imagineiwrotesomethingwell

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

aww, thank you so much! you're sweet <3

Subby Top!Miguel drabble. word count 931, nsfw, afab reader, oral and fingering (fem receiving), 'good boy', overstim, breeding, mentions of making reader a mama, can be read as plus//mid/size or thin

Subby Top!Miguel, who starts and ends the evening on his knees in front of you.

Subby Top!Miguel who kisses up your leg as he ties your shoes. You're not even going anywhere fancy, just a double date with some friends, but he doesn't care at all. Subby Top!Miguel who opens your door for you, who holds your hand the whole drive, who takes your coat and pulls out your chair for you once you reach the little Italian place your friends insisted on. Subby Top!Miguel who leans down to kiss your cheek, only for you to purr in his ear, "such a good boy for me." Subby Top!Miguel who has to fling himself into his chair so your friends don't see the insta-boner your words and perfume gave him.

Subby Top!Miguel who can barely go five seconds without touching you. Subby Top!Miguel who made sure you sat on his left so he could keep his hand on your knee, or on your stomach, or in your hand, while he eats and talks. Subby Top!Miguel who looks like he might cry from relief when you give him that soft smile that means, "baby, I wanna go home." He lifts your coat off your chair and drapes it over your shoulders, paying the bill and buying the rest of the bottle of wine so your friends will stay here and not insist on going to your place. Subby Top!Miguel who's muttering in Spanish the entire drive home, whether you can understand it or not.

Subby Top!Miguel who undresses you reverently when you finally end up in bed again. Subby Top!Miguel who murmurs about how hard he's been since the start of dinner as he kisses down your front, his tongue laving over your nipples as he pays extra attention to your soft breasts; they are his favorite, after all. Subby Top!Miguel who whimpers when you finally give him permission to touch between your thighs.

Subby Top!Miguel who tries to go slow, because you deserve to be worshipped, but he gets so pussy drunk so fast that his pupils blow out so wide you can't even see the red of his eyes anymore. Subby Top!Miguel who tries to just use his tongue, but after your hole starts dripping, he loses his mind and plunges his middle finger into you, curling it to hit that spot as he murmurs and growls and whimpers about how pretty and perfect your pussy looks with his finger inside you, how much he loves you as he laps at your clit, how tight you squeeze when he slides another finger beside the first. Subby Top!Miguel who whines unabashedly when you tug and pull on his hair, praising him as he works you to a third orgasm before even taking his pants off.

Subby Top!Miguel who tries so hard to be gentle when he finally presses his cock against your dripping, fluttering hole, who pushes into you with his face buried in your neck, whimpering as you arch into him and pet his hair, gasping out praises as you stretch around him. Subby Top!Miguel who ends up rutting into you desperately, his words only half intelligible and even less in English as he kneads every bit of you he can. Subby Top!Miguel who whimpers and whines and drools into your neck as he overstimulates himself inside you.

Subby Top!Miguel who loses count of how may times he's cum, how many times he's filled you, because you clench so tight every time he makes a sound, which is constantly because how could he not when you feel like this? Subby Top!Miguel who can feel his own cum dripping out around him as he fucks you, but doesn't care, because you keep mewling out praises and telling him how good he feels, how good of a boy he is for you, how perfect his bog cock is bullying into your womb. Subby Top!Miguel who can't stop, doesn't want to stop, because he doesn't want a drop to go to waste, doesn't want a moment of this to be for naught, who insists on making you a mama as he whimpers into your ear about how well you take his cum.

Subby Top!Miguel who whines out apologies when his hips give out, when his cock goes still and soft, buried deep inside you. Subby Top!Miguel who nuzzles into you as you praise him up and down, telling him how proud you are, how good you feel, how much you love him, that he has nothing to apologize for because your brain can barely function and you're not sure you could take more anyway.

Subby Top!Miguel who still insists on pulling out and carrying you to the bath, even though his legs are trembling and he stumbles slightly. Subby Top!Miguel who changes the sheets as you clean up, and then joins you, sitting between your legs in the tub with your soaped up fingers in his chocolate hair, groaning and whining softly as you clean him up reverently. Subby Top!Miguel who you manage to convince you can walk long enough to get to the bedroom, where he practically collapses when you insist he lay down first. Subby Top!Miguel who lets you crawl on top of him and wrap around him like a koala, listening to his heartbeat as you fall asleep tangled together, his hands on your waist and yours on his chest.

Just... Subby Top!Miguel.

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

you're my hero btw

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

'Goddess'

wc: 7,987 words content warnings: slow burn but not too bad, smut, afab reader (reader is referred to as a wife, queen, and woman multiple times), male masturbation, oral (both receiving), fingering (f receiving), mating bond, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, babes), something that might constitute as cum play???, overstim, mild dacryphilia, body worship, marking kink implied, cockwarming (?)

@allbymyself17 i am so so sorry this took so long, thank you for being patient with me 🙏

“The girl, in exchange for the tesseract,” Surtur booms, his voice deep and menacing as it rolls through the golden city. “She’d make a fine wife for one of your boys, aye, Odin? She’s got those birthing hips. A perfect breeder.”

You, held in Surtur’s massive paw, are too terrified to be offended.

Your day had started largely normal; breakfast with a friend, a stroll through the streets of your small town. But something had opened up beneath you, sucking you in, sucking you through dimensions, entire worlds. If you’d ended up damn near anywhere else, you’d be awed. But right now, you’re in the clutches of an 8,000 year old fire monster, high above Asgard, terror pulsing through your veins.

He seems to be using you as a bargaining chip, like these people know you, owe you something. But you’re too high up to hear much of anything until a raven-haired man floats up before you. 

He’s exquisite, though you’re unwilling to say it aloud. He looks just the same as when you’d seen him on the news a few years ago after trying to take over the world; well, maybe not just the same. His hair is longer now, and he looks less cocky, more… tired. His helmet’s different- the horns are smaller now. And when he meets your eyes, their icy blue is filled with a soft sympathy. You’d scoff if you weren’t so frightened; Loki, the god who’d killed hundreds in the attack on New York alone, was sympathetic to you. Wow.

But he’s quickly joined by a much older god and his brother, Thor. Thor you knew from the news, too, but this old man -worn, aged, long grey hair and an eyepatch, mouth set in a stern line that makes you wonder if he ever smiled- you didn’t recognize him. But you assumed he was the Odin that Surtur had been addressing, and his one eye surveyed you like you were a piece of meat rather than a human.

“Deal,” Odin boomed back, and your stomach sank. Loki’s eyes went wide in response and he turned to the older god incredulously. Thor just seemed upset about this tesseract thing. Neither spoke, though, and Odin continued. “Give us the girl and we’ll give you the tesseract.”

And suddenly you’re falling. You’re screaming. Hurtling towards the flames that lick at Surtur’s legs. Your heart is in your throat and you’re certain the demon is still holding your stomach.

But just as quickly as Surtur’d dropped you, Loki caught you. You clung to him like a lifeline, a soft sob wrenching from your throat as you wrapped your arms around his neck and held on for dear life. And you know you should be afraid - this is the man who tried to enslave all of humanity, after all. But despite yourself, he feels… safe.

There’s an awful sound, like metal tearing, and then a deep, guttural cry of agony as Thor and Odin wrench the crown off Surtur’s head and the fire demon crumbles to ash. You see none of this, though, too busy crying into the neck of the god who caught you to fully process what’s going on. You’ll have to ask later (which, of course, means it’ll get more and more dramatic with each telling).

Loki carried you to the ground, holding you tightly; one arm under your knees, the other behind your back to hold you steady. He smelled good, though. Like smoke and petrichor and cinnamon. Autumn. You took comfort in it, let yourself be held, even as the trickster lighted on the dirtied cobblestones of his home city. 

He made no move to put you down.

˚　. . ✦ 　˚ . ★⋆.　. ˚　*✦　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

Odin, on the other hand, had barely made it to the street before he’d begun shouting orders. You heard some things in a language you didn’t understand, and suddenly, everything was moving so fast. 

Before you really could process, before you’d even stopped crying, your feet were on the ground. You were torn from Loki’s arms by a group of bustling, tutting ladies, all seeming very eager to get you out of the torn-down square. Loki looked as disconcerted as you felt, though you hoped you masked it better than him. He watched after you, his hand outstretched and his lips parted as if to call to you. But… How could he? He didn’t even know your name. You’d lost him in the crowd as the ladies led you away, their matching rose-colored gowns dragging through the debris as they huddled you towards the castle. 

No one answered you when you asked what was happening, when you begged to go home. When the ladies had cooed at you in that language you didn’t understand and stripped you of your ash-covered jumper and jeans. They ran you a bath and you’d cried in it as they washed you, vigorous yet gentle. 

But you kept thinking about Loki, even as you thought of the family and friends you didn’t know if you’d ever see again. You thought of his scent of soft autumn comfort while you thought about that stray cat you feed sometimes. You thought of his piercing blue gaze as you thought about the concert plans with your best friend that you wondered if you’d ever make. 

You were still thinking about him when the ladies wrangled you into a red gown that accentuated your curves. You thought about how his arms felt around you, how his fingers felt when they’d run over your jumper as you’d been pulled away. You were lost in thought, in a strange feeling that’d built up in your chest since you’d left Loki in the rubble of this golden city. You wondered why you’d felt so safe in his arms.

One of the ladies painted your lips and eyes, another wove flowers into your hair, and a third painted your nails a sparkling, galaxy-like black that shone a thousand colors when the light shifted. All thoughts of the trickster god had momentarily flown from your mind when you’d seen your reflection.

That’s where you are now, staring at yourself in that flowing, crimson gown while you try to make sense of the afternoon and evening after Surtur’s apparent defeat. The ladies have long since left, clearly done with their work on you.

You run your fingers over the chiffon sleeves and layers on the dress, your mind spinning. You look incredible, you really do. They’d done something to your eyes that made them pop in the most exquisite way, and your every insecurity was drowned out by the gorgeous, elaborate costume that accentuates your chest and hips deliciously. Every motion has the embroidered crystal beads on the corseted bodice catching in the firelight and the skirt swishes around your ankles with the most lovely, satisfying sound. You’re admiring it when you hear the door open.

You turn to find yourself locked into that piercing blue gaze, and that feeling in your chest multiplies tenfold. Your breath catches as your eyes trail over him, and you hate the way your heart speeds up, just a little bit.

He, too, is wearing crimson, but it’s a version of his armor. You assume it’s something similar to human soldiers wearing their dress uniforms for their weddings and special occasions. His horned helmet/visor/headband/thing is in his hand at his side and his hair is falling around his face in silky, ebony waves. He looks- well, he looks like a prince, which you suppose he is, isn’t he?

It’s infuriating.

“You look incredible,” he says softly, his eyes trailing over you appreciatively. His eyes are wide and he looks almost awed, but you discard the urge to preen. He’s a prince, after all. He’s probably trying to get in your pants.

“What am I doing here?” you reply, your voice curt and cold. May this very well get you beheaded? Yes, possibly. But… no buts. Cool yourself. Jesus Christ. So you tack on, “Sir,” at the end, because you’ve never been in front of royalty before! How are you meant to address him?

He chuckles softly, and that thing in your chest happens again. “Please, don’t call me sir,” he says, stepping closer but keeping his distance. Playing the perfect gentleman. “Just Loki. And… No one told you?”

Your brow pinches and you reach a hand up to your throat instinctively. You grip the small pendant of your necklace, using the semi-sharp edge of the stone to ground yourself. “No one told me anything.”

He looks put out at that, his own brow pinching for a moment as he thinks. But then his face smooths once more and his eyes find yours. “What’s your name?”

“Answer my question first,” you challenge, keeping your chin high despite the way your defiance frightens you slightly. He just nods, though.

“You’re to be wed.”

Your heart stops. You feel it stop. And then you’re all but shrieking his words back at him, and everything is going far too fast. Your heart goes from stopped to a million miles an hour in seconds, and your mind does the same. You’re panicking, on the verge of some kind of attack, and you’re unaware of everything around you. Your breathing is too fast and your hands are shaking and the walls are closing in, aren’t they? It’s so dark and everything feels wrong and fuck why does your skin feel like that? I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t-

And then there’s a hand on your shoulder, and that warmth in your chest spreads everywhere. It’s like you’ve drunk too much wine, but in the best way. Warm and fuzzy and soft, everything feels like it could be good now. Your mind is quiet and your body is still, your thoughts serene and your breathing calm. When you open your eyes, they’re wonder-filled and wild, perfectly mirroring the icy gaze across from you.

“Breathe, Little Fox,” Loki whispers, his hand never straying from your shoulder. Never touching your skin, never pushing his limits. But his chest is heaving, too, and his eyes are wide and tinged with something almost… dark. Dark, but not frightening.

The moment ends all too soon as Loki steps back and away, his hand dropping down to his side. Your skin tingles where his warmth had been, and by the way he’s rubbing his fingers together, you think it feels the same for him.

“What’s your name?” he asks again, his voice softer this time. Almost… small. His eyes seem to light up when you whisper it, still confused and half in shock, and he repeats it. It sounds almost reverent, and it does something funny to your stomach to hear your name fall off his tongue.

Fuck.

“Why am I- ‘to be wed’?” you ask softly once your heart rate has returned to something normal. 

He opens his mouth for a second and closes it, furrowing his eyebrows. “Do you want the simple answer or the complex one?” he asks, and you’re close enough to smell him once more. He smells less like smoke now, but you find you miss it.

“Simple,” you murmur, pushing away thoughts of the god’s smell.

He lifts his hand, pressing it against the center of his own chest. “Do you feel that? In here? The warmth that’s been here since you arrived in Asgard.”

You look down at his hand, the kind of hand that would have normally had you texting your friends while squealing in your bed about the sinful things you intended to do to the man attached. 

Fuck, now you’re thinking about his hands? Jesus, you need help. Fuck.

You shake it off and nod, returning your gaze to his eyes, ignoring the way you can feel your cheeks heat. You just pray he can’t see it.

He smiles slightly, and you catch his gaze flick for half a second from your face to your chest. Just for a moment, but you catch it, and you only blush deeper. And of course his smile grows, and you realize he’s enjoying flustering you. This should be fun. Not.

“What is it?” you prompt, clearing your throat and shifting on your feet. You swear his eyes glow for a moment, but it’s gone before you can blink.

“Short and simple answer, darling, is that Asgardians mate for life,” he all but purrs. “And you are my mate, Little Fox.”

You scowl, but your heart races. Because fuck that voice… He knows what he’s doing. So you glare at him. “And if I don’t marry you?”

His smile falters for a moment, something sympathetic passing over his features. “That… Asgardian law is very clear on this. I’m afraid you have no choice, darling. Having said that, the law does not extend to anything past a wedding. It must be had within a week of the bond being found, but there is no time constraint on… consummation.”

You flush, feeling your neck and ears burn at the implication of your words. And of course your brain goes to all sorts of wicked places, places where you wonder what else that silver tongue of his can do, be it in your ear or between your- oh my god you’re so fucking screwed.

“I’m not Asgardian,” you argue, trying not to let your sinful thoughts show. You swear he knows, though. It’s bullshit.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says, firm but gentle. “You are my mate, and you are to be my wife. My father has already prepared everything, and my mother will be here in a moment to explain to you the vows and traditions.” 

With that, he steps back away from you, and that warmth in your chest dulls a little. You don’t like it, but you bite your tongue. When he reaches the door, he turns back to look at you for a moment.

“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “you really do look exquisite. And- and I’m sorry.” He’s gone before you can respond.

˚　. . ✦ 　˚ . ★⋆.　. ˚　*✦　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

Frigga is a good woman. She’s got kind eyes, and you love her immediately. You decide that she’ll be an easy person to care for, even in this new place you seem to be… stuck in. 

The wedding went off without a hitch. You’d managed to not vomit or flee as you’d spoken the words, as they’d tied that cloth over your hands. Holding Loki’s hands, though, felt like heaven. Which is weird. Because it’s fucking hand holding. But it made that thing in your chest -the bond, evidently- get all happy and fuzzy, and it nearly bubbled over.

Loki seemed to have had the same reaction, too, because he was fighting a smile all through the wedding and the reception, during which you did drink too much wine.

By the mercy of some god (definitely not Odin), you’d woken alone and fully clothed, which told you two things. One, that you’d not been able to untie the bodice of the gown, and two, that your husband had said “nope, she’s drunk, ain’t happening”, which you found comforting.

Because as the days after your wedding passed, as you came to learn the halls of the castle and the names of the servants and maids and guards, you remembered bits and pieces of your drunken haze. In which you did, in fact, attempt to bed your husband. It was a sloppy attempt, with a shitty human pickup line, but it had made him blush, and as humiliating as the memories were, you held on to the one of him flushing. 

You ate dinner with him every night, mostly in your bedchambers because he didn’t seem the type for formal dining. He liked to sit at the foot of your bed to eat while you sat on the bed and did the same. And you found yourselves talking each night. For hours.

Loki was easy to talk to, which you found surprising. You mentioned this to him once, but he’d just waved it off and changed the topic, trying and failing to hide the blush that you so loved. You learned that night that he’s fairly bad at taking compliments from everyone but his mother, and you quite enjoy watching him become flustered from something as simple as noting how the tunic he wore complimented his eyes.

You talked about everything and nothing at all. You learned about him, his family, his court. He taught you Asgardian laws and you shared your favorite stupid human laws. He brought games, too, finding human games to be far more fun than Asgardian ones. (“Ours all have swords and knives, I quite like this… fish game. Go fish!”) And the more you talked, the warmer the bond felt in your chest. It never became uncomfortable until he left for his own bed each night. 

You hated it then. You hated lying awake, staring at the ceiling, that strange buzzing filling your chest, your body, your cunt. Hated not knowing if it took as much for him to settle down as it did for you. Hated the way you knew where his bedchambers were but had never dared cross the threshold after his lights were out. Hated how you came each night on your own hand, with his name on your lips, wishing he were filling you, knowing for a fact that he’d reach every spot you couldn’t.

Days turned into weeks, and before you knew it, you’d been a wife for three months. And yet every night, he slept in his own room. 

You’re sick of it.

“Stay here tonight,” you say confidently -though you feel anything but- as he piles up the empty bowls from the desserts you’d stolen from the kitchens. Loki’s hands faltered and the bowls nearly toppled, but he caught them just in time. Your chest swells with pride at the idea that maybe, just maybe, you have the same effect on him that he has on you.

“I can’t do that,” he replies. His voice sounds different than it had a moment ago. Rougher.

“Why not?” you ask, keeping up the false confidence to hide the slight nerves. Hell, not slight. Fuck, does he not think you’re pretty anymore? Did he just like the gown? No, that must not be it, he compliments you every day. So what-

“Because I have enough trouble controlling myself as it is, Little Fox,” he says, and his voice is definitely rough now. His back is to you and you can see how tense his shoulders are.

You flush, though, because… Clearly he still thinks you’re pretty. So you switch tactics, because at this point, you don’t want to spend another night alone. The bond is always pulling so hard, making you ache for him.

“Loki,” you whisper, rising to your knees on the side of the bed. You reach out with a surprisingly steady hand and rest it on his shoulder, feeling his breath hitch, feeling the bond twitch inside you. “Please. I don’t want to sleep without you.”

Before the bowls have even hit the ground, his lips are on yours. You register the crash and shatter of the ceramic, but your hands are in his hair and you don’t care.

He tastes like cinnamon and apples, like the pie you’d both devoured. But there’s something else, too, something you can taste when his fingers tangle in your hair and tug your head back slightly, using the new angle to sweep his tongue into the deepest crevices of your mouth, something purely Loki. You whimper, and he swallows it with a groan, stepping closer and pressing his body flush against yours. The hand not in your hair grips your hip, kneading gently as he holds you in place against him.

His hair feels like silk between your fingers and you tug, too, and you’re rewarded with the most beautiful moan you’ve ever heard. You tug again, this time using your body to pull him over you. He complies with a growl, and you whimper again as he cradles your head ever so gently, laying you back so carefully against the pillows. His lips never leave yours as his body cages you in. His knees are on either side of your hips and the hand that’s not on your head traces gently up your side, always stopping just short of your breast. 

You kiss him hungrily, greedily. Your hands roam recklessly, all care for propriety gone because fuck the bond is so strong and all it wants is more and you whine in frustration as his thumb brushes your ribs again without going all the way. 

“Please,” you gasp against his lips, dragging the lower between your teeth before releasing it gently. “Touch me, Loki. I need it. I need you.”

He pulls away just enough to look at you, and you hardly recognize the man above you. His eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide you can hardly see the blue. “I can’t,” he growls softly, his chest heaving against yours. “There are things you don’t know yet.”

“Then tell me,” you beg, fingers clawing at the buttons of his shirt. He growls and his hand leaves your hair, making you whine again at the loss. Quickly, he grabs your hands in his one and pins them above your head, the hand on your ribs tightening.

“Don’t push me, Little Fox,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to yours and closing his eyes. His hand never loosens around your wrists as he whispers, “humans react differently to godly spend. Ordinarily, it’d just be a powerful aphrodisiac. But you’re my mate, so that’s not how it’ll work.”

You’re trying to pay attention, really you are, but you can taste his breath on your lips and you can’t help yourself straining your neck to kiss him. He groans against your lips and you whimper at the taste of him before he nips your lips and pulls away, leaving you panting and desperate for more.

“You need to listen to me,” he says gruffly, his breath mingling with yours as he pants above you. You pout and open your mouth to protest, but he kisses you again, making your head spin. You melt when his tongue hits yours, and then he’s gone again. You’re too dazed to complain about it.

“Listen to me, darling,” he says firmly, his voice brokering no argument. His wild eyes lock onto yours and it makes your heart race. “If I fuck you, you become a goddess.”

That snaps you out of it. “What?”

He chuckles lowly, and the sound goes straight to your clit. “The ‘humans react differently to godly spend’ thing? Were you listening?”

You flush slightly. “I was trying,” you mumble, looking down at his lips again. “But I don’t know if you’re aware, but you’re very pretty, and therefore very distracting.”

Now it’s his turn to blush, and you’re too far gone not to moan at the sight. He chuckles again and rolls those icy eyes.

“Shush, you,” he mutters, kissing you deeply once more. He tries to pull away, but you whimper and chase his lips and he caves, his thumb stroking your inner wrist in time with his tongue against yours. Eventually, he does pull away again, and you’re left gasping for air.

“I won’t fuck you until you’ve had time to think about it,” he says softly, trailing feather-light kisses over your jaw. They send shivers down your spine and you clench your thighs together, biting your lip.

“I don’t-” you start to protest.

“No,” Loki says firmly, pulling away. His fingers tighten around your wrists and his other hand leaves your ribs to grip your chin. “Look at me, Little Fox.”

What you see takes your breath away. He’s positively exquisite; his hair a mess from your fingers, his eyes wild and pupils wide blown, his lips swollen from kissing you and his lips parted with the force of his heaving breaths. His heart melts at the reverence in your gaze and he sighs softly.

“Not until you’ve had time to think,” he repeats quietly, brushing your nose with his. With that, he kisses you once more before releasing your wrists and rolling off you and laying beside you, staring up at your ceiling. “But I won’t make you sleep alone.” 

˚　. . ✦ 　˚ . ★⋆.　. ˚　*✦　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

Apparently, Loki’s version of ‘time to think’ means ‘until I’ve explained every pro and con of immortality a thousand times and given you a week to mull over each one individually’.

Okay, so maybe it’s only been a month, but you’ve literally slept naked beside the man only to have him kiss your forehead and spoon you to sleep. It’s as sweet as it is infuriating. The only thing you’ve not tried is fucking groping him, which you don’t want to do because he’s been so respectful to you, so you’re fucking screwed. You’ve even tried touching yourself while he ‘slept’ beside you. You heard his breath hitch, you knew he was awake, but he did nothing. 

So now you have one option left, aside from borderline assaulting your husband; ignore him.

There’s a ball tonight, one which Frigga assured you is not at all important for you to attend and has no dress code, which is vital for Plan B. 

You just hope Plan A works anyway.

You’re oh-so-innocently perched on the chair in front of your vanity, painting your lips a deep red that offsets the… garment you’re wearing. Loki doesn’t immediately notice you, though he greets you as he always does. 

A gentle, “hello, love,” as he enters the room and slips into the bathroom, pretty head in the clouds. But you don’t respond, and he notices that immediately. So he pokes his head out of the bathroom, and he fucking groans when he sees you.

What you’re wearing is so skimpy it can hardly be considered a gown. It’s a deep, gorgeous, emerald silk, one that drapes over your breasts but leaves nothing of your back, sides, or stomach to the imagination. The skirt, which is hardly a skirt, is just a wide strip of fabric that covers your crotch and meets the ‘skirt’ in the back, so everything indecent is covered, but every spare inch of skin is bared. You’re not even wearing jewelry yet, but he’s salivating at the sight of you.

Loki slips out of the bathroom with dark eyes and silent feet, and you can see in your periphery as you check your hair in the mirror that he’s undoing his tie. He comes to a stop just behind your chair and leans down, his lips hovering just outside your ear. “Did you wear that for me, Little Fox?” he purrs, and you can’t keep the shiver from running down your spine.

You don’t respond, focusing on your own reflection as you paint the lipstick on. You purse your lips, rubbing them together to spread the color over them. Ordinarily, you’d be blushing and embarrassed, self-conscious of the skin you’re displaying, but you’re too horny after four fucking months of him ignoring and neglecting you (translated: not fucking you) to care. You set down the lipstick with a hum, seeing him move in your periphery. 

You can feel his breath against your skin, his hair brushing your shoulder as he leans in close and presses a chaste, lingering kiss to the crook of your neck. “I asked you a question,” he murmurs, his eyes trailing over your form as you begin to slide gold bracelets onto your arms. He’s definitely looking down the front of your dress.

But you still stay silent, ‘focusing’ entirely on your jewelry and not even sparing your husband a glance. You feel his lips curve into a frown against your skin and you relish it, the reaction, no matter how small it may be. 

He inches closer, kneeling behind your chair and resting a hand on your thigh from behind you. “Little fox,” he says lowly, his voice all but a growl as he caresses the soft skin of your uppermost leg. “Why are you wearing this?” His tone sounds almost menacing now, an unspoken warning that sends a shiver down your exposed spine. 

You meet his eyes over your shoulder, your own wide and innocent as you feel his thumb start to brush circles over your flesh. “I wanted to feel pretty,” you coo innocently, tilting your head to the side as your fingers dance across the vanity in search of the necklace you wanted to wear. You bat your eyelashes as you ask, “Do you think I look pretty?” 

There’s something that flashes in his eyes, the icy blue darkening as his pupils blow wide. He presses his nose into the crook of your neck as his fingers slip under the silk of your gown, coming to rest on your hip -right where your panties are supposed to be. But you’re not wearing any, and he is suddenly very aware of it. He growls against your neck, “I think you look like a fucking goddess.”

And then his fingers plunge inside you, quicker than you know what to do with, and you’re already so wet that both long, slender digits slip in with no resistance. You cry out, your eyes rolling and your jaw going slack as your thighs part unconsciously. You’re faintly aware of him smirking against your lips, but your entire universe narrows to the feeling of his middle and ring finger curling into that spot with every thrust. You don’t know how he found it so fast, but you are not complaining in the least.

“You’re so pretty,” he coos as his fingers pump in and out of you, watching your reflection in the mirror as you lose your mind completely. “So undone, just from a few little touches?” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly as his thumb finds your clit and his tongue finds that spot under your jaw, both appendages moving in tight, rough circles that push you to the brink of sanity.

You’re probably moaning and whimpering and gasping, because your head is spinning and you can’t get enough air into your lungs and you’re not sure when your hips started bucking unceremoniously off the plush chair you’re sitting in, but none of that matters if you can’t stop yourself from cumming too fast. 

Loki chuckles, his eyes dark as he watches you writhe. 

And then he bites you.

You cum with a cry, one hand digging blood-red nails into his wrist and the other clawing at the edge of the chair as you try in vain to ground yourself. He’s groaning, too, gasping softly as his fingers seem to stutter inside your pulsing, fluttering pussy, but you’re floating too high to process why that might be. 

He strokes that spongy spot inside you as you come down, gasping and panting and whining gently. Loki’s panting just as hard, his breath hot against your skin as he does.

Some part of your brain registers the wide-blow of his pupils in the vanity’s reflection, the way his fingers slow inside you until they nearly stop, only twitching slightly, almost involuntarily. 

And then you wonder where his other hand is. 

The second you meet his eyes, you know. And he knows you know, too, because he whimpers unabashedly and a shudder runs through him. You turn, swallowing hard as you peek back at him over the back of the chair. You try, oh, by the gods you try to maintain some level of dignity, but the second your eyes meet his without the reflection, your gaze drops.

Oh, he’s beautiful.

His trousers are shoved down his thighs and hand is wrapped tight around his cock, pumping furiously as he stares at you from his knees. A better woman might get a power trip, but you just whimper, biting your lip as you watch him. Memorize him.

The way his wrist twists on the upstroke, the way his palm grazes his tip, red and leaking and swollen and fuck you want to kiss it. The way he drags his nails down that vein on his underside, hissing slightly as he does. You wonder if it hurts, or if it feels more like a scratch on the scalp, but your mouth is too dry to ask. 

You’re dully aware of your own hand moving between your thighs, pulling his fingers from inside you, causing you both to whine softly. You watch him switch hands then, using your slick instead of his own as he strokes himself faster. Your eyes flick to his face just in time to watch his eyes roll back, his bottom lip dragged between his teeth to stifle a sound you so wish you could hear. Loki’s head falls back and his eyes drift closed as he fucks his fist with your juices, his chest heaving and his stomach flexing with every thrust.

And you can’t help slipping off your chair and dropping to your knees, watching intently as pre-cum beads on that slit at the tip of him, such a perfect mushroom that you can’t not-

You grip his wrist, halting his movements. He whines, opening his eyes and staring down at you with a bewildered expression. Fuck, his eyes, so wide and burning and unhinged and insane, ablaze with lust and need and want. You whimper, and you can feel your heart beating in your clit as you tilt your head down, your eyes never leaving his, and kiss the head of him.

He explodes instantly, a hoarse cry leaving his throat. You open your mouth without hesitation, wrapping your lips around his perfect, pretty tip and laving your tongue over his spurting member. His warning from a month ago rings in your mind, but you’ve thought it over, and at this point, you do not care at all. 

Why would you turn down this, turn down him, for the rest of forever?

Loki’s gasping and whimpering, his hips stuttering as he tries desperately not to fuck your mouth as you suckle the tip of him. You wrap your hand around his base, watching him through your eyelashes as you stroke him gently, wanting to milk out every drop of his cum. He’s sweet, which you weren’t expecting. Like candy, where human males are salty and bitter. He tastes like heaven, and you’re completely unsurprised that this would be an aphrodisiac to the average human.

“Fox,” he chokes out, gripping your hair tightly. “I- fuck- you-” He’s spluttering, his cock twitching against your tongue as the last drops spurt out into your mouth. You pull away, your chest heaving as you press one last kiss to his cock before releasing him. His hands drop to the floor, leaving him on his hands and knees in front of you, where your position mirrors his. He drops his head to your shoulder, loosing ragged, shuddering breaths against your skin as he tries to remember how to function.

You can still taste him on your tongue, and you can’t help wondering when you’ll get to do that again. “Loki,” you whisper, lifting one hand to run gently through his hair, soothingly. 

He growls softly, his body going still against you. Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you think he’s angry with you. But then he’s standing, his arms looping around you to hoist you into the air. He dumps you unceremoniously on the bed, shoving his pants down the rest of the way before shoving your gown up and burying his head between your thighs. 

You cry out, arching into him as you whimper his name, gripping his wavy hair tightly as his tongue flicks against your clit rhythmically. It’s hard and fast and desperate, far from what you thought your first time with him would be like. He seemed the type to lay out candles and rose petals, not bury his face in your cunt the first chance he got. 

His fingers join in, pumping in and out of your pulsing pussy as he focuses his oral attentions on your clit, sucking hard and dragging his teeth over you just to listen to you gasp. His free hand kneads your inner thigh as he growls unintelligibly into your cunt. He’s probably giving a whole speech about how delicious you are, about how he could stay here for centuries and never tire, but you’re too busy mewling and whimpering his name to be able to discern any of it. You cum too fast again, your pussy drippy and needy from the aphrodisiac that is his seed, but he doesn’t stop.

You beg him to keep going, gasping and whimpering as you try to squirm away but push harder onto his tongue. Oh, it’s a warring sensation; the pain and the pleasure, the way it feels like heaven but it aches as he bullies your g-spot so perfectly with every crook of his fingers. His tongue is unrelenting, every flick of it sending stars into your eyes and shivers running down your spine. You’re incoherently babbling, mostly his name, but you’re sure there’s other stuff spilling from your lips, too. You’re kneading his hair and scalp, using your nails probably too much, but he just growls into your cunt and nips at your folds, causing a strangled cry to lurch from your throat as you cum hard once more. He groans as your pussy flutters so beautifully around his fingers, seemingly trying to drag them deeper inside you. 

Finally, with one last drooling kiss to your clit, he pulls away, letting his eyes rove over you as he sucks his fingers clean. You lie, spread out and spent, chest heaving as your thighs tremble and your body twitches with soft aftershocks. You open your eyes, letting your fingers slip out of his hair so your arms go limp against the bed.

“You… You’re really good at that,” you murmur, still feeling like you’re floating.

Loki chuckles, his hand moving from your thigh to slide up your side, finding the hidden ribbon of your gown and tugging it. “I’ve had a long time to practice,” he muses as he unties the green silk, his eyes tracing over your form. 

“You’re exquisite,” he whispers reverently, pushing the skimpy gown to the side so he can kiss more of you. He traces his lips over your skin, not even trying to be sensual, simply wanting to worship you. 

He kneads your flesh softly, making your heart skip as his touch ghosts over you. It feels so safe here, so comfortable, and you feel so utterly adored. “I love you,” you whisper, your breath catching before you let out a soft, content sigh. It doesn’t immediately process for you that you’ve never said that to him, but he just hums against your collarbone, kissing his way up your neck until his lips rest on your earlobe.

“And I love you,” he whispers reverently, settling between your thighs. He kneels there, pulling back to look down at your still-twitching body. He smirks, a slight, arrogant thing, smugly proud of how undone you are for him. He finally finishes pulling his shirt off, unbuttoning slowly as you watch with parted lips and baited breath. “Do you want me to fuck you, my little fox?” he asks softly as he pulls the dress shirt off his back. You swallow hard, staring unabashedly at his chest as your cheeks heat. You nod, biting your lip gently before he leans forward and tugs your lip free with his thumb.

“I need a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, my queen,” he whispers as he hovers over you. His cock is hot and heavy against your stomach, hard again, and all for you. He bumps your nose with his, his eyes locked on yours as he smiles gently, the thumb on your lip moving to caress your jaw. His voice is so gentle, so sweet that you almost don’t process the sheer depravity of his words. “Do you want my cock, baby? Do you want me to make you sob on my dick, to fuck you until you can’t remember anything but my dick in you?”

You whimper, your cunt clenching at the thought.

“Yes.”

He crashes his lips to yours, his restraint seeming to snap completely as he reaches down and grips his cock tightly. He pumps it once, twice, sweeping his tongue over yours in time with his fist, and tilts his hips until the head of him taps your clit. You whimper against his mouth and he swallows it eagerly, slapping his cock against the throbbing nub and chasing the sound once more.

And oh, when he finally slips inside… The broad head of him stretches you out so slowly and deliciously, and your hands fly up from their spot in the bedsheets and claw down his back, trying to drag him closer, pull him deeper. You angle your hips with a whimper, bucking up to try to take him faster. But he chuckles against your lips and sucks on your tongue, keeping his slow, torturous pace until his head drags against that spongy spot inside you. You gasp and whine, arching your back. And he pulls out, pulling his cock through your sopping cunt oh-so-slowly as he breaks the kiss. He smirks down at you, his hands moving to grip your hips, hard enough to bruise.

He slams back inside all at once, eliciting a scream of ecstasy from deep inside your chest. Tears prick your eyes and you bow your back, encouraging a repeat performance. He whines softly and complies with your silent command, pulling out slowly until only his tip is inside you before he plunges back in, his cockhead meeting your cervix in a bruising, gooey kiss that leaves you both whimpering and gasping for more. 

“Loki,” you whine, your eyes squeezing shut. He coos down at you, praising how pretty and sweet you look as he does it again, still too slow and still not hard enough but fuck fuck fuck, it feels so good.

“Take my cock so perfect,” he murmurs with a bright grin as he speeds up ever so slightly. “Such a pretty pussy, made f’me, yeah? Your pussy was made f’my cock? So fuckin perfect, baby, I love you so fuckin much.”

“Loki,” you whimper again, gasping desperately. “Loki, please-”

“Please what, baby?” he coos, pressing his hand against your belly as he thrusts in deep once more. You cry out, a fat tear falling down your cheek as you choke out his name. He just grins, doing it again and again, loving how completely undone you are, just from his cock. Him. “Fuck, you’re beautiful like this. Takin my cock like a sex god. You want more, baby? You want more of me? Want me to pound this pussy?”

You nod frantically, gasping and choking on air as your blood-red nails dig into his skin, leaving marks and indents, proof of your touch on him. “Please,” you gasp out again, bowing your back again.

This time, he complies. This time, when he drags his cock through your pleasure-soaked walls, he rams back inside without hesitation. This time, he drops his forehead you yours and fucking rails you, drawing ecstatic sobs from the depths of your soul.

His hands are so tight on your hips that you know they’ll bruise, and fuck, you can’t wait to see them in the morning. He bullies his cock deeper with every thrust, rolling his hips like a goddamn porn star to hit your clit with each plunge into your depths. Loki’s whimpering as much as he’s growling, his eyes wild as he fucks you hard and fast and deep. He crashes his mouth to yours, tasting your tears and sweat and spit and just you, groaning deep into your mouth. 

He stills over you for a second, long enough to make you whine in protest, but also long enough to grab your hands off his back and pin them to the bed beside your head, intertwining your fingers with his. 

“Mine,” he whispers reverently as he moves once more, his body fitting so perfectly against yours, like it was made for you. “Tell me,” he begs, trailing kisses over your jaw as his hips slow to a deep, satisfying pace that stirs that coil in your belly and makes the most delicious squelching sound. “Tell me who I belong to.”

You whimper, tears of absolute pleasure rolling down your skin only for Loki to lick and kiss them away before they can disappear into your hair. “Me,” you choke out, arching up into him with a soft whine. “Mine. Y-you’re mine.”

He whimpers, too, echoing you as he kisses your skin, his hips speeding up as his own high coils in his core. “Yours,” he vows, releasing one of your hands to reach down and press his thumb against your clit. “My wife.”

You cum with a scream, clenching on his cock so hard you’re sure it has to hurt, but he only whines, fucking you harder. He cums seconds later, gasping out your name and spilling deep inside you. You flutter harder around him, groaning at the feeling of being so utterly filled by him as your body convulses and twitches beneath him as he thrusts jerkily, trying to keep fucking you despite his own orgasm. He’s whimpering like a wounded animal, and it’s nearly enough to make you cum again. 

You lean up and capture his lips, whining as you taste him again, going limp as he stills above you, focusing entirely on your lips now. His hand stills against you and the other squeezes yours, a soft, utterly sated sigh dropping between your lips. Loki settles his weight over you, letting his hand slide up your body and caress your jaw as he goes soft inside you. You sigh contentedly, lifting your own free hand to toy with his hair as you kiss. 

After a moment, you pull away and smile up at him, tired and sated. “My husband,” you whisper, your hand sliding from his hair to his jaw. Loki nuzzles into the touch, kissing your inner wrist.

His eyes are soft as he gazes down at you, his hand on your jaw sliding up to trace over your face gently, reverently. And you could swear you’ve never heard anything as sweet as his voice as he murmurs so gently, so adoringly, “My goddess.”

˚　. . ✦ 　˚ . ★⋆.　. ˚　*✦　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　

Later that night, you were still naked and tangled together, your head on his chest as he played with your hair, damp from the shower. You’re tracing shapes over his skin, humming contentedly to yourself. 

You press a gentle kiss to his pec, skewing your mouth to one side. “I don’t feel any different,” you admit, resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him. “I mean, I feel different, but different in a ‘I just had the best sex of my life’ kind of way, not a ‘I’m a goddess now’ kind of way.”

Loki chuckles and boops your nose. “You’ll feel different in the morning,” he assures you, his voice low and soft. “You were a goddess from the second my cock touched your tongue.” You flush despite yourself, turning your face to kiss his sternum. 

“Hmm,” is all you say, embarrassed now of all times. He just laughs, grinning. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, his voice coy and teasing as he settles back into his pillows as he returns to toying with your hair. “We’ll have plenty of time to make you a goddess if it didn’t work this time.”

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

god fucking dammit why you postin my x-mas list online, santie?

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

because i am a truly evil person and i desperately need to make people cry but i don't want to actually hurt anyone so i do this :3

Cold

Jegulus drabble. wc: 1389

It’s cold here. James is warm, but the room is cold, so Regulus doesn’t want to move. He just tucks his head under James’ chin, breathing in their scent with a dreamy sigh. It smells like it rained last night, too, which explains the cold, because Merlin knows neither him nor James remembered to close the window. 

“Papa,” a little voice says, and Reg sighs, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder.

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly, lifting the blanket for the little boy to climb into. He giggles as he does, little hands clenching in the sheets as he pulls himself up under the comforter. He snuggles right up between his two dads, his head replacing Reg’s spot under James’ jaw. Regulus doesn’t mind, though, because now he can bury his face in Harry’s curls.

Harry smells like sunshine and milk and honey, which Regulus always thought was strange. He’s a kid; shouldn’t he smell like glue and mud and diapers? He’s meant to be sticky and smelly and weird. But no. The little one always smells like sweet things, safety and comfort, just like his dad. James always smells like wood and cinnamon and vanilla, and there’s nothing Reggie loves more than holding his son and his husband at once, breathing them in and feeling them. Here and real and loved and safe and warm. 

Harry’s already asleep again, his chubby brown hands fisted in Regulus’ shirt. His lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ as he snores, the perfect picture of beautiful innocence. James is drooling into their own curls as they snore, their glasses discarded beside their pillow, because god forbid they take their glasses off before they fall asleep. 

So Regulus just watches.

He props his head on his hand and his elbow on his pillow, staring down at the two people he loves most in the world. The sun is painting their skin gold and their curls seem to glow against their pillows, and Reg knows that when one of them opens their eyes, those’ll glow, too, turning that honeyed shade that takes his breath away every time he sees it. And as he watches them sleep, occasionally brushing his fingers through Harry or James’ curls, he thinks.

He thinks about Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally ran into James as he rushed off the train because he was chasing Barty. He thinks about James’ outstretched hand, their dazzling smile as they asked if he was okay as they pulled him off the damp cobblestone. He thinks about Barty and Evan teasing him mercilessly in the dorm because someone had said the words “James Potter” at dinner and Reg had blushed.

He thinks about the first time they ever kissed, when Reg was in 4th year and James was in 5th, when Reg had caught a snitch and utterly destroyed Gryffindor, but James had gay panicked too much to care and had grabbed Regulus by the waist the second they’d hit the ground. He thinks about how their lips tasted, about the way he’d melted so perfectly against them, how he’d never kissed anyone before that and he didn’t know what he was doing, but James didn’t seem to care. He thinks about their goofy grin when they pulled away, how they’d pecked his nose before running off to join the rest of the Gryffindor and get cleaned up. He thinks about how he’d found them again after dinner and crashed his lips to theirs, just kissing them as he kept his back against a wall so his knees wouldn’t give out, about how they never really stopped kissing after that.

He thinks about when James proposed, the day Regulus had graduated Hogwarts. In front of Sirius and his parents and everyone they’d ever known, James had gotten down on one knee and asked Regulus to marry them, to make them the happiest man alive. He thinks about how he’d cried and held James tighter than he thought he ever could, just whispering, “yes, I love you, I love you, yes,” over and over again for Merlin knows how long. He thinks about the wedding, small and kind and gentle, filled with the people who loved them and 80s punk rock, courtesy of Sirius and Remus deejaying. 

He thinks about the times when he and James had danced in the rain, stopped on drives to collect flowers from the side of the road, about the countless times they’d woken up tangled together. He thinks about the way James had sobbed when Lily had shown up with a sign that said, “your baby on board!” after their first try with implanted embryos. Regulus had cried, too, of course, but he liked to remember the look on James’ face when they realized they were about to be a father.

He thinks about the nights spent pouring over baby books when Lily was pregnant with Harry. He thinks about his brother crying when he and Remus had met Harry for the first time, holding and rocking him and telling him stories he’d repeat a thousand more times before Harry remembered any of them. He thinks about Remus sitting on the bed by Lily for hours as she recovered, how they’d all camped in her room for as long as the hospital would let them to talk and be there for her and Harry as she recovered from labor and he recovered from being born (such a horrific practice, from what Reg saw). 

He thinks about the childhood he never had, about how grateful he is to give Harry this comfort, this safety he never had. About how Harry’s never acted afraid of him, or of James, how he’s always said he loved them before bed and how he’s always been comfortable with hugs and cuddles. He thinks about how incredible it is to be a father, to be in charge of a whole human, to just exist in the same time as this exquisite creature who called him Papa.

He thinks a lot. Too much, probably. Because he almost doesn’t notice when James’ eyes flutter open, eyes gold in the morning sun. They smile gently, their eyes locking onto Regulus’.

“You’re so beautiful,” Regulus whispers, leaning forward to kiss his husband, careful not to jostle the child against his chest. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, one that has Reggie’s eyes fluttering shut and his heart welling in his chest. But he pulls away and smiles down at James, brushing a curl off of his forehead.

“Reg,” James whispers, nuzzling into their love’s hand. “Wake up, Reg.”

Regulus’ smile falters. “What was that, cheri?” he asks softly, leaning closer to James, trying to hear. Man, it’s really cold in here. He needs to pull his blanket back up, it must have slipped down when Harry-

“Wake up,” James says again, their voice forceful and firm. “Wake up now.”

Regulus flinches at the cold tone, one he’s never heard before, not from James. His eyes close briefly, but once they open again, James is gone. Harry is gone. Everything’s cold, and everything burns, and he can’t breathe.

As Regulus feels the Inferi gripping his legs, clawing at him, dragging him down under the water, he stops thinking; he remembers. He remembers everything.

He remembers fighting with James his last year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying and being a child for a little while longer, but his parents had different plans. He remembers James leaving him, saying they couldn’t be with someone who would take the dark mark, telling him they’d thought he was different. He remembers seeing them with their head in Evans’ lap not three weeks later, how that had hurt more than any ‘Crucio’ his mother had ever used on him. He remembers finding out about the Horcruxes. He remembers hunting down the locket. He remembers finding the cave and drinking the poison.

And as he stops thrashing, stops fighting, lets the water and the monsters take him, he remembers the way James had looked when they backed away from him in the astronomy tower that night, heartbreak and tears in their eyes. The way their voice had cracked when they whispered, “I can’t love a monster, Regulus.”

That’s okay, Regulus thinks as he lets the air escape his lungs. I’ll love you anyway.

thank you @calamitoustide for the idea with this post. i hate you /affectionate

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

please dear god tell me you're writing this and then can write fanfiction of your fanfiction i need it to survive

jegulus but it’s in a world where royals are of celestial descent and james is part of the family of the Sun, the hope and future of the kingdom of gryffindor. sirius is of star descent, a sun-star himself, but is, unbeknownst to everyone else, a dying one. remus is from the moon family, a previously extinct line, and considered an outcast because of the weird rumors surrounding families from lunar descent. and then you have regulus, an anomaly within the black family, a black hole in a line of stars and galaxies that is destined to extinguish the sun of gryffindor kingdom and bring it to its end.

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

eee thank youu <3

your fingers can do anything my fingers can, just practice! I assure you, i was incapable of this shit a year ago lols

Cold

Jegulus drabble. wc: 1389

It’s cold here. James is warm, but the room is cold, so Regulus doesn’t want to move. He just tucks his head under James’ chin, breathing in their scent with a dreamy sigh. It smells like it rained last night, too, which explains the cold, because Merlin knows neither him nor James remembered to close the window. 

“Papa,” a little voice says, and Reg sighs, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder.

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly, lifting the blanket for the little boy to climb into. He giggles as he does, little hands clenching in the sheets as he pulls himself up under the comforter. He snuggles right up between his two dads, his head replacing Reg’s spot under James’ jaw. Regulus doesn’t mind, though, because now he can bury his face in Harry’s curls.

Harry smells like sunshine and milk and honey, which Regulus always thought was strange. He’s a kid; shouldn’t he smell like glue and mud and diapers? He’s meant to be sticky and smelly and weird. But no. The little one always smells like sweet things, safety and comfort, just like his dad. James always smells like wood and cinnamon and vanilla, and there’s nothing Reggie loves more than holding his son and his husband at once, breathing them in and feeling them. Here and real and loved and safe and warm. 

Harry’s already asleep again, his chubby brown hands fisted in Regulus’ shirt. His lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ as he snores, the perfect picture of beautiful innocence. James is drooling into their own curls as they snore, their glasses discarded beside their pillow, because god forbid they take their glasses off before they fall asleep. 

So Regulus just watches.

He props his head on his hand and his elbow on his pillow, staring down at the two people he loves most in the world. The sun is painting their skin gold and their curls seem to glow against their pillows, and Reg knows that when one of them opens their eyes, those’ll glow, too, turning that honeyed shade that takes his breath away every time he sees it. And as he watches them sleep, occasionally brushing his fingers through Harry or James’ curls, he thinks.

He thinks about Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally ran into James as he rushed off the train because he was chasing Barty. He thinks about James’ outstretched hand, their dazzling smile as they asked if he was okay as they pulled him off the damp cobblestone. He thinks about Barty and Evan teasing him mercilessly in the dorm because someone had said the words “James Potter” at dinner and Reg had blushed.

He thinks about the first time they ever kissed, when Reg was in 4th year and James was in 5th, when Reg had caught a snitch and utterly destroyed Gryffindor, but James had gay panicked too much to care and had grabbed Regulus by the waist the second they’d hit the ground. He thinks about how their lips tasted, about the way he’d melted so perfectly against them, how he’d never kissed anyone before that and he didn’t know what he was doing, but James didn’t seem to care. He thinks about their goofy grin when they pulled away, how they’d pecked his nose before running off to join the rest of the Gryffindor and get cleaned up. He thinks about how he’d found them again after dinner and crashed his lips to theirs, just kissing them as he kept his back against a wall so his knees wouldn’t give out, about how they never really stopped kissing after that.

He thinks about when James proposed, the day Regulus had graduated Hogwarts. In front of Sirius and his parents and everyone they’d ever known, James had gotten down on one knee and asked Regulus to marry them, to make them the happiest man alive. He thinks about how he’d cried and held James tighter than he thought he ever could, just whispering, “yes, I love you, I love you, yes,” over and over again for Merlin knows how long. He thinks about the wedding, small and kind and gentle, filled with the people who loved them and 80s punk rock, courtesy of Sirius and Remus deejaying. 

He thinks about the times when he and James had danced in the rain, stopped on drives to collect flowers from the side of the road, about the countless times they’d woken up tangled together. He thinks about the way James had sobbed when Lily had shown up with a sign that said, “your baby on board!” after their first try with implanted embryos. Regulus had cried, too, of course, but he liked to remember the look on James’ face when they realized they were about to be a father.

He thinks about the nights spent pouring over baby books when Lily was pregnant with Harry. He thinks about his brother crying when he and Remus had met Harry for the first time, holding and rocking him and telling him stories he’d repeat a thousand more times before Harry remembered any of them. He thinks about Remus sitting on the bed by Lily for hours as she recovered, how they’d all camped in her room for as long as the hospital would let them to talk and be there for her and Harry as she recovered from labor and he recovered from being born (such a horrific practice, from what Reg saw). 

He thinks about the childhood he never had, about how grateful he is to give Harry this comfort, this safety he never had. About how Harry’s never acted afraid of him, or of James, how he’s always said he loved them before bed and how he’s always been comfortable with hugs and cuddles. He thinks about how incredible it is to be a father, to be in charge of a whole human, to just exist in the same time as this exquisite creature who called him Papa.

He thinks a lot. Too much, probably. Because he almost doesn’t notice when James’ eyes flutter open, eyes gold in the morning sun. They smile gently, their eyes locking onto Regulus’.

“You’re so beautiful,” Regulus whispers, leaning forward to kiss his husband, careful not to jostle the child against his chest. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, one that has Reggie’s eyes fluttering shut and his heart welling in his chest. But he pulls away and smiles down at James, brushing a curl off of his forehead.

“Reg,” James whispers, nuzzling into their love’s hand. “Wake up, Reg.”

Regulus’ smile falters. “What was that, cheri?” he asks softly, leaning closer to James, trying to hear. Man, it’s really cold in here. He needs to pull his blanket back up, it must have slipped down when Harry-

“Wake up,” James says again, their voice forceful and firm. “Wake up now.”

Regulus flinches at the cold tone, one he’s never heard before, not from James. His eyes close briefly, but once they open again, James is gone. Harry is gone. Everything’s cold, and everything burns, and he can’t breathe.

As Regulus feels the Inferi gripping his legs, clawing at him, dragging him down under the water, he stops thinking; he remembers. He remembers everything.

He remembers fighting with James his last year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying and being a child for a little while longer, but his parents had different plans. He remembers James leaving him, saying they couldn’t be with someone who would take the dark mark, telling him they’d thought he was different. He remembers seeing them with their head in Evans’ lap not three weeks later, how that had hurt more than any ‘Crucio’ his mother had ever used on him. He remembers finding out about the Horcruxes. He remembers hunting down the locket. He remembers finding the cave and drinking the poison.

And as he stops thrashing, stops fighting, lets the water and the monsters take him, he remembers the way James had looked when they backed away from him in the astronomy tower that night, heartbreak and tears in their eyes. The way their voice had cracked when they whispered, “I can’t love a monster, Regulus.”

That’s okay, Regulus thinks as he lets the air escape his lungs. I’ll love you anyway.

thank you @calamitoustide for the idea with this post. i hate you /affectionate

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

because i use making other people cry as a coping mechanism and this is better than hurting people i love >:3

Cold

Jegulus drabble. wc: 1389

It’s cold here. James is warm, but the room is cold, so Regulus doesn’t want to move. He just tucks his head under James’ chin, breathing in their scent with a dreamy sigh. It smells like it rained last night, too, which explains the cold, because Merlin knows neither him nor James remembered to close the window. 

“Papa,” a little voice says, and Reg sighs, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder.

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly, lifting the blanket for the little boy to climb into. He giggles as he does, little hands clenching in the sheets as he pulls himself up under the comforter. He snuggles right up between his two dads, his head replacing Reg’s spot under James’ jaw. Regulus doesn’t mind, though, because now he can bury his face in Harry’s curls.

Harry smells like sunshine and milk and honey, which Regulus always thought was strange. He’s a kid; shouldn’t he smell like glue and mud and diapers? He’s meant to be sticky and smelly and weird. But no. The little one always smells like sweet things, safety and comfort, just like his dad. James always smells like wood and cinnamon and vanilla, and there’s nothing Reggie loves more than holding his son and his husband at once, breathing them in and feeling them. Here and real and loved and safe and warm. 

Harry’s already asleep again, his chubby brown hands fisted in Regulus’ shirt. His lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ as he snores, the perfect picture of beautiful innocence. James is drooling into their own curls as they snore, their glasses discarded beside their pillow, because god forbid they take their glasses off before they fall asleep. 

So Regulus just watches.

He props his head on his hand and his elbow on his pillow, staring down at the two people he loves most in the world. The sun is painting their skin gold and their curls seem to glow against their pillows, and Reg knows that when one of them opens their eyes, those’ll glow, too, turning that honeyed shade that takes his breath away every time he sees it. And as he watches them sleep, occasionally brushing his fingers through Harry or James’ curls, he thinks.

He thinks about Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally ran into James as he rushed off the train because he was chasing Barty. He thinks about James’ outstretched hand, their dazzling smile as they asked if he was okay as they pulled him off the damp cobblestone. He thinks about Barty and Evan teasing him mercilessly in the dorm because someone had said the words “James Potter” at dinner and Reg had blushed.

He thinks about the first time they ever kissed, when Reg was in 4th year and James was in 5th, when Reg had caught a snitch and utterly destroyed Gryffindor, but James had gay panicked too much to care and had grabbed Regulus by the waist the second they’d hit the ground. He thinks about how their lips tasted, about the way he’d melted so perfectly against them, how he’d never kissed anyone before that and he didn’t know what he was doing, but James didn’t seem to care. He thinks about their goofy grin when they pulled away, how they’d pecked his nose before running off to join the rest of the Gryffindor and get cleaned up. He thinks about how he’d found them again after dinner and crashed his lips to theirs, just kissing them as he kept his back against a wall so his knees wouldn’t give out, about how they never really stopped kissing after that.

He thinks about when James proposed, the day Regulus had graduated Hogwarts. In front of Sirius and his parents and everyone they’d ever known, James had gotten down on one knee and asked Regulus to marry them, to make them the happiest man alive. He thinks about how he’d cried and held James tighter than he thought he ever could, just whispering, “yes, I love you, I love you, yes,” over and over again for Merlin knows how long. He thinks about the wedding, small and kind and gentle, filled with the people who loved them and 80s punk rock, courtesy of Sirius and Remus deejaying. 

He thinks about the times when he and James had danced in the rain, stopped on drives to collect flowers from the side of the road, about the countless times they’d woken up tangled together. He thinks about the way James had sobbed when Lily had shown up with a sign that said, “your baby on board!” after their first try with implanted embryos. Regulus had cried, too, of course, but he liked to remember the look on James’ face when they realized they were about to be a father.

He thinks about the nights spent pouring over baby books when Lily was pregnant with Harry. He thinks about his brother crying when he and Remus had met Harry for the first time, holding and rocking him and telling him stories he’d repeat a thousand more times before Harry remembered any of them. He thinks about Remus sitting on the bed by Lily for hours as she recovered, how they’d all camped in her room for as long as the hospital would let them to talk and be there for her and Harry as she recovered from labor and he recovered from being born (such a horrific practice, from what Reg saw). 

He thinks about the childhood he never had, about how grateful he is to give Harry this comfort, this safety he never had. About how Harry’s never acted afraid of him, or of James, how he’s always said he loved them before bed and how he’s always been comfortable with hugs and cuddles. He thinks about how incredible it is to be a father, to be in charge of a whole human, to just exist in the same time as this exquisite creature who called him Papa.

He thinks a lot. Too much, probably. Because he almost doesn’t notice when James’ eyes flutter open, eyes gold in the morning sun. They smile gently, their eyes locking onto Regulus’.

“You’re so beautiful,” Regulus whispers, leaning forward to kiss his husband, careful not to jostle the child against his chest. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, one that has Reggie’s eyes fluttering shut and his heart welling in his chest. But he pulls away and smiles down at James, brushing a curl off of his forehead.

“Reg,” James whispers, nuzzling into their love’s hand. “Wake up, Reg.”

Regulus’ smile falters. “What was that, cheri?” he asks softly, leaning closer to James, trying to hear. Man, it’s really cold in here. He needs to pull his blanket back up, it must have slipped down when Harry-

“Wake up,” James says again, their voice forceful and firm. “Wake up now.”

Regulus flinches at the cold tone, one he’s never heard before, not from James. His eyes close briefly, but once they open again, James is gone. Harry is gone. Everything’s cold, and everything burns, and he can’t breathe.

As Regulus feels the Inferi gripping his legs, clawing at him, dragging him down under the water, he stops thinking; he remembers. He remembers everything.

He remembers fighting with James his last year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying and being a child for a little while longer, but his parents had different plans. He remembers James leaving him, saying they couldn’t be with someone who would take the dark mark, telling him they’d thought he was different. He remembers seeing them with their head in Evans’ lap not three weeks later, how that had hurt more than any ‘Crucio’ his mother had ever used on him. He remembers finding out about the Horcruxes. He remembers hunting down the locket. He remembers finding the cave and drinking the poison.

And as he stops thrashing, stops fighting, lets the water and the monsters take him, he remembers the way James had looked when they backed away from him in the astronomy tower that night, heartbreak and tears in their eyes. The way their voice had cracked when they whispered, “I can’t love a monster, Regulus.”

That’s okay, Regulus thinks as he lets the air escape his lungs. I’ll love you anyway.

thank you @calamitoustide for the idea with this post. i hate you /affectionate

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

i put my fingers on some keys and then i hit upload :)

Cold

Jegulus drabble. wc: 1389

It’s cold here. James is warm, but the room is cold, so Regulus doesn’t want to move. He just tucks his head under James’ chin, breathing in their scent with a dreamy sigh. It smells like it rained last night, too, which explains the cold, because Merlin knows neither him nor James remembered to close the window. 

“Papa,” a little voice says, and Reg sighs, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder.

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly, lifting the blanket for the little boy to climb into. He giggles as he does, little hands clenching in the sheets as he pulls himself up under the comforter. He snuggles right up between his two dads, his head replacing Reg’s spot under James’ jaw. Regulus doesn’t mind, though, because now he can bury his face in Harry’s curls.

Harry smells like sunshine and milk and honey, which Regulus always thought was strange. He’s a kid; shouldn’t he smell like glue and mud and diapers? He’s meant to be sticky and smelly and weird. But no. The little one always smells like sweet things, safety and comfort, just like his dad. James always smells like wood and cinnamon and vanilla, and there’s nothing Reggie loves more than holding his son and his husband at once, breathing them in and feeling them. Here and real and loved and safe and warm. 

Harry’s already asleep again, his chubby brown hands fisted in Regulus’ shirt. His lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ as he snores, the perfect picture of beautiful innocence. James is drooling into their own curls as they snore, their glasses discarded beside their pillow, because god forbid they take their glasses off before they fall asleep. 

So Regulus just watches.

He props his head on his hand and his elbow on his pillow, staring down at the two people he loves most in the world. The sun is painting their skin gold and their curls seem to glow against their pillows, and Reg knows that when one of them opens their eyes, those’ll glow, too, turning that honeyed shade that takes his breath away every time he sees it. And as he watches them sleep, occasionally brushing his fingers through Harry or James’ curls, he thinks.

He thinks about Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally ran into James as he rushed off the train because he was chasing Barty. He thinks about James’ outstretched hand, their dazzling smile as they asked if he was okay as they pulled him off the damp cobblestone. He thinks about Barty and Evan teasing him mercilessly in the dorm because someone had said the words “James Potter” at dinner and Reg had blushed.

He thinks about the first time they ever kissed, when Reg was in 4th year and James was in 5th, when Reg had caught a snitch and utterly destroyed Gryffindor, but James had gay panicked too much to care and had grabbed Regulus by the waist the second they’d hit the ground. He thinks about how their lips tasted, about the way he’d melted so perfectly against them, how he’d never kissed anyone before that and he didn’t know what he was doing, but James didn’t seem to care. He thinks about their goofy grin when they pulled away, how they’d pecked his nose before running off to join the rest of the Gryffindor and get cleaned up. He thinks about how he’d found them again after dinner and crashed his lips to theirs, just kissing them as he kept his back against a wall so his knees wouldn’t give out, about how they never really stopped kissing after that.

He thinks about when James proposed, the day Regulus had graduated Hogwarts. In front of Sirius and his parents and everyone they’d ever known, James had gotten down on one knee and asked Regulus to marry them, to make them the happiest man alive. He thinks about how he’d cried and held James tighter than he thought he ever could, just whispering, “yes, I love you, I love you, yes,” over and over again for Merlin knows how long. He thinks about the wedding, small and kind and gentle, filled with the people who loved them and 80s punk rock, courtesy of Sirius and Remus deejaying. 

He thinks about the times when he and James had danced in the rain, stopped on drives to collect flowers from the side of the road, about the countless times they’d woken up tangled together. He thinks about the way James had sobbed when Lily had shown up with a sign that said, “your baby on board!” after their first try with implanted embryos. Regulus had cried, too, of course, but he liked to remember the look on James’ face when they realized they were about to be a father.

He thinks about the nights spent pouring over baby books when Lily was pregnant with Harry. He thinks about his brother crying when he and Remus had met Harry for the first time, holding and rocking him and telling him stories he’d repeat a thousand more times before Harry remembered any of them. He thinks about Remus sitting on the bed by Lily for hours as she recovered, how they’d all camped in her room for as long as the hospital would let them to talk and be there for her and Harry as she recovered from labor and he recovered from being born (such a horrific practice, from what Reg saw). 

He thinks about the childhood he never had, about how grateful he is to give Harry this comfort, this safety he never had. About how Harry’s never acted afraid of him, or of James, how he’s always said he loved them before bed and how he’s always been comfortable with hugs and cuddles. He thinks about how incredible it is to be a father, to be in charge of a whole human, to just exist in the same time as this exquisite creature who called him Papa.

He thinks a lot. Too much, probably. Because he almost doesn’t notice when James’ eyes flutter open, eyes gold in the morning sun. They smile gently, their eyes locking onto Regulus’.

“You’re so beautiful,” Regulus whispers, leaning forward to kiss his husband, careful not to jostle the child against his chest. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, one that has Reggie’s eyes fluttering shut and his heart welling in his chest. But he pulls away and smiles down at James, brushing a curl off of his forehead.

“Reg,” James whispers, nuzzling into their love’s hand. “Wake up, Reg.”

Regulus’ smile falters. “What was that, cheri?” he asks softly, leaning closer to James, trying to hear. Man, it’s really cold in here. He needs to pull his blanket back up, it must have slipped down when Harry-

“Wake up,” James says again, their voice forceful and firm. “Wake up now.”

Regulus flinches at the cold tone, one he’s never heard before, not from James. His eyes close briefly, but once they open again, James is gone. Harry is gone. Everything’s cold, and everything burns, and he can’t breathe.

As Regulus feels the Inferi gripping his legs, clawing at him, dragging him down under the water, he stops thinking; he remembers. He remembers everything.

He remembers fighting with James his last year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying and being a child for a little while longer, but his parents had different plans. He remembers James leaving him, saying they couldn’t be with someone who would take the dark mark, telling him they’d thought he was different. He remembers seeing them with their head in Evans’ lap not three weeks later, how that had hurt more than any ‘Crucio’ his mother had ever used on him. He remembers finding out about the Horcruxes. He remembers hunting down the locket. He remembers finding the cave and drinking the poison.

And as he stops thrashing, stops fighting, lets the water and the monsters take him, he remembers the way James had looked when they backed away from him in the astronomy tower that night, heartbreak and tears in their eyes. The way their voice had cracked when they whispered, “I can’t love a monster, Regulus.”

That’s okay, Regulus thinks as he lets the air escape his lungs. I’ll love you anyway.

thank you @calamitoustide for the idea with this post. i hate you /affectionate

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

:3

Cold

Jegulus drabble. wc: 1389

It’s cold here. James is warm, but the room is cold, so Regulus doesn’t want to move. He just tucks his head under James’ chin, breathing in their scent with a dreamy sigh. It smells like it rained last night, too, which explains the cold, because Merlin knows neither him nor James remembered to close the window. 

“Papa,” a little voice says, and Reg sighs, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder.

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly, lifting the blanket for the little boy to climb into. He giggles as he does, little hands clenching in the sheets as he pulls himself up under the comforter. He snuggles right up between his two dads, his head replacing Reg’s spot under James’ jaw. Regulus doesn’t mind, though, because now he can bury his face in Harry’s curls.

Harry smells like sunshine and milk and honey, which Regulus always thought was strange. He’s a kid; shouldn’t he smell like glue and mud and diapers? He’s meant to be sticky and smelly and weird. But no. The little one always smells like sweet things, safety and comfort, just like his dad. James always smells like wood and cinnamon and vanilla, and there’s nothing Reggie loves more than holding his son and his husband at once, breathing them in and feeling them. Here and real and loved and safe and warm. 

Harry’s already asleep again, his chubby brown hands fisted in Regulus’ shirt. His lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ as he snores, the perfect picture of beautiful innocence. James is drooling into their own curls as they snore, their glasses discarded beside their pillow, because god forbid they take their glasses off before they fall asleep. 

So Regulus just watches.

He props his head on his hand and his elbow on his pillow, staring down at the two people he loves most in the world. The sun is painting their skin gold and their curls seem to glow against their pillows, and Reg knows that when one of them opens their eyes, those’ll glow, too, turning that honeyed shade that takes his breath away every time he sees it. And as he watches them sleep, occasionally brushing his fingers through Harry or James’ curls, he thinks.

He thinks about Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally ran into James as he rushed off the train because he was chasing Barty. He thinks about James’ outstretched hand, their dazzling smile as they asked if he was okay as they pulled him off the damp cobblestone. He thinks about Barty and Evan teasing him mercilessly in the dorm because someone had said the words “James Potter” at dinner and Reg had blushed.

He thinks about the first time they ever kissed, when Reg was in 4th year and James was in 5th, when Reg had caught a snitch and utterly destroyed Gryffindor, but James had gay panicked too much to care and had grabbed Regulus by the waist the second they’d hit the ground. He thinks about how their lips tasted, about the way he’d melted so perfectly against them, how he’d never kissed anyone before that and he didn’t know what he was doing, but James didn’t seem to care. He thinks about their goofy grin when they pulled away, how they’d pecked his nose before running off to join the rest of the Gryffindor and get cleaned up. He thinks about how he’d found them again after dinner and crashed his lips to theirs, just kissing them as he kept his back against a wall so his knees wouldn’t give out, about how they never really stopped kissing after that.

He thinks about when James proposed, the day Regulus had graduated Hogwarts. In front of Sirius and his parents and everyone they’d ever known, James had gotten down on one knee and asked Regulus to marry them, to make them the happiest man alive. He thinks about how he’d cried and held James tighter than he thought he ever could, just whispering, “yes, I love you, I love you, yes,” over and over again for Merlin knows how long. He thinks about the wedding, small and kind and gentle, filled with the people who loved them and 80s punk rock, courtesy of Sirius and Remus deejaying. 

He thinks about the times when he and James had danced in the rain, stopped on drives to collect flowers from the side of the road, about the countless times they’d woken up tangled together. He thinks about the way James had sobbed when Lily had shown up with a sign that said, “your baby on board!” after their first try with implanted embryos. Regulus had cried, too, of course, but he liked to remember the look on James’ face when they realized they were about to be a father.

He thinks about the nights spent pouring over baby books when Lily was pregnant with Harry. He thinks about his brother crying when he and Remus had met Harry for the first time, holding and rocking him and telling him stories he’d repeat a thousand more times before Harry remembered any of them. He thinks about Remus sitting on the bed by Lily for hours as she recovered, how they’d all camped in her room for as long as the hospital would let them to talk and be there for her and Harry as she recovered from labor and he recovered from being born (such a horrific practice, from what Reg saw). 

He thinks about the childhood he never had, about how grateful he is to give Harry this comfort, this safety he never had. About how Harry’s never acted afraid of him, or of James, how he’s always said he loved them before bed and how he’s always been comfortable with hugs and cuddles. He thinks about how incredible it is to be a father, to be in charge of a whole human, to just exist in the same time as this exquisite creature who called him Papa.

He thinks a lot. Too much, probably. Because he almost doesn’t notice when James’ eyes flutter open, eyes gold in the morning sun. They smile gently, their eyes locking onto Regulus’.

“You’re so beautiful,” Regulus whispers, leaning forward to kiss his husband, careful not to jostle the child against his chest. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, one that has Reggie’s eyes fluttering shut and his heart welling in his chest. But he pulls away and smiles down at James, brushing a curl off of his forehead.

“Reg,” James whispers, nuzzling into their love’s hand. “Wake up, Reg.”

Regulus’ smile falters. “What was that, cheri?” he asks softly, leaning closer to James, trying to hear. Man, it’s really cold in here. He needs to pull his blanket back up, it must have slipped down when Harry-

“Wake up,” James says again, their voice forceful and firm. “Wake up now.”

Regulus flinches at the cold tone, one he’s never heard before, not from James. His eyes close briefly, but once they open again, James is gone. Harry is gone. Everything’s cold, and everything burns, and he can’t breathe.

As Regulus feels the Inferi gripping his legs, clawing at him, dragging him down under the water, he stops thinking; he remembers. He remembers everything.

He remembers fighting with James his last year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying and being a child for a little while longer, but his parents had different plans. He remembers James leaving him, saying they couldn’t be with someone who would take the dark mark, telling him they’d thought he was different. He remembers seeing them with their head in Evans’ lap not three weeks later, how that had hurt more than any ‘Crucio’ his mother had ever used on him. He remembers finding out about the Horcruxes. He remembers hunting down the locket. He remembers finding the cave and drinking the poison.

And as he stops thrashing, stops fighting, lets the water and the monsters take him, he remembers the way James had looked when they backed away from him in the astronomy tower that night, heartbreak and tears in their eyes. The way their voice had cracked when they whispered, “I can’t love a monster, Regulus.”

That’s okay, Regulus thinks as he lets the air escape his lungs. I’ll love you anyway.

thank you @calamitoustide for the idea with this post. i hate you /affectionate

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

✦˚. ★⋆.࿐࿔. ℛℯ𝓆𝓊ℯ𝓈𝓉𝓈

Rule 1: I will write platonic for any ship you want. I will not write romance or smut for a number of ships, which I will clarify in a list here.

Rule 2: I will write smut for any character in my character list, but I will not do 'x Reader' for Regulus Black, Takashi Shirogane, Tony Stark, or Ted Lasso. It just feels weird and I don't like it. orange on the character list means conditional smut; I won't write smut of Magnus unless it's with Alex. I won't write smut of Draco or Harry unless it's with Draco and Harry. it has to be a ship I like, or I won't write it.

Rule 3: if a character is not on my list, you can still feel free to ask for them. if I know the character, I will write platonic for them happily. characters on my list with blue names will not have smut. for one reason or another, I don't want to write smut for those characters, so please don't ask me to.

Rule 4: if a character is not on my list but is from a franchise available on the list, you're welcome to ask. I may have simply forgotten to put them on the list lols. additionally, if you think it might be a franchise I'm willing to write for, you're more than welcome to ask!

Rule 5: I reserve the right to turn down a request, whether it makes me uncomfortable or I just don't have the time. for whatever reason at any time, I can turn it down.

Rule 6: No Severus Snape. No Peter Pettigrew. No Jason Gideon. No 'Hermione x anyone except Ron'. No 'Rebbeca x Ted', no 'Hotch x Prentiss', no Thorki, no 'Pidge x other paladins', no straight!Regulus. It doesn't make sense to me and I don't like it. You're welcome to ask for a celebrity or streamer, but I will probably say no.

Rule 7: I'm a gay man, I'm probably shit at writing sapphic smut. you're more than welcome to ask, and even though there are very few women on my list, you can request pairings from the listed franchises.

Rule 8: Don't spoil JJK. I've only seen ssn 1, I'm poor, I'm sorry.

I know it's a lot, but I'd be grateful for you to respect these rules when requesting things. I'll also make a separate post for my smut rules. Thank you for reading what I write, it means the world to me. <3

divider credits in bio

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

we have to stop letting people write our pathetic Guys as daddy doms. i hope the next pandemic is premature ejaculation

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

Keep your priorities straight: post fic.

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

Cold

Jegulus drabble. wc: 1389

It’s cold here. James is warm, but the room is cold, so Regulus doesn’t want to move. He just tucks his head under James’ chin, breathing in their scent with a dreamy sigh. It smells like it rained last night, too, which explains the cold, because Merlin knows neither him nor James remembered to close the window. 

“Papa,” a little voice says, and Reg sighs, lifting his head from his husband’s shoulder.

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly, lifting the blanket for the little boy to climb into. He giggles as he does, little hands clenching in the sheets as he pulls himself up under the comforter. He snuggles right up between his two dads, his head replacing Reg’s spot under James’ jaw. Regulus doesn’t mind, though, because now he can bury his face in Harry’s curls.

Harry smells like sunshine and milk and honey, which Regulus always thought was strange. He’s a kid; shouldn’t he smell like glue and mud and diapers? He’s meant to be sticky and smelly and weird. But no. The little one always smells like sweet things, safety and comfort, just like his dad. James always smells like wood and cinnamon and vanilla, and there’s nothing Reggie loves more than holding his son and his husband at once, breathing them in and feeling them. Here and real and loved and safe and warm. 

Harry’s already asleep again, his chubby brown hands fisted in Regulus’ shirt. His lips are parted in a soft ‘o’ as he snores, the perfect picture of beautiful innocence. James is drooling into their own curls as they snore, their glasses discarded beside their pillow, because god forbid they take their glasses off before they fall asleep. 

So Regulus just watches.

He props his head on his hand and his elbow on his pillow, staring down at the two people he loves most in the world. The sun is painting their skin gold and their curls seem to glow against their pillows, and Reg knows that when one of them opens their eyes, those’ll glow, too, turning that honeyed shade that takes his breath away every time he sees it. And as he watches them sleep, occasionally brushing his fingers through Harry or James’ curls, he thinks.

He thinks about Hogwarts, when he’d accidentally ran into James as he rushed off the train because he was chasing Barty. He thinks about James’ outstretched hand, their dazzling smile as they asked if he was okay as they pulled him off the damp cobblestone. He thinks about Barty and Evan teasing him mercilessly in the dorm because someone had said the words “James Potter” at dinner and Reg had blushed.

He thinks about the first time they ever kissed, when Reg was in 4th year and James was in 5th, when Reg had caught a snitch and utterly destroyed Gryffindor, but James had gay panicked too much to care and had grabbed Regulus by the waist the second they’d hit the ground. He thinks about how their lips tasted, about the way he’d melted so perfectly against them, how he’d never kissed anyone before that and he didn’t know what he was doing, but James didn’t seem to care. He thinks about their goofy grin when they pulled away, how they’d pecked his nose before running off to join the rest of the Gryffindor and get cleaned up. He thinks about how he’d found them again after dinner and crashed his lips to theirs, just kissing them as he kept his back against a wall so his knees wouldn’t give out, about how they never really stopped kissing after that.

He thinks about when James proposed, the day Regulus had graduated Hogwarts. In front of Sirius and his parents and everyone they’d ever known, James had gotten down on one knee and asked Regulus to marry them, to make them the happiest man alive. He thinks about how he’d cried and held James tighter than he thought he ever could, just whispering, “yes, I love you, I love you, yes,” over and over again for Merlin knows how long. He thinks about the wedding, small and kind and gentle, filled with the people who loved them and 80s punk rock, courtesy of Sirius and Remus deejaying. 

He thinks about the times when he and James had danced in the rain, stopped on drives to collect flowers from the side of the road, about the countless times they’d woken up tangled together. He thinks about the way James had sobbed when Lily had shown up with a sign that said, “your baby on board!” after their first try with implanted embryos. Regulus had cried, too, of course, but he liked to remember the look on James’ face when they realized they were about to be a father.

He thinks about the nights spent pouring over baby books when Lily was pregnant with Harry. He thinks about his brother crying when he and Remus had met Harry for the first time, holding and rocking him and telling him stories he’d repeat a thousand more times before Harry remembered any of them. He thinks about Remus sitting on the bed by Lily for hours as she recovered, how they’d all camped in her room for as long as the hospital would let them to talk and be there for her and Harry as she recovered from labor and he recovered from being born (such a horrific practice, from what Reg saw). 

He thinks about the childhood he never had, about how grateful he is to give Harry this comfort, this safety he never had. About how Harry’s never acted afraid of him, or of James, how he’s always said he loved them before bed and how he’s always been comfortable with hugs and cuddles. He thinks about how incredible it is to be a father, to be in charge of a whole human, to just exist in the same time as this exquisite creature who called him Papa.

He thinks a lot. Too much, probably. Because he almost doesn’t notice when James’ eyes flutter open, eyes gold in the morning sun. They smile gently, their eyes locking onto Regulus’.

“You’re so beautiful,” Regulus whispers, leaning forward to kiss his husband, careful not to jostle the child against his chest. It’s a sweet, gentle kiss, one that has Reggie’s eyes fluttering shut and his heart welling in his chest. But he pulls away and smiles down at James, brushing a curl off of his forehead.

“Reg,” James whispers, nuzzling into their love’s hand. “Wake up, Reg.”

Regulus’ smile falters. “What was that, cheri?” he asks softly, leaning closer to James, trying to hear. Man, it’s really cold in here. He needs to pull his blanket back up, it must have slipped down when Harry-

“Wake up,” James says again, their voice forceful and firm. “Wake up now.”

Regulus flinches at the cold tone, one he’s never heard before, not from James. His eyes close briefly, but once they open again, James is gone. Harry is gone. Everything’s cold, and everything burns, and he can’t breathe.

As Regulus feels the Inferi gripping his legs, clawing at him, dragging him down under the water, he stops thinking; he remembers. He remembers everything.

He remembers fighting with James his last year at Hogwarts, when he should have been studying and being a child for a little while longer, but his parents had different plans. He remembers James leaving him, saying they couldn’t be with someone who would take the dark mark, telling him they’d thought he was different. He remembers seeing them with their head in Evans’ lap not three weeks later, how that had hurt more than any ‘Crucio’ his mother had ever used on him. He remembers finding out about the Horcruxes. He remembers hunting down the locket. He remembers finding the cave and drinking the poison.

And as he stops thrashing, stops fighting, lets the water and the monsters take him, he remembers the way James had looked when they backed away from him in the astronomy tower that night, heartbreak and tears in their eyes. The way their voice had cracked when they whispered, “I can’t love a monster, Regulus.”

That’s okay, Regulus thinks as he lets the air escape his lungs. I’ll love you anyway.

thank you @calamitoustide for the idea with this post. i hate you /affectionate

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

*struggles while writing* i suck and writing is hard

*remembers some ppl use ai* i am a creative force. i am uncorrupted by theft and indolence. i am on a journey to excellence. it is my duty to keep taking joy in creating.

[imagineiwrotesomethingwell]

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