#and then spit back out as a prophet

[death-of-cats]

Jon II, ACOK

Davos II, ADWD

Bran III, ADWD

A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

Theon I, TWOW

Theon as blood sacrifice to the Old Gods.

[cadaverousdecay]

i hate sleep ‼️ i need to work on my dollhouse ….

[ghost-proofbaby]

#94 sTEEEEEB

oh i am SO excited about this one. it's been too long since i've written for our boy steve 🫶

#94 - "JUDAS" BY LADY GAGA

“I couldn't love a man so purely, even prophets forgave his goofy way. I've learned love is like a brick, you can build a house or sink a dead body."

warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), fem!reader (or at least mentions of wearing lip gloss and a dress), use of whore as an insult, sort of enemies to lovers? sort of forbidden love? honestly the plot is only half-baked i just wanted porn. 18+, minors dni.

wc: 2.8k+

“If your daddy finds out about this, he’ll kill us both.” 

It’s spoken through muffled syllables, lips tight against your neck as you feel his stubble scratching the sensitive surface of your skin. 

Your hand travels up, fingers combing through soft and wavy hair as you whisper out, “If he finds out, and he won’t.” 

Bold words and sharp assumptions given your current predicament. Steve Harrington, heir to the Harrington Estate, hovering over your body. The son of the man your father hates most in the world, and he’s currently spinning a secret language across every inch of your bare skin. A painting of harsh kisses and fading teeth marks, his hands gripping every inch of the forbidden enemy below him. 

The weight of him against the center of your pelvis is almost heavier than the weight of all the choices leading you up to this moment. 

How many times had you been warned to play nice as the two of you had been raised in the same shark-infested waters? How many forced smiles had been almost-politely exchanged at galas? How many times had your mother rambled on about how that Harrington boy was nothing but trouble?

Not enough times, apparently, as your mother’s voice is the last on your mind as your nails scratch slowly down the center of Steve’s back, relishing the way he shivers and twitches under your dancing touch. 

“What would they say if they saw you like this?” he chuckles, lifting his head to look you in your eyes, a gentle hand coming up to caress a line from your temple and down your cheek, “Their little princess, consorting with the enemy’s son?” 

All the late nights spent listening to your father pace and complain about the Harrington business being in competition with his own. All the cursed names under the sun spit out in lieu of their actual names, muttered during late dinner arrivals. 

“What about your parents, hm?” you sigh out, letting your palms press flat against his bare chest, running up to wrap shaking fingers around his throat. Not quite choking him, but simply a warning: if you wanted to, you could press the cherry red of your nail deeper into his skin. Draw blood, leave a mark. You won’t, but you could. “Their little golden boy, upstairs and on his knees for the little whore of the party.”

His eyes widen. Clearly, no one had realized you’d overheard Claire Harrington’s comment when your family had entered the current gathering buzzing below. 

He rolls his eyes, “My mother’s a prude. Any woman wearing any dress above the knees is a whore.” 

He returns to all his mitigations, his plump lips fiery against your skin as they continue on their previous trail. Over your jugular, across your collarbones, settling into your sternum. Entirely unbothered and still focused on one thing only. 

“You’re right,” you breathe out wistfully, leaning your head back, a smug grin overtaking your face as he trails lower, “Besides, you’re not even on your knees yet.” 

“I could be.” 

He moves quickly, uncaring in his actions as he fumbles to lift up off the bed. The expensive comforter behind your back twists and scrunches in protest as he drops down to the ground, knees landing hard enough that it surely had to hurt. His hands grip your hips through the entire process, dragging you right with him until your legs are fully off the bed and your clothed center dangles right at the edge of the mattress.

“Is this how you want me, honey?” he grins up at you, shaking thighs bracketing each side of a shadowed face, all intentions twisting into something sinister by the dim lighting, “On my knees, begging for you?” 

“I do. But I don’t hear much begging, Harrington.” 

Sinister no longer covers it once the initial shock wears off. 

“Oh?” he hums, hands creeping up your legs. His fingers tap against your ankle before sliding up a few paces, the rhythm going steady as his palms travel up, up, up. “Allow me to fix that, baby.” 

His fingers dig into the meat of your upper thighs, tugging you even closer. You have no choice but to throw your arms out behind you as you partially collapse backwards, your entire body now shaking as you keep yourself held up to be aligned with his mouth. Every breath, almost mimicking laughs as he baits you, fans across the wet spot forming at the center of your lace crotch. 

“Please,” he breathes out just as his nose presses against your mound, taking a deep breath, “Please, let me just taste you, honey. I bet you’re so sweet, so sweet,” you let out a little gasp, hips bucking a bit at his expert words, “You like that, yeah? You gonna be sweet for me, honey? Gotta live up to that pretty little name, don’t you?” 

He knows how to get you riled up. He knows every string that laces your entire body, how to tighten and how to cut them loose. He’s had plenty of time to mesmerize this dance – a dozen different galas before to pull you into empty rooms, a hundred different nights to sneak away to indulge in you under pseudo names in the nicest hotels a few towns over. He can anticipate every jerk of your hips when his lips start to brush over your clit, even with fabric keeping his skin from yours. He knows which hand needs to keep a firm grip on your thigh, massaging it slowly as his thumb brushes closer and closer to the sensitive inner skin. His free arm works on autopilot as he throws it across your hips, planting you flat to the mattress as you mew out and he presses his tongue flatly against your weeping slit. 

His spit, your wetness. It all becomes the same within the intricate lace pattern separating him from your cunt currently. 

“I can taste it already, you know,” he keeps up the sweet talk and you feel his grin as he lets his cheek rest against your inner thigh, fluttering his lashes up at you, “Are you this easy for every golden boy walking around downstairs, pockets stuffed full of daddy’s money?” 

The gala downstairs. You had entirely forgotten, transported into only this moment here and now with Steve. 

Both your families, undoubtedly avoiding each other like the plague. His mother still gossiping about how short she thinks your dress is, your father snickering about the lacking details in Arthur Harrington’s suit. Bitter champagne on the tongue and even more bitter feelings on the brain. 

Your father would kill you if he knew what you were doing up here. 

Fraternizing with the supposed enemy. 

“Golden boy?” you gasp out, trying to swallow down any desire. It’s a useless battle. “And what’s so golden about you right now? All the hickeys I left on your neck, or that wet spot on your pants from how excited you’re getting at just the sight of me?” 

You don’t tell him how you’ve never taken an interest in any of the other sons of other supposed empires. You don’t mention how the rest of them hardly got more than a scoff from you all these years. 

You don’t tell him how he’s become your one and only betrayal to the blood running through your veins. 

He surprises you with a smack to the cunt. 

“I don’t remember you being so mouthy during the last charity event.” 

Your head rolls back with your laughter, “Guess I’m just in a mood tonight.”

“Is that so?” he questions, voice almost singing as he reaches up to the waistband of your panties. One finger hooks between it and your skin, pulling it out taut from your skin, “Guess that makes two of us.” 

The snap after he lets go can be heard only in this room, only between these four walls. It’s sure to leave a mark. 

“God,” it’s meant to be a groan of annoyance, but it’s more of a whine that leaves your glossy lips, “Just put your goddamn money where your mouth is or I swear to fucking God-”

Steve Harrington is many things. A brat, a golden boy, a nepo-baby to the highest degree just like yourself. 

And he’s also an excellent listener. 

You don’t feel his fingers tearing through the side strips of your underwear – all you suddenly feel is the slightest of cool breezes, and then his hot mouth on you. 

Eager, wanting, patient. Within seconds, his tongue’s mitigations go through a myriad of options, and he’s more in tune with your body than you are yourself. He finds the pace you need quickly, finds the pressure and just how much enthusiasm would be your deal breaker tonight. Long and steady strides from slit to clit, firm but gentle with you as he tugs you nearly off the mattress and right onto his waiting lips. A dog at your windowsill, offering all he can give as he laps at you. A man on his knees, worshiping a divinity beyond comprehension. 

Familiar politics no longer matter when he’s slipping two fingers into you and curling them harshly, lips locked around your sensitive clit. 

“Mmm,” he hums against you, nuzzling even further against your heat. As if he might be able to bury himself there. As if he might be able to force you to feel his sudden devotion from the press of his nose against your sensitive bundle of nerves, “I was right.” 

You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper as your hands try to snake down for his hair once more. 

Right about what? 

A silent question he must hear from your breathless begging for more. 

“Sweeter than I remember,” he mumbles, unable to stop himself from beginning to kiss your cunt, tongue flicking out and making your body jump, “Always so sweet for me, baby.” 

Your back arches at every curl of his fingers, legs somehow thrown over his shoulders in the daze until your heels are digging into his back. You need him closer, you want him closer. 

There’s no such thing as too close. Not when he worships you like this. 

Reciting prayers as his tongue circles your clit, raising you to a precipice that should damn your bloodline. When he has you teetering on the edge like this, it’s hard to not remember the thrill of it all. If someone, anyone, were to walk in and catch the two of you – you both lose everything. 

He’s worth it. When he has you falling over the edge, body washed over in ecstasy only thought to exist in Heaven, he’s worth the damnation. 

You don’t try to muffle the chants of his name as your hips jerk in rhythm with his tongue as you both ride out your high. 

“Jesus,” you gasp out one final curse, still tasting his name on your tongue as your body falls limp against the mattress.

It takes Steve a second to crawl back up next to you, his knees surely sore as he grins, “Not quite. Steve, or Harrington, or golden boy will do just fine.”

You open your mouth, unsure if you even have energy left within your buzzing mind for a snarky retort, when a heavy knock sounds at the door. 

“Hey, who’s in here? Upstairs is meant to be off-limits!”

You panic as Steve only rolls his eyes, turning his head towards the door as you try to sit up and find your discarded panties, still unaware that your golden boy had ripped them off. 

“It’s Harrington!” Steve calls back, voice unwavering, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

His name works like magic. 

No retorts, no further risk of trouble. There’s a whisper of some grumbles, and then receding footsteps, and still no sign of your panties. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking on the bed wildly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Are you lying on my panties? Move-”

You’re cut off by his snickers. 

“What’s so fucking funny, Harrington?” you whisper harshly, standing with your arms crossed and glare set on the boy with a bit of wetness still shimmering on his chin. “Did you hide them, you asshole? Because if you did-”

“I ripped them, honey.” 

Your arms drop immediately, a sharp breath taken, “Excuse me?” 

“I,” he sits up, “Ripped,” he’s back on his knees, scooting across the bed, “Them.” 

He stops just short of your reach, boyish charm radiating with smug satisfaction. 

He has a nice smile. If it weren’t the anger simmering in your chest at finding out that he’d ripped one of your nicest pairs of lingerie, you might even tell him that. 

“Fuck you,” you spit out. Or at least, you mean to. It’s more of a cross between spitting venom and a sigh of surrender. 

He has a really, really nice smile. 

“Later,” he laughs back, finally standing from the bed, pulling scraps of lace fabric out of his pocket just enough for you to catch sight of, “For now, we’ve got to go show our pretty faces downstairs, yeah?” 

He has a nice laugh, too. 

“What about my underwear?” you scoff, pulling down your dress until it brushes the top of your knees anyways. 

“Only whores have panty lines. I saved you another snarky comment from my mother, if anything.” 

He’s nice. He pisses you off, he infuriates you, but he makes you feel nice. It’s not just the afterglow of the orgasm he’s given you without any demand of returning the favor, it’s not just the glint in his eyes as he teases you and shoves his hands shyly in his pockets. 

There’s a flash of something more in the air between you. A time and place where you met and your fathers weren’t at each other’s throats. An existence where you meet him out at some overcrowded bar rather than extravagant ballrooms, and you’d never heard of his last name until he tells it to you on a third date. A world where you bring him home and your parents' only first impression is all his charm that he puts into overdrive during dinner, no whispered rumors over wine tainting the image before them. 

A lifetime where Steve Harrington is merely a salvation, and not also a sin. 

“You’re right,” you smoothly reply, even if the words choke you. The invisible smoke only you clearly see between you and the boy who couldn’t be nice, who couldn’t be a simple salvation despite the way he elevates you to godhood time and time again. “You are buying me a new pair of those, though, Harrington.”

You almost say his name the way you would in that make believe space that isn’t quite here, isn’t quite now. Where a name is just a name. 

“I’ll have them wrapped up with a bow and everything for you next time… honey.” 

He almost says your name instead of some lewd nickname in place of what has been taught to be venomous to him. 

He opens the door like a gentleman, he instructs you to return to the main showroom, he advises you to grab a glass of champagne to excuse the flush in your cheeks. No crowded bars, no proper dinners with your parents, no third dates. 

It all evaporates like smoke and mirrors as you join your parents’ sides downstairs, tugging at the bottom seam of your dress and grabbing a crystal flute with a forced smile. You don’t even turn to look in the direction of his descent when he also joins his family.

But salvation remains. Even when faced with the reminder of damnation by the look on your father’s face.

“Can you believe that boy?” he gruffly asks, glaring in their direction, “Just waltzing back in here, like he hadn’t rudely disappeared for a good thirty minutes. Those Harringtons know no manners, I tell you.” 

You hum in lackluster agreement, studying the rim of your glass, ignoring the twist in your chest. 

“Where did you run off to, though, honey?” the nickname makes your back straighten up, memories of chills running up your spine as you glance up at your father suddenly. 

“Oh, no where,” you flail a hand about, keeping steady breathing, playing an act you’ve rehearsed a million times, “I’d just heard a rumor that the Richardson’s garden fountains were larger than ours, and had to see for myself.” 

“Were they?” 

They have no idea. 

“Not even close,” you laugh. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your laughter has attracted the attention of a certain pair of warm brown eyes and wavy brown hair, set with hidden devotion only privy in private rooms. “What did I miss?” 

Steve was right. If your father ever did find out, he was going to kill you both.

[little-diable]

May thy knife – Feyd-Rautha (smut)

This is y'alls fault, all your comments made me write this. So, here we go, psychotic reader is back, but with a somewhat loving relationship. It felt only right to twist this famous scene – I'm sure this has been done before but I haven't read a fic that takes on this twist just yet, so I'm in no means copying any fic out there. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: What if the reader, who is married to Feyd-Rautha, didn't know that Paul, her brother, was still alive? What if it was her fighting against him instead of Feyd – all for revenge, to make her brother feel the same pain he had forced her to feel with his faked death?

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral (m), willingly rough loss of virginity, choking, dom!Feyd, degrading, spitting, fighting, passing out, blood licking, knife licking, reader is a psycho fitting Feyd, yet there's some form of love between the two, and no, I ain't killing us so we survive the fight

Pairing: Feyd-Rautha x fem!Atreides!reader (4.2k words)

The hatred she emanated was felt by all people surrounding her, people who didn’t dare meet her icy gaze – not even the emperor dared to turn towards (y/n). It was a wise decision, for the sake of all their lives, knowing that she could rob their soul and their last breath even without any weapons on her. 

It had only been a few minutes since they had been taken prisoner, and while (y/n) could have easily fought her way out of the tight grasp, she hadn’t been able to move. Frozen to her spot as she had never been before, unable to move as her eyes followed the frame of the Muad’Dib. Paul Atreides. Her brother. The man she had believed to be dead for endless weeks. The prophet who hadn’t spotted her in the small crowd. 

Not even Feyd-Rautha’s closeness had managed to rile her up at that moment, the man she had been forced to marry, the man she hadn’t allowed to touch her, not even on their wedding night. It hadn’t taken him long to accept that she’d cut off his hands should he touch her, speaking lies to the Baron to answer private questions that had left (y/n)’s insides churning. Feyd had protected her even when she went against a simple contract, lured closer by the darkness she carried deep within herself. 

She had made too many sacrifices for her brother and their mother’s lies, tossed away for a strategic marriage she hadn’t been prepared for. All to mourn her brother who was still alive and breathing, guiding those who saw the prophet in him.

“You’re quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this, wife.” Feyd’s breath teased her neck, he stood with his armoured front pressed against her back, hands resting on her waist. It was a dangerous game, a game she didn’t buy into, too focused on her racing mind. Feyd gave (y/n) another moment to push him away, just like she had always done – but she didn’t, she kept herself pressed against him as if he was an anchor saving her from drowning. “What are you planning?”

“How I will kill the Muad’Dib.” Not one ounce of love thumped through her veins, an emotion she had once held onto, at least for her older brother; a love that had frozen in her system the second she had heard his voice ring in her ears minutes ago. Feyd’s raspy chuckles left her skin tingling, adding fuel to the fire simmering deep inside of her. 

For a moment, (y/n) allowed herself to focus on her husband’s touch, how he held onto her, tight enough to send a clear message to wandering eyes. He may have not claimed her behind closed doors, addicted to their game of back-and-forth, but to all those eyes, she was his as he was hers, a ruthless husband to a cunning wife. 

“You know, I am always excited for a fight.” She wanted to reply, wanted to tease him for fighting against drugged prisoners who never stood a chance against him, but the second his cold lips met her throat, her words were lost on her sharp tongue. Her heart roared in her chest, not used to being kissed by Feyd, not after their first and only kiss in front of their wedding guests. 

“You won’t fight. This is between my brother and me.” (Y/n) turned in Feyd’s grasp, letting her eyes wander over her husband’s features. He was handsome, she had always been drawn to him, and yet something had always held her back – the fear of being tied down by a man who perfectly matched her ruthless ways, a man who would rather kill himself than back down from a fight, just like (y/n). They were too similar, a scary realisation she had been forced to face many moons ago. 

“I will let you fight, wife, but for that, I get to claim you tonight.” The mischief twinkling in his bright pupils pushed anger through her, anger clashing against lust. Her mind didn’t get to interfere as (y/n) shifted her weight onto her toes to press a kiss to his lips. She pulled away before Feyd could deepen the kiss, heart roaring in her chest as if it was communicating with his. 

“You’ll have to lick my brother’s blood off me before you get to touch me.” Her words were meant as a warning, a warning Feyd clearly found enjoyment in. And with his raspy laugh echoing through the room, she found herself thrown back into her darkening mindset, preparing for a fight against her brother. 

……

“How can you be so sure the Great Houses are here for me?” Paul’s voice filled the room. She didn’t see much of his frame, standing behind Feyd to shield herself from her brother’s and her mother’s eyes. She hated the way her fingers trembled, urged on by her anger, by her sadness, emotions flushing through her like poison set to kill her. “They may be curious to hear my side of the story, don’t you think? I am Paul Atreides, son of Leto Atreides, Duke of Arrakis.”

She wanted to shoot forward, wanted to throw herself against her brother’s frame to force him to his knees. But the hand Feyd pressed against her stomach to hold her back was enough to stay glued to her spot. The time wasn’t right just yet. 

“Gurney, send a warning to all ships. If the Great Houses attack, our atomics will obliterate all spice fields.” Paul’s words left most of the people surrounding (y/n) tensing, words that were about to force a laugh out of her. She could feel and see her mother’s influence on Paul, forming him into the son she had always dreamt him to be. 

“You’re out of your mind.” The Emperor’s slightly trembling voice drew a smirk to both (y/n) and Feyd’s lips, they got a taste of the chaos soon unfolding in front of them, drawing a sick sense of satisfaction and anticipation through the couple. 

“He’s bluffing.” She couldn’t stop a soft laugh from leaving her at her husband’s words, urged on by the need to stand even closer. Her body was guiding her without giving her mind a chance to protest as her hand found Feyd’s. She was still covered by his tall frame, and yet she felt him freezing for just a second as she interlaced their hands. 

“Consider what you’re about to do, Paul Atreides.” Within seconds, the voice filled their ears, forcing the Reverend Mother to lose her balance. No longer could (y/n) focus on the exchange between Paul and the Emperor, no longer could she focus on Feyd whose hand she had dropped once again. (Y/n) knew that the time was finally right, it was now or never, a fight that would end with either her’s or her brother’s life on the line.

“Stand or choose your champion.” Those were the words that ripped (y/n) out of her trance, pushing past her husband. She didn’t see how Feyd’s fingers twitched, having to stop himself from reaching for her, to stop (y/n) from fighting a battle he had been destined for. 

“I’m here, Paul.” (Y/n) spoke the words with venom dripping from her voice, watching her brother’s bright pupils widen. From the corner of her eye, she could watch her mother shoot to her feet, and yet (y/n) didn’t dare let her gaze wander, enjoying the realisation that began to widen on her brother’s panicked features. “I need a blade.” 

“Accept mine.” She didn’t rip her eyes from her brother’s to look at the Emperor, seizing the chance to read Paul well enough to tell her that he fought an inner battle. Paul whispered her name as he slightly shook his head, begging his sister to step away. Her tongue kissed her teeth as a blood-curdling smile widened on her lips, she didn’t need to speak up to tell Paul that she’d try everything she could to kill him, a simple act of revenge for leaving her, for forgetting her, for playing her. 

With a slow nod thrown her way, seemingly accepting her will to fight, Paul turned from (y/n) to walk back towards his people. Only Feyd’s hand on her waist managed to rip her gaze from her brother’s frame, “Make me proud wife. Kill him.” 

Feyd squeezed her waist as he pressed a harsh kiss to her lips, a clear signal for all those who were watching their interaction. He’d kill them all should she die, avenge her death as if it was his own life they tried to take. Without speaking another word, (y/n) pushed Feyd away from her, she tightened her grip on the Emperor’s blade, and let her feet carry her towards her brother. 

“(Y/n),” Paul’s choked-up voice drew a humourless chuckle out of her. For a moment, she allowed her gaze to stray, to look at their pregnant mother and the unreadable expression she wore. (Y/n) had never been the favourite child, even though she was the girl Jessica had been asked to birth. She had always been too ruthless, too cold, too cunning for their family, the outcast who had been married to Feyd at the first given chance. 

“Say it.” (Y/n)’s words were venomous, spat at her brother whose pained expression made him appear even more pathetic in her eyes. She wanted Paul to speak the words, words the siblings had spoken as mere children whenever they challenged one another into a play fight. Paul kept quiet, unable to part his lips until she almost screamed her words, “Say it!”

“May thy knife chip and shatter.” Paul’s voice trembled as he spoke the words, momentarily closing his eyes as if he struggled to accept their fate, to accept that he was expected to kill his beloved sister, unable to back down from a fight like this. She repeated the words much slower than Paul had, with a dangerous smile tugging on her lips – no longer did (y/n) care about her own life, about the mere chance of dying in her brother’s arms. She was hungry for revenge, to make him feel the pain she had been forced to carry deep within herself these past weeks. 

And then everything began to blur, one attack after another, one strike after another, one stumble after another. She felt all their eyes on them as they fought, but (y/n) couldn’t give into the temptation to study the crowd, searching for Feyd’s eyes that were glistening with adoration for his wife. A woman fighting like a snake, slithering along Paul’s body to squeeze him to death. 

Only as Paul’s knife cut (y/n)’s skin for the first time did her world begin to slow down, momentarily stopping its spinning motion. Paul seemed to freeze just like she did, focusing on the blood pouring from the wound. Perhaps he expected her to back down, to leave the circle to search for her husband’s protection. But (y/n) did something she had studied her husband do one too many times: Her fingers found her wound, picking up the drops of blood to suck her fingers clean, high on the coppery taste. Feyd’s laughter rang in her ears as she attacked her brother once again, faster this time, even more ruthless than the rounds before.

With blood sticking to her lips, (y/n) and Paul kept circling one another – all until she seized her chance to ram her knife into his side. Paul’s gasp forced their mother to her feet once again, searching her daughter’s eyes to shake her head, a silent warning not to kill her brother, a silent gesture that they wouldn’t mourn her death, only Paul’s. But while her mother’s eyes carried a clear warning, Feyd’s carried encouragement, asking his wife to end this right there and then. 

A moment of distraction that gave her brother the chance to slice his blade through her skin, forcing it to nestle inside her stomach. Both siblings held onto one another, glassy eyes finding back together as neither loosened their grip. 

“Do it, kill me. Feel the pain you’ve forced me to feel, feel the grief that has almost killed me.” Tears dripped from (y/n)’s eyes as she choked on her blood, knowing that she’d pass out any moment now. And even though she felt the darkness creeping through her veins, telling her that it was time to bid this life goodbye, a smile began to widen on her lips. 

This was the moment she had imagined all these weeks, it was finally upon them. 

Slowly Paul sacked to the ground with (y/n) clinging to him, holding onto her as he lifted his teary gaze. She didn’t see the way her brother's panicked gaze looked around the room, didn’t see the way his eyes found Feyd’s rage-filled ones, luring her husband closer. All she could focus on were the tears dripping from Paul’s bright eyes, holding back his sobs as Feyd kneeled next to them. 

“Do whatever you must, save my sister.” 

……

She woke with a gasp, eyes shooting open. It took her a moment to focus on her surroundings, the grey walls, the dim light, and the figure standing close to her bed. Pain shot through her as she tried to move, forced to plop back down onto the mattress with a curse clawing through her.

“You’re finally awake.” Feyd’s raspy voice drew a whimper from (y/n)’s chapped lips, eyes momentarily fluttering close to try and remind herself of what had happened. “You almost died, killed by your foolish brother who has never fought fair before. I should have killed him for hurting you.” 

“Come here.” (Y/n) ignored her husband’s words, not daring to think of her brother, of their fight, and of the blood she had lost. Wordlessly, Feyd came to a halt next to her, staring down at her to wait for (y/n)’s next command. With another gasp roaring through her, she shuffled around on the bed, making space for her husband to lay next to her. “If you tell others of this I will kill you.”

His chuckles filled the room as he carefully placed himself next to her. The moment had something awfully intimate to it, giving the married couple a chance to be close to one another for the first time, without any eyes on them, without hatred urging words to leave their cold lips. 

Feyd’s hand slightly trembled as he reached for her no longer bloody fingers, slowly interlacing them. Never had he done this before, reaching for her without any further message to communicate, holding onto her for the mere chance to be close to her. 

“What happened to Paul?” Pain clawed through her at the thought of her brother. Anger had forced her to act, anger she hadn’t been able to swallow until now, unsure how to accept that her family had lied to her. 

“Don’t worry about him for now.” Feyd didn’t tell her how he had left the planet with her, how he had brought her away from that place. Feyd didn’t tell her how he had sworn to Paul that he’d avenge (y/n)’s death should she die. Feyd didn’t tell her how Paul had told others to let them go, not knowing where Feyd was taking (y/n), not knowing if he’d ever see his sister again. 

And at that very moment, (y/n) didn’t find the strength to ask another question, the strength she would regain soon enough to find her path back to her cunning self, set on ending the ruleless game between her and her family. 

…… 

“Fight like a Harkonnen for fuck’s sake!” Anger pushed her words past her clenched teeth. Sweat was pooling on (y/n)’s forehead as she stared at her husband with spite swimming in her pupils. She knew Feyd was holding back, not trusting that (y/n) had regained her full strength just yet, the strength she’d need to force him to his knees in a training session like this. 

“Wife.” It was a warning he spoke, a warning not to rile him up even further, knowing that he’d lose his patience soon enough. (Y/n) darted at her husband, her body collided with his to throw them both to the ground. She straddled his waist with a grim expression tugging on her features, knowing that in any other scenario, she wouldn’t have been able to attack Feyd like that. “Fine, this is your own fault, darling.”

Feyd harshly pushed her off him, momentarily robbing his wife of her breath as her back collided with the cold ground. He rose to his feet with his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists – the version of her husband (y/n) desperately had tried to trigger. They circled one another, holding onto their blades with twitching fingers, set on regaining the upper hand.

Now it was on Feyd to attack first, his blade met hers over and over again, until he cut her cheek, drawing a hiss out of (y/n). She was heavily panting as he chuckled, bringing the bloody tip of his blade up to his pale lips to lick it clean, moaning at the taste of her blood. 

Something began to shift at that moment, something that forced her to drop her blade, to throw herself into his grasp and to kiss him. Both fell back to the ground, allowing Feyd to cage her between the floor and his frame. His hand found her throat to keep her pinned down beneath him, all while their tongues fought for victory. 

(Y/n) tightened her legs' grasp around his waist to pull him even closer, moaning at the way he ground his hips against hers, making her feel his hardening cock straining against his tight trousers. Everything about this moment was new to her, unsure of where to go from there without any experience guiding her, not knowing how to touch her husband. And yet, everything seemed to come almost naturally to her, trusting her body and Feyd to push her through the soaring waves of heat filling her trembling body.

“I should have fucked you months ago. You had your chance, but now I won’t be gentle with you, I will fuck you as a woman like you deserves to be fucked.” His words shot heat straight to her core, words that forced her to hold still as Feyd kept manhandling her, cutting her shirt open with his blade. The groan that left him at the sight of her naked chest made (y/nn) back arch, desperate to feel his hands on her. “I should tie you up, keep you as my toy to claim whenever I am hungry for you. I bet you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“I hate you!” It was nothing but a lie, a lie both easily saw through, but at that very moment neither Feyd nor (y/n) cared about pleasantries, urged on by their desires. He cut open her trousers before another curse could leave her, exposing her arousal-covered folds to his darkening eyes. Tonight he’d litter her in bruises. Tonight he’d force her to follow his rules. Tonight he’d show her his most ruthless side. 

“Hate me all you want, wife, your body still craves the touch of your husband. You’re dripping for me.” He didn’t warn her before he plunged two fingers into her tightness, feeling her walls flutter around his digits. Feyd held eye contact with her as he spat on her cunt, rubbing his saliva against her pulsing bundle. (Y/n)’s moans rang in his ears, urging him on as if he was high on spice, blurring out their surroundings, blurring out the calmness they were now disturbing. “I can’t wait to rip you open with my cock, make you feel pain you won’t ever forget.” 

Her mind was silenced, fogged up by the lust thumping through her veins. Feyd fucked her with his fingers, he pushed her closer to the high she had only allowed herself to feel whenever she had been desperate for his touch but too proud to search his closeness. But her body wasn’t ready to give up the chase just yet. Her hand found her blade, moving without gaining Feyd’s attention, who was still fully focused on her cunt.

With quick movements, she brought the tip of her blade to his throat, stopping him in his movements. The chuckle leaving Feyd left her smirking, looking even more psychotic with the blood still dripping from the cut on her cheek. She barely put up a fight as Feyd ripped the blade from her hand, as he shifted them around to bring her to her knees and up against his front. 

The blade teased her throat as he held her to him, even as he freed his aching cock, ready to disappear deep inside of her, “You had your chance, I would have prepared you for my cock, would have given you time to adjust. But that kindness is no longer among us. Now you’ll take my cock like my own personal whore.” 

He forced his cock into her cunt, groaning at the tightness engulfing him. Tears ran down her cheeks, tears of lust, of pain, of desperation – finding an unfamiliar sense of enjoyment in Feyd’s rough touches. His name rolled off her tongue as he fucked into her from behind, dropping the knife to choke her with his cold hands once again. 

Feyd was treating her like his pet, treating her like he had been raised to treat women – momentarily forgetting about the love he fostered deep inside of him. And she loved every second of it, finally able to give up control for the first time. 

“It brings me great pleasure knowing that no other man will ever get to have you like this. Your body is mine, you’re my whore, you only listen to my commands. And you will kill whoever dares to touch you should I not be fast enough to do it myself.” His words left her choking, forced to claw her fingernails into his pale skin as her mind began to race. Even though the words didn’t sound like it, it was the most sincere love confession Feyd had ever spoken, words that cut deeper than any blade ever would. 

“Feyd.” She whimpered his name as his free hand found her clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves to push her towards the edge. The first of many orgasms was awaiting her, set on ripping her from this place into another dimension, led by her husband. (Y/n) felt his black teeth run along her neck, biting the spot where her neck met her shoulders, close to drawing some more blood from her weeping body. 

She came without another word clawing through her, calling out his name as her orgasm momentarily robbed her of her vision. Feyd kept a strong hold on her throat, his hips kept meeting her behind, forcing his cock further into her clenched tightness. He gave it a few more thrusts before he pulled out of her and rose to his feet. 

With his hand finding her hair, he forced her towards him, making her scalp burn from the strength of his touch. His cock was shoved past her parted lips, letting (y/n) taste herself on his cock as he fucked her mouth. The corners of her mouth began to burn within a few moments, once again making tears fall from her glassy eyes. 

She had never seen her husband like this, trembling for her, with his head thrown back, and his eyes closed, fully focused on the pleasure thumping through her. No longer did she feel the need to fight, no longer did her fingertips ache for the feeling of her blade, no, for the first time since knowing Feyd, she wanted to give her everything to satisfy the man. 

“You’ll swallow every drop of my seed, and then you’ll lick me clean.” It was a simple command, a command that left her moaning around his cock. Feyd came within a few more seconds, releasing himself down her throat and on her eager tongue. The two held eye contact as she swallowed, as she ran her tongue up and down his twitching length, following his every command. 

“Where are you going, wife?” She froze in her movements, her heavily panting self had turned from him, set on plopping down on the ground to catch her breath. (Y/n)’s wide eyes were drawn back to his like spice forced up into the air, following the wind’s call. “That was only the beginning. I won’t be done with you for a while.”

[henneseyhoe]

Devotion.

Lewis Hamilton x BLACK!FEM!Reader

WARNINGS: DARK THEMES, cult behavior, cult leader!Lewis, Idolizing, blasphemy(kinda?? idk girl), mentions of religion(no specifics), SMUT, unprotected (wrap it before ya smack it), mind broken reader, stockholm syndrome (not written in but kinda implied), breeding k*nk, short.

SUMMARY: Lewis chooses you.

✮✮✮✮

Was he really as sadistic as the papers said? How could he be when he was so sweet to me?

He nursed me back to health when iIl, when I was at my lowest, he lifted me in spirit. He gave me hope when I had none. He gave me something to believe in. He would never hurt me, he wouldn’t violently touch a hair on my head. He was consistently perfect. He was what all men should have been.

Dressed in black gowns, all of my sisters stood around with roses propped in their hands, veils on their heads and envy in their eyes. I’ve been there before. Envious of any woman that was next to him. Now I no longer remember what that felt like.

“You may kiss the bride”

I heard from beside me. My heart instantly swoll ten times it’s size. He took me by the hand and brought me closer to him before lifting the white veil over my head. His hand grazed my cheek and his lips hovered over mine. I could physically feel his breath over me. It confirmed that he was indeed real. He wasn’t just a vessel or embodiment of the purest form of a prophet, he was now also my partner. I was one step closer to heaven.

Hours later after dragged out sessions of meditation and eating food served on fine china, I found myself finally feeling solace.

I use to deeply craved to be with him at all times, not just to be in the same room to read or pray. Now he was touching me. Breathing the same air as me, taking my breath away with each stroke of his fingers. He told me he was getting me ready, his lips hovering above mine. He breathed in every sigh I made and the thought of my oxygen entering his lungs made me grateful.

He told me he would break me before making me whole again. He reminded me the entire time that this was just the beginning before I truly became the woman I was always supposed to be. His.

Yes, I was one of the many women, but I was the one. He told me.

“My beautiful, beautiful girl”

I kneeled before him, him only on one knee like when he proposed. A puddle of my own release was beneath me with his fingers still deep inside, pressing against the spongy part of my walls until I came again, my body slumping against his. My mouth had been wide open, unable to close for longer than a few seconds before another moan was exiting. Drool dripped from the sides of my mouth and he easily wiped it clean with his tongue like nothing, tasting the wine he offered earlier on me.

I was like that for what felt like hours until he allowed me to taste him. My mouth had never been on him like this before, before I couldn’t remember if he had ever touched me at all.

My jaw ached and my throat was sore, but he kept pushing and I took it just for the approval. I hear quiet sighs, moans that were almost whimpers above me, him looking down at the sight. His eyes were darker than before, pink lips parted to whisper out my name every time i’d take him completely, not coming up until I physically gagged and was forced to pull back.

When I disconnected from him there were strings of my spit still attached to him and he took the liberty to tap the tip of himself against my swollen lips, watching me flinch with the first few pops.

We transitioned for the third time that night and I began to wonder if the other women got the same treatment. He couldn’t be this great for all of them, I had to be special.

“You’re doing so good”

He breathed into my neck, arms wrapped around the front of my body as he rutted his hips into me. It felt as if I was on my knees all night, and I was tired, but he told me if I prayed with him on my knees, then everything else sacred needed to be done that way too.

His hand squeezed at the front of my throat and his other caressed up and down the side of my ribcage, tracing the tattoo of his name written into my skin with his fingers. I had his name symbols of him on multiple parts of my body, each place he had kissed tonight.

“You listen so much better than any of the other ones. That’s why I picked you. That’s why you’re my favorite”

He confessed into my ear, sharp teeth grazing the shell of it before they pressed onto the skin of my neck, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

I could feel the knocking of his tip inside of my stomach somehow, the spasms of my walls supplying him with just the amount of grip he needed to finish, the grip he claimed to have been thinking of since laying eyes on me.

My breathing hitched, then sped up and synched to each pound, pathetic whines leaving my mouth on impact. Every sensation felt so much more real now, I could feel everything. The wet skin of his chest pressed firmly against my back, the slapping of his hips against my ass which I was sure was slightly bruised by now, the scratching of his low cut nails against my curves.

Even if he broke skin, I knew not to fret. He’d lick me up again if I asked.

He lets me go and allows my weak body to fall flat on his bed, his hips still never stuttering as he follows after me, dipping his hips low while simultaneously lifting mine to meet him pound for pound.

My time was now. Now was the moment for me to prove that I was truly his, that I was ready to be saved for the rest of my mortal life, that I was in fact the best partner and the most devoted. That’s what he needed, what he deserved. Devotion.

With each question he managed to ask while somehow keeping his pace, I nod with no hesitation whatsoever as his hand slips down under and in between my wet thighs to rub at my sensitive bud, my body jerking so intensely that he slipped out of me mid stroke and his free hand wasted no time to help put himself back in and build up his momentum again.

“Would you give me a child, darling? Would you like to play a part in what greatness is to come?”

He already had babies. 10 of them and counting. But he asked me to carry the one he chose, and I was no one to tell him no and starve his desire.

✮✮✮✮

💌~ did yall like it? yes, no? 🥴 also i know yall TIRED of the short fics 😭 sorryyy lmfao

[prokopetz]

One of my favourite theories about the etymology of "Davy Jones" is that it's a corruption of the Biblical "Jonah" because, like, getting spit back out by the whale is pretty central to Jonah's story. For Jonah to still be down there we're positing an oral tradition where Jonah refuses the call, gets swallowed by a whale, repents, escapes, does the prophet thing, and is later swallowed by a second, unrelated whale.

[prettybabybaby]

¡ 18+ only ! ¡ minors do not interact !

content: noncon, dark!regulus, fem!squib!reader, use of the imperius curse, degradation, objectification

¡ marauders masterlist !

Regulus didn’t really think he’d have to use it.

You were an obedient thing, eager to serve. And under the impression that he and the others were part of the order, you did just about anything he asked.

You were easy to fool, unaware of any wizarding politics after you were casted away following the reveal of your powers. Or lack there of. Your squib status was all over the daily prophet. He remembered scowling at the moving photo of you behind your parents, looking pathetically weak.

Regulus didn’t understand why he was so infatuated with a filthy squib like you. Much less why you hadn’t seemed to catch on. You just seemed so attentive and observant. The wheels in your mind always seemed to be turning as you tried to piece everything together from the little Regulus and the other death eaters spoke.

But you still couldn’t grasp the meaning of Regulus’ wandering hand and suggestive tone, ignoring his advances completely as your mind was occupied with trying to conspicuously draw information from him. You hadn’t managed to deceive him.

The eagerness to help was to make up for your feelings of inadequacy, he knew that, but the glimmering eyes and growing pupils that would look up at him as you nodded your head, thanking him for allowing you to help made his mind spin with thoughts. His fantasies plagued his mind more often than he cared to admit, embarrassed by the subject of his desire and the fact that he was somehow still yearning when he could just have you.

Regulus expected immediate reciprocation of his fervent touch but instead, he was pushed away mere seconds after his lips touched yours, tongue invading your mouth to taste you instantly. His brow raised as he kept a grip on your shoulder, taking in your widened eyes and your wet lips.

The taste of your lips lingered on his tongue as he stared at you, ears filled with cotton as words flew from your mouth. He cared very little about what you had to say but he loved to watch your mouth tumble open as you fumbled your words before stopping to lick your lips, collecting the remnants of his spit.

He leaned in again, a breathy, "relax," fanning your neck as he pecked the delicate skin he had been waiting to mark. You squirmed, wiggling out of his grasp and staring at him in disbelief with an underlying tinge of fear.

Regulus' patience was already running thin. He was just trying to get off before returning his focus to serving the Dark Lord. You were a useless squib who should've been begging for his touch, realizing that was the only way you were useful.

His wand pressed against your throat and the imperius curse was on his tongue as he pinned you to the wall. Your eyes glazed over, hands dropping to your sides and pleads coming to a halt. You were awaiting his command.

"Are you done?" He asked, condescension dripping from his tone.

You nodded dumbly, "yes."

"Are you gonna let me use you now, squib?" You blinked as he leaned in closer, "you gonna spread those legs for me?"

Another nod, "yes."

"You're a dumb little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, cupping your pretty face. "Kiss me."

Your eyes flickered to lips for a second before you tilted your face upwards, mouth puckered cutely as you pressed your lips to his. It was a light peck, over much too quickly. Regulus licked his lips as you leaned away from him.

"You can do better than that," he said, "kiss me like you mean it."

You leaned back in, giving him a desperate open-mouthed kiss. Your tongue met his, caressing the muscle with your own before you pulled away, suckling on it. Regulus groaned, of course you'd be a good little slut. What else could a weak girl like you possibly be good at?

You looked at him expectantly, lashes fluttering as you as you leaned back in. He could feel your thighs press together, hips moving as he began to slowly grind against you.

His hands slid down your body, bunching around the hem of your skirt and pushing it downwards, "get rid of it."

You obeyed, pressing your thighs together as your cunt was revealed. He took a deep breath, grabbing your face once again to connect your lips and somehow his movements were even more desperate than before as his hand reached your heat. You were so much warmer and softer than he imagined. You tightened around his fingers instantly as he moved you towards your bed.

The head of his cock, poked at your pussy as his tongue roamed your useless mouth. You stayed still, almost in a paralyzed state as his hands roamed your skin and his cock humped the lips of your core.

Your body jolted and you gasped, a tremble moving up your body as a high whine left your lips. Regulus pulled away instantly, catching the final seconds of your orgasm. Your lips were still parted, visibly swollen and your eyes were glazed, struggling to stay open as all the air escaped your lungs.

He felt disgusted by himself for feeling the need to see you do it again. He wanted to watch the way your body changed as you felt the climax building until it reached it's peak. He wanted to feel your body tense and your hole clench around his cock as he fucked into you.

Regulus found your opening easily, slipping in even easier with the help of your dripping slick. Your thighs shook and tried to close instinctively. "Stop," he muttered, "keep them nice and wide."

He relished in the way your pussy pulsed around him and tears began to fill your waterline, no doubt from the sensitivity of your orgasm lingering and the intrusion of his cock becoming deeper with every thrust of his hips.

You felt amazing, an obedient little slut forced to obey his every wish. Regulus thought all squibs should be met with this fate. But no other hole would feel as delicious as you and your warmth.

You came again, fingers digging into the sheets as your back arched and you convulsed. You were even prettier the second time, empty eyes dripping crystals. He felt himself getting closer to his own orgasm as his hips pounded into you sloppily.

"Finally useful," he panted as he spilled into you. He could feel his release shooting deep inside you in ropes. "Aren't you so grateful for me?" Regulus' stomach tightened and he let out a deep moan, feeling himself come down from his climax.

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

harry potter timeline sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER FOUR (see full series list here)

1992

You awake on a regular Wednesday morning a few days before the return to school, groaning and stretching as you sit up in your queen-sized bed. The sun is streaming in through your windows, and you can hear birds singing their first few melodies of the morning.

You hear a very croaky meow from beside you and you look over to spot Dubh awakening from her slumber, seeming very angry about it being awoken. Dubh's actual bed is resting in the corner of the room, but it has long since been forgotten and she much prefers to sneak up onto your bed covers during the night. This little habit of hers means you've had to deliver a quick cleaning spell to her every night before bed, but you enjoy her company anyways. You reach out and pet her lovingly, scratching under her fluffy chin.

"Yes, yes, good morning, Dubh," you say. You yawn, trying to muster up the will to properly get out of bed, before eventually you manage to swing your legs over the edge of your bed and step onto the soft rug beneath you.

You throw on your favourite pair of jeans and a sweater to accompany it, taking a quick minute to wash your face before heading downstairs and into the kitchen. Dubh follows you the whole time, complaining as she waits for you to get her breakfast.

This is the home you've lived in for the past 13 years. The home yourself and Sirius had bought after you got married. It's small and cosy: exactly how you had wanted. The walls are covered with photo frames and beautiful oil paintings that look straight out of a dream.

The kitchen is charming, especially as it's lit up by the August sun. You push open a window to let some air in, waving your wand to pour out some cat food for Dubh. You click the kettle on and drum your fingers on the countertop as you wait.

At that moment you hear a small hoot and a light thud outside your back door. You leave the kitchen, unlocking the door to open it and spot a small folded package on the front step. It's the newspaper, the Daily Prophet.

You toss the paper on the kitchen table, humming as you prepare breakfast for yourself. Finally, when you've finished, you take your plate in one hand and your ready cup of tea in the other, sitting down at the kitchen table. You pull open the twine wrapped around the paper, unfolding it out.

You nearly spit out your tea when you read the headline of the front page and spot a familiar face.

Sirius.

Sirius Black.

Sirius Black has escaped.

Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

What the fuck?

You swallow hard, looking at the article again. Your heart is thumping. Your hands are trembling. You feel like you're about to be sick.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.

'We are doing all we can to recapture Black,' said the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, 'and we beg the magical community to remain calm.'

You scoff. Fat fucking chance!

Fudge has been criticised by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.

'Well, really, I had to, don't you know,' said an irritable Fudge. 'Black is mad. He's a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone. And let's face it — who'd believe him if he did?'

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand which Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.

You feel like you're dreaming. How the hell did he break out?

This article makes you feel so sick. The things they're saying — the things they've always said about him — they're not true. They can't possibly be true.

Sirius would never do that.

Your Sirius would never do that.

Your Sirius who kissed you on the Astronomy Tower.

Your Sirius who proposed to you in your first tiny London flat, lit only by candlelight.

Your Sirius who waited patiently for you at the altar.

Your Sirius who spoke in detail of his undying love for you during his vows.

Your Sirius who gave you the most perfect first dance you could ever ask for.

Your Sirius who spent your wedding night reminding you how much he loved you, gazing at you like you were the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, making sure there wasn't a single patch of skin on your body that went unkissed.

Your Sirius who bought you flowers every week, so the ones on your dining table were always fresh.

Your Sirius.

For twelve years you've maintained the belief that Sirius is innocent. There has got to be another explanation because the Sirius you know would never sell out his friends like that. He would never support Voldemort like that. He would never murder thirteen people like that! It's bullshit.

The Sirius you know would sooner die than rat James and Lily out like that.

Sirius isn't mad, like the way they say in that article.

Or maybe he is.

You wouldn't be surprised if 12 whole years in fucking Azkaban turned him loony.

Suddenly, there's a loud knock at your front door and you startle, dropping the paper.

What if that's him?

You slowly, apprehensively get up out of your chair, carefully walking to the door. You take a deep breath, and place your hand on the handle.

You turn it agonisingly slow and open the door a crack, peering out.

It's not him.

You don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Well, you're definitely not happy anyway, as you're met with Cornelius Fudge and three other Ministry officials.

You gulp.

"Good morning, ma'am," Fudge says. "Can we come in?"

You sigh, nodding. "Yeah, yeah. Of course."

You open the door wide to let them in, wrapping your arms around your torso nervously. They walk into your kitchen, looking around and you gesture to the kitchen table with a nervous smile. "You can sit down there..."

The four of them sit. You notice how Fudge's eyes immediately land on the paper, and he looks quickly back up at you as you lean against the counter, anxiously fiddling with your fingers. Dubh's head lifts from her food bowl, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously.

"Tea, coffee?" You ask, forcing a smile.

The officials glance at each other, as if deciding whether or not it's safe to accept a drink from you.

"Um...no thanks," one squeaks, looking up at you fearfully.

You sigh.

"Ah, so you've evidently heard the news..." Fudge starts, tapping the paper with one of his large, pudgy fingers.

You nod wordlessly.

"Is it a...surprise?" he asks.

You blink at him. "Yes, Minister, of course it's a surprise. I hardly expected him to break out of bloody Azkaban."

"Yes, yes, it is a shock to all of us," Fudge replies, eyes glancing over at the wedding photo on your countertop. "Have you...heard from him? At all?"

"No."

"It's just that you are his wife, you would be the first person he'd run to."

You raise your eyebrows, folding your arms. "Oh? I would've thought you'd expect him to run to Voldemort?"

They all wince at the name.

Fudge sighs, trying to keep his composure. "Look, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter, Black is a criminal and — "

"You have no proof — "

"He is a convict!" Fudge snaps. "Regardless of whether you believe it to be wrongful or not, he is a convict! If you see him, you must contact the Ministry. The magical community is in shambles with him on the loose. People are afraid."

You scoff. "The magical community has been in shambles for centuries."

Fudge ignores your statement, standing up from his chair unsteadily. "We will have to monitor your home, in case he decides to...visit."

"Shocker."

"We — uh, we'll be going now," Fudge says semi-certainly, motioning for the others to follow. They all stand, narrowly avoiding you as they exit the kitchen. You see one woman flinch when you move. You feel a hand on your shoulder, looking up to see Fudge's red, fudgy face looking at you pitifully. "I am truly sorry, dear. Remember what I said."

You watch as the party leaves and you shut the door behind them. You groan, running your hand through your hair as you slide down the door and sink to the ground.

Dubh appears around the corner, plodding over to you. You smile weakly at her, petting her softly. You feel your eyes starting to water and you sniffle, lip trembling.

You shake your head in disbelief.

"What am I gonna do?"

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

You wave your wand, levitating your heavy trunk up onto the overhead carriage of your train compartment. Most teachers don't take the Hogwarts Express — they just apparate to Hogsmeade instead — but you find that apparition tends to distress Dubh immensely and don't do it. You don't mind it really, the train ride gives you that little bit of extra time to look over lesson material.

Lucky for you, you have the compartment to yourself and freely let Dubh out of her carrier. She stretches with a long meowl, moving to settle on your lap, and you spend the ride reading a book and looking over lesson material, though your mind keeps drifting from what you're doing, choosing instead to fixate on Sirius.

You have a sickening seed of guilt and worry circling your gut ever since you heard of his escape, an overwhelming sense of dread looming over everything you do.

Heavy rain pelts the window harshly, wind battering the sides of the train, rattling it loudly.

You glance out the window pensively, wondering what he must be doing right now. Maybe he's been recaptured and you just haven't found out yet. You hope he's not out in this weather.

If sixteen-year-old Sirius had been caught out in torrential rain, he'd be busy complaining to you about how it completely ruined his hair and you'd just have to listen on and on because truthfully, you liked his hair after the rain.

The train starts to slow and you sigh, starting to pack up your things. Then, your eye catches the window and you squint out into the dark surroundings. You're not in Hogsmeade — you're not even close to it. You've been on this train enough times to know that you have a solid 20 minutes or so left in the journey.

Maybe there's something blocking the track and you'll all just have to continue on foot?

Hardly.

You stand up, gently plucking Dubh from your lap and placing her onto the seat beside you. You slide open the compartment door and stick your head out, looking up and down the hallway. You know well that Professor Flitwick is inside along with some of the Prefects so you step out, closing the door behind you and moving to their compartment.

You open the door and look in at Flitwick and three students, shiny silver badges on their chests. "Hey, Filius. What's going on?"

Flitwick shrugs, straining his neck to see up out the window. "I don't know."

You bite your lip, turning around uncertainly. "I'll ask the driver."

Suddenly, the train stops with a jolt and you stumble into the wall beside you, knocking your head against one of the flickering lanterns. You groan, bringing a hand to rub at the sharp stinging in your temple.

You try to make your way up the carriage but before you can the lights extinguish with a small puff and you're plunged into darkness. Rooting around in your pocket, you fish out your wand and mutter, "Lumos." A small bead of white light appears at the tip, illuminating a short distance in front of you.

To your horror, you look up and are met with a dark cloaked figure that towers to the ceiling. Its face is completely hidden beneath its hood. You feel your breath hitch in your throat as the room grows cold, freezing cold, making the hairs on your arms stand up.

A Dementor.

"He's not here," you choke, but it doesn't seem to matter as the dementor draws a long, slow, rattling breath. "He — he's not — "

You feel an immediate sadness overwhelm you. You feel every stitch of joy being sucked from you, your body desperately trying to cling on to whatever it can. You hear Sirius' voice, screaming raw and pleading, and it feels like the pain in your head is magnified a billion times.

Before your last stretch of consciousness can escape from you, you grip your wand tighter and, summoning all your will and happiest memories, you yell, "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

A bright, blue light bursts forth from your wand, taking on the form of large, scruffy dog and chasing the Dementor as it glides away from you. You stumble back, chest heaving, placing a hand on the wall for support, before remembering about the rest of the students and you turn, sprinting back down the corridor to the other carriages.

You throw open the door, moving quickly as you throw glances in each compartment window, checking that everyone was alright. Was there only one?

As you continue down the corridor, you look in one compartment and see the back of a tall figure blocking your view. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it's not a Dementor, and slowly slide open the door to poke your head in, trying to carefully look past the figure in front of you.

"Hey guys, everyone okay? I think — Remus?" You stare in shock at the tired face of Remus Lupin, currently holding a gigantic slab of chocolate in his hands, loudly snapping it into pieces. "What are you doing here?"

Beside him is Harry, Ron, and Hermione, looking between the two of you in surprise. Harry is as pale as a ghost, his hair messy and untidy.

"Guess I took your advice," Remus shrugs, handing everyone pieces of chocolate. He hands one to you and you accept it gratefully, biting off a piece with a loud crack. "Taking up the Defense Against the Dark Arts position."

You grin. "Remus, that's brilliant!" You throw your arms around him and he chuckles, tapping your back softly.

You pull back, noticing Harry's shell-shocked face and turn to him in concern. "Harry, are you alright? You don't look too good."

"Dementor," Remus explains and you nod in understanding.

"There was one in my carriage too!" You say. "Bastards."

"Language."

"What? It's true!" You say in defense, looking back at Remus' unapproving face. You glance at the three thirteen-year-olds also present in the compartment with you. "Er — sorry, guys."

"I'm going to go talk to the driver," Remus announces, tossing a small bite of chocolate into his mouth.

You nod. "Alright, I'll go check on everyone else." Remus moves past you, but before he can go in the opposite direction to you up the train, you grab onto his arm. "Next time, tell me if you're coming. Could've saved me a very boring train ride."

Remus chuckles. "I was asleep the whole time, not sure if I'd be great company."

You just give him a knowing smile, heading down to the carriage to check on the other students.

→ all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter five here!

p.s. it's easy to miss grammar/spelling mistakes when im editing it myself, so if you find any please let me know!! 💌

[sweet-s0rr0w]

Microfic: I Must Be Lonely

A late birthday microfic, written for the wonderful @getawayfox (look, it balances out @wolfpants' gift which was a couple of weeks early, alright? That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) Happy happy birthday to fandom's loveliest quadruple threat (writer, artist, reccer, beta/cheerreader). I hope you had a brilliant day! <3

T, 1.8k, no warnings. @drarrymicrofic prompt Simple. Thanks to @tackytigerfic for Irish picking and usual brilliance. This one is also for everyone else who hates night shifts!

Another night shift at the Ministry security desk. If boredom doesn’t get you, the vampires probably will, Draco thinks, sourly. That’s at least half exaggeration, though: Sanguini and his colleagues are always impeccably behaved, hurrying between meetings with barely a glint of incisor on show. But the boredom: now that part’s no joke. Nothing much happens in the Ministry after hours – by midnight, even the most dedicated workaholics have reluctantly ducked into the Floo, leaving Draco to his books, or his fantasy Quidditch, or (briefly and unsuccessfully) his crochet. Sometimes he gets lucky – a disaster necessitating the presence of the on-call Mishaps and Maladies team at the Ministry, perhaps, or an international visitor who’s messed up the time difference – but for the most part it’s lonely work.

Every night, Draco watches as two of the house elves work their slow, methodical way across the Atrium floor from either end, mopping and polishing and casting anti-slip charms until they meet just in front of his desk, some time around five o’clock. Things always get better after that, with the sun rising in the charmed windows and the slow downhill slide until six-thirty, that blessed hour when Draco mumbles his greetings to the day staff, pulling the hood of his robes up to cover his tired eyes, and slopes off towards the Floos.

Midnight until five, then, that’s the difficult time. That’s the hungry but nauseous time, the clammy but shivery time, the grumpy, gloomy, desperately weary time. Helpfully, it’s often the time the morons from the DMLE show up, high on adrenaline and testosterone and god knows what department-approved stimulants, and often, inexplicably, looking to chat utter rubbish.

“Hey! Everyone, look, it’s Malfoy!” bellows Finnigan, his voice rattling through Draco’s skull after three hours of total silence. He marches up to Draco’s desk, at the head of a group of what might appear, at first glance, to be drunken teenagers, but which Draco knows is actually made up of fairly senior Aurors. “How’re things, Malfoy? Ministry treating you well, I hope?”

Draco straightens his robes, shoving his folded up copy of the Prophet out of sight.

“It’s been a good day, Malfoy,” Finnigan continues, clearly not interested in waiting for Draco’s response. “A bloody good day, you know?” His grin is wide and toothy as he thumps his clenched fist against his chest and flings his head back. “Another victory in the fight for truth and justice, and all that’s―”

“Alright, Seamus,” says a voice from the back of the crowd. “Leave him alone, yeah?”

“Hey! Harry! Here’s the hero of the hour! C’mere.” Finnigan tucks a firm arm around Potter’s neck, pulling him forwards, until he’s shoved up against the front of the reception desk, smiling apologetically. “See,” says Finnigan, and his pupils are barely visible when he leans closer, “another bunch of Muggle-hating scumbags behind bars, and it’s all thanks to Hazza here. Good triumphs over evil again, and the world—”

“—hang on Seamus, isn’t that stuff classified?” cuts in Longbottom – who, as far as Draco can tell, is still every bit as much fun as he’d been at school.

“Oh, give over, Neville,” Finnigan spits, mercifully turning away from Draco, “I didn’t say who it was, did I? Classified would be if I’d said oi, Malfoy, d’you know they’re running a Muggle fighting ring out the back of the Reaper’s Arms—?” There’s a collective groan. “What?”

“You’re such a twat, Seamus,” says a short-haired witch next to Neville, folding her arms.

“Oh, I’m a twat, am I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Then someone else starts up, voices crowding over each other in an unbearable racket. Draco rests back in his chair, closing his eyes, his tired mind picturing the little yapping Crups that Mother’s friend Verity used to bring over; the ones Mother pretended to coo over even while they left puddles of piss on the Persian carpet.

A shadow falls across his desk: it’s Potter, leaning forwards, blocking out the harsh glare of Lumos off the wall tiles. When Draco blinks and looks up, he finds that Potter’s shivering a little, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. “Sorry about that lot,” he says, softly. “You know how they can get.”

“It’s fine,” Draco says, tightly. “Nice work on the, er, Muggle fighting stuff. Sounds pretty impressive.”

“Oh, cheers,” says Potter, with a shrug. “Just doing my job, you know how it is.”

Draco looks down at his desk: the bonsai yew that reminds him of home, his stupid cheap silver-plated letter-opener-cum-emergency-vampire-repellent, the battered copy of Birdsong he’s been slogging through for two months straight. “Not really,” he replies, shrugging.

“Ah, you’re not missing much. Five minutes of excitement, tops; I’d take a good Seeker’s game over that any day. But, you know—” he glances back over his shoulder, “—truth, and freedom, and all that rousing stuff from the superhero films Seamus watches. How’s your shift going, anyway?”

“Not bad,” Draco says, sitting up taller, sliding the Prophet back into view. “By the way, who’ve you got down for third Chaser? I’m stuck between Lyons and Campos.”

“You should go with Beni, definitely. Ollie’s been raving about his form all summer.” Potter leans over even further into Draco’s space, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he squints down at the page. “You got Chang down for Keeper?”

“McFarlane.”

“McFarlane?” Potter laughs, incredulously. “Seriously? Bloody Magpies fans. Completely deluded, the lot of you.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, Potter, I guess we’ll see.”

There’s a scuffle in the background, followed by cheers. “Coming, Harry?” Finnigan calls, wiping blood from his lip. “Hey, Malfoy, we’re heading out after this. It’s House night at XPulso; they’ve got three for ones on Rusty Nails, and we’re going to get Harry here laid.”

Harry stiffens, his eyes widening. “Er—”

“Yeah, I’ve got your back, mate. Maybe we can sort Neville out too, if anyone’ll have him.”

“I’m married, you knob!”

“You should really come along, Malfoy. It’ll be a laugh.”

Potter, still with his back to Finnigan, makes a faint choking sound.

“Sadly, Finnigan,” says Draco, trying to avoid Potter’s eyes, “I’m afraid I’m stuck at this desk for the foreseeable. But you lot have a great time. It sounds… memorable.”

Finnigan just shrugs. “Ah, your loss. C’mon then, boys.”

“Boys?”

“It’s just an expression, Davis, what d’you—”

They’re off, finally, all backslaps and hooting laughter, and no-one’s looking at Draco anymore, which is a small mercy. Potter reaches down to steal a crisp from the unopened packet at the back of the desk. “Anyway,” he says, mouth full, breath salt-and-vinegar scented, “’s been good to see you, Dra – Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” says Draco, glumly, and he hates himself for envying them all. “You too.”

***

Draco tries not to think about Potter, he really does. It’s hard, though, not to wonder what he’s doing – who he’s dancing with, where he’s sleeping – when all you’ve got for the night’s entertainment is Miffy and Jinks, a dodgy alarm on Level Five, and yesterday’s Prophet. He dithers for a while over his Fantasy Quidditch choices, trying to pretend he doesn’t care what Potter thinks, then Diffindos the completed page carefully out of the newspaper and tucks it into his pocket. Both house elves make it across the floor without incident. Through the window behind his desk, Draco watches the sun begin to rise over Salisbury Plain, as slowly, grudgingly, night gives way to day.

“You off?”

It’s his replacement; showered and shaven and far too bright. Draco nods grimly at him.

“Anything to report?”

“Nothing.” He gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders and renewing the Protego on his tree, grateful, as always, for the speed and convenience of the Floo. Five minutes from desk to bed, via blackout charms and a good Silencio; that’s the way to do it.

Something’s off today, though – Draco can tell, as soon as he lands, drained and unsteady, on his hearth. The heating’s already on, for one – he can’t see his breath in the air, which is a welcome change – and hang on… is that the smell of bacon? His nausea evaporates, instantly, as he follows his nose, half in a dream, only to find—

“Morning.”

Potter’s standing by the hob, grinning, and the flat’s a little more smoky than usual, but there’s eggs frying, and sausages on the grill, and just then the toast pops up and, well, Draco could just about kiss him right now.

So he does.

“Oh my god,” he says, when Potter pulls away, popping a crispy bit of bacon into Draco’s mouth instead.

“Good?”

“Oh my god,” Draco says again, salt flooding his mouth. “But what – what are you doing here?”

“Well, I was up all night too. You’re sleeping today, I’m sleeping today – I thought, well, this way at least we get to sleep together properly for once. And I know how hungry you get after night shifts. Here.”

Dizzy with tiredness, or the cooking fumes, or possibly something else entirely, Draco takes the ketchup over to the table, then slumps down hard into a chair. Potter brings over the plates, pulls his own chair in close.

They eat in comfortable silence, and it’s only once Draco’s blissfully full of sausages and buttered toast and beautifully seasoned egg, that he finally works up the courage to speak. “So Seamus’ efforts failed, I take it?” he says, lightly.

Potter snorts. “Shut up,” he mumbles, through a mouthful of beans. “Seamus passed out after the second round of shots. The rest of my night was spent escorting him back to his cousin's house on the Knight Bus. Why,” he says, grinning, “were you actually worried?

“Of course not,” Draco replies, too quickly, then sips his orange juice to try and disguise the lie.

“That’s good. Because I want to tell them, Draco.”

Draco freezes, glass in hand.

“No, I mean it,” Potter says, dropping his knife to take hold of Draco’s forearm. The Mark aches like a bruise, but beneath Potter’s fingers, the pain’s almost sweet. “Look, you know what those shifts are like; you know how they make you feel. The raid, and then getting everything wrapped up, and then seeing you at that bloody desk – the last thing I wanted was other people’s hands on me, Draco. All I could think about was how sick I am of acting the part, of pretending I’m interested, when what I’m really interested in is…” He gestures at the room, at their plates, then, finally, at Draco. “This. You.”

“I—” Draco begins, and if his voice is a bit wobbly, well, he can blame that on the tiredness, can’t he? Beside him, Potter's resumed blithely eating his bacon, eyes heavy-lidded, as though nothing he’s said was at all out of the ordinary. Draco swallows. “They’ll say you’ve lost your mind,” he says, pressing his socked foot against the knob of Potter’s ankle.

Potter nudges him back. “Well, maybe I have. Working nights will do that, after all.”

[goldenlionprince]

Prongsfoot Week 2024 - Day 6

Everyone Assumes (that they're together)

James drops onto the bench opposite Peter and Remus with a sigh. It's been an early Quidditch practice and he's starving. A good breakfast is what he really needs right now.

“When were you going to tell us?” Peter asks, an excited glint in his eyes like he was barely able to contain himself long enough from asking before James was sitting down. James pauses with his hand halfway to the bacon.

“Tell you what?”

“It's not like we're really surprised,” Remus adds casually, stirring his tea. A small grin tugs at his lips like he's barely holding back laughter. “But I must say this is moving rather quickly, even for you.”

“Is it though?” Peter asks, grinning from ear to ear. “I mean they have been attached by the hip for years now.”

Remus nods, his eyes still on James. “True, true.”

James frowns, looking from one of his friends to the other. “What the hell are you two talking about?”

“Oh, just, you know.” Remus waves his teaspoon through the air. “There are really interesting news going around this morning.”

“Some Hufflepuffs came by earlier to tell us to pass on some congratulations,” Peter says, almost bouncing up and down in his seat across from James.

“So naturally we wanted to know what they were talking about,” Remus adds.

James looks between them both. “And?”

“Turns out,” Remus says, setting his teaspoon down beside his cup on the saucer. “Regulus has been talking again. The usual stuff about Sirius being a family disappointment and how glad he is to have their home estate for himself over Christmas. More of the same, nothing new.”

“But then,” Peter squeaks excitedly, gripping the edge of the table. “He said something very, very interesting.”

There is another dramatic pause and James wants to strangle them both. “Come on, spit it out! What did the little wanker say this time?”

“He said,” Peter leans forward over the table. “That he really can't wait for Sirius to become a Potter so he finally doesn't have to deal with them sharing the same last name anymore.”

James stares at him.

“So naturally,” Remus continues, grabbing another slice of toast from the basket in front of him. “Half the school thinks you two are engaged now.”

“They what?” James voice comes out a bit squeaky.

“Yeah, Lily was passing by earlier, asking to be the flower girl at your wedding,” Peter laughs. Remus chuckles at that while spreading a bit of strawberry jam on his toast. “Flower girl, get it?”

“Yeah, Pete, got it,” James mumbles, his brain still catching up with the news as he stares at the toast basket.

This, of course, is when Sirius shows up.

“What did I miss?”

“Oh, nothing,” Remus says while flicking open his copy of the Daily Prophet. Peter looks like he's almost chocking on his laughter. “Just your engagement.”

“My what?” The look on Sirius' face as he sits down on the bench next to James is one of pure horror.

“Don't look so alarmed. It's not a nasty surprise from your family,” Remus reassures, pushing the toast basket closer to Sirius.

“Although they might be happy about it, it's a pure-blood after all,” Peter snickers and then squeaks when he gets kicked in the shin under the table. James is not sorry about it.

“What the fuck are you taking about?” Sirius demands and grabs a slice of toast. He drops it onto James' plate without looking and takes another one for himself.

“Regulus is spreading the rumour that you'll be a Potter soon,” Remus explains, picking up his tea cup. “Though marriage.”

Sirius turns his head and looks at James and James – he just can't look away. He stares into Sirius grey eyes. He has looked into those eyes so many times but something feels different about it this time, like Sirius is searching for something and James just knows he will find it. His heart is beating so loud he's almost sure Sirius can hear it too. The noise of the Great Hall at breakfast time gets dimmer and his hands get all clammy and James just knows his face is all red.

“Oh,” Sirius says all soft and it makes goosebumps erupt all over James' skin.

“Oh no,” Peter says but it sounds far away. “Is this where they realize this engagement stuff can be a thing?”

Remus chuckles softly into his tea cup. “I think so.”

[witchblood-if]

“A Macigian never reveals their secrets. A Witch even less so.”

Well, you had a good run. For the last 70 or so years that you've had your little shop in Esmar's capital, nothing overly exciting happened. Apart from the occasional political changes and economical shifts, you could mostly carry on business as usual. But when the Fae calling herself your "best and only friend" invites you to pull a heist on your rival's home you didn't realize what effect that stunt would have on your immortal life. But damn, you really wanted that statue back.

Play Demo

Witch Blood is an upcoming urban fantasy interactive fiction story where you take on the role of one of the last proper witches of Esmar, hoping to resolve a very time-sensitive mystery that might cost you your own life if you don’t get on with the investigation soon.

Does it have to do with random people’s head exploding?

Is this the reason you seem to have more prophetic dreams than usual?

Why are there so many strangers storming into your shop demanding answers you couldn’t possibly know?

And why does your familiar keep eating your receipts? You need those for your taxes!

Create your very own witch. Appearance, personality, gender and sexuality...  All that Jazz

Choose a furry (or non-furry) companion for your immortal life

Become a master of 5 witchy skills that may or may not help you along the road

Keep your business afloat (you got bills to pay, after all)

Solve a mystery, save a bunch of people, and meet the Gods (???)

Find love, friendship, or rivalry (or maybe all three of them at the same time) with 5 different people who will. Not. Leave. You. Alone.

And for the love of the Gods: please stop spitting coins

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

So far it will probably be a 16+ kind of rating for:

Mentions of violence, blood and gore

Strong language, cursing

Suggestive language

but things might change. I’ll keep you updated in any case.

The Best Friend: Faith (f)

Flirty and flighty, Faith is certainly living her best life. And while she’s not always the most reliable of friends, she always shows up for your weekly tea and gossip session (and more often than not with baked goods as well). If you’re looking for a fun night out: Faith is your gal. Don’t ask how she pays for all of it without having a job though.

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

The Knight in Shining Armor: Isaac (m)

A stranger visiting your shop and ... flirting with you? Thankfully you’ve lived long enough to see through his ploy and stay unaffacted to his charms. Mostly. With a quick smile, a stance almost too relaxed and some really suspicious questions you can’t quite get a read on him. And you have the feeling he is also not really a tourist interested in your special sale items.

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

The Loyal Advisor: Eli (f/m/nb)

Another stranger. This one seems much more honest than the last one but somehow you haven’t decided yet if you appreciate that or not. They say there is a problem their employer has sent them to hopefully solve and after some extensive research you seemed to be the least untrustworthy person of your craft to potentially help. You can’t quite tell from their stoic face if that sentence was supposed to be a compliment, a joke or very subtle sarcasm. But the pay they offer is nothing to turn your nose up at and you’ve worked for way shadier people.

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

The Crazy Mushroom: Mezilkree (f/m/nb)

Mezilkree has been a frequent visitor of yours for quite some years. Mostly they just hang out at your shop and try to scare potential customers. When you try to make them leave they declare they are a customer, throw a bottle cap on your counter and shove a handful of candy from the jar you keep for kids in their mouth. Sometimes they even do buy something if they’re on an errand for their family, but as their community grows more and more resentful of non-mushrooms this occasion becomes rarer and rarer. In the many years of botherment, you have found Mezilkree to be a mischievous but sweet troublemaker. Some of the time, at least.

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

The Other Witch: Levan (nb)

An Enemy. A Fiend. Your Immortal Rival. Most of the time you and Levan stay clear of each other, as is agreed upon in your Contract of Geniality. But now they have decided to steal a very valuable artifact you have spent months on locating. At least you’re pretty sure it was them, who else would be skilled enough to enter your home. Even though you don’t particularly get along, Levan is a witch you have known for the longest of time. But because of their spiteful nature and (admittedly somewhat deserved) arrogance you have long decided to avoid them, lest you burn down the whole town in a fit of anger. They really know how to push your buttons.

ROs Physical Appearance 

Witch Types

Demo

#ro ask ----> Scenarios and asks including all ROs

#ros ----> unspecific general info about ROs

#ch: [name] ----> info about that RO, often paired with #ros

#ch: carter ----> facts and info and rambling about the author

#mc ----> anything to do with your character, customization and so on

#lore and #lore ask ----> anything that’s about worldbuilding

#story and story ask ----> anything to do with plot

#lovely ocs ----> readers showing off their ocs

#lovely readers ----> lovely words from lovely people

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

Hello my lovelies! This is a first attempt at Interactive Fiction, and on an even more important to note: a first real attempt at writing. I hope it doesn’t suck too much! Also please forgive orthographic and grammatical errors, English isn’t my first language :) (if you see something, say something tho)

Currently the prologue is in the works and will face some editing and expanding.

Until then,

Love, Carter

[fast-moon]

I'm 30 years late, but...

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine originally aired when I was 10 years old. I loved Next Generation when I was a kid, so I gave DS9 a try back then... and immediately grew bored of it. They weren't going to new planets or having space battles, they were just sitting around in one place discussing space politics, and there wasn't even anyone funny like Data to hold my attention. So, I stopped watching after a couple episodes.

But, since I keep hearing it ended up being the best Trek seres, I've decided to go ahead and give it a full watch-through. Maybe now that I'm 40 and have more life experience under my belt, I can appreciate it more.

Turns out I do! I've finished the first season, so I'll give a run-down of what I thought of the S1 episodes below the cut:

1-2. Emissary: All right, I actually understand the premise this time which completely went over my head as a kid. The Bajorans were under Cardassian occupation for decades, the Federation showed up and drove them out, now the Federation is in control of the Cardassian space station DS9 to help the Bajorans rebuild and return to self-governance. But wait! Turns out there's a wormhole that goes to the other side of the galaxy here and it's suddenly become prime space real-estate! And the wormhole is inhabited by... mysterious non-temporal entities that spit out a magic orbs from time to time and the Bajorans worship them as prophets.

3. Past Prologue: Garak is queer-coded like whoa and gives Bashir a taste of his own medicine about not respecting boundaries. Is also possibly like a quadruple-agent. And tailors a fine suit. Also, Kira got a haircut. There's rats on spaceships?! Oh, that's just Odo. Okay. Still, the fact that he considered that a convincing disguise means there's rats on spaceships?!

4. A Man Alone: A guy backstabs himself and blames Odo for it.

5. Babel: Poor overworked O'Brien gets so stressed out he starts speaking in tongues. Then it turns out it's contagious. And it turns out that it's because someone sabotaged the station decades ago with a dyslexia virus and then just kind of forgot about it.

6. Captive Pursuit: This actually touches on a moral question I'd been wondering about if we ever end up with sentient AI: If something is bred/programmed to like being oppressed, is it more moral to remove it from its oppression even if that makes it miserable, or to return it to its oppression if that's what makes it happy? This episode chose the latter.

7. Q-Less: A surprisingly boring Q-centric episode whose only shenanigans involved a space stingray Vash was trying to sell off. Q really does miss Picard.

8. Dax: Oh, another philosophical thought-experiment: If you committed a crime and then get reincarnated in a traceable manner and retain all the memories of your previous incarnation, can your current incarnation be held liable for your previous incarnation's actions? This episode decides it doesn't want to answer this because she's not guilty, anyway.

9. The Passenger: Bashir becomes even more insufferable and nobody notices.

10. Move Along Home: Samurai hippies come through the wormhole and demand everyone LARP with them whether they like it or not.

11. The Nagus: Quark falls victim to one of the classic blunders, the most famous of which is "Never get involved in a land war with Asia". But only slightly less well-known is this: "Never get involved with a Ferengi when profit is on the line".

12. Vortex: So... Odo just lets a guy get away with murder because he has a sob story and claimed he knew others of his kind? Just because he was wanted unjustly on his home planet does not change the fact that he murdered a guy for hire. Also, Odo can get knocked out by a rock?

13. Battle Lines: Remember that "Great Divide" episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender that everyone hated? No reason.

14. The Storyteller: O'Brien goes down to Bajor to fix the pipes, becomes God.

15. Progress: Kira has to go convince a Boomer to leave his land because they need the resources to rebuild the planet, but he's all "I got mine, screw them." She humors his sexist behavior all episode, then burns his house down.

16. If Wishes Were Horses: Bashir wishes for his own personal side-piece Dax, and real Dax is weirdly okay with this because "boys will be boys". The conflict in this episode is literally solved by thinking happy thoughts.

17. The Forsaken: Odo gets sexually harassed so reports it to HR who just laughs him off because they think it would be good for him to get laid. Then he gets stuck in an elevator with his stalker and it's revealed just how physically strenuous it is for him to maintain his human form all day, and yet he has never been afforded any accommodations beyond a bucket to sleep in. This poor space slime, no wonder he's always so grumpy. #JusticeForOdo

18. Dramatis Personae: TNG's "The Inner Light", but stupid. Once again Odo has to save the day because he's immune to the humanoid crazypox that seems to infect the station every half-dozen episodes, and yet they still just can't find it in their effects budget to adjust station operations enough to allow him the minimal comfort of not having to contort himself into human form every day until he collapses just to do his job.

19. Duet: I am a sucker for "Did the janitors on the Death Star deserve to die?" sorts of moral discussions, and this episode delivered that very well. Also, I'm in lesbians with Kira.

20. In the Hands of the Prophets: Lady who doesn't even have kids at the school nevertheless takes issue that the children aren't being taught in accordance to her religious beliefs. It's been 30 years since this came out and nothing changes.

All in all, a decent season 1. It does show its age in places, especially in its treatment of female characters, and being written before the internet and smartphones caused seismic cultural shifts that its vision of the future failed to take into account. But still, I'm liking it now that I actually understand what's going on. On to season 2!

[in-flvx]

Commotion, Chaos and Cacophony

(Sirius runs away. Regulus POV)

There is shouting.

There is always shouting. Regulus black is sitting at his gorgeous mahagony desk, precision scissors in his hand, as he cuts out the last article of today's Prophet which he was able to connect to the Dark Lord, and tries to ignore the ruckus going on downstairs.

It had started at breakfast, when Sirius once again brought one of his liberal flights of fancy. It is ridiculous. Sirius had always been an airhead, soft for lowlifes and vermin. And where Regulus had been sympathetic towards this, thought Sirius would grow out of it, become wiser with age, he had gotten entirely disillusioned to the notion of it. It's impractical and disruptive. Not just to society at large, but also, time and again, to Regulus' peace and quiet.

Two doors get slammed in quick succession, causing Regulus to let out a quiet sigh of relief as he gets up to pull out his sketchbook. 92 leaves out of 130, filled with cut-outs, and articles of his own, journaling the steady crawl to victory of the Dark Lord. Victory of society.

Loud foot stomps come up the stairs, and then the next door falls shut. Across the hall this time. This doesn't mean today's fight is over, of course. Often, Mother and Sirius take a few minutes, hours sometimes, to wind up their energy to the next round. Regulus wrinkles his nose in distaste, thinking about the early game of catch he has scheduled with Wilkes, Malfoy and the Lestranges tomorrow, which Regulus has been looking forward to for days. Should there be another round to this fight, Regulus will lose some sleep and possibly the game. Yet another way Sirius' childish ideations keep interrupting Regulus' life.

Instead of sitting down to continue his journaling, Regulus remains standing. Unsure about how to continue. He swallows, and then seizes the opportunity.

Regulus opens his door smoothly, and tabs over the heavy carpet to his brother's door. There is commotion in there, which is par for the course. There is always commotion in Sirius' room. Commotion, chaos and cacophony.

He throws open the door. The sight insults him. Red and gold, unmoving pictures of scantily cladt muggle females on those dirty machines Sirius is so infatuated with, pictures of Sirius with his gaggle of blood traitor and mud blooded friends. And between all of this childish show of rebellion, there is Sirius himself. There's an ugly look on his face, as he creates even more chaos in this dump of a room. Regulus has never understood why people in their school fancied him. Lips too big, and too red, quite like a girls in fact, a tan that betrays his noble heritage, and Sirius never bothered to get rid of the freckles, and moles, that marr his visage. Hair falling into his eyes, and a slump as if he had never learned how to carry himself.

"What do you want, Regulus?" Sirius spits out without even turning to look at him, as he throws his belongings around the room.

"Stop the fight for tonight, will you?" Regulus starts. Sirius throws his head back and laughs at that. It sounds hysteric. Cold. Regulus rolls his eyes. The hysterics of a woman. As much as he appreciates Mother and Bellatrix, they are still females, behaving as such. It does not stand for the eldest son to behave like them.

"Mother and Father are so good to you, can't you see that?" Regulus tries to ban the bitterness from his voice. Even with all the chaos and airheadedness, the parents still love Sirius. Regulus still can't shake the feeling that they love Sirius more than him. No matter how often show Regulus off, use him as the example of a good son to strive towards. They love Sirius so much. Adore him and his head full of rebellion.

"What do you want, Regulus?" Sirius asks again. This time he turns around and pierces Regulus with his too dark eyes. Even their regal silver is muddied by black, blue and grey. Sometimes brown in bad light. The mole on Sirius' lower lid always looks like dirt. Only now does he see that Sirius is holding his old quidditch bag. It's ratty. Kreacher and Mother have thrown it out several times, but Sirius has fished it out of the garbage every time. It's big. Roomy enough for the bat, and gear.

"Are you going somewhere?" Regulus asks back. Sirius let's out another hysteric laugh.

"Yes," he answers.

This might not be a bad idea. Life is easier when Sirius takes off. The parents get along, social dinners go smoothly, Regulus gets the sleep he needs.

Sirius has gone back to throwing things around. There is an order to it, he hadn't recognised earlier.

"Try and go quietly," Regulus advises. He prefers not to listen to Mother rant and cry over the loss of her eldest son when Sirius makes one of his dramatic exits. He will be able to make arrangements for the next days to avoid all of that, but tonight it would be uncouth.

Sirius snorts: "Whatever."

Regulus contemplates on what to say next.

"I won't come back this time," Sirius says. His voice is filled with many emotions which Regulus has no interest in.

"Good," he says instead. This takes care of all of Regulus' problems.

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x Player)

Chapter 17, In Which You Decide To Die

Read on AO3

Apollonia Saintclair

You'd think Bumby would be seething, but the man was clinically incapable of any emotion. Maybe that's why he had this weird fascination with getting into other people’s heads.

He did say it was a bad idea (a horrendous judgement call, were his exact words) and he was very disappointed (of course, he would no longer be making a million a month off you) at Mr D'Avergnis's impulsive decision.

He made Raul sign a waiver about possible risks to your health and then had his whole team go through your pill regimen while you enjoyed the thought of spitting them out in their grey worn-out faces.

"Until our paths cross again, Mrs Berger," Angus bid adieu as you climbed up the ladder into the private jet.

"Hopefully never," you replied.

He seemed entirely unconvinced.

****

Before you even arrived at the villa, Raul had made sure you fulfilled your promise to him twice over. First in the cramped restroom of the jet, five minutes of you bending over the porcelain sink, his fingers in your hair, as he whispered "Ti amo" repeatedly in your ear (he kept repeating it as if he was trying to understand what that words mean).

Then again in the backseat of the limousine. What started as you taking a nap on Raul’s lap quickly turned into him guiding your head onto his cock. Poor Yurgir (now Yuri, shrunk back to his bulky and grumpy Russian self) tried to focus on the road ahead, hiding behind the black partition.

Luckily for him, he didn't have to focus for too long; there weren't many things you excelled at, but there were some. You completed the task in record time. Raul drifted off into sleep shortly after, and you pondered if there was any way to discreetly remove his cross while he slumbered.

Unfortunately, you didn't come up with a solution before reaching your destination.

***

No one in the villa was happy to see you again.

The villa itself had not changed much; but the things that had changed you did not like. A sudden influx of religious paraphernalia; crucifixes on the walls, the dark wood stark against the pale paint of the villa. A statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner where there used to be an abstract work of art. 

"Feeling better?" said Camilla, her arms crossed, as she saw you in the foyer. 

She looked ever more tired than the last time you saw her.

"I am," you said with a victorious smile. 

"Really?"

"Really," you nodded. "Angus explained some things to me and it all makes perfect sense now. How did you ever explain kissing my hand, Camilla?"

"I've been thinking about it," she said calmly. "Schizophrenogenic environment."

"Huh?"

"Hang out with the crazy, get crazy yourself”.

"Good thing we're all so much better now," you grinned. "Angus fixed me really good. So, was Davos such a flop that Raul turned to God?"

You gave everything around you a pointed look.

"On the contrary," Camilla corrected you sharply. "A huge success. I'm constantly fending off journalists day and night...I guess I underestimated people’s capacity for idiocy... They are making him out to be some kind of messiah figure. Stravinsky's death added to the effect."

"What a strange coincidence, huh?", you asked.

"Mmm-hmm," came Camilla's nonchalant reply.

"I feel so much better now that I know it was not my fault”, you said. “Back there I had this thought that I wished her dead and that was why she had a heart attack."

"Hm-mm," Camilla hummed, slowly backing away from you. "Let's not wish for something like that again, okay?"

"Why not? It's not like anything would actually happen. I am not crazy anymore, remember? I cannot do miracles. I wish, though… I wish…”

You watched as Camilla backed up until she was flush against the wall - a thrill ran through you at her discomfort. 

"Just kidding”, you said. “But honestly, what's with the whole Catholic craze? Is Raul trying to ward something off or is he fully in his Prophet role now?"

"Mmm," was all Camilla offered. 

You waited for more, but the silence continued.

"Good chat," you quipped. "See you around."

***

The confinements of you patient room were extended to a whole villa now, but you had your phone back. You had your phone back and you were free to move around the perimeter, at least. Outside was still off-limits. 

Well, count your blessings.

As you settled down in bed for the evening, you checked the tabloids for the latest gossip; according to them, you disappeared because you were pregnant and Raul was hiding you from the public because.. superstitions or something. Some more unhinged ones wrote you were carrying the new Jesus Christ. 

Clowns.

Next, you searched for “Raphael BG3”. Before you did so, you made sure to hide underneath a blanket, just in case any hidden cameras were watching. It had been far too long since you had seen Raphael’s real face.

Far too long. Where are you, you mouthed at the screen. Where the hell are you? How can I get you back? I miss you.

"Want to play hide and seek?" you heard a deep baritone say. 

CHRIST ON A BIKE! You promptly clicked away and peered from under your blanket.

Yes, of course it was Raul, there to remind you that your never-ending bill was still running. He was getting ready for bed (scandalously early than you expected, not even 10pm), busy unbuttoning his shirt button after button, and he was already giving you The Look. 

Is Raul really forty-seven? Who fucks so much at forty-seven? He should see a doctor, it's not normal. He pulled the blanket off you and looked at your nondescript white t-shirt and plain panties as if you were wearing Agent Provocateur.

Yes, you were definitely about to get fucked. 

Again. 

And again. 

Until you figure out how to get Raphael back. 

Perhaps a ritual to summon the devil? Pentagrams and black candles?

"You're so beautiful," Raul said, pulling down his boxers and giving his erection a few pumps. "I'm delighted to have you back."

You let out a strategic moan as Raul gently guided you onto your back, his index and middle fingers slipping inside you. Not as easily as they used to, that’s for sure.

"You're not wet," Raul said.

Why should you be? Because he showed you his cock?

"…You were always wet before," he continued, a frown on his face. "Even before I touched you. I adored that"

"Pills," was your quick reply. "Side effects. But there's an easy fix."

"Mmhm," he nodded. "Of course."

You were referring to the lubricant, but Raul decided to play the gentleman instead, positioning himself between your knees and planting kisses on your thighs. You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the gel that kept it slicked back, and clenched it into a fist. 

Not a bad angle, actually. Same hairline, similar foreheads. Yes, great angle. As his tongue circled around your clit, you arched into his mouth, trying your best to relax and go along with it.

Raul looked up at you. Ugh, no, no, wrong eye colour, stop looking, look somewhere else.

"Move your tongue from left to right, horizontally," you asked. "With a bit more force”.

Raul heeded your words. You gave him another critical look, head bobbing as he licked and sucked and moaned. Handsome, yes, more than you cared to admit, more than he deserved, but no, you were not going to come under his tongue for all his efforts.

So you began to strategically time your moans - starting softly, gently, then getting louder - but not too loud. You placed "yeah" and "like that" and "mm, yeah baby" at equal intervals.

He was buying it, you think, looking more and more smug, so you thought it was time to moan a little harder and build up to the final OH YES I AM COMING. You threw your head back and clenched your cunt rhythmically. 

"Brava, mia bella," Raul gasped, the bottom of his face glistening.

Raul wasted no time in climbing on top nd pushing his erection inside you, and you saw red for the second he did which you masked behind “oh, yes, baby” scream.

"Cazzo sì”, he grunted. Crude, but strangely attractive in that Italian mobster sort of way. 

Not that it would help him. That gift Raphael had given you, the pleasure you could achieve by being penetrated, was gone. Completely. You’d have to rub yourself to come underneath Raul (like with any other mortal man), so you resorted to that.

He wedged his knees beneath your thighs to hoist you against his thrusts while his cross swung with each movement; beads of sweat rained down onto you from above. Perhaps you could just yank that cross. Yes, why not. Rip it off and maybe—just maybe—that would liberate Raphael. 

"What are you doing?" Raul stuttered as the gold chain tightened around his neck and he collapsed on top of you. "You want it rougher? No, not in your condition. The doctor said..."

"Fuck Angus," you said, pulling harder, Raul’s reddened, pained face suddenly doing it for you. 

The bloody chain just wouldn't break. 

"Ah, fuck it. Get down on all fours," he said, and you were more than happy to oblige - it was much easier to imagine him as Raphael doing it from behind. He grabbed your hips, clearly venting some pent-up frustrations on you - hair pulling, ass slapping - pounding into you as if he could somehow rid you of Raphael.

Until he slowed down all of sudden.

"…do you remember the night we did coke?" Raul leaned down, his voice full of some intention you could not decipher yet, but definitely nothing good.

Nothing good at all.

"Coke and olanzapine don't mix well," you managed to say between thrusts.

"No, of course not," he snickered. "That's not what I meant. You remember when I tied you up, vibrator in your pussy, and fucked your from behind?"

...yeah, that's not what you remember. 

Having said that, Raul rubbed his wet thumb against your bum. Panic washed over you - God forbid he thought about anal, because today wasn't the day for it.

"No... No... Not today."

Not tomorrow either. Actually, no day was good for anal anymore.

"You loved it last time. You came so hard," he said. "Or is your ass a privilege you only grant the devil?"

His voice took on a cold, metallic tone every time he veered close to the subject of Raphael. 

"No, no. It’s just... the pills messed with my stomach,” you tried to explain yourself. “I don’t want to shit all over the sheets."

"...There's no need for such explicit imagery," Raul chastised before removing his finger. "Fine, when you feel better. God, you cannot imagine all the things I want to do to you when you finally feel better".

You cannot imagine all the things I want to do to you, Raul.

Then he resumed his rhythm and took it up a notch.

"My name”, he said, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"Raul?" You guessed correctly but then realized what he probably wanted something else. “Ah. Raul. Fuck me, Raul. Fuck me, daddy, fuck me hard”.

That’s it, he was coming two thrusts later - then withdrawing as swiftly as he had entered. You didn’t manage to come after all. Teetering close and yet so far, nothing but fog in your brain. You need to flush these damn pills down the toilet.

Raul stretched lazily next to you, looking so satisfied that the urge to punch him was almost overwhelming. 

“Was Raphael better?” he asked in a tone that was meant to sound like he was joking but came off as anything but.

“No”, you said as you looked into the window you once saw Avernus in - you wish you would ever see it again. “You are the best”.

He laid himself on a pillow and snuggled you tight; his face softened, with this slight trace of guilt as he gently stroked your stomach.

“Do you think we should marry in Napoli or Rome, my love?"

“Avernus,” slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"You mean the lake?" he repeated, slightly confused. "You know, it's actually a beautiful idea. Lakeside wedding in some medieval castle. Yes, I could see that".

Read the rest on Ao3

[mechanicaltrickster]

Hey, I just saw TF one a second time. This time with my dad, it's still great, and I think I liked it even better the second time. Here's some stuff under read more I noticed/made note of the second time around! Under read more for obvious spoilers since I'm talking about specific scenes.

Zeta prime has conjured axe just like Optimus's. You can see it before sentinel kills zeta prime. It's more blue than Optimus's yellow.

D-16 actually doesn't believe that Sentinel would betray them after alpha tritons vision dust. He denies it still. It's only after seeing it in the present that when Sentinel gives the quintessons their energon does he finally accept it. Makes me think when D-16 says that Iacon doesn't want to believe them and they'll need to kill Sentinel it's because D-16 didn't believe it either and only did after seeing it himself.

The pause that over takes everyone when D-16's arm canon pops out is kinda funny. "Oh that's a gun gun." Realization sets in, in real time.

You can actually see the exact moment when D-16's eyes turn orange! Orion can, too. In the highguard base after D-16 rallies, the high guard to attack sentinel. And the bloodthirsty crowd is separating the two of them. There's a slow shot when Orion looks at D-16's face and his eyes tint to orange right there.

I find the "no more false prophets!" From Megatron funny since Primus literally spits Optimus out in a ball of fire from its core like "Okay bitch have a real one then."

When Optimus banishes Megatron, Megatron's eyes actually noticeably dim out, and an expression of, disbelief? Hurt? Manages to slip through before the rage over takes his face again. And his eyes light back up to the normal bright red. God, megop shippers, how we feeling???

Anyway, this movie is good, and my dad even loved it. Tell anyone you can it was good and to go see it so it can be a success and we get more animated transformers stuff. Hopefully, it breaks 100k so it's successful at the least. It's only at 40k rn.

[cressthebest]

Crimson Rivers thoughts pt. 42

chapter 64:

1. “They literally just laid their guns down, because apparently they've been spread so thin and their working conditions are so shit that they had all agreed to surrender if rebels showed up.” LMAO me as an auror fr

2. LMAOO “As it turns out, a war not hard-won is just…awkward.” NOT FOR LONG

3. SCREAMING OH MY GOD AROMATIC/AROSPEC BARTY!!!!!!!! OH MY GOD

4. amos noooooo!!!!!! i loved him!!! no!!!!

5. “This is what no one says:

It's war. What did you expect?”

what if i started crying, huh? what would you do then? if i started crying???

6. “They never find out why those fifteen people weren't immune when everyone else is. They never will. Sometimes, in life, things will always be a mystery.” those fuckers were dehydrated af

7. NOOOOOOOOO SYBILL!!

8. heavy angry breathing at the “13 to dine, first to rise dies” reference

9. oh my god i’m grinning so hard over their disability aids. the cane and hearing aids and gloves!!!

10. “What James wants, James gets.” 👀 *cough pillow cough cough princess cough*

11. SCREEEEEEEEE NO ONE EVER THINKS TO LOOK UP

12. seeing rudolphus cry over rabastan as sirius and regulus are watching is freaking heartbreaking

13. “it wasn't until Remus soothed him that [Sirius] stopped threatening to choke Dumbledore with his own beard.” dhkajdksjdksksjdkjsjd ME FR

14. “When [Remus] was young, he punched walls and spit in the face of Aurors dragging him to whipping posts. He had blood in his mouth more often than something sweet, and so that became his favorite meal.” holy shit holy shit holy shit this is like an iconic line that people need to quote more often. it’s so badass

15. 😦😦😦 what happened to lily’s house. what happened. what happened to it???!

16. the lupin reunion has me on the brink of tears

17. “"I'm warning you, Tim," Regulus snaps, "if you touch me, you're going to die."

Tim doesn't listen to him”

regulus continuously gives warnings about what he will do if people don’t listen to him. and for some reason, people still fucking test him

“he's starting to think he's some sort of prophet or something.” 😭😭😭

chapter 65:

1. kingsley and lily never being close again breaks me more than i can describe.

2. lily and bingley ☺️☺️

3. stop!!!! stop making plans!!! marlene and dorcas need to stop making “after-war” plans!!! i can’t do this shit!!!! no!!!! it’s gonna break my heart!!

4. marlene with a baby giving dorcas baby fever. i just. i can’t. i can’t do this

5. “someday, people will look back on these battles and describe them in numbers instead of names.” this is a line i’ll remember long into my life. i’ll never forget this line. genuinely

6. “"Hi," Sirius greets warmly when the door opens. His eyes are sparkling. Pretty, pretty, pretty.

Remus nearly melts. "Hi."

"Is that boy of yours at the door?" Lyall calls out, and Remus grins the moment Sirius looks delighted and flustered by this title, his face turning red.”

same vibe

7. remus and lyall fucking with sirius is written genius 😭😭😭

8. sirius is literal just kissing and biting and sucking all over remus’ neck and ears, and remus is literally talking about how people died 😭😭😭 wtf that’s so them fr

9. remus and sirius are the ultimate ship to me, forever and always. to me, they’re more canon than harry and ginny or like ron and hermione. i love them, your honor

10. “the mere thought makes him feel entirely too happy to describe. So, naturally, he treats it with suspicion”

bruh this is like harry resisting the imperious curse 😭😭😭

11. knife kink james is back y’all. reg is like “i’ll never hurt you with a dagger.” and james is like, “oh. 😞” BYE