#the embossed cover came out so well

[silverbrume]

The gorgeous shark art book from @requinoesis arrived today and I’m utterly charmed. Thank you for all the art and the bonus cards and sticker!

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine being the only person the King is protective of

King: What's wrong? I thought you were going to go to bed.

You: *has your arms wrapped around yourself for comfort* I... I was... but when I got there I could tell someone was or had been in there without my permission.

King: It was probably Yamato, that boy lives in the walls like a rat.

You: I know he does, but I can tell it wasn't him.... who ever it was, I could smell them all over my room, even on my sheets. I think it was a man, based off the smell.

King: What do you mean it was on your sheets?

You: well, when I entered my room I could kind of smell them, and I kinda figured it was just some servant, but then flopped down on my bed.

King: you shouldn't flop.

You: *ignored him* and I could smell them on my pillows, and my blankets, and even my stuffed animals. So I glanced around, and the only thing out of place was my closet door.

King: did you check the closet?

You: no, I was afraid someone was waiting for me in there, so I got the hell out of there.

King: I take it you came here to ask me to go check it out for you.

You: *nods*

King: alright, let's go.

At your room

King: *squats down and scuttles into your room* wow, the smell really is quite pungent. *Opens your closet door to find a surveillance snail installed* This can't be good for your snail, they need sunlight and fresh air.

You: I don't own a snail.

King: *notices Queen's embossed insignia haphazardly covered with tape off* he fucking didn't.

You: what?

King: let's check the rest of the room to see if we find any more of these. *Holds up the snail for you to see*

You: *after finding three more snails* who would do this?

King: Don't worry about it, I'll place one of the animal mary's in here when you're not around to make sure this doesn't happen again.

You: thank you, but what are we going to do with all of these guys.

King: leave that too me.

In Queen's lab

Queen: *cracks his knuckles as he sits down at his computer* okay let's see what m spy camera see.

Snails: *in the men's bathhouse*

Queen: *stares at his screen that's covered in hairy asses, before he turns off the entire system* I think I'm gonna throw up.

King: *drops from the rafters* Don't put those in people private rooms, if you do it again I'll alert Kaido.

Queen: ...ugh fine, lesson learned.

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[ih34rt-lanceystrxlly]

Chewing Cotton Wool

table of contents/pairing: daniel ricciardo x reader

summary: Once she's gone, she's all he can see

warnings: angst with a cliffhanger

message from A☆: First post !! so this has a little bit of the song lyrics of the song it's inspired by (Chewing Cotton Wool by The Japanese House) mixed in. How I formatted it is that you'll read part of the song lyrics and then you'll see the corresponding part of the fic (btw, i didn't use all of the lyrics, only the ones i felt worked well with the storyline). And the ending might lead to a part two, but we'll see !! I really love this fic, so I hope you enjoy...

She's the only one around And she's turning off the lights And she's inside every crack She's the only thing in sight

It's been months since they last saw each other, months since Daniel left Y/N. He didn't want to, neither of them did, but it was what was best for them. The relationship was never toxic, just strange and distant. He was away all the time, so focused on racing he'd often ignore her without realizing it, even when she came to the paddock with him. As much as Daniel adored her, he knew she deserved better. Sure, it hurt alot when he told her, but for some reason it hurt more now. Everything reminded him of her now. She's the only thing on his mind, the only thing he could see.

She's the only one I see [...] She's the dust upon the sill She's everywhere

Daniel saw Y/N everywhere, in the little things. He saw her in the empty space beside him in bed every morning, in the sound of a stranger's laugh, when he'd pass the places they'd go to together, when he'd smell someone wearing her same perfume. It was almost like his subconscious craved her; her physical being, her scent, her voice, everything about her. He missed the way her fingers laced through his hair, the feeling of her breath on his neck whenever she'd whisper something funny to him, he needed it all like the oxygen he breaths.

She's the trailer for a film She's the curtain at the end

Even movies would remind him of Y/N. Every movie they'd seen together, the ones she'd loved since was a kid, the ones she wouldn't shut up about even months after watching them; each and everyone reminded Daniel of her. When the trailer for one of those films would pop up, he'd curse his brain for reminding him of her. Sometimes, when he was missing her enough, he'd cave and watch one of the movies. It didn't matter if it was a comedy or a drama, some stupid chick-flick or a rom-com, by the time the credits were rolling he'd have tears sliding down his cheeks. He'd give the world to watch them with her again.

She's the sound of your own voice She's someone else's drink

Like usual, he'd go out with friends after races. You'd think this was a good way to distract himself, but something would always remind Daniel of her. He'd look around at the other people surrounding him, when someone else's drink would catch his eye: it was the same drink Y/N always ordered. It's funny how something so menial would remind him of her and leave him longing for a past time. He'd turn back to continue speaking to whoever he was with, pushing that feeling of pining down to the pit of his stomach.

She's a memory I record [...] She's chewing cotton wool

Daniel's at home, cleaning out a drawer. It held multiple old polaroid pictures and scrapbook albums, all from different points in his life. As he's going through them he finds an album with a navy blue, fabric hard cover. It has both his and y/n's initials embossed on the spine, and as he flipped through it he felt tears pricking his eyes. Photographs, movie tickets, dinner bills, doodles, little notes filled the album. It was like his life was flashing before his eyes, now she was just a memory recorded in those albums. Everything now was like mourning the death of something, maybe something in both of them died when they broke up.

He knew it was over, it had been over. But as he typed her number into his phone, was it actually the start of something else...?

[winged-self-indulgence]

“What’cha got there?”

It was the first thing Z asked as soon as you sat down in the booth, and you paused briefly before settling fully into the seat. As much of a non-sequitur as the query was, you weren’t too surprised. After all, you had turned up at a bar with a book thicker than the table between the both of you held under your arm. That would have already been strange enough, were it not for the title.

The demon wrinkled his nose at the shiny Gothic-style lettering embossed on the cover. “The Dark Grimoire: The Art of Demonic Entities and Magickal Forces–? Human, what the fuck is that?”

“What?” You blinked innocently. “Is it wrong to want to find out more about you?”

“There is nothing about me that would turn up in that trashy abomination of a book,” Z hissed at the hardback volume, his tail whipping back and forth in agitated motions. “For hell’s sake, they didn’t even get the sigil right.”

You studied the silver shape on the cover; a complex array of loops, straight lines, and crescent moons all enclosed within a double-ringed circle. You decided to take Z’s word for it, but still pulled the book closer to yourself and out of range of dark claws that had gouged furious grooves into the table’s surface.

“Well, don’t you want to know what humans think about demons?” You pointed out reasonably, to which Z made a face like you’d crammed a lemon into his mouth – rind and all. You tried again. “I wouldn’t mind if you read up on what humans are like. Do you even know anything about us?”

The demon scoffed, puffing out his chest proudly. “Oh please. I have been around since before humanity was a speck on the cosmic horizon. There is nothing about you little beings that is beyond my understanding.”

“Cool. Quick question: how many bones are inside my body?”

“Fuck if I know. At least 10?” Z shrugged, ignoring your unimpressed stare in favour of a sly smirk. “Though it could be 11 if we–”

“Oh, look at that. It’s time to shut up and read!” You interrupted loudly. “No talking during reading time!” You cracked open the book and planted it in front of your face, perfectly obscuring your view of Z who immediately began to whine.

“Oh come on,” he reached over, clearly planning to snatch the book, but you leaned further away. With a sigh, Z folded his arms across the table and sank into a melodramatic malaise. “Seriously, Dove? You’re going to read a trashy, fake book about demons when you’ve got a real, bona-fide infernal entity in the flesh right next to you? I’m hurt. I may never recover.”

“There’s no talking during reading time,” you mumbled again, surprisingly finding yourself more engrossed in the book. Most of what you knew about demons came from pop culture references and video games. Even if most of the book was made up nonsense, you still recognized some of the names.

Z hissed and clicked his teeth. Then he perked up with a grin. “Well, if you find that pile of rancid waste so interesting, then I can’t help but be curious,” he hummed. “Read to me.”

The look you shot Z was skeptical. “Really?” The request was so out of character that you felt the need to ask, to be certain. “You want me…to read aloud to you?”

“That a problem?” He asked, batting his lashes. Or at least you assumed that was what he did. His eyes were almost impossible to see beneath the mop of brown that could charitably be described as a hairstyle. “What can I say, I am an enjoyer of the literary arts.”

“Right,” you drawled. Your every sense told you that this was a trap, a trick of some sort, but how? You were the one who had brought the book, and Z was on the other side of the table. Reluctantly, eying him all the while, you slowly lifted the pages and returned your attention to the words on the paper. “And lo, the Seventy-first Spirit is Dantalion. He is a Duke Great and Mighty, appearing in the Form of a Man with many Countenances, all Men's and Women's Faces; and he hath a Book in his right hand. His Office is to teach all Arts and Sciences unto any – ngh!”

“What was that, Dove?” Z tilted his head, a beatific smile on his lips. Under the table, the tip of his tail slipped into the gap between your underwear and skin and pressed between your legs. It curled teasingly, the flat shape of it sliding further inch by agonizingly slow inch. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Something about being a nerd I guess?”

“Z–!” You tried to sound firm, but a flex of his tail dissolved the rest of whatever you might have said.

The demon clicked their tongue with a smile. “Hm, no I don’t think that’s what comes next, dummy.”

Tears beaded at the corner of your eyes, blurring your vision. Your thighs twitched and shook beneath the bar, and you clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the whimpers that threatened to pour out. The muffled sound of distant conversations sent a flood of red-hot mortification sweeping over you, and you quickly glanced around the bar to check that no one was watching.

Immediately, Z lunged across the table and grabbed your face, forcing your eyes to meet his. His tail flexed, pumping faster. “Don’t look at them, Dove. This isn’t about them. Keep reading.”

You tried. The book felt heavy in your clumsy hands, body sensitized and aching for release. The words swam before your eyes until, with a muffled gasp, you gave up – soaking your pants and Z’s tail before collapsing face-down on the table.

The demon had the nerve to tut with faux disapproval. “Aw, poor baby,” he hummed condescendingly, relishing your whine as he slowly pulled his tail out from your underwear. Your cheeks went hot at the sight of it, shiny, slick, and dripping with your juices. Z brought the appendage to his lips and – maintaining eye contact all the while – dragged his tongue over it, licking the flared tip clean as if you were a gourmet meal to be savoured.

“Such a messy human,” he teased, sitting back down and placing his chin in his hands. “How unfortunate. I suppose you’ll just have to start all over again.”

[jebewonmorelike]

Don't Push It

wc: 1.5k pronouns: none used; n/a warnings: light swearing, flufff, i guess angst but not serious, jiwoong is jealoussss, slightly unsafe wielding of scissors lmao summary: you've been opening youth in the shade albums for hours now trying to find the photocard of your boyfriend jiwoong... you're trying to find your boyfriend jiwoong's photocard, right (y/n)? ~masterlist~ ♡ ~kofi (no pressure at all)~ I DID IT. I POSTED. FINALLY. HAHAHHA HELP i hate working. after pulling at least one jiwoong inclusion from every album i bought, i've decided to honor jiwoong's dedication to trying to become my bias with this fic. okay, now i'm gonna try to make a pt 2 for the gunwookie fic i posted at the beginning of the month. let's see if i can get that done this week :)

“Come on, come on, COME ON,” you shout, taking one of the blades of your scissors and slicing through the plastic packaging of yet another album. “If there’s a god, please. I’m begging you here.”

You throw your scissors down onto your kitchen table, tearing off the plastic wrap and not-so-carefully shaking the packet of album inclusions out of the booklet.

Having bought many groups’ albums in the past, you had to admit you were pretty impressed with WAKEONE’s packaging for ZeroBaseOne’s debut mini-album. They had managed to go above and beyond when it came to the details. Every item was printed with a logo or the members’ names or the album title and often with all three. Not even the posters were left blank on the back sides. There was a really cool thermal image on the cover of the Youth version and there were elegant transparent pages throughout each booklet. 

Nothing was lazily scrambled together and the inclusions were all safely secured in a sealed (and logo-embossed) pouch like the one you are ripping open with your teeth right now like a feral squirrel.

“COME ON, COME ON!” You shout in anticipation, emptying the pouch of its contents onto your table in front of you. Sifting through the various items, you search for the photocard-- breezing past a Hanbin standee, a Taerae transparent, and Gunwook’s (adorable) godawful coaster design, you finally spot the photocard.

You squeal, snatching the photocard that’s hiding under the sticker pack to reveal...

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you groan, slamming the smiling picture of Gyuvin down on the table in frustration. You’d pulled the exact same photocard four albums ago.

You’re so engrossed in your fury of desperate album-opening, you don’t hear the bathroom door open-- your boyfriend walking into the kitchen with only a towel tied around his waist. Normally, you’d be quite distracted by this, but, right now, he might as well be a fly buzzing around your apartment.

The scissors are in your hand again, wildly cutting open the last Shade version album that you bought to "support your boyfriend". You’d preordered two sets of each album version, but after seeing a full template of all of the inclusions-- you’d bought fifteen more Shade versions and set out on a mission to pull one specific photocard.

“How’s my baby?” Jiwoong’s hands suddenly resting on your shoulders causes you to jump; having not even noticed his presence. He sees your surprise and kneads your shoulders soothingly. “Did I startle you? You didn’t know I was in the shower?”

You look up at him, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t even know you were home.”

“Oh,” Jiwoong says, a little pout forming on his lips. “Ouch.”

You giggle, but the sudden widening of your boyfriend’s eyes in what seems like fear causes you to frown. “What’s wrong?”

You follow Jiwoong’s gaze all the way to your hand-- to find you’ve accidentally been pointing the blades of your scissors at him for the past minute. You slowly lower them to the table, giving him an awkward smile.

“Honey, don’t you think you’ve gone through enough albums?” He asks, taking a seat next to you on the kitchen table bench as you begin to rip the plastic off of your last album. Seeing the pile of photocards with his face on them, Jiwoong sifts through them-- surely noticing that you have yet to pull the second photocard of him from the Shade version of the album. “You know I literally could’ve gotten you all of my photocards for free.”

“Oh, uh,” you stammer, balling up the plastic wrap in your hand and tossing it into the open trash can next to the kitchen counter. You remove the pouch of inclusions and cut it open with your scissors. “I know, yeah. But that would... Um... Ruin the fun! You know?”

“It doesn’t really look like you’re having that much fun,” Jiwoong observes as he notices the light sheen of anxiety-induced sweat glistening over your skin, the redness of your eyes from how much you’ve been rubbing them in frustration, and the slight unkemptness of your hair from the way you were scrunching it up in your fists angrily when you’d pull the wrong photocard yet again.

“What do you mean? I’m having a blast!” You try to assure your boyfriend, but in your attempted demonstration of elation, you forget the presence of scissors in your hand once more. The blades point towards Jiwoong threateningly, causing him to blink back at you nervously. You bite your lip and lower the scissors to the table again. “Sorry.”

“After you open this one, you’re going straight to bed,” he replies, standing up from the table and walking towards the refrigerator. “Unconscious. Where you can’t wield scissors at your loving boyfriend.”

You shake the packet of inclusions out onto the table-- so nervous you’re unable to look. Eyes closed, you touch the different paper objects on the table; having opened so many albums, you know what each piece is just by feeling them. 

Your heart stops when you find the photocard. As you lift it up in both of your hands, you take a deep breath and pray for it to be the right one. You hear Jiwoong walking back towards you as you finally open your eyes.

“YOU DID IT!” //// “NO GOD WHY!?”

You and your boyfriend’s overlapping but contrasting exclamations shock you both. Jiwoong’s brow furrows confusedly as he sits back down next to you-- snatching the photocard from your hand and examining it.

“This is definitely the photocard of me that you were missing,” Jiwoong says, grinning at you as he pats your head. “Did you not recognize it in all your excitement?”

“Um,” you stall, doing your best to hide your disappointment. “Exactly! Yeah, I thought it was the other one for a second.”

Jiwoong’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’re still not excited though. Why aren’t you excited?”

“I--... I’m just tired!” You answer, wrapping yourself around your boyfriend’s arm cutely. “You were totally right. All of that album-opening was exhausting! I should go to bed right now.”

“Right,” Jiwoong responds after a long moment. “Yeah, you should get to bed, baby. Go on-- I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

You lean in, kissing him sweetly before hopping up from the table and walking towards the door to your bedroom. Just as you’re about to head inside, Jiwoong suddenly calls:

“(Y/N), there’s another album you forgot to open!”

Running back towards the table in an absolute frenzy, you trip over the leg of the bench-- falling right into Jiwoong’s arms. 

He looks at you expectantly. “Now why would you be running that fast to open another album if you’d already pulled the photocard you wanted?”

Realizing that this had been a trap-- that there was no album you forgot to open and that your boyfriend had caught you in a lie-- you grimace sheepishly. 

“This isn’t the one you wanted?” Jiwoong asks with a pout, holding up the photocard you’d just pulled from the last album. 

You sigh heavily. “No. It’s not.”

He removes his arms from around you, causing you to fall to the bench. Folding his arms across his chest sulkily, Jiwoong asks, “Did you want this one at all?”

“Of course I did, I just...,” you try to soothe, but it’s no use. Jiwoong is already knee-deep in what you call a ‘Petty Fit’. Your boyfriend throws one at least once a week over the smallest of things and you usually find them incredibly endearing, if not also very funny.

But this time, his Petty Fit is undeniably justified. If only he’d let you explain.

“Do you want any of my photocards?” He asks, throwing his whole upper body down onto the kitchen table melodramatically. “Do you want me!?”

“Woongie,” you whine, grabbing his wrist as he starts to take the pile of his photocards in his hand and lean towards the trash can with them. “That’s enough.”

Jiwoong huffs and you can practically taste the metaphorical salt. “Whose photocard were you looking for?”

“Jiwoongie,” you whine again, but the adorable pout he’s giving you makes you weak. Reluctantly, you mumble, “Mattchu’s.”

“Which one?” He asks, like it matters.

“The one where he’s wearing a sweater,” you answer anyway.

“Can you hear that?” Jiwoong gasps, hand covering to clutch his heart. “It’s my heart shattering.”

Unable to endure this any longer, you throw your arms around your boyfriend-- hopping into his lap as he stares back at you through wide eyes. “I love you soooo much.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met-- nay, the most handsome man on the face of the planet!” You compliment, showering Jiwoong’s face in tiny kisses. He’s trying and failing to hold back a smile. “You’re perfect and I love your face and I love your photocards and I love your face on your photocards.”

“Okay, flattery might get you somewhere,” he says, avoiding your gaze to keep from grinning.

“And, if you must know, the photocard isn’t for me,” you confess, running a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. “It’s for my sister. She’s been obsessed with Matthew ever since she watched him in CAMP ZEROBASEONE and she doesn’t have enough money to buy multiple albums. I was just trying to get the photocard she wanted for her.”

Jiwoong meets your eyes again, his cheeks flushing a bit in embarrassment. “Likely story.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

He laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to him. “So you’re not thinking of leaving me for a dumpling?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you respond, before adding cheekily, “It would crush my poor sister.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Jiwoong echoes your warning, pressing his lips to yours before gently sliding you off of him and standing up from the table. Your heart skips a beat as you realize your boyfriend is still only wearing a towel as he runs off to your bedroom. “Give me one second!”

After about sixty seconds, Jiwoong reemerges from your bedroom; now wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and holding his arms behind his back. Making his way back over to the table, he sits down beside you again and produces a small rectangular object.

As it comes into focus, you realize what it is: the exact photocard of Matthew that you’d been searching for.

“Oh my god!” You squeal, snatching it out of Jiwoong’s hand. “You had it this whole time?”

He laughs, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Your boyfriend has everything you need. Just ask next time, okay? Woongie’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry for giving your company a ton of money,” you joke, kissing his cheek. “But I guess I should’ve known my boyfriend would have his boyfriend’s photocards.”

“They're not as good as my photocards, of course, but,” Jiwoong says, rolling his eyes as he grins at you. “If Mattchu will make your sister happy...”

You examine the photocard, smiling at the treasure you’d been hunting for. “He is cute though, isn’t he?”

“Don’t push it.”

[angellayercake]

The Diary of Cardinal Terzo

When the Cardinal had asked for your help to tidy up his office, you had thought it was maybe just an excuse to get you alone. He had plenty of reasons to ask for assistance, with his notoriously packed schedule. He took confessions, taught classes, met regularly with other senior clergy members, and had an almost constant pile of paperwork to be completed. It was a wonder he had time for anything else and yet he did. Because if he wasn’t to be found doing any of his endless tasks he was otherwise occupied with an equally endless list of lovers. In his rooms, in the dorms, in the chapel, in the gardens, in dark alcoves and not so dark alcoves, even once in the kitchen. So you couldn’t be blamed for thinking perhaps it was your turn to get better acquainted with the Abbey’s favourite Cardinal. You had only been right about one thing however, you were alone, entirely alone with cupboards and boxes and piles to sort through. He hadn’t even been here when you arrived, all that had greeted you was a note. 

You had done as he had asked. You had tidied the desktop first, sorting through the completed and as yet unfinished paperwork, the stationary tray had been emptied, cleaned and restocked and you had moved on to the drawers. There was, a lot, you found as you pulled it open the overstuffed contents came spilling out, hundreds of receipts and notes and assorted things. You did not envy whoever would be reconciling his expenses this year but scooped them all into a folder so at least they would be together even if they were in disarray. The second drawer is much the same as you sort through the contents setting aside the more personal items. A dog-eared photo of him and his brothers is pushed right to the back but rather than neglect the soft creases make you think it has been handled regularly so you lean it up against the base of his desk lamp while you work. When you get to the bottom drawer you slam it shut almost immediately, not wanting to take the time to discern if the pants inside were used or not. He could think again if he thought you would sort through his trophy collection but with that side done you moved on to the other. The top drawer is surprisingly already tidy, filled with neatly sorted writing supplies, a pile of his monogrammed paper and envelopes, and a collection of sealing wax and stamps. The second drawer down is tidier still containing only a beautifully embossed black and gold diary.

You shouldn't look really, probably, but he had trusted you with his panty collection so a little snoop at his schedule wouldn't hurt would it? Maybe you would even find out when he would be returning so you could greet him with a little surprise. With that in mind you open the cover turning through the first gilded pages until you get to 1st of January. But instead of a list of meetings and engagements you found what appeared to be his journal. You hesitate for a moment but then the subject of his writing catches your attention and your curiosity gets the better of you.

A challenge has been set! As the time ticked over from the old year to the new I found myself most pleasurably occupied. Sister Elouise was below me and Bishop Necropolitus, well he was exactly where I like him.The combination of her tight wet cunt and his thick cock had even my considerable carnal stamina at its limits when she uttered something that almost sent me over the edge then and there. 'Fill me up Cardinale,' she moaned as I thrust into her. 'Oh he liked that Sister.' Necropolis responded having felt the way I involuntarily responded to her words. I tried to pause, to delay the inevitable but he took control of the situation, fucking into me hard and in turn forcing me deeper into Elouise. It was exquisite. 'Would you like to be filled as well Emeritus?' He panted into my nape.'Begin the year as you mean to go on. Creampies to honour our Lord, maybe you will even make it to 666 Cardinale?' I was too far gone to comprehend if he was only joking but as we three came together in perfect grinding friction the idea took root. What better way to lead our congregation in the favoured Sin of Lust? And of course I should record my efforts for posterity. May all future Cardinales follow in my footsteps!

Somehow you had stumbled upon the Cardinal's sex diary and what a read it was and only the first day. This did at least shed some light on his packed social schedule. If he was going to meet his target of 666 he would need to, you paused doing some slow mental maths, 1.8 cream pies a day! And now you were more than intrigued, was he on target to hit his goal? The only way to find out was to read on. Looking around you decide you have been productive enough to earn a break so you get comfortable in his leather desk chair and turn to the next page. 

So ever since reading this the idea of Cardinal Terzo and his 666 cream pies has been circulating in my brain and I knew I had to use it for something. To celebrate the follower milestone I've just hit and to thank you all for being here I thought maybe we could have a look into Cardinal Terzo's 2014 diary, the year before he became Papa and have a read about some of his cream pie related escapades. I would love for people to request a date (and drop any details you want included e.g pronouns, names, kinks, positions etc etc as long as he is coming in something or having something coming in him I'm counting it as a cream pie.) Send it in an ask or send me a DM and let's see if Cardinal Terzo managed to hit his target!! (One last quick disclaimer I know this is the farthest thing from safe sex but let's pretend in this universe there is a special secret satanic sti and pregnancy protection just for fun) 

[still-not-over-transformers]

Could I get headcanons (or a oneshot if you prefer) of tfp ratchet and tfp optimus (seperate or together, to quote road to el dorado: both, both is good) with a male human reader who courts them via love letters.

This was fun and I loved it!!!

TFP Ratchet & Optimus x Male Human Reader

Word Count: 500+

Optimus:

The Prime was taken by shock when he received and read the first letter you had sent him. Your words of adoration were eloquent and poetic, painting himself in a light he had never seen himself in. Optimus was ever humble and focused on being a just leader, concerned with being fair to his fellow comrades. He hadn’t given much thought to romance, as there had not been the time nor the right bot/person present. After a tough day or an arduous battle with the Decepticons, sometimes he would find a new letter from his mysterious admirer. After time passed, Optimus found comfort and a bit of excitement from receiving your letters. 

The words on the frail paper were powerful yet soft and sensual declarations of your love and adoration for the Prime, and were especially soothing after a hard day. Of course, he would only read these letters in absolute privacy, keeping them just as close as the Matrix of Leadership. Near his spark. Romance was something normally not in the cards for any Prime, as duty always came first. But oh how he wanted nothing more than to reach through the pages and reciprocate the love you had shown him. You knew him so well, so… intimately, and Optimus began to desire you in the same way, even if he might never achieve it. 

He would dream of being with you, seeing your face, and he imagined how handsome such a face would be. Such sweet and loving words could only come from the lips of what he had come to know as an angel…

Ratchet: 

Ratchet was a mech of science, and often found such ideals as romance and affection to be unnecessary distractions from his work. Yet when a mysterious letter addressed to himself was placed on his desk, he couldn’t help but at least open it. After all, how many letters do Autobots get? His curiosity piqued, Ratchet would open and read the first letter, albeit first taking note of the artistic calligraphy which embossed his name on the cover of the letter. He opened the letter in the middle of the base, casually reading through the letter before the flowery prose and words made him a bit red in the faceplate. This would lead him into excusing himself from the others and heading into a storage room to continue to read and process the words you had inked into the paper. 

At first, the medic refused to believe that simple words could get such a rise from him. But as more of your letters arrived on his desk, the medic would resign himself to scheduled “breaks” to sneak off to the storage wing to read your sweet and often sensual words. Ratchet would never let anyone else see him like this, akin to as Jack put it, ‘a giddy highschool girl with a crush.’ Honestly, the aging medic would have never thought romance was something he would desire, yet here were your letters and intoxicating words. 

He would fantasize what you looked like. From eons of experience, he could tell you undoubtedly had to be attractive, especially your soul. Ratchet would most definitely try to figure out who and where you were, as he was far too curious now.  

[tmblrcolouredpaper]

A Past's Cover-Up

Changbin/ Reader fluff, crying, comfort, kisses wc: 1109

You are looking at old photos with Changbin and he tells you all the things you wished to hear at the time when the photos were taken.

"I wonder how it would have been if I had met you earlier in life," Changbin speaks, eyes wandering over the high school photos that you are showing him.

There are some from your prom and some from a class trip, a few selfies you took at home between study sessions when you accidentally looked in the mirror and found your hair in its homely beauty that always vanishes the second the school's air has its invisible yet forceful hands on it.

"Oh, you look so cute here!" Changbin squeals and takes the photo from you to examine it up close.

"I had no fashion sense back then," you whine, trying your best not to pull the photo away and banish it into the box it came from.

"No, you had such a cozy style, a perfect balance between mundane student life and being the most beautiful person in every room you enter," he compliments and pats your head, an amused smile portraying how intrigued he is with every version of you.

"You wouldn't have looked at me if we had been in the same school," you whisper, the feeling of the old days catching up and splashing like waves through your veins. It is the unpleasant side effect of nostalgia, the mixture of past reality embossed by the limitation of your perceptions and time's premise of letting any realism fade into illusion.

"I would have," he confidently responds, circling his arm around your shoulder to pull you against him when he takes the next photo from you.

"You look stunning. Did you choose your prom attire yourself?" he asks, his fingertips wandering over your frame among your classmates.

"I did," you reply, scanning over the other people in the photo. Everyone looks so young. It does not match the feeling you had about them when the picture was taken. Back then, you thought that everyone was already an adult. They seemed confident and knew what they wanted out of life.

"You did well," Changbin praises and lifts the photo to his lips, placing a soft kiss on where your head is printed.

"What's that for?" you laugh out in surprise at his action.

"A little kiss for little you," Changbin chuckles, turning his head and placing a kiss with the same sentiment onto your lips.

A tsunami of tears wells up in your eyes, and silent streams rack down your cheeks, unhindered and free. You are not surprised. It is not the first time you thought about how life could have been if you already had had Changbin there with you. You daydreamed about how he could have been waiting for you after class or how you two could have gone on a walk to get lunch after school, going to his or your home to do homework, enjoying each other's company in quiet. You are sure that Changbin would have insisted on carrying your bag, and you are also sure that you would have made it a habit to always have his favorite snacks with you. It is a recurring daydream of a reality you wished you had instead of the solitary one you really lived in.

"The way I would have danced with you," Changbin chuckles, his gaze softening as he wipes away your tears, but only more are to come. They fall and drench his shirt, but he only pulls you closer, letting you hide in his embrace where you are safe in all your facets and with all the versions that you carry within you.

"I would have asked you if I could be your prom date. Would you have let me?" he asks, inviting you back into the present moment when you are caught up thinking of the past.

"Probably not," you shake your head. You look up and find Changbin pouting, nothing that a kiss couldn't fix.

"I did not plan on going to prom, so I wouldn't have accepted anyone asking me out," you explain and place your head back against his chest.

"Right," he remembers and picks up the next photo that shows you awkwardly posing on the edge of the bench.

"How old were you in this?" he coos, and you look at yourself, hands hidden in your sweater's sleeves, posture straight and inanimate next to your classmates being relaxed with smiles on their faces.

"Hmmm, I think fifteen?" you guess, wondering how it is possible that time and age feel so unreal, so disproportional.

Changbin repeats his action of placing a kiss on your younger self's forehead, proceeding to do the same to your current self that is lying in his arms.

"Imagine all the silly photos we would have made of each other if we had gone to the same school," he fantasizes, and you remind him that you believe he would probably not have registered your existence.

"Have a bit of faith in me. I would have fallen for you so hard back then. I would have made such a fool out of myself just to excuse myself for being in your presence," he laughs, carefully placing the pile of photos back in the box.

"I would have liked you so much. I would have done everything to make you happy," he whispers, holding your head with both hands, thumbs caressing the delicate skin under your eyes that is still wet, and when he tells you about all the ways he would have worked on making your days better, how you could have escaped to him whenever you needed, how he would have held your hand as long as he could when you were nervous before presentations, or how you would have only had to send him one message, and he would have sneaked out of the house to come to you in the late evenings of raging sorrow.

"I would have picked you up to go to prom, and I would have danced with you, boldly showing off in the center of the dance floor or hidden away outside where the music would have been barely audible but in private, whatever you would have preferred. I would have laughed with you, and I would have brought you home, making sure your way is safe, and I would have tucked you in. We would have had a fantastic lazy breakfast, you know," he continues, painting a beautiful cover over the image of your reality.

"I'm glad you're here now," you mumble, your voice trembling.

"I'm glad too. Don't worry. I'll make sure you have all the little moments you always dreamt of from now on, and don't be shy about telling me all the new ones."

[koko-mochi]

scholar — for the single-word drive!

"Wait," the archon hummed a small sound of disbelief, "don't tell me the vaunted Warrior of Light doesn't know how to read!"

R'koko sucked on her bottom lip, her brow creased in concentration as she stared at the pages in front of her. Raw text--no pictures or diagrams--filled the paper. When her friend had invited her to spend an afternoon in the Noumenon together, R'koko had assumed that all Y'shtola wanted was some company--something to break up the monotony of reading book after book on opening voidgates and navigating the rift; perhaps some of R'koko's insight based on the times that she had spent traversing the rift. R'koko had not been expecting Y'shtola to put a book in her hands and ask her to read it aloud.

It was easy to forget the cloudy-eyed Scion was blind. For the most part, she moved through the world as well as anyone else, using aethersight to find her way. And while she was not forthcoming about the toll that aethersight took on her body, there was no denying the benefit that it provided her. Her limitations did, however, make themselves known when it came to books. In a tragic twist, the scholarly miqo'te could not see the words on a page unless they were written in enchanted ink or embossed into the paper. Stone tablets were easier, because letters were carved into their surface, but if they were worn and weathered Y'shtola struggled with them.

Regardless, Y'shtola was never one to let her struggles show, so R'koko didn't think twice about whether her friend would be able to read books on her own with aethersight.

In this case, however, it would seem not. R'koko's heart had hammered in her chest as Y'shtola put the book in her hands. The Warrior of Light had opened the cover and been disappointed and a bit panicked to find no pictures. At least pictures would have helped R'koko fake it, keep her best friend believing that she could read, staving off pity and disappointment and deep embarrassment.

Instead line after line of strange characters stretched out across the page. And about a minute into her halting and labored attempt to read the book aloud, Y'shtola had stopped her, her face a mix of surprise and amusement. The Warrior of Light couldn't read.

"I never had reason to learn back home," R'koko murmured. And it was true. She had shown tremendous talent and skill as a hunter from a young age, and the leaders of her village cultivated those skills in her, rather than literacy or other more traditional elements of classroom education.

Y'shtola smiled gently. R'koko didn't want to look, didn't want to see the pity on her friend's face. But when the archon spoke there was no pity there, only kindness and intimacy. "I wish I could teach you. I wish I had known when we had first met in La Noscea." She stifled a chuckle. "Maybe I did know, could tell, by the way you stared at that memorial stone in Seasong Grotto, with such a perplexed look on your face."

R'koko's shoulders sagged. "Your memory is too good, you know."

Y'shtola leaned forward, whispering into R'koko's ear, "Maybe you're just too memorable."

R'koko blushed, but the comment disarmed her. "Just," she stammered, "don't let the twins know I can't read, okay?"

"My lips are sealed," Y'shtola said, the corner of a smile creeping into her words. "Can you imagine though? You would never hear the end of it from Alphinaud."

R'koko rolled her eyes. "I know." They both laughed, and R'koko relaxed. Y'shtola really was her dearest, most important friend, and as the two miqo'te laughed together R'koko wondered why she had ever hidden this from her, because of course Y'shtola wouldn't judge her for her illiteracy.

"As for the matter at hand," Y'shtola nodded towards the book R'koko was holding, "shall we fetch G'raha? He'll be able to read that. And I have a feeling your secret will be safe with him."

"Right," said R'koko, "G'raha it is."

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Lizardperson/Nonbinary Reader

NSFW

Wordcount: 3,852

Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist | Commission for @doomfisthero

Tags & Warnings: plus size monster

Cillian was your professor once - now, you hope he can be a little bit more.

You used to spend hours tucked away in the corner of the university library, buried in books and the quiet hum of concentration that hung heavy in the air. Sometimes, you were studying; often, you were simply losing yourself in a world that wasn’t your own; but that was years ago, long before you'd traded your student status for a position in the bustling heart of your city’s business district.

One evening, after an especially gruelling day at work, you found yourself drawn to the comfort of an old habit. You retrieved a dusty, well-loved book from your shelves, a relic from your university days. The Cultures of Ancient Civilisations, the cover read, your fingers tracing the embossed letters as memories came rushing back.

Memories of university. Memories of late-night study sessions and rushed assignments. But most prominently, memories of him - Professor Cillian Beauroth.

Cillian was unlike anyone you'd ever met before. A lizardman with rich grey scales that shimmered under the sterile lights of the lecture hall, eyes the colour of molten gold, and a disposition as gentle as a summer breeze. The more you got to know him, the more you found yourself drawn in - not just by his otherworldly appearance, but his remarkable intelligence too.

His office hours were spent discussing your assignments, sure, but they extended to so much more. You would lose yourselves in discussions about art, philosophy, anything and everything - conversations that left you yearning for more.

You sighed, opening the book to a random page, a folded piece of paper falling from between the pages. As you unravelled it, you recognised Cillian's neat handwriting - a note he had given you after your final paper, filled with kind words and a suggestion for further reading. It was a snapshot of a time when you couldn’t help but admire the man who had become such a large part of your life.

A surge of longing washed over you, not just for university, but for Cillian. It had been years since you'd seen him, and suddenly, you yearned to know how he was, what he was doing now. A decision settled in your heart, almost before you realised it was forming.

You moved to your desk, powering up your laptop, and composed an email. It was to the point, catching him up on your life and work, ending with an offer to meet for coffee or tea.

It was a small step, but as you hit send, you couldn't help but feel a rush of anticipation. Would he remember you? Would he accept your offer? Only time would tell. For now, all you could do was wait and hope for a response.

***

Your heart pounded as you found your way to your first lecture; The Cultures of Ancient Civilisations. It was held in a small, intimate hall that filled quickly with eager students, all fresh-faced and brimming with the enthusiasm of youth.

You stood out in the crowd, and you knew it. The murmurs and glances thrown your way were impossible to ignore, the whisper of curiosity that washed over the room as noticeable as a physical touch. You were older than most of your peers, already in your thirties, while they were all just starting their adult lives.

Your attire, too, drew glances. Your clothes were chosen for comfort and style, although your chosen fashion often left people - nosy people - asking about your gender. While your classmates might have looked unsure or curious, you held your head high, found an empty seat near the back and settled in.

Just as the whispering reached its peak, the door to the lecture hall opened. A hush descended as the professor made his entrance. The room's attention shifted from you to the large figure striding confidently to the front of the room.

He was a figure of undeniable presence: his grey scales gleamed under the lights, and his golden eyes held a calm wisdom that immediately captivated you. He was taller and broader than anyone else in the room, the majority of his bulk hidden by a cute black waistcoat; yet he moved with a gentle grace that practically oozed confidence.

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor’s voice rolled smoothly over the silent lecture hall, deep and warm like rich velvet. He stood at the front, radiating both power and a comforting gentleness.

“I am Professor Cillian Beauroth, and I have the pleasure of being your guide through the fascinating journey of ancient civilizations this semester.”

With a flick of his wrist, he switched on the projector, revealing the day's lesson. His golden eyes scanned the room, taking in his students before he began his lecture. The way he moved, the quiet confidence he exuded, it was captivating. He was large, easily the biggest individual in the room, yet he didn't seem imposing. Quite the opposite; he was downright captivating.

His scales, a beautiful, iridescent grey-blue, shimmered under the artificial lights. The way he held himself, the kindness in his gaze, everything about him held you spellbound.

The lecture itself was a revelation. Cillian talked about the different periods, the rise and fall of civilizations, the changes that influenced the course of history. His passion for the subject was palpable, infectious even, each word delivered with conviction and a sense of wonder that drew you in.

When he spoke about the unique societal structure of ancient orcs, his eyes sparkled, his words painted vivid pictures in your mind. When he moved onto the sophisticated bureaucracy of Ancient Egypt, his voice dipped and flowed with the rhythm of the Nile, as if you were right there, witnessing the grandeur.

Before you knew it, the lecture was over. You were left staring at the empty screen, a sense of awe settling over you. It wasn't just the lecture, but the lecturer who had left such an impression on you. Cillian Beauroth was unlike anyone you'd ever met. His intellect, his passion, his gentle demeanor despite his imposing size, all made you yearn to know more about him.

You found yourself lingering after the lecture, watching as Cillian packed away his materials, his large hands deft and delicate. With a deep breath, you approached him, a question from the lecture forming on your lips.

When you saw Professor Cillian’s bright, sharp-toothed smile, your heart melted.

***

When a notification popped up on your phone two days later, your heart jumped. You recognised the email address instantly - a response from Cillian. You opened it quickly, your eyes scanning the words, the thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

It’s lovely to hear from you again. You always were one of my best students, and to hear that you’re doing so well fills me with joy. I’m doing well myself, still enjoying my work at the university.

If it isn’t too forward a suggestion, would you like to meet up in person to catch up? The Vintage Scrolls book fair is next weekend and I’ve been looking forward to it for months; it sounds like the sort of thing you would enjoy.

His suggestion of the upcoming Vintage Scrolls fair, an event held in a beautiful old hall near the university, seemed like the perfect place to meet. You had fond memories of attending the fair during your university days, losing yourself in the maze of book stalls, the quiet hum of bibliophiles, and the enticing smell of old paper and ink.

You responded instantly, and knew that the day couldn’t arrive quickly enough.

***

The day of the fair arrived with a flurry of nerves. As you walked into the bustling hall, you felt a strange sense of déjà vu. It was packed, people browsing the rows of books, some deep in conversation, others lost in their own world. Yet, amid the sea of faces, your eyes found him instantly.

There he stood, Cillian Beauroth, as distinguished and enchanting as you remembered him. Even after all these years, he was exactly the same - the same shimmering grey scales, the same soft features, the same gentle smile that reached his eyes. He was dressed casually, in a loose shirt and trousers that did little to hide his impressive figure towering above even most of the orcs dotted throughout the crowd.

Cillian was lbigger than anyone else in the room; but his size wasn't intimidating - quite the contrary. You had always appreciated it. He was so damn handsome, and it was difficult not to stare as your gaze roved across his figure.

As you approached him, you couldn’t help but admire his profile, his golden eyes skimming the titles of the books on a nearby stall. The sight of him, engrossed in his passion for knowledge, brought a warmth to your chest. Despite the crowd, in this moment, it felt like it was just the two of you.

As you reached him, he turned, his face breaking into a wide, genuine smile when he saw you. "Hello," he greeted, his voice deep and warm, causing a thrill to course through you. “It’s been too long!”

"Cillian," you returned the greeting, unable to hide the joy in your voice. You stepped into his open arms, hugging him tightly.

His softness only made the embrace more comfortable, like hugging a warm, firm pillow. You melted into his arms, your head fitting just right against his broad chest. He smelled of old books and expensive cologne, a scent that was undeniably Cillian, a scent you hadn’t realised you had missed so much until now.

After a moment, you pulled back, a soft smile on your face, and gestured towards the array of book stalls stretching out before you. "Shall we?"

Cillian nodded, his golden eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. You walked side by side, wandering through the stalls, enjoying the warmth emanating from him.

"You've always had a thing for romance novels, haven't you?" Cillian asked, holding up a copy of a book you'd once mentioned during a class discussion.

"Guilty as charged," you admitted with a laugh. "And you, always the historian."

Cillian chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You know me too well."

As you strolled through the fair, the playful, flirtatious conversation flowed easily. You felt a connection rekindling, the same intellectual spark you’d felt in your university days, now tinged with a deeper, more profound affection. There was something else too, an undercurrent of attraction that grew stronger with each shared smile, each touch of hands as you reached for the same book, each moment of comfortable silence as you both lost yourselves in the magic of the book fair.

"Cillian, do you remember the time we ended up arguing about Dostoevsky during your office hours?" you asked, a book catching your eye.

His laughter echoed through the hall, attracting a few curious glances. "How could I forget? You were so passionate about your interpretation of Crime and Punishment; you almost convinced me."

"And here I thought I'd managed to sway you to my perspective," you playfully shot back, an amused twinkle in your eyes. Cillian's laughter, rich and warm, echoed through the hall once more.

"You almost did. You;re quite persuasive," Cillian responded, his voice dropping a little, his golden eyes locked on yours. You could feel a blush creep up your neck at his words, at the way he was looking at you. It was flirtatious, full of admiration, and undeniably affectionate.

As you turned a corner, a particular book on one of the stalls caught your eye. It was a rare, out-of-print edition of a book you had long wanted but never been able to find. You picked it up, admiring the cover, feeling the weight of it in your hands.

"Oh, this is rare," you breathed out, excitement filling your voice. Cillian, noticing your enthusiasm, leaned in closer to look at the book.

"Do you want it?" he asked, his voice gentle. When you turned to look at him, there was a soft smile playing on his lips. His warm eyes spoke of a fondness that made your own smile widen.

"I've been looking for this edition for ages," you admitted. "It's just so pricey..."

"Nonsense," Cillian cut you off, his voice firm. "Consider it a gift, for old times' sake."

Before you could protest, he had taken the book from your hands and was heading towards the counter. The act, so simple and kind, left a warm feeling in your chest. It was such a Cillian thing to do. You watched him, admiration and a blooming affection tugging at your heartstrings.

The gratitude you felt was overwhelming, but there was something else too - a growing desire, a longing for more than just friendly exchanges and shared laughter. You looked at Cillian, the way his scales shimmered under the light, the way his shirt stretched over his broad chest, the way he carried himself with such grace and humility.

As the fair began to wind down, the crowd gradually dispersed, leaving behind an almost serene quietness. You looked over at Cillian, a slight sadness tugging at your heart. The day had passed by far too quickly, and the thought of parting ways made your mood sink.

"Do you fancy a cup of tea?" you asked, without really thinking. "I live just around the corner."

The suggestion caught him by surprise, but he recovered quickly, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "I'd love to."

The walk back to your flat was a quiet one, filled with gentle chatter and shared smiles. The sky had darkened, a beautiful tapestry of inky blues and purples, the stars beginning to twinkle like little diamonds. The evening air held a chill, causing you to shiver slightly. Noticing your discomfort, Cillian removed his coat, offering it to you without a second thought.

"Here," he said, his voice gentle. "It's cold."

His coat was enormous, swallowing you up as you wrapped it around yourself. It smelled just like him, old books and the slight sweetness of his cologne; a comforting, familiar scent that made your heart flutter. The warmth radiating from it was unmistakably Cillian, and it wrapped you up in a sense of comfort and safety.

As you walked in comfortable silence, you took in the sight of him - his graceful gait, the way his shirt hung from his impressive shoulders, how the moonlight caught on his scales, casting an ethereal glow. Cillian was stunning, in a way that left you breathless. You found your thoughts drifting, desire pooling deep in your gut.

By the time you reached your flat, the tension was palpable, a tangible entity that thrummed in the air between you. You unlocked the door, your heart pounding in your chest as you turned to look at him, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air. Your flat was warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the outside, but the heat radiating off Cillian as he followed you inside was far more intoxicating.

"You make yourself comfortable. I'll put the kettle on," you said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. The scent of Cillian still lingered, making your heart flutter.

You moved towards the kitchen, a small yet cosy space filled with warmth despite the outside chill. Plants crowded the windowsill above the sink, and the shelves were laden with cookbooks.

You could hear Cillian following, his heavy footsteps a comforting rhythm in the silence. "Your home is beautiful," Cillian commented, looking around your kitchen with appreciation. "It's very... you."

His words stirred a sense of pride within you. Your home was a reflection of you - a mix of books, art, comfort and practicality. To have Cillian admire it brought a warm glow to your chest.

"Thank you, Cillian. It's a bit of a sanctuary for me," you confessed, glancing at him over your shoulder. His golden eyes met yours, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"Everyone needs a sanctuary," he responded, his voice gentle yet laden with meaning. "Somewhere they can just... be."

The intimacy of the moment made your heart race. The conversation was easy, the banter playful, yet beneath it all, there was an undeniable attraction, a tension that had only grown since you left the book fair. You found yourself looking at Cillian in a new light, your eyes drawn to the small details – the glint in his golden eyes, the way his shirt stretched across his broad chest, the way his grey scales shimmered under the soft lighting.

The kettle whistled, breaking the silence, and you turned away to make the tea. The simple task allowed you a moment to collect your thoughts, to steady your racing heart. Yet, your mind kept drifting back to Cillian - to his warm smile, his easy banter, the way his presence filled the room.

"You know, I've always admired your sense of style," Cillian's voice sounded behind you, stirring you from your thoughts. "It's unique, just like you."

You turned around to face him, a blush creeping up your neck. His comment was flirty, complimenting, and left you a little breathless. You tried to respond in kind, despite the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. "And you, Cillian, have always been the definition of elegance and grace."

The compliment brought a smile to Cillian's lips, his golden eyes sparkling with amusement. The atmosphere between you was electric, the unspoken desire growing stronger. The small kitchen felt filled with Cillian, his scent, his warmth, his presence, and you wouldn't have it any other way. The longing was intense, a deep yearning that made your cheeks flush and your nervous smile grow.

As you handed Cillian his tea, your hands brushed against each other, a spark of electricity zinging between you. His touch was warm, gentle, and something inside you stirred. You met his gaze, golden eyes filled with warmth and... something else. Something you’d seen in your own reflection when you thought of him.

"Cillian..." you began, your voice shaky, "I need to tell you something."

He tilted his head, an inquisitive look crossing his features. "What is it?"

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. "Ever since I was your student... I've had feelings for you. I thought they would fade after I graduated, but they didn't. They grew stronger. Today, seeing you again... it's only confirmed what I've felt for a long time. I care about you, Cillian. More than just as a friend."

There, you’d said it. You held your breath, waiting for a response. His expression was unreadable, and for a moment you feared you’d crossed a line.

Then he set his tea down on the counter, stepping closer. The air between you was thick with anticipation. His hand came up, warm and reassuring on your shoulder.

"You might be surprised," he began, his voice soothing. Sweet "I've been waiting to hear those words for longer than you might think. I've felt the same for you, but I never wanted to impose, to make you uncomfortable."

Relief flooded through you, sweet and overwhelming, like the first sip of tea after a long, cold day. You looked up at him, into those golden eyes that held so much affection, and your heart soared.

Then he was leaning in, closer and closer, until you could feel his warm breath against your face. His lips met yours, soft and gentle. Kissing Cillian was different from kissing another human - his lips were slightly rough, his teeth a little sharper, his snout fitting awkwardly against your nose; but it was no less beautiful, no less passionate.

His hands cupped your face, his touch gentle yet firm, as he deepened the kiss. It was slow and sweet, a culmination of years of longing, of unspoken feelings and shared smiles. His kiss tasted of tea and longing, a taste that was undeniably Cillian.

When you pulled away, you were both breathless, smiles playing on your lips. His golden eyes were bright with happiness, and you couldn't help but reach up to trace the outline of his face.

"Cillian..." you whispered, your voice filled with a newfound joy. "I'm glad we met at that fair today."

"And I, you," he responded, his voice warm and laced with something you couldn’t quite figure out.

As you traced the outline of Cillian's face, your fingertips tracing over the pattern of his scales, your heart pounded in your chest. His eyes met yours, a spark of desire flashing in them. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a tantalising warmth that left you wanting more.

His lips met yours again, this time with a new intensity. It was a kiss filled with pent up longing, his lips moving against yours in a way that made you visibly shiver. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for more contact, more heat.

Cillian's hands roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine through your clothes. His touch sent shivers down your spine, a tangible evidence of his desire. His hands were large, strong, but gentle as they held you, a stark contrast to the fierce kisses he was stealing from your lips.

His lips moved to your neck, trailing kisses down to your collarbone, his teeth lightly grazing your skin. The sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You moaned, the sound swallowed by Cillian's mouth against your skin.

In one swift movement, Cillian hoisted you onto the kitchen table. He was so much larger than you, his size only adding to the thrillt. His broad chest was flush against yours, his soft belly filling the space between you. He stood between your legs, his hands resting on your hips, pulling you closer. His size, his strength, his presence - it was all-consuming, leaving no room for anything else but him.

The moment was intense, filled with heat and passion. His lips moved against yours again, slower this time, exploring, savouring. His large hands traced up your sides, slipping underneath your shirt to explore the bare skin. His touch was warm, soft, his scales smooth against your skin.

His kisses became deeper, more desperate, as though he couldn't get enough of you. His hands roamed your body, his touch leaving a trail of heat wherever he touched. It was all too much, and yet not enough.

You found your hands roaming over his broad back, your fingers tracing over his scales, feeling their smooth texture. He was soft, his body yielding under your touch.

Eventually, you had to break apart for air. You were both panting, grinning at each other. Cillian’s golden eyes were bright, the desire evident in them. His hands were still on you, his touch a comforting presence. You felt giddy, like a teenager experiencing their first crush.

"Gods, Cillian..." you whispered, your voice shaky. The room was filled with the heavy scent of desire, the air thick with unspoken words and promises of more. You were falling for Cillian, fast and hard, and from the look in his eyes, he was falling right alongside you. 

[slytherin-paramour]

I've finished the first part of my Garreth x MC x Sebastian oneshot! It literally takes me forever to write things down because of real-life distractions, but today I've had freedom and been able to think a bit more! There is no smut in this mostly Garreth related chappy unfortunately, but it is coming! And I think it's still cute 🥹

You were a tad early to your seventh year Charms class this afternoon, but the almost empty classroom felt like a blessing. You breathed in the cool air of the old room, admiring the way the sun shone through the large windows, illuminating strings of dust that lingered in the air. Taking a preliminary glance of your surroundings, you notice another student at the back of the room and make a beeline for her.

With a frustrated sigh, you sank onto the wooden stool beside your good friend Natsai Onai, a powerful and determined Gryffindor witch with whom you'd formed a lasting bond with over the last few years. You heaved a heavy book from your satchel and dropped it onto the table in front of you, running your fingers across the embossed lettering - Achievements in Charming - before opening the pages with a flick of your wand. You ran a hand through your bangs, letting out a frustrated grumble.

"Good afternoon my disgruntled friend." Nasai chuckled in amusement at your irritated demeanour. "Dare I ask the cause of such a gloomy exterior?"

You grunted and looked up from where your face was now pressed against the parchment of the book.

"It's REALLY not something that I want to get into Natty, I wouldn't want to drag you into the mundane drama that is my life at the moment."

Natty laughed and leaned down to your level, close enough to whisper into your ear.

"Might it have something to do with your...romantic inclinations..."

You witnessed the cheeky smirk that had adorned your friends features as you snapped your head towards her, unable to stop the heat that now surely covered your cheeks. Damn it, this witch was incredibly perceptive.

"Wha...where did you hear that? I swear to Merlin if either of those boys..EITHER?!"

Natty's eyes had widened a fraction, and you could practically see the cogs turning in her head.

"Oh my stars, MC! I was aware that Sebastian was attempting to woo you, but now you tell me that there is another? You must feel very honoured my friend." She said with a smirk.

You sat quietly for a moment, gathering your thoughts and trying to form an explanation for everything that was going on at the moment. Natty had been right about Sebastian Sallow. It was no secret that your freckled friend was attempting to Court you, and it didn't really come as a shock when you'd found out. After everything that you two had been through together, feelings and bonds had formed naturally and you couldn't deny the way your heart lurched whenever you were around each other. Something about him drew you in, his flame trying to burn away your delicate moth.

Your face planted hard against the table once more, ears burning at your silly slip up. You knew it was pointless to deny it, especially to someone as smart as Natsai. And so you resigned yourself into telling her your story.

It should have remained as simple as that, really. A nice, normal situation of friends turned lovers, running away together hand in hand, however fate seemed to absolutely LOVE fucking with you. An unexpected cog had been depulsoed into your intricate clock, so to speak. It came in the form of a broad torso, red trimmed robes and firey hair. The moment that Garreth Weasley had cornered you in the Transfiguration Courtyard and declared his affections (it really was quite endearing to witness the boys face burning as red as his hair) you knew that life was out to get you.

Because that was the crippling moment that you realised that you did, in fact, have feelings for the Gryffindor as well. You had always considered him to be one of your closest friends, him being one of the first to engage with you way back in your fifth year. He was funny and charming, aways up for an adventure and very empathetic whenever your mind was in a particularly dark place.

From there, you had agreed to go on an outing to Hogsmeade with him.

You quickly thought about Sebastian, and how he would feel about you going out with Garreth, but quickly pushed aside your guilt. After all, you weren't exclusively WITH Sebastian, and more often than not you would catch the young cad flirting with other pretty witches about the castle, be it intentionally or not. The Slytherin was a charmer by nature.

And so here you were, strolling casually through the stunning little village that you'd come to know and love. As it was still midsummer, the air was beautifully warm, the suns rays beaming down through the old rafters of the mish-mashed buildings. Flowers of all varieties bloomed from planters and there was a sweet smell in the air mingled with the woodsy smoke of chimney stacks.

Garreth was a perfect gentleman the entire time, holding your hand and making you laugh at every opportunity. He asked you what you wanted to do most of the time, perfectly content to just be in the moment with the object of his affections. You had of course requested a visit to Honeydukes, the confectioners shop had been one of your favourites ever since your first foray into the wizarding village with Sebastian years ago. Garreth purchased you a bag of your favourites - sherbet lemons, and he even tasted some of the shops newest editions, Ice Mice, which you found to be absolutely hilarious when the boys teeth began to chatter and squeak uncontrollably.

After that you visited the Three Broomsticks, Sirona welcoming you both with a smile, albeit a slightly confused one. You didn't fail to notice the way her sharp eyes flickered to yours and Garreths interlinked fingers, and you looked at her sheepishly. The last time you had been in the pub, it was Sebastian who's hand you'd been holding onto. Nevertheless, she simply brushed off whatever she was about to say, sensing your discomfort and lead you both to a table in a quiet corner of the rustic old building. Garreth ordered a couple of ice cold butterbeers which you both proceeded to drink happily, him telling you some funny tales from his childhood which involved the many times that he had nearly driven his aunt Matilda through the doors of St.Mungos because of his pranks. You nearly choked on your butter beer when he mentioned the time when he and his older siblings stole a pair of their aunt's undergarments and managed to enchant them into chasing her around the house and scream profanities at the demented woman.

"Garreth Weasley, your poor Aunt! It's no wonder she doesn't tolerate your hijinks at school!" You reprimanded him with a laugh, smiling from ear to ear. His deep laughter boomed alongside yours as he leaned forward on his chair, both hands wrapped around his cool beverage.

"Yes, well she certainly doesn't put up with any misbehaviours these days. My brothers are the lucky ones, they've already graduated from Hogwarts!"

You chuckled, trying to imagine what his brothers might have been like when they attended Hogwarts. You shivered involuntarily on behalf of Professor Weasley.

Your pondering was interupted by a feeling of warmth enveloping your hand atop the table. Your gaze shot up to the side, a shy smile appearing on your face when you made eye contact with the boy beside you. He was staring at you with such a tenderness that for a moment it felt difficult to breathe, his thumb brushing over yours in a way that sent tingles twisting up your forearm.

"Thank you for coming here with me today, MC. I'm genuinely having the best time with you. You could make any room light up brighter than a jar of a thousand lacewing flies!" You rolled your eyes at the cheesey line.

"It's been wonderful Garreth, I feel utterly spoiled." You replied with a little chuckle, trying to cover up the fact that your heart was currently racing a mile a minute.

He pushed back the chair he was sitting on quite suddenly, rising to his feet but not letting go of your hand. You looked up at him from where you were still sat, confused about his sudden movement.

"What are you doing? Did you want to leave?"

Garreth didn't reply, bringing your hand up to his lips to press a soft kiss across your knuckles, his verdant eyes never leaving yours. The action made your breath catch in your throat, your neck flushing red and a feeling of being lost for words overcame you.

"Would you take a little walk through the Hogsmeade gardens with me, MC? I'd like to discuss something with you. Privately."

Your heart fluttered like a rampant snitch that was intent on not being caught, but you shifted in your seat, gathered up your light robe and satchel and allowed Garreth to pull you to your feet. Smoothing down your skirt, you smiled at the red head.

"Shall we then, Mr.Weasley?" You dipped your upper body in an exaggerated curtsy. He laughed and bowed in return, his crimson locks flopping over his forehead dramatically.

"After you, Mademoiselle!"

[aralezinspace]

Emboss

~AO3~ Ezio/Reader, mildly suggestive.

Kinktober prompt: Leather

Kinktober masterlist

You had never been able to restrain yourself when Ezio came home from a mission, especially if he had been gone for more than a few days. On this particular occasion, he had been gone just shy of a month, long enough for you to become frantic with concern.

You were about to hunt down any and all of his associates in Roma and demand to know if they had heard from your partner. The moment you were ready to leave, you heard the clatter and creak of the door opening, followed by the clump of boots on the floor and a deep, groaning sigh you’d know anywhere.

“Ezio!” you called, racing down the stairs. He was leaning against the closed door, his eyes half-lidded. They shot open and a delighted, ravenous grin split his face open when he heard your voice.

Ezio didn’t even bother greeting you before grabbing your arms and turning you so you were trapped between him and the closed door. He attacked your lips with a desperate growl, shoving his tongue into your mouth to taste every inch of you.

“I missed you,” he rasped, sliding his lips down to mouth at your neck. Your hands pushed his hood back, revealing dark hair neatly tied with a fading red ribbon. You dug your fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and gently pushed him back. He frowned in warning.

“Let me look at you,” you urged him gently. Your eyes traveled quickly from his head to his toes, stopping briefly where you knew vital organs were, searching for any injuries. On the second pass, you did a double take, your eyes going wide and a red flush burning your cheeks.

Over his customary white robes, Ezio was sporting a brand new set of armor- vambraces, a chest piece, greaves, and a thick belt about his waist, all in deep brown leather. It was shiny and hardly scuffed- all you could see were a few scratches from the hilt of his sword brushing over the chest piece as he moved, and a few scrapes on the vambraces from his hidden blades. The vambraces and greaves had the Assassin insignia embossed onto them, surrounded by artful swirls that would not look out of place on a coat of arms.

Heat began to coil low in your belly as your fingertips ghosted over the smooth leather. The material was warm from the sun and the heat of Ezio’s body, the buckles that held it all together somehow still cold. The smell of the leather and conditioning oil stuck in your nose with a sharp tang. You bit your lip as your touches became more insistent, questing over the armor, gently pressing in to hear the slightest creak of material.

You bit your bottom lip and tilted your gaze back up to Ezio’s face: the look he was giving you was nothing short of blazing, eyes dark and narrowed, the tendons in his neck trying to break out of his skin with the effort it took to maintain his self control.

The man before you was a force of nature wrapped in linen and leather. His choice of material was a testament to the knowledge of his own skills: he didn’t need to encumber himself with plate armor, for no opponent had even the slightest chance of landing a blow. It was built for stealth and speed, light and flexible- the armor of a man who could vanish into the night before his target even knew they were dead.

“I take it you approve?” he purred slowly, a positively feral smile spreading across his face. You nodded twice- short of breath, mouth dry, knees weak. Ezio stepped in closer.

He took your wrists in one hand and pinned them to the door above your head, while the other pressed his leather-clad forearm to your throat, forcing you to lift your chin just enough for him to see your muscles work as you swallowed hard. Arousal flared through you; being the sole focus of this man, one whom the word ‘dangerous’ didn’t even begin to cover, was a heady feeling you couldn’t get enough of.

“Well then, caro mio…” He rolled his hips into yours, a startled whimper bubbling out of you as your legs turned to jelly. His breathy growl sent a shiver down your spine.

“Why don’t you show me how much.”

[exhaustedcatte]

Teddy Remus Lupin

“Ted! D’you mind helping me clear out the attic?” Andromeda Tonks yelled from the kitchen.

The taffy-haired boy slung his arm across her shoulders as he veered his grandmother towards the stairs. “Yeah, ‘course I’ll help, but what’s the occasion?”

“We haven’t enough rooms for guests.”

Teddy shrugged.

They made their way into the attic, a spacious cavern with cardboard boxes piled high along the perimeter.

Andromeda handed Teddy a cloth and a duster to arm himself with, and then set to work.

The pair removed the boxes and Teddy found numerous playthings and toys, all from his childhood.

“We can sterilise them and give them to Hermione. She is expecting, isn’t she.”

“Oh Ted,” Andromeda clapped her hands together, “that’s a lovely idea.”

Andromeda levitated the boxes downstairs, to pass on to the kids and what was unusable was to be donated.

They worked in tandem, occasionally pausing to rifle through obscure Black Family possessions and some of his grandfather’s muggle keepsakes. Teddy pocketed an interesting looking device – a Walkman, it said. He didn’t want it to end up in the Weasley bin and have Arthur fiddle with it.

The doorbell rang when they were halfway through. Teddy unloaded the last of his toys into a plastic bin, and jumped over miscellaneous trash to open the door.

“Hiya Ted!” Harry grinned.

And at the same time, Draco smiled, “Hello, Edward.”

“Hey guys!” He huffed a laugh, “How come you’re both here?”

“Surprise,” Harry ruffled his hair.

His uncle shook his head in disagreement, “Your knuckle-headed godfather must’ve forgotten that today was my turn to have you.”

“Did not!” Harry pressed an offended hand to his chest.

Draco rolled his eyes at Teddy and behind him Harry mouthed ‘kinda did’.

“Teddy! Who is it?”

“It’s just Draco and Harry, grandma,” Teddy yelled back.

“Where’s your grandmother?” Draco asked him, politely sidestepping the mess that had been levitated into the drawing room.

“We’re cleaning the attic, she didn’t want anyone sleeping on the couch, so.”

“We’ll help, let’s get your grandma out of that allergy box,” Harry clapped Teddy’s back.

“I’m allergic to dust,” Draco sniffed delicately.

Harry raised a brow, blinking in disbelief, “Could’ve fooled me when you followed me to the most cruddy places, Malfoy.”

“Aunt Andromeda! Let’s get that finished for you,” Draco marched ahead, neck growing pink below his mullet.

The three boys sent Andromeda down to bake her infamous biscuits, while they tidied the place.

“So, which one of us are you banishing to up here?” Draco asked, lifting his hands to levitate boxes downstairs.

“Can’t you just use your wand, you showoff?” Harry jested.

“I don’t have my wand on me Potter, and it’s not like you don’t know how to forgo using your wand.”

Teddy ignored the banter. “I’m actually thinking I’d like this place for myself.”

Harry pivoted on his foot, “That would be wicked.”

Draco lifted another box and was magicking that downstairs when he bumped into Harry and the things in the box came pouring out.

“I swear to fucking Merlin, Potter,” Draco began, as Harry moved away – hands raised in surrender, but Teddy accidentally interrupted him.

“What the hell is that?”

“Language,” Draco murmured absently, kneeling down as well.

There was a huge album, embossed RJ. Lupin, crammed to the brim with pictures.

“Wow,” Harry breathed, touching the cover reverently.

“That’s not…” Teddy looked up for confirmation. “That’s my dad’s.”

Draco hesitantly opened the book.

Inside were pictures Teddy had never seen before.

There were photographs of four young boys, round faced and bright eyed. Pictures of them wearing matching scarves, all of them bundled in one huge sweater, them sporting matching butterbeer ‘staches. Four boys doing absolutely everything together.

The tawny haired kid, despite the thin silvery scars on his knuckles, had the biggest smile on his face. He stared hard at it, trying to burn it into memory, swallowing the growing ball of heat in his throat.

“Dad,” Harry smiled sadly, tracing a photo of James Potter tackling Remus in a hug. “I used to hear that I looked exactly like him for all my life. I don’t anymore.”

The implication was obvious. Harry was now older than James had gotten to be.

“You still look very similar. He was a handsome man, your dad,” Draco rubbed Harry’s back consolingly.

“Calling me handsome, Malfoy?”

“Take it as you will.”

The next few snapshots were of Remus, Sirius and James. Heads bent over a huge piece of parchment, fitted smartly in dress robes, pie-faced on halloween, wearing Santa hats.

Then came another year.

Remus was visibly the tallest of the quartet. He had shot up severely, his face was more rugged, almost roguishly handsome. A shadow of stubble on his face, hardened jaw, a strong nose. He had shed the last shreds of childish innocence, to give way to a handsome young lad. But even still, his big amber eyes, even through pictures, were so kind. Love omnipresent in them.

Remus was shot studying, or gallivanting with his troop in all the photos. He was stooped over a wrinkly hand (Teddy wondered if it was Hope Lupin) painting the nails a pale pink. Remus was in the library, the kitchens, the astronomy tower, all after bed-time. Teddy felt relief bubble up in him, his father had had fun in his time at Hogwarts, no matter the circumstances.

Draco turned the page.

There were a lot of pictures of whom Harry identified as Sirius Black. The man had had an incredibly handsome youth. Beautiful grey eyes, long shiny hair, cuttingly high cheekbones. His complexion pallid, a shock against the ink black of his hair. His heart shaped face drew stop at a pointy chin.

Where Remus looked hardened, Sirius appeared delicate. The Black genes were strong, he recognised a lot of Andromeda in his grand-uncle.

“He was quite the looker,” Draco acknowledged.

Teddy noticed through the corner of his eye how Harry kept looking at Sirius and back at Draco. He also seemed to find the Black genes in a relative, just like Teddy had.

There was a picture of Sirius laughing at something a girl beside him was saying. The red-head had appeared in many photos as the boys grew.

“My mum,” informed Harry.

Sirius was captured sticking his tongue out at Peter, tackling James, hugging a few other friends. All candid. Teddy assumed it was his father taking these pictures.

More artistic shots of the Black family heir were also pasted in the album – Sirius teetering on the edge of a balcony, downing a glass of wine, holding his wand up in lumos, standing against a bike in a parking lot dressed in leather.

“That’s a whole lot of Sirius,” Teddy noted quietly.

And then they flipped another page. Remus – expertly blowing a smoke-ring.

A shocked laugh escaped Teddy, “Is he holding a cigarette?!”

“Your father and his friends were quite the troublemakers, don’t be fooled by all the pictures of them studying,” Harry laughed fondly.

Draco agreed, smiling, “He retained that streak for mischief. It’s what helped him cope, I suppose.”

There was a whole spread of shaken photographs, giving away that the person behind the camera was either inexperienced or a pureblood, possibly both. All the photos were of his father. Reading, drinking tea, rolling weed, dancing too.

“My father was so cool,” he realised.

“We’d have made good friends,” Draco mused. “Maybe in another life.”

“If your head were less inflated, maybe.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

Then there were photos of just Sirius and Remus together.

There was not a hair’s gap between them in that timeframe. Them in a music shop, pointing at a stack of records. Remus reading to Sirius. Remus, Peter and Lily Potter holding up a banner for their two quidditch boys. Sirius playing with Remus’ hair. Remus applying kohl on Sirius’ eyes. The two of them laying beside each other under the shade of a tree. Them laughing, smiling, even crying.

Them kissing.

“What.”

It was a very clear photo. Remus was kissing his best friend. They were stood in the middle of an empty apartment, cardboard boxes stacked high behind them.

“What the hell?” Teddy asked weakly, head spinning at this knowledge.

“Er…” Harry turned to Draco, who also seemed at a loss of words.

And then there were more. Teddy could see in their eyes the amount of love they had for each other. Absolute adoration.

“Oh my god,” Teddy gasped at the scandalous photo. Even Harry’s eyes bugged out.

The two men were clearly not dressed below their bed linens. Sirius had draped himself over Remus’ tan chest. Both of them sound asleep.

“Well, what can I say. Seems like they had fun and I respect that,” Draco shrugged, trying to appear unfazed, but there was a distinct flush on his skin.

The photos ended abruptly after a series of shots of the Potter family and themselves. That’s when the war took a toll on them.

They closed the album silently. The quietness extended till Teddy cleared his throat.

“So… my dad and Sirius had a thing?” He asked, trying to be casual.

“I didn’t know,” Harry said honestly. “But seems so, huh.”

“Mum did mention once that Sirius was a disgusting faggot. Now look, I am too,” Draco laughed.

“It’s not disgusting,” Teddy assured hastily. He had to say it aloud, he owed it to his father, his uncle.

Harry agreed vehemently. “It doesn’t matter!”

Draco smiled at them, “I know, but thanks Ted, Potter.”

Teddy moved the album into his own plastic bin, to keep it safe.

The trio turned their attention to the rest of the things spilled on the hardwood floor.

Teddy sifted through the heap.

There were envelopes with letters; unsent, he guessed. Thick stacks of postcards, all addressed to some town in Wales. There were other things, but he wouldn’t ever know the reason his father had kept them. Quidditch jerseys with POTTER and BLACK printed on the backs, broken rectangle glasses, some sort of muggle board game. Banners with Gryffindor painted onto it. Records of ABBA, Queen, David Bowie, Frank Sinatra – the covers of which had a small Love, Lily scrawled on them. Parchments of recipes, all signed in the end with Cheers, Pete.

“Oh Remus,” Harry sighed.

Teddy blinked back his tears.

This entire house held the life of his mother, and he loved that a lot. To be able to learn of her in her own childhood home. Teddy had inherited his mother’s ability to shape-shift. He was also a Hufflepuff like his mum.

He didn’t know what of him was Remus.

But McGonagall promised him that she saw a lot of Remus’ personality in him; in his driven attitude, snark, in his pranks and his extreme love for chocolates and tea and sweets. She always smiled at him with pride and a tinge of reminiscence.

Teddy’d had nothing materialistic of his father, whose life even Andromeda knew only from the two years shared in Hogwarts. And he was suddenly gifted with more of his father’s post mortem possessions than he knew what to do with, but he’d keep them safely, he’d protect all of what was left of Remus.

Teddy ran his fingers along the edge of a photo frame. The picture inside was unlike those in the album, it was definitely a magicked one. Sirius was kissing the corner of Remus’ mouth, whose lips were stretched into a wide smile. The photo cut off right when the boys began to crack up.

“He was happy. He was in pain every month, but still so happy.”

“Ted,” Harry raised his head up. “Your dad loved you to pieces. He went through a lot, but he found people to love, and you were one of them.”

Draco affirmed this with a silent nod.

Teddy knew that, of course. In his room, in glass frames were pictures of him as a child, being held by his parents. Remus was obviously ecstatic, staring lovingly at the little cherub in his arms. Teddy didn’t doubt for a second that his father loved him. It was visible. Just as it was in his pictures with Sirius.

Teddy gathered all of the things and carefully placed them in his box, to keep in his room and to go through them leisurely.

They cleaned the attic in record time, when the smell of Andromeda’s baking wafted up and tickled their noses.

She distributed teacups and placed a platter of cookies on the teapoy.

“Grandma,” Teddy began hesitantly after they settled on the sofa.

“Yes?”

“Tell me about my dad and Sirius? Please?”

She froze midway pouring Harry a cuppa. “How did you–?”

“Remus had an album,” Draco explained softly, apologetic. “Evidence is plentiful.”

She laughed a little to herself, “Oh, of course. He had a habit of preserving all kinds of bits and bobs, your dad.”

Teddy sat up curiously. “Why?”

“I think he believed that if he didn’t have a memory of it, it didn’t exist. Things were always ripped away from him…”

It became solemn.

“So, did Sirius introduce you to Remus ever?” Draco sipped his tea.

Andromeda got a faraway look in her eyes, “It was the first time Remus had entered this house. Hand in hand with my cousin, who had been cut off and disowned then. He was the only one I trusted with Sirius’ heart. My cousin had grown up without love, but Remus was so patient and loving. And I’m certain Sirius was also the same.”

“Dad loved him, didn’t he?”

His grandmother smiled, wistful at the edges. “The two of them were the closest I will believe of soulmates. Opposites in many things but united in their values, experiences and such. He loved my Dora a lot, truly, but him and Sirius were like a house on fire.

“Even to an onlooker, they made an interesting pair. Where James and Sirius were the obvious duo, Remus and Sirius had a different dynamic built on very similar behaviours. Both stubborn, loyal to a fault, smart; even the childhood they experienced was riddled with guilt, shame, trauma. And where you could tell how much of a brother James was to Sirius, Remus meant to him very differently, and it showed.”

Harry had polished off his tea. “They deserved a happier ending…”

“Life owed them at least that,” Andromeda agreed sadly.

“Maybe they will meet again. The cycle of intertwined lives never end when two people are in love,” Draco leaned against Harry’s shoulder, unaware.

Teddy prayed silently that wherever his father was, he had gotten to meet his friends again. He hoped Sirius and Remus would get another chance at experiencing life together.

The dog star shone bright, in the night sky, beside the moon.

[bookwormscififan]

I (Don't) Wanna Be Free

Read on AO3!

A/N: Was there ever a time before we met him that Yancy wanted to be free? Mayhaps it involved a certain murder man?

--

Dear Y/N,

Have I ever told youse why I didn’t want to be free?

Not the musical, not the song and dance, not the dumb things I said to youse when we first met.

Did I ever tell youse the real reason I didn’t want to be free?

Well, it all started when I first got a new cellmate…

“Hey, Ohio! You’ve got a cellmate,” Murder-Slaughter called, opening the door to Yancy’s cell and ushering someone inside. The prisoner looked up from his book, sizing up the newcomer with a bored gaze.

“My bed’s top bunk,” was all he said that day, watching the new man settle in silently.

“Are you not even going to ask what I did to get in here?”

It had been a week since Yancy had received his new cellmate, who had been respectfully quiet until that moment. Yancy held back an eyeroll, putting his notebook down and leaning his forearm on it.

“Let me guess. Youse murdered someone.” He didn’t suppress his grin at the newcomer’s shocked expression, “They usually try to lump a murderer in my cell with me. Because I killed some people too.”

“I’m Murdock,” the man stated, offering a hand after he’d recovered from his shock. Yancy snorted, taking Murdock’s hand and shaking it firmly.

“I know. And youse know my name too. Yancy.”

“So…” Murdock trailed one night, lying in his bunk, staring at Yancy’s mattress above him and waiting for his cellmate to sigh before continuing, “Who did you kill?”

“My parents. Youse?” Murdock closed his eyes, wishing he had his trademark gloves or glasses to cover his face.

“Many, many people.” He rolled onto his side, yearning for the feeling of his knife in his hand again, listening to Yancy shuffling around above him before falling asleep.

“Hey, Murdock, youse wanna break out with me?” The mass murder frowned into his bowl of slop, looking at Yancy as the musician sat opposite him at the cafeteria table.

“Why would anyone wanna break out?” He mumbled, shovelling another spoonful into his mouth. He paused when Yancy slid an item across the table to him: a pair of black leather gloves, creases showing signs of wear, with a familiar black ‘M’ embossed into the bottom edge.

“Where did you find these?” Murdock whispered, slowly reaching for the gloves as if afraid to touch them, afraid they would disappear.

“I know a lot of secret passages in this place.” There was no denying the smug tone in Yancy’s voice, and Murdock snatched the gloves off the table before he could think twice.

“And if I do agree to break out with you,” he began, voice low, “What’s in it for me?” Yancy grinned, leaning forward on the table and pushing Murdock’s bowl away from him.

“I’ll make sure youse never get caught again.”

It didn’t take long for Murdock to figure out his own escape route. It took even less time for him to devise an escape plan that didn’t involve Yancy, and no time at all for him to execute the plan.

Yancy woke up to find the bunk under him empty. While not an unusual occurrence, this time Yancy had woken earlier than usual, expecting to wake Murdock and drag him out himself.

Instead he found a crumpled piece of paper sitting atop Murdock’s pillow.

Will come back for you.

Yancy held onto that written promise like a lifeline.

He never came back, Y/N.

Never wrote.

Never called.

Disappeared, just like that.

All of my being was waiting for him to come back and get me out of Happy Trails, but he never came back.

It took a lot of time and effort, but eventually I got back on my feet and decided the penitentiary was the place for me. It was better to be somewhere that wanted me, than to be waiting on someone who wasn’t showing.

What’s that song from that band? How’s it go? “Waiting on a train that’ll never come”? That was me and Murdock.

If and when I ever find him again, I’m going to show him what he did.

My review’s coming up soon.

We’ll see if I get parole.

Yancy.

[timeagainreviews]

The Eve-ish of Season One-ish

During the early ‘90s, the comic book industry went through a bit of a boom. Speculators were buying up stacks of comics that might one day put their kids through college. Eager to meet the frothing demand of buyers, the comics industry responded with bagged, foiled, embossed, holographic, and even glow-in-the-dark covers guaranteed to be collector’s items. Many long-running titles were reset to issue one, giving new readers a less intimidating jumping-on point. While the comic book bubble eventually popped, the practice of rebranding runs back to issue one continues to this day. With Doctor Who rebranding this new series as “season one,” it’s safe to say that, once again, the show is taking another page from the Marvel playbook.

If you wanted to be cynical, you could say the re-branding comes more from necessity than accessibility. HBO Max had the streaming rights to Doctor Who (2005). But this is Doctor Who (2023) of which Disney+ has exclusive rights. This goes hand in hand with Russell T Davies’ courting of the House of Mouse, along with the very controversial new release schedule which many have complained seems to favour an American audience. While Americans will be able to watch “tonight’s” premiere in a primetime time slot, British audiences will be forced to either stay up well past midnight or wait until tomorrow. Usually, when I write these articles ahead of premieres, it is the evening before but this new scheduling throws that all out of wack.

Longtime readers will remember me saying at one point that Doctor Who should go to Disney. While I plan to write a follow-up article rectifying and even arguing against some of my own points, the fact is, it still came true. I even suggested a musical episode, which has already come true and possibly again with “The Devil’s Chord.” I even called the plot of the Timeless Children as far back as my review of “The Ghost Monument.” It’s almost like I’ve got a TARDIS of my own, or my finger is so on the pulse of Doctor Who that I can feel the four beats of its rhythm as I type these prophetic words. Or maybe I just pay attention. Either way, you should definitely stick around to read my thoughts ahead of Doctor Who season one as they're bound to come true. (Joking, of course.)

Russell T Davies

What can be said about RTD that hasn’t been said already? The man has left his mark on the history of the show, what more could he possibly do? Well if you’re Chibnall stan, that’s exactly the question on which a lot of their arguments have hinged. Many people seem to think of his reinstatement as showrunner as a step back for the show. Some believe he was appointed as a filler after the contentious Chibnall era. Some say he’s too woke now. Others say he’s problematic. While I do agree that his handling of trans issues was clumsy, I also believe his heart is in the right place. However, I have a couple of concerns with RTD in his present form.

Firstly, I have to ask, was there no one else for the job? After Moffat left, the BBC have had difficulty finding someone willing and able to take over the show. Chris Chibnall always felt like he took the job almost as a favour to the BBC. I find it hard to believe that Russell T Davies was the only showrunner they could find. He feels like a safe bet, and in more ways than Chibnall ever did, a stopgap. It feels like the BBC doesn’t really understand what Doctor Who needs, and therefore has a hard time finding the people capable of delivering those things, outside of proven entities like RTD and Steven Moffat, both of whom are returning this year in some capacity. The BBC is pushing for diversity, but couldn’t think of a single woman or person of colour to showrun Doctor Who? 

Secondly, I wish he would chill the fuck out. I mentioned diversity, and while I do appreciate Doctor Who’s first official trans companion and what is looking like the queerest TARDIS crew yet, I wish the show would get back to basics- good writing. They keep going on about how controversial the new season is going to be, and I’m so damn tired. I’m tired of defending the show to conservative chuds who think a woman Doctor is going to make their dick fall off. I’m tired of watching showrunners pull a muscle from patting themselves on the backs for their progressive stance. I don’t want you to scare away those conservative chuds, I want you to prove them wrong. I want them to see these things can work when they’re written well. We just went through five years of people thinking bad writing was confirmation that a woman can’t be the Doctor. I’m glad you want to represent people like me on screen, now please do something with it.

Ncuti Gatwa as the Doctor

It’s hard not to be excited for Ncuti Gatwa. He’s got a magnetism that draws your attention the moment he’s onscreen. It’s still far too early in his run to have a definite impression as to what kind of Doctor he’ll be. So far, his portrayal of the Doctor has a warmth and cheekiness about him. He’s mirthful if not a bit mercurial. Gatwa has even referred to his Doctor as “slutty,” which I definitely see and appreciate. I also love that he sees this as a trait he shares with the Third Doctor, which is both a strange and astute observation. Furthermore, he and Pertwee’s Doctors share a commonality by wearing less of a costume and more of a wardrobe. My only qualm in Gatwa’s case is that his wardrobe could use a little more consistency. However, you could argue that the Doctors only ever need to dress like themselves, as opposed to in a certain style. 

We’re in a good place with Nctui Gatwa moving forward. He’s had a stellar introduction and received quite a positive response from fans. Judging from his performance in Sex Education, we know he’s capable of a wide range of emotions. What little we’ve seen of his Doctor has shown us that he’s capable of being a bizarre yet dashing alien hero. He’s also managed to find a fresh approach to a character played by over a dozen people before him, which is impressive, to say the least. Whether he’ll become my new fave or not is yet to be seen, but that hardly matters. What matters most is that he’s the Doctor here and now. 

Millie Gibson as Ruby Sunday

This is a weird one to write about. Had you caught me right after “The Church on Ruby Road,” I’d have told you how excited I was for Ruby’s character. Millie Gibson plays her with an adorable charm and she’s clearly a great partner for Gatwa’s brand of crazy sexy cool. But now we’ve seen rumours that she’ll be replaced by Varada Sethu halfway through season two. The BBC and RTD both responded (a bit late) to rumours that she’s being replaced and that they’ll both be companions at the same time, but it feels as though Ruby Sunday is coming to an end just as we’re getting to know her.

I would also like to circle back to how poorly the BBC handled the rumours surrounding Gibson’s departure. She’s a very young actress who may or may not have been fired from a high-profile role early in her career. Even if this is not true, the rumour mill was running amok and the BBC was mum on the subject for weeks. That kind of stigma could follow an up-and-coming actor’s career for years, labelling them as difficult. It’s like they learned nothing from their experiences with Christopher Eccleston.

While the Andor fan in me is very excited by the prospect of Varada Sethu’s tenure in the TARDIS, I’m still trying to remain enthusiastic for Ruby Sunday. Already they’ve shown her character to be compassionate and a bit adorkable. I’m not incredibly interested in the mystery surrounding her character’s birth mother as it feels very Moffaty. I’ve always felt like Davies’ strongest work with companions was his ability to ground them emotionally, and not in making their past a mystery to be solved by some man. I’m more interested in her relationship with her family than some hooded woman doing her best impression of the Jodie Whittaker reveal trailer. Like I said, a return to basics would be greatly appreciated.

Magic Maestros and Monsters

The introduction of mysticism and mystery has been a welcome addition to Doctor Who. When you watch classic stories such as “The Daemons,”  “Image of the Fendhal,” or “Pyramids of Mars,” it’s hard not to imagine there’s not some sort of mystical force at work. Even the stygian witches of “The Shakespeare Code,” seemed to tap into words with a degree of magic. Magic feels oddly at home for Doctor Who. However, you could also argue that the introduction of mysticism to Doctor Who oddly demystifies some of its greater mysteries. When the Doctor couldn’t explain something with science or alien interference, we were left to speculate. But now- a wizard did it.

As I said in my review of “The Church on Ruby Road,” the introduction of magic and superstition places the Doctor in a unique position where he’s a bit out of his depth. One qualm I’ve had with the Whittaker era was how her Doctor was rarely confused. It’s nice then that we’re entering a new era where the Doctor must learn to adapt. It’s now possible for an evil drag queen to force people into an all-singing, all-dancing, chorus line of death. Awesome. Maybe we’ll also see some monsters from the past revealed to be actual magic beings. Perhaps the Fendahl are more than creepy worms, but something far more mystical. Maybe Sutekh the Destroyer really is a god. The introduction of magic doesn’t just have to affect the future of the show, but the past as well. Just wait until the Daleks start pulling rabbits out of hats.

Dinsey+ Supremacy

I regret ever saying Doctor Who should go to Disney. At the time, I was making an argument that Disney is a good fit for Doctor Who because they would give it the budget and attention that it deserves. But Disney also introduces a troubling element into Doctor Who’s future- ownership rights. Historically, Doctor Who writers have maintained copyright over the characters they create. Because of this, any time someone at the BBC wants to use Sontarans, they have write a cheque to the Holmes estate. People like Lawrence Miles are free to develop the Faction Paradox outside of the Doctor Who novels where it began. And occasionally, we get a movie about Sil or a crappy K9 tv show nobody watched. The point is, Disney doesn’t do this. Should the mouse get his greedy mitts on the show, do you really see writers maintaining ownership over their creations? Say goodbye to fanmade charity books from Obverse Books or Mad Norwegian Press. Say hello to an even higher bar of restriction for new writers and artists to join the ranks of books and audios.

Is this the secret reason why they are pivoting toward a more magical rogues gallery of monsters? Are we being fed a new line of villains while Disney works on snatching up the rights to Sontarans and Daleks? Will they begin phasing out the characters that are holdouts from their original copyright owners? They say the BBC still owns the rights to Doctor Who. They say Disney only has streaming rights in exchange for budget funding. But RTD also said the BBC is in shambles. He also said the future of Doctor Who is in good hands. I fear that those hands are the gloved hands of Mickey Mouse. The show looks and feels better than it has in years, but its future feels dangerously close to becoming content. I want Doctor Who as written by this year’s winner of the Paul Spragg Memorial Contest, not Doctor Who as written by committee. 

[the-clawtake]

Jehan came too with a fit of coughs that would have had him bent double if it weren’t for the four-point harness holding him in the command chair of his Kodiak, and a sensation of overwhelming agony. He shook his head to clear it, hearing dimly a faint clinking or tinkling as he did. That couldn’t be good. The last thing he remembered was a Blakist Highlander. It had gone over the top of the low warehouse. Lacking jump jets, he had gone through it, and...

Oh. Basement. He blinked. Well, at least the roof hadn’t fallen on him. Between the PPC hit earlier in the fight, and the missile volley his cockpit had caught the fringe of, he’d been fighting without a ferroglass canopy; not ideal, but Blakist resistance had been stiffer than had been expected, and while the Capital Grade Particle Cannon that was – had been – the central focus of this AA battery could not depress low enough to engage ground targets, the Missile and Flak batteries could. The Clawtake could not afford to have an Assault ‘Mech withdraw, and so he had stayed. Until he fell.

He glanced at the various readouts, all dark. Nothing showed on the HUD visor of his Neurohelmet. Experimentally, he flipped the ignition toggle. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Well. That was that then, he was out of the fight. He raised his gaze to peer through the hollow gap where his canopy had been. Maybe not as out of the fight as he thought. It appeared some Blakist Purifiers had decided to make sure of the job, and one of them was just turning towards where he was.

Reaching down the side of his chair, he pulled the release on the strap holding his Wolverine. His was the bullpup variant designed for urban fighting – or Mechwarriors who needed something compact in case they had to eject behind the lines. Pulling it to his shoulder with a grunt of pain, he reached back down for a magazine, feeling the markings embossed on the surface until he found the one marked for armour-piercing rounds, slotting it into place with a click. Then he settled back and flicked off the safety.

An armoured claw hooked over the lip of the cockpit, and then a helmet like a grinning skull. Jehan sighted along the barrel and emptied the magazine into the visor as quickly as he could account for the recoil. The first few impacts accomplished nothing beyond making the armoured trooper rear back, but before it had much of a chance to react one of the tungsten-tipped rounds punched through and the huge figure slumped, the tiny hole in it’s helmet oozing red and grey.

Jehan reached for another magazine, reloaded, and then slapped his harness release. Harness loose, he twisted round and disconnected the leads for his neurohelmet and cooling vest. Reaching around behind the chair, he grabbed the survival kit, dragged it loose, and then froze. He recognized that hum. Ducking low, he hunched as close to the floor of his cockpit as he could. The hum gave way to the roar of hyper-velocity flechettes and a ringing in his ears. As the roar gave way, he peeked carefully over the edge of his cockpit. So. His Guardian Angel had a HAG. Good to know. He pulled himself from the cockpit, grimacing as shattered ferroglass scraped his bare legs, and scrambled off the Kodiak, onto the rubble of the collapsed warehouse.

Slipping into some cover, he removed his helmet and vest and dug into the survival kit. The jumpsuit went on first, over the rest of his uniform. Then the belt, with the holster for his Wolverine and a Shrike, and the long-bladed hunting knife. Next was the radio. Twisting the knob till he found the right frequency, he hit transmit.

“Clawtake Units, Clawtake Actual. Sitrep.”

“Aff, Star Colonel.” He breathed a sigh of relief at Rauda’s voice. “Fire Star, three effectives. Striker Star, zero effectives. You are the only ineffective in Battle Star. OpFors in retreat or disabled, no pursuit. Battery reduced.”

“Aff. Request pick up.”

Another voice came in on the channel; Jorge in his Dire Wolf.

“Star Colonel. Suggest rendevouz. I am due east of your position, immediately adjacent to the warehouse.”

It took several minutes for Jehan to get himself out of the basement, and to climb the technican’s ladder to the Dire Wolf’s access hatch, but eventually he settled into the jump seat. Peering over Jorge’s shoulder, he considered the results of the engagement.

The Shadow Cat was a write-off. Something had set off Lasse’s ammunition, and the combination of Inferno and High Explosive warheads meant there was nothing to salvage. Both Stormcrows and the Black Hawk needed either significant repair work or new gyros. The Mist Lynx would probably be fine, once the water was drained. He remembered seeing Shagufta go through the ice trying to outflank the Blakists – She would be fine, her cockpit hadn’t been breached and so she avoided hypothermia and the water was fairly shallow. The Dragonfly was also probably a write-off. It had taken significant damage to both arms, and had been cored by a well-placed gauss slug from the Blakist Highlander.

Tapping Jorge on the shoulder, he waited for the young Warrior’s attention.

“I need a channel to Command.”

“Aff.” a moment later “Channel open.”

“Touchdown Actual? Clawtake. Reporting Battery RANGER reduced. Clawtake at 53% effectiveness. We will require reinforcement or repair before we can further engage Blakist forces.” His piece said, he slumped in his jump seat. There was nothing to do now but wait.