo’s solid tip with his thumb. Terzo moaned, leaning his head back and lifting his hips, allowing Omega to wiggle the panties down and rest on his thighs.

Omega’s breath lingered on Terzo’s cock as Omega admired it. It kicked, the tip glistening with small beads of precum. Greedily, Omega poked his tongue out and licked it, earning yet another shaky moan from Terzo before a gasp as Omega inserted his cock into his mouth. Terzo’s hands gripped Omega’s hair, his breath hiccuping as Omega bobbed up and down, occasionally pulling up to let his tongue swirl around the tip and drool dripped all the way down to the base. His claws caressed Terzo’s skin, soft as feathers, fragile as can be. Each gentle drag of his claws left faint red marks down his sides and hips, so he switched to his palms, watching from the side at the skin caving under his touch.

Omega could feel Terzo throb in his throat, his hands now gripping his thighs to keep him from squirming too much as his breath picked up and his back arched once more. Terzo scratched at Terzo’s back, leaving red marks of his own, though his blunt nails could never do much damage to the ghoul.

“Oh, cazzo-! Omega!” Terzo gasped, sucking in air through his teeth, his hips bucking. They jolted once more, and Omega listened to his squeaky groan as a thick substance filled his throat, burning up to his mouth and leaving some strings on his tongue for Omega to savor. He pulled off of Terzo slowly, purposefully flicking his tongue off of Terzo’s tip to make him shudder and whine. They both caught their breath before Terzo sighed.

”Good ghoul… Such a good ghoul.” He rubbed Omeg’s horn, leaning over to kiss the tip of each of them. Omega smiled and kissed his way up Terzo’s torso, rubbing his hands up his arms and leaning him back on the bead, hovering over him.

“Ah…” Terso whimpered, his own hand gliding down to touch Omega’s rock hard bulge with a smirk, “you deserve a reward, mio bravo ragazzo.”

“No,” Omega whispered, stopping Terzo’s hand and leaning down, his lips overtop Terzo’s, “maybe another night.”

”Why?” Terzo tried to sit up, concerned, but Omega stayed put, forcing Terzo to keep lying down. Omega pressed a gentle kiss against his soft lips.

”You will need… Preparation.” Omega blushed, unable to stop the smirk as Terzo’s eyes widened. “Next time.”

Terzo nodded, not wanting to pressure the ghoul if he really felt it was not a good idea yet. Though his vagueness intrigued him. He must really be packing something for the horny ghoul to deny him out of mercy. In its place, Omega delivered another gentle kiss, moving to lie down next to Terzo, trailing his kisses across his jaw and cheek before pulling away fully with a smile. Terzo giggled and faced Omega, quickly reaching down to pull his panties up and cover himself in a blanket.

“Are you cold?” Omega asked, his tail wrapping around Terzo’s thigh under the blanket. Terzo nodded and scooted closer.

”Very.”

”Come here, then.” Omega opened his arms and Terzo eagerly took his invitation, lying on Omega’s chest, feeling his strong arms hold him close. Omega purred lowly, and it was as if Omega was Terzo’s personal heater. At least, for tonight.

#ghost #the band ghost #ghost bc #terzo #papa emeritus iii #terzomega #omega ghoul #omega3 #ghost fanfiction #terzomega fanfiction #ghost smut #terzomega smut

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