#inkwell press

[uwmspeccoll]

A Woodcut Feathursday

Here are some woodcut feather-folk by American author, artist, designer, and letterpress printer Vincent Torre from his letterpress-printed book Songs & Fables printed in New York at his Inkwell Press in 1990 in an edition of 150 copies signed by Torre. The book is part of a four-volume series of Torre's own fables and poems, printed from handset type and illustrated with 80 full-colored woodcuts printed from the blocks. 

The birds shown here include a pigeon, a pelican and a so-called popinjay, a Trumpeter Swan and a Canada Goose, an ostrich, a bullfinch, a gull, and a parakeet. While the last image looks like some sort of blackbird, we believe it represents a wren to illustrate a verse about a gluttonous wren being kick out by his host, the swallow:

The swallow flew into a fit And pushed him through the hole. The wren became stuck fast in it At the waistline, on the whole. The swallow had to wait a day Until the wren got thinner And, finally, passed all the way. (Don't ask a bird to dinner.)

View more Feathursday posts.

[loiterer87]

Got bored, did a piece of Indy facing off against some sort of giant frog monster. Started this at a Drink & Draw event in town a couple of weeks back. Wanted to see it through to the end after the night finished and I liked the way it was looking. Even at the rough pencil stage.

And, here's the lineart.

[distantdarlings]

HABITUAL // t. nott

RATING: PG-13 / 4.3K WORDS

Theodore Nott x Fem Reader Insert (Requested)

+ SUMMARY - *Requested - based on this (changed slightly)* Annoyed that Theo won't seem to make a move, despite your growing feelings for each other, you ask a friend of the both of you to help make him jealous.

+ WARNINGS - Language, brief sensuality, kissing, two time skips, making Theo jealous, brief fake-dating

+ MUSIC (listened to while writing) -

Ribs - Lorde

---

Professor Trelawney’s voice droned on as your quill lazily scratched across your notebook. You were between listening to what she was saying and sleeping, and your brain slowly tilted toward the second. She was rambling on about the properties of a crystal ball above all other vectors for sight-seeing. Something about its curvature made the answers come to you clearer…

Your quill tip ran dry and made a slightly louder scratch against the parchment, sending a nasty shudder down your spine. Your eyes darted over to your inkwell and noticed that it was practically empty. A deep sigh ran through your body, depressing your shoulders. Why was it you always ran out of something when you needed it most? Maybe grabbing a replacement would wake you up a bit. You raised your hand and waited for the long-winded professor to catch sight of it.

“Oh, yes, what is it?” she stared at you through her hugely magnified glasses, tilting her head back slightly to catch that sweet spot in them. 

“I’ve run out of ink. I was just wondering if I could—” A tap on your shoulder interrupted your question. You turned towards the owner of the hand and spotted Theodore. A small smile spread across your lips as a small backup inkwell was displayed in his hand. You nodded your thanks and grabbed it from him, intending to let the professor continue her lecture.  

“Never mind that, Professor Trelawney!” you said, flashing a brief smile at the eccentric woman. She nodded and continued as if she’d never stopped. You wondered when she’d take her next breath.

“You’re welcome, gorgeous,” a small whisper said next to your ear. You smiled at Theo’s flirtatious nature, knowing he’d use this little favor to ask for something in return later. He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before backing up. You rolled your eyes, promising to get him back for that.

By the end of class, your stomach was growling, and your mind was exhausted. It was a good thing you didn’t have divinity again until Wednesday because you didn’t think you’d make it if you didn’t get a small break from her each week. And thank Merlin, your next class wasn’t until after lunch. 

You gathered your things and let them slide into your bag. The boys behind you had begun to do the same as you headed towards the door. They were always behind you for whatever reason. You weren’t sure. Maybe it was just a boy thing. 

“Hey!” Theo’s voice came from behind you. You turned to catch him jogging toward you with his hands tightened around his bag straps. You stopped and flashed a smile, watching as his eyes briefly flashed down to your lips. You withheld any physical reaction so as not to embarrass him. “Are you still eating with us?”

“Of course, I am,” you say, “I always do. It wouldn’t be a good day without having lunch with my favorite boy.” You gently touched your thumb and forefinger to his chin, teasing him just a bit. You saw his lips part as soon as your skin came into contact with his—just as it always did. 

“I’m your favorite boy?” he chuckled, letting a smirk fall over his lips. He readjusted his bag over his shoulders. Your fingers came up to separate your collar from your neck, allowing just a breath of skin to flash over his eyes. You watched as he glanced down at every inch of you that was revealed to him, and his throat slid up nervously. You could play him like a piano, and it was addicting. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Mattheo asked, coming up behind the two of you. His voice sliced the tension between the two of you in half. 

“Nope, we were just getting ready to head down to the Great Hall,” you replied. “Are you eating with us?”

“Duh, who else am I going to eat with?” Mattheo asked. You rolled your eyes at him and looped your arm through Theo’s, allowing him to lead the way to the dining hall. Enzo quickly jogged up beside the group, falling in step with the rest of them. Your big brother had a habit of always being the latest to the party. It was one of his many endearing qualities. 

Your group appeared before the vast doors of the Great Hall, allowing them to quickly swallow you all up as you realized that everyone else was just as starving as you were. You selected your usual seats at the far end of the long Slytherin table and dug in. Soon enough, yours and everyone else’s plates were piled high with the many options laid out before you.

“Merlin, help us all….if that wasn’t the most boring class yet,” Mattheo sighed into his food. The rest of you laughed at his confession, all nodding in agreement. Trelawney’s class was rarely exciting, but when it was boring, it was really boring. 

“The only bit of excitement was you asking for some new ink,” Theo nodded toward you, a bit of a roll pressed between his teeth. You smiled and shook your head.

“And, of course, you were there, right to the rescue,” you laughed. “I was hoping I could leave the class and grab a replacement from my dorm to wake myself up a little.”

“My bad, I thought I was helping.”

“You were…unfortunately,” you replied. The four of you laughed in response, knowing well enough that they all had done something to try and get out of the squirrely professor’s class. A comfortable silence ensued soon after as the group finished up their meals and let the large meal settle sweetly on their stomachs.

“I’m really tired now,” you groaned, laying your head down against the table. You felt a hand reach over and gently brush its fingers along your hair. You assumed it was Theo, as he habitually absentmindedly touched you somehow. You figured you were a sort of stress ball to him. A small laugh touched your chest at the thought. 

“Teddy, can I sit on your lap?” you asked, already knowing his answer.

“Of course, love, come here,” he responded. The three boys had begun to discuss some kind of new broom headed towards the Quidditch market, and, to be entirely honest, you couldn’t care less about it. All the more reason for you to doze off just a bit in Theo’s lap. You pulled yourself up and stepped over your side of the bench. You walked around the edge of the table, sleepily approaching Theo. Though his attention remained on his friends, his legs slid open and his arm pushed out, allowing you to be able to slip onto his lap. 

You gently grabbed his shoulder and stepped between his legs, settling yourself on his lap. Once you were seated, his arm slid firmly around your waist, sliding his fingers comfortably beneath the waistband of your skirt. You set your head on his shoulder, pressing your face close to his neck, letting your lips brush his skin every once in a while. If he could avoid any romantic feelings from this, he either genuinely disliked you or was utterly numb to all physical affection. 

Your goal for the last few weeks was to muster up every bit of courage the universe had blessed you with and completely take it out on Theo. The feelings and the tension sustained between the two of you were too obvious for it to mean nothing. He had feelings for you, you’d bet your final grade on it.

Just as your lips brushed his skin a third time, you noticed a trail of chills travel down the back of his neck. He shuddered slightly. You suppressed a smile. Just a little bit more…

“Teddy,” you whispered in his ear. He all but jumped and turned to look at you.

“What is it, darling?” he asked, sucking his bottom lip roughly between his teeth. Your eyes watched the motion for a few seconds before popping back up to his eyes.

“I was just wondering if you wanted me to rub your back a bit?” you asked, smiling innocently. “I know how sore it gets after Quidditch practice.” 

His eyes glanced between your lips and your eyes, savoring every detail of your face. The front of his pants tightened a bit, pushing a small adjustment out of him. He grabbed your waist, lifted you gently, slid his legs forward and farther apart, then set you back down. Heat pooled in your lower stomach at his ability to pick you up like it was nothing. Damn it, you had a raging crush on him.

“Uh, no, darling,” he breathed, eyes fully pulling away from you now. “I’m alright, maybe another time…and, actually, I think I’ll just…” he trails off, gently sliding you off his leg and onto the seat next to him. Disappointment and rejection swirl in your chest with every aching breath. He’d never done anything but be affectionate with you, but for some reason, he was acting off today. 

He got to his feet, completely avoiding all eye contact, and headed off from the table with another word. Your lips parted in surprise as you watched him walk off towards the exit. The boys behind you had stopped talking, and you turned to catch their attention.

“What is his problem?” Mattheo asked.

“I have no idea,” you respond slowly, glancing back toward the double doors as if he might walk in again. 

xxx

Later that evening, after all of your classes for the day had ended and dinner was revving up in the Great Hall, you sat on your bed, torn between a couple of things. For one, you were starved and wanted to grab some dinner; two, you were too scared you’d bump into Theo while you were down there and add a second painfully awkward interaction to the day; and three, your stomach was churning so violently with nerves and nausea, you were sure you’d puke if you ate anything or had one more thought about Theodore Nott. 

Every time lunch popped into your head again, you nearly hurled. That was easily one of the most embarrassing things that had ever happened to you, and you’d fallen off your broom during Quidditch while the whole school was watching. 

Maybe he’d lost feelings for you. That would explain the strange distance between the two of you today. But it didn’t make sense why it was so sudden. Had you upset him or made him uncomfortable today? You weren’t sure. Your brain ached from all of the contemplating and speed runs of scenarios you’d been doing the past hour. 

You could ask Enzo or Mattheo to see if they had any insight into their friend’s brain, but you figured that might be a little rude. You didn’t want Theo to think you were a coward or were trying to talk about him behind his back. Fuck.

Then, as if he was summoned by the force of your mind, Mattheo Riddle gave a brief knock and presented himself in the doorway. A smile pulled its way across your face at the appearance of the dark boy. You waved him over and gave a small pat to the space beside you.

“Hey,” he said, sliding himself beside you.  

“What’s up?” He kicks his shoes off and props his feet onto the bed, one resting comfortably over the other.

“Nothing much. I was just coming to see if you knew what was up with Theo today?” he asked, crossing his hands over his stomach.

“Actually, I was just thinking of coming to ask you or Enzo that,” you admit. “I have no idea what happened today. We didn’t talk the rest of the day.”

“Weird…” Mattheo trailed off. There were a few moments of empty silence as the two of you rested against your headboard, basking in each other’s company. After a while, his arm came up to slide around your shoulders. You slid closer to him and rested a head on his shoulder, the collar of his shirt gently tickling your nose. 

If you could remain like this for the rest of forever, you would. Mattheo had always been like another brother to you. Another overprotective Enzo to watch over you in everything you did, and, as annoying as that sounded (and sometimes was), you really did appreciate having them around you. You enjoyed Theo in that way, as well, though you admit that you wish something more would bloom between the two of you. A thought pops into your head.

“Matty,” you breathe, your eyes widening significantly. His eyes follow yours to see if he could catch what had shocked you so much.

“What?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“If I ask you for the hugest favor on earth, would you do it?”

“Well, that is kind of vague,” he points out, “what is the favor?” He watches you for a few moments as you struggle with what to say. A million details are running through your head, with possibilities and worst-case scenarios flashing around, making everything seem like one big, jumbled mess in your brain. But, despite the cacophony of opportunities flying around in your head, one thesis stood clear.

“Would you help me make Theo jealous?” you ask. Mattheo choked on his spit. The face he gives you makes you laugh out loud.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

“I want you to help me make Theo jealous, like, you know, pretend to date me for a few days.” 

“Are you joking? Theo would kill me. I’m not risking that!” he exclaims, removing his arm from behind you to cross them. 

“Please, Matty, I’d never ask you for another favor again!”

“No! He already likes you. Why don’t you just ask him out?” he asks. You knew that Theo had feelings for you, just as he knew you had feelings for him, but hearing Mattheo confirm that aloud had you blushing. You supposed there was always the possibility you were wrong about Theo liking you and the two of you were just friends, but friends didn’t look at each other like the two of you did with eyes full of longing and hot lust. 

“Because I’m too nervous. I want him to make the first move,” you explain. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. A deep sigh pushed through his nose as he appeared to be contemplating. You waited in silence for a few moments, allowing him to weigh his options, though you knew what his answer would be. He never told you no.

“Alright—” 

“Yes! Oh, thank you, thank you! I promise I’ll make it up to you!” You threw yourself onto him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. He groaned at the sudden weight flung over him and reluctantly held you back. You could practically hear him rolling his eyes but, no matter how close he got to Theo, he’d always had a soft spot for you. You smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Okay, okay, back up,” he sighed. “How do we do it?” 

“So, this was my plan…” 

You went over every detail of the well-thought-out plan you’d devised over the last few hours, making sure to leave nothing out. Every few moments, Mattheo’s eyebrows would raise, or he would start to protest, but he never backed out. And if he tried to, you’d just beg him some more.

So once you’d gone over everything successfully, you had Mattheo lead you downstairs with your fingers intertwined together. This had to work. 

The two of you stalked into the Great Hall, your stomach churning with anxiety and Mattheo’s preparing himself to run if needed. Your fingers squeezed his every so often, trying to wring the nerves out but failing miserably. Your eyes landed on the group sitting at your table and you made your way over.

“Hey, guys…” Enzo started and trailed off as his eyes traced the two of you, falling to where the two of you met in the middle. At Enzo’s sudden silence, Theo turned to look at the two of you. Your intertwined fingers clenched tightly, Mattheo’s thumb lightly tracing yours. 

“Hey,” you said, smiling sweetly. You avoided all eye contact as the two of you sat down beside Enzo, with you directly across from Theo. Mattheo’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and you leaned into him. Still, you refused to look at Theo, but out of the corner of your eye, you could see his eyes widened and lips slightly parted. 

“Friendly tonight, are we?” Enzo asked, stabbing a bit of potato with his fork. He seemed to be hiding a smile. You shot him a knowing glance.

“Shut up,” you joke. “We’ve just…”

“Gotten a bit closer?” Mattheo pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, and you giggled in response. Damn, this acting deserved an award. You glanced at Theo's fist tightening, joints cracking slightly.

“Since when?” he asked, his voice baring through gritted teeth. Your eyes found him finally and your smile dropped a bit.

“Since he asked me out earlier today,” you retorted, the attitude laid on just a bit. His lips snapped shut and his eyes glanced away. He seemed less confident now, because—you hoped—he’d figured out your irritation with his refusal to move forward with your relationship.

“So, are you guys a thing now?” Enzo asked, not bothered in the slightest.

“You could call us that,” you giggled, fake-teasing Mattheo. Nerves broiled in your stomach as you discreetly pinched his hip. That had been the code the two of you had come up with to signal when you were going to do your kiss. This was going to be the big sale and it had to be realistic.

He leaned down and gently cupped your bottom lip with his, sending a wave of butterflies to your stomach. Damn, he was a good kisser. You pressed your lips back into him, admiring the feel of him. In all reality, the kiss only lasted about five seconds, but under the heat of the eyes before you, it felt like hours. When he pulled away, you flashed him a small smile.

Theo rose quickly and headed to the door, never once looking back. This has been the second time in one day he’d stormed off and you felt a bit embarrassed, to be honest. Maybe this wasn’t going to have the desired effect. You groaned and set your head against the table.

“Not working out for you?” Enzo chuckled.

“Shut up!” you shouted into your arms, the sound muffled. 

“You know…” Mattheo was right at your ear. You glanced up at him, tilting your head to the side. “You’re a pretty good kisser.” A smirk spread across his lips. You blushed

“Ugh, stop, Matty…you’re a good kisser too.” The three of you burst out laughing, reveling in the appreciation of each other’s company, before remembering why you were here. You really didn’t want to continue with this, it made you feel guilty, and there was always the chance this wouldn’t work. You sighed. You would have to go big or go home, and you weren’t a quitter.

xxx 

The next morning was a Saturday and Mattheo and you had planned a fake picnic date by the Whomping Willow. The plan was to enjoy a meal right within sight of where Theo was going to toss a Quaffle around with a couple of his friends. This had to work or you risked ruining your relationship with Theo. You prayed that this would give him the confidence to approach you. 

The two of you set the blanket and snacks out, settling in and beginning to eat. Enzo said that he had overheard that Theo was going to head out around eleven. It was currently fifteen ‘till, so you figured it wouldn’t be too long. Or you hoped that, anyway.

“So, what if this doesn’t work?” Mattheo breaks the silence, nursing a small bottle of pumpkin juice. 

“I was just thinking about that,” you laughed nervously, “I don’t actually know. I’m hoping he won’t hate me, but I’m more concerned he will hate you too.”

“I’m not too concerned about that. It’s alright. I’m just happy to help.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything in return?” you ask, peeling the crust off your sandwich. 

“I’ll just hang onto the favor for a rainy day,” he smirks. You roll your eyes and laugh gently. 

Above the two of you, a group of four players on brooms soar over you. You gasp and scoot closer to Mattheo, getting into position. He wrapped his arm around you and started to pretend to joke about something with you. You glanced Theo watching the two of you every so often. He would look for only a few seconds before turning his head away when his friends called his name. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get hit in the head with the Quaffle (in which case, you’d laugh, but now wasn’t the time for that). 

“You know,” Mattheo started, “this is nice. We should do this more often.”

“What, have picnics?” you laugh, popping a grape into your mouth. 

“Sure, if you want,” he chuckled. “I just meant the hanging out part. I feel like I only see you whenever your brother’s around.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like he’s my brother and I love him,” you laughed. He shook his head in an attempt to hide his smile, but soon enough, the both of you were laughing. His head was thrown back as it racked his body, and your hand gripped his shirt sleeve to steady yourself.

“Hey, I need to talk to you—” The two of you snapped out of your moment of comedy at the sound of a voice. Your eyes squinted against the sun slightly before making contact with Theo. Mattheo glanced over at you and shrugged his shoulders, urging you on with his hand. Theo reached down and offered you his hand, which you took and allowed him to pull you to your feet. He marched the two of you over to the nearest courtyard, never letting go of your hand. Your stomach flushed.

“Theo, what is—?” He pulled you to a stop behind one of the courtyard’s stone pillars. Your eyes found his; the only sound was the slight breeze and the gurgle of the fountain behind him. He glanced down to your lips, his breaths exiting in heavy pants. Merlin, you wanted to kiss him.

“I have to ask you one question,” he said. You started to speak, but his thumb pressed gently against your bottom lip. “No, just wait one minute.”

His eyes fell to the ground between the two of you. It appeared that he was trying to figure out precisely what he wanted to say. His lips parted several times, the words of confession dancing along the edges of them. The frustration in his eyes set off an ache in your chest that you couldn’t suppress. You wanted to kiss him so bad, so bad, so bad. 

“One question…and then I’ll leave you alone,” he said. You nodded slowly. “Do you really like Mattheo? Is that why the two of you are together?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. That was definitely different from what you thought he was going to ask. You stuttered a few times before shutting your mouth. You didn’t know what to say. His eyes refused to leave yours, beckoning every inch of the truth out of you. He wanted to know if your feelings toward him were the same as his towards you. He fought the urge to reach out and press his lips against yours. Just one word, and he would. You sighed.

“No,” you confessed, “I don’t.” His stomach flipped. Yours did, too. You wanted to explain yourself, run through every detail of the plan devised between Mattheo and you but you were too ashamed. Luckily, he didn’t care why you were with Mattheo, other than you didn’t care for the boy as he previously thought you’d done. His hands slid easily along your cheeks, carefully tracing the soft skin there. He was testing the waters, wanting so badly to touch you and anticipating the possibility of a slap. 

“Can I ask one more question?” he whispered against your lips, the salty taste of his sweat dabbing against the tip of your tongue. You nodded breathlessly.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his eyes never leaving your parted lips. You didn’t answer. You pressed your lips roughly to his, hearing the sharp intake of breath he took as his hands tightened around your head. He held you in place, pressing you against the stone pillar behind you. Your hands came up to wrap around his waist, clenching the material of his shirt beneath your fingers. His hands dropped to the front of you, pushing you tightly against the pillar, fingers curving against your hipbones. Fuck. You were such a coward; you should have done this ages ago. 

When the two of you finally parted, reluctantly choosing air over each other, you did nothing but stare at the other. Heavy pants left the two of you; your hands clutched the other’s bodies, leaving little space between the two of you. Neither of you had words. All he could think to do was fold you into a tight hug. His arms wrapped around you with a hold like a vice. Your head turned and tucked itself into his shoulder where it had rested so many times before. And through your contentedly parted eyes, you could distantly see Mattheo, on the picnic blanket, smugly raising his pumpkin juice bottle to the two of you.

[antinousletmehit]

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 4 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

୨୧┇ Parings: Telemachus x fem!reader

୨୧┇ Notes: I need name suggestions for this series but none of them hit😭

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

Y/n left the main hall after another round of mocking comments and half hearted laughter from the Suitors. She’d had her fill of their noise, their bravado. The cool, quiet halls of the palace felt like a balm as she made her way toward her room.

She entered her quarters and closed the door behind her, exhaling slowly. Her room was modest compared to the lavish spaces the Suitors demanded, A low table held scattered scrolls and a half-empty inkwell, and the only decoration was a tapestry depicting a scene of Orpheus Turning around and losing Eurydice.

Leaning her sword against the wall, Pandora untied the ribbon holding her hair and let it fall loose over her shoulders. The weight of the day—the teasing, the taunts, the endless noise—gnawed at her. She needed to burn off the restless energy thrumming in her veins.

Grabbing the sword again, she moved to the center of the room. The blade was a gift from her brother, sharp and well-balanced, though she doubted Antinous imagined she’d use it for anything beyond sparring. She assumed her stance, gripping the hilt tightly, and began a familiar sequence of movements: lunging, parrying, and striking against an invisible opponent.

Her strikes grew more forceful as she moved, the frustration of the day bleeding into her practice. Punctuating each name with a slash.

Her movements became wilder, her focus narrowing to the swing of the blade and the satisfying whistle it made cutting through the air. She spun sharply, aiming a strike at the edge of the room—

CLANG!

Her blade connected with the base of a marble head statue of Athena, chipping the stone and sending a jarring vibration up her arm.

“Damn it,” Y/n hissed, inspecting the blade to ensure it hadn’t dulled. She glanced up at the statue, expecting to see only the damage she’d caused, but something was… off.

The statue had shifted slightly, revealing a thin seam in the wall behind it. Y/n frowned and stepped closer, running her fingers along the edge. The air seemed cooler here, faintly damp, and as she pressed against the seam, there was a faint click.

A groan of stone against stone echoed through the room as the floor beneath her desk shifted, revealing a dark, narrow passageway leading down into the palace. Y/n stared, her sword still in hand, her heart racing with equal parts excitement and caution.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, peering into the shadowy depths, “this is…new...?”

Without hesitation, she grabbed a torch from the wall, lit it, and stepped cautiously toward the opening. Whatever this passageway was, it had been hidden for a reason.

Torch in one hand and sword in the other, Y/n stepped cautiously into the dark passageway. The cool air grew heavier as she descended, the torchlight casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

The narrowness of the passage forced her to move sideways in parts, her shoulder scraping against the damp stone. A sudden brush of something sticky against her cheek made her freeze. She pulled back, finding her face tangled in cobwebs.

“Ugh,” she muttered, swiping at her face with her free hand. The thin strands clung stubbornly to her fingers.

The deeper she went, the more the passage seemed alive—though not in a comforting way. A spider scuttled across her arm, and she let out a startled gasp, shaking it off before it could crawl higher.

“Charming,” she grumbled, brushing at her clothes to make sure no more eight-legged creatures had hitched a ride. “This had better be worth it.”

Insects buzzed in the damp air, and the occasional drip of water echoed from somewhere unseen. The ground beneath her feet turned uneven, forcing her to tread carefully. She almost tripped several times, cursing under her breath each time she caught herself.

The passage began to slope downward more steeply, and Y/N felt her footing grow less sure. The torchlight barely illuminated the way ahead, and the shadows danced in unsettling ways.

“This is absurd,” she muttered. She swatted away another cobweb, grimacing as a beetle scurried out from a crack in the wall. “Why couldn’t it be a staircase? Or at least clean?”

Her irritation mounted with each step, but curiosity drove her onward. What could possibly be hidden down here? Why had no one else found it before?

She stepped forward again—and the ground gave way beneath her.

“Ah!” Y/N cried out as she tumbled forward, the torch slipping from her grasp and clattering to the floor below. She landed hard on a woven mat, the wind knocked out of her. The sound of her torch rolling stopped as it came to rest nearby, the flame miraculously still flickering.

She groaned, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

The room she had fallen into was large but simple, far removed from the grandeur of the palace above. The faint smell of cedar lingered in the air, and the light from her torch illuminated shelves lined with scrolls, a desk strewn with half-finished notes, and a sword propped against the wall.

Y/n blinked, brushing the dirt from her hands as she stood. She had no idea where she was, but it seemed… oddly personal. The bed was unmade, a corner of a tunic peeking out from beneath the blankets. A small table held a pitcher and cup, along with a wooden carving of a ship.

Curiosity got the better of her as she wandered toward the desk. She picked up a scroll and unfurled it, frowning at the meticulous handwriting. The words were fancy and distracting—Myths and tales of the gods, goddesses and hero’s.”

“Who would keep this here?” she wondered aloud, turning toward the sword propped against the wall. It wasn’t ornamental; this blade was meant for use, though it bore little wear. She ran her fingers along the hilt, noting its modest but sturdy craftsmanship.

A strange feeling prickled at the back of her mind, as if she should recognize something about this place. But Y/n shook it off, setting the scroll back down and retrieving her torch.

“I suppose I’ll find out soon enough,” she muttered, glancing toward the door leading out of the room.

Unbeknownst to her, this was Telemachus’s chamber—his private retreat where he planned and dreamed of the day he could step out of his father’s shadow. And though it was empty now, he would return soon

Telemachus pushed open the door to his room with a heavy sigh, finally ready to escape the noise and chaos of the palace.

But the sight that greeted him made him freeze in his tracks.

There, in the middle of his room, was Y/n. Torch in one hand, scroll in the other, her head tilted as if she were inspecting something.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing here?!” Telemachus shouted, his voice cracking slightly from sheer panic.

Y/n spun around, startled, though she quickly recovered, her lips curling into an infuriating smirk. “Well, hello, little wolf. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Fancy—this is my room!” he sputtered, slamming the door behind him. “Why are you in my room?!”

She raised an eyebrow, casually setting the scroll back on his desk. “Is it? I hadn’t realized. You really ought to decorate more; it’s dreadfully plain.”

Telemachus’s face flushed red, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You—you hellion! You’re snooping around my things! What kind of pervert sneaks into someone’s private chambers?”

“Pervert?” Y/n repeated, feigning offense. “Oh, Telemachus, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I—what?! That’s not—!” Telemachus shook his head furiously, his hair falling into his eyes. “That’s not the point! Why are you here? How did you even get here?”

Pandora gestured vaguely toward the floor. “There’s a hidden passage under the statue of Athena in my room. Didn’t you know?”

His jaw dropped. “A hidden passage? In your room? Leading to my room?”

“It appears so,” she said with a shrug, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Coincidence?!” he practically shouted. “You’ve been spying on me this whole time, haven’t you? That’s why you’re always lurking around, making those… those dirty comments!”

Y/n tilted her head, her smirk growing. “If I were spying, do you think I’d make it so obvious? Honestly, Telemachus, give me some credit.”

“Get out!” he barked, pointing toward the door. “Get out of my room before I—before I—”

“Before you what?” she interrupted, stepping closer. Her voice dropped into a teasing lilt. “Call for help? Tell the Suitors their little prince can’t handle one unarmed woman?”

Telemachus swallowed hard, stepping back as she advanced. His heart was pounding, and he couldn’t tell if it was from anger, embarrassment, or sheer frustration.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Just—go. Please. Leave.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but she did step toward the door. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But you should be thanking me, you know.”

“Thanking you? For what?”

“For finding that passage,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “Who knows what secrets it might hold? You’re welcome, by the way.”

With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Telemachus standing in the middle of his disheveled sanctuary, his thoughts a jumbled mess. “Gods above,” he muttered, collapsing into his chair. “She’s going to drive me insane. She already found out about the passageways.”

[unconventional-lawnchair]

I'll Look After You Chapter Two

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Summary: {Y/N} reunites with a lost soul, learns the fate of two of her old friends

Cw: Use of {Y/N}, mentions of injury and mourning}

Wc- 5142

Taglist- @otterlockholmes @stylesann @adhxmoony

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of your quill tip against the edge of your inkwell filled the small cubicle. With Moody away on a mission, you had no one to snap at you about the small fidgets and bits of noises you made. This was your least favorite part of your internship, just waiting and acting like you had things to do. You knew once Moody got back he'd once again break down how to fill out the mission reports and go back to ignoring your existence. 

You sighed out dramatically and pressed the feathers of the quill between your upper lip and nose. Not noticing as a bit of ink stained your cheek. It had been a few weeks after the dance and the last thing you needed was to be alone with your thoughts. Instead, you focused on the ambiance of moody’s office. The sound of ruffling paper and the scratch of quills to parchment. The buzz of battery operated lights were preferred to the heat trap that was Moody’s desk, his instance on candlelit space and lanterns that burned threw oil like mad, only succeeded in making the small space unbearably hot.

It did set a melancholy, the warm yellows and hazy space truly made you a bit tired. Arms crossing and leaning down on your desk, chin against your arm, before a voice cut threw the monotony.

“Having fun here, gorgeous?” A voice cut threw your thoughts and dragged you out of your slump. Slowly, you smiled to yourself, leaning back and looking over to the familiar figure in the entrance of the mini office. 

“Barty Crouch Jr.” you hummed and he put his hand over his chest in a fake offense. 

“My full name? What happened to ‘little bastard’?” Barty purred and you couldn't help but laugh.

You and Barty never talked at school, even with your small friendship with Pandora and Regulus. He had a certain hatred for your rowdy bunch, and in turn, you hated him. However, ever since you got picked up on your apprenticeship, he was always around the corner.

The first few days of pretending you didn't know him didn't work. His father had a habit of dismissing him during hearings, leading him to stray to you. After the first two trivial encounters of fiddling fingers and weird familiarities, the visits became more willing, unfortunately. He was funny, a bit of a flirt, but you learned quickly it was his expression of love, both platonic and intimate. You usually spent this time together listening to him rant and rave about that Evan Rosier kid in Slytherin.

He was another you didn't care for, but Barty was smitten and you never had the heart to tell him how much you disliked to hear about how Rosier had very kissable lips.

Barty was depraved and his filter was non-existent.

You liked him a lot.

“A thousand apologies, lil bastard. What brings you to my slums?” You hummed and he walked over, taking Moody’s seat, man spreading and leaning all the way back. Using his heels to spin the chair around to face you, before idly swaying. 

“Dad stuff.” He hummed and looked at you before gesturing to the paper in front of you. You lifted the page so he could get a good look at the scribbles. Doodles, your signature signed the paper in several different ways, and some places with swirls and stars. He laughed.

“That's what they have you doing all the time?” He cheeked and grabbed your quill, still between your lip and nose. He fiddled with it while you smirked.

“Yup, I am the big dog here. They wouldn't dare give me real work. They fear my potential is too great. I may tarnish a record or two.”

“Or your father’s reputation.” Barry mumbled and your smile slowly fell. You sat up and leaned your head in your palm. You carefully looked him over. His confident and excitable posture seemed a bit mellow, and his eyes were drifting everywhere but you.

Ah, that's it.

“Did he say something to you?” You mumbled and he gave a loud exaggerated groan, trying to cover up his watery throat. “I just hate coming here. I mean, my dad is kissing ass all day for a chance at the Minister role, basically ignoring me until he's telling me just how awful I am.” He scoffed and tossed your quill on the counter. 

Your brow pinched at his words. Over the very short time you've known Barty, he's always been honest and open with you about his feelings. Maybe it was the anonymity, knowing you wouldn't say a word, you were practically strangers. Or maybe it was how he was with everyone, again, you hardly knew him.

“You know that's not true, right?” You whispered, inching yourself closer by your toes. Barty looked up and slowly smiled at how ridiculous you looked. 

“Yeah?” He mumbled.

“Yeah.” You nodded firmly. “You don't have anything to prove to him.”

“It certainly feels it.” He admitted, looking down. Only for a voice to cut in. 

“Ah! Good to see you feel comfortable, Junior, please, take the whole desk!” Moody boomed from the entryway before he gestured to the two of you. “The two nepotistic children fancy each others company? Who would have guessed.” 

You sighed and gave Barty an apologetic look and he waved his hand. You almost didn't catch the black ink peaking through the top of his sleeves. You quickly reminded yourself that it was likely just a tattoo. Barty was one of the smartest boys you knew, if not the smartest. He wouldn't.

“I'll see you next time.” He put back on his confident look and sent you a wink. You slowly smiled and rolled your eyes, watching as he left. You gathered your things as Moody began to sit down. 

“And where do you think yur goin?” He snarked as you filled your bag. 

“It's five, Moody. I don't have to waste any time in this building after closing for another two years. Be seeing you.” You dismissed him and he scoffed, “Just because the clock says you're done, you give up? That's not how this world works, girl!”

You scoffed at him, before a familiar voice called out to you two. “Oh, come on, grump. Let the lil Niffler go, she had school in the morning.” 

You snapped around on your heel to be greeted by the Prewett twins. Smiling bright at Fabian who was rubbing the back of his neck with a yawn, before Gideon gestured you over. Both of them clearly packed up and ready to go.

“Come on then, we'll walk you to a floo flame.” The older twin spoke up and you nodded, smiling brighter. Hurrying over with a mutter of thanks. 

“And stop calling me Niffler.”

“Anything for our little coffee runner.” Gideon mused and threw his arm over your shoulder, making you groan.

“Actually, Niffler is fine.”

~~~

You woke with a stir, once again, from a knock on your bedroom door. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, taking in your surroundings with a start, before you slowly calmed. That wasn't the first time you had a dream about your past memories, but it was the first time it had been that vivid. It was reassuring to be met with the dark thistle print wallpaper, the wood furniture, and the absolute plush mess that was your bed.

Your bedroom wreaked of your youth, records on the wall, half eaten by the vermin that invaded the home. Gryffindor memorabilia that trumped your small touches of green, somehow staying the brightest thing in your home. You did your best to restore it, but it had been a three month long mission returning it to its past glory.

The knock came again and you snapped from your thoughts, sitting up and groaning. “Come in!” 

You rubbed your eyes as the door opened, peaking between your fingers as they strained the skin around your eyes, as if that would help wake you.

“Morning.” The familiar sweet honey-like sound filled the room. You slowly smiled as you saw Remus enter, holding two cups of coffee. His voice was always deep in the mornings, more hoarse than most. He must have been up for a while.

“Moony, you're the absolute best.” You mused and made grabby hands for the cup. He laughed and set it in your hands, tapping your calf. You bent your legs on command and he took the space your legs previously occupied.

“Did I wake you?” He hummed before he took a sip of his own bitter mixture. You nodded along and took in the rich smell of what was once expensive and surely delicious foreign coffee, drowned out by an excessive amount of sugar and milk. 

“Mhm.. how long have you been up?” You quizzed and took a sip of your overly sweet drink. 

“Just a few hours. Padfoot took Harry out to go fly on his new broom over the fields. Woke me up.” He chuckled and you gave a fond smile. The summer had gone so smoothly so far, everything was domestic and homely. It had only been two months, but you fell into an easy routine.

“I hope he takes good care of this one. It would be poetic, Sirius gave him his first and last broom.” You smiled and stared down at the bubbles forming on the top of the coffee. Remus turned to look fully at you, before he slowly reached out to grab one of your ankles, his large hands covering a bit of your calf as well, before he began to rub the skin a bit. You had to bite your bottom lip to keep your mind on one side of the road.

Living with the boys was domestic bliss, living with Remus and Sirius was marital hell.

“You're drifting.” He whispered and you nodded, setting your cup down.

“Just.. odd is all.” You mumbled and looked down at your thumbs. He pressed his thumb flat against your ankle and tried to persuade you to continue. “Odd?”

“Odd. I know the years I lived as a muggle weren’t real, based on fabricated memories..” You trialed off and looked away. “But finding out those memories weren't real and..” You gestured around. “Learning all that's happened. I'm sure there's more I don't know. I had to learn from an old newspaper what happened to Harry, Moody wouldn't give me specifics.”

You slowly sunk into the pillows and folded your arms over yourself. “And I just.. I missed 12 years. 12 years of my life. I've learned not to be bitter about it, no use to it. But sometimes I'll remember things about people I… I should have known better. Then Harry.” You whispered and covered her face.

Remus leaned forward and reached out to tilt your chin up, his touch gentle and comforting. His deep hazel eyes locked onto yours, filled with understanding and a hint of something more. Something so familiar. Something that once broke you down to your most basic form and shattered your heart. Something you hated to say you longed to see in his eyes again. The air between you crackled with unspoken emotions, a tension that had been building for some time now. Like the egg shells you walked on when it was just you two the first month were swept away.

“I know it must be overwhelming, to feel like you've missed out on so much,” Remus began, his voice low and soothing. “But you have a chance now, to make new memories, I don't think I've seen Harry so happy. He's reverted to a child, it's amazing to watch.” He chuckled. “And you're not alone in this, I'm here for you, always. Uhm..” He cleared his throat. “Sirius too.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through you. Then the guilt sunk in at his last words. Quickly, you looked away from him and took your face from his hands. Right. The reminder of Sirius made your heart ache helplessly in your chest. You closed your eyes with a small sigh before looking back to Remus. The way he looked at you, with such intensity and care, made your heart race in a way you couldn't quite explain. A painful way. A way that showed just how badly you wanted him. 

Then, the words from the Shrieking Shack would ring in your ears.

“Ah yes, how could I ever forget my favorite of the furry bunch?” Remus’s words sunk into your mind easily. 

“She's yours?” Harry gasped.

“She's mine.” Sirius snapped back before he looked at Lupin. 

The guilt settled in quickly. If you were his, why did he act this way? Why did he push you away? Why did he act like you were nothing? Why didn't he give you the ring back?

You looked down at your fidgeting hands and Remus gave a low sigh through his nose. You met his eyes again and he gave you a strained smile, patting your knee. “It's alright.” He mumbled, before he could dismiss himself, the door suddenly rushed open.

“{Y/N}, darling, are you ready?” Sirius’s excitement was cut off when he saw you both. Remus’s hand on your lax knee and practically swallowing your form from where Sirius stood. Both boys clenched their jaws and you shooed Remus off, standing and turning to your wardrobe. “What is it, Sirius?”

“I uhm..” He gathered himself before he shook his head. “Harry, has been invited to the Weasley’s for the World Cup, seems they would like him to head there early.” 

The room was thick with tension and you cut through it as if it wasn't there. “I'll be right out. I have to change first.” You spoke to them without turning. Remus slapped his palm to his thigh and sat up. Nodding to Sirius as he passed him, but Sirius never moved.

You turned to him and arched your eyebrow, he crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway. “Its nothing I haven't acquainted myself with.” He mused nonchalantly, slowly smirking. “Intimately.”

This bloody bastard, what was he trying to prove here?

You gave a laugh turned scoff and lifted up your left hand, wiggling your ring finger. Sirius frowned and you glanced back at him again. “Out.”

You put on something light, simple for the heat. Your eye caught the snake ear clip the twins had gifted you years ago, looking around the red covered room before you slowly smiled and picked it up. The only Slytherin inspired gift you'd ever received, of course, the twins always saw the houses for what they were. It only made sense they would be the ones to admire that about you.

You and Sirius packed up the car, as Remus went over everything Harry needed to buy this year, making sure he had packed everything.

After a fair bit of goodbyes, you and Harry set off to the Weasley’s. Not after Sirius asking for the thirteenth time if he could tag along. During your ride to the Weasley’s, Harry managed to stay up the entire time. Talking to you about his morning venture into the town with Padfoot. 

~~~

When you finally made it to the burrow, it was midday. Molly and who you assumed to be Ginny were sitting outside the house, talking idly. You landed the car a bit away from the house, and from the corner of your eye, you spied how interested Harry seemed to be that the girl was coming to greet him.

Interesting development.

“Boys! Come help {Y/N} with her bags!” You heard Molly shrill and laughed, climbing out of the car and waving off Molly. 

“Me and Harry are plenty alright, Molly! It's just his bags for now!” You called over and she tutted, closing the distance between you two. The grass fields brushed against your calves and the sun was practically cooking your skin. Harry grabbed his bags and his owl himself and hurried over to Ginny.

“Harry, why don't you go greet Ron?” You hummed and he nodded, turning to Ginny who stuck her tongue out at him and ran inside. He laughed and hurried after her, making you smile. That was so familiar.

“Oh, now, {Y/N} dear, before you go inside I have some news for you.” Molly fussed as you both walked to the front door. You began to fan yourself with your hand and use your other to block the sun from your eyes.

“Oh please make it quick, it's bloody scorching out here.” You laughed and put your hands on your hips, leaning forward to squint at her. Both of you facing each other outside the cracked front door. 

“Well, we have company,” She started, her hands clasped together in front of her. “I don't expect him to be here so soon, honestly I forgot I lettered him, and he certainly didn't tell me he would be coming so soon.” She rambled on and you gave a nervous laugh.

“You have me worried here, Molly.” Before you could continue your thought, you felt something wet and cold against your ear and Molly’s face dropped. You snapped your head around and your eyes locked onto two beady black ones. A bloody Niffler. Pilfering your ear ring! 

“No! You put that down!” You shouted and tried to catch the weaseling little thing. It crawled down your entire body in a spiral motion before dashing inside. 

“You rotten rodent!” You shouted and ran inside after it, Molly’s cry for your attention falling on deaf ears. You were not going to lose one of your favorite pieces of jewelry to a damned backwards goose. “Get back here!”

You dashed across the house for it, knocking around tables and hitting your hips on protruding corners, before it wiggled its way into the kitchen with squeaks of distress. 

You were panting, coming up the the lively open kitchen, grabbing a chair back as you gathered yourself. “Who's ever.. bastard child that is.. I have a few words..” You wheezed, gesturing to the blurry figures in front of you. It seemed the full family was there, talking to someone you thought to be Arthur for a moment.

The murmuring settled down before you rubbed your eyes as spotted the little criminal. You gasped and pointed at it, as it crawled up the leg of the man. The small group, George, Fred, Ron, all stepped aside and watched as you gathered yourself.

Then you heard a laugh.

A laugh you knew better than the owner's voice.

Your face fell and your eyes raised to meet hazy brown ones. 

Gideon fucking Prewett.

You took the chance to take him in, still in shock. He was older now, had to be in his late forties, looked it too. His smile was fuller, his eyebrows bushy and his fiery red curls were long enough to frame his bearded face, with speckles of white. 

Broad shoulders, if you were allowed to say that, considering his left arm was completely gone, up to his shoulder. He just kept smiling at you, reaching back with his palm out for the Niffler to return it. “Don't steal from your name sake, Vix.” He tutted and you crumbled.

“Gideon-” Your voice broke and he opened his arm. You hurried over and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He chuckled and patted your back, returning the earring to your ear.

“I thought I lost ya, Niffler.” He whispered in your ear and you gave a watery laugh. 

“So you replaced me?” You jabbed and he laughed.

“Needed something to annoy me. You and Fabian…” You shook your head and hugged him tighter.

Molly entered the kitchen and smiled fondly at the reunion, before ushering her kids out. The twins complaining as they left. Molly and Gideon shared a nod before he nudged you softly. “So, I assume you have some questions.” He mumbled into your temple, and you nodded. 

“And me to answer them?” He chuckled and you nodded again. 

“Just.. just a little longer..”

~~~

You found yourself again, at the Weasley’s, having a conversation with a dear old friend.

You both set up in the kitchen, sitting at the table. You were fiddling with your finger and he gave you a patient and loving smile. It seemed he grew calmer as he aged. You could still see that spark of mischief in his eyes, but it was mellowed out, possibly drowned out by the excitement he had when he looked at you. 

Your eyes slowly fell to his arm and he gave a small chuckle. “Well, I guess it's time I tell you what's happened, hm?”

“That night, when you apperated?” 

He nodded and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I panicked when I heard Fabian scream. It broke my concentration. I was redirected home.”

~~~

The crackle of apparition snapped through the empty room. Not even the moon light slipped into the dark space, as it became more and more clear to him, he wasn't at the ministry. 

He heard thundering footsteps hurry up the stairs, he was growing foggy. The door slammed open and he slowly looked over, his eyes locking with Mary’s. She was smiling, holding up her status reports he had tasked her with before he left with his brother merely an hour ago.

Her face slowly fell as her eyes widened in horror at what she was faced with. Gideon Prewett, sprawled out across a broken desk, with a brutal twist to his arm that she could practically feel. Slowly, he grimaced and tried to stand up, only for all the pain the adrenaline had kept at bay to come rushing forward.

He let out a pained wail, much like his brother’s, and fell forward. His mind was still not clear, but he saw Mary. The only person he could protect at the moment. From what? He didn't know, but she was within reach. The sounds of papers falling to the ground and heels against his wooden floor filled his ears as Mary ran over to him and put her hand to his chest. Lifting him back up as he wrapped his good arm around her shoulder. Clinging to her arm with a rough grip that made her wince. “Boss-”

“We need… we need ditany.” He spoke carefully and through his grinding molars. She quickly tried to pull away but his grip tightened on her. Suddenly, the idea of his own apprentice leaving him, with you and Fabian’s status unknown, was far more terrifying than he would like to admit. Mary looked at his hand and quickly looked around the office. She took her free hand and lifted her wand to the roof, commanding her patronus forward.

Her glowing brown bear manifested before her, as Mary felt her throat tighten as her eyes grew wet watching Gideon slipped in and out of consciousness. She had no choice, she knew, even with all the pain he had caused her in their youth, she couldn't lose her Prewett. “Take this message to Snape..”

Gideon slowly faded away, loosening his grip on her shoulder and falling limp against the shredded wood and scattered parchment, the last thing he could recall was her patronus running off into the curtained windows, the very blinds she soon opened when he lost his grip.

He woke up an hour later, in his bed. He winced, a muted and groggy pain filled him. The tense and rocking pain was something he was used to, his muscles tightening and his blood rushing, paired with a splitting and deep sting. Without that sting, he felt off, like the pain was just around the corner, waiting to bite back.

He could feel something in his hand. Gripping a bit tighter the numbing buzz was pushed aside and he was able to feel the familiar warmth of another hand in his own. He turned his head and blinked away his grogginess, seeing Mary staring at him with so much worry and care. He gave her the sweetest smile he could muster but it only worked to break what little resolve she had.

He rubbed his thumb over her smaller hand, and she leaned forward from her chair to press her head to his knuckles. Like she could process that he was alive, but the fear of losing him was so great that him smiling at her could only show her what would have been lost. 

“I'm alright, grizzly.” He croaked and she shook her head, sniffling as she dried her cheeks.

“Dumbledore went to retrieve them..” She whispered and he was snapped out of his mind and shoved back into reality. He tried to sit up, but his left arm didn't quite respond and with Mary clinging to his right hand he could only lay back. He looked across the room and noticed Snape’s slight wince and his drifting eyes. 

“What's happened?” Gideon commanded across the room and Severus avoided his eyes. He tried again to lift himself but Mary tightened her grip, pressing him closer as she began to cry. His face fell and a dread filled his chest.

“What's happened to them?” He croaked out, his turn to try and hold back a sob. He knew the moment Mary began to let her sobs wrack her body. The way she held his hand let him feel the warm tears that wet her face. He knew they were gone.

He let his head fall against the pillow and he stared up at the ceiling. He tried to stay stoic, only for his grip on Mary to once again tighten as he sniffled, letting out a sob, crying out. Mary quickly let go of his hand and looked down at him, only for him to wrap his arm around her back and pull her full weight against him. It was grounding and she was quick to hug him, letting him sob into her shoulder. 

She was all he had left and he didn't plan to leave her behind. 

~~~

“When I left for America, I took her with me.” Gideon mused and took a sip of his tea that Molly had hurried over to make. Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack. A million questions passed through your mind at once, but one took president over everything else.

“Mary? Mary is alive?” You pushed and he grimaced a bit. 

“She is. She sends her love but..” He rubbed his neck and bit his cheek, trying his best to gather himself. “This place, it's painful for her. Even with you home, she doesn't want to face this.” 

You nodded and furrowed your brow at your hands. Giving a low huff. “Not that I ever had the choice.”

“Given it, would you have come back?” He pushed. “She's built a life out there. I have too. You can't blame her for choosing her peace.”

You clicked your tongue before slowly nodding and leaning back in your seat. Trying to think back on everything you had been told, before you winced a bit. “Madeye. He said she was attacked, that they found her at our hideout.” 

“She was hurt. But alive.” He reassured and took a steady breath. “I was out of commision and Remus couldn't face it. Mary went to retrieve what she could from your safe house. Her clothes, her research, her gear. I had offered her Fabian's room until she could join me in America.”

You began to pick at your nails and slowly looked up. Your voice crackles a bit. “And?”

“Mulciber was there. Mary told me bits and pieces of what's happened but.. it seems she's blocked a lot of it out. Says it was similar to what happened back in her school years, she hardly managed to hold on. Then Remus found her and..” He sighed through his nose. “The boy was already rattled by what was going on, sent her to St. Mungos and then she came to live with me.” 

You nodded and closed your eyes. You remembered what had happened to Mary in your seventh year, you didn't happen to see it but you remembered the night terrors and the bits she told you in your shared dorm. You always thought it was unfair, Mary was such a sweet girl, quiet and reserved, but she was brave to a fault. When she told you she defended a first year muggle born you already knew it would end poorly. She was alone, she was scared, and what happened to her terrified you.

You were sure that night is what made her change her profession choice. She wanted to protect people, be able to protect herself if that ever happened again. She said she wanted to be strong, like you.

It made you wonder how differently she would see you if she knew the truth. Yes, you could fight, yes, you were strong, but that meant nothing if every time you were faced with significant danger you folded in on yourself. 

“Where have you gone?” Gideon called over to you and you snapped out of your trance.

“Sorry just.. a lot on my mind.” You admitted and looked down at your own tea cup. “Are you going back to America after this?”

“As much as I'm sure you'd love to get rid of me.” He mused and shooed his Niffler away from his spoon. “I am here to help with the tournament this year.” 

“Really?” You huffed with wide eyes, straightening your back. “Do they really need all three of us? I thought it was excessive that they wanted me to come along with Moody.” You huffed and he chuckled.

“Well, he's getting old.” Gideon mused. “Also said we'd be a great help to the defense against the dark arts class.” 

“You are an awful teacher.” You deadpanned and he gave a playfully horrified gasp. 

“Mary seemed to catch on quick.”

“Mary is as smart as a whip.” You challenged and he scoffed. You slowly found yourself smiling before you looked down again. “We should start heading there now. Don't want to give Moody any more of a reason to be upset with me.”

“Upset?” He parroted.

“Yeah… turns out, if you don't want to be on Moody's bad side, don't run off with a wanted criminal to confront a dead man.” You waved your hands about. “And definitely don't get caught with a lycanthrope on a full moon.”

You looked back up at Gideon after a moment of silence and couldn't help but laugh at his shocked and scandalized look. 

“You what!?”

You stood up and rang your hands together. “Do you have your bags? I'll tell you on the way to Hogwarts.”

[artdcnaldson]

OMG let’s keep this ball rolling. regency pats sister learning what an orgasm is… Art lets her sit on his lap while he works in the library and she finds that straddling his thigh feels really good for some reason. all the layers of her skirts and the friction from his slacks. EEEEEEE

-☘️

GODDDD!!!

Of course you couldn't manage this in the day time, so you're hovering around him while he's working on correspondence to... businesses? his family? you don't care enough to ask, you're just hoping he'll turn his attention to you while you're buzzing around him.

It's not until you've nearly knocked over his inkwell for the fourth time that he just pulls you into his lap. "Can you sit still?" He asks, mumbling against your hair.

and you just swallow, nodding, because this is the closest you've ever been to a man who isn't your father or your brothers, and he's warm and smells like smoke and cologne. Your legs are astride his strong, muscular thigh. All of that lawn tennis, you supposed. You liked watching him play, sweating and panting as he rallied back and forth with Patrick.

You swallow hard, because all you're wearing is your little chemise— barely anything fabric, any barrier, at all. Your skirt is hiked up, just around your hips, and your bare cunt rests against the soft fabric of his pants. Just that friction, that warmth, is enough to make heat bloom in the pit of your stomach.

If Art notices you've gone quiet, he says nothing. He leans around you and continues to write to... ah! an... uncle? it's hard to think when he starts bouncing his leg a little.

"mmphf—" you gasp, teeth buried into your bottom lip to muffle the soft noise. That heat in your tummy is impossible to ignore, the tender ache of want between your thighs, though you have no idea what it is you're craving.

"Shhh..." Art murmurs. "If you insist on distracting me, I'll send you back to your room."

So you bite your tongue and just... try to get comfortable, try to ease that ache. You shift, rubbing against his thigh in the process, and muffle a shaky whine behind your fist. It's a throbbing, slick, hungry kind of want. Nothing you've ever felt before, nothing you thought was possible.

The closest, maybe, was when you'd seen Art through the crack of his door changing out of his clothes for bed. Not that you'd been spying! No... the door just... happened to be cracked, and you happened to drop an earring by the jamb.

Art's hand slings around your waist. "Stop squirming," he says softly. "You're making a mess of my trousers, you realize that? Do you even realize what it is you're doing?"

You shake your head, swallowing hard as that heat creeps up your chest and cheeks. It's like you're running a fever. "No," you whisper. "I'm just... I'm—" Another shaky breath escapes you as Art grabs your hips and begins to grind you against his thigh, pressing you down against it so your thighs tremble. "I'm— ah— I'm—"

"You're... what?" He murmurs against your throat. His knee bounces, and his hands grip your hips through the chemise. Back, forth, back, forth. You whimper softly as your head lolls back against his shoulder. "Does it feel good for you?"

You nod, panting as the pressure and tightness in your tummy threatens to spill over. Warm all over, trembling in his hands. "I've got you," he whispers. "I know it feels strange, but just let those feelings take over."

It's hard to surrender— to let those delicious feelings take over all of the restraint that had been embedded into your very being since birth. But the body can only take so much before something gives. You bite into your fist as those feelings take over— light and delicious, coursing through each nerve, washing over you like a wave.

"That's it," Art whispers, kissing the fluttering pulse point of your throat. "You can always feel those feelings around me, but no one else. Promise me."

"I promise," you say back. And you know you'll come back to him again and again if it means you can keep feeling like that.

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

hot in sarajevo i

[ part two ]

könig x f!reader operator (no use of "y/n") / 4k words / NSFW

cw: assassination, dubcon (not really bc reader is into it and consents, but better safe than sorry bc ymmv), unsanitary conditions, rough sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, fingering, creampie, brief mention of burn injuries, pre-established relationship a.n.: no excuse for this, indulged a brain worm on my day off bc i wanted to write something nasty. enjoy!

It’s been a blistering, miserable six hours out in the hills outside Sarajevo proper. The height of summer, surrounded by dead-brown grass blown about sadly in the weak breeze. You cook in your ghillie suit, knowing it could very well be another six hours under this heat with zero shade, just waiting on your target. Sweating. Searching. Souring. 

König is your spotter, and he’s already not pleased with the fact. He’d much rather be the one wrapped around the Steyr HS .50, instead relegated to the seemingly miserable role of binocular jockey. But the fact is, he’s better at recon, and you can stay planted in one place without moving even when your lower body burns with numbness. 

“I’m hard,” he announces in his way—no preamble, no fanfare, moderate expectation. 

“Christ,” you snort, pulling away from the scope only enough to throw a glance at him. He’s still pressed against the oculars, jaw working on sunflower seeds because they can’t smoke without setting the tinderbox field around them on fire. Otherwise, you can barely see the shape of him in his own ghillie suit among the grass. “Clench your legs and your torso, or hump the fucking dirt.”

“Not going to get the job done,” he laughs darkly, dumping back another mouthful of seeds. You can hear them crack between his molars as he bites down hard. 

He’s going to be a fucking handful after this. 

Going back to your scope, watching the highway, you promise him, “If you’re good helping me with this assassination, we can play when we’re done.”

Another hard bite, another gravelly laugh. Sing-song, he warns you, “Better hope he drives by so-oooh-oon, Schatzi.”

“Always nice to get a visit from mean-König,” you hum back, trying for unaffected, even as your cunt floods and clenches around nothing. 

It’s just hitting golden hour when the target finally deigns to bomb past your scope in a civilian vehicle trussed up in subtle armor. You and König slot right into the predator drift, bodies left behind to fall into the hunt. Working like extensions of one body, he confirms a PID, and throws calculations your way, sharp and sleek, and your blood turns into straight adrenaline, pupils dilated to pitch black.

You work like the sword of god, lining up your crosshairs, allowing for lead, allowing for wind and elevation, and when you exhale and give the trigger what it wants, the sky cracks in half with a sonic boom, big gun bucking brutal against your shoulder. With one shot you take out the target and driver, vehicle careening off the road. 

König’s low, restrained laugh blends into yours, your teeth chattering under your face covering. Two more shots cut the blood-and-gold colored sky, killing the remaining passengers, and something vile in you shrieks with delight when one of them staggers around without a head a few steps before falling backwards stiff as a board.

Your eyes catch his as you throw the safety, pulling the massive rifle into your arms to flee the scene, and he looks blood-poisoned with arousal. The normal blue-gray of his eyes are gone, sore, unblinking pink sclera around inkwell pools of black. His back heaves with his breathing, body rigid and clenched, hips grinding against the ground. He is going to fucking tear you apart and eat the pieces. Saturn Devouring His Son, König Devouring His Lover.

Without a word, you both force your bodies around in the tall, dead grass, ghillie suits blending your belly-drag crawl to the treeline.

There’s a five mile hike between your abandoned perch and the exfil vehicle, following back the steps you took this morning, with a staging site in the middle of it. Small clearing, deep enough that no one could stumble across it, a temporary home for your rifle’s case and minimal necessary equipment. 

The moment you’re both upright in the treeline, König’s got a vicious hand under your camo, gripping your belt, dragging you close and up, forcing you on unbalanced tiptoes. “You’re going to fucking give it to me,” he demands. 

You turn it around, snatching a hand under his hood, gun sagging in your arms. Your fist wraps around the jaw strap of his helmet, knuckles pressing into his jugular–his pulse is fucking racing, booming, screaming through his veins–and your teeth are shards of glass as you command him, “Fucking heel. You’re not being a good boy.”

That makes him pant, almost reeling, eyes blinking out of sorts, pulling you closer, almost against him. 

“That is not how it’s going to work today,” he says, slow and damning. Turns your blood into lava, thick and slow and lethal pumping through your heart as it fights for its life. He pulls the rifle from your hand, and it weighs nothing to him. Nearly looks like he’s got more to say, and he’s trying to figure out how to word it, but his brain is too clouded with lust to put it in the right order.

Hefts the gun over his shoulder like a bat, and shoves you back by the pelvis, releasing you. Time to go, the moves say, leaving you no dignified way to hold onto the authority that’s slipped through your fingers. 

You know he’s burning frustration, anger, and resentment as fuel for this mood. You were the designated sniper, he was a lowly spotter. In his mind, that position belonged to him, and you took it. It didn’t matter that you were the superior choice, that he was invaluable to the kill. 

No. Not at all. You stole from him, and he’s taking something in return.

If you weren’t thinking solely with your pussy, you would admit that it would probably be wise to exercise caution with him at the moment. But you’re not. You’re going to get your brains fucked out and painted on a tree.

At the staging area, scant gold light is cutting through the trees as the sun lumbers its way to setting, and the woods are humid and dense. Your boots crush fallen beech nut pods and pine needles. Could almost be Thoreauvian, if there was a lake, or not a gun big enough to kill god in the arms of a sexually frustrated Austrian maniac.

König is fast and quiet, ripping the mag out of the gun, emptying the chamber, dropping the gun on its case. You’d seen him piece apart a pistol to base components in ten seconds many times, he’s making himself take time with the rifle, leaving it barely touched.

You’ve got enough time to just prepare for him to grab you around the middle so you aren’t thrown off balance, leaning into his momentum as he hauls you to an enormous beech tree, his back sliding down the trunk. Keeps you pinned in his lap, laughing harsh and ugly as you deal with your belt, button, and zipper, “Good girl–good fucking girl. Know what I’m going for.”

“You’re easy to predict,” you bullshit him with a sharp edge. He’s going to get his way, and you’re going to deliver unto him whatever the fuck he pleases, but you’re going to keep your teeth through it. “Could’ve taken the suits off, could’ve really given you a show.”

“Cute that you think I’m in a rush. You’re in the suit on purpose,” he grates, thrusting against your ass, forcing you open with your legs over his knees. “Keep being mouthy. Only fucks me up worse.”

“Stiff breeze gets you fucked up,” you snort, but when he hooks his gloved thumb in your zipper, you lift your hips to help him pull your pants down your thighs. Leaves you exposed, drenched in sweat, and wet in his lap. “Goddamned freak.”

He bypasses the true and mutually reflective accusation completely, grinding the forehead of his helmet against the back of yours. Still looking for affectionate closeness, even when he’s out for blood. “Can smell you, good god,” he growls, sliding his huge hand into your underwear, grabbing your sex in ownership. “You and the military issue drawers–typical. Been a while since I fucked you in gear. Still wearing the boxers because you wish you were hanging dick, or is it just to match the attitude?”

“Commissary ran out of crotchless combat thongs. Waiting on a restock.” The rough fabric of his gloved middle finger splits your lips, teasing your hole, and for a flashfire second you think he’d better not give you a UTI with those dirty fucking things, before it burns straight out of your head. 

“Better luck next time,” he taunts, jaw tight. You can hear the wolf-fanged smirk in his tone. “Start going commando. Make it easier.”

“Maybe there isn’t a next time,” you volley back, “best you make the most of this.”

“There’s always a next time. No one else could fuck you like me. Little whore you are, you’d get bored.”

He blots all the thought out in your head, adding his ring finger to the mix, pushing both huge digits into your starving cunt. Rips a bark right out of you, arching off his chest and pushing against his hips for leverage, trying automatically to fuck down on them even as the pain of the fabric feels like it’s rasping your insides. “Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp, going hot-cold-and-blind all at once, nipples pulling tight under your gear. 

He throws a heavy arm around your stomach, pulling you back down, merciful or mindful enough to know he needs to go slow, or this isn’t going to go anywhere except the infirmary. “Take it, Liebes, swallow them down with that pretty cunt,” he commands, his English as sharp and scraping as scythe blades felling harvest in wide, practiced strokes, “I’m not even close to done.”

You can already feel his fat cock straining against his pants, even through all the layers between you, and you rut back against it, at least trying to get some torture of your own added in. That just makes him stupid and animalistic, pushing his chin over your shoulder, trying to butt into your jaw. He wants to bite your lips, but there are too many impediments blocking the way.

His fingers squelch down to the last knuckle, your pussy spasming around them, soaking the fabric. He’s a pervert to such a degree that you know he’s going to leave them unwashed, and he’s going to wear and suck on them while he beats off when you’re not there until there’s no flavor left. 

For now, he’s slow, rocking them into you in a curve, his sense of touch dampened as he searches out your g-spot. The exploration makes you feel filthy, and just a little humiliated. Used. Faceless and disrespected. It’s so opposed to his usual dogmatic worship, fresh and frightening. 

He gives a little something extra, grinding the heel of his hand over your clit, telling you to use it. You do, finally feeling something physically pleasurable, even though it’s too dull and not nearly enough. 

König is segmented; you’ve known that for as long as you’ve known him. Don’t know if he did it to himself, or if it was an after-affect of all the bad shit he didn’t die from. He’d let you in on enough to know that his best days are numb neutrality and boredom intercut with adrenalized high-chasing. His worst days are lost dogs and veils of blood floating through his mouth.

He almost clicks over from one facet to another when you push against his arm, hissing through your teeth as a stitch on his glove catches a fold in you. For a microsecond, lover-König surfaces, shifting you around against his body, repositioning his fingers so you aren’t hurting too badly, and then he’s gone again.

With a rough hand, he shoves the tan boxer-briefs down your thighs, and bucks your ass off his pelvis, going to release his cock.

You push your shoulders back against his chest, plate carrier digging into your shoulderblades. “Only two fingers, aren’t you acting like a fucking prince today.”

“You’re lucky you got that much,” he snaps back, groaning when his cock springs free of his trappings, and he strokes it beneath you. Monster fucking thing it is, long enough you can see the swollen, leaking head between your legs, even as you’re still hovering. There’s no give in the skin, and the head is a needy red with arousal, completely slipped from his foreskin. “Put it in.”

You ignore his order, writhing against him, your discomfort only ramping up your arousal. It’s nightmarish how badly you actually want his cock fed into you, desperate to have anything to fill the void his fingers left in you, and, shit, it would be so much sweeter and smoother than the gloves. Hot and throbbing, his precum mixing with your slick–it’s going to be so loud. 

“It’s your dick, you figure it out,” you hiss, wrestling your shoulders up just enough to piss him off. His other arm moves up to your ribs, slamming you back down against him. 

“Nein,” he seethes, as close to your throat as he can get, and you hear him suck back spit. Wonder if you busted his lip on the way down. Trained himself too hard not to do that otherwise, because of the harelip he’s hiding under the hood. “I said put it in, Schatzi.”

His laugh is airier this time, when you cuss him and comply, thinned out with need. He shudders into you as you brush your fingers over the length–teasing bulging veins and hot, thin skin–trying to scoop him up. He squeezes you tighter, letting out a furnace-bellow breath, as you tease the head through your wet folds, stupid fly-by-night sex-trigonometry screeching through your head as you find the angle you both need to get him in. He drops his free hand on your thigh, pulling you further open, giving himself a handle to hold.

As soon as his big cockhead plugs your hole and seals a seal with the wet, you fly to grip both his wrists, nerves on high alert. For good cause, as well, because instantly, he starts fucking up into you with harsh thrusts, constricting all around you with bruising force.

The sheer mass of him is over-fucking-whelming, and white spots crackle in your vision as you pant, trying desperately to relax and accept him into your body. Usually–when he’s sweeter and taking his time with you, not punishing you for a perceived slight like he is now–he is slower, considerate, almost hesitant until you dig your spurs into his sides, demanding he cut loose. 

This time he’s forcing you to ride him, emptying and filling you in deeper and deeper strokes, forcing you to take his cock. Somehow it still feels right, just being full of him, aching with it, pussy hungrily sucking him in, wanting more and more and more.

But, god dammit, you can’t just let him get away with this. You fuck back down against him, trying to meet his rhythm with the little movement he affords your bound body, the sound of his boots grinding for purchase in the substrate, your combined dead-sprint breathing, and his balls slapping wet against your ass breaking the utter still-life quiet of the woods. 

“Insertion specialist,” you bite, throwing your head back against his shoulder to belt out your whimpering laughter, and, oh, that burns him. 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he snarls, his helpless thrusting turning focused, dragging you down in hard thrusts, hitting your cervix with every deep, powerful stroke. It knocks the wind out of you, and you’re left speechless, probably what he wanted. 

It puts you in a trance state, your eyes unfocused looking up at the canopy as he uses you. A wet, liquid-gold heat starts building pressure behind your pelvis, and a frantic harebrained thought tells you that you have to piss. It only gets worse when he drops his hand back between your legs, putting a finger on either side of your clit, his intent clear.

“Wait,” you wheeze, barely surfacing the trance, rolling your eyes wildly toward him, finding his focus is between your legs. “Wait, König, I–”

“Just fucking take it,” he cuts you off, and it’s not entirely cruel. He’s forcing an orgasm on you, maybe the thought crawled up out of the part of his heart where his empathy lives, the part he hides until his real-boy-skin-suit has fallen away in tatters. You know what’s underneath. You love him for what he is.

You squirt when you come, pouring down his cock, soaking your thighs. Your cunt tries to push him out, but he belligerently stays buried, riding it out with you, and he whimpers as you spasm and ripple around him, biting your shoulder through his mask and the gaiter beneath it. It’s a dull pressure, and you wish it was sharper.

“Oh my god,” you keen, trying to turn and hide your face, trying to draw your legs back together as wave after wave of pleasure rock your body, your stomach turning in benign shame. König praises you, “Good, good, good, good,” his words falling away into a German blur that you have a hard time translating.

“Arch your back, curl up,” he tells you in his native language, his command voice withering, getting lost as he gets closer. He’s gotten fatter in your swollen cunt, and he throbs against your walls. His balls are pulled up so tight, you can feel them against your lips on the upstroke. 

All you can do is listen, lifting off of him and curving like you’re living through an exorcism. 

Doesn’t that make him lose his goddamned mind. Moans like a shocked virgin getting his first piece of pussy, in tandem with the cry you release, sliding in at a new angle. He can’t even help himself, he’s just stupid with pleasure, chasing it. All the bite and venom he had floods out of him, and he’s just a panting, greedy, whimpering mess, holding on to you because he needs an anchor, because he needs you.

He pushes up onto the balls of his feet, leaving the tree completely, forcing you back against him in the cage of his body. Your legs slide open over his thighs, and you’re dependent on him to keep from falling face-first in the forest floor and eating shit. He keeps you up, clutching to you, fucking you with short, fast thrusts, the soaking wet sounds of his cock demanding everything your cunt can deliver obscene, carnal.

Your idiot hand grabs for his hood as it hangs over your shoulder, spilling dumb swears and nonsense, “Fuck–oh, fucking–god dammit, König, you’re. I can’t,” that he meets with simple begging, “Bitte, bitte, Schatzi, bitte, Ich brauche, bitte, Ich brauche–”

His form staggers, and he takes a knee, locking up tight, letting out a thin, high-pitched cry of shock as he cums, flooding you completely in big jets. The pressure is uncomfortable and delirious, but you try to tighten around him, hold as much as you can. 

Both of your heads ring in the immediate aftermath. You can suddenly tell that both of you reek, the scent of twelve-hours worth of stakeout body odor mixing with musk, sex, and cum. You can tell by how his mouth sounds as he pants and tries to collect himself and work through his intense but inescapable post-nut shame that he’s dehydrated. You are, too, your head pounding. And, just because you know him, and you know how you work as a team, you don’t need to look at either of set of your shaking hands to know both of your blood sugar is utterly fucked.

Slowly, he lumbers back up against the tree, his touch turning softer. You flop back against him, winching when his cock slips out of you, hanging glistening and messy between his legs. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, trying to steady his breathing. His arms come up again–not to pin you in place, but to hug and hold you. You pat the scant sliver of bare skin between his gloves and the cuff of the ghillie suit.

Only occurs to you right now how stupid you two must’ve looked. Like a monkey fucking a football. Or maybe two bushes getting battered around in a storm. You snort a weary laugh, and he shakes his head, nosing deeper. He’s asking for quiet. You give it, letting your eyes slip closed as his cum drips out of you.

A few minutes later, he stirs, kneading your sides with his fingers. Mean-König has fucked off, you can already tell. It’s not KorTac-König, either, the one that’s nasty and loud and abrasive. This is just König. The slice of him that you know the first and last name of. The one that takes you on dates, and to go grocery shopping at Lidl–who lets you kiss his harelipped mouth, who lets you moisturize and massage the gummy wads of keloid burn scars eating up the left side of his face and neck, from when he was burnt by boiling sugar as a child, when they feel tight and miserable.

For convenience, and knowing you’re both going to seek it out, you unclip your helmet straps, letting them tumble off your heads. Further, you reach back and pull the hood off over his head, dropping it over your thigh, and pull your mask down as he pulls down his gaiter.

He helps you shift enough that you’re lying on your side over him, wet, soft cock pressing into your naked thigh. He sighs when you kiss him, light, quick, over and over, never really leaving his lips. He’ll be needy for the rest of the night.

His pupils are slowly going back down to a normal size, and the blue is coming back, all puppy-eyed and wet as he presses your foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had fun.”

“I shouldn’t have been that rough. Or mean.”

You shrug. “You know I thought it was hot.” You give him simple facts, easy to chew and swallow while his teeth are hurting from his harshness. You think he’d probably ask you to pull them so he couldn’t do something like it again in the future, but that is simply not in his nature. Fanged, or not, his moods will come and go.

His hands tremble, going to his thighs, and he digs up a zippo and a pack of cigarettes, pressing them into you. “Could you light some for us, please.”

You do, giving him another kiss before you break to try to attend your given task. He helps stabilize your hands, and you end up with lit menthols, popping one between his lips. He inhales deeply, shuddering as he relaxes a physical notch.

You heavily pet his face, traveling his bone structure, and then down his neck. Start to focus on his chest and shoulders, because it will help him down the easiest. Even though he took charge today, you still readily slot into the process of leading aftercare, truncated as it is by being in the field. Almost literally.

“Think you’ll be up for more later?” you ask, digging your fingers into the spot behind his ear that always makes him lax. “Safehouse would let us take our time.”

He makes a grumbling noise, touching your noses together. “Want to love you. Not fuck.”

“Yeah, no. I couldn’t take another fuck tonight,” you snort in agreement, and, finally, he snorts back. “We need to get moving. Sun’s going down, and we need to report.”

He gathers you up for a final, lingering, sloppy kiss before he unwinds from you, knowing that you’re right. And, besides, there’s a safehouse looming on the horizon. 

[ms--lobotomy]

I probably can't do all of them, but I promised @kit-williams that I'd at least do Dorn. So here I am.

Summary: Rogal Dorn knows what you are (ovulating)

Word Count: 1164

Content Warnings: BREEDING, that hormone smelling stuff they can do I suppose, office sex, more anatomically incorrect stuff because apparently y'all are into that, praise, female reader

Image Credit: @squishyowl

The office was large and suffocating. Of course it was, it was built for a man maybe twice your size. You'd forgone the crowded halls of his wing of the Imperial Palace and shut the door. You'd quickly noticed that you were at eye level with the desk at which your husband worked. He was out of his normal golden armor, this time sporting a simple shirt and leather trousers. He turned his head at the sudden noise, first looking at the door before looking down at you.

"Why do you call me in?" you asked, slowly pacing towards him.

He slid his papers to the side, crinkling them before turning to you. He slipped his hands under your arms and picked you up, setting you on his desk. He ran his hands along your sides, pushing your shirt up. He was silent for a few moments before he spoke.

"You're fertile," he said. His voice was deep and reverent as he moved a hand up to your face. "I can smell it on you."

You felt your heart speed up in your chest. "Oh?" you asked, putting a hand over his. His hand engulfed you, and yours was laughably small against his.

"My lady," he said. "If I could have you here, would you be willing?"

You looked up at him. Even when he was sitting in front of you, you had to turn your neck to look up at him. His expression was ever stoic, but there was a softness in his eyes that you didn't see often. With his hand in place, he ran a thumb down your cheek.

"Please," you replied softly.

He leaned in, hands placed close to your legs. You wrapped your legs around him as he went in for the kiss. He was rough with you, his tongue soon parting your lips. You let out a whimper, grabbing at his shirt to pull him closer. His hands trailed up your sides, pulling at your shirt. He pulled away, looking down at you.

"Your shirt, my lady."

You lifted your arms as he pulled it off of you. It fell to the floor, out of sight and out of mind. He fiddled with the clasp of your bra before unclasping it, pulling it off of you with ease. One hand slid along your body, and the other caged you underneath him. You shuddered as your face went warm, placing your hands on his chest before he began to gnaw at your collarbone and you relented. Your hands ran through his cropped hair as he pressed kisses against you, leaving marks with some of them.

"Nngh... Rogal..." you moaned.

"Quiet," he commanded. "There are people outside."

You yelped as he bit your nipple, thankfully not hard enough to puncture you there. He stayed there for a while before he moved to the other one, giving it the same treatment. Despite the fact that you were wearing pants, you felt a finger press between your legs. You let out another moan, high pitched and feeble, before he released you and tugged at your pants. Before you knew it, they were off, along with your underwear, and his head was between your legs.

"Lay down, my lady," he cooed.

You looked behind you. There were papers and inkwells there. "But your papers..." you said quietly.

He slid his office supplies to the side, and you slowly laid back on the desk. It was hard against you, but the feeling of your husband between your legs more than made up for it. His tongue soon grazed your entrance, and you let out another moan.

He pulled back for a brief moment. "Remember. There are people outside."

He pushed himself in deeper, holding you down at each side. You writhed in his grip, holding onto his forearms like a lifeline. He pushed himself in until you came on him for the first time, his name on your lips as you threw your head back in pleasure.

He pulled back after a while, looming over you. You were out of breath as you looked up at him. His hands left your sides to push his pants down slightly to reveal himself to you. He was thick and throbbing, and let you look for a few moments before pressing himself against your entrance.

"Please," you cooed as he rubbed himself on you. You grabbed his shirt and looked up at him.

"Come sit on me," he said, taking you off of the table and placing you on his lap. He lowered you down on him, prompting yelps and squeals from you. You were stretching out on him, a bulge forming in your stomach. You buried your head in his chest as you sunk down on him, muffling your moans. With one hand he brought you down, with the other he ran his hand through your hair.

"You're taking me so well, my lady," he grunted as he slid all the way in. He kept you there on him for a few moments, running his hand up and down your back before sliding his hands to your hips to lift you up. You could only choke out muffled moans in response.

A rare smirk dusted his face. "You look gorgeous like this," he said, pulling you down again. He went in a little easier this time, and you stretched out a little less. Your face scrunched up against him and you clutched his shirt even tighter.

"Rogal..." you managed to choke out, stars in your eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, pushing himself in and out. You looked up at him and opened your mouth to speak, but you were only able to manage a loud moan. He let out a chuckle as he drilled you even faster. You looked up at him as he planted a kiss to the top of your head.

He had a Primarch's endurance, and while you knew he was enjoying himself, you got the idea that all he wanted was to pump himself into you one last time, filling you up. You lost track of time as he worked you on that chair, until he started to speed up. By this time you were practically a drunken mess on him, eyes drooping in euphoria.

"How much do you want this?" he asked, finally starting to show signs of tiring.

You couldn't formulate a coherent sentence, instead letting out more pitiful moans. Your hands and head were pressed against him, anchoring you.

He smirked as he released himself inside of you. You squealed as he throbbed inside of you, releasing more with every pulse. He held you down on him, staring intently down at you as your eyes scrunched shut. While liquid dripped down your legs, he held you close to him, once again running a hand up and down your back.

"I could not have asked for a better mother to my children," he said as you leaned into him.

[biggestxsimps]

Study Date

Draco Malfoy x Male Reader

A/N: This requested over on our Wattpad! I really hope this is okay. Always, if there's anything you think should be changed, just let me know!

You loved to spend your evenings in the library, the smell of ageing pages and vintage furniture always made you feel comfortable. Of course, you weren’t just here to admire your surroundings, but to actually study.

Most of your classes you had, were with your boyfriend, Draco. And somehow, it became harder and harder to focus on classes and get work done. The two of you gossiping as your classes went on without you. Only truly focusing in your Potion’s classes, too afraid to be faced with Snape’s discipline.

That brings you to now, sitting behind a withering table on a just as old chair, as the lamp in front of you flickered ever-so-slightly. You lift your head, stretching your neck as you tear your eyes from the book that felt excruciatingly longer than it was, turning to your mumbling boyfriend.

His book laid open on the table and his hands were quick to copy the printed words onto a yellow-tinted parchment, the hushed words falling from his mouth as he wrote them. As he dips his quill, he glanced your way, noticing your eyes on him.

Leaving the quill in the inkwell, he faces you, a couple bones popping as he shifts out of his previously uncomfortable position. His eyes soften as they fall on you, a small tired smile creeping its way onto his face.

Your lips mimic his, it wasn’t often you saw Draco this relaxed, it was truly a sight for sore eyes. It almost made you sad, his smile not as familiar as it used to be. You sigh, that wasn’t a thought for now.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this before I either fall asleep or my hand falls off.” He shakes his hand awake as he lets out a scoff, you chuckle, agreeing with him. “I can barely keep my eyes open anymore.” You rub your palms against your aching eyes, trying to keep them open just a little longer.

“I say we take a break.” He leans back in his chair as he crosses his arms. “We’ve been at this for hours.” You hear a slight whine in his voice, you couldn’t deny, a break sounded great right about now. You nod, bringing your arms above your head, exaggeratingly stretching as you groaned.

Once your arms dropped, you brought one to the boy beside you, resting your hand against his cheek. His eyes flutter shut as he digs himself further into your touch, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, bringing you closer.

A tense breath left his lips “I missed you, this.” You let out a little chuckle. “We’re with each other almost all day, every day.” His eyes open back up to send you a playful glare, his other hand sending a soft hit to your leg. “You know what I meant. It’s not often we get peaceful moments, like these, to ourselves.”

You respond, a grin still slightly evident on your face. "I suppose this is nice, I can't say I haven't missed being with you, like this." Your thumb starts to draw little circles against his cold cheek. He hums, clearly enjoying the feeling of your warmer hand.

"You're truly gorgeous, Draco." You watch as pink starts to find its way on his face, his lips slightly twitching before he sunk into your shoulder. You both let out your own quiet laughs, his head dipping into the crook of your neck.

Your hand falls from his cheek, slowly grazing over his body before stopping against his lower back, your fingers twiddling with his loose robes. He follows your movements, bringing his arms around you and holding his hands against your own back.

“You’re too kind to me.” You feel Draco’s smile against your neck as he talks. Your head starts to lightly shake as you whisper back to him. “Only as kind as you deserve.” His head lifts back up, only a few inches from your face. “Thank you.” You feel his light breath fan against your lips before he presses his lips against your own.

The kiss is chaste, full of love and longing as you tangle your hand into his hair, pulling him deeper into you. His hands reach to your neck, wrapping around before slightly pulling you lower into him. The both of you part, breathlessly gasping before reconnecting.

He slowly pulls away after a few seconds, his cheeks about as red as his swelling lips. A comforting silence fills the room as your fingers comb through his hair, brushing down the messy flyaways. Draco slightly hums at the touch, eyes falling shut again.

Draco sighs as he falls back into you. "How are you feeling, Love?" You gently scratch against his scalp before he mumbles against you. "Mhmm.. Just tired." You nod, slightly pulling him off of you.

"C'mere." You lean back as you tap your thighs. He drozily lifts out of his chair, taking a seat in your lap. You keep your torso tilted back as his body completely falls into yours, arms wrapped around your shoulders as he lays his head in your neck.

"Rest well, Draco." Your hand draws and lightly drags around his back, your lips placing a soft kiss against his forehead. He whispers back a "G'night" before you hear his light snores.

A/N: I honestly enjoyed writing this, give me more Draco requests pleasee (jk)

Masterlist

- Written by Owner 1

[ladyoflindon]

Overzealous Herald (Elrond Peredhel, Rings of Power)

Author's note: Written with my OC Eleniel but can be a reader insert too

Summary: Elrond is an overzealous herald, and some day, he burns out. His darling wife nurses him back to health.

As the daughter of High King Gil-galad, Eleniel knew the pressure was on for her to maintain a graceful and elegant front as the Princess of Lindon. She knew the pressure of the court, to live up to everyone's expectations, but never in her life had she seen someone so...committed to it as Elrond was.

She knew that he always felt inferior, due to his half-elven heritage. Many a night, she had spent with him in their bed, reassuring him that he was more than enough as she pressed soft kisses to his shoulders. But it seemed that she had failed to actually convince him.

She saw the emotion he hid behind his perpetually lingering smile and his sweet words. Deep down, Eleniel knew one thing.

Elrond wasn't okay.

----

"Elrond," Eleniel spoke as she entered his study, shutting the door gently behind her. He was bent over his desk, scribbling madly, a fire burning in his eyes as his quill scratched the parchment. On the ground, she saw several broken quills, no doubt swept away in anger.

"What?" Gone was the shy, sweet herald she'd fallen in love with. In his place was a tone of vindictiveness, pent up anger. Eleniel was a little taken aback by his tone of voice, but she needed to get around whatever it was Elrond was experiencing this time.

"Elrond," she spoke softly, fiddling with a lock of her long hair. "Are you alright?"

He didn't answer her. Eleniel could hear her heart shattering, but she ignored the pain and continued to linger in his study. She moved closer to his desk, her steps feather-light, and reached out to pick up a particular document to read it.

Almost like lightning, his hand shot out to catch hers. Elrond snatched the document out of her hands and slammed it on the desk so hard the quills rattled in their inkwells.

"Leave it," he growled.

Eleniel's blue eyes widened at his words. What had happened. "Elrond, I-"

Her sweet herald snapped. "If you have nothing to say, leave!" He got out of his chair, grey eyes blazing and a stray strand of brown hair falling in front of his face. Elrond was glaring back at her, his eyes ablaze with a fury she'd never seen.

However, he saw Eleniel's eyes, blue like the boundless sea. They were wide open, perhaps with shock and a little fear. Instantly, Elrond's eyes softened, and he took a step towards his wife. "Melda, I...I apologise," he murmured, his eyes downcast. "I don't know what came over me, I..."

Tears pricked the corner of his eyes, and before he knew it, they started cascading like pearls broken from a chain down his cheeks. Eleniel's heart clenched and she pulled him into her embrace.

"Talk to me, Elrond. What's happening?"

"I...I push myself too hard..." he sniffled, burying his face in her shoulder. "It's my fault...all of it."

"I hear them talk, you know," he continued, "that I'm not worthy of you, not even worthy of being here, because I'm a peredhel. I'm trying to prove them wrong."

Eleniel pressed a kiss to his forehead, and pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. The beautiful grey eyes she so loved. "Elrond," she sighed, "you don't need to prove yourself to anyone. If those...idiots cannot see that you're more than your heritage, the fault lies with them and their poor judgement."

"You think so?"

"I know so, Elrond," Eleniel agreed firmly. "Your kindness and sincerity far surpass any flattery the courtiers utter. You're genuine, you love helping others no matter who they are...need I go on?"

She pulled him to her again. "Okay, I'm officially relieving you of your duties for the rest of the week. You're to take a break, away from your work."

Elrond looked up at her, unintentionally flashing those puppy eyes. "What about the High King?"

Eleniel laughed. "Whatever objections the High King has, he can run them by me, because my lovely herald needs a break!"

She tackled him to the ground, pressing kisses to any inch of him she could reach, namely his face. Elrond laughed as he felt a knot in his chest unravel.

He needed this. To heal, to rest. As he looked down at his wife, still kissing him fervently, he knew something.

Elrond had all he needed right here.

[loiterer87]

Been drawing my girl, Indy, again. Haven’t done anything with her since that last little two pager. Did this for a one or two day warm up. Anyway, she’s being chased by a boulder with faces. Not related to the Elden Ring enemy...

Might do another comic with her soon, it’s a little overdue...

[starcrossedyanderes]

Heart Bound

1.4k words

Warnings: Toxic relationship, Tom is a yandere, blood, unwilling affection, this is SFW

Hey, this is kind of a birthday post for myself. I have adored Tom for the longest time and since the lack of fics, I took it upon myself.

It was a rather quiet day in the library. Almost all of the students of Hogwarts were busy watching a quidditch match, leaving the library nearly empty except for a few extra studious students.

You were currently sat in a more secluded area of the library, diligently taking notes from a textbook and putting it on a scroll.

This section of the library had maybe 3 other students at some desks, all completely engrossed in their schoolwork as well. The only thing of note would be the practical school celebrity, Tom Riddle, being present here.

After your brief observation of the library you turned back to your work, redipping your quill into your inkwell and pulling out a new piece of parchment. But before you put your paper away, you chose to pick it up and look it all over. But, tragedy stuck.

“Ow!”

It would seem your hand somewhat slid against the side of the paper, causing you to get a paper cut. You quickly pulled your hand away with a wince, trying to not get any blood on your fresh notes. You raised your hand up, about to instinctively suck on it.

“Excuse me, (Y/n)”

You look up with a startle, nearly tipping over your inkwell. To your absolute surprise, Tom Riddle had seemingly appeared right in front of you, almost as if he teleported. You let out a small laugh instinctively, as that was your instinct in such a moment

“Riddle, don’t do that. You nearly scared the socks off of me!”

Tom let out one of his pearly white smiles. Ah yes, that smile of his. That smile certainly helped him gain so much popularity and title of Hogwart’s Golden Boy. Tom seamlessly pulled out a chair before sitting in it before propping his head up on his hand.

“Oh, my apologies (Y/n), I assure you I didn’t mean to scare you. I just couldn’t help but notice that you seemingly got hurt.”

His green eyes glowed warmly, as if all of his attention was focused solely on you. You must admit, it was intriguing for him to be so concerned about you. You knew each other, but not well or anything. On occasion you would work with him in potions.

You somewhat waved your hand.

“Oh, yes. Sorry about the noise. Just a paper cut is all.”

Tom stared at your cut, like a cat looking at a laser pointer. For a second you could have sworn his eyes glowed an unnatural shade of green.

“Oh, no need to apologize. It’s only natural to make a bit of noise when hurt. Actually, I was hoping to possibly help your issue.”

You raised your eyebrow.

“Help my issue? You mean my paper cut?”

Tom reached out a grabbed your hand, closely examining the cut.

“Sure, I’ve actually been wanting to practice some healing spells. But I haven’t had the chance since I obviously didn’t want to cause any harm just to practice them.”

You owlishly blinked at him, before letting out a bit of a smile.

“In that case, feel free to. I would never deny a free healing spell.”

Tom slightly traced the cut on your finger, before finally looking you in the eye.

“Oh, but just one thing in exchange. I was needing a few drops of blood for a potion, and since we’re already here..”

You slightly tilted your head, pondering the offer.

“I mean, I guess so. Don’t see any harm in that.”

Tom’s smile widened, to a point you almost felt like a predator was staring at you. But you shook it off. This was Tom, Hogwart’s Golden Boy. He would never do anything bad.. right?

Tom pulled out a small vial that was oddly in the shape of a heart and carefully placed it right under your cut. He slightly pressed against the skin until a few drops of blood spilled into the glass.

“Alright, that should be enough.”

He took out a cork from his pocket that seemed to be modified to be attached to a necklace. He placed the cork into the vial before putting the necklace on. He then pulled out his wand and with a small flick the cut was instantly healed.

“Thanks, although it does seem a bit weird for you to be wearing my blood in a heart vial around your neck..”

Tom smirked

“Oh, yes about that. Follow me to the armchairs in the corner.”

Almost robotically, against your will, you followed Tom over to a rather secluded part of the library where arm chairs and a fireplace were present. Tom gracefully sat himself down in a love seat.

“Riddle, what’s going on?!”

“Sit down in my lap”

Your body once again moved on its accord. Tears somewhat pricked your eyes.

“Tom, please. What’s going on?”

It was like your entire vision was in slow motion. Approaching Tom, seeing his face contort into what could only be described as a shot eating grin. Your body slowly placed itself in his lap, all entirely against your will.

“Wrap arms around my neck.”

Your arms shot up and encircled his neck, as if it was a loving embrace.

“Tom-“ you pleaded once more

“Oh, hush dear. I assure you you are perfectly fine and safe. Actually, if anything I can guarantee you have never better.”

Tom suddenly grabbed your cheeks, turning your face towards his where you stared at each other for what could have felt like hours.

“What a beautiful creature you are.”

He slid his face down to your neck, where he started to place a few kisses.

“Please, I don’t understand-“

“Shush, darling. Let me explain how things are going to be from now.”

Tom briefly pulled away to show you the necklace that currently held some of your blood.

“You see this vial? This vial is enchanted with a spell of my own creation. This charm is one of deep blood magic, quite possibly my finest masterpiece, really. Whoever’s blood is in this vial, I will be able to order around. The blood in your body will quite literally bend to my will, making whoever I see fit to become my own puppet.”

Tears streamed down your eyes upon hearing this. It would seem you finally found out that Tom was a very, very bad person. Upon seeing your tears he let out a bit of a teasing scoff before wiping them away with his thumb.

“Cease this crying. I assure you, no harm will be done to you as long as I own your blood. Now let me explain your new situation.”

Tom quickly placed a few more kisses on your neck before continuing.

“You, my love, are going to be my girlfriend until- let’s see- eternity. You are going to be my precious little darling until I see fit to release you. Which is never, by the way. You and I will be inseparable. We shall act like lovers, because that is what we now are. You shall embrace me, praise me, kiss me, all the things lover are supposed to do. And in return, all of that I shall reciprocate.”

You were so stunned by his words, you could only squeak out a single word in response.

“W-why?”

Tom lackadaisically played with your hair.

“Easy. Because I am absolutely obsessed with you. I can’t those eyes of yours out of my head. And normally I’m repulsed by people expressing such.. kindness but for whatever reason your kind demeanor has.. entrapped me. I simply can’t get you out of my head, my darling. Oh, and that mind of yours. That wonderful, complex, beautiful mind. All the thoughts that race through your head, I want- no simply must have it all.”

You couldn’t help your slight quivering at his affectionate touches and words.

“Oh my sweet, don’t worry. You’ll love being mine, eventually. I’ll take wonderful care of you, and you shall be endlessly adored by me and my.. followers. Later on you can have whatever you desire. It may take a while, but it’ll grow on you. Now, are you ready for my order?”

You vehemently shook your head, but Tom did not hide the fact that he couldn’t care less based off the predatory grin he possessed.

“I want you to love me, not like me, love me. For the next week you are to be as enamored with me as I am. And mark my words my dear, even once that week is up, I will draw your blood again and again until your mind is so in love with me that it becomes permanent.”

[remyderatz]

If dice (from the show) spawned into cuphead (the game) you think he would feel somewhat relieved to be free from his responsibilities... he does miss everybody (esp the devil) but he's adjusted somewhat well (he's figured out he's not in *his* inkwell isles and freaked out over seeing his counterpart) and just lives like a little homeless freak and gets by on looking eerily close to dice that he can take selfies and sell them to the press

... also he used to be the tallest guy in town he does NOT like being so short in comparison to most people

THATS SUCH A COOL CONCEPT

[cecropiacrown]

Mu Qing shifts under the gaze, heat prickling along his neck as he adjusts the hold on the brush in his hand. He stares down at his neatly scribed notes recounting his latest mission with his fellow southern general and finds he can't remember what he was just about to write.

His face flushes and he swallows, sitting just a little taller in an attempt to squash the smothering shyness that is creeping up along his spine. He unnecessarily dips his brush into the inkwell, collecting the excess along the rim, his posture immaculate as he holds his wrist steadily over the scroll. And yet...

"Must you dissect me with your eyes, General?" he spits, his head just barely inclined in Feng Xin's direction, his eyes narrowed and piercing as he glares at him.

Feng Xin sighs, looking exasperated, but before he even has a chance to speak, Mu Qing beats him to it, looking back to his scroll as his words cut through the thin air of his study - sharp and accusatory.

"I feel equally like a criminal on trial and a pig who has unfortunately found its home as the centerpiece of a meat market display."

Mu Qing can't bear to spare another glance in Feng Xin's direction - just hearing the man's amused scoff is humiliation enough.

"We still aren't sure if you've been cursed yet, Mu Qing. I am to watch for signs of drowsiness - how do you expect me to do that if I can't fucking look at you?"

___

[Mu Qing is his normal amount of tired and ends up having to admit to Feng Xin that he has stayed up past his typical early bedtime. Truthfully, he'd almost rather be cursed than be that forthright ever again, but alas.

Feng Xin watches him ready for bed -dressing in his night robes, oiling his hair - and though Mu Qing would never admit it, it's almost... nice to have someone to share his evening tea with. He even reads a few passages of his current book out to Feng Xin before officially retiring for the evening.

But as he gets into bed and his head hits his pillow, he feels more vulnerable than he has all evening.

Feng Xin's eyes are too perceptive, he thinks, but as the thought occurs to him and he battles with the warm weight of his fellow general's gaze, Feng Xin speaks.

"I won't be able to monitor your breathing this way - look at this mountain of blankets you have on."

And as he says this, he uses his hand to casually flick up a corner of one of the blankets from his seat at Mu Qing's bedside, and the action sends heat racing to Mu Qing's cheeks. He's not sure whether it's fury, indignation, embarrassment, or a mixture of all three.

Mu Qing huffs and kicks his foot up against his blanket mound, barely brushing the tip of Feng Xin's nose with just the fabric.

"Not all of us are walking furnaces, Feng Xin."

And even though he meant for the statement to come out scathing, it sounds more pitiful than anything else.

He clenches his hands into fists and pretends his shaking is from anger.

Feng Xin gives him a flat look for the comment, but soon it's clear that his gears are turning and before Mu Qing even has an idea of what's happening, Feng Xin is standing and offering his hand.

"Let me in with you."

"Excuse me?"

"Let me into bed with you."

"W-what - why?"

"Two birds, one stone."

Mu Qing flings a pillow out at Feng Xin, hitting him square in the chest before yanking it back and huffily turning on his side so he doesn't have to look at this absolute idiot anymore.

Feng Xin grumbles under his breath, frustrated, and then the bed is dipping with his weight as he leans onto it and Mu Qing is spiraling - heart racing.

"Two birds," he says, lowering himself to sit on the bed.

"One stone."

He lays a hand on Mu Qing's back and Mu Qing can't understand why his instinct is not to immediately throw him off. He stays very, very still.

"You can lay on top of me."

Mu Qing noticeably stiffens. Feng Xin's hand just presses more insistently against his back.

"That way I'll be able to keep a better check on your breathing and you'll also benefit from having this furnace to warm you."

Teasing.

Earnest.

God, fuck.]

___

Mu Qing can't believe he's doing this.

He keeps his face as straight and unaffected as possible even though he feels his cheeks burning in the darkness of his room. In one calculated and detached movement, he lowers his body down onto Feng Xin's, hovering slightly, not being able to commit to putting his whole weight down.

The night is quiet.

The stillness of it and the pulsing, steady warmth that emanates from below him swallows Mu Qing whole. It turns his mind sticky, thoughts coming slow, like oozing tree sap.

He has been made unbearably small.

He denies his limbs the relief of settling as a last-ditch effort to maintain a semblance of control.

Feng Xin clicks his tongue disapprovingly, and then there's an arm, heavy and firm, around Mu Qing's waist, and a hand at the back of his head, and then they're tugging and Mu Qing is pulled right up against Feng Xin's front. He makes a sound, certainly not a squeak, face ducking reflexively as to not headbutt Feng Xin's chin. The position puts him tucked close to the hollow of Feng Xin's throat. He smells strong here, like he might dab himself with fragranced oil when he readies for the day.

It's a heady scent, warm and spiced, mixed with the musk of a day's worth of sweat. Mu Qing should be disgusted, but instead he finds the scent infuriatingly calming. The tension in his limbs eases without permission and he finally sinks bodily against Feng Xin - defeated.

"Ah, now that's it. There we go, Mu Qing," Feng Xin praises, his voice not only a rough and rumbling sound that quiets Mu Qing's trembling heart, but a hot, steady warmth that caresses the shell of his ear and causes a new bloom of cherry-red flush to prickle down his neck and grow all the way down his chest.

"Not so hard, huh?"

[thegildedbee]

Box: May 2 Prompt from @calaisreno

“You wished to see me,” Mycroft says, looking not at John, but down at his own left hand, where his thumb is rubbing across the fingers curled into his palm, making clear that the sentiment is not returned.

“No,” John replies, impassively.

“And yet,” says Mycroft, making a sweeping gesture with his right arm, ending with a careless flick of his hand in John’s direction, “here you are.”

“Well-spotted. There’s that famous Holmes intellect at work.” John shrugs his shoulders with eloquent disdain. “Needs must when so many devils are doing the driving.”

Mycroft lifts the corners of his mouth in an insult of a smile.

Each man looks the other in the eye, unblinking, the hands of the three-tiered gilded clock on the mantel the only moving objects in the room. After a moment it is quarter past the hour, and the timepiece – which John would have been unsurprised to learn had belonged to a Qing dynasty emperor, were its current owner to share the information – softly chimes.

John leans forward, pressing his fingers into the edge of the massive Victorian partners desk behind which Mycroft sits.

“Sherlock is not dead.”

Mycroft slowly shakes his head. “Not so, Dr. Watson. Are you telling me that you do not believe the evidence of your own eyes and hands at the physical damage sustained by Sherlock's body?”

“And yet there is evidence otherwise," John counters.

“I do hope for your sake that you have shared your thoughts with your therapist or another medical professional, so that you can receive the care that you so clearly need.”

“Petty taunts, Mycroft. No need to unsheath the rapier if there’s no danger in sight.”

“I am a busy man. Do get to the purpose of your visit so that it can be concluded. That is, if there is a purpose, beyond letting time pass as you sit here engaging in fantasy?”

John sits back, and nods. “Very well. I want to be assigned to help protect Sherlock as he engages Moriarty’s network.”

Mycroft scoffs. “Were that even true, there would be no reason for me to acquiesce to such a request.”

“To prevent the release of the evidence I have to the contrary. And it's not a request. It is a demand."

Mycroft arranges his features into a simulcram of pleasantness. “And what evidence would that be?”

“I have no desire to reveal my hand on that score just yet. Not until I hear the word 'yes'.”

Mycroft purses his lips and picks up a fountain pen and points it at John's chest. “It would be unwise to engage in threats, Dr. Watson. I can press a button and have you detained in an instant, therefore placing any mythical information under lock and key as well.”

John snorts. “Not my first rodeo, Mycroft. If I don’t give a particular signal three hours from now, the evidence will be released to the press. From multiple sources.”

In a deliberate motion, Mycroft inserts the pen into a repurposed bronze inkwell. “And what if, in releasing this alleged information in a misguided attempt to soothe your distress, you should increase any danger to Sherlock, and the effect would be to cause him harm? What then, doctor?”

“With all due respect, Mycroft . . . if Sherlock is dead," John smiles, "then the release of my information will have absolutely no effect at all. None whatsoever."

“Do not box me in, doctor. You will regret it.”

“Oh, I have regrets, but that is not one that will be added to the list.” John narrows his eyes at the man opposite, and then says briskly, “Time to demonstrate your diplomatic skills, Mycroft -- time to negotiate. Chop chop. End of story.”

......................................................... @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl .........................................................