#written with quill ink and parchment

[thebongomediaempire]

Ah, thhe days of being a disaffected youth... Sitting alone in my basement, reading stories of fantasy and adventure that, in real life, would kill all involved from Cholera or Tetanus in the ffirst chapter..!

[infiniteglitterfall]

A Chabad synagogue in Pomona, New York, burned to the ground on April 17th, along with its three Torah scrolls.

Torah scrolls are hand-written, hand-made, and kept in elaborately decorated cases or wrappings.

Many of them have long histories; my synagogue has two, I think, that were smuggled out of villages being destroyed in pogroms or in Nazi attacks. One of them is the only remaining piece of that village on earth.

Sometimes, the Torah scroll doesn't even belong to the synagogue, but is on loan from a place like the Memorial Scrolls Trust:

There's an entire Jewish holiday just for taking them out and dancing with them: Simchat Torah, "The Joy of Torah."

In fact, that was the holiday on which Hamas's invasion took place.

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So it's a particular tragedy when a Torah is destroyed.

Chabad itself has a page about what goes into making just one Torah scroll:

"An authentic Torah scroll is a mind-boggling masterpiece of labor and skill. Comprising between 62 and 84 sheets of parchment -- cured, tanned, scraped and prepared according to exacting Torah law specifications -- and containing exactly 304,805 letters, the resulting handwritten scroll takes many months to complete.

"An expert pious scribe carefully inks each letter with a feather quill, under the intricate calligraphic guidelines of Ktav Ashurit (Ashurite Script). The sheets of parchment are then sewn together with sinews to form one long scroll. While most Torah scrolls stand around two feet in height and weigh 20-25 pounds, some are huge and quite heavy, while others are doll-sized and lightweight."

I learned all of this on Tumblr.

Once upon time, in people's "punch Nazis" days, I would've been able to find some mention on Tumblr of this synagogue burning.

There is none, so I'm posting about it.

And I'm going to quote Daniel Weiner, Rabbi of Temple de Hirsch Sinai in Bellevue, Washington, when his own synagogue was vandalized last November:

"It’s horrific and heartbreaking.... [Taking out your feelings about] what's going on in the Middle East by defacing a sacred space of a synagogue -- that’s the very definition of antisemitism."

I'm also posting about the Kehillat Shaarei Torah Synagogue in Toronto, whose windows were broken on Friday, April 19th, by someone who also tried to break the front door down.

And the April 15 graffiti outside a Bangor, Maine synagogue that said, "Nazi Israel 30K murdered," next to a crossed-out Star of David. The same synagogue faced pro-Hamas flyers plastered around it in November.

I was going to include all the synagogues vandalized over the past six months. But there are way too many. Several every week. Lots are swastikas.

I'll go back to just doing attacks on and near synagogues.

Someone has to talk about the 1-year-old who was stabbed outside Temple Beth Zion-Beth Israel (BZBI) synagogue, in Philadelphia, on April 13th.

The foiled terrorist attack on a Moscow synagogue on April 11th.

The man who, on April 9th, screamed at the rabbi at Moldova's Great Synagogue, "What are you doing here? How come no one has finished you off for everything you are doing to the Palestinians?" Just one week after people had vandalized a Holocaust memorial in nearby Soroka, and sprayed "Free Palestine" on it.

The Oldenburg, Germany synagogue that was firebombed on April 5th.

The Florida Las Olas Chabad Jewish Center, which on March 16 burned, but not to the ground. The Torah scrolls were safe, and no one was hurt, but the back of the building was severely damaged.

The planned-but-thwarted-on-March-7th ISIS massacre in a Moscow synagogue.

The stabbing of an Orthodox Jew in Switzerland on March 5th. (He was badly injured, but expected to survive.)

A man leaving a synagogue in Paris was beaten on March 3rd.

People set the courtyard of a synagogue in Sfax, Tunisia on fire on February 27th. Firefighters managed to put the fire out before it consumed the inside of the building.

The synagogue is no longer used; there are no Jews left in its area, and fewer than 1,000 Jews left in Tunisia overall.

(Thousands of Tunisian Jews were sent to work camps during the Holocaust. Antisemitism across the Middle East continued to increase rapidly for decades. By the 1970s, 90% of Tunisian Jews had fled to France or Israel.)

On February 18, an Orthodox Jew leaving Synagogue of Inverrary-Chabad in Lauderhill, Florida, was beaten by an attacker yelling racial slurs.

Someone deliberately chose International Holocaust Remembrance Day, January 27, to smash all the windows in the front of Sgoolai Israel Synagogue in downtown Fredericton, New Brunswick.

On December 29, Turkey arrested 32 people linked to ISIS who were planning attacks on synagogues and churches.

On December 17, a man drove a U-Haul truck up onto the sidewalk between a barrier and the front door of the Kesher Israel Congregation in Washington D.C., got out, and started yelling "Gas the Jews." He also sprayed a foul-smelling substance on two people leaving the synagogue.

December 17 also saw 400 synagogues across the United States receive bomb threats.

On December 11, a man attacked an elderly couple on their way into a synagogue in Los Angeles, screaming, "Give me your earrings, Jew!!" and beating one of them bloody with a belt. (Happily, he chased the guy down the street, and caught him when his pants fell down.)

On December 10, a 16-year-old was arrested in Vienna for planning an attack on a synagogue.

On December 8, on the first night of Hanukkah, 15 synagogues in New York State received bomb threats. And someone screamed, "Free Palestine," and fired shots outside of Temple Israel in Albany, NY. Which has a preschool that was in session.

Meanwhile, the five Jews left in Egypt were canceling public Hanukkah candle-lighting at their synagogue out of fear of reprisals. Particularly after two Israelis in Alexandria had been gunned down by terrorists on October 8. (While Israel was still fighting Hamas in Israel.)

On November 15, a terrorist group set the only synagogue in Armenia on fire.

Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA) has a history of working with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP).

(PFLP is part of Hamas's network of groups. Samidoun is their nonprofit arm - which is why Germany banned Samidoun last year, although it's still active in many other countries.

PFLP is also actively supported by the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM), a diaspora nonprofit group, and Within Our Lifetime (WOL), an SJP spinoff in NYC.)

On November 11, halfway through Shabbat services, police asked Central Shul in Melbourne, Australia to evacuate "as a precaution" due to a "pro-Palestinian" protest that had chosen the neighboring park as its gathering place. Australia has seen some very outspoken antisemitism at protests, including the march shortly after October 7 that chanted "Gas the Jews."

Also on November 11, protesters targeted a synagogue along a march route. They sat in their cars, spraying green smoke and shouting at people leaving the synagogue. The march itself featured a record number of horrifying signs and chants.

On November 7th, Congregation Beth Tikvah in Montreal was firebombed, and the back door of the Jewish organization across the street (Federation CJA) was set on fire.

On November 4, protesters chanted "Bomb Israel," and burned an Israeli flag outside the only synagogue in Malmo, Sweden.

During October, there were 501 antisemitic acts under investigation in France in just three weeks, including groups gathering in front of synagogues shouting threats, and graffiti such as the words “killing Jews is a duty” sprayed outside a stadium.

On October 18, people firebombed a synagogue in Berlin after homes all over the neighborhood were graffitied with stars of David.

And also on October 18, hundreds of "pro-Palestine" rioters attacked the Or Zaruah Synagogue, in the Spanish enclave of Melilla in North Africa, while worshippers were inside.

Based on the video, they seem to have blocked the synagogue entrance completely, while screaming "Murderous Israel" and waving Palestinian flags. (Melilla is an autonomous zone belonging to Spain. It borders Morocco.)

On October 17, during pro-Palestinian protests, hundreds of rioters set fire to Al Hammah synagogue, an abandoned house of prayer in central Tunisia. They hammered down the building’s walls and raised a Palestinian flag on the building. Police did not intervene.

The Facebook page "Tunigate", which has around 88 thousand followers, published a video of the assault. So did "Radio Bousalem”, with 83 thousand users. The vast majority of comments on these videos welcome these acts. The building was severely damaged and almost completely razed to the ground.

On October 15, bomb threats were sent to many East Coast synagogues. Attleboro synagogue Congregation Agudas-Achim received one of the emails, which read, "The bombs will blow up in a few hours. A lot of people will die. You all deserve to die."

On October 8 -- again, while Hamas was still in Israel -- Madrid’s main synagogue was defaced with graffiti that read “Free Palestine” next to a crossed-out Star of David.

And on October 7, an assailant in Rockland, NY fired a BB gun at two women entering a synagogue. Later in the month, a banner at the Stephen Wise Free Synagogue in the area was vandalized with the words, “Fuckin kikes."

[vxnuslogy]

– to fall for the sun.

pairing: albedo x gn!reader

premise: albedo was not a poet, but for you, he could try to become one.

– warnings: fluff, yearner albedo, he sucks at poetry (he's trying his best), poor attempts in making poetry at the end

– author’s notes: this is a remake of my old albedo fic but instead of angst, its fluff so yippie!! art credits goes to @.Jotto75 on twitter. thank you to @lowkeyren for proofreading and creating the title <3 | ~1.4k words.

“mr. albedo, are you alright?” sucrose, his assistant, asked. worry etched in her eyes as she watches her mentor’s hunched figure throw away another crumpled piece of paper. 

“yes, yes, i’m quite alright. please don’t mind me.”

but albedo was anything but alright. he pushed his messy hair back with his hand and let out a tired sigh. albedo had ultimately underestimated your talent in making poetry–he had always assumed you just wrote whatever you felt on paper–no need for fancy words or metaphors. yet here he was, on the third day in a row, filling the small trash bin in his office with poorly written declarations of love.

albedo wonders how you do it. you, a traveler from fontaine, coming to visit mondstadt to explore the nation’s ballads and poetry, had easily captured the hearts of many by just walking down the cobblestone paths that lead inside its walls. you with your charming presence, felt like a character from an inazuman fairytale, had even captured the bard in green. but more than that, you had captured his attention—maybe even his heart—by simply existing.

with one glance you had enamored his chalky heart. suddenly, the paint brushes that were in his hand itched to be used on a blank canvas to paint your portrait, wanting to forever remember the smile that glowed under the afternoon sun. albedo could’ve sworn he saw fresh cecilias beneath your feet with every step you took inside the city. 

in one glance, you flashed him a knowing smile and gave him a bow. 

venti played his lyre and before the chalk prince knew, he was tugged into a dance near the city’s fountain. everyone laughed and danced and sang, but all albedo could see was the way you sat by the bard, a quill in your hand and a piece of parchment on the other. you cleared your throat, capturing everyone’s attention and started reciting your magnum opus.

albedo didn’t quite understand most of its content–a real shame he thinks–but there was one line that made his mind tick in interest.

“why does icarus continue to fly despite his impending doom?”

he was not a poet by any means, he was a researcher, a slave to finding the truth, but he found the mystery behind your words worth uncovering. 

so for the next few days you stayed in mondstadt, albedo had asked for your time to ask you questions. the two of you spent your time in dragonspine in his lab. he asked about your inspirations as you chatter about your love for words and asked him in return on why he paints. albedo concluded after your time together that you were simply born with poetry running through your veins and pumping metaphors and analogies to your beating heart. there was no sense of logic in your being–it wasn’t a bad thing, emotions seemed to transcend all logic to begin with–and he found that incredibly charming.

which leads to his predicament now: inside his office, trying to rack his brain on a verse that would evoke the same feeling you showed him when you first met.

he loved your poetic mind, the calluses from pens on your fingers, your ink-stained blouses and hands, the love letters hidden under the guise of friendly affections—he loved you. but he didn’t know how to showcase it. relationships were troublesome–hard to maintain. but he wanted to try. he didn’t fall in love easily–he didn’t even know he was capable of falling in love–but he felt his growing yearning for you deep in his chalk stained bones. for once in his life, albedo wanted his fixation and interest in you to last a lifetime, afraid of the lingering bittersweet sensation that you would leave him.

with one last sigh, he picked up his sketchbook and left his office. a change of pace would surely inspire him, he tried to convince himself, but not even a few steps later, he sees you by the entrance of the knight’s headquarters. and like the first time, you flashed him a smile with those eyes and his mind went blank. you tug at his hand–his heart–ever so gently, urging him to have a picnic with you under the afternoon sun.

“you seem to really love using icarus in your poems.” albedo randomly mentioned, taking a bite of the adventurer’s sandwich you bought. you only hum and continue to write in your journal. against his better judgment, albedo leaned into your space, trying to take a peek of your newest piece, but you quickly shut the journal and stuck your tongue at him.

“peeking is rather rude y’know?” you jest and his chuckle ringed out. 

“pardon my rudeness,” he said. “i was simply curious.”

albedo was sure there was something swimming in his chest–fondness, most probably–as you flash him a knowing smile. you take out something from your bag, a crown made out of cecilias and windwheel asters, and place it on the crown of his head, leaving him with a quiet but undeniable joy that he couldn’t quite name.

“i see myself as icarus, that’s my answer.”

“how so?” he asked, mindlessly flipped through his sketchbook and felt a growing smile tug at his lips when he saw your handwriting in the corners of a few pages. 

you don’t answer–you never do– but albedo never minded. he liked it whenever you left him guessing. for the rest of the afternoon, you both spend your time in each other’s presence as you eat your food. you talked about the new book lisa had given you to read in your spare time and he asked you what colors he should use on his next painting. “yellow because they remind me of you.” would always be your reply and he’d comply.

by the time he waved you goodbye and sat back down in his office, there was another letter pressed in his sketchbook. he could already feel his heart racing as he reached for it.

“to my dearest, albedo

you seem to really ponder over the last verse of my poem when i first arrived in mondstatd. i must say, i feel honored that i made your mind tick with curiosity. i found myself gravitating towards your presence more and more after you asked me if i could be the subject of your painting. that was the first time i’ve ever been the muse to someone’s creation. it sent my heart into a giddy fit you know. you are no poet, as i am no painter; i cannot paint the image i have of you on a canvas, but i can put my affections into words. after all, the verse ‘why does icarus continue to fly despite his impending doom.’ was always meant for you—to capture your attention.”

albedo sat down on his chair, a gloved covering half of his face to hide the pathetically infatuated smile on his face. he took out the second letter from the envelope, bracing his heart to whatever emotion you would stir inside him.

“like icarus, i found myself

flying straight into the pools of his eyes

with my wings made of wax, 

i soared straight into his guarded heart

and let his burning affections scorch me and melt my wings.

then i fell—or so i thought

my body did not meet the ground harshly,

for he caught me,

in all the gentleness known to mankind, 

he treated my scorched skin with care.

i was icarus and he is my sun,

with gold and glitter in all his glory.

icarus is a fool in love.

why does icarus continue to fly, despite his impending doom?

because the sun is icarus’s love.

in every lifetime, he will always choose to fall,

loving him despite it being too hot, too close.

icarus is a fool in love, for without the sun,

he would have no reason to live.

why would icarus fly if he had no sun to fly to?”

albedo’s eyes traced over the last line of your poem, his heart rattling with uncharacteristic tenderness and a gentle ache. your words had breathed life to the emotions he never knew he was capable of feeling.

he looked down on his sketchbook, then out the window to gaze at the setting sun. the warmth reminding him of your love for icarus—him. he was no poet, but for you, he could perhaps become one.

with careful hands like you described in your poem, he folded the parchment and placed it gently into his sketchbook, right beside the finished sketch of you under the afternoon sun, cecilias blooming right under your feet. a small smile tugged at his lips as he picked up his pencil.

for the first time in a long while, albedo finally understood what it meant to be inspired.

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[bunny-1111]

Beg for it - Theodore Nott

Description: Before break, you had trouble with Theodore. On the train ride back to Hogwarts, he reminds you of the consequences of your actions.

Word count: 1.5k

...

You had gone all summer break without taking to Theo.

All summer long.

It was out of pettiness, of course. A small little argument turned into a blowout fight right before getting off the train to return home for the holidays.

You stared at your parchment all day, every day. You even picked up your quill one day, watched the ink drop onto the paper, then dropped it, pride having got the better of you.

Pride got the best of Theodore too.

Who the fuck were you to do this, ruin his summer and not write a dot to him, he thought; stubbornness mets human form in Theodore Nott; he would not accept defeat in reaching out first.

So that was that. Nothingness for two full months.

As you made your way to the platform, you thought the silent treatment would reach its end. Scarcely looking around for your boyfriend, you realise you're so nervous, you don't know if you could get a word out if you tried.

Pushing your trolley you look up, in his mighty form, Theodore Nott, body leaning onto the brick, casually talking to Matteo and Pansy.

You felt your heart drop. What do you say now, hey stranger? Miss me? I'm sorry. No. Dumb, dumber, dumbest.

So you just stood there, hand on your trolley, heart beating out of your chest by the second.

Your daze broke when you heard Pansy call out to you.

"There she is!!" she called out, gesturing you to join them.

You tried to approach, really you did, except your legs failed you. You couldn't move for a few seconds, or was it a minute? You didn't know.

"What's wrong, come-er" Mattheo yelled towards you, eyebrows furrowed

You finally made your way to them, Theodore looking at the ground.

When you got there, he was quick to leave, stomping on his cigarette and boarding the train. So this is how it would go, still not talking, got it.

Matteo quicky greeted you, then followed your boy.

"What's up his ass?" Pansy questioned, pulling you into a hug.

"I couldn't tell you" you huffed

"What's up your ass?" she questioned

"Theodore" you rolled your eyes

"Did yous fight during the break" she asked linking her arm with yours, as you start to walk towards the train

You stop and turn to her "We haven't spoken since the last day of school" you admit

her eyes widen "did you break up?!"

"that would require a conversation" you laughed self pity laced in your expression

"you wouldn't have mentioned that in one of your letters?" she says

"I didn't want to think about it, I'm sorry" you reply

"what are you going to do?" she almost laughed

"I don't know, I was hoping you'd figure it out for me" you say faking a cry

she threw her head back in laughter "Oh no, no, this is a you problem"

You groaned back, searching for the carriage the boys secured.

As you reached the door, you looked at the seating arrangement. You could sit next to Draco, wedge yourself between Blaise and Enzo, or sit in the open seat next to Theo.

Next to Draco was the most rational decision you thought: taking a seat. Until Pansy had other plans. " Get up; I'm sitting there," she smiled, her head nudging towards Theos's direction.

You took a deep breath and moved beside him, your shy eyes looking up at him. When he didn't look back, breathe a word, touch you, or even acknowledge your existence, you took it upon yourself to rest your head on the window seal.

Pft you thought.

Nine and a half hours of this. You wished you had a time turner to change your present. To have just written him. Maybe you wouldn't be in this situation if you had.

Would it be this painfully quiet the whole trip? Would he even reply if you started a conversation? Ugh you wanted to scream out. But you didn't. Your mouth stayed shut, and your eyes stayed closed.

Eventually falling asleep to the soundtrack of your endless thoughts.

That is until Theodore nudges you awake. Opening your eyes, he gestures for you to leave with him. Here we go.

The two of you walk down the thin corridors of the Hogwarts Express in silence, looking for an empty carriage.

After looking and looking, with no luck, Theodore grew increasingly impatient.

He found an almost empty space, though three kids, much younger than you both, sat in cartridge, door closed. Theodore stopped before the door, opening it, as the children stared at him.

"Get out", he said cooly, pointing at them, then behind himself.

"Why, where will we go?" a boy replied

"I don't give a fuck join the people next door. We're prefects unless you want three weeks of detention. I suggest you do as I say," he continued; it was the most you had heard of his voice in so long; you didn't want him to stop talking, even if it was telling off these strangers.

They hesitantly got up and left, muttering something under their breath, beginning their quest for new seats.

Theodore grabbed your hand and sat you down, closing the door and curtain behind him.

Your heart rate picked up again as he sat directly before you.

You didn't know where to look and certainly didn't know what to say.

"You have some nerve." He stated, leaning back, relaxing his legs out, looking straight at you.

Could he hear it, the thud of your pounding heart, you wondered.

"I-" you began

"And then. You dare to not sit next to me" He laughs, a scary laugh, an angry laugh

You inhale, ready to rebut before he starts again. "Is that what you want, to sit with Draco? Huh? Or Blaise or Matteo, anyone but your fucking boyfriend."

"I didn't think you wanted me near you," you say, looking out the window. Avoiding his gaze. Yeah, he didn't like that, immediately moving next to you,

"What's so special out the window?" he growled, placing two fingers on your chin, tilting your head towards him "Look at me when we talk, not the bloody view" he continued

"okay", you managed to whisper back. I wasn't a second longer before one of his hands reached the back of your neck, the other finding its way through your hair. His lips exploring your mouth.

He was literally taking your breath away when he finally pulled away; you caught your breath back, his forehead connecting to yours

"why didn't you fucking write me?" he pants out

"I don't know," you say, closing your eyes

"look at me" he says, you do.

"I waited all fucking summer," he says, looking deep into your eyes; you knew what he was doing, searching for the answer you still hadn't given him.

"you didn't write me either," you said in a hushed tone

His hands meet his face, burying his frustration.

You place your hands on his back, he moves his hand from his face to your arm, sliding down until his arm is around your body.

"I shouldn't talk to you for the whole school year" he spat out

"You couldn't live like that" you quickly reply

"I have plenty of experience, two months worth, all thanks to you," he says inching closer to you

"I'm sorry, Teddy, alright" you plead

"you really don't get it, do you? How angry you made me all fucking break. What am I gonna do with that?" his voice husky and low, leaning over you

"do what you have to do," you say just above a whisper underneath him

"Here, now? I don't think so" he says before kissing you "teddy" you called out

"I'm right here," he says, kissing your neck

"please" you whisper

"No, no," he says, moving off you

"I'm gonna make you as frustrated as you made me all summer, baby" he smiles

You look at him blankly. He was knocking any bit of integrity out of you

"come on" you almost laugh

"I'm so serious", he says "You'll be begging all term long" he continues kissing your forehead, standing up

"where are you going?" you rush

"back to the group" he smiles. You furrow your brows

"what's wrong, baby?" he chuckles

"Teddy" you whine

"I told you... begging" he says, looking back, leaving the carriage

This was not how you expect things to go.

It was going to be a long term, and you hadn't even arrived yet.

The punishment of pushing Theodore Nott.

Message me or comment to be added to the tag list x

Requests are open

Reblogs, comments and likes are, as always, appreciated my loves XOXOXO

part 2 - here

[theprongspotter]

Want - Jegulus - @stag-microfic - Day 13 - 1,049 words

James is absentmindedly twirling his quill between his fingers, the delicate feathered end brushing against his knuckles. Each subtle twist of his wrist sends ripples through his forearm, causing his muscles to tense and relax in a rhythmic dance. The tendons shift beneath his skin, making the veins on his hand stand out more prominently with every motion, as if they are straining to match the intensity of his focus. His grip on the quill is firm, yet the fluidity with which he moves it suggests a practiced ease, a habitual motion that betrays his deep concentration.

Across the table, Regulus is mesmerized by the movements, his usually sharp mind rendered blank by the hypnotic sight before him. His potions essay, typically the subject of his unwavering focus, now lies forgotten, the parchment still blank aside from a few smudged ink marks where his quill had slipped. He can't seem to look away from James' hands, the way they move so effortlessly, each gesture deliberate yet unconsciously graceful.

James eventually looks up, catching Regulus in his trance. Raising his brows in silent inquiry, James' eyes flicker with curiosity, and then amusement as Regulus continues to stare, his gaze fixed on the play of muscles and veins under James' skin. A slow, teasing smirk spreads across James' lips as he sets the quill down, breaking the spell. Regulus' eyes immediately snap up to meet James', heat creeping into his cheeks at being caught.

“What’s got you so distracted, Reg?” James asks, leaning forward slightly, his voice carrying a light teasing lilt that sends a shiver down Regulus’ spine.

Regulus scowls, attempting to reclaim his usual aloof demeanor. “I’m not distracted, Potter,” he retorts, his voice lacking its usual sharpness.

James hums, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t know,” he drawls, glancing pointedly at the nearly blank parchment in front of Regulus. “I’ve written more on my essay than you have on yours in the past hour. That’s saying something.”

Regulus doesn’t have a comeback, his mind too occupied with the way James' hands rest on the table now, fingers splayed casually. The rough callouses on his palms and knuckles catch the light, further proof of how much time James spends on the Quidditch pitch, gripping a broom or a Quaffle, his hands always in motion, always working.

His gaze remains fixated on James’ hands, his thoughts spiraling into a haze of desire. The contrast between the strength in James’ hands and the gentleness with which he handles the quill fuels a growing need in Regulus that he can no longer ignore. His chest tightens, the overwhelming urge to feel those hands on him drowning out any rational thought. The idea of continuing his essay feels absurd now, the words on the page blurring into meaningless scribbles. All that matters is James, and the electric tension crackling in the air between them.

James’ voice snaps him out of his thoughts, though the smirk playing on his lips shows he’s well aware of the effect he’s having. “Regulus?” he prompts, amusement lacing his tone.

Without a word, Regulus rises from his seat, his chair scraping lightly against the floor. His heart pounds in his chest, and he reaches out, grabbing James’ wrist with a firm grip. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up his arm, but he doesn’t pause to savor it. Instead, he tugs James to his feet, the words he can’t seem to find replaced by action.

James doesn’t protest, allowing himself to be led away from their secluded corner in the library. His expression shifts from amusement to curiosity as Regulus pulls him through the rows of towering bookshelves. The quiet rustling of pages and soft murmurs of other students fade into the background as they move deeper into the library, where the shelves are taller and the lighting dimmer.

Regulus doesn’t stop until they reach the back of the library, a secluded area rarely visited by others. The scent of aged parchment and leather-bound books fills the air, but all Regulus can focus on is the warmth of James’ skin beneath his fingers, the steady pulse he can feel under his touch. He releases James’ wrist and turns to face him, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he tries to form the words he needs to say.

But before he can speak, James steps closer, closing the distance between them. His playful smirk softens into something warmer, more intimate, as he lifts a hand to gently cup Regulus’ cheek. The touch is tender, the pad of his thumb brushing over Regulus’ cheekbone in a slow, soothing motion. The gentleness in James’ touch contrasts sharply with the burning intensity in Regulus’ chest, and he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Reg?” James asks, his voice low and filled with genuine curiosity.

Regulus’ eyes snap open, locking onto James’ gaze. He swallows hard, the words still eluding him, so instead of speaking, he acts. He steps forward, closing the last of the distance between them, and presses his lips to James’ in a kiss that’s both desperate and demanding. The quill falls forgotten to the floor as James responds immediately, his arms wrapping around Regulus’ waist, pulling him closer.

The kiss is everything Regulus needed—hot, consuming, and all-encompassing. James’ hands, the ones that had so thoroughly captivated Regulus moments ago, are now gripping him with the same strength and intensity. The feeling of those calloused fingers digging into his back sends a shiver down Regulus’ spine, and he deepens the kiss, pouring all his pent-up frustration and longing into it.

When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together as they try to catch their breath. James’ eyes are dark with desire, his lips swollen from the force of their kiss.

“Forget the essays,” Regulus finally murmurs, his voice rough with need. “I just want you.”

James’ lips curve into a smile, and he leans in to capture Regulus’ lips in another kiss, softer this time but no less intense. “You’ve got me, Reg,” he whispers against Regulus’ lips, his hands beginning to roam, exploring every inch of the body he’s already claimed as his.

[wzrd-wheezes]

could i request a short imagine with remus x fem reader, where they’re best friends, and one day in the library while remus is talking about some book he’s passionate about, the reader just kisses him??? thank u!!!

Ink-Stained Fingers - Remus Lupin x Reader.

AN - this was such a cute request and i had so much fun writing it! thank you so much <3

Y/N’s fingers were stained with ink from her quill as she frantically scribbled on a particularly long roll of parchment, desperately trying to finish her potions essay that was due in the morning. Remus sat opposite her, his feet propped up on the table and a book gripped between his fingers.

“How many times have you read that one, then?” Y/N asked, glancing up at him.

“Dunno.” he replied, barely looking up, “Five maybe?”

Y/N smiled to herself, returning her attention to her homework. Remus would usually keep her company on her late night study sessions in the library when she was cramming in her homework last minute. She wasn’t as organised as he was usually.

Remus’ fingers toyed idly with a loose thread on the sleeve of his jumper as he read. By the looks of it, it was a book that he’d read over and over. The edges of the pages had gone fuzzy like they had been thumbed through many times and his brow furrowed as his eyes danced over the words.

“I can lend it you if you want?” Remus broke the silence.

“Are you feeling alright?” Y/N laughed, “James asked to borrow one of your books the other day and you looked like he’d just asked you to sacrifice your first born child!”

Remus chuckled, closing the book and placing it on the table.

“That was only ‘cause I know he wouldn’t look after it,” he said, “knowing him he’d probably leave it somewhere.”

Y/N nodded in agreement, dipping her quill back into the pot of ink and carrying on writing. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Remus reach down to retrieve something from his bag. He took out a quill and ink and began flicking quickly through the pages of his book.

“What’re you doing?” Y/N asked, not looking up from the piece of parchment in front of her.

“‘M just writing you some notes in the margins,” he muttered, clearly deep in thought, “y’know, for when you read it.”

Her eyes snapped up to look at him and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Remus was biting down on his lip as he scribbled down his notes, a crease forming between his brows. It was as if he couldn’t get the words down on the pages quick enough.

“This is one of my favourites, you know?” he spoke, “The characters are so well thought out and the way that it’s written is honestly…”

He went on, telling her every detail of the story telling without trying to ruin it for her. His lips pulled into a smile as he spoke, the words spilling effortlessly out of his mouth. His eyes were wide and shining with excitement and Y/N had lost track of what he was saying, completely in awe of how passionately he was speaking about the book.

Y/N didn’t know why she did it, but before she had even registered what she was doing, she had leaned across the table and kissed him. She caught him mid sentence, his mouth slightly open and his lips soft against hers. Y/N pulled away quickly, her eyes widening and her heart pounding.

“If you wanted me to shut up you only had to tell me.” Remus laughed, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“I’m sorry - I don’t know why I did that!” Y/N panicked, “Shit. you’re my best friend-”

This time Remus cut her off. Leaning over the table and grabbing her face with his hands. The kiss this time was more sure, his lips confident against hers, his hand resting on her jaw. He tried to pull her closer to him to deepen the kiss when all over a sudden they were distracted by a dull thud as something hit the wood of the table.

Looking down, they saw that the pot of ink had been knocked over, the dark liquid spilling across the table and seeping onto the the roll of parchment where Y/N was writing her essay. She let out a gasp, trying to snatch her work away from the ink that was spreading at a rapid pace.

“Don’t worry about it.” Remus said, taking the paper from her hands and dropping it to the floor, his eyes still fixed on hers. The ink had got on his fingers too, and he chuckled as he looked at them. “I’ll help you write another one.”

His lips quickly found Y/N’s again, their ink stained fingers intertwining.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: You know I can't resist... So here is another chapter! Hehe, thanks for the love and kind words as per usual! I wonder what the reader is going to do now heheh <3

Chapter 82: The Cracks 

A letter sat in the centre of the table in your chambers. Its soft yellow parchment was rolled neatly, a black, three headed dragon wax seal holding the fine paper together. It had been untouched. Unread. Unopened. The seal still in its whole form. 

A letter from your family.

Its soft gentle sloping the telltale sign of your mothers handwriting. Small and gentle, feminine slopes, no harsh ’t’s or sloppy ‘y’s. It was her. And you let a small sigh of relief escape from your lips. 

The letter began as most did, a greeting, a comment about Daemon to let you know it was your mother, despite you knowing her writing by heart. But then the letter became more anxious. Asking about your wellbeing, stating that it had been too long since they had last heard from you. 

How long had it been?

Was time running away from you? The days bleeding and blinking together.

When was the last time that you had written?

Aemond had held the parchment out for you and you had taken it wordlessly, bitter resentment still curling in your gut. You took your time walking to the chaise and moved to sit by the light and warmth of the fire to read, the hearth crackling softly as Aemond sat at the table, quill in hand. Quiet gentle scratches of ink rose in the air as he wrote, having been writing all day after you had spent yours in the Gardens. 

‘It has been too long, we fear you have fallen ill. Are you well? Must we come visit to see for ourselves? Alicent has corresponded to let us know that you are well, but we wish to hear from your own word. Have you lost yourself amongst the library? Or have you run out of starfruit and are desperately in need of more?’

Alicent? 

Your mother had written to Alicent?

You smiled at Rhaenyra's script, bringing the parchment to your nose and inhaling deeply. It smelt of her. Her subtle oils that she rubbed into her skin, the soap she used to wash her hair, and the ever so faint smell of smoke.

‘Jacaerys and Baela were wed in tradition here at Dragonstone.’

A stone sank in your stomach.

‘It was a beautiful day, no winds, nor rains, nor a cloud in sight. Baela was a vision, a beauty of Valyrian blood, and Jacaerys as handsome as ever. His hair has grown longer, it curls above his shoulders now. He misses you terribly. We all do. Your absence was noted at the union by all present.’

A tear fell from your cheek.

You had missed it.

Baela and Jacaerys’ union.

A union of love.

A union of respect.

Something pure.

And you had missed it.

A day like that would never come again. 

You felt sick to your stomach as another tear fell from your eyes, stomach turning painfully as you thought of it. 

You thought of your father, proud and smiling at his daughter and step son. Of how Rhaneyra would have beamed, and fretted over Jacaerys’ hair and clothing. Of how Rhaena would have been glued to Baela’s side.

You wondered what Joffrey, Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger had worn. Of what they looked like. Of how it had been.

Would you have smiled brightly at the union, filled with joy at seeing two people you love dearly be wed to one another? 

Or would have cried, overwhelmed by it all and what you had missed out on in life?

You sniffed, and Aemond’s head lifted from his page to look at you. You roughly wiped your eyes with the back of your hand placing the parchment in your lap as you tried to steady your breathing. 

You had not forgotten the dinner that the two of you had. Nor of Aegon’s confession of Aemond’s deceit. 

But you swallowed it as you did everything else, and made priority over what you could and could not feel for. And soon the sadness that ate at you turned to anger, and you began to think more on when the perfect time to strike is. 

Aemond stood from the table, shoes barely making a sound as he came around beside you, one hand on your shoulder as he reached forward for the letter. 

If Aemond so wished it, he could sneak anywhere without being seen or heard.

“May I?” He asked, and with shaky fingers you lifted the parchment to give to him.

“Jacaerys and Baela were wed.” You spoke dully, pushing down the tide inside of you. 

Stay strong. 

Aemond hummed, eyes skimming the pages, “I am sorry to have missed it.”

“As am I.”

“Perhaps when Rhaena is wed-“ Aemond stopped himself.

Rhaena. 

Rhaena was betrothed to Lucerys. 

But now she would not wed him. 

You would never get to see Lucerys be married to someone who would have loved him just as fiercely as you did. You would never get to see him grow, or start a family of his own. You would never get to see him grey with age. Lucerys would always be a boy. 

You stood on stiff knees, brushing down your skirt in habit. 

“Excuse me.” Was all you said as you moved yourself away from your uncle and the fireplace, and across the room to leave the chambers, leaving Aemond behind, needing a moment for air. 

Needing a moment to breathe. 

A moment to be away from it. 

It was overwhelming, and you fought the urge to cry.

You slowly made your way down to the Gardens, neither walking fast or slow, but taking your time with each step as you tried to steady your breathing and tame the tides that surged within.

“It has been a while since I saw you here.” 

You turned your head slowly, looking behind you. 

Aegon sat in your usual seat in the Gardens, looking at you with a lazy grin. He did not wear his crown today, and despite him being alone and you with him, your heart did not race. 

“I have been thankful.” You responded, moving to continue on your walk down the Gardens to the shore of the beach.

Aegon’s footsteps clunked against the stone ground loudly, heavy on his feet where Aemond was light, as he chased to catch up with you, your hands held together at your front. 

It was a fine day in King’s Landing. Small clouds littered the skies, and a gentle breeze rolled through the trees and plants of the Garden, wafting the sweet aroma of the flowers around you.

“Might I join you on this walk?” The King asked, no tone of mocking in his voice. 

You turned your head to look at him, eyes roaming up and down his body. 

Aemond would be furious. 

“You may.” You said stiffly, turning your head away as you strolled together past bushels of lavender and rosemary, their gentle scents curling around you.

“And how is my brother today? Has his temper been soothed?”

“He is in our chambers, attending to your duties.”

Aegon hummed in agreement, a high pitch noise where Aemond’s was deep. Aegon’s came from his throat, Aemond’s came from his chest.

“Aemond does love his writing and his books. Best to keep him preoccupied.”

“And you love your drinking and your whoring.” You replied primly.

“And what if I told you I have turned a new leaf?” Aegon’s tone lightened, head turned to smile at you in your periphery.

You kept your eyes ahead on the path, “I would not believe it.”

Aegon laughed heartily, "I suppose you may be right. No harm in trying.”

“There is plenty.”

“Did Aemond ravish you after the council dinner? I have never seen him so fiery as he left to go after you. I can’t imagine it had been fun.”

“It was perfectly enjoyable.” You sighed.

I hate him, Aemond’s voice echoed in your head, He should beg for my mercy.

“Aemond does not leave much to be desired.” You continued, insinuating Aemond’s skills.

“Though I am thicker. You said so yourself.” Aegon waggled his brows at you and you fought the urge to not gag.

“Aemond is longer and simply reaches places you could not dream to reach, where you are thicker. Though the thickness does not stop at your cock.”

“Such a tart mouthed woman.”

“A brainless, whore of a King.”

“Be nice, or I may bend you over that rose bush.” Aegon pointed jovially at a bush you remembered Helaena getting caught in as a child. 

Your stomach roiled and your heart rattled against your ribs. 

“Perhaps I should bend you over it.” You quipped back, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat. 

Aegon laughed sincerely as you began to walk down the steps towards the water, “I would not be adversed to it.” He smirked, hands tucked behind his back. 

The walk down to the water was quiet, and as you got to the bottom, the two of you looked out at the rolling waters, soft fluffy white tips peaking over the waves, wind brushing over it softly, making the water look like diamonds. 

You stood side by side for some time, counting your breaths in your head as you realised the risk of being with Aegon alone where you were.

But it has already happened.

What is another time more?

You turned your head to look at Aegon, who still looked out at the water, face still. His nose sloped softly where Aemond’s was harsh. Aegon looked more like his mother than Viserys. Soft cheeks and pouted lips, and a perpetual sadness that lingered behind his lavender eyes.

“I miss her.” His voice broke the silence. 

You blinked. 

“I know that you would not believe me, but I do. She was my sister. My wife,” He turned to look at you and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes, “The mother of my children.”

You swallowed as you looked at him, brows furrowed.

My children.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The King sighed.

“Do you know?” 

Aegon shifted on his feet sighing, looking out at the water for a moment, letting the unanswered question wrap around the two of you coldly. His jaw clenched.

“They’re not your children.”

Aegon huffed, “Vicious little thing aren’t you.”

“Aemond and Helaena-“

“Loved each other in their own way. I know this. Anyone with eyes would know this.” Aegon began, brows pulled down, “But he was good to her. Kind even, if you can believe Aemond is capable of such qualities.”

“You are brothers.”

Aegon laughed humourlessly, “That we are.”

Silence. 

“They are my children. My heirs. Maegor will sit the throne after me. And his children after him.” Aegon’s tone was brittle and stiff, an iciness that wrapped around each syllable. 

“They ask after her, especially Maegor. But Jaehaera has gone quiet, so quiet since…” Aegon trailed off and looked back at the water, “She asked for you once.” 

You blinked, “Jaehaera?”

“Mother is in charge of raising them now.” Aegon’s violet eyes met yours.

“My condolences."

Aegon turned on his heel and offered and elbow for you to loop your arm through. You looked at it in question. When had things gone so wrong? Why did life find a way for ruining connection and families? You thought for a beat, looking at your eldest uncles arm, and swallowed the fear that clawed at your throat.

Slowly, you looped yours through his as you began to walk back up through the Garden together, step by slow step as you both looked at the flowers in bloom. Your skin prickled in disgust and nausea ate at your stomach.

As you passed the Monkshood, your eyes darted to it and then back to Aegon who turned his head to meet your gaze. 

“Remember when you caught me and that servant girl in the Gardens?” Aegon smirked, “I don't think I have ever seen you so red.”

There he is. 

Fucking prick. 

You hummed, “I could not think of a worser fate than having your cock in my mouth.”

“Ah, but you did say perhaps.” Aegon paused, letting go of your arm as he reached an arm forward, plucking a bright red rose from its bush. You watched as Aegon stepped closer to you, his scent closing around you as he lifted both arms. 

You flinched at the movement, but Aegon did not stop, instead pushing its stem into the back of your braid, a thorn catching a strand of your hair as he pushed it down. Aegon stood back and smiled at his handy work.

“I did.” You swallowed, “Though I worry for your ability to actually please.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, I’m a quick learner.”

Aegon grinned, from up ahead, the greying head of Otto Hightower came into view and Aegon sighed loudly, letting his head fall backwards on his neck as he looked up at the sky.

“Duty calls.” Aegon griped, searching your face. “Until ‘perhaps’?”

Bile rose in your mouth as you stared at him.

“Perhaps.” You said coyly.

A wide smirk pulled on his lips before Aegon turned away from you walking lazily up to Otto, whose gaze flicked between you and the King, his voice hushed as he spoke to his grandson. You watched the two of them walk from the garden out of sight before you released the breath that you had been holding, heart racing. 

When you arrived back in your chambers you moved straight to the table, retrieving a blank piece of parchment and writing back to your family. Apologising for not being there, assuring them of your wellbeing, telling them of the gardens and the new books you had been reading. Each swipe of your quill caused heat to bloom in your chest. 

Perhaps.

You were disgusted in yourself. But you knew it had to be done. 

The sound of the chamber doors alerted you to Aemond’s entrance, but you made no move to greet him nor even acknowledge him, your eyes still on the parchment as you wrote. His footfall stopped beside you as he looked at you writing your letter. 

“Where have you been?” Aemond asked, tone pressing.

“The Gardens for a walk.” You responded tonelessly, looping a ‘y’ with care.

Silence wrung out in the room before you felt the gentle pull of your hair at the back of your head, Aemond held the red rose in his hand as he turned it over, your eyes still on the page as you told your mother of some of the new tomes you had received, as well as the Black Stone. 

“I did not know you were fond of roses.” Aemond mused, turning it over in his hand.

You paused your writing to dip the quill in the ink pot before you lifted your gaze beneath your lashes at Aemond, “I’m not. It was a gift.” You said dully, scraping the quill against the ink well, thick drops of black ink sliding back inside its holder.

A beat. 

“A gift?”

You pressed the quill back onto the parchment, “Aegon joined me on my walk.”

“Aegon?” Aemond’s voice was dangerously low.

“Do you know of any other Aegon’s in the Keep?”

“Did he touch you?” He all but growled. 

“He offered an arm.” You drawled, signing off your name at the end of the letter.

“An arm and a rose.”

You dropped the quill into its holder unceremoniously before turning your upper body to look at your uncle, who’s face was pulled into a frown.

“An arm and a rose are far more respectable than a bastard given to your whore.” You spoke cooly, tilting your head down to blow on the ink lightly before looking back up at him. 

“You provoke me.” He grunted.

“I do no such thing.” You countered, “Merely a friendly walk and talk with my dear uncle.”

“When has he ever been dear to you?” Aemond snipped.

“When have you ever been faithful? Honourable? You wish to question me and my honour when you have fathered a bastard. Not only have you fathered potential others," You hissed, "With this one, you did not even think to tell me, your brother did. Your ‘pathing a path with good intentions’ has been trodden under your boot.”

Your words hung heavily in the chambers as Aemond looked at you. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Good.” You snipped, pushing the chair out from beneath you as you handed Aemond the scroll, “Feel free to read it if you like before sending it out.” And with that you left the chambers again, needing to cool your temper. 

-

Over the next few days, you and Aemond danced around each other, barely speaking except for your snips and snarls, Aemond returning it with little patience and immediately apologising afterwards. And Aegon took advantage of that. 

And you took advantage of him. 

The King begun to hang around you more often since the walk in the Gardens. His presence appearing like smoke, seemingly out of thin air. He would find you everywhere.

Anywhere.

The Godswood. 

The Library. 

Even in the halls and corridors as you walked aimlessly, not wanting to be found by Aemond and his incessant presence. 

And you let him. 

For humouring the man brought you an advantage that you hadn’t had before. You answered his questions earnestly, and responded to his flirting with playful jabs in turn. You made quick work of it, for though you had told Aegon his cock was thicker, which was true, he was also the thickest brother. Not as smart, nor as cunning as Aemond, and it showed. 

Each time the King found you, you would indulge him, little by little, and by the fourth day of his small rendezvous, you even offered him a smile, something you had previously only reserved for Aemond. And with each day coming to an end, spent by the side of the whoring and drunken King, you ended your conversations with the same echoing ‘perhaps’, and the promise of something to come.

It angered Aemond to no avail. 

Each time you returned to your chambers, you would mention in fleeting passing that Aegon had found you again. That he had spoken with you. That perhaps he brought you a gift, or complimented your dress, brining home more roses, or in one instance a silk chemise. And Aemond simmered with anger each and every time. 

He fucked his anger out into you and you revelled in it, coaxing it from him. Making him believe that you had no play in it. That you were not repeating ‘perhaps’ to the King. That you were not letting your eyes linger on his breeches for fleeting moments. That you were not egging the King on. That Aegon was seeking you out, that you merely had no choice but to endure his presence, that you had said no once before and Aegon had not listened.  

It also left him with the possibility that you were encouraging it. Though he had no evidence of such.

Aemond saw his brother pursuing you, and you played the innocent dolt. The One-Eyed Prince’s resentment to his brother was building, and you were ecstatic. 

I hate him.

That morning as you and Aemond dined together, he asked you of your plans. You told him that you would be going to the Gardens to read the rest of your book in the sun, and had plans to even have your lunch there. At the mention of the Gardens, Aemond informed you that he would be joining you.

“And is a certain King the reason for this sudden declaration of company?” You questioned, lifting a brow at the Prince from across the table. 

“No.” Aemond said all too quickly, “I have finished my duties ahead of time, and wish to spend my day with my wife.”

You hummed, chewing on a small piece of toast. 

Aemond wanted to make sure Aegon didn't get you alone. 

When you walked down to the garden together it was a quiet affair, the only sounds being your foot steps and the swishing of your skirts. When you arrived to your usual spot, you were surprised to find it empty, but felt a small piece of disappointment knowing that the two brothers would not use you as a weapon against each other. 

You sat and read for a time, though you felt the constant subtle gazes of Aemond as he looked up at you.

Sensing his unease, you sought to work on it. Tucking the book at your side you chuckled softly and looked out at the water, Aemond following your line of sight. 

You needed to bite your tongue about Alys. For now.

You needed to play to your strengths and his weaknesses. 

Your shared childhood.

“Do you remember when the Sea Snake told us that there were dragons in the sea?” You coaxed, letting a small smile rise on your lips as you looked back at Aemond, who’s gaze was on you, and not the water. 

“Hm.”

“I remember being so excited, and you were terrified.”

Aemond huffed, “I was not terrified, I simply did not believe it.”

You grinned at him, “And why is it so unbelievable?”

“Because who would claim them?”

“Perhaps the sea people he spoke about.”

A wry grin pulled on Aemond’s lips, “Again with your tales and stories. You always did love fairytales and mystical creatures.”

“I remember you loving to hear about those stories. Besides, who is to say they aren’t real? I’m sure the people in Westeros had stories of Dragons before, and they exist, do they not? What is a tale without a little truth to it?” You turned your head to look back out at the water, Aemond’s not committal hum beside you. 

You paused a moment or two, looking at the water in mock thought before you opened your mouth to speak.

“Aemond,” You asked again, looking back to find he had not taken his eye from you, “How did you remember I liked lemon tarts? Did you remember when we snuck into the kitchens?”

“I remember you running into a passage to eat them greedily. You even stole mine.”

Your mouth dropped open, “I did not. You gave it to me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and you know it to be true. You stole armfuls of them and only had two by the end. A terribly bad thief you make.”

“My apprentice was worse. You got caught the next time by the Septa.”

You winced at the memory, the sound of her shrieking voice as she screamed at the both of you, dragging you to your respected mothers and telling them that you were sneaking out of your chambers together. 

“Not my fault you weren’t listening for footsteps. You were too busy complaining about Aegon.”

Aegon.

Aemond shifted at the mention. 

“He was a twat.”

“Is.” You corrected him, "Do you remember when I hit him in the shins in the training yard?” You laughed loudly, enjoying the small smile that wound on Aemond’s face, “He really thought that he could best me with a sword just because I was a girl.” 

“He underestimates a lot of people. Especially you.” There was a dark undertone to his words, but you chose to ignore it. 

“Seeing him fall to the floor, clutching his shins was better than any lemon tart or star fruit. You should have seen Ser Cole’s face! I've never seen him so appalled.”

“Not even in the library?” Aemond teased, and you blushed. 

“You’re cruel.” You teased, “But Aegon deserved it.” Your tone hardened, “I couldn’t stand to see the way he treated you. How he pushed you around. How my brothers joined in.”

Aemond stayed silent as you continued. 

“When I found you that day in the tunnels, after they gave you the pig…” You looked back at the water, “I wanted beat them bloody. I’ve never felt rage like that before, I wanted to-“ You paused taking a deep breath, “I know that you think I betrayed you.” You said quietly, looking at the soft white peaks on the waves below, not daring to lift your gaze to Aemond’s piercing one, “But I didn’t have a choice. Rhaenyra would have never let me stay in the Keep, and seeing your mother come after Lucerys with a blade? I was terrified.” You swallowed, thinking of that fateful night. 

“I stepped in front of Lucerys, I think I was ready in that moment.” You explained, your breathing uneven, “I was ready to die for him. And then I saw you, and you were looking at me, and then I saw your eye.“ You swallowed again, “I never forgave Luc for what he did to you, just like I will never forgive you for what you did to him.” 

You finally turned to face Aemond, who’s face was carefully blank, “But know that if Alicent had not come at us all with that blade, I would have run to you. I wanted to see if you were okay. I wanted to make sure that you were alright, I-“ You paused, reaching your hand out to touch the scar that split through his cheek, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You were just a boy. And you were my friend. All we had was each other, and I left you alone.”

Aemond’s eye searched your face before his hand gripped your own, pulling it into his lap. 

“I thought I might find you here.” 

Aemond and your heads flicked to the noise, seeing Aegon standing at the entrance of the sitting area, Ser Cole behind him. Aemond’s hand gripped yours tightly, and you soothed over his knuckles with your thumb.

“It's not hard to find someone in a place they cannot leave.” You quipped back.

“Merely came to see if perhaps today was a good day.”

“Clearly I’m here, brother.” Aemond growled.

“Like I said, you could watch.” Aegon teased.

Aemond moved to stand, but you tugged him back down with his hand. 

“When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East, Aegon.” You sighed, keeping a firm grip of Aemond’s hand. 

Aegon smirked, looking down at your hands and then back up before bowing his head to the two of you. As he left, escorted by Ser Criston Cole, Aemond kept his eye on his brother the entire time, whilst you kept your eye on him. 

“Aem,” You brushed his cheek with your hand, coaxing his attention back to you, “Hēnkirī hae mēr.”

Together as one.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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Bold is who I cannot tag!

[cyripticchronicler]

Prank Wars - Sirius Black

Your relationship with Sirius only exists because of the stupid pranks you pull on each other. What happens if you want more?

A/N: I feel like I haven't posted in foreverrr I'm so sorry, schools started up again and I'm busy writing my book but I'm going to try to post more. Also, I was listening to Fearless (Taylor's Version) during this and I didn't know what to write at the end so her lyrics are in there. Did that make sense? Okay enjoy my lovelies and PLEASE send in requests.

Warnings: One swear word, kissing,

Masterlist

You and Sirius have always been known for your mischievous antics at Hogwarts. It started with innocent pranks played on each other, like Sirius turning your quill into a dancing snake during potions, causing you to retaliate by cursing his broom and making him turn in circles during Quidditch practice. 

After each prank the stakes get higher, but so does your infatuation with Sirius Black. You’d never admit it but you like holding Sirius’ attention, knowing that he's thinking of you, even if it's because he’s planning another prank. 

The prank war helps you express your feelings to Sirius without admitting them, even if it increases your heart rate by tenfold, you enjoy the war. 

All of Hogwarts has started to notice the pranks, thanks to your latest prank where you spiked his pumpkin juice, leaving him walking around the school with bright orange hair for a week. The evil glare he sent you from across the table has a smile painting your face even now, a week later. 

You’ve kept your eyes sharp all week, heavily inspecting your food before you eat it and taking extra caution when turning corners. But so far, nothing happened. You’re not sure if you should be worried or happy. Was your last prank too much? Is he done pranking you? Was that it? 

Your mind races with ideas on why he hasn't retaliated yet, your lip caught between your teeth as you go from class to class. 

He doesn't seem mad at you if the small smirks and stolen glances he gives you during class are any indication. But that just leaves you more stressed. How big is his prank going to be?

Groaning at your thoughts, you run a hand through your hair and slump against the nearest wall, eyes falling shut against your own will. Turns out that constantly being overly cautious is exhausting. 

“Hey, sweetheart!” You nearly jump out of your skin, head whipping around to face the boy you haven't stopped thinking about in months. 

“What do you want, Sirius?” You question, hand on your hip, you watch as he comes closer. 

“Just wanted to give you something,” He pauses in front of you, hand reaching out into his trouser pocket to retrieve a small parchment. Your eyes cautiously eye the paper, you don't see anything suspicious but you take a step back just to be sure.  

Sirius laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. I just thought it would help you.” In the end, curiosity takes over and you snatch the parchment out of his hand, hands outstretched, away from your face as you open it. 

You scoff at the words written in black ink, “Prank suggestions?” He grins cheekily, “Thought it would help you, you know since your other pranks haven't been the best.”

“Is that a hint of orange in your hair?” You question mockingly. His smile falters. Grinning in triumph, you pull out your wand - in which Sirius takes a step back- and spell the parchment, prank suggestions turning into a ‘self-writing’ parchment that composes embarrassing love poems to him. 

He grins as you hand it back to him, eyes tracking the words as they turn into another poem. “Thank you, I love it.” He goes to walk away, “I’d keep your eyes peeled, sweetheart. You don’t know what’s coming.”

You hide my nervousness with a smirk, your heart finally slowing down as he leaves. You ignore the longing in your heart because there's no way you’d ever actually date Sirius Black. 

—

Sirius’ “big prank” doesn't come till Friday and, thankfully, it wasn't that bad. But, Merlin it was annoying. At first, you figured it was a problem with the school itself, not that it was enchanted. But after the stairs lead you to another unfamiliar room, you knew Sirius Black had a hand in this. You were late to potions, earning a detention. On your way to detention, you stupidly forgot about the enchanted staircase, causing you to be late to detention, for which you received another two. You made sure to send Sirius your most ruthless glares, which he smiled back. 

It didn't take long for you to come up with a prank, with the help of peeves you managed to cover all of Sirius’ things in glitter, enchanting it so he couldn't use a spell to clean it. 

The next morning Sirius showed up to Transfiguration with pink glitter all over his uniform, causing you to smile. 

“Glitter? Really?” He questioned, face pinched in annoyance as he took a seat next to you. Your heart beats heavily in your chest. Why is he sitting with you?

“Why are you sitting with me?” You blurt, hand hurrying to cover your mouth. 

He leans in closer, eyes shining with amusement. “You don't want me to sit with you, Sweetheart?”

“I-I never said that,” You laugh awkwardly. Attempting to regain your composure, you hand him the parchment you wrote last night. 

He takes it, brows raised in question. Hesitantly, he opens the parchment, barking out a laugh at the contents. “I believe I already gave this to you, Sweetheart.” 

“I figured you needed it more than me,” You smile sweetly, looking down at the parchment in his hands where you wrote down some prank suggestions. 

“Thank you, but I don’t need your suggestions.” He turns to the board, writing down the important information. You do the same, mumbling a quiet ‘if you say so.’ 

—

You’re halfway through transfiguration when it happens. Mouth open in shock as you stare at the pile of rainbow confetti covering your desk where your notes used to be, the floor and your hair are covered with the small plastic and you send Sirius your best glare. The mini explosion successfully gained everyone's attention, causing your cheeks to heat. 

“That’s it!’ Miss McGonagall states, “Both of you in the hall. Now!” She yells eyes fixated on Sirius and you. You both clamber out of your seats, rushing into the hall. As you’re leaving, James sticks his hand out for a high five which Sirius gladly complies, earning a shake of the head from Remus. 

“Confetti? In the middle of class? Seriously?” You attack Sirius as soon as the door shuts behind you, eyes narrowed and dreams of wiping that smug smirk off his face whirling through your mind. He opens his mouth to respond but slams it shut as Miss McGonagall comes clambering out into the hallway, eyes narrowed in anger. 

“This prank war has been going on all year! I am sick of it! I have told you countless times to keep your pranks outside of school! 50 points from both of you and detention for two weeks!”

You bite back a groan, you subtly shoot Sirius a glare which he frowns at. She leaves, making a point to shut the door behind her. Your head slumps against the wall behind you, eyes squeezed shut in annoyance. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers. Your head shoots up, thinking your mind is playing tricks on you. He looks truly apologetic, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, unable to meet your eyes. 

You sigh in defeat. “It’s okay, I think we’ve both been getting out of hand with the pranks.” He nods in agreement. 

“Does that mean we’re calling a truce?” He asks nervously and you shrug. You don't want the pranks, the only time you and Sirius talk, to end so you stand up taller, making sure to keep your voice straight. “No way.”

—

The pranks continue as normal, albeit a bit more tamed now that Miss McGonagall has gotten angrier. Just last week Sirius sent you a box of chocolates, under the guise of a secret admirer. The chocolates were charmed to make them burst into laughter or mimic animal sounds. In retaliation, you turned Sirius’ Quidditch robes into a bright pink tutu in the middle of a match. The whole school liked that one, leaving you smug for days. Until Sirius decided to get back at you by bewitching your bed to be filled with floating feathers when you lie down. It went on for weeks and when summer arrived you couldn't stop the disappointment from sinking in. Sirius pranked last and you figured you’d get him back after summer, when you’ve returned from your vacation in New Zealand. 

But he had other plans. 

It was the last day before summer break and you figured you’d get some reading before you had to go. So naturally, you went for your favourite book, one you’ve read probably a thousand times. 

Imagine your surprise when you went to grab the book and found yourself in the astronomy tower. You gasp in surprise, mind whirling with surprise. You spot Sirius in the corner, grin smug and eyes bright as he watches you panic. 

“You! What the fuck!”

Sirius laughs in response, fueling the flame of anger building up inside you. You stalk closer, chest heaving. “It’s not even your turn! I’m supposed to prank you-”

“I like you,” He blurts. Your heart sinks. “I wanted to tell you before you left. You don’t have to say anything I just couldn't hold it in any longer.” His voice feigns nervousness and you scoff in disbelief. How is this funny?

Hot tears well in your eyes and you wipe them away. “Real funny, Sirius.” You snark, turning away. 

He grips your arm in a panic, pulling you closer. “That’s all you have to say? I finally confess and you find it funny?” He laughs sarcastically. “Merlin, I can’t actually believe that I thought you would like me back, that I wasn't imagining the way you looked at me.”

You pause under the entrance of the tower, head slung in pain. “This isn’t funny, Sirius.”

“No, it’s not!” His voice cracks and your eyes snap open. Slowly, you turn around, heartbreaking at the sight of Sirius, tears streaming down his face as he roughly wipes them away. 

“You’re trying to prank me, right?” You question. Sirius stares at you in disbelief. 

“No?”

“Oh.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “Wait- so you actually like me?”

“Yeah.” His voice sounds lighter, and he comes closer, hesitantly reaching for your arm. You let him, heart beating fast at the contact. 

“Sweetheart,” He sighs. “I would never joke about my feelings for you. Never.” He states and you suck in a breath, walking closer so your chests touch. 

“I like you too.”

“Yeah?”

You nod and that's all he needs to pull you in, one hand wrapped around your waist, the other in your hair. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks and you don't hesitate in nodding. He goes in for a kiss but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “This doesn't mean I’m done pranking you.”

He scoffs playfully, “You think us dating is gonna stop me from pranking you? I have all summer to prepare.”

“It’s on.”

“Better be on the lookout, Sweetheart.” And then he pulls you in, mouth crushing against yours and it’s the first kiss, it’s flawless, really something. It’s fearless.

Taglist: (If you want to be removed, don't hesitate to ask. I won't take it personally)

@aremuslupinsimp

[mudandmire]

Contrasts

Azris Week - Day One: Contrasts

~~~ Hello hello! I found the Azris ship and the community this year and have absolutely been consumed by it. I love this idea, I love these two characters, and I love that there's so much potential between them and for them to feed and inspire such a wonderful community. I've never participated in the acotar fandom apart from this, and I'm so excited! Thank you so much to @azrisweek for putting together this event, I have had so much fun letting my brain run free like a dog off a leash with these prompts :D ~~~

Tell me

Azriel calls him tatlım, and Eris doesn’t know what it means.

It’s a secret, he supposes he can accept it—relate to it. Nooks and hidden corners itch and snarl with the weight of his own. An enchanted drawer he keeps in the washroom holds his greatest wonder and his greatest shame.

The journal weighs heavy in Eris’s mind. He traces back the parchment pages with intangible fingers during lulls in his father’s council meetings. The drone of bees, lazy and fat in the afternoon sun becomes the hushed whisper of a canyon gale through dried grass. The lines he inks, stroke by stroke, Azriel matches in full, thrumming strides. Words next to his are clean, unbroken, while Azriel’s remain thick, written in charcoal with smudges at the corners from where his fist has run over the line.

When it’s dark, a time when even shadows cannot creep and loom larger, Eris presses his own fingertips to those words. The smears of charcoal because Azriel had told him early on in their budding friendship when they were young that he can’t use quills.

“They're too thin, my hands shake too much.” A smaller version of Azriel speaks the memory into his mind. The whorls and pockmarks on his hands hidden between the gap of his thighs.

Eris had taken it as a challenge—and now he revels in it. Azriel is messy with his charcoal pencil, too free with his mistakes and smudges and it leaves Eris half a country away and entirely breathless.

‘Tell me what bothers you, tatlım.’ Azriel had written him earlier, the familiar scrawl of his heavy hand appearing stroke by stroke in the filled pages of Eris’s enchanted journal.

Two were made, Eris gave one away. He could not bring himself to regret it even if his life were on the line.

‘Tatlım?’ Eris had asked, his letters looped and coiled together in the way they get when he rushes, when he needs answers.

There was no sound save for Eris’s own steady pulse, the whistle of air through his nose as he waited for a response. And yet he could’ve swore he heard Azriel’s laugh, the breathy one, brush against the point of his ear.

The words appear in the space between one breath and the next: ‘Maybe one day, gach’lilit, I will tell you. For now, stop avoiding my prying.’

Eris places a hand on the rise of his chest. Holding in something that seems to be rising from his stomach to his throat and lands gently on his tongue like the orange and black patterned butterflies in the garden.

‘Tell me now,’ he begs, ‘and I will tell you whatever you wish, Azriel.’

‘Come back to visit me, sweetheart. That’s all I ask.’

It had formed a pause in their effortless back and forth. Eris wanted to—Azriel knew that. No, the issue wasn’t in Azriel’s plea, he knew just how much Eris longed for the little village in the Illyrian steppes. The stable in the field and the small, knobby kneed, black lamb that follows Azriel around like ducklings in the Forest House pond in spring. He misses the creeping, ruby red moss and the yellow and sage aspens that crop up from out of the golden plains like the jagged teeth of a cliff.

Most of all, most desperately of all, he misses Azriel. There is not one inch of his soul that doesn’t.

The inked tip of his quill hangs over the page, a knife poised for the final push. Through skin, muscle, bone, to the heart of everything—the rot that waits, festering under the floorboards of his adamant desire to run. It is one thing; it is also a collection of things Eris has stored like the most gruesome of trinkets, the most harrowing of trophies.

Because Azriel calls him sweetheart. He writes in his tongue letters of longing and punctuates them with words like tatlım, and gach’lilit. As much as Eris wants to stitch those given titles to his chest, he already has one.

Eris Vanserra. Heir of Fire. Son of Autumn.

Sweetheart. Tatlım. Gach’lilit.

He cannot have both. The heir who wears the crown, who feels it’s golden spiked thorns pierce the thin skin of his head knows this. Eris Vanserra was not born with room on his chest for titles other than this: his father’s son.

When his quill meets the page, a heaviness in his hand that wasn’t previously there, he knows Azriel already knows what he will write.

‘Soon,’ he lies, ‘when the festival of the summer sun comes, I’ll visit.' Eris Vanserra cannot flaunt about the wilds of the Night Court without purpose or reason. Even less if the hint of the reason is his desire to see an Illyrian male—but he can set out on inter-court business to strengthen alliances, break down information, and gather intel. Eris Vanserra cannot winnow straight from the quilts of his bed into the hay-strewn floor of Azriel’s stable.

No matter how much he wants to.

His chest pinches, a sharp point digging into the sensitive skin between his ribs when Azriel takes a minute longer to reply. The page remaining horribly empty with their spare words, their delicate dance.

‘Then I will just have to hold onto these words a little longer, besheirt. I wish for you to hear them in person, for they are as sacred to me as you are.’

Something cracks, folds then splinters and out pours a smile like evening sunlight through the painted colors of autumn leaves in the canopy. The tension building in his shoulders leaks down and pools around his feet, an unwanted puddle he completely forgets about. Eris may be an heir, a son of autumn, and child of a loveless, forced marriage; but he is also sacred. Something holy and divine by only the rights of Azriel, and Azriel alone.

Eris has his titles. The stitched corners of his heart taken up piece by piece, but he will forever play the game of keeping himself in between the two if it will let him keep Azriel.

He has his own titles to give him.

~~///~~///~~///~~

(Key for words:)

Tatlım - ‘Sweetheart’

Gach’lilit - ‘Firefly’

Besheirt - ‘Notion of a soul mate, but mostly means Intended in terms of spouse’

aH. Alright okay cool I'm so normal about them. This is a short little thing, and it doesn't follow canon lore lol sorry about that. I really loved the idea of contrasts because for me it's what first drew me to this pairing. At first it seemed like there were too many contrasts for them to even be compatible, and then through softening my perspective of both of these characters and their flaws (and no small amount of delusion in which we merely squint from afar at SJMs portrayal of these characters) I found that maybe these contrasts actually enhance their chemistry. what crazy imagine that.

[thecampjuicebox]

How about Haarlep wanting some action and they keep draping themself over Raphael while the cambion is trying work, purring, "Come play with me~" but Raphael is having none of it and doesn't even look up at Haarlep when he shoves the incubus away. Then the he hears the voice of his little mouse whispering in his ear, "Master, please, I need you..." as their hand plucks the quill from his hand. (bonus points if this is how Raphael discovers that Haarlep even has Tav's form)

iwekbhjiwpebewo EEEEEEEEEEEEE I have no words other than LET'S DO THIS THING! I hope you enjoy!!!

Toy Mouse

Pairing: Raphael x Haarlep(in f Tav form)

Rating: 18+ NSFW, Minors DNI

POV: 3rd person

Warnings: Slight angst, smut, begging, p in v intercourse, cumming inside

Words flow over parchment, quill scratching infernal text in jet black ink. Raphael scribbles along the page with intent. Contracts must be written, names must be signed, work must be done. The cambion pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger with a tired sigh, quill still resting in his right hand. He's been at his desk for hours, working his hands and his mind sore. Raw with knowledge and grammar and proper terms to close any potential loophole in the contracts he's drafting. From across the room, a quiet whine breaks through the scribbling noises. "Raphael.." Haarlep groans, tail swishing and slapping around the backs of his legs. He saunters over to the cambion's desk, intent on lapping up all of Raphael's attention. "Come play with me." His voice is hot and breathy.

"Not now, Haarlep. I'm far too busy." the devil hisses, rolling up the finished scroll and quickly reaching for a blank page, smoothing it out in front of him. He dips the quill into his pot of ink and begins to write, infernal scribe glowing and settling into the paper with a sizzle of red magic. Haarlep whines again and drapes his arms over Raphael's shoulders from behind his chair. The writing pauses and Raphael shrugs his shoulders to move the incubus' arms off of him. "Gods, not now!" Raphael's voice is stern. Frustration coating each word in a thick layer of all too familiar seriousness. He can't be bothered to entertain the incubus right now, and gods is Haarlep stubborn when he's in the mood.

Taking a step back from the clearly irritated devil, he crosses his arms over his muscular chest and taps his foot against the marble floor in thought. Surely there's some way he can get Raphael to take a break from his mind numbing work for some much more mentally and physically stimulating sex. Slow sways of his hips and careful steps carry him toward the back of Raphael's chair once more, a foot kicking up and under the seat to pull the chair away from the desk. Ink splatters across the parchment, ruining the almost finished contract. With a chuckle, Haarlep walks around to Raphael's front, taking a seat on the cambion's lap, arms encircling his neck. "Raphael please.." A quiet groan escapes Haarlep's lips as he wiggles his ass against Raphael's lap.

Without a word, Raphael shoves Haarlep to the floor with a loud thud. The incubus sits there for a moment. Stunned. Embarrassed. Anger nips at his heals and he stands to brush himself off before shoving the chair close to the desk again. "Have it your way, devil" he spits. With a grunt, Raphael places his palms flat on the polished wooden desk, staring down at the ruined parchment in front of him. He huffs at Haarlep's dramatics and smooths a hand over the paper, magic swirling around its surface to clean the mess of ink and infernal, clearing the sheet and allowing Raphael to begin again. Finally, the room falls quiet and the devil revels in the comfortable silence. The gentle scratching of his quill on the parchment resumes when an unexpected yet familiar voice mumbles softly into his ear, hands resting at the stiffest part of his shoulders.

"Master.. I need you.. Please." The voice is sweet like nectar and makes Raphael's hairs stand on end. Warmth pools in his belly as the hands on his shoulders rub slow circles into the tense muscles, lips pressing sloppy kisses to the side of his neck, up his jaw, and to his ear once more. "Gods, Mouse.." her murmurs. Wait. Mouse? It can't be.. The heat in his abdomen trickles further down, his cock stiffening with each bruising kiss to his burning hot skin. "How did you-" Mouse presses her chest against his back, one hand reaching out to pluck the quill from his tired fingers. She sets it back into the ink pot and giggles sweetly into the devil's ear, that same hand reaching down to massage the growing bulge beneath Raphael's leathers. "Shhh.. Come play with me." She whispers, pausing her hand to grip the now aching erection tightly, feeling it pulse and twitch in her palm. Raphael inhales sharply through gritted teeth. He couldn't say no even if he wanted to. Not to his sweet little mouse.

Turning his head to get a glimpse of her over his shoulder, his pupils blow wide with desire. She's already mostly naked for him, only a thin layer of burgundy silk draped over her shoulders in the form of a robe he had gifted her. The silk ribbon that holds the robe closed swings at her curvaceous hips and his mouth waters at the sight. The way the fabric frames her body. How it drapes and how the color stands out against her skin. She's truly a sight to behold. How she got into the boudoir in the first place eludes him, and frankly, is the least of his worries in this very moment. With a careful swing of her leg, Mouse climbs her way onto Raphael's lap, straddling his legs with ease. His hands instinctively find the naked globes of her ass to hold her steady. "You're absolutely ravishing, little Mouse.. I've missed you so." Each words spills out between kisses to her bare chest. She tilts her head back and allows Raphael more room to assault her with kisses and bites, a soft yelp escaping her lips as his lips grab hold of one of her sensitive nipples.

Raphael's tongue rolls the now erect nipple back and forth between his lips, sucking and tugging, the already sensitive skin on the brink of overstimulation. One hand moves to her opposite breast and grabs hold, nails sinking into the plush flesh. "Fuck, Raphael.." Mouse whines, one hand reaching down to skillfully untie his leathers, the other moving up through the back of his loose curls, tangling there. Her hips buck forward in excitement. Arousal coats the inside of her thighs now, making a mess of the front of Raphael's leathers. He grins up at her, continuing the rough sucking on her nipple before finally releasing it with a pop and moving to the other. Sharp teeth sink themselves into the flesh just above her nipple. Blood bubbles up through the little indents, a skillful tongue lapping at the metallic fluid. "I n-need.." Mouse groans, the hand in Raphael's hair now gripping firmly to tug his mouth away from her breast. "What do you need, little Mouse? Use your words." Her teeth catch her full bottom lip before she speaks, her hand finally freeing Raphael's erection from it's leather prison. Her cunt aches. Her walls flutter around the emptiness. "I need you to fuck me." She says quietly, voice desperate and breathy, hand pumping the angry erection carefully.

A shiny bead of precum rests just at the tip of Raphael's cock, a clear indicator of his eagerness to fill Mouse to the brim. She swipes her thumb over the tip, collecting the bead, and swiftly bringing it to her lips, tongue flicking out to taste the salty fluid. Without hesitation, Raphael moves his hands under her thighs to lift her up just enough to guide his cock inside of her with ease. She's soaked for him, and the stretch burns in the sweetest way. The two lovers sigh heavily. Connection at last. Lightning bolts of pleasure shoot up mouse's spine as Raphael bottoms out. He works his hips up in a slow thrust at first. Then faster. And faster. And rougher. Thighs collide with loud slaps, Raphael's nails digging firmly into the supple flesh of Mouse's ass cheeks. Both of her hands find stability on his shoulders as she rides him, little black specks invading her vision at the constant assault on her cervix. Surely she'll bruise, but she doesn't care. Not in the slightest.

Raphael quickly nears his end and his thrusts lose their rhythm. One of Mouse's hands breaks the closeness between them to work at her swollen clit, trying desperately to match Raphael's erratic thrusts with her own. Loud moans and whimpers turn to strained yelps and then to silent gasps for air. Raphael, of course, finishes first, hips halting as he spews deep inside of Mouse's cunt. Her walls painted milky white, she continues the quick circles on her clit, bouncing on Raphael's still rock solid cock. He groans at the sensation, trying his best to keep his composure while he watches her finish herself off. Greedy hands knead at her breasts. Lips attach themselves to the side of her neck, sucking little purple rings into the skin there. Finally, Mouse topples over the edge of ecstasy, her walls tightening in a vice grip around Raphael's cock and Gods, he could absolutely cum again just from the sight of her falling apart in his lap.

Chests heave in exhaustion. Little gasps for air and chuckles fill the room. "You did so well, Mouse.." Raphael coos. She presses a kiss to his cheek, lips curved into a smirk. He quirks an eyebrow at her and rests his hands on her hips, thumbs rubbing back and forth against the sweaty skin. In an instant, sparkling red magic swirls around the cambion and none other than Haarlep appears on his lap. The incubus continues breathing heavily, an absolutely evil grin plastered on his lips while his hands meet Raphael's at his hips. "What in the Nine Hells!?" Raphael shouts loudly, Haarlep leaning in to press his forehead against the devil's to quiet him. He mumbles softly, breath coasting over the cambion's parted lips.

"Tell me again how well I did for you, Master. I love when you praise me like that."

[lulublack90]

Prompt 26 - Sick Fic

@wolfstarmicrofic July 26, word count 752

Part seven of werewolf Sirius

Previous part First part

Sirius dropped Rorbey’s hands and cradled his own head in them as huge soul-wracking sobs burst from his body. Reggie, his baby brother Reggie, was alive. 

“Where is he, Rorbey? Can we get him out?” Remus addressed Rorbey, asking the questions Sirius couldn’t. The little elf wrung his hands. 

“Rorbey be feeling like a fool, Master Remus, sir. Rorbey should be knowing, sir, but Rorbey got his two Masters's magics confused. Rorbey should be punished, sir.” The elf shook his head as he snuffled sadly. Sirius looked up at him, his face tear-stained. 

“Where is he, Rorbey?” Though he felt he already knew. The little elf looked up at him nervously through his eyelashes. 

“Master Regulus is being in the same dungeon you was being in, Master Sirius,” The elf confessed. Regulus had been below Lestrange Castle the entire time, cold and alone. 

“Merlin’s ghostly balls,” Marcus exclaimed. Remus hit him with a silencing spell, and he immediately shut up. 

“Thank you for your input, Marcus, but we won’t be requiring further comments at the moment. Thank you. Now sit down and behave.” Remus growled. Marcus sat on the forest floor and watched the scene before him, silently. 

“Is he alright, Rorbey?” Sirius begged. Tears swam in Rorbey’s giant round eyes as he shook his head. 

“Master Regulus has a fever. Rorbey doesn’t think Master Regulus even knew Rorbey was being there.” 

“Remus,” Sirius’s voice cracked. 

“Tell me as much as you can, Rorbey,” Remus demanded.

Rorbey told Remus everything he could remember. It sounded as though Regulus was in a bad way. 

“He might have pneumonia amongst a myriad of other things.” Remus sighed, running his hand through his hair. "The sooner we get him out the better.” Remus deduced from the little Rorbey could tell him. “It sounds like he may have a fever. Rorbey, can you get him out?” Remus asked. Sirius could almost see the plan he was drawing up in his mind. 

“Rorbey can not, Master Remus, sir. Rorbey can take things to the young Master, but there is magic not letting Rorbey take wizards with him. Rorbey tried with Master Sirius, but Rorbey failed.”

“You didn’t fail, Rorbey. You’re a good house elf, and you’ve done far more than I can ever thank you for. But Rorbey,” Sirius continued. He’d gotten over his initial overwhelming feelings and was thinking straight again. “I need to ask you to help Regulus get better. Do what Remus says, he’ll help you.”

“Of course, Master Sirius, Anything for Master Regulus.” The elf nodded profusely. Remus gave him a list of potions to buy and how and when to administer them. 

“He’ll need broth once he’s conscious and plenty of fluids. He’ll take some time to recover, but from what you’ve described I think we’re just in time.”

“Use my personal account when you buy the potions,” Sirius told Rorbey, scribbling his permission on a scrap of parchment. 

Rorbey was gone for a few days, but when he finally returned it was with good news. Regulus was awake and alert and ravenous. He also had a message for Rorbey to give to Sirius, but Rorbey wouldn’t repeat it. 

“Rorbey, come on, it can’t be that bad,” Sirius urged. He didn’t want to order the elf, he’d never been one for that, but he needed to know. Rorbey shook his head. Marcus passed him a scroll of parchment and a self-inking quill. 

“Take this to him and get him to write it down,” Marcus told Rorbey. 

"Good thinking, Marcus," Sirius thanked the wolf. The little elf bowed and popped away. They didn’t have to wait long for his return. He handed Sirius the note written in an elegant script. Even as a prisoner, Regulus was never one for sloppy penmanship. 

‘Sirius, You absolute wanker, of course, it had to be you to figure out where I was. Hurry the fuck up and get me out of here. I must take my revenge on our dear cousin and her useless husband for what they have dared to do to me. Yours Regulus Arcturus Black  P.S. Thank you for sending Rorbey. Now get me out of here!!!’

Sirius chuckled as he folded the parchment and put it into his pocket. Regulus was pissed. He only swore when he was beyond frustrated. 

“Well, my sweet little brother seems to be completely back to full health thanks to you and Remus, Rorbey. So now the question is, how are we going to get him out?”

Next part

[lostinthewiind]

Way With Words

Varric Tethras - Dragon Age

Genre: Fluff

Rating: All ages

➤ True to his nature as a renowned author, Varric has always been better at expressing himself through the art of written words.

The sound of Varric's quill scratching against parchment sent a chill up your spine—one that scratched a particular itch you didn't even know you had. Perched in his usual spot at the wooden table in front of the fireplace, you sat across from him, watching intently as he frantically worked to get everything down before he forgot even a single, minute detail.

"You don't have to release the book tomorrow, you know," you told him. "Take a couple of days to enjoy the fact that we saved Thedas. Surely that's deserving of a night or two off."

You could tell that Varric had only slightly registered what you had said, his quill faltering for a brief moment before continuing to whip from left to right across the page. Again and again. Flip the page. Left to right. Again and again. New page.

The fireplace crackling behind you lit up his face, basking his features in a warm, orange glow. In this light, you could see clearly as the wrinkles of his forehead deepened; and if you watched his facial expressions closely enough, you could tell which ones were permanent from age and which ones were temporary from stress.

When a pocket of gas escaped one of the burning logs with a loud pop, Varric's eyes shifted up from his work. In that moment, as his eyes darted toward the fire behind you before focusing on your face, you clocked the exhaustion he was trying so desperately to hide—or ignore. His gaze caught yours just long enough for you to notice the dull hue of his usual bright, brown irises.

He flashed a superficial smile before returning to his work. Word after word, he recounted the tale of the Inquisition from the moment he met you to the moment Corypheus was finally defeated.

"Varric." You reached across the table and caught his hand in yours. You felt as the tight muscles in his grip loosened. "Take a break."

Varric's hand twitched in your hold. "I can't. I don't want to forget anything important."

"That makes one of us." You exhaled slowly. "There's so much I wish I could forget. So much I have forgotten."

"Someone has to tell the story. Might as well be me." He smiled again, but this time it seemed more genuine. "Besides, no one else will give it the right amount of flair."

"I would expect nothing less from the legendary author of Swords and Shields." You chuckled. "I'm sure Cassandra is chomping at the bit to read about all the behind the scenes romances of the Inquisition you no doubt have all the insider information on."

That caused Varric to laugh, and finally, the rest of his body relaxed. Quill dropping onto the page, the sentence Varric had been in the middle of writing was left temporarily forgotten; the retelling of a past story was put aside for the making of a new one.

"I really don't know why she likes that garbage, but hey, I suppose there's an audience for everything."

"You're too hard on yourself. It's not that bad."

Varric quirked a brow at you. "Don't tell me you've read them?"

"I've read a few chapters."

Varric hummed, amused. "And?"

"I can see the appeal."

A bark of a laugh. "I never took you as a romantic, Inquisitor."

"I'm full of surprises."

"So I've come to learn."

Suddenly eager to get a sneak peak at you favourite author's newest work, you reached out and grabbed one of the first pages Varric had written. The ink was already dry, the scribbled words a duller shade of black than the newer pages.

Varric didn't protest. Instead, he watched intently as your eyes scanned the page. "Let me know if I missed anything."

"There's details in here that I don't even recall happening," you assured him. "But it's kind of bland. For a romance author, this isn't very flowery. Where's that so-called 'flair'?"

"Such a critic." Varric tried to snatch the paper away, but your sharp reflexes won. "This is just the first draft. Only the facts. The flair comes later."

"Thank goodness, because if this is how you end up describing me in the final copy, I'll hunt you down." You cleared your throat before reciting the words in front of you. "'Inquisitor. Small woman. Prisoner turned ally. Glowing hand.'"

Varric shook his head. "Like I said. The facts."

"Nothing about my bright eyes? My charming smile? Not even a throwaway line about how incredibly beautiful I am?" you joked as you relinquished the page so Varric could put it back in order with the others.

"This isn't that kind of book, Inquisitor."

You leaned back and felt the warmth of the fire on the nape of your neck. "Of course." You smirked. "But if it were, how would you describe me?"

Varric pretended he didn't hear you and instead went back to his writing. His pace was noticeably slower now though, more thoughtful. Something else was on his mind and he was having to think more about what he was jotting down instead of just letting it flow.

"I was a newborn in this world—a world I had lived in all my life, yet somehow I didn't recognize any of it. I stepped out of the fade, my memory lost and a glowing hand gained." You closed your eyes and described the series of events from your point of view. "I had just closed my first fade rift. I was overcome with fear and excitement, a slurry of emotions that had no business mixing. When the possibility of being able to close the breach was mentioned, he spoke. 'Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever.' A man. A dwarf. Handsome, and I could tell he knew it from the way he showed off his abundance of chest hair for any and all to see. But my eyes were drawn first to his crossbow, the weapon he had used to save my life moments earlier; the weapon he would use to save my life more times than I could count."

When you opened your eyes, Varric was staring at you, eyes wide. Speechless.

"It doesn't have to be a romance for it to be romantic," you told him. "Life and death is just as beautiful as any love story."

Still silent, he swallowed hard. Then, grabbing a fresh piece of parchment, he began to write; this time with all the fervor he had possessed originally. Arm resting at the top of the paper, he shielded the words from your eyes.

Head resting in your hand, you sat and watched as he wrote. When he reached the bottom of the page, he stopped and handed it over. "Like any author, I'm better in the written format," he said.

You nodded and began to read.

"No," he corrected. "Out loud. Read it out loud."

"Okay," you chuckled. "'All hope had been lost and then she appeared, stepping out of the fade with determination etched into her features and bright eyes that held the future in them—the world's future ... my future. From prisoner to ally to friend, the more I learned about her, the fonder I grew.'"

You paused and looked up at Varric. He nodded his encouragement. "Keep going."

Your throat suddenly felt dry and your chest tight. "'She was beautiful. She still is beautiful. But she's also so much more than that.'" You were reading slower now, your breath catching on the words. As Varric reached out to take one of your hands in his, your grip on the paper with your other hand tightened. "'Anyone who knows the Inquisitor could tell you that she is smart, brave, kind, compassionate, and so many more wonderful qualities. But not everyone could tell you about the way her smile always reaches her eyes, no matter how exhausted she is, or the way she sleeps so lightly that the faintest gust of wind could wake her. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who gets to see the way she curls her hair around her finger when she's feeling playful. Then I pray I'm the only person who gets to see it, because the thought of anyone else making her feel that way causes a sickening feeling to snake its way through my veins. She is-'"

"She is the most incredible person I've ever met in my entire life," Varric took over, having memorized the words after somehow only writing them once. You suspected, however, that they had been within him for a long time. As his hand held yours firmly and the pad of his thumb ghosted over the inside of your wrist, you shivered. "And as things come to an end and time runs out, I think of the past and dread the future because for all of the brave things I've done by her side, I don't know if I'll ever be brave enough to tell her I love her."

You felt a tear fall down your cheek and moved to quickly wipe it away. "If you're that good with words, maybe I should read more of your books."

Varric smiled as he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles. "For you, I'd write down my every waking thought."

"You don't have to." You folded up that paper in your hand and tucked it into your pocket. "This is more than enough."

Varric let out a nervous chuckle. "You're killing me here, love. I gotta know if you feel the same way. Please, put an old man's aching heart to rest."

Standing up, you leaned across the wooden table and cupped his stubbled jaw in your hand and felt his entire being soften to your touch. "Of course, I love you too." You gently pressed your lips against his. With a relieved exhale, he melted into the kiss.

When you moved to pull away, his hand shot up to the back of your head and held you in place, lips ghosting over his, so he could savour the moment. "Just so you know, I'm not putting any of this in my book," he whispered. "I'd like to be the only person to know that you smelt like smoke and tasted like elfroot tea the first time we kissed."

"Cassandra will be so disappointed."

"Me? Disappointing the Seeker? That's never happened before." He grinned as his hand slid down from the back of your head to caress your cheek. "Now come here. I'm suddenly craving the taste of elfroot."

[slutformelatonin]

Mea-culpa

Warning, this is the first fanfiction I've written since 2021.... anyway!!

In this story, y/n is a not so innocent nun. She and the "beloved" Archdeacon of Paris are close. *Extremely* close.

Kinks ( innocence, degradation, sadism, masochist, size difference, breeding, orgasm control, age play )

Click, click, clack

The noise vibrated through the Cathedral as she walked. Pushing through the doors of the kitchen where Reverend mother Jaqueline was waiting.

"Those shoes of yours are absolutely far too loud, sister y/n." The stout woman replied as she walked over to younger girl.

"My apologies, Reverend mother..'' she spoke with a slight whimper at the end of her sentence. "They were given to me by my late sister. She passed of the pox." Y/n spoke with a shutter.

"I know child. You told me when you were in your novice training." The greying lady spoke. "I did?" Y/n shrugged. "I must've forgotten about it." The nun shrugged again.

"Archdeacon Frollo is requesting your presence in the hall of justice. Questions about the orphans singing at the Christmas mass." Reverend mother explained.

The Young nun sighed. "He couldn't call on sister Margaret?'' Y/n called out as she busied herself with pulling a cloth off rising sour dough. "He told me he'd like to talk to you in specific." Reverend mother explained.

"Alright. I suppose we did Have a rather interesting conversation at Thanksgiving mass." Y/n explained with a smile.

"Oh goodness. I suppose I should get going if Archdeacon Frollo would like to speak to me before the midnight bells begin to ring." Y/n laughed. "I'll see you in confession Reverend mother." The young girl smiled as she walked out of the kitchen.

The walk to The hall of justice was a cold one. Frost had accumulated around the windows of the Cathedral and as y/n threw her dark wool coat on. A ring of fur was around the collar of the coat. Another gift from Claudette. Y/n's late sister.

Y/n exited the Cathedral and the cold air of the parisian winter hit her in the face. The walk to The palace of justice was not a lengthy walk by any means.

But as y/n walked up the steps of the hall. Raising her hand to knock on the door. But before her fist could meet the door. A young soldier opened the door.

His blonde hair was rested against his head as a halo would rest against a angels head. "Hello, sister. I don't believe we know eacho-'' the young man was inturrupted ny the sister.

"Captian, we have met on several occasions. At Thanksgiving mass and at the children's benefit last week. Phoebus. Am I correct?'' Y/n said with a small smile spreading across her face. A light blush across her cheeks now.

"Oh- yes- your the one who I pulled under the stai-" the capitan cleared his throat as a hand was pressed to his shoulder. Spindly fingers that were adorned with rings and such.

"Ah, capitan Phoebus. Nice to see that you've found the woman of the hour." The Archdeacon snapped. "I've been waiting well over an hour for you. Sister." Claude clapped quickly. Escorting her up to his office.

The Archdeacon pressed the door of his office shut. Humming and handing y/n a paper. A large scroll of parchment with 3 unsigned signature marks. "Here.'' He said.

Pointing at the spot where the sister had to sign. "I need Reverend mothers signature as well." Claude explained as y/n dipped her quill in ink and Began to write her name.

"Of course, these things must be in order for the matron of the orphanage. She expects everything in pristine order. Although she is paying for none of it.'' Frollo laughed stiffly.

"Thats unfortunate. I suppose they don't have much money.'' Y/n shrugged as she handed the parchment back to Claude with a small smile.

"I do have to wonder. Sister. About something I over heard.." the Archdeacon started out. "With your novice training, you are not supposed to be having any sexual relations. And as I've seen on several occasions. You clearly aren't following any of your training." Claude smirked as he stalked towards the young lady.

"Excuse me? How dare to talk to me like that. This is highly inappropriate conduct." The sister shuttered. Had he seen captian Phoebus on his knees. Eating her out as the churchgoers got the holy communion.

"If you don't want you and your .. sun-god to be exposed to the entire church. I suppose you give me what." The older man smirked. Standing behind the sister.

"Your just like the rest of them aren't you? Men, you all want the same thing in the end.'' Y/n snapped.

Before the young woman could tell what was happening. Claudes arm had traveled up to y/n's face. His hand colliding with the nun's face. Earning a yelp from the sister.

Her face became quickly red. Her hand had sat upon her cheek. Whining softly. Y/n took her hand from her face. Putting them on Claude's chest. Resting against frollo with a whine.

Frollo took her face in his hand. Her chin in his forefinger and middle finger. His thumb resting against y/n's jaw. Bringing his lips to brush against the sisters own.

Frollos kiss was soon inturrupted as y/n bumped against his desk. She sat down and the Archdeacon yanked her skirt up. Kissing up her thigh. Nipping at the inside. Drawing blood.

Y/n let out a groan of pleasure as she pulled her habit off. Her hair sliding around to frame her face and shoulders. "Just- please fuck me already." The sister begged.

Claude brought his hand to cover the young woman's mouth. "Don't have such foul language in the house of justice.'' Claude said sternly. Standing up and undoing his robes. Black pants and a black shirt adorned his body.

Unbuttoned his pants quickly. Opening his hand. "Spit in it." He said quickly. Lathering his cock in y/n's spit. Groaning and taking her undergarments off quickly. Pushing into the girl as she put her hands on claudes shoulders.

Moving so y/n threw her head back. Moaning loudly and biting on Frollo's neck. "You certainly don't sound like a virgin.'' The Archdeacon taunted.

Y/n scoffed. "How many anatomy books have you looked at to know how sex works?" The sister taunted in response. Watching as claude growled lowly. Feeling his neck being bitten.

Claude let his hand move lower. Circling y/ns clit with tight and hard circles. Smirking as she bit down on her hand to draw blood.

The sister nearly came then and there. How was he so good at this? Was he a virgin. His movements inside of her said otherwise.

Frollos cock was large. Longer than it was girthier. Looking upon the girl as he felt her thighs began to shake. The soft flesh of her thighs shaking as she came around his cock. "F-fuck-'' the nun cried out.

"That was fast. Shall I cum inside you? On your ass? Your bosom?'' Claude called out.

"Inside of me- please?'' She begged. Claude was close himself. His age had been catching up with him snd he could tell he couldn't last as he used to.

Frollo came deep inside her. Spilling his seed all over her womb and kissing her as he did so...

_________________

That's it... #Yolo

[tinyproprodigy]

"Letter to you"

Julian Devorak x reader (NB) (🥀)

Julian Devorak sat by the riverside, the gentle flow of the water a soothing backdrop to his whirling thoughts. The weight of his responsibilities as a doctor and magician in the bustling city of Vesuvia seemed to bear down on him, and the riverbank offered a rare moment of solitude.

With a weathered journal in hand, he poured his frustrations onto the page, the scratch of his quill punctuating each furious scribble. The worries that kept him awake at night, the doubts that crept in every time he tended to a patient, the loneliness that clung to him like a shroud – they all spilled forth in a torrent of ink.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Julian tore a page from his journal. With deft fingers, he folded the parchment into a small boat, running his thumb along the creases to smooth them. For a moment, he stared at the tiny vessel, a physical manifestation of the burdens he longed to cast off.

Taking a deep breath, he placed the paper boat into the river's gentle current, watching as it bobbed and drifted away, carrying his worries with it. A sense of lightness washed over him, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Days turned to weeks, and Julian found himself returning to the riverbank, time and time again. Each visit, he would write, fold, and release another paper boat, the simple ritual becoming a cherished respite from the chaos of his life.

Then, one day, something caught his eye – a tiny object drifting towards him, carried by the river's flow. As it drew nearer, Julian's heart skipped a beat. It was a folded parchment, not unlike the boats he had sent forth, but this one bore the unmistakable marks of having been handled and written upon.

With trembling hands, he plucked the paper boat from the water and unfolded it, his eyes widening as he read the words scrawled across the page. They were words of comfort, of understanding, as if written by a kindred spirit who had borne witness to his innermost thoughts and fears.

From that day on, Julian found himself engaged in a silent exchange, sending his worries downstream and receiving solace in return. The handwriting was elegant yet warm, the words a balm for his weary soul.

With each passing day, Julian felt himself growing attached to this mysterious correspondent, their empathy and insight becoming a lifeline in his tumultuous world. He found himself eagerly awaiting their responses, savoring each carefully crafted phrase as if it were a precious gem.

Yet, part of him hesitated to take the connection further. What if meeting the person behind the words shattered the magic they had cultivated? What if their bond, forged through the ephemeral language of the river, could not withstand the harsh light of reality?

Julian's heart ached with the desire to know them, to gaze upon the face of the one who had become his dearest confidant. But fear held him back, the fear of losing the one thing that had brought him solace in his darkest hours.

Then, one fateful day, another paper boat appeared, carried by the gentle current. Julian's hands shook as he unfolded it, his eyes scanning the familiar script.

"Dearest Julian, our connection has brought me more joy than I can express. If you are willing, I would be honored to meet you in person, to put a face to the kindred spirit I have come to cherish."

Julian's breath caught in his throat, his heart thundering in his chest. This was the moment he had both longed for and dreaded, the crossroads where their bond would either deepen or dissolve.

Swallowing hard, he made his decision.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the riverbank, Julian waited with bated breath. Doubts flickered through his mind like

fireflies in the gathering dusk. What if he had misread the situation? What if his correspondent was disappointed by the man behind the words?

Then, he saw a figure approach, silhouetted against the fiery colors of the setting sun. As they drew nearer, Julian's doubts melted away, replaced by a sense of awe that stole his breath.

Before him stood a vision of beauty, their features both striking and warm, their eyes shining with an intelligence and empathy that Julian recognized instantly. A gentle smile graced their lips as they held out their hand in greeting.

In that moment, Julian knew that his fears had been unfounded. This was no mere correspondence, no fleeting connection destined to fade. This was the beginning of something profound, a bond forged not just through words but through a true understanding of one another's souls.

As he took their hand, feeling the warmth and solidity of their touch, Julian felt a sense of rightness settle over him. No longer would he face the world alone, for he had found a kindred spirit, a partner to walk beside him on the journey ahead.

The river's gentle murmurs seemed to echo their unspoken promise – that no matter what challenges lay before them, they would navigate the currents together, buoyed by the love and understanding they had discovered in the most unexpected of places.

[antlered-prince]

for now........ common names you'll see tagged and which characters they correspond to:

Ephialtes - Nightmare

Bravo - Killer Sans

Reuben - Horror Sans

Dagwood - Horror Papyrus

Loess - Dust Sans

Eidolon - Dust Papyrus

Aegis - Cross Sans

*Oneiros - Dream

*Azure - Swap Sans

Florentis - Lust Sans

Lacuna - Ink Sans

*Encre - Ink Sans

Parchment - Ink Papyrus

Disŝiri - Error Sans

*Mac - Error Sans

Mello - Sleepytime Sans

Quill - Sleepytime Papyrus

Corduroy - Glosstale Sans

Sapp - Glosstale Sans

Sunny - BHC Dream

Shade - BHC Nightmare

* written by @owl-bones

[highlordofkrypton]

ACOTAR Omegaverse Week // Day 1 - Nesting

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

SUMMARY: Tamlin's things have been going missing from his manor in the Spring Court. More specifically, all the clothes Rhysand has gifted him are disappearing one by one. It's time for him to get to the bottom of this mystery.

PAIRING: Alpha Tamlin x Omega Rhysand

TAGS: General Audiences, fluff, light angst, nesting, no smut

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Ahhh, my very first entry to @acotar-omegaverse-week! I've never written for Omegaverse before, so this is totally new to me. Hopefully, as the week goes on I get a better grasp of the universe. I hope you guys like it!

TAMLIN AND THE CURIOUS CASE OF UNGIVEN THINGS

That's strange… It was here just last night.

Tamlin stares at the plush velvet chair by his closet, the one where he tosses things that he is either far too lazy to put away in the separate room three feet away dedicated to his and his mate's clothes, or that he uses frequently enough that there is no point in putting it away. The shawl was made of white fur, purchased somewhere in the Winter Court—or so Rhysand told him.

He liked that shawl. It was nice to throw over his shoulder and run his hands through its softness, absent-minded, while working.

Perhaps it has been sent to cleaning.

The High Lord catches Alis, startling the little urisk who was puttering around the manor chasing chirping dustmites with her broom.

"My lord!" She straightens, as if she should never offend him with the sight of her… doing her work. Alis has old values, ones that Tamlin does not particularly adhere to.

"Good morning, Alis. Have you seen my shawl? The white one?" Tamlin describes it, holding his hands out to better show its size. "I would think it was sent to cleaning since it's not on my chair."

"No, no… I instructed the others not to touch anything on your chair unless you put it away for cleaning." Alis hums. It's better that way, so not to assume their lord was done using it when he still needs it. "Perhaps someone took it by accident. I hope it's not another sock elf."

"I thought we put out old clothes for them to steal instead of our laundry." Tamlin frowns. The sock-elves had stolen a sweater he rather liked, too.

"I thought so, too. I will look into this myself, my lord." Alis bows and shuffles away as quickly as she can without running.

Maybe he shouldn't kick up such a fuss. A new shawl can easily be bought, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Rhysand that he lost yet another gift from him. Come to think of it, Rhysand has been giving him a lot of things lately. Tamlin should give him something in return; he's been so busy with work, the gifts must have been a quiet way to ask for his attention.

Rhysand, much like the shawl, is nowhere to be found in the manor. He left a note on their beside table, a vague but trustworthy 'be back soon'. His absence gives Tamlin time to think of a way to shower him with the adoration he deserves, so he gathers a piece of hand-pressed parchment, a quill with gold ink and heads to his library to sit in his favourite chair—

"My chair is missing?"

Now this is ridiculous. It was an egg-shaped chair with a base made of marble and a very comfortable cushion. The chair was large enough to accommodate Tamlin both in his already massive Faerie form and in his beastly shape, should he want to curl up in something den-like.

"Your what?" Rhysand asks, popping his head into the library.

"My chair. My favourite chair. It's missing." Tamlin motions at the very empty spot in the very full library. There's even a circle on the ground of dust and discolouration where it used to be—that's how long it was there.

"Oh my," Rhysand says in muted concern. "This is a tragedy. Oh well, we'll just have to order a new one."

"I don't want to order a new one. I liked that one. Do you know how long it takes to get the cushions to fit you just right?" It also smells of him, his childhood, and it has all the memories that matter. "What if they don't make them exactly like that anymore?"

Tamlin huffs, trying not to pout. Oh, if the other Lords could see him now, sulking because he can't find his favourite egg-shaped chair.

Rhysand approaches him, reaching up to cup his cheek and caress it with his thumb. "I'm sure it'll be alright. I remember the exact dimensions. We'll get you a new one and break it in together?" He grins.

The thought of marking their territory and just basking in each other, erasing the scent of anyone else who's ever touched the chair makes him happy. Tamlin is a simple faerie; he asks for very little, and if Rhysand promised to cuddle him for all eternity and nothing else, he would be a very, very happy man.

Tamlin leans in, pressing a kiss against Rhysand's lips, smiling, and pulling him close. He moves to his neck, breathing in the scent of him and nipping at the skin there lightly. Humming, a very different kind of territorialism spurs in him.

"Wait, wait," Rhysand palms his chest, politely asking for distance. "I wanted to give you another gift."

The Night Prince steps back, opening a drawer encrusted in one of the ornate wooden bookshelves and pulls out a black box. He hands it to Tamlin.

"What… What is this for? Rhys, you're spoiling me. I should be begging for your forgiveness for being busy." Tamlin accepts the gift, but doesn't open it. "You should know," he starts, looking openly guilty. "I keep misplacing the things you've given me. I suspect we may have a sock-elf problem, but I should have been more careful."

Rhysand smiles; he isn't angry at all. "Things are… things. What matters to me is being able to give you these gifts. Even if you make use of them for just a day, it's good enough for me. Open it."

Tamlin kisses Rhysand again, opening the gift. It's a beautiful dark green robe, almost black, that glimmers with colours when held directly under sunlight. It's beautiful. More importantly, it's so soft and velvety.

"You should wear it. Make sure the size is right," Rhysand grins.

***

There's only so much Tamlin can lose before it starts to keep him up at night. The beautiful deep emerald robe disappeared after a day of having it, which is a record, honestly. He can't pass it off as a conniving creature playing a trick on him anymore. It's now a reflection of his capabilities as High Lord. A skill issue, per say.

Then again, he could be awake because the right side of his bed is empty and there is nothing more sobering that missing a part of him.

Tamlin worries. Everyone knows that.

He sits up on his bed and realizes his sheets are missing too? What is going on? Tamlin expects the slide of cool spidersilk against his bare skin, and though he naturally runs hot and kicks the sheets off, he still expects them to be there.

A part of him wonders if Rhysand was kidnapped, bundled up in the fancy sheets he insisted on and carried away into the night. The thought makes Tamlin jealous. If there is any sweeping away to be done, it is by him and him alone.

Fuck taking the stairs; Tamlin must find his mate quickly. He blows open the windows with a hint of magic, launching himself out of his manor and tumbling onto the ground, two floors down, with ease and grace. He sniffs the air, and locks onto the scent, sprinting straight into his forest.

Any other night, he would drink in the beauty of the trees, the symphony of the cicadas, the owls and the foxes, but Tamlin is on a mission. He cannot and will not be stopped until he finds his mate. His hunt takes him down a familiar path, straight towards his second home—a den that he played in as a child, then turned into his own safe haven as he grew older and his father grew crueler. It is the only place where his secrets are harboured and his vulnerabilities are shown.

He hasn't needed his den since Rhysand came into his life—since Rhysand stayed in it.

Tamlin blinks, and his eyes shift to better accommodate the darkness.

"Rhys? I know you're in here."

No response.

As he steps into his den, he realizes… it's been transformed.

The den has always been nothing more than a cave. It's walls were enough to make him feel safe and he would always sleep facing its entrance. No one could get him without his knowledge. The animals would visit and watch over him, of course, but no one else was welcome. (Not until Rhysand.)

Now, it's brimming with things. All the things Tamlin thought he lost, the gifts ungiven and taken back by one clever mate. He walks along the edges, touching the portraits of them and of Rhysand's family. He finds nearly every toy from his childhood; his mother had tried to save what she could from his father's annihilation of his childhood, and Rhysand must have found where she hid them. Tamlin picks up a toy cart with a long, long string. He used to fill this thing with flowers and berries, then drag it along behind him through the forest and all over the manor.

There are books here too. Tamlin recognizes them as Rhysand's. The Spring Court has never tolerated human 'fairy-tales' and he only knows of them because Rhysand has read him each one as proof that humans are brilliant.

Naturally, his egg-chair is here, too. Tucked at the back of the cave, right up against the wall, its opening is blocked by pillows upon pillows. Rhysand's scent leads right to it.

Tamlin tries to hide his smile as he leans in and plucks one pillow out. The rest start to topple, but Tamlin is careful to push them inwards into the nest.

"It seems I have found my thief."

Rhysand's expression is far too cool for someone buried to the neck in Tamlin's clothes.

He's hiding.

That's the problem with faeries like them. The way they were raised—it didn't matter what their natures were. They needed to be exactly what their fathers needed of them. Tamlin needed to be strong and immovable. Soft things were barred from him, even his heart needed to be made of stone. Rhysand needed to be sharp, but not bothersome. He always handles things alone.

Tamlin doesn't ask why he wasn't told or invited to help.

"May I enter?"

Rhysand shrinks into his pile, hiding his face except his watchful violet eyes. "You may," he says without a hint of emotion.

Tamlin crawls into the nest, careful not to squish Rhysand or disturb the hoard of things. Rhysand likes his things in particular order. Tamlin has no preference, so he's happy to adjust to his mate.

"I'm wounded," Tamlin sighs dramatically, taking Rhysand's own words and intonation for when he isn't getting his way. "My mate would rather my things than me and my," he pauses, trying to find a word that only Rhysand would use. "Luscious self?"

"Luscious? I do not say luscious." Rhysand unburies himself to glare at Tamlin. "You were busy."

"And you know that I would drop everything for you, if you told me you were nesting."

"I don't need you to drop everything. I have everything under control." Rhysand's jaw ticks, determined to handle himself. Were they in the Night Court, Rhysand would run his court, nest and make sure that Tamlin doesn't lift a finger because that's just who he is.

Tamlin crawls closer, squishing him purposely this time.

"Then control me," Tamlin leans in, breathing his words against Rhysand's warm lips. "Fit me into your plans. Hoard me like all these things. I am yours," he reminds his mate, kissing him slowly. "Do with me as you please, as long as you're doing it with me."

All this is new to both of them.

Tamlin has always known his dominant Alpha nature, and for his own safety, he had to swallow back his instincts. He wasn't afraid of what his father would do to him, but rather everyone else between them—his brothers, his mother and everyone Tamlin has even glanced at. The battle between Alphas is ugly and violent, especially in the transition of power. At the end, they both knew it was his father's mistake for not killing him at birth.

For Rhysand, Tamlin knows it was the opposite. Suppress, suppress, suppress, was his mantra. Not only did he have to hide, but he needed to deny every instinct within him. At least Tamlin could be a lesser version of himself, but Rhysand…

"You are perfect." Tamlin whispers between kisses. "You are stronger than I am."

"Liar," Rhysand denies.

"You are," Tamlin hums, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "I wouldn't have been able to do this alone. I need you by my side. Also, my den is a lot cozier than it was before. I might have to move out here."

Rhysand rolls his eyes and kicks at him from the layers of stolen clothes. "Flatterer." He says, clearly won over.

Tamlin pushes the clothing aside, snuggles in beside Rhysand and curls at his side, before putting the nest as it was. He says nothing, happy to kiss Rhysand's shoulder and listen to him breathing.

"I want to have a baby," Rhysand says suddenly.

The confession has Tamlin tensing, a reaction that comes from deep within rather than anything to do with actual thoughts. He eases after a moment. "Okay."

"I'm not even sure we'd be good," Rhysand can't even finish the sentence. The shame is visceral. His mother did her best and his father was selective in his affections. He knows how true mates love each other, and he knows how it feels when an Alpha rejects his offspring. It's not that he thinks Tamlin would—Tamlin would be a great father. "I just… With you… I feel ready. My body wants…"

The half-Illyrian flushes, turning to try and bury his face against Tamlin, but they only end up in a more intimate position, foreheads pressed against one another. Tamlin can see the worry on his face. Tamlin kisses them way.

"We will be good parents."

"How do you know?"

"Because we know pain. We know everything not to do."

Tamlin will never raise a hand against his mate or his children. He will never use them as weapons. He will listen when they speak. Everything his mind and body has come to know—all the violence and punishment he has come to expect—he will go against it. He will raise his little ones without fear. They will be free to be happy.

"That's horrible, you know that right?"

"But it's the truth." Tamlin assures, nuzzling Rhysand. "We have all the time in the world. You can over analyze this as much as you need," he teases.

"Oh, fuck you."

The Spring Lord grinds against Rhysand's hip with a playful grin. "Mmm, is that a request?"