#other than divide and conquer

[bastardwhoisnamedrat]

this shit sounds hilarious when i verbalize it so i might as well see if it transfers to text: i have TERRIBLE anxiety in relation to most interpersonal relationships, even longstanding ones like family. i can't text i can't call i can't talk first. this extends to a desire for what i'd like to call "socio-political overawareness" wherein instead of actually synthesizing information into anything even moderately important with my fucking needle head's worth of free time, i just. keep reading shit.

paper after pdf after paper and i can recite the information, yeah, but i can't DO shit with it. so i just get kicked into this gear of anxiety (that truly is my own fault) where i think i'll never know anything, i'll hover in this state of non-awareness and i'll never be able to help anyone like that.

it comes from an internal responsibility to take advantage of how much informaition is avaliable, but sadly i just lack the time to really dive into print resources in depth and this is SUCH a first-world problem, so to speak, so know it's really a non-issue like "ohh i can't understand world politcs fast enough oughh i don't understand historical tragedy :(" but also it just. upsets me.

[theforesteldritch]

I’m not going to say that people entrenched in queer identity discourse who try to split the community into neat little boxes without any shared identity or experiences or even shared space in this world are driving the surge in homophobia and transphobia around the world by themselves but they’re certainly not making it any harder for hatred to spread and any easier for queer people to survive and thrive.

[multishipper-baby]

Thinking about the twins and the triplets because if multiples run in families... I wonder if they'll also have multiples once they grow up 🤔

[aetherraeys]

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

(part ii)

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.���

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes��making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

[owastie]

archives room robert/bob reynolds x fem!reader (fluff) synopsis: you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat m.list \ wc: 1.5k

   "you- uh you mind starting here, divide and conquer?” you look over at bob, hands resting on your hips. 

  the archives room has always been a cluttered mess, avoided by all and enjoyed by none. boxes stack higher than you stand and knick knacks cover the flooring, leaving little room for comfortable movement. however, as rumors of a former adversary flutters throughout new york, you all knew it was time to start checking. and you drew the short straw, literally, along with bob. 

  bob purses his lips, hands clasped behind his back. sallowing hard, his adam’s apple bobs up and down, one foot rubbing behind his ankle. “sure, just, check every box on this side?” he rewords your sentence, clearly making sure every little thing he does is acceptable.

  “yeah, let me know if you see even a mention of this guy’s name,” walking off towards your side, you take a peek back at him, eyebrows furrowing.

  everyone on the team cared for bob, understanding his problems more than anyone else could. you feel that same pull towards him, an unmistakable magnetic pull that he drags out of you. however, you’re still not particularly close to him. even after nearly a year of living together, the room is still awkward when it’s just the two of you. tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  even now, you look back towards the problem at hand, hair standing on the back of your neck. at first you wondered if it was his powers that made you feel this way. you were afraid of feeling the same emotions you felt fighting him. now, though, you feel as though you have nothing to fear, besides an awkward conversation that could ruin months of progress.

  grabbing a box down, you flip through the different pages, finding nothing of relevance. tapping the top of the box, and then the bottom, it quickly floats to the ceiling. bouncing off of the concrete, it settles into a comfortable spot. “sometimes i forget how interesting your abilities are,” bob looks over at you, seemingly having watched you send it upwards.

  looking back at him, you give him a half smile. “thanks, i mean it’s just gravity, not nearly as interesting as some of the others,” your shoulders move before you can even think, shrugging absentmindedly at his compliment, eyes returning to your work. 

  bob nods, still pursing his lips, as though he wants to say something but is simply too in his own head to do so. looking back at your portion of the boxes, you get back to work, trying to play some melody in your head to drown out the silence. yet every noise bounces off the walls like an echo. the windowless room feeling stale as you grab each box, dust brushing off against your fingers.

  sending another box towards the ceiling, you pull out a new one, lifting off the lid and setting it to the side. inside is a long list of papers, some envelopes shoved in the box. biting the inside of your cheek, you begin to flip through each page. the process is long and boring, each one filled with bureaucratic nonsense. until your eyes scan the very thing you needed, information on norman osborn’s rising empire.

  “robert- uh bob! i think i found what we were looking for,” you look back towards him, grabbing out the multiple stacks of stapled documents, “this is some of the research that tony stark was building on him- this could totally help us.”

  stepping over a few of the strewn items and papers along the archives room flooring, you head for bob. he’s looking up from a position he took sitting on the floor, immediately dropping a glowing crystal of some kind from an old box. standing up, bob steps over one of the taller boxes. as his foot lowers, he doesn’t notice the small upside down sticky note. 

  pressing his foot down, it takes away the grippy feeling of his shoes, instantly causing him to fall forward. reaching out for him, your hand grabs a hold of his sleeve, dropping the papers you were holding. your powers activating as it slowly starts moving him upwards, you along with him. “oh fuck no!” your feet start swaying back and forth, the loss of flooring beneath your feet instantly messing with your mind.

  “y/n- thanks for the save, but could you bring us down now,” bob looks over at you, unsure if he should grab your hand or not, initiating touch that may make this situation even worse.

  “uh, i’m not sure. my abilities work well with inanimate objects,” looking down towards the floor, you reach your other hand to a painting on the wall, grasping against the frame, “but i don’t really understand how it works with living things…”

  you’ve tried multiple times to fully grasp every nook and cranny of your abilities. worked with the new avengers to try to understand every aspect of it. and yet you could never fully grasp the process of causing a person to float. much less one you’re not entirely close with. “okay, so could you use what you have to lower yourself to the ground? pull me with?” bob suggests, looking over at you, his hair swinging in front of his face.

  “no… because our forces will equal out and we will be stuck in one spot.. until i eventually pass out and we fall to the floor. which is not ideal with how tall stark built the ceilings,” you look back at him, pursuing your own lips apologetically, “i’m sorry. i haven’t quite gotten the hang of this yet. not everything at least.”

  bob lets out a deep sigh, laughing in an attempt to brighten the mood, “at least you’re not trying to kill me, so this isn’t too bad.”

  “right, it could be worse,” you laugh with him, trying to ignore the feeling of weightlessness that’s affecting you. you’ve never quite had a fear of heights, especially with your powers, but right now it feels like the scariest thing there is. “okay, how about i grab your sleeves and you grab mine? maybe it’s emotion based? get me to calm down and we lower.”

  bob looks over at you, unsure what to say. it wasn’t his first time in the air, but he really doesn’t want this to be his last. making eye contact with you, his eyebrows lower, softening from his usual wide eyed expression. “okay, let’s try it,” holding out his other arm, you wrap your hands around his covered wrists, him doing the same.

  staring over at him, you take in deep breaths. “what’s your favorite movie?”

  “what?”

  “your favorite movie? just to calm me down.”

  “oh- right. uh, i’ve always quite liked uh the original jurassic park. it was a good movie, i haven’t watched it in a long… long time,” bob tilts his head, looking away as he seemingly searches his mind for such information. nodding your head, you try to think of something to ask him, only to be asked a question that he poses, “what’s your favorite thing to have for breakfast? you usually seem to favor bagels.”

  he looks back towards you, face seemingly warming up as a slight blush crosses his cheeks. smiling, you wonder how he noticed such a thing, when the two of you are hardly friends. “yeah, my grandma used to make homemade ones when i was younger. none are ever quite as good, but slathering them with cream cheese definitely helps some. sorry we don’t talk as much, i’m just now noticing that we’re not as close as the others.”

  “it’s okay, i’m used to that by now.”

  “you shouldn’t have to be though. you really are nice, anyone would be lucky to be your friend bob,” you nod, hands tightening around his wrists, only for you to look down and see your mere feet from the floor.

  bob looks down with you, smiling. letting go of each other’s wrists, you situation your feet against the flooring, finally feeling the sweet floor again. “oh i have never been happier to feel this tile flooring again,” letting out a deep sigh, you look towards bob, who’s already looking at you.

  “thanks for what you said,” he nods, looking down towards the ground. 

  “i meant every word,” nodding, you wait patiently for him to look up, only for your attention to slip from the boxes above, all of them loosing your effect on them as they fall to the ground. 

  slamming around you, they fall into piles of mess, covering the papers you had previously found. dust barrels back into the air, the overhead light revealing every little particle of dust spreading through the open air. “shit,” you press your hands against your hips, looking around the room. peering back at bob, you can see he has a smile on his face, making the idea of searching again not too bad. 

[pa1nrema1ns]

Master and Apprentice || Sung Jin-woo (Part 1 of 3)

Siren!Jin-woo x Deaf!Omega!reader

A/N - Hello everyone! This fic was inspired by the lovely @forbidden-sunlight's siren!au. We both collaborated on this piece and it serves as a direct sequel to her imagine, so do be sure to check it out first! This story picks up right where her imagine left off.

╰┈➤ Chapter Index

🪸 Prequel by @forbidden-sunlight 🌊 Part 2: Two Intertwining Melodies 🦈Part 3: In a Sea of Fire

Content warnings: 18+ MDNI, mythical creatures au, canon divergent, a/b/o dynamics, afab!reader, suggestive themes, obsessive thoughts, slightly ooc Jin-woo (he's very reverent towards Ashborn), mentions of violence, death, and despair, forbidden romance (humans and sirens are natural enemies), eventual yandere!Jin-woo.

Word Count - 3.6k

Summary - Sung Jin-woo seeks answers about his potential mate from Ashborn in the deepest depths of the abyss.

Dividers by @anitalenia and @firefly-graphics

After what feels like an eternity, Jin-woo comes to an abrupt stop. He wasn’t tired in the slightest, but he couldn’t finish this journey unless he was in the right frame of mind. If he was going to face the sea monarch, Ashborn, then he needed to compose himself. He was his mentor’s prized disciple, after all.

Resolute in his decision, Jin-woo pinches his brow, shuts his eyes, and releases a deep, suffering sigh. He had to stop ruminating over the useless ‘what ifs’ of his current situation and focus on the matter at hand. You emitting pheromones in his presence was proof enough that you were a compatible mate, but this would be meaningless if you were unreceptive to him. It also begs the question, was humanity even capable of consorting with sirens? In search of an answer, he reminisces about the tales of old passed down by generations of his kin, as well as the many speculations made by humans.

No one knew the exact origins of his species. Most humans assumed the progenitors were Persephone’s handmaidens, punished by Demeter after Hades had taken her daughter to the underworld and forced her into becoming his queen. Some stories also claimed that seafoam  birthed them, but Jin-woo scoffed at this particularly ridiculous rumor. A scholar had recently published an article on how sirens may actually be the offspring of the river deity Achelous and a divine songstress, citing notations from various mythos on this theory. In truth, reality was far simpler than any of these far-fetched narratives.

There was just no definitive explanation for the existence of sirens. They were not interchangeable with the peaceful denizens of the ocean, known as mermaids and mermen. While all fell under the umbrella of the term ‘merfolk,’ the sirens had a far more hostile and bloodstained relationship with humans.

Since time immemorial, his brethren were viewed as nothing but a scourge upon this world of humanity. Beautiful as a raging typhoon and every bit as devastating, the sirens served as harbingers of doom and destruction for those foolish enough to risk the perilous waters. Their heavenly voices were tantamount to the funeral dirges used to usher the dead into the afterlife. It would be understandable to believe that the sirens were the monsters in this baleful story. However, human nature at its core is fraught with wickedness, and men soon grew wise to the machinations of merfolk.

Odysseus was the first to survive an encounter with sirens. During his voyage to Ithaca, the cunning man had instructed his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, effectively blocking the intoxicating songs that had ended the lives of so many before them. Emboldened by the success of Odysseus’s scheme, other sailors began using this method to conquer the sea and establish trade routes. Within a matter of a couple hundred years, humans not only overcame their fear of sirens, but they also poached them. Huntsmen would capture, torture, and kill Jin-woo’s ancestors simply for crossing paths with them. Worse yet, these scoundrels would often murder merfolk solely to harvest their organs, bones, and scales. They would then use the defiled corpses as ingredients for commodities, medication, and even aphrodisiacs. It was truly grotesque, if not outright barbaric, and more than justified the ire his kind felt towards humanity. While they hunted for the noble sake of survival, men did it for bloodsport and money.

The horrific fates suffered by many of their beloved brothers and sisters particularly infuriated the alphas, with their robust constitutions and natural sense of leadership. With a thirst for vengeance, they began targeting and attacking ships, ports, and even beaches. The alphas considered any place or vehicle that harbored humans as eligible targets. The less temperamental betas remained neutral and avoided the bloodshed, opting to prey upon shoals of fish and other maritime animals instead. Omegas could not join in the hunt, as they were far too precious to lose. They were the most cherished and talented singers amongst the sirens and required around-the-clock protection because of their significant rarity. These were the origins of the current hierarchical structure Jin-woo adhered to.

After recalling the tumultuous history of his people in its entirety, Jin-woo clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. This was so damn frustrating! Rather than granting him an understanding of his attraction, it just proved all the more why it was so illogical. 

Defeated, Jin-woo raises his head, opens his eyes, and continues to swim.

Another hour passes before he finds himself at the ingress of Ashborn’s lair. His enigmatic teacher lived in almost complete obscurity. Devoid of any light, and enveloped by a suffocating aura, this nautical cavern intimidated all who dared to approach it. Well, almost all that is apart from Jin-woo. He effortlessly permeates the invisible barrier designed to keep intruders at bay and ventures into his master’s spiritual domain.

Despite being an ancient and powerful king of the sea, Ashborn made the strange decision to emulate a land-like environment in his personal chambers.

As Jin-woo manifests into the realm, his appearance gives way to a form more befitting of a land dweller. His tail separates into two legs, his scales smoothen into skin, and he loses the winged fins on his ears and back. Once finished with this metamorphosis, Jin-woo takes a deep breath. Fresh pine, grass, and flowers perfume the air as he’s greeted by a lush valley. It had been a while since he had visited, and the setting had required him to transform into a human. Interestingly, transfiguration was one of the first skills Ashborn taught him. Speaking of his mentor –

“My disciple, it is good to see you again, though you appear…troubled. Tell me, what ails you so?” A rumbling voice rings across the horizon, signaling Ashborn’s approach; the tenebrous essence of the powerful deity contrasting with the greenery of the land. He appears in front of Jin-woo as a great dark knight. Much like his surroundings, Ashborn’s current visage was nothing but an illusion. Even the bravest of warriors said that his lifelike image invoked sheer terror in their hearts.

Many speculate he possesses a massive stature, at least several leagues in height and breadth alone, with piercing eyes and endless tendrils of dark hair. Others claim he is the son of Poseidon, one of the twelve Olympians, and a God of destruction who presided over the sea. However, Jin-woo never once witnessed this side of his teacher in all the years he’s been under his mentorship. Ashborn certainly exuded dignity, but he still displayed a humble attitude. And without fail, he would always appear in that strange, armored suit whenever he was in Jin-woo’s presence.

“My teacher, I must ask for your help on an urgent matter,” Jin-woo starts, anxiously running his tongue across his bottom lip. “This morning, while I was scavenging, I stumbled across the unmistakable aroma of an unmarked omega. It…it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. As if I was being beckoned by someone or something. I wanted, no, I needed to heed its call.”

Ashborn listens in silence, his expression indiscernible. Jin-woo continued.

 “When I arrived, I was in front of a monstrosity of a ship – a yacht right by the sandbanks. At first, I assumed that someone had taken an unfortunate siren captive. But when I finally saw her–”

“You recognized she was human. Not only that, but she belongs to the lowest level of the hierarchy, an omega. Speak if I am wrong, my dear pupil.” Jin-woo lowers his head in shame, fringe obscuring his eyes. This action all but confirms it.

“I don’t know what to do or how to proceed, teacher. Everything I’ve learned about these creatures has made me detest them. But I can’t bring myself to hate her. How could this even be possible? We are not even of the same species. She’s my enemy, my prey…. At least, she’s supposed to be.” His voice lowers into a near whisper as he ends his confused rambling.

“And yet you don’t view her that way, do you child?” Ashborn poses a question he already knows the answer to but needs to hear in his pupil’s own words.

“No, I don’t,” Jin-woo replies grimly. “I yearn to know more about her. And not just that. I want to meet her, court her, and make her mine. If she’ll even have me, that is… So please, teacher, tell me if there is any meaning behind what I feel. Am I destined for something that bears no place in reality?”

Ashborn remains uncharacteristically quiet while faced with such a loaded question. All is eerily silent for a few moments, save for the cheerful chirping of the illusionary songbirds. At last, the monarch gazes at Jin-woo and gives him the answer he so desperately desires.

“It is entirely possible Sung Jin-woo, alpha of Jindo island, for I am proof of such a fantastical circumstance. My first and only love was also a human omega. A woman I devoted my entire being to over a millennium ago.”

Jin-woo’s eyes widened in shock at this revelation. His mentor had fallen in love at some point, and it was with a member of the human race? This was unheard of.

“I never knew you had a lover,” Jin-woo murmurs softly. “What was she like? Do you still remember everything about her after so many years?”

“Let me show you, my disciple. It is a tragic tale that words alone cannot properly convey.” With a wave of Ashborn’s hand, their surroundings began to morph and alter. The valley transforms into a spacious, yet quaint medieval village composed of several wooden houses with a bustling marketplace at its center.

When Jin-woo regains his bearings, he notices his mentor has also metamorphosized. A man with a sun kissed complexion, long dark hair, and a beard stands where he once stood. Though visibly unrecognizable, he was unmistakably Ashborn. A crimson cape was clasped to the pristine silver armor he wore. A paladin. Jin-woo recalls. He had some knowledge of the past lives of men through his rare excursions onto the Mainland. While disguised as a human, Jin-woo once traded in his goods for a textbook on history. He was loath to admit just how intriguing he had found it.

Ashborn speaks, his voice no longer resonating within the confines of shadowy steel.

“It was here in this village that I came across her. She was the only daughter of a peasant farmer. A strong-willed, rapscallion of a woman with a wit sharper than any blade. I can remember her beauty, her warmth, and her tenacity as clear and concise as the day we met.” He says with a wistful gaze. The scene then shifts to a woman in a pure white gown. Her eyes remained hidden, but it did nothing to impede upon her loveliness. The woman runs animatedly towards a man who looks identical to Ashborn’s borrowed likeness and leaps into his arms. The man then effortlessly spins her around before bringing her into a kiss. Jin-woo watches on, mesmerized by what was unfolding in front of him.

“I feared her rejection once she knew the truth of my identity,” Ashborn admits. “On the night we first made love, I finally revealed to her my status as ruler of the sea. However, it did not matter. She loved me wholly and unconditionally, regardless of who or what I was. Such was the strength of her resolve.” In the next instance, they return to the same valley from earlier. What differs this time is that the man and woman are there, unacknowledging of Jin-woo and Ashborn’s presence. Lost in their own special world. The woman has a flower crown on her head, and she sits on the grass, holding the man’s head in her lap. Both appear happy and at ease.

“For the first time in my existence, I experienced true contentment. I long to return to those days, but alas, our bliss did not last.”

Ashborn solemnly shuts his eyes as darkness overtakes the sky and rain falls. The man is now shown standing at a grave with an expression of anguish marring his face. The woman is nowhere to be seen, although Jin-woo knows exactly where she’s at.

“A plague was scourging the land and indiscriminately ending the lives of thousands. I tried to protect her with my magic, but it was to no avail. She fell gravely ill despite my best efforts. I discovered shortly thereafter that omegas were more susceptible to sickness than their contemporaries. If I had known beforehand, I would’ve brought her to the sea with me, away from that damned disease. But I was a fool who was willing to love and live with her as a man, not as a king. And as punishment for my hubris, an ailment snuffed out her life.”

At the end of his recollection, Ashborn’s lair returns to its original state. His mentor had also regained his shadowy exterior. The valley appears completely untouched by time, as if it were still one thousand years in the past. That’s why his lair looks like this. Jin-woo thinks as he finally recognizes its significance, It was their personal sanctuary. After a few moments of silence, Ashborn speaks.

“Although our circumstances are similar, you still have the privilege of choice. I cannot turn back time, nor can I change the past, but I am grateful. I experienced unspeakable grief, yes, but I also would have never encountered such love, tenderness, and passion had I not taken a chance on my omega. You, my disciple, still have free rein over your decision. Should you choose to pursue this woman, you have my blessing and irrefutable proof that she is a viable mate for you. If not, you will still receive my unwavering support in your future endeavors. The choice is yours to make.”

Jin-woo’s throat bobs. He feels an incredible sense of guilt at unearthing his master’s secret.

“My teacher, I apologize for prying into your past. I – I did not mean to bring up painful memories for you. I cannot imagine what you have endured. As of right now, I am not sure what it is I want, but I know for a fact I cannot give up on this human. I will need some time to contemplate and sort out my feelings. If you will excuse me.”

Jin-woo bows his head before turning to take his leave. As he approaches the exit, a sudden thought emerges at the forefront of his mind.

“Teacher, there is one more question I must ask. This human, she does not speak with words. She communicates with her hands and gestures. Is this some type of sorcery or spell that she’s casting?”

“It is most likely sign language, a manner of non-verbal communication used by humans who are unable to vocalize or hear. Perhaps she cannot speak, or has a hearing impairment, so she must express herself through other means.” Ashborn answers, curiosity lacing his voice.

Jin-woo feels his heart sinking. A siren’s serenade played a pivotal role in the mating ritual and was performed just prior to consummating an eternal bond. If what Ashborn said is true, then there is a possibility you could be immune to his song. This meant he wouldn't be able to use it on you when the time came…

He grits his teeth as he remembers your smiling face. Try as he might, Jin-woo just could not get you out of his head, nor was he willing to let you escape his grasp. You may not have realized it yet, but you had unknowingly sunk your fangs into him and the seeds of obsession were already beginning to take root. Rather than being discouraged by Ashborn’s observation, he instead finds himself reinvigorated.

“Teacher, disregard everything I said earlier. I now know what it is I must do.”

Ashborn peers into the eyes of his disciple, relieved by the determination that lights them. This was much more like the obstinate young man he knew.

“I choose to seek this omega and stake my claim, no matter what challenges may await the two of us,” Jin-woo proclaims proudly. “I will make her mine, but only if she consents to my proposal. And if not through song, then through other courtship methods. I am strong, stronger than any other alpha in my territory, and I know I can protect her from all who would wish her harm. I won’t let my mate slip through my fingers.”

“But what of maladies and the passage of time? You can fight against gods and monsters until the end of your days, but sickness or her ephemeral lifespan will not spare this young woman. In the end, your time with her shall be fleeting.” Ashborn ruthlessly counters Jin-woo’s declaration of protection.

Jin-woo bites his lip, not expecting this development. However, before he can muster a response, his mentor graces him with an answer.

“I know of one way you can overcome this. There is a recipe for an elixir known as the Holy Water of Life. It is a miraculous potion that can imbue invulnerability to communicable diseases, extend lifespan, and transform the consumer into a siren. I unfortunately did not have knowledge of such a panacea while I was with my love. Of course, I live with the regret of not discovering it sooner, as now I have no such use for it, but this does not mean I will idly stand by and let history repeat itself with my protégé.”

With a flash of light, an ancient scroll appears in front of Jin-woo. It unravels by itself to reveal its contents to him. Jin-woo’s eyes widen as he reads. Is this…?

“Behold. The ingredients for crafting the Holy Water of Life. I bequeath this boon unto you, my disciple. However, heed my warning as the acquisition of these components requires you to conquer all 100 floors of the Demon’s Castle and to defeat its king, Baran. This is a treacherous dungeon that may claim your life if you are unprepared for it, but it can also impart you with unspeakable power should you prevail.”

Jin-woo perks up at this information, his interest now fully piqued. “Tell me, master, where can I find the Demon’s Castle?”

“It hides far away, in the city of Seoul, within an incorporeal dominion. It is a flame-ridden landscape that will require you to assume the form of a human to enter the castle. Knowing all the risks it entails; do you still accept my offer?”

“I do,” Jinwoo confidently states.

“Very well,” Ashborn nods his assent, and a key materializes into Jin-woo’s palm.

“Use this key to open the gate to the Demon’s Castle. I have also implanted it with the coordinates to the dungeon’s location. You need only close your eyes and grasp onto the key to visualize it.”

Following the instructions, Jin-woo sees a map that details the exact distance from his current whereabouts to the metropolitan area of Seoul. It will be a lengthy trip, even with his impressive swimming prowess. He estimates it will take roughly half a day to arrive at his destination. Undeterred, Jin-woo presses onward.

“Teacher, I cannot thank you enough for all your help and guidance over these last few years. I give you my word; I will return alive and well, both with the elixir and Baran’s head. And then I will meet with the omega and court her in earnest.”

He departs without another word, although his promise relays an unspoken farewell between them. After some time passes, Ashborn stares at the vast skies of his domain and muses to himself.

“You have grown so much from when I rescued you from the Cartenon Temple all those years ago, Sung Jin-woo. I could not be prouder of you, my disciple. Till our next encounter.”

12 hours later...

Jin-woo finally emerges from the dark, briny waters that frame Seoul’s coastline.

After leaving Ashborn’s lair, he briefly returned home to pack and prepare for the journey ahead. Both Jin-ah and his mother were worried about his sudden departure, so he did the best he could to assuage their fears by giving them a sanitized version of the truth.

Jin-woo claimed Ashborn had provided him with a list of rare ingredients that were only available for purchase in the human markets at Seoul. He even promised to bring back a box of chocolates as a souvenir, something his mother and little sister had enjoyed during one of his return trips to the surface. He then traveled the full 413-kilometer distance from Jindo-gun to Seoul, stopping only for a few hours to rest and recuperate.

As he approaches land, he assumes the form of a naked human man and walks inland from the sea. However, Jin-woo comes to a halt when he becomes more aware of his current state of nudity. While it didn’t bother him, it would cause a lot of unnecessary trouble if any nosy beachgoers happened upon him and asked questions. It is also…pretty embarrassing to admit that he is…wobbly on these legs. Very much so.

He quickly summons his magical inventory and grabs a simple black t-shirt, boxers, fitted jeans, and athletic sneakers (‘Adidas’, the portly sales attendant had called them). As worthless as he found human decorum to be, Jin-woo needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible while he was in disguise. Once dressed, he strolled into the city. After 45 minutes, he found himself at the designated street junction on the map. Taking a deep breath, he brings forth the key, turns it, and unlocks the gate. 

⚓︎ To be continued...

[pizzaapeteer]

[S]he will be loved ~ part two

Sum Reader is hopefully and madly in love with her best friend, constantly having her heart broken living in the shadows of other girls. Unaware that he’s hiding a secret, unable to express the truth about how he feels for her too.

Warn: NSFW18+, angst, yelling, swearing, PIV, fingering, semi handjob, dirty talk, (the smut is a little vanilla for the sake of being romantic), use of Ace as a nickname, y/n occasionally, Dramatic asf fr, maybe too dragged-out argument lmfao. Wc: 9.4k An: thank you for being so patience! It is suggested you read part one if you haven't, once again I went a bit in circles with this and so now will run away nervous as hell! but hope you all enjoy! Dividers from here & here

He makes good on his promise, avoiding you for the rest of the weekend and into the next week. His absence leaves a heavy weight of guilt that presses hard onto your shoulders, regardless that he had been the one to mostly start the fight. What had you really even done wrong? 

Despite his elusion you still see him, amongst your shared classes, the late nights in the common room or when passing in the halls. His head locked straight ahead, as if the wall is the most interesting thing, and if his gaze weakens and he nips a glance at you, it holds no kindness. The icy water drenches your bones again and makes you question your memory, and how badly you’ve hurt him. 

Dean keeps his distance as well, despite being unaware of your fight with Mattheo, the damage by him is more than physical and Dean wishes to keep far from the drama tempting to unravel. He decides it’s not worth getting involved now that Mattheo’s made his intentions clear. He wants nothing to do with it. His distance doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you can’t help wondering how you’ve managed to drag him into an unnecessary mess. 

Had you, in spite, subconsciously used Dean to get a reaction from Mattheo? Were you challenging the bounds of your friendship? It wasn’t like you had planned to even consider Dean an option. He had just suddenly been everywhere, like a convenient beacon. It hadn’t been hard to get along, with his contagious energy and charming personality, he had easily cleared the thick aged brain fog once completely consumed by Mattheo.

Clouds slide inwards, covering the heat of the sun, and casting downward shade along the cobblestones, making you plan to head back inside soon. You sit under the shelter of a tree in the viaduct courtyard pondering the inner turmoil. Feeling conflicted, you sigh, weighing up the differences between them. 

Dean, a kind and warm spirit who opened his arms to you instantly, making you feel needed and welcome. So ready to listen, and match your energy to his own passions. But there was always something missing. It all felt very surface level, and maybe that was because it was new. Or maybe he just gave you what you were yearning so desperately for. Attention. 

But it wasn’t the right type you craved. For the way you felt under Mattheo’s spotlight was divergent. He made you feel special, your heart beating to a different rhythm for him. Being with Mattheo was like watching a sunrise for the first time, the shades of orange and pink peeking up after you both stayed up all night stargazing. It made you feel alive. He made you feel alive. Made you feel electric with life and like you could conquer anything with him by your side. 

Maybe you ought to give Mattheo some credit, for he his life had always left him complicated. 

You, of all people, know the traumatic strain his upbringing had scared him, continuing into his current life. There is no escaping the forceful path his life has been shunted down, his hands bound. It wasn't his fault he was deeply flawed, but it was your choice to be the one to see him past those sharp thorns. To help bloom the roses that laid trapped underneath the rumble, bring them to light in the same way as how you saw him.

You sit up suddenly, spotting Dean crossing the courtyard with his friends, and jump at the chance to make amends with him. “Dean!” 

His head whips around and he stops walking, allowing you to approach. His smile is less, but not unwelcoming. “Hey Y/n.”

You eye his friends awkwardly till they call out for Dean to catch up and continue walking. You shuffle between your feet, feeling nervous about starting the conversation. “Hi- I.. I just wanted to apologise. I’m really sorry about what happened last weekend.” 

Dean is quick to shake his head, respectfully dismissing your apology. “It’s fine, you don’t have to apologize, y/n. I hold no grudges towards you - besides, my nose has healed up all fine.” 

You wince at his little joke, adding, “It's not just on behalf of Mattheo, I want to for myself too.”

“Oh?”

“I’m worried. I led you on.. Though I swear it was completely unintentional..”

Dean nods his head firmly and grabs your shoulders to calm your rambling. He already understands and offers you one of his kind smiles you had grown to miss. “It’s really alright. I kind of figured that out already.. And I definitely don’t wanna meddle in the middle of your situation with Riddle.” 

“Figured out?”

His eyes crinkle and shoulders shake as he laughs at your oblivious confusion. “I'm not oblivious like you two are, besides I don't really want a repeat of my last relationship.” 

You nod, not quite understanding what he means by oblivious, but feeling the recurring wave of guilt hit for misleading Dean and so you just give him an appreciative smile. Your heart remains heavy despite Dean’s forgiveness. “I’m sorry again, anyway.” 

He shakes his head, dropping his hands from your shoulders, “It’s fine y/n. Maybe catch ya with Eli sometime. But good luck with everything, yeah. Not entirely sure what you see in the nutter, but knowing what kind of girl you are, it must be something good.”

While Dean retreats, catching back up with his mates, you stay eyes locked on where he last stood in a daze of thought. Must be something good. That’s always what you’ve seen in Mattheo, aware that it’s the defining string between your relationship. The knot that continued to tighten throughout your years at Hogwarts, strengthening with every moment of trust and kindness you shared with him. 

For once you bite the trepidation and unknown awaiting, the thought illuminating and making the lightbulb brighter. Hoping maybe Mattheo’s reactions to Dean were rather explainable, and burying the one doubtful tic questioning if this was his usual protective self or merging into something new. 

With newfound determination, you set off to find Mattheo, choosing to believe in the bright possibility that this territory was Mattheo awaiting under the rainbow of your deepest fantasies with a mutual feeling. 

A week without you had been to put nicely, hell for him. He had wallowed entirely, sulking like a pathetic child, like his favourite candy had been ripped from his clutches. He realized quickly that this was worse, that having your attention shared, not having your presence at all, had turned him into a dreary grump. His mood was not subtle in the slightest, every emotion of agonized resentment shadowed his face in a deep scowl. 

He was mad at you for how you defended that prat so easily, without stopping to question his intentions. But then again, he’d never openly admitted that Dean’s words had gutted him, mentioning his biggest insecurity. Not being worthy of you. Of your attention, your kindness, your laughter, your warmth, and last, your love. It had eaten away at him all week. 

He’d hardly slept, which was saying something for he rarely could. He knew he was undeserving, and yet if there was anyone he wanted to prove his worth to, it was you. 

He continued to watch the lull of the black lake from within the Boathouse, a quiet spot for his thoughts to wrestle in the ring with one another. He missed you in his arms. He missed the gentle way you would soothe him to sleep. With warm caresses that resembled a mother’s touch, but with you it felt more intimate. His cigarette burned, allowing small moments of relief to flow through his lungs, the inhale of nicotine calming his distressed heart. 

He hears the footsteps of someone entering the wooden house and peers over his shoulder, assuming it was someone who knew he came here. Seeing its you, he turns back to look at the water, exhaling another deep breath, his heart exhilarating just by your presence. He suddenly feels clammy, wishing to douse himself in the cold water just to calm his nerves. 

His shoulders square tensely as you near, and you continue with caution, uncertain how to proceed. Everyone knows the extent of Mattheo’s temper, and thankfully you’ve never found yourself on the other end. 

Your earlier bottomless energy and hopeful determination seems to have found a sudden end, diminishing like his smoke does into the afternoon sky. Being around Mattheo again makes the doubt seep back inwards, wondering if Dean had been imagining something between the two of you. 

Clearing your throat of nerves, you speak directly to the point. “I didn’t mean it.” Mattheo's stubbornness had always been a persistent habit, one of his shortcomings that meant you knew it was unlikely he'd apologize first. Especially considering he can’t even look at you. 

He stays quiet, listening actively. He doesn’t like where this is going, despite aching to make up with you, having never fought with you like this before. He’s aware this is leading to an unstable vulnerability, and he’s not sure he can hold on to the part of him that despises being soft.

“I’m sorry, I.. I- you.. are wanted. Always, Mattheo.” 

He flinches at the use of his full name. Coming from your lips, it sounds so sweet and remorseful. He knows you’re being sincere. He can hear it in your voice and somehow it makes it harder for him to admit his own wrongdoings. “But not in the right way.” He mutters mostly to himself, exhaling the last of his cigarette. 

Frowning, not catching his mumbled whisper, you take another step bravely and stand beside him, finally capturing a glimpse at his face. It holds no clear emotion of how he’s truly feeling, constrained by the mask he wears protectively. Eyes locked dead on the smoothness of the water, the clouds darkening out above the lake and the surface breaks as raindrops ripple, gently dropping onto it. Even in his blank expression, he still looks gorgeous, making the butterflies flutter. 

He sighs, knowing you’re giving him a look to explain, for an answer, anything as he keeps his lips pressed into a thin line. His jaw clenches desperately trying to avoid glancing at you, for he’s well aware that with just one look, he'd crumble. 

He stabs the end of his cigarette out on the wooden panels, discarding it into the previous piles of used up ones. “It's fine, Ace. You’re forgiven. We’re still friends, alright.” 

Even as he says the words, he curses himself for leaving your relationship there, when he so wants to take the conversation somewhere else. Somewhere further, where he can express himself to you fully, but he’s afraid. He turns towards the exit. “It's late, and it's starting to rain. Let's head back up.” 

You stand frozen, reflecting over his words, “wait - what? I’m forgiven?!” 

“Yes, that's what I said. Isn’t that why you came here?” He pushes through the door, feeling the beginning of the downpour hitting his skin, quickening his pace, not checking to see if you’re following.  

You trail behind him in disbelief, appalled by his audacity. You knew he was stubborn, but not to this extent. “Yes, but-what about yours? Don’t you think I deserve one too?!”

He hears the pain and confusion in your tone and curses himself. He fights the part of him wanting to swallow his pride and spit out an apology, but he’d never been good at those. That would mean he’d have to explain the reasoning and vulnerable depth, years' worth of trauma that built a viscous insecurity he’d never shared with anyone, not even you. He didn’t feel exactly spritely about indulging you just because you were upset that he hit Dean.

“For what? You’re the one that called me unwanted.” 

He knows it's a hard blow as soon as the words leave his lips. But he refuses to change something about himself he knows will only make him weak. Showing that kind of vulnerability and transparency to you is not something he can afford in his life. He can't stand to see your view of him change. To see him fragile, the hidden boy behind the hard exterior. Even if you end up hating him, he’d go to the grave protecting that piece of him, even from himself. 

He keeps walking, not noticing that you’ve come to a stand stall, frozen in shock from his jab. His words make your heart ache. It's clear he still holds a grudge over the words you said. You had never meant it like that. It wasn’t that he was unwanted, but his overwhelming protectiveness that ultimately made you feel like he was in control of you, and you had always put up with it. 

Never once had you allowed yourself to be selfish and actually enjoy the potential opportunity of romance. Until now, and yet he still continues to act cold, pushing you away. 

The rain pours harder, soaking your clothes through to the bone, and you wish for it to absorb you completely. Mattheo finally notices the quieting of your pestering and turns to see you just standing there with an unreadable stare. His brows knit with concern, his earlier irritation washing away, and he blinks through the rain, feeling a wave of guilt.

“Ace.” He descends back down the stairs with a fasten pace, “Fuck- Don’t just stand there, merlin it's pouring.”

Your arms wrap around your body to provide any warmth physically and to your heart, lifting your head heavily as he approaches. “I said I was sorry.” The words whisper with the tone of desolation. Despite your anger, the guilt and worry break the barrier through the emotions you wear on your sleeves, knowing you never wished to hurt him. 

He sighs with realization, his habit of self protection had only projected an icy blast at you and messed with your head. He steps without hesitation; coming closer, wrapping you up into his arms, a much needed hug for the both of you. He aches, feeling you reciprocate, gently hugging him back, and he holds you a little tighter, having missed your touch. The way your hands grip with need the longer the two of you stay embraced, and your head snuggles into his chest. 

It's one of his favourite positions, his chin aligned with the crown of your head so perfectly. The way he feels ten times lighter now that you’re in his arms, and his eyes close, finally taking a breath of clean air. He gets lost in the moment, grateful for how you’re able to calm him so quickly. How you can take away all his anger at the snap of fingers, all his stress, all his pain even if momentarily just from the mere warmth of your touch. 

His peaceful tranquillity breaks by the shakes of your body, and he’s reminded that he is the one to have hurt you. The small sounds of your sniffles smothering into his chest vibrate through to his heart painfully, like an earthquake causing destruction to his protective walls.

Cold water continues to splatter, coating the wet clothes that cling to your bodies, the only warmth radiating from your chests pressed together as one. He rubs your back soothingly, allowing you to express his feelings in the only way he knows how to offer comfort. 

He opens his eyes, looking up at the thick darkness of the night; blinking back the rain that has no effort to cease. He can’t fully determine whether your body is still shaking from sadness or the cold. He sighs deeply, looking down at you, offering a smiling feeling as if things will calm back to normal at any moment. “Come on, we should get inside.” 

You shake your head stubbornly, not wanting the conversation to end here, and pull back with a deep frown. His smile does little to ease the pain and, in fact, bothers you at how nonchalant he’s acting. “No. it’s just a little rain, and it’s not hurting me nearly enough as your absence of an explanation.” 

He studies the wedge of separation you stick between the two of you, the reigniting of infuriated energy charging him like an electric circuit. Why won't you just drop this? He doesn’t answer you, his head turning, looking out over the castle grounds, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll snap at you or, worse, reveal something vulnerable. 

You press onwards despite the tensing in his jaw, annoyed that he ignores you. “Don’t you trust me? Why can't you tell me the real reason? I just need to know why you hit Dean?”

“Please, just drop it Ace.” He grits out, trying to keep from raising his voice. His body still turned; his mind buzzing, humming with anxiety.

The lingering anger swarms to the surface at his refusal to even look at you, “I’ve been here for you through thick and thin and you can't even tell me this one simple thing?!” 

The clouds boom before a thicker onslaught of water spits down harder on the concrete steps, making it harder for him to hear you. Cowardly, he’s hoping if he ignores the issue, it will go away. But he knows you, and the determination you’re expressing only makes you stubborn like a mule, knowing you won't drop it till you’re satisfied with an answer. 

He turns glaring at you. “Let’s just go inside, Ace! It’s fucking thundering!” 

Apprehensively, you pause at his loud tone, knowing he’s beyond pissed. But the urgency for the truth pushes you onwards into your questioning, with your heart thinly stretched on the line. 

“I can't! I need to know!”  

He groans, “Why?! Can’t you just believe me and drop it? Like I already told you that shithead deserved what he g-”

“No! That's not good enough. I need more, a proper explanation Mattheo… and if you can’t tell me why.. I-I'll-”

“You’ll what?!” He snaps with an offensive scornful tone, so bitter he can taste the metal on his tongue for the attitude he’s giving. He blinks the water out of his eyes, shaking his wet hair that hangs soaked to his forehead. “You’ll leave?” 

He's ignoring how his mind is screaming to just tell you the truth, to finally bare his heart and soul to you, but the fear of rejection has him by the throat. At this point, though, he’s afraid it won't matter what he does. The outcome is hanging dangerously, that he might lose you either way. 

You swallow your turn not to say anything. You hadn’t wanted to actually say it, because it wasn't true. You didn’t want to leave, but you were feeling frustrated, hurt, betrayed. 

He continues walking closer with intense energy, the darkness of the atmosphere making him look intimidating than ever. “Gonna walk away? Had too much of me finally, huh!” 

His voice raises and you force yourself to hold still and not move from your spot, even when he gets right up in your face. You noticed the clear strain behind his words, and there's a flash of something more in his eyes other than anger, pain. 

“Please Matty-y just tell-” you whisper pleadingly. 

“Don’t. Don’t do that.. Stop looking at me like that.” He breathes out, hissing with venom and agony. 

“Like what?” Uttering the question feels risky, as if the answer will hold all the truth to how he feels. His face twists and turns as your mind spins with anxiety. This is it. 

“Just,” He groans with frustration, his voice raising again. “Like that! Fuck. Ace.” The lump in his throat grows, making him uncomfortable and his fists shake, clenching them to control the unravelling pressure.  

You blink back the swelling tears and take a braver step closer, “Tell me- god please Mattheo, I swear if this friendship means anything to you! You’ll fucking tell me.” The doubt creeps back in; Dean was wrong. He doesn’t see you the same. 

He’s cracking under the pressure and intensity of your gaze, seeing the fire burning like an inferno. There's no longer the usual glowing light he loves. How you stare at him like his answer will make all the difference to how you feel about him. But it's the way you mention your friendship with him that ultimately makes him combust, spilling his deepest, most impenetrable secret. 

“Because when you look at me like that, it makes me feel unworthy!” He spits, not pausing to even let you process the emotions coming out of him. “Like I’m breaking you apart from the inside and i-I can't handle that. I can't handle seeing you cry…or even when you look at me in anger. It makes me feel like a piece of shit for who I am.” 

His arms are up and his hands stress tangle through the wet locks in distress, “because you’re the best thing in my life! And yet I'm just scum on the bottom of your shoe.. And that motherfucker was right and I hate him for it, because I-i-I don't deserve you!.. Not your kindness… or attention… or friendship, and yet I'm still greedy. I still want more!”

He takes a step back, needing the distance from you. His chest heaves while he lowers his eyes at the pebbled ground, deep in realization that he’s slipped up. The silence between you two is killing him and he’s lost in his head with dread and doubt that he’s just gone and fucked up everything more. He raises his eyes with the little spirit he has left, eyes filled with great pain that knocks the air out of your lungs.

“You want… more.. With me?” The question is barely breathed out into the open space of increasing vulnerability. 

He licks his lips, contemplating his next words, taking his time to really study your appearance. He notes the lack of uncomfortableness. There's no show of disgust or rejection of his disclosure for how he feels. He’s surprised he’s still standing considering how his heart is beating, sure if it beats any more he’d need a replacement.

He swallows with force the last of his fear, feeling the lump drag down his throat and sink to the bottom of his pit. He nods, unable to utter anything else, allowing himself to be fully transparent for once. 

Tears of realization stream down your face as you comprehend his words, blending with the saturation on your face. He’s not even mad at you. He’s angry with himself. You know him well enough to spot that his eyes reveal his tell. He’s afraid. He wants more, even though he can’t admit it. Your heart skips a beat at the confession. 

He’s close enough to catch the onslaught of tears beginning and his face falls with fear. This is what he had apprehended. “Fuck!” He turns with anger, his fists clenching, his body shaking with regret and anguish. “Ace-e - why would you let me tell you this? Jesus!” He’s facing away from you to hold back his tears, his head clouded with assumptions of why you’re upset, all heading in the wrong direction. 

“W-what? Mattheo - no these are-” You step forwards reaching for him with a tender arm. 

“Dont. Don’t lie to me, Ace.” He shrugs your touch off, blocking his walls back up with ease. 

“Mattheo, I'm not lying! I’m not upset-” 

“Y/n I’m being serious.. I don’t want your pity-”

You scoff, offended, “Pity!? I've never once taken pity on you, Mattheo Riddle. Is that how you think I see you?” You blink back the tears as he turns again, fighting the frustrations to not just smack some sense into him. God, how oblivious is he to you. “I could never pity you. I respect you too much.”

“Respect me?! What in fuck for?” 

The water builds behind your eyes, blurring your vision amongst the rain, watching him express his insecurities. “B-because- because I fucking love you, you idiot!” 

There's a buzzing, fluttering feeling in his chest like all his nerves have lit on fire, and he blinks, frozen in shock. His chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, but his heart palpates rampaging behind it. The fuzzy feeling migrates around, running from his fingertips up to the apples of his cheeks like an unwelcoming chill as he attempts to process your words. 

Everything he thought he knew disintegrates out into the open space, like a gust of wind swept through his mind collecting all his stupid, suspecting doubts. You love him. Love. Love! The unfamiliar word bounces around his mind as he mulls over the possibilities of the meaning. His mouth runs dry despite the assault of rain, as he struggles to form any words. 

“I know this is hard, hell I can’t believe I just said that to you-”

You're shut up by the pleasant surprise of his lips smashing onto yours, with an effort of urgency urged behind the feel of his soft lips. His hands move to cup your face, your soaked face, the warmth of them rising a blush to your cheeks, as he holds them with tenderness. He kisses you with all the love he has, willing to give you every beat of his heart. He knows you already have it. It's always been yours. 

Truly, every piece of love for you is magnified by your relationship with him. Your generosity to accept him for who he is, to open your heart to him, even if he always believed it to be platonic. It was enough to grow his heart, and since then, it had always belonged to you. He pushes every ounce of emotion through, knowing it's easier to express than through words. 

“You-u..” He breathes, catching his breath as he pulls back, struggling to get the words out. 

“Actually?” He smiles in reassurance and hope glosses over his eyes. His chest vibrates as he chokes out a disbelieving laugh and his grin broadens. "You-u lo-” He can't even finish the sentence so choked up by all of this. 

A smile graces your face with wide, full cheeks that burn with happiness and you reciprocate his choked upness, feeling the tears start again. The way your head nods ridiculously fast, flicking your drenched hair in all directions, makes him chuckle and he cups your cheeks for fear of it flying off. “Not fucking with me are you now Ace, cuz I swear to god if you-” 

Leaning forwards you capture his lips effortlessly, now being the one to shut him up. It's sweet but passionate and he can’t get enough when you pull away. He threads a hand through his soaked hair in utter disbelief, his eyes returning to your loving ones. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. Kiss the crap out of you over and over.” He rests his forehead against yours and reaches down for your hand.

He’s taking in everything you’ve just said, grasping for the same longing that's been sitting, waiting to be released between the two of you like a dam. His face lights, and a little smile curves onto his face, and for the first time he feels the words sitting with ease on his tongue. “You have no idea how in love I am with you. Ace, I’ve been in love with you since forever. Fuck i-just you know I'm not good with words, feelings, all that bullshit.” 

You try to fight the blush creeping up your neck, but the smile that appears beaming brightly back at him is impossible to suppress. You’re completely speechless, overwhelmed with euphoric feelings of contentment. Words you’d only dreamed of hearing, now confessed to you in the eye of a storm, and suddenly you’re laughing. “Are we insane?”

His eyes light at your happiness, but he raises a curious brow, not catching what you said at the sound of another boom. “Are- we…WHAT?”

The sound of your laughter bubbles at his adorable confusion. “It doesn’t matter! We should head inside now.” He seems to catch the end of that and nods hurriedly, reaching out to grab your arm, leading the two of you up and into the castle. 

Under the shelter of the overhanging archways he turns, grabbing you by your shoulders, “wait- just let me get something else off my chest first.” He swallows, pushing the wet strands back behind your ears, “I’m s-sorry.” 

You watch him feeling an immense depth of pride for him, and you smile softly, reassuring him to continue. “look.. I won't apologise for hitting Dean, I don’t regret that and- i-I can’t tell you it all yet, but he said something that cut deep. Whether or not the asshole meant it, I couldn’t take how it made me feel. But I am sorry I ruined your night at the gig. Fuck- I was angry and jealous and I really was trying to look out for you.”

You nod in understanding, accepting that he’s not ready to bear that much emotion in one night, and bring him in for a hug. “Matty.. You don’t know how much I appreciate you trying.” He clings to you, a desperate boy finally receiving the much needed love he had been deprived of for too long. “And-d you didn’t really ruin my night. I wanted to go with you first, anyway. But I got in my head - the doubt i-i just didn’t want to ruin us.”

He pulls back cupping your cheeks, “god we’re stupid aren’t we?” He smiles amused with the obliviousness and blindness you both held for one another. “I’m just glad I didn’t lose you.”

You shake your head, “you never would have. I was bluffing completely.. I couldn’t handle being without you, Mattheo.”

He grins, leaning down to press another soft passionate kiss to your lips, “and you couldn’t have lost me even if you tried Ace. You’re literally iron cast around my heart. The knot is too tight. You’d have to break me just to free the attachment I have to you.” His eyes are sincere and hold so much emotion you’re verging on tears again. 

“Okay, ah let's not cry again. I wasn’t lying about not being able to handle that. Let's go back to my dorm. Come on.” His arm guides you wrapping around your waist, a stark contrast to the way his arm usually drapes over your shoulder casually. He helps you walk back to his dorm with care and compassion, the energy between you a mixture of excitement and lightness, the weight of the confession lifted. 

He helps you into his dorm, closing the door and gazes at you with pure happiness before searching his dorm for some towels. A room you’ve stood in many times before but never in this sense, and just being here with all your feelings out in the open makes your body prick with anticipation. 

You stand watching him shivering a little, and begin to unstick your thick sweater, clinging to your soaked through shirt, stripping it up with difficulty while Mattheo searches through his draws for some clean clothes. The head of the material sticks trapping your head and you groan, frustrated, trying to pull it off, catching Mattheo’s attention. He peers over his shoulder, laughing at the awkward situation he’s spotted you in. 

His gaze drops and his eyes darken shamelessly, admiring how your shirt clings to your body, accentuating your chest. He licks his lips, letting his thoughts run wild for once with no guilt, and stops what he was doing walking closer. His hands graze your waist, letting you know of his proximity as he speaks with a low husk in his tone. “Lemme help Ace.” 

He slides his hands gently up your sides till he pushes the sleeves of the sweater up, freeing your arms before helping squeeze your head through the hole. The sweater drops to the floor; the moment becoming charged with heightened tension and desperate looks reflected in both of you. 

His fingers descend, tracing down your sides in slow strokes that makes your heart leap your full attention on him. You exhale small shallow breaths, feeling your insides squirm under his intense stare, not daring to say a word. His hands wrap around the curve of your waist, tugging you inwards till you press fully up against him, giving you his signature boyish grin. 

“That's better.” His eyes flicker between the desperation dripping in your eyes to the soft parting of your lips, waiting with anticipation. 

His head dips, brushing his lips back against yours, and he whispers with the weight of a man ready to feast on his deepest desires. “Ace..you know I want you… don't you?” He’s so close that when he licks his lips, his tongue grazes your lower lip with the subtlest of touches and he relishes in the sucking in of your breath. Barely able to hold back the teasing smirk at your reaction, he presses his lips to your cheek in a gentle, tender kiss instead. 

You nod, your chest rising and falling with intense yearning, whispering back, “Yes.. I know now.”

“Good. That’s good.” He presses another kiss travelling up your cheek, sparking the heat to rise, flushing the skin a deep red. He grins sincerely, “you look so pretty when you blush.”

You swallow, feeling your body alight with need, buzzing with electricity that runs down to the tips of your toes. You wonder if he knows how aroused you feel right now. The rest of your clothes are slick still with rainwater, but you already know the puddle forming in your panties is definitely from the heat. You attempt to exhale quiet bated breaths throughout your nose, unable to trust your mouth to open, uncertain what kind of animalistic sound would fall out. 

Mattheo might be oblivious to love, but he’s a keen observer in the act of sexual intimacy. It’s as if his eyes are an x-ray lust detector. He knows all the tells of an aroused woman. “So pretty Ace, fuck..you’re making me want to kiss you senseless.” His voice strains with restraint. He’s still holding onto some concern, not wanting to freak you out with all his intense energy waiting to consume you. 

The struggle in his tone only makes you want him more and your eyes lift upwards, filled with hungry persuasions. Uttering a simple, “please.” 

The moment you plead with those sweet eyes, all his control gets thrown out the window. Taking your jaw in his hand, he leans back in to kiss you. His lips melting onto yours, the two of your lips colliding in synchronization. His hands cup the nape of your head, tilting it back, and diving deeper, his tongue pushes, seeking entrance as kindly as he can be while he fights the pure animalistic hunger to devour you urgently. 

You moan softly, allowing him access, the two of your tongues dancing with one another like a fervent tango. He mumbles softly against them, “Do you know how long I craved to feel these lips, Ace?” 

A deep flush grows on your cheeks and you breathe heavily, gazing up, feeling his lips kiss along the side of your neck. “How long?” You ask breathlessly. 

He chuckles at your response and interest. “too fucking long. I always knew that you’d taste this sweet.” The soft sighs and hums that vibrate out of you have his mind spinning and he presses his lips harder onto your skin, needing to entice more out of you. He pulls you closer to him before he’s back, kissing your lips, engulfing you completely. 

The two of you continue to make out, still standing, before his fingers slip under your wet shirt and he hisses at the cold contact. “Merin, you're still freezing.” 

“I’m okay.” You reassure him, shivering from his touch. 

He smiles, noticing the shiver. “Yeah?”

You nod, promising him, finding it sweet how he’s concerned about you. Sliding your own hands up his arms, you find solace cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down, needing another kiss. He falls back into the growing pattern, not wanting to miss even a single moment of your touch. 

“I know a way you can warm me up, though.” 

His eyes flutter open and he gazes at you, his eyes glistening with similar intention. “Oh, yeah?” He flashes an amused smile, intrigued by your flirtatious energy. “What might that be, Ace?” 

Biting your lip with a teasing smile of your own, you step back, pulling him with you onto the bed, causing him to chuckle happily. His arms flex, holding himself up from crushing you with his weight, and his head dips. “Fuck, you look so sexy when you bite that.” 

Your face contorts with a soft whine at the flustering compliment and he grins, more pleased with your reaction. His lips reclaim yours once more with delicate urgency, and you match it quickly getting lost, diving your hands into his curls. Having only stroked his hair tenderly, your fingers move with eagerness, tugging and pulling desperately to get a sound out of him. 

His hands trace you with the utmost respect and value, different from his experiences with other girls. There's reasoning and depth behind every touch. Enjoying every sweet moment, being able to explore every curve he’s only dreamed about touching. He’s finally able to hold you the way he's always wanted, no longer needing to hide behind his fragile vulnerability in the dark. He's finally giving you all of him under the limelight, and he hopes to show you how he’s felt this whole time. 

Mattheo groans at each tug of hair, lowering himself to keep kissing you, his hands sliding under your shirt again, feeling the way your body contracts. The muscles twitch with sensitivity and he swallows your gasp, grinning before pushing dominantly his tongue back in. His fingers peel the wet shirt up and over your bra. 

He sits up ditching his own shirt, and your hands roam over his chest, feeling the groves of his past scars, sending shivers down his back. He watches gazing at your eyes and how they view him. You already know about the meaning behind them, but now you get to love them, and he bites his lip to not get choked up at how you look at him with love in your eyes. 

He grabs your wrists, gently kissing both of them before he pins them above your head, shocking a gasp out of you. He grins, satisfied by your reaction as he shifts, sliding his hands upwards, intertwining your fingers together in an intimate hand hold.

“I’ll go gentle on you...just for today, yeah.” Another cheeky grin flashes your way, unaware of the concealed experience of your sexual life. 

You laugh at his sweet reassurance, squeezing his hands, loving the feeling of holding onto him. “I’m really not as innocent as you believe, Matty.” 

He raises a brow with surprised curiosity. “Are you telling me I’m not about to be your first Ace?” 

The silence confuses him, for when he looks down at you, there's a flash of guilt in your eyes. “I’m not?” He feels a wave of jealousy flow through his veins at the thought of you with someone else, though he knows he has no reason to. He leans down, carrying on his sensual onslaught, kissing up behind your ear. He nips it gently as he whispers sultry, “really?” 

Feeling your head nod, he lets out a tiny groan, mostly at himself for taking too fucking long to get his shit together. “That is a shame, baby.” 

Turning your head to lock with his sight, reassuring him, “It means more with you, though, Matty.” 

His eyes soften, giving a curt nod. He can see the sincerity and honesty in your eyes and he offers a smile back, pecking you. He knows it's true, as it is for him. “The same goes for me.” He cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “This isn't a one time thing, okay? You mean so much to me, Ace, and never again do I want to make you feel how I did before.” 

His eyes hold so much truth and devotion that you can feel your eyes beginning to water. That is before his hips shift, pressing ever so subtly down, getting into a grinding rhythm as he distracts you from the raw moment with kisses.

He almost jumps out of his skin when your bold hand explores down south, not expecting you to act so brazenly. He shifts, rolling onto his side, allowing your hand to slip inside his pants and wrap around his cock. He can’t help but buck his hips into your palm at the feel of your hand making contact.

“Fuck-Ace.” His eyes droop, looking at you shifting onto your side too, your tits squishing together in the constraints of your bra, his mouth gaping letting out a hitched shaky breath. 

Capturing your lips once more, moaning into your mouth, he drowns in the pleasure of how your hand increasingly pumps his cock up and down. He murmurs, resting his forehead against yours with knitted brows, “oh - yeah, ace like that.” 

His own hands creep and unbutton your jeans, pushing them down with a bit of urgency. “This okay?” 

You nod and ask back, “You? This okay?” 

He nods, kissing your cheek and down your neck, “Yes.. better than okay- your hand feels so good.” 

You tug your jeans down, kicking them off revealing your panties and he groans, peering down, before he slides a hand rubbing your thigh and tracing his fingers teasingly over the skin as they itch with temptation, brushing gently over your core. He rubs, applying slow pressure over your clothed covered clit and runs a hand through your hair, tugging it back to kiss you. He loves hearing your little sounds muffled into his mouth at the extra sensation you’re feeling.

“So pretty..you sounds so hot.” 

You whine sensitively and he swears he’s sent to heaven at the harmonic pitch of your voice. His cock twitches, pulsing in your hand to the sound. Your actions slow focusing on your pleasure and for once he doesn’t mind not being the centre of attention. 

He watches with an intense focus full of desire at how your pretty eyes can’t handle staying open, fluttering. The steady rise of your chest increases with every bit of pressure he rubs tauntingly slow. He can't wait any longer, maneuvering his hand under your panties, sliding one finger in, his skin saturated instantly in your juices. 

His own breathing congeals to short tiny gasps, eyes darkening, consumed with lustral appreciation. “Soakin Ace. You've been this wet the whole time?” 

His question, which seems sincere, causes a flustered reaction and you moan again, grabbing hold of the sheets. He takes it as a yes. 

Soft moans of satisfaction infiltrate the room at each hum of your lips. He can feel just how much you’re enjoying this, welcoming him to do what he wants. The trust you have to know what he’s doing is appreciated, and he hums himself in arrogance. Every reaction, sound, movement - watching as your hips begin to jut slightly seek more friction only fills him with a deep pride. You're his girl now, and he’ll never disappoint you again. 

His lips move peppering kisses down your neck, nipping at the skin, seeking the achievement of leaving marks of purple hues. “You like that, yeah?”

His finger protrudes deeper, gaining a steady pace, and his eyes flicker away from decoration markings on your neck to your legs spreading wider for his hand. He needs more, hearing every gasp and the sweet moan exhaling from you is pure bliss, and makes him feel on cloud nine.

He hisses gently at how your hand involuntarily squeezes the nearest thing, which happens to be his cock still. It's torture, as you're so focused on him, just pleasing him to even notice the subtle teasing you’re providing. “Sweetheart..” His tone is gritted with bated breath. “F-fuck, please either let go or do something with your hand.” 

You moan at the pet name and begin pumping him again, trying to multitask, your brows frowning at his addition of another finger. “Ah- sorry Matty.. I’m trying…just feels s’good!”

He grins at your struggle to speak. “Yeah, feels good?” His fingers meticulously move with skill, slick knuckles deep in your cunt, before he curls them, scraping the spot to make your back arch. 

There’s a string of whines as your hips buck up into his hand, “Uh! Yes!” 

“Yeah, you want another? Want me to stretch you out…wanna be ready for me, don’t you, Ace?” 

While his words are forward and prompting for more, he doesn’t make any moves to do anything until you give him confirmation. He’s continuously checking for your assurance, making sure this is what you want. He just wants to bring you pleasure, watch you get off riding slowly onto his fingers. How your back is arching and your muttering soft pleads, all for him. What's yours is his right. 

You nod desperately, “Please Matty!” 

He obliges, pushing in a third with ease, your walls contracting to fit him snug inside your drenched pussy. The warmth that evades his fingers has him groaning, listening to a new wave of mews slur out of you. “Fuck-that’s it. Such a good girl, baby.” 

He bites back the small protest when you release his cock and grip his arm instead, the indents of your nails digging into his skin, stinging but filling him with a possessive power. He wants your marks on him as much as he wants to leave them on you. To combine your bodies as one and intertwine in a way that goes beyond physical. 

Pure bliss overcomes your face and you turn, opening your eyes, glossy with need. Bringing his head down in urgency, you plead. “Matty…Matty, I want more.. Please, I don’t wanna cum unless it’s in you.” 

“Shit-t yes yeah?”

His fingers slowly drag, retracting out, pulling a needy whine from the back of your throat, and you nod urgently. He gives his fingers a quick lick, not wanting to waste a single drop of you, watching focused how you shuffle out of your panties. 

He shifts sitting up and starts removing his own wet pants with great difficulty. The jeans are heavy and compressed to his thighs tight, causing them to stick, his groin constricted pushing snuggly against the material of his unbutton pants. “Shit- fuck, these are fucking tight now.”

Wandering his gaze at your movements, he watches frozen, disbelieving the vision before him. Sitting up onto your elbows, you unclip your bra, freeing your tits and exposing yourself fully. His pants sit halfway down his legs, his jaw tensing, eyes gazing with enamour at your bare body. He blinks again, swearing this has to be one very good sex dream. 

“Fucking Salazar.” He takes in your body as you lay waiting patiently. His lustful gaze only makes you that much hotter. He leans against the bedpost, unable to drag his eyes away. “Ace?”

“Yeah?” 

“Just checking this is real.” He finishes pulling his pants down, almost tripping over them with excitement that draws a giggle out of you. The sound of your laugh shakes him out of his daze, and he grins cheekily, continuing his mission of ridding his clothes as fast as possible. “God, I love your laugh.. gonna make me cum right now.”

Your laugh grows in ecstatic shock at his vulgar words. “Mattheo!”

“Oh yeah, look at you practicing screaming already.” He grins, finding your flustering adoring. He frees his cock, admiring the absolutely thirsty look painting your face. He can’t help how his mind backtracks to your admission of not being a virgin, and he lets out a speck of jealousy. “Tell me really, am I bigger?” 

“Bigger?” Only just are your eyes able to drift away and up with a furrowed brow. 

“Yeah.. Then the fucker who stole your virginity.” 

You can’t help the pleased laugh breaking out at his not-so-subtle jealousy, trying to hold back the smug attitude. “Seriously, you're getting jealous now, while I'm baring not only my body but my heart and soul to you.” Lifting a feigned unimpressed eyebrow, you watch with astonishment at how his face changes, expressing a small sheepish smile. 

You beckon him closer with a finger, welcoming the confidence flowing through you. “Come here.” 

As if pulled by a magnet, he crawls back down, hovering above, his eyes gleaming enticingly and the deep inhale of need. The way you’re looking at him as if he holds all your answers, holds all the warmth for you and that he’s the only one to bring you happiness prick at his skin, feeling nervous. But then you smile and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and whisper an adorable, “Hi.”

He grins back, finding himself relaxing just at the mere sight of those brimming cheeks and whispers back, “Hey gorgeous.”

His hands roam, maneuvering over your body and pushing your thighs apart. He notes how your eyes fall, breath spiking with anticipation. “Hey, look at me.” His voice is a soft, strained whisper, on the break of losing it altogether as the head of his tip drags through your folds. “You know I love your eyes. It's one of your favourite features of mine.” 

He’s never done this before. Been so openly intimate, especially as he’s preparing to fuck someone. He nudges the tip a little further in just gently, a low rumble etching out with hoarse feralness. “I want your eyes on me the whole time, ok Ace.” 

Meeting his eye, losing yourself drowning in warm pools of brown neediness, listening to his gentle but essential request, you nod in confirmation. “I will. I never want to turn my back on you again. I love your eyes too much, too.” 

His cheeks are hurting from how much they’ve stretched into a smile tonight. “God, you’re perfect, aren’t you?” He captures your lips in a short but passionate kiss.

“Just tell me if it's too much, yeah.” He warns concerningly, biting back the desire to lose control and wreck you completely. At just your nod he utters, looking back up, “words Ace.” 

“I will.. yeah, Matty just please..”

“Good girl, such sweet manners.” He grins, licking his lip as he grips his cock, nudging it further in between your folds, his eyes fixed on the way your pretty pussy embraces the head so perfectly, like it was made just for him. A glottal groan of relief passes through his lips and he thrusts his hips gently, his cock sliding deeper into the tightness of your warm walls. 

“Oh-f-fuck.” He drops his head, pressing his forehead already beginning to bare a sheen of sweat onto yours, feeling the gaping of your own mouth. The sound that pulls from you is sinful, a delicious lewd moan that makes him grip your hips with firmness to not fall apart so quickly. 

“God-yeah��You feel so fucking’good.”

At the flexible way your legs bend back towards your chest naturally, he groans breathlessly, taking it as a sign you’re okay for him to pick up the pace. His hips thrust, driving into you with a satisfying rhythm, the moans continuing to tumble from your lips. 

“That’s it… you sound so pretty, baby.” He rasps low and husky. He’s looking at everything, watching the pleasure etched on your face while you lay with your eyes scrunched closed, absorbing it all. He flickers his eyes back and forth from how his cock slides between your folds captivatingly and up to your pretty blessed out face. Your mouth gaping as streams of whiney moans flows out, your head thrown back in ecstasy. “Fuck, I don't know where to look baby…look so good taking me.”

Clutching onto him with a grip of iron, nails pinching into his skin as he cages your body in. His biceps bulge under the movement of holding his weight above you. He drops his head into the crook of your neck and he groans, feeling your fingers dig into his hair, listening to your babbled praises. “Matty- ah feel s’good.” 

He roams his hands, stretching your legs wider as he presses his palm down to stabilize himself, his hips vigorously bucking with the strength of a raging bull. He doesn’t know how he told himself he could go easy, with the way your pussy squeezes his cock feels as good as pure heroine. He plants kisses on your neck and turns your head towards him, pressing his lips back onto yours. 

He’s in love with the way you feel, the way you sound, your touches roaming his body, switching from gentle caresses to carnal scratches. He feels whole with you, intertwined as bursts of passion taint your tongues, each sound harmonising together heavenly. “Ace.. fuck, you’re so perfect.” 

You nod, trying to form a solid thought in response, but the way the tip of his cock is gliding so effortlessly into your cervix only makes you chant his name, your voice breaking with a high pitch strain.

It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever witnessed and he kisses your ear, whispering sweet nothings into them, encouraging your onboarding orgasm. “Mmm yeah, cum for me baby, so fuckin pretty wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your climax breaks, spots of white light blurring your vision and you tighten your arms around him, clinging to the one thing grounding you from the overwhelming pleasure. His head lifts, watching with pure delight at the way your body convulses, glistening with sweat like an ethereal being. His body shakes as his hips jutter following you. Broken groans mumble against the skin of your neck as he spills his seed into you entirely. 

He huffs a tired pant, not wanting to move, for he’s never felt so whole as right now. He murmurs softly, pressing a sloppy kiss to your ear, “s'good..the best ace. I could live in your pussy, just fall asleep and never wake up.”

You catch your breath, letting out a shaky laugh that makes your cunt squeeze his cock, releasing another deep groan. He shifts his cock aching sensitivity and pulls out rolling to lie beside you, wrapping an arm around your neck to tuck you into his side.

He rests his chin on top of your head. “You okay?” 

Nodding with droopy eyes, you plant a kiss on his collarbone and try to calm your mind and absorb the reality of what’s just happened. “Yeah..you're definitely bigger.” You grin answering his earlier question. You blink, gazing up at him with nothing but love and a rapturous glow on your face. “but I’m ok.. im great.” 

He chuckles warmly, not even caring to be cocky anymore. He tangles his hand into the still wet knot of your locks. “fuck yeah you are..and your super sure you're real?”

You pinch his thigh, making a sudden squeal come out of his mouth. “Alright! Aight, no need to seek revenge on me - I already apologised.” He jests cupping your head in a firm hold like one of his usual headlocks, but only plants a soft kiss on the top of your head. 

“I am sorry, though, and I mean it.” He shifts so your face is parallel to his and he admires the returning light that shines back into your eyes, a warmth that lights the darkness inside him. He brushes your check with his thumb, over the red hues adorning your cheeks, evidence of your spent state. 

“I may be a twat a good portion of the time, and this-”, he gestures between the two of you. “Still scares me, so fucking much.” His words are raw and burn with a vulnerability that still sits unfamiliar in his throat. “You’re truly an enigma. I still don’t know what in the hell you see in me?”

You smile, eyes brimming with the utmost love. "I see everything you don’t.” 

It’s the truth, and it always has been. The way Mattheo makes you feel is frightening, electrifying, like you’re caught in a storm and he’s your saving grace, parting the seas, giving you everything you need. How his eyes shine, reflecting your clear emotion, makes your heart beat with the force of a thousand drums stimulating the rest of your body.

A warm buzz vibrates between the two of you, knowing that all along, everything you were both missing was right there. The notion that you'll both be alright, swaddled in the new cocoon of your relationship, both finally receiving the love you deserve together.

This work is my own, please don't copy or claim. Any and all interactions are appreciated, thank you for reading! ty again @amongemeraldclouds for your love and support! couldn't have done this without you!

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo masterlist. ⤷ Extra piece. All work is my own and is not to be copied, claimed or stolen.©️pizzaapeteer 2025.

[leyenra8]

“If I Were The Devil” – Paul Harvey  

In 1965, American radio icon Paul Harvey delivered a broadcast that captivated millions of Americans, and his speech titled “If I Were The Devil” offered a prophetic warning about the future of society.

The issues Paul Harvey touched upon – materialism, the erosion of family bonds, the pervasive influence of media, and the increasing disregard for traditional values – are more prevalent than ever.

Save America By Knowing Who Is Destroying Our Country – If Enough Americans Realize What Is Happening – Together We Can Save America 

Agenda: Grinding America Down

The Fact-Based documentary detailing a COMMUNIST AGENDA for the last 70 years to corrupt American Institutions – from Education to Hollywood to Media – and sabotage America, and its values from within.

The main strategy is to Divide and Conquer – to turn Americans against each other.

After watching the documentary, at least you know why the DEMOCRATS Are COMMUNISTS.

The only way to DEFEAT the DEMOCRATS is to Call Them What They Are – DEMOCRATS Are COMMUNISTS.

Once the American people find out the Truth – DEMOCRATS Are COMMUNISTS, it could DESTROY the party forever.

Sharing Is Caring

Please Keep Reblogging

[partiallysame]

How is Price's lil wife on daily things like shopping lingeries, doctor appointments with 4 hunk brutes right behind her like guard dogs?

I think what the missus would think would be cute got real old real fast (tripping over each other trying to stand next to you. Arguing over who gets to hold your hand stuff like that)  so now when you are out with all four of them they have assigned tasks. Grocery store? They each have a list, divide and conquer boys. Bc how dare you assume you can handle grocery’s alone. However when it came to clothes shopping you loved nothing more than forcing them to follow you around, big buff boys bumping into every clothing rack possible. Making them sit so nice in the dressing room to look at every option and then getting annoyed when they “all look good” no they don’t tell me what is cutest. No kyle those were not the same color. One purple one blue.and then you got to play dress up with them (and their cards so). They are banned from your local lingerie store bc they went in there once with you and couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Then they went in there alone and were being too vocal about their thoughts of you in the lacey pieces.  At doctors appointments you both scared and confused the poor ladies at the front desk. Ahh yes husband John and ?? Security detail? oop no you just kissed one of them. Ma’am the room isn’t big enough for everyone. Price is giggling that he gets to go back with you and they have to wait outside

[thekinslayed]

The Ails of a Cup of Red

summary | Aemond's esteemed visitor on his coronation day falls ill, and he has a way to make her feel better.

pairing | king!aemond targaryen x foreign princess!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), nipple orgasm, dubcon, use of aphrodisiac, dark!aemond, multiple orgasms, manipulation, gaslighting, thoughts of incest, aemond thinks all siblings fuck, mentions of pillow humping, breeding kink, babytrapping, this is so filthy u guys idk

wordcount | 6.5k

note | still on vacation and haven't been in the headspace to write so this might not be the best, but i wanted to get something in before the new season!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

(divider by @zaldritzosrose)

Your nose scrunched in disgust at the smell of manure that wafted through the slits in the carriage. A sigh left your lips at the image of the Red Keep growing bigger as you passed through the Kingsroad. You wished your brother didn’t have to bring you on this diplomatic visit to Westeros, but alas, there was a new Targaryen king who was to sit on the Throne, and as the king and princess of your kingdom, you were expected to show a gesture of good faith to your house’s longstanding friendship with the dragonlords. Your family’s friendship with the Targaryens ran centuries deep. The dragons may have thought themselves mightier than men and equal to none, but they bore respect for your family. After all, your kingdom was prosperous long before Valyria had been reduced to ashes, longstanding on its own as it continued to be. 

This respect had saved you from being conquered by Aegon and his sisterwives but instead had welcomed them as friends of the kingdom. It had protected your lands from being rained on by dragonfire, and from fighting the war where the dragons had danced perilously and ended with a one-eyed Kinslayer emerging as the sole victor of the crown.

The last time you were in King’s Landing, you were only a girl, eight years of age. Your late father had been good friends with Viserys the Peaceful, the two men finding an acquaintance in each other with their shared interests. You remembered that visit quite vividly, especially the cold hostility in the air within the castle, one that seemingly did not affect their king. It was visible in the sharp stares between princes and princesses, the queen and the heir. It permeated the pliable minds of the children, making way for an unnurturing environment no child should find themselves in. Those blurring memories made you dread the moment your carriage stopped at the gates of the Red Keep, though there was little you could do. You slumped back into the plush cushion of the seats, covering your nose with a handkerchief.

“Do remember to be nice to them, Aemond.”

Aemond gritted his teeth when the tailor poked him again. He stood as still as a statue in the middle of his chambers, while his mother made some final adjustments to the future king’s garments for his coronation. He nodded obediently at his mother’s instructions, ever the dutiful son. 

“Have our guests docked into the bay?” he asked, earning a nod from his mother. Aemond was made aware that their esteemed visitors were on their way through the Kingsroad and would soon be welcomed.

“You remember your time with the princess, don’t you? You both seemed quite fond of each other,” Alicent mentioned, to which Aemond responded with another nod and a hum. He remembered you, not much, but he did. In his youth, the royals from the far east of Westeros had visited as a gesture of good faith with the Targaryens. His nephews had pestered the young princess with wanting to show off their mounts, but you had been petrified by the prospect of coming face to face with their beasts, falling into tears of fright. Instead, you had stuck by Aemond, who had been dragonless and quite apprehensive about babysitting a little girl around. Still, you had been good, sitting quietly beside him whilst you read peacefully in the Keep’s library and eagerly following him around his home. Overjoyed with having found a companion in Aemond, you had given the young prince a big hug upon your departure, as well as the promise of reuniting.

“She had even written to you when you–”

“I remember, mother. There is no need to remind me.”

Alicent cut her words short from Aemond’s sharp tone. The Dowager Queen could feel the impatience emanating from his rigid form the longer the tailor took to adjust his doublet. Her son had no patience in being fussed over, especially not when he was to be king. Alicent could only sigh, and let silence encompass the ever-growing space between them.

There was a sense of familiarity as another one of Alicent Hightower’s sons was to be crowned king of the Seven Kingdoms. Her second son, her favored one, and the last of her babes left alive. The sharp tension in the air felt like an odd moment of deja vu. When Aegon had been crowned, she feared for the war that was sure to come, and now with Aemond soon to be crowned, she feared him. The war had changed her son, had taken away any ounce of tenderness her sweet boy once held. He had become the terror of the realm, the Stranger descended upon earth with nothing but death following his trail. When Aemond took to the God’s Eye, Alicent prayed. She prayed for the battle to end the bloody dance they had found themselves in. She prayed that the gods take the biggest threat to the realm away from them; whether she meant Daemon or Aemond, she dared not speak. 

The pit in your stomach grew into a clammy flutter in your chest once the carriage stopped right at the foot of the steps of the Keep. You were announced with a thunderous boom in the vast open yard, which made you let out a nervous sigh and run a hand through the ends of your hair.

“I still do not see why you had to bring me, brother,” you mumbled, looking at your lap when your king fixed you with a pointed stare.

“You know why. We have to keep ourselves in good faith with the Targaryens, even more so now than ever. Now, no more frowning,” he commanded, just before the door of your carriage was opened. Your brother climbed down the steps first, before holding out his hand for you to take. You took another breath to calm yourself, before plastering a bright smile on your face and stepping out of the carriage.

“Not a very warm welcome, is it?” your brother commented. To even call it a welcome was an understatement. The only people around were the Kingsguard lining the steps, and the two members of the royal family stood on the top. From the distance, the silver-haired, one-eyed Targaryen stood out like a beacon of light against the drab red bricks of the castle. Your eyes couldn’t help but immediately cast to him once your feet touched the pebbled ground. Their future king stood tall, with his hands crossed behind his back and his chin held high. The green of his leather doublet appeared a darker shade in contrast to his silver mane, which billowed in the light breeze of the late spring air. The most striking feature of all was the strip of leather fastened around his head, covering his left eye.

He looked so different, in every sense of the word.

You could scarcely see the young boy you sat in the gardens with–– no, this was a new person altogether. His gaze was prickly, causing gooseflesh to rise on your skin as you took careful steps towards him and his mother. His tall, rigid figure made for an imposing presence, and as you took the last step towards him, you had to crane your neck to meet his eye. You greeted him with a smile, yet his face remained unchanging while he put out a hand for you to take.

“Princess, welcome,” Aemond greeted, with a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were soft against your skin, a stark contrast to his otherwise harsh demeanor. A heat tingled on your flesh in his hold, one you ignored as you bent to curtsy.

“Prince Aemond, it is wonderful to be in your presence once more,” you responded. Aemond’s lips quirked up in response to your words, which you figured was his attempt at a genuine smile, though it looked somewhat more like a grimace. You turned to the Dowager Queen, dropping into another curtsy before kissing both of her cheeks in respect.

“It is an honor to have you here for Aemond’s coronation. I hope your travels have been easy,” Alicent said. She looked older than you remembered, much older than she actually was. The war had definitely taken its toll on the Hightower queen, cementing its place on her conscience in the form of the crease between her brows in a persistent worried look on her once plump face. Still, she regarded you with a comforting downturned smile, motherly and warm. You were always fond of Alicent, her presence reminding you of your own late mother’s. She gifted you a pretty dress once, you remembered, and had let you play the harp in her chambers while Helaena watched on in amazement.

Helaena. The loss of the queen’s only daughter was a loss you felt that still hung heavily in the air. You had heard of the atrocities inflicted upon her and her babes, the news bringing you to tears when you had heard of her passing. You missed her, Aegon too, in all of his frivolities and drunkenness.

“The travels are of no worry, your grace, we wouldn’t have missed prince Aemond’s coronation for anything else. Isn’t that right, sister?” your brother replied, turning to you with a raised eyebrow. You nodded in agreement, turning to the prince before you, whose stare upon you was unwavering. A tingle in the back of your neck rose to your occiput, one you ignored with another smile to the dragon prince.

“It shall be quite a momentous day on the morrow, I am glad to be present for it, your grace,” you said, to which Aemond responded with his word of gratitude. He intimidated you, he always had, but even more so now. His gaze alone had you flustered, his towering presence making you want to shrink in your skirts, and as you were led inside the Keep, you clung to your brother’s arm before the silver-haired prince could offer his.

You have always considered the court of King’s Landing quite dreary, lacking any lively splendor and charm that decorated the halls of your kingdom. The air in the Red Keep was thick with a rigid tension, the prickling heat of the south and the constant stench of shit and decay making you wrinkle your nose and shift uncomfortably in your garments. To rule with terror was never the way of your kingdom. Respect was never demanded, it was earned, so as your father said, but Aemond, he had earned the respect in the darkest of ways. The home of the dragon lords and its constituents had grown dourer upon your second visit, only ever heightened by the imposing presence of the man walking beside you. Where your people greeted you in the halls with genuine cheerfulness and adoration, there is more fear in the eyes of this kingdom’s people when they come across the Kinslayer, casting their quivering eyes to the floor lest they catch his sharp gaze. It interested you, albeit terrifying. 

You are pulled from your thoughts upon hearing Alicent’s words. Aemond remains unmarried, she said, and she hoped he would find his queen soon and perhaps have his heir.

“Mother, please,” the crowned prince grunted, throwing her a stern look. You accidentally caught his eye, but you quickly trained your gaze back to your feet. “Our guests have no interest in hearing of such matters.”

“Oh, hush, Aemond. The princess has been welcoming suitors herself, haven’t you, sweet girl?”

A warm flush rose on your cheeks once the attention was turned to you. A gaze on your left burned the side of your face, the expectant look on their faces flustering you.

“Yes, I have, your grace. Since I have come of age, I have had the pleasure of meeting many noble lords from across our land,” you responded.

“Have any of them caught your eye, princess?” Aemond asked, much to your surprise. Up until that moment, it seemed he barely gave you an ounce of his attention, and his sudden interest in the conversation was quite unexpected. Before you could respond, however, your brother had spoken up.

“I have given my sister the privilege of choosing her own husband, one that would please her, but she has been quite meticulous in the process thus far, not one of them has passed her standards,” he said, teasing. You nudged his rib, which only made him snicker. The silver-haired man beside you found no amusement at the young king’s words, his face still as stoic as ever. It almost seemed frozen in place, like a mask.

“My brother hasn’t been too keen on sending me off either, your grace. We are all we have left of our family, after all.”

Your words piqued Aemond’s interest. The young king had always been harshly protective of his sister, this Aemond knew.

Viserys had once tried to offer a betrothal between the princess and Aegon but had fallen through when your brother had caught the king’s first son feeling up a maid at the dinner table, already drunk on wine before the main course had been served. Next, it had been Jacaerys, but the sight of the princeling training with a burly knight who looked too much like each other had concerned your brother, who then informed your father, which ended in no marriage pacts being formed.

Aemond observed how you exchanged a warm look with your brother, how you clung to his elbow. You were kept close to the king’s side, and farther from the dragon prince. This made for a curious sight in Aemond’s good eye. Affairs between kin were part of the queer Targaryen customs, with marriages between siblings a normal occurrence in their bloodline, but yours?

Aemond couldn’t deny your beauty. The first glimpse of you stepping down from the carriage had all but knocked Aemond off his feet. The wind had shifted when you had stepped into his midst, almost akin to the way it had slapped his face when he was falling from the heavens beneath the God’s Eye. He had to will himself to remain unphased in your presence, with your bright eyes and radiating smile. You were beautiful, utterly so.

Was the future king’s blackened heart beginning to beat once more? Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was never capable of doing so, but only to pulsate desire. He couldn’t deny the news of your unclaimed hand intrigued him. He kept a close eye on you at the feast preluding his coronation on the morrow, how you glided through the tunes of the harp in a graceful dance, how you smiled at every noble who had the gull to think they were worthy of such beauty.

You had felt it throughout the night. His gaze burned like droplets of wax upon your skin. You felt it despite being away from him, in the halls, in your own guest chambers. You thought it best to shake off the feeling as much as you could. Perhaps it was the ghosts of the Keep playing its tricks on you, making a prey out of an unassuming guest. As the night grew dark, you willed yourself to lay your mind off thoughts of the one-eyed prince, descending into slumber after a week’s worth of travel, ignoring the creak from a wall panel in your chambers.

Aemond’s coronation was barely a grandiose affair, at least not as grand as your brother’s when he took the throne after your father died. It was rather solemn, rigid, and tense as the people watched with bated breath when the crown of the Conqueror was placed upon Aemond Targaryen’s head. It was heavy, perhaps even heavier than the first time he had carried its weight when he became Regent. The sight of him upon the Iron Throne was menacing, the melted swords beneath him were uncomfortable, but as they all knelt before him, Aemond was pleased. His chest swelled with an oozing pride. This was his place, his crown. He had always known he was suited for it, had fought for his seat with fire and blood.

There was little merriment in the people’s spirits, though it cannot be blamed. The repercussions of the war were still well felt, even more so when the man who had drawn first blood was now their king. The celebratory feast was livelier, at least. It was obvious his mother had taken charge of the preparations, with the extravagant decorations, performers she found from gods know-where, and an endless flow of wine. It seemed like a desperate attempt at normalcy, as though his reign wasn’t permanently tainted with darkness. He wouldn’t have stayed for the celebrations if it were completely up to him, if it weren’t for a presence beside him.

“Are you enjoying the celebrations, princess?” Aemond asked, urging you to turn to him. You took a small sip of your wine, before giving him a nod.

“It is quite wonderful, your grace,” you responded. It was rather drab in your opinion, but you held your tongue. The sweet wine made for a better experience. You didn’t drink much, but something about their liquor made you reach for your cup often. It didn’t take long for you to start loosening up, the warm buzz making you feel more at ease. “The wine is delicious!” you commended, making the man beside you smirk.

“Arbor Red from the Reach, one of the very best we have to offer,” he informed you, a dimple on his cheek deepening when you took another gulp. Aemond was rather handsome like this, you realized, with his thin lips lifted, his purple eye sparkling under the dim flames. His hand rested a hair inch away from yours, the warmth from his flesh radiating into your own. You watched as he took a sip from his own cup, his throat bobbing when he swallowed. Gods, what was happening?

A warmth began to pulsate through your body, making you start to sweat in your dress. You felt an odd throb in your core, your hands growing clammy. You tore your gaze away from Aemond’s, clearing your throat. “Are you alright, princess?” you heard him say, before touching your arm. It left a searing burn on your flesh, and your chest started to heave as your pulse started to rise.

“I... I don’t…” you stammered, though it felt impossible to get the words out. Beside you, you, Aemond looked at you in concern, his voice muffled by the thunderous thrumming in your ears. The rest was a blur, your mind barely registering what the king had said.

Maester… unwell… chambers…

A hand on your forehead, another on your waist, all leaving its mark on your flesh.

In the dead of night, a panel in the princess’ guest chambers opened, revealing a head of silver hair. Aemond stepped into your accommodation, his eye immediately catching your writhing form on the bed. The sheets were crumpled and damp from your sweat, the furs kicked to the floor. You were only clad in your nightgown, which had grown sheer as the sticky cotton clung to your form.

“Princess,” Aemond whispered, making you turn to him. He loomed over your figure like a shadow, with the threat of taking you into his darkness. Your hazy mind could barely comprehend when he had gotten here, or how, too muddled by the burning throb deep within you.

“Aemond,” you whined, pressing your thighs tight as you lay on your side. “I-It hurts…”

“What hurts, beautiful? Hm?” he asked, tone much too soft than you were used to. His fingertips trailed on your calf, but you had jerked away. The slightest touch left your skin tingling, the dampness in between your thighs only growing with the scent of smoke and sage that engulfed you.

With a hand on your thigh, Aemond urged you to lay on your back to face him, despite your protests. He shifted his weight on one knee to lean over you, his fingertips pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your face. Your nipples pebbled painfully against your nightgown, and you had moaned wantonly when Aemond had accidentally brushed his knuckles over your chest, skimming your overly sensitive buds. Seven Hells, what a delectable morsel of flesh you were. Aemond could start salivating with how irresistible you looked, with your flushed, teary face, plump bosom, and the curves he traced under his palm.  

Gauging your reaction, he cupped your breast, squeezing the supple flesh in his palm. Your jaw fell slack, a whine falling from your lips. Your thighs squeezed dangerously tight as slick gushed from your cunny at the slightest touch.

“Does that feel better, princess?” Aemond prodded, but you could only moan in response. Slowly, his other hand made its way up your garments, trailing his fingertips up your thigh. His brow raised as his hand met your weeping center, pulling away to show his coated fingers. They shone from the dying embers of the hearth, your juices thick and stringy as the silver-haired man scissored his fingers to show you. Your eyes squeezed shut in shame, unwilling to look as Aemond put his fingers in his mouth to get a taste, groaning. His fingers returned to your slit, tracing and massaging your entrance.

“This is where it hurts, hm? Poor you,” he tutted. His good eye fell upon a pillow thrown to the side, smeared with your arousal. You must have tried to relieve yourself with it, he assumed, and the thought of you humping a pillow made his cock jump in his trousers. He grabbed the cushion, pressing it to his nose to smell your essence. “Gods, you smell heavenly. This wasn’t of much help, was it, darling? You need more.”

Humiliation filled your veins, rendering you unable to look at the man before you. You fisted the sheets tight into your palms, your conscience fighting through the thick cloud of whatever curse was making you feel this way. “Please… I-I need…” you whimpered.

“Tell me,” Aemond urged. You bit your lip harshly, tears streaming down your temples. You need not say it, he knew, he had put you in this predicament after all.

“Help me, please… just help me. I can’t take it, Aemond,” you sobbed, pulling on his cotton undershirt. He only hummed, pressing his aquiline nose against your cheek as he breathed in the sweet smell of your damp flesh.

It was quite a pitiful sight to see you like this, and perhaps he should feel a small bit of remorse, but it was all for a reason. The empty vial in his pocket was a burning reminder of why you had ended up like this, of what he had done.

He had to thank Alys, really. The bastard witch, once he had seeded her, was as eager as he to place the Kinslayer on the throne. Her hopes of putting their offspring on the Iron Throne after Aemond were too obvious. It was all too easy for him to bend her to his will, make her procure any tincture he asked, and slither into his enemies’ minds upon his bidding. She was a good fuck too. It was a shame he had to gut her after his victory above the Gods’ Eye. He had no trust in the dark magick, nor for Strong bastards. Alys Rivers was a cunning woman, but a fool to think the prince king, would take her as his wife. No, Aemond now had someone else in mind.

It was all too easy to slip the witch’s tonic into your cup of wine, which you had drank eagerly. It was easy to blame it on exhaustion from your travels, on the heat in the Great Hall. You had been escorted back to your chambers, the maester unable to do much for your condition, and that was that. You were all his for the taking.

He tore your nightgown off your body in one, exposing your bare form to the night. Aemond’s good eye darkened at the sight of you, his gaze hungry as it ran down your naked body. You had crossed your arms over your chest, the other over your sex, but the king had pulled them away with a tsk.

“None of that now. You need my help, don’t you?”

You let out a sob, shaking your head. Aemond mimicked your refusal, cooing with a sticky sweet tone painting his motives.

“What is that? You do not want my help? Shall I leave you alone then?” he asked, a devilish smirk rising on his lips when you shook your head again, more profusely this time, when he started to pull away.

“No! No, please! I beg of you, do not leave me like this!” you wailed, pulling on any part of him you could reach. Aemond looked at you with a dark satisfaction, one that only grew when you had spread your legs for him, giving him a perfect view of your weeping cunny as you caged him with your thighs.

He had muttered something in mocking, something about helping his most esteemed guest, but the cloudy haze your mind was lost in made it difficult to comprehend anything. All you could feel was his touch on your waist, another on your jaw, and the softness of his thin lips when he smashed them against yours. He swallowed down your whimper as you engaged in a clash of teeth and tongue, his eagerness almost equaling your desperation.

He trailed his lips down the column of your neck, leaving his mark on your flesh. A deep sigh of relief left your lips when he enclosed on one of your stiff buds, rolling it with his warm tongue. It felt utterly delightful, like a poison finally being sucked out of your wound. Aemond gave the other breast the same amount of attention, massaging its pair with his calloused hand. A heat steadily rose from deep within your belly, and with a nip of his teeth on your sensitive nipple, you came undone with a moan of his name.

The one-eyed Targaryen pulled away with a look of amazement on his face. He looked at the mess in between your thighs, where the evidence of your climax mixed with your slick. His throat felt dry, like he had been walking aimlessly through the deserts of the Red Waste before stumbling upon the water that shall fill him with life.

“You are divine,” he exhaled, his good eye still trained on your pulsating core. They clenched around nothing, beckoning him to taste. He looked at you, evidently still overcome with the need for more. He knew you wanted more, needed it. You wouldn’t be better from one release alone, no, Alys’ tonic did not work that way. You needed an antidote, one only Aemond could give you. He shall end your suffering soon enough, but first, he had to get a taste of you.

He wasted no time, licking a hot stripe up your slit. Aemond groaned in delight, the sweet taste of your essence coating his tongue. He devoured you like a man starved, slurping up the tears your cunt had wept in its despair.

“Hells… you taste of the most delightful ambrosia, princess. So sweet, so wet… all for me,” he praised, his voice coming out muffled from the apex of your thighs. You were long lost, moaning unabashedly like a wanton whore. Your grip on your morals had been weakened by the slippery trail of carnal desire.

Aemond’s silver tresses were clutched tight in your hand, a pain the king revered. You ground your hips against his face, the tip of his nose rubbing on your pearl deliciously. He held your thighs in a vice grip, and he shook his head from side to side, making you whine in delight. Shifting his thumb to rub on your clit, Aemond began to fuck you with his tongue, the hot, wet muscle darting in and out of your walls rhythmically. Sparks of pleasure ran from your bundle of nerves wildly up your veins, spreading into a speckled flush across your chest. With a shudder, you released all over the king’s tongue.  Your eyes rolled back as you came once more, your chest heaving up and down from the weight of your second undoing.

Your pulse still buzzed with desire, and you cursed the gods on whatever it was they had inflicted upon you. You whimpered when Aemond pulled away to stand, a panic rising within your chest when he looked to the door. He wasn’t leaving you, was he? Your blood still ran hot with need, and you needed him to take you, take all of it away.

“Don’t go, please,” you begged, reaching out for him. You scrambled to rise to your knees, pulling Aemond in by his trim waist. The cotton of his undershirt was gripped tight in your fists, and his neck grew damp when your teary face buried itself in the junction between his shoulder. “My king.”

Aemond’s chest grumbled from your words, his cock now throbbing painfully, begging for its release. His arm wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him, his stiffness poking your hip. With a hand on the base of your neck, he urged you to look at him.

“Say it again,” he growled, nipping your ear with his teeth. He squeezed the flesh on your hip tight, making you whimper.

“Aemond, my king! I need you; I need you to take all of this pain away,” you sobbed, hot, desperate tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. You grabbed a hold of his hand, urging it towards your center, but he was stronger. Aemond pulled his hand away, cupping your jaw in his calloused palms to make you look at him.

“The only way for your pain to subside is for your maidenhead to be taken, princess. There is no other way. Are you sure of this?” Aemond asked, looking to you for confirmation. Your mind barely regarded the implications of what was to occur, of what he was taking from you, nodding eagerly without any doubt. You rambled a series of yesses to him, and then he was pushing you to lay on your back once more. The king before you was never one to dally, evident in the way he wasted little time in baring himself. His stiff length slapped against his stomach when his trousers dropped, the mesmerizing sight making you trail your fingers down to play with your cunt in impatience. He was a sight to behold, with well-defined form, and the scars that littered his milky skin; the remnants of war had cemented itself on the king’s physical form.

Aemond grabbed hold of his cock, stroking it while coming to kneel before you. He slapped your hand away from your center, taking hold of your thigh to spread them wide. He couldn’t deny the spark of anticipation in his chest, and if he were a lesser man he would’ve plunged himself into your walls in one push. Instead, he lined himself with your slit, before looking to you for one more confirmation. Your brows were adorably furrowed in frustrated desperation, a small whisper of ‘please’ falling from your pouty lips. With your hand pushing on the base of his spine, Aemond breached your walls.

Your previous releases and the copious amounts of arousal the aphrodisiac had produced from your body made for little hindrance. There was only a mere sting at his initial thrust, but it required little effort for him to bottom out. His pace was relentless from the start, clearly as overcome with desire as much as you were. The slick pooling on the back of your thighs made a wet slap, slap, slap with every thrust of Aemond’s hips.

You gripped the sheets to ground yourself as your body jerked in rhythm with his thrusts, your legs wrapping around the silver-haired man’s trim waist to keep him close. Your jaw fell open, moans freefalling with no regard for decency. Aemond fared no better, growling in your ear and delivering a harsh bite to your shoulder. It was animalistic in nature, something primal and heavy. The bedframe thudded against the wall, and you could only hope no soul would happen upon the halls outside your chambers at this hour.

“This is what you wished for, was it not? You wanted my cock, you needed it,” he groaned, letting out a dark chuckle against your skin when you nodded fervently, followed by a chorus of whiny yesses. He left his mark on your breasts, tugging and sucking on the supple flesh to claim you as his. “Taking me so well, my princess,” Aemond rambled on, muttering dirty nothings into your skin as his thrusts stayed unrelenting.

“Aemond, oh, Aemond!” you cried out, gripping his broad shoulders tight. Your nails dug themselves into his sculpted back, making him hiss in delight. Your core spasmed with your impending climax, massaging his length as it drove into the rough spot within your walls.

“Perhaps I should put a babe in you, hm? Make you mine, all mine,” he taunted in your ear. Perhaps you should be more concerned with his words, but the wave of pleasure threatening to take you over robbed you of your sense and wit, reducing you to nothing but a moaning mess. Aemond’s thumb found its place on your pearl once more, rubbing tight circles into the nub that threatened to send you into overdrive. With another thrust, then two, you fell apart on Aemond’s cock, spilling your white, hot essence all around his length. He followed soon after, painting your walls with his seed in a couple of spurts.

The cloudy haze that had impeded you reduced to a pleasant buzz in your fingertips, your head lolling to the side as your eyes closed in utter bliss. You felt Aemond pull out of your walls, whining when he pushed your combined juices back into your cunny. He laid beside you, pulling you into his chest with his arms wound around your sweaty form. A delighted sigh left your lips when he cupped your jaw, then bestowed a kiss on your forehead, and the tip of your nose, before capturing your lips. Pulling away, Aemond leaned his forehead onto yours, the tip of his aquiline nose nudging slightly against yours. It was pleasant, the way he held you like this, almost more intimate than your coupling.

“Marry me,” he whispered against your lips.

Your eyes opened while your brows furrowed in confusion at his proposition. Your mind lagged to follow along, the remnants of the aphrodisiac’s heady swirl still tainting your better thinking. “W-what?”

“Be my wife. Together, we shall forge the legacy our ancestors have strived to achieve. Our kingdoms shall unite in power, our houses would be formidable allies, and more. This would all be possible with our union,” he explained eagerly. His grip on your face had grown tighter and tighter, his pupil widening, making him look almost crazed. You were starting to grow wary, if it weren’t for the ache in your muscles, you would have dashed as far away from him as possible. Perhaps this was the Targaryen madness everyone said, but in the darkness of your chambers, you could hardly consider him madder than you were.

“I-I don’t…” you stammered. The haze that had clouded your conscience was starting to lift, making you think more clearly. You tried to pull yourself away from his grasp, but his firm hold on your cheeks and your trembling limbs rendered your efforts futile.

“After tonight, you will no longer be untouched, and your future husband will know. A princess who will not bleed on her marital bed,” Aemond iterated sternly, his brows raised. Your lower lip trembled with dread, your hands pushing on his chest–– closer or away, you couldn’t decide which.

You squeezed your eyes shut in an attempt to tune him out, but he was everywhere, from his hot breath on your face, his seed in your womb, his curse tainting your spirit.

“You are being cruel,” you whispered, turning your face away. When you had shifted to lay on your back, he had risen to lay on his side, his silver mane framing his face ever so beautifully.

“I am showing you mercy,” he contradicted, cupping your face, softer this time. His thumb caressed your cheek tenderly, and if you had known less the gesture might have brought you comfort. “You needed me, I did what you asked me to, princess. Would you have rather I left you writhing in pain?”

You were starting to grow muddled. He was right, you did need him, had begged for him like a desperate harlot. Humiliation coursed through you for having debased yourself like this, unabashedly so. You think of the shame this would inflict on your name, your brother’s. Gods, what have you done?

“What will they say when my seed takes? Hm? What will your brother think of his sweet sister?” Aemond taunted, rising to loom over you. A curtain of starlit hair enclosed around your head, making you see only him. He was tantalizing, with his sharp stare and a face sculpted by the gods’ own hands. Your resolve was starting to crumble as you pondered on his words. “They need not question your honor when you shall be my wife, my queen.”

You, a queen. It would be a lie to say you had never imagined yourself crowned as such; you have done so all your life. In time, you had learned it would never be, your brother was king, and you were to be married off, reducing your worth to a lord’s wife, but Aemond wanted to make you queen. It was a daunting prospect; you had never thought to become queen of Westeros. Hells, you had no wish to come here in the first place! But the seed had been planted, a dragon’s seed, nonetheless.

The corners of your eyes stung with a fresh wave of hot tears. Aemond had caught them when they started to fall, planting his lips on your cheeks, his tongue darting out to taste the salty fluid. It was reverent, almost in adoration, and when he pulled away, you gave him your answer.

“I will marry you, my king.”

A wicked smile lifted the corners of his thin lips, his dimples making an appearance. Satisfaction painted his good eye, and you realized what you had done. You resigned yourself to your fate, and you could only pray he would be tender with you, like the kiss he planted on your hair when you shifted back to lay on his chest. Aemond let out a deep sigh, thoroughly pleased.

“Sleep, my queen, we shall make our plans for marriage known on the morrow.”

[chiaroscurryy]

The excessive amount of symbolism in Kendrick’s super bowls halftime show:

A rant because I like king Kenny.

(I promise I’m still making this first video guys🙏🏾)

Our introduction:

Should be long known that Kendrick didn’t do all of these disses towards Drake just as some feeble rap battle. He started it to bring his LA peers together. Which he did at a concert where both crips and bloods danced together on stage. Blue and Red finally made purple. Now Kendrick uses this power he was given to lure in his audience yet again. With subtle hints and jabs telling us that the time for revolution is now. We move on to the show.

Performance:

“The revolution bout to be televised you picked the right time but the wrong guy.”

Meaning the government, manipulating and controlling its people and the people eating it up like stray dogs and raw meat. Chose the ”right time” but with Kendrick multiple times saying that he has the power to “press the button.” meaning Kendrick at any time or place could tell his followers and fans to strike whatever spot, place, or event he pleases and without the power of manipulation or lies. We’d all do it no questions asked. Hence him being the ”wrong guy” Kendrick has too much love from fans to die of vain, or be silenced without squalor.

The dancers:

Being colors of red, white, and blue. They all leave the same car yet end up split half and half. Not only talking about what Lamar usually talks about (blacks separated by higher ups) but America as a whole is separated through pure manipulation, propaganda, and hatred.

Going into his not like us performance:

he starts with “40 acres and a mule this is bigger than the music.”* 40 acres and a mule is what was promised to over 1200 black people after the civil war to repair a fraction of the damage caused during slavery. And over 1200 black peoples property was relinquished and taken back so the blacks could work for the previous white property owners. Setting the entire deal back two steps ” 40 acres and a mule.” this meaning that we can’t always trust what the rich say. Even when it’s temporarily in our grasp.

Uncle Sam:

Samuel Jackson, posing as *”Uncle Sam”* a literal metaphor of America, constantly bashes Kendrick during the performance. Saying things like “too LOUD. Too RECKLESS. Too GHETTO” how many white directors and music labels tell black creators and actors how they sound to ruthless and cruel when truly they only speak words with no meaning but love and fun behind it. “See you brought your homeboys with ya, the old culture cheat code” banning together as a community of color and truly working together, which every time has bring us success and victory without fail. Just like putting in a “cheat code” automatically makes you stronger. “Score keeper. Deduct one life.” Now this one has an incredible amount of meanings that all correspond with eachother. Divide and Conquer. Kill just one of the countless people in the community and the entire thing could fall apart. Deduct one life also meaning video game wise they lose the amount of chances to appease higher ups and satisfy them. Deduct one life ALSO meaning and the most noticeable one is that higher ups. The government. White men of power. Despise and hate when their slaves and submissive people come to peace with each other and become a team. Because they can’t fight hundreds. Not even tens. Seeing us together is a fear injector for the rich.

What it all means:

This entire thing together is Kendrick telling us to squabble up. Prepare ourselves for battle and revolution. And I don’t think it’s in the ways of the civil war. But in the ways of Martin Luther king. Except the dream will be fulfilled. And the consequences for pulling the trigger will be much heavier than a peaceful protest. Our time approaches. Do not be late.

[sp4ceboo]

a/n: ok so. alpha deku. this was specifically inspired by this art here and here because. what the fuck man. this gave me severe brain rot. absolutely delicious artwork, belongs in museum.

tw: 18+, smutty, afab omega reader, a/b/o, alpha deku goes into rut, breeding kink (it's a/b/o, what were we expecting)

wc: 1.2k

Everyone knows when your alpha is close to his rut.

Since Izuku has risen on the hero rankings, ‘everyone’ has become anyone who happens to be watching the news that week. Citizens, villains, news reporters, hell, even his mother - they all know. It would be hard to not notice, not with the pheromones that practically ooze off him, and especially not with the way he acts.

Normally, the villains are the first to know. You always patrol with Izuku (he insisted it be that way, but you wouldn’t have been paired with anyone else with how obvious it is that the two of you work best together), and usually, you’ll divide and conquer any minor villains with ease. You’re ridiculously attuned to each other, able to communicate in battle just as well with your eyes as with your words, and it makes it pretty hard to mount a defense against.

All of that flies straight out of the window the moment his pre-rut hits; the hormones give him an extra edge, a strength derived from something primal, and his hindbrain takes control. Your mate is a force to be reckoned with already, but in pre-rut, he’s unstoppable.

You’re aware that he knows you’re perfectly capable of holding your own, but once his instincts take over, there’s no stopping him. He’ll break a villain’s hand if they come too close to you, flashing his canines and snarling keep away from my omega while he pumps out a ridiculous amount of pheromones. By then, they’re already running: it’s no secret that his threats aren’t empty when it comes to you.

The reporters are the next to find out, and you hope that the ones that get sent to interview you and Izuku while he’s in pre-rut get paid extra, because he’s impossible; once he’s sure the villains are successfully detained, he’ll latch onto you, curling an arm about your waist and wrapping himself around you from behind.

It’s worth acknowledging that Izuku is big, even by alpha standards. He’s fucking huge, broad shoulders and massive thighs, still bristling from the fight, and he dwarfs your frame entirely when he crowds into you the way he does. You’ve seen fan-made compilations, clips of him draped over you, nose buried in your hair as you answer reporters’ questions, captioned with things like ‘proof pro-hero Deku can’t get enough of his mate, if you hadn’t noticed already’.

You always politely smile for the cameras, but he has no patience for them. He never speaks during those interviews, instead drowning his restlessness in the familiarity of your scent, growling if anyone comes too close and only letting up once they retreat.

At that point, you already reek of him - well, more than you usually do - and when you feel that you’ve shown face enough, you excuse yourself. No one can refuse you, not when you have a more than just sizeable alpha hanging off your shoulders, glaring at anyone who might dare to object.

On the way home, you’ve made a habit of filing your request for leave from work (that is, if your manager hasn’t seen the news and already granted it). You’ve never been refused leave, but that doesn’t surprise you. The risk of having pro-hero Deku off patrol is nothing compared to having him half crazy, half feral and fully grumpy, supposedly watching over the city while in reality all he does is want after his omega.

Reliably, you’ll barely have gotten through the doorway of your home, struggling to close the door behind you, when he finally lets loose.

He’ll be all over you, hands tugging at your clothes while he laps at your scent glands, almost drooling as he breathes in your pheromones. Rut reduces your alpha to nothing but a mess. You won’t even be more than a metre into your house, and he’ll be grinding against you, fondling you, groaning in your ears and telling you sinful things: that you smell so fucking good, that he can’t wait to be deep in your sweet omega pussy.

They’re always dirty, the things he mumbles in your ears, but it always circles back to the same thing - I protected you so well, didn’t I, omega? I kept you safe, right? - and you nod every time, kissing him sweetly - yes alpha, of course you did - and tilting your head back to give him access to your throat, a display of trust, because that’s what he needs to hear. That’s what has his cock throbbing against your hip, achingly hard.

It’s what sets that part of him ablaze, just like you burn whenever he tells you that you’re such a good, pretty omega for him and that you take him so well while he fucks you through your heat. Yes, Izuku understands you can protect yourself, but he needs to know that he’s a good alpha to you, that he takes care of his mate and keeps you happy and safe and content.

The moment he hears that, he won’t stop until you're knotted and pumped full of his come.

He’ll take you against the first flat surface that presents itself (usually the wall of your foyer), slipping in easily because your body responds to him even before you’ve smelt his exquisite pheromones, your pussy all slicked up and fluttering for him. He won’t stop for days after that, ruining you on his cock over and over again, eyes rolling back in his head as he slurs about how he’s going to give you his pups, and though you know it won’t take because of your medication, sometimes you wish it would.

Right now, you lie on his warm chest, tracing the constellations of his freckles with your fingertips. Today his rut started no different from how it normally does, and he’s purring softly in his sleep beneath you, his warm palms splayed wide over your back; you smile at the occasional snore that leaves him. Your mate has been busy recently. You’re not surprised that he knocked out so quickly.

He’s fucked his knot into you already, and from where it sits snugly inside you, you can feel it slowly coming down. You don’t bother to lift yourself off him though - he’s far from done, and besides, he’ll just ease it right back into you the moment he wakes up.

You’ve heard people comment on how your Izuku is pretty high maintenance during his rut, that he should take suppressants to give you a break, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stirs, and you watch his green lashes dip as he blinks his way back to consciousness; gently, he catches your fingers, his palm calloused against your skin, and lifts your hand to his mouth to press kisses your knuckles. Your lips curl up at the sight of him, unruly hair mussed, glowing in that way he does during his rut, and sleepy eyed, he smiles back.

Already, you can feel him stiffening inside of you, his body getting ready for another round. He cups your face in his hands, fitting his lips to yours, and you find yourself grinning into his kisses.

Yeah, you definitely wouldn't have it any other way.

[blacknailsandheartbreak]

Part 2 to how the group cannot fathom how you and Zuko are so close with your angel of a self and Zuko being... well, Zuko

AN: OKAY! Look at me go, coming out with a part two. I think I might do a part two to some previous pieces of mine but we will see.

SO this is a part two, so you can read the first one here, it will give some context clues into this second part of the story (but can probably be read solo) : Part 1

Any who, ~2300 word count, enjoy :)

KIDDIE FREE ZONE

Good Friends

That's all you guys were. Good Friends. Zuko kept telling himself he had no reason to be so bothered by that statement, but he was. He didn't want to be just good friends, but you had given a better answer then he would have in your position. But now the Gaang has been flying for the past couple days and has given him lots of time for thinking. Especially having you for the majority of the time sitting with him leaning against his arm, grazing legs, as you were not shy to the general touch. You always seemed to start up the conversations with him, your way of speech held him in interest, but as already known, he never said much back, but always was happy to listen.

But ever since that last night of camp a few days ago he cannot let the thought go. Good Friends. He knew that the talks you two have, the moments you both cherish, and the secrets you two shared was enough of a connection to be more than just good friends, or at least in his mind it was. You two were absolutely glued to the hip, and seemed to be together, just without the title. Zuko was fine with no title, he would rather the group didn't know but for you two to have that clarity is what he was craving. He knew there were other things that were more important at the moment but it couldn't calm down in his mind. He had to know, he wanted to be together. Even if that became another secret you both shared he would gladly add it to the pile.

As the afternoon began to fall fast on the fourth day of travel, the Gaang was running low on rations and decided to hit the next market in the upcoming town. Upon arrival, Aang and Sokka grabbed Zuko to tackle their list as Katara and Toph grabbed you to get the remaining items. Zuko was hoping to buddy up with you but it would have to wait. As the group divided and conquered, Sokka was getting very nosy with Zuko about a certain someone. Zuko ignored all of his questions or what felt like more accusations. Meanwhile the girls had finished with their tasks and Toph had somehow gotten into a gambling match with the remaining money they had and won every time. You stood back leaning against a nearby wall smiling, not wanting anything to do with the situation but you weren't going to interfere either. You feel a brush against your shoulder and look up to see Zuko, you smile and greet Aang and Sokka. You ask how their huntings went and they all agreed it had gone well. Zuko looked at you and asked if Toph and Katara were seriously gambling the little money they had left. You laughed and were about to answer but before you could Toph came over with a large bag and tossed it at Zuko. He caught it effortlessly, and it jingled heavily. All of the boys eyes widened, and Toph said "We will be sleeping well tonight thanks to yours truly."

The Gaang walked around the town as the night grew darker and the many street lamps glowed near and far, Zuko's mind still buzzing with the taunting thought of good friends. Maybe he was over thinking it and there was already an unspoken agreement you two were together? Or was he being weird and obsessive? Or maybe you had a completely different view on all of it? Or maybe-

His thoughts were cut off by you linking your arm through his and pointing out the beautiful lights, from the shops, to concessions, to the fountains, to the groups of lively people. He looked down at you and for the first time, he wasn't really listening to you. He just looked at you, looked at your smile as if you knew this moment was made just for you. He would forever be in awe at how effortlessly you spoke as if you had already rehearsed it one hundred times. He feels your genuine happiness and spirit in your eyes as you look up at him and he wonders how you hold such grace through everything. All his thoughts left his mind as he looked at you and thought, yeah, that is my girl.

Once the Gaang decided to call it a night, you all looked for an Inn to stay at for the night. There was not much of an option in the small town, so you all entered the closest place and the lady at the front desk greeted you all with a warm smile. Aang went to talk with the lady and brought back a handful of keys. Everyone was confused as he handed everyone their own key and explained that they only had single rooms left for the night. Nobody really complained as everyone seemed they could use some time to themselves. Everyone shuffled into their rooms with quick goodnights, but before Zuko walked through his door, he looked over his shoulder at your direction, and there you were. Walking into your room and almost as if you felt his eyes you looked over your shoulder and stopped for a moment, you smiled at Zuko and gave a small wave of goodnight before stepping into your room and closing the door. Zuko's eyes stayed on your room for a moment longer, before a small tap on his shoulder made him spin around. It was Katara. Zuko was lost for words. Katara smiled and whispered "I won't tell, not that is isn't already so obvious, but you should really talk to her." Before Zuko could respond to her she waved goodnight and walked into her room. He stood in the hallway like a man who was shot and was too afraid to move. He looked back at your door, he felt the longing in every part of his being to just go and knock on your door and say everything he has been thinking just like you do. How you so effortlessly say exactly what you're thinking, that is what he wanted to do. He wanted to tell you what it meant to him to have someone like you become so close to someone like him. He wanted to tell you that the secrets you both shared with each other meant the world to him and he would take them to his very grave if you wished so. He wanted to tell you that every time you smiled it felt like it was for him and him only. But he didn't. He walked back into his room and shut the door.

Zuko got ready for bed and laid down for a few minutes, he tossed and turned and his chest felt so heavy. He let out a sigh as he laid on his back and placed a hand on his chest with the other one behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling. Zuko let out a small grunt of frustration when he got up, deciding to go get some water. He grabbed the bucket from the small table in the room and walked towards the door. Zuko grabbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation and pulled his hand down his face, he went and opened the door and to his complete shock, there you stood. You looked almost as surprised as he did. You both stood in silence for a moment, and for the first time, Zuko spoke first. He asked if you were alright, because the last thing he expected was for you to be standing at his door in the middle of the night. You replied softly, saying you were ok, just had a lot on your mind. You noticed Zuko holding the bucket for water and offered to go with him to fetch some, he agreed. This time you both walked in silence to retrieve the water and walked in silence back to the rooms. You both came to stand outside Zuko's room and he asked if you were sure you were ok, and you replied that you were, probably just over tired. Zuko looked at you and asked you if you wanted to come into his room. You smiled softly and insisted you didn't want to intrude. He didn't respond and just motioned you inside, you accepted and walked in, Zuko shut the door behind you.

Zuko grabbed the ladle and poured you some water while you sat on the bed, he handed you the cup. You smiled and thanked him as you grabbed the cup and took a sip. Zuko sits next to you and rests his elbows on his thighs and looks down between his knees to the floor, he's not sure how he wants to go about tonight. He has no idea where to start, no idea how to talk or truly express his thoughts. He worries about sounding like a bumbling fool compared to your angelic soft spoken way of words. But before he could think further, the bed shifted and you were now directly beside Zuko with your head leaning on his shoulder. He looked up and he knew he wanted this, he wanted to be the one to call you his. He wanted to be by your side every step of the way and watch you regain the pride of being a fire bender. He wanted to have you by his side helping him with the path of change after the comet, and he didn't want to do it as good friends, he wanted to do it together. Zuko took in a deep breath, and asked "Do you really think we are just good friends?" and without a breath missed you replied "I knew your ears were on fire that night." you sat up with that comment, Zuko smirked and chuckled, you two were very close now, mere inches from each other's faces. "But no..." you replied, "I don't think we are just good friends, do you?" Zuko looked into your eyes, they seemed to shimmer the most beautiful shade of amber even with the liminal lighting in the room. "I don't think so either." He replied. Zuko saw your eyes dart to his lips and back to his eyes but the second your gaze connected back with his, he was already pulling you into a kiss. He put his hand just under your ear, along your jaw, pulling you in gently, as if giving you an option to back out. But you didn't, you leaned in and placed your hand on his arm and you kissed deep. Zuko lavished in this moment and if there was any way he could pull you in even closer he would. You pulled away first and looked at Zuko, he looked at you with so many emotions, "We are together." he stated. You smiled so wide and nodded, for the first time you were speechless and practically tackled Zuko to the bed, kissing him so deeply while he gladly reciprocated with the same action. You were straddling Zuko as he effortlessly flipped you over on the bed so he was now on top, you placed both your hands on his jaw and leaned up to give him a small kiss and then laid back down. "Would you stay with me tonight?" Zuko asked, you smiled, "Of course I will, I thought you'd never ask." Zuko rolls his eyes and leans down for a kiss but you halt his actions by asking, "What about the others, they will see me leaving your-" Zuko cuts you off with a soft kiss and after responds "I don't care, they can make their own assumptions." You smile so happily and nod your head, "But, they are going to ask questions-" you started but again Zuko cut you off before you can overthink, "So answer them however you want to, however you feel is right." He leans down and kisses you so romantically, and moves to your cheek, and down to your jaw, and making his way to your neck, you let out the smallest gasp. You could feel tingles all throughout your body, from your fingertips to your toes. This was the moment you were both waiting for, Zuko knew this is what he wanted, he wanted you now, tomorrow, the day after that, the months that follow and the years to come. You were his as much he was yours. He gave himself to you that night as you gave yourself to him. Both vulnerable to one another, savouring each movement, each touch, every breath you both shared. The night was exactly what you both wanted, it was what you both needed.

The next morning Zuko woke up with you laying on his chest and his arms wrapped around you. Both of you spent the morning getting ready and just smiling at each other, no lingering feeling or questions of what ifs. You could both just be together.

It was time to check out and continue the journey, so you both gathered all your belongings and walked to the door. You both stopped and you looked at Zuko, "They are going to ask." you stated, and Zuko looked right back at you, "Then answer." he replied. He opened the door and the Gaang was waiting in the hall. Katara was the first to see you both exit and she tried to hide her smile with a polite hand, the others turned to look and were caught a blank. Zuko shut the door with you standing by his side. You greeted everyone and you both walked towards the group, "What are you all staring at, let's head out." Zuko said so nonchalantly, everyone stood in silence for a second longer and proceeded on like nothing happened.

[smallpwbbles]

I know this is probably a little strange, but I'm glad you and others are upset about the Lilo and Stitch remake.

I'll try not to get into it too much but I'm Native (not Hawaiian), and the remake genuinely reads as the same imperial/cultural indoctrination propaganda the US has always tried to pull on Natives. It's sickening to see this happen like this with Lilo and Stitch....

If you'd like an easy 101 on this kind of thing look up the Dawes Rolls and the Indian Boarding Schools. Those both affected my family and tribe directly, and are easy examples of US's "divide and conquer" stance that seems to conceptually drive this remake (in many other forms as well, including removing the quirky, redeemable qualities of so many characters...)

Love your stuff by the way! Sorry for the huge kinda sad message. I'm just glad to see someone seeing through this a bit. It's frightening how much people don't realize how scary this movie really is.

I appreciate this message! You have the right to angry more than anyone else, I know the story changes are egregious in their own right but this movie just feels so pro tourism.

Like they somehow promoted the resort their gonna build in Hawaii without explicitly saying they would in the movie

[arminthada]

UPDATES on QL Series which won the support grant funding from THACCA - Thailand's Agency for promoting Soft Power

1. KNOCK OUT หมัดน็อกล็อกหัวใจ (produced by Dee Hup House)

Premiered May 16 | Ongoing (5/12 episodes) | Currently airing on WeTV, every Friday

Synopsis: Keen was in the middle of a job interview when he received sudden news of his father's death. He had no choice but to use all his life savings to organize the funeral. Soon harassed by debt collectors, he discovered that his father had left behind a significant debt from an informal loan. Keen was compelled to hide at Petchsak camp, a Muay Thai gym, while figuring out a way to pay off the debt he didn't incur. There, he met Thun, a renowned boxer known as "The Cannon Who Conquers Tigers," the star fighter of the camp. However, no one knew why Thun refused to fight anymore: he built an icy wall between himself and others, which Keen had to find a way to break down in order to reach Than's vulnerable heart and true self. This led the two to grow closer, developing a passionate relationship that blossomed into a beautiful love. Together, they overcame obstacles. Confronting the past, however, comes with an irresistible pull that will lead the pair into a path full of danger.

2. Ai no Kisetsu ฤดูกาลแห่งรัก in Shimane (produced by 9Naa)

Premiered May 18 | Ongoing (4/6 episodes) | Currently airing on Viu, every Sunday

Synopsis: A year after his trip to Tokyo, P moves to Shimane to become a travel blogger. One winter day, P receives a message he had long been waiting for: Pan has returned. However, he hasn't come alone as he's arrived with his manager and another young artist. Will passionate feelings be reawakened as new and old relationships clash amidst the snowy backdrop?

3. RESET การเกิดใหม่ของดวงดาว (produced by Broadcast Thai TV)

Premiered June 2 | Ongoing (2/10 episodes) | Currently airing on iQIYI and Channel 3, every Monday

Synopsis: On the night of his greatest achievement, the actor Armin lost his life after he was betrayed by the one he loved most. But death was not the end. Reborn as his younger self, he is given a second chance: to meet his mysterious fan, T.D. and to take revenge on the one who betrayed him. Is it Armin’s destiny to RESET his life?

4. I'm the Most Beautiful Count ฉันนี่แหละท่านขุนที่สวยที่สุด (produced by Change 2561)

Premieres August 1 | 13 episodes | Airing on iQIYI and One31, every Friday

Synopsis: Not long after famous actor Prince came out as queer and rose to the top of the entertainment industry, he wakes up in the body of a good-looking noble in the Thongburi Kingdom of the past.

5. SHINE ชาย (produced by Be On Cloud)

Premieres August 2 | 8 episodes | Airing on WeTV and Channel 7, every Saturday

Synopsis: A tale of love and ideals unfolds in an era resistant to diversity set against the backdrop of the political turmoil of 1969-1971. Trin, a principled economist, collides with Thanwa, a free-spirited hippie. When they encounter Moira, an extravagant widow who lives far beyond the boundaries of freedom, their lives take an unpredictable turn.

6. 4 เรื่องราวแห่งชะตา (lit. 4 Stories of Destiny) (produced by Make A Picture) - TBA

7. เลือนรางและจางหาย (lit. Fading and Vanishing) (produced by Kantana Group) - TBA

Note on the THACCA Grant Funding, previously explained by @virtualtadpole

I went and looked into the official grant criteria, and the distinction you made here is correct, except that the network and independent categories are entirely separate from the BL/GL group. Of the lakorn/series categories, they had 30 million baht earmarked for at least 3 TV network projects, another 30 milion for at least 5 independent studios, 3 million for at least 2 children's shows (which was redistributed as no one submitted a project), and 32 million baht for BL/GL, which was further divided into two subcategories: 20 million baht for at least 4 BL/GL productions (at least 8 episodes of at least 30 minutes, with a total budget of at least 6 million baht), and 12 million baht for at least 3 BL/GL newcomer productions (at least 6 episodes of at least 20 minutes, with a total budget of at least 4 million baht). Applicants are required to have previously produced a BL/GL or participated in a BL/GL production (respectively for each subcategory, presumably).

Oh, and the grant statement says for projects to be considered, they need to (1) promote works that show variety and internationally competitive quality, OR (2) promote generation of employment and revenue for the industry, OR (3) showcase cultural worth and reflect and publicize the Thai identity to the international stage.

[THACCA] did say they received 894 submissions in total, with 88 final recipients. I do think the selection committee would be more partial to stuff more likely to sell internationally, though.

The announcement mentions a working window of April - 9 September... [Although] they aren't required to finish production by 9 September, but they have to submit a production plan with at least three days of principal photography having been completed

[sagaduwyrm]

DCxDP Idea - Tucker x Tim Soulmate AU:

Now on AO3

So the Justice League believes the Fentons and the GIW. Not completely, but enough. That’s the bad news. The worse news is that they have Danny, and are apparently planning to use him in some kind of spell to banish all the ghosts from the living plane. Which, okay, sure, not the worst idea, except that trying to banish a Liminal is a great way to kill them instead, and guess what everyone in Amity Park is? Not to mention what powering such a ritual could do to Danny.

Tucker is not having a panic attack. He might have one later, but right now he has a job to do.

So the thing about the Justice League is that they’re powerful and together they cover each other’s weaknesses, but individually they are, if not manageable, then at least survivable. They can’t take on the entire league, but Ghosts and their ilk have fangs for a reason, and every predator knows how to divide and conquer.

Technus and Skulker are using Lex Luthor’s tech to deal with the Supers. Jazz has got emotional manipulation and FrightKnight’s sword to take down the Flashes. Desiree agreed to start a mage’s duel with the Justice League Dark. Sam, Ember, Johnny, and Kitty hopefully have the watchtower in hand, with Walker playing backup to get Danny free.

Tucker has two jobs. One, work with Technus to take down the Justice League communications without making it look like anything is up. Two, for the love of the Ancients, do not let the Bats realize something is wrong.

And you know what? He’s got this. Duul Aman was the most feared sorcerer of his time. Tucker isn’t him, not really, but he’s no slouch in the magic department. Egyptian magic, the way Duul Aman knew it, was almost like code. Relearning it was as easy as breathing, but the real reason Tucker’s job is to deal with the bats is because he took it further than his last life ever could. Sure, he’s a dab hand at illusions, his curses are almost as nasty as Sam’s, and instant sandstorms are never not useful, but where he really thrives is with tech. Afterall, if ectoplasm can be combined with computers, why can’t magic?

Tucker is the world's first technomage and he’s goddamn proud of it.

It’s his saving grace now. Infiltrating Oracle’s system took weeks, and he still wasn’t able to look at or do anything important, but it was enough of an opening for his magic. He wormed his illusion through every single piece of bat-tech he could reach, whispering in their ear, Gotham needs you. The Justice League is fine. Gotham is where the problems are. 

Weeks of work and sleepless nights, and he still doubts he’ll be able to keep them from noticing anything for more than a few hours. Luckily, by that time Danny will be free and Tucker will be long gone from Gotham.

This confidence lasts until he brushes hands with another guy in the cafe. He can feel the bond snap into place, a soulmark crawling across his body. Tim Drake stares at him, eyes wide but sharp. 

Tim Drake.

Red Robin.

Shit.

Time to see whether fighting ghosts extends to fighting humans, because he is not letting this asshole mess up Danny’s rescue.

+++

The first thing Tim notices when he meets his soulmate is the rage in the man’s eyes.

They’re really pretty eyes. A bright, glowing gold, lined in kohl. Almost certainly a sign of magic. 

They look at him like the man wants to turn him inside out and burn the remains. Tim’s a little offended, beneath the shock and awe.

“Fuck,” the man hisses. Tim’s offense is starting to supersede his surprise. He’s a catch, thank you very much.

He says as much. The man laughs, and it’s almost friendly.  The cafe is empty. The people of Gotham have good instincts, and there’s something in the air around this man that puts Tim’s hackles up.

“You know, I think that’d be more believable if you hadn’t started this.”

Tim’s brow wrinkled. He felt like he’d remember starting something with his soulmate though? What was he supposed to have started, anyway? Saying ‘this’ wasn’t very specific. 

He rolled and dodged to avoid the sudden lash of golden sand. Ah. A fight. He could do that. Figure out why his soulmate was angry later, defeat him now.

He reached up to call for backup and only got static.

Shit.

He was on his own. Time to show this bastard why underestimating a bat was a bad idea.