Overview Of My Writing ♡

Through Sea Mist and Shadows — Bucky Barnes x Reader — Masterlist

after many years away, you return back to the small family farm that was once considered your home. nestled above the cliff-sides of a remote Maine island, sea mist cresting at its edges, you find that things are far different now. your family bears you sad smiles, the fisherman's boy is quiet and reserved, and you yourself have changed beyond your own recognition over the years.

a story about returning to your roots and finding yourself where you least expected it; in the arms of an old friend.

started: 5/2/23 rewrite: 5/22/25

status: ONGOING! IN THE PROCESS OF BEING REWRITTEN!

warnings: mature readers only! 18+, discussions of mental illness and emotional trauma, death of a loved-one, suggestive, no use of (Y/N), cursing but come on now, we're all adults, I do include vague descriptions and interactions with readers' parents for plot points

CHAPTERS

prologue

one

two

Spiral

Bucky Barnes x teacher reader 

Warnings: AANGST Arguments, mean Bucky, break up, make up, fluffff 

listen, don’t eat me alive for this, I’ve been craving some angst (with a happy ending), the type that makes my chest itch so here we are. If this is too toxic for you and you only live for sunshine and rainbows and perfect communication, then this is not the fic for you. He gets mean because that’s what I wanted. So mean. I wanted to feel physical pain while reading. But then my hamster brain got exhausted to write more groveling. So don’t come at me about “she shouldn’t have taken him back, he should’ve begged and groveled more” He groveled. 

-

You sighed, rubbing sleep away from your eyes, trying to get them to focus on the time on the clock. 

2:57 AM

You stretched out some of the kinks from your neck after falling asleep on the couch, reaching for your phone and squinting at the bright screen, all your calls and texts left unanswered. He didn’t respond to one. You sat up hearing the lock click open, some of your anxiety melting away hearing the thud of his bag hit the floor. 

Keep reading

so you're ready to start reading tasm!peter...

Do you know someone who may be impacted by Andrew Garfield and his constant assault of incredible acting, boy-next-door-to-DILF-transition facial hair, colorful couture, and well-fitting pants? If so, there may be help.

If you're new to the TASM fanfic fandom and feel overwhelmed, you're not alone! I recommend any new reader START by following these incredible writers who have a large number of TASM!Peter fics, and taking a deep dive into their "masterpieces." These are works that I think truly illustrate their passion and storytelling style (not just their amazing TALENT):

@spidervee - Just read it all. Clearly one of the most prolific TASM!Peter writers on Tumblr, and worthy of being "Queen Vee" since a lot of us got back into writing because of her. Everyone knows her for her blurbs, but start with Band Aids on Broken Hearts, Even on Your Worst Days, and Fractured and Familiar (part 1 and 2), and be amazed as you track the progression into deeper, risker hits like End of the World As We Know It, A Little Wicked and The Wild. Her magnum opus masterpiece is (so far) The Spider and the Sunflower.

@blooming-violets - Such a brilliant and creative mind, it KiLLs mE. First work I came across was Pinky Promise, which is a phenominal story in re: pacing, characters, drama, action, etc. Then I am REVIVED by her naughty "angel" series she DOUBLE JEOPARDY MURDERS ME AGAIN with Something Unforgivable and I'm like "goddamn this is poetic and it hurts." Then she literally murders LOTS OF PEOPLE with Smitten, which I would call a masterpiece. stabby stabb death stab

@withahappyrefrain - Girl is on fire with ideas, patron saint of Daddy Kink and Sundresses. I could not possibly list all of the amazing works on here (especially all the blurbs which are my daily sustenance) but I'd say her crowned jewel is Here Comes the Sun.

@rae-gar-targaryen - Supreme Avocado, Attorney at Law. Has a great mix of content with a chunk of TASM!Peter, such a beautiful way with words, including her visually-sublime sweet masterpiece hang the stars upon tonight

@abibliophobiaa luna lovepine-piney-piningqueen-of-pineville - Perfect Places is a 3rd degree slow burn and is just FANTASTIC. Sleep Peter burns for it. And I burn for them. Speaking of which, I'd say the magnum opus is Another Love, which is an incredible AU feat of genius.

@fallensilencefics writes TASM!Peter almost exclusively and might also get me double-pregnant with her smut works. Also Angel of the Airwaves is like a fucking awesome superhero!reader / poc!reader fic unapologetically and it's also a masterpiece.

@mrshipsmcgee - CAIT! Dis bitch got me pregnant; current awaiting a DNA test. Also: our mother-goddess, because that's her energy, and she helped me with my first stories and inspired me to get back into writing, and I encourage you to check out In Another Universe, Symbiote and my other fav, A Lord & A Lady, her Bridgerton AU that I really loved even though I've never seen Bridgerton.

@p3mybeloved started her tasm writing journey a few months after some of the others on this list but i'm blown away by how OBSESSED i am now. Also I just fucking STARTED We Can Be Heroes because I suck at tasking let alone multitasking and now I feel like I want to read one chapter a month because I don't want it to end.

@luveline Writes 50 blurbs a day with bottomless talent like it's a Happy Hour Special at Applebees and so many of them have made me WEEP like I'm alone at a Happy Hour at Applebees, she is truly a gift.

@lanadelreyscokewhor3 Is the Patron Saint of Innocence Kink and I have to be alone in a forest every time she writes something that's TASM Peter because I should not be near other humans.

@peterthepark I think she's currently retired from TASM!Peter Duty but read her lovely oneshots and her spicy Ridiculous fics are required reading for Blonde Frat Boy Peter (what is blonde fratboy peter? *laughs nervously* it was is a thing)

If you haven't discovered @decadentpaperduck, @foreverrogers, @indouloureux, and @ddejavvu then what is the point of the internet...

and honestly this list can get so long but I really need to eat now. These are blogs that I feel like post majority TASM!Peter and have all been responsible in some way for crafting the way I write.

BUT enough about my opinions. I know I missed some excellent "must read" stories.

Moots, please help me out by reblogging with your favorites!

Hiiii! I was wondering if you could maybe write about copia struggling to do his makeup and asks (y/n) for help?

let me help | copia x gn!reader

Thank you for your suggestion anon, it inspired me to this little fic. It may be a bit different from what you had in mind but I hope you enjoy it anyway :) @leezlelatch here it is ♡

summary: your papa is overworked and tired, too shaky to do his own make-up, so you offer to help. content: 2.1k words, some mild hurt/comfort, established relationship

masterlist – Ao3 link

✦ ✧ ✦ 

A strong gale blew thick and heavy snowflakes against your window all night, leaving a plump white pillow on the sill that’s now covering half of the glass pane. You woke up multiple times as the wind howled in the cracks of the abbey’s old stone walls like a wolf calling to the moon, only ceasing in the early hours of the morning. As you get ready for the day now, the sky has cleared up and the soft glow of a rising sun paints your quarters in warm hues of orange. You lift your hand and let the warm rays of sunshine dance over your fingers.

It’s all quiet at this time of day and you’re sitting on your shared bed, pulling on some warm socks while Copia does his make-up. He’s perched on a wide, upholstered stool in front of the vanity he got when you moved in with him. Anything so he wouldn’t occupy the bathroom all morning, so he can share some more time with you while getting ready. 

The sunlight hits the back of his head, his hair still tousled and sticking up at odd angles. You love observing him as he gets ready. While clumsy at first the process of painting his face has now gone over into muscle memory and watching his nimble fingers get to work each morning is a sight to behold. His brow is always furrowed in concentration, deepening the adorable wrinkles on his forehead as he draws precise black lines onto his features. His lips stay tightly pressed together through the whole process right until he finally has to relaxe them to apply his lipstick. 

It’s the same procedure every single morning.

Well, except for today.

“Ahhhh, cazzo.” 

His sudden curse makes you look up and you catch him furiously scrubbing at his cheek, almost violently wiping away some of his black paint. A blotchy gray rim remains around the red patch of skin he just rubbed raw.

“What is it, my love?” you ask, worried he’s going to seriously hurt himself.

Copia sighs in defeat, setting down the black paint in frustration only to stare at it in mild disgust. You observe him over the mirror but he doesn’t look up at you, a heavy air of sadness hanging over him.

“Ugh… I feel a little shaky today,” he finally says, staring at his trembling hand. “I cannot get it right.”

You’re aware Copia has dealt with a rough few days – sleeping restlessly, feeling unwell from all the stress, skipping meals in order to get more work done. It’s hardly surprising that he’s shaking, already overworked and worn out with another long day looming ahead of him.

You scoot off the bed and make your way over to your exhausted Papa. His eyes find yours in the mirror as you approach, and he makes space for you on the stool. It’s a tight fit but you sit down sideways, facing Copia instead of the mirror.

“What are you doing?” he asks as you take his hands in yours.

“Helping.” You bring them to your mouth, gently kissing each individual knuckle. You can feel his tremor, feel his tension against your lips. He slowly eases up as you continue to kiss him, running your thumbs over the backs of his hands. Copia sighs softly and when you look up, he’s smiling weakly at you and you already know what he’s going to ask next.

“Amore… how do I even deserve you?”

“You deserve all my love, don’t you ever question that.“ You give him a playfully stern look, followed by a pout, and his cheeks turn all rosy. “Now let me do your make-up.” 

“You– you want to–“

“I’ve seen you do it a hundred times. I think I should be capable by now.”

“That’s not…” He swallows, softly shaking his head. “Not what I meant.”

His tone is enough to tell you exactly what he did mean. Do you really want to do this for me? Painting my face, something you’ve never done before, to help me when I feel so vulnerable right now?

“Yes, I want to.” You let go of his hands to reach out for his face, slowly rubbing your thumbs over his cheeks. “My love, I know I cannot shoulder your burdens, I cannot paint my face and be Papa for you, but I can try to give you as much love and support and care as I can. And if that means packing you lunch to make sure you eat, rubbing your back when it’s sore from sitting all day, popping in to help you with paperwork or even doing your make-up because you’re too worked up over the day ahead, I will happily do it.”

His eyes close and he takes a deep breath, smiling as a single tear rolls down his cheek. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much, amore. You are my everything.”

It pains you to see him like this, so bone-tired, so defeated, really. He is your everything too and to admit that you can’t simply make all of this go away hurts. You lean in to kiss away the tear, add a few more kisses to his cheeks for good measure and an especially soft one to his lips. “I love you, too, Copia. More than you can imagine.”

You break away and he opens his eyes, huffing out a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Uhm, yes… so… should we start?”

“Mhm.” You reach for the white paint and decide to fix the spot he had been rubbing raw earlier. The redness is mostly gone but you’re still careful as you apply the face paint with a beauty blender. At first Copia watches you, still with that hint of disbelief in his eyes that you’re actually willing to do this for him, but then he slowly closes them and relaxes into your gentle care. Once his whole face is covered in an even shade of white, you pick up the black paint again. You find a brush and dip it in, trying to get a feeling for how much you need.

“Do you… uh…” Copia looks around, probably searching for his phone. “If you need a picture, for reference…”

“No, I don’t think so.” You chuckle, reaching for his chin to make him look at you. “I’ve been staring at your handsome face so many times, I’m sure I could do it in my sleep. Just relax, amore, I will get it right, I promise.”

“I know you will,” he immediately says, ears turning red at the use of his pet name. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to doubt you, tesoro. It’s just…”

“I know, it’s okay. Just relax, please.” You give him a genuine smile, raising your eyebrows until he finally returns it. Of course it seems a little forced, he’s still anxious, still tired, but it’s better than nothing. He takes a deep breath and finally relaxes his features, allowing you to start with the black paint.

It takes you a while to get his whole face done since you’re trying to be as careful as possible. Admittedly, you’re a little shaky too, but with the help of the brush and working very slowly, you get the lines straight anyway. Copia tries very hard not to flinch or move his face, but he does blink a few times as you draw the lines around his eyes. You’re doing his eyelids when he blinks yet again, the timing unfortunate as his lashes hit the brush and some of the paint gets into his white eye. He hisses and tears up immediately, squinting hard in pain.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry,” you mumble, pulling away as fast as you can.

He raises a hand to your arm, the hurt eye still tightly screwed up. “Don’t, please, it happens.” 

Copia hands you a tissue and you gently dab at the tears before they mess up the rest of his make-up, waiting until his eye stops leaking. An agonising minute later he manages to keep it open, the white iris surrounded by a now very red sclera. It looks worse than it probably is but it still scares you and you take a few deep breaths before you decide to continue with your finger instead of the offending brush.

“Is it okay now?” you ask.

“It is. Thank you,” Copia whispers. “You’re doing so well, amorino. Don’t worry about it.”

You smile at his praise, though you’re not sure if he’s being quite truthful about the pain. Nevertheless, you apply the rest of the paint, even more cautiously now, until it’s almost done and only the lips are left.

It’s not the first time you see his whole face covered in make-up with only his lips bare, it’s basically a slightly cleaner version of what he looks like after a good make-out session – once all of his lipstick has transferred to your face. And he does have very beautiful lips, so plump and pink and practically begging to be kissed. They always feel so soft against yours and when he’s gentle–

Copia must see you staring at them because his fingers find your chin, slowly lifting your gaze until your eyes meet and he smirks. “Are you distracted, tesorino?”

You fight a smile. “What if I am, Papa? Are you going to fire me?”

“Oh, I could never do this, no.” He smirks knowingly. “Your Papa enjoys having all of your attention way too much, amore.”

That’s enough to make you close the gap and finally kiss him. He smiles into it and before you can pull away, his hands find your cheeks, keeping you exactly where you are. His fingers gently move into your hair, tilting your head up before he deepens the kiss. You sink against him with a sigh, hoping this won’t do too much damage to his paint. But that thought is forgotten as soon you feel his teeth grazing your bottom lip, asking for more. You let him kiss you breathless as you taste the remnants of minty toothpaste on his tongue and it’s enough to make you crave him so badly. But he’s tired enough already, you can feel him losing his energy as the kiss gets more sluggish and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Promise me to take it easy today,” you whisper against his mouth. “I’m so worried about you, Copia.”

He lets out a sigh, the exhale ghosting over your tender lips before he whispers back. “Ti voglio tanto bene. For you I promise anything, anything. I try my best to get home early tonight, sì? We can continue this without hurry.”

“Yes, please.” You smile, running your thumb along his jawline. “And I love you too. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“How could I? Whenever I look in a mirror today I will be reminded, eh?” He presses a wet kiss to your cheek before he pulls away. “Now, I think I’m already late.”

He’s right, you’ve taken way too long. So, you reach for the black lipstick and carefully follow the curves of his still kiss-swollen mouth, trying to ignore the tingling sensation in your belly. You blot his lips with a tissue after you’re done and fix some of the white paint your kiss messed up again. Once you’re done, he looks just like always. The only difference is the warm, affectionate smile that now graces his features, the twinkle in his eyes that belongs to you and only you.

“Thank you, amore,” he says, inspecting himself in the mirror. “È veramente perfetto. You did so well. I want to kiss you again so bad, but I would ruin it.”

Instead, he blows you a bunch of kisses and you giggle as you pretend to catch them. Copia gives you the first enthusiastic smile you’ve seen on him all day and it doesn’t leave his face as he combs his hair back, smoothes out his black dress shirt and tugs at the sleeves.

Then he suddenly jumps up, raising his hands. “Tada!” He does a little spin, almost stumbling over the leg of the stool. “How do I look, eh? Tell your Papa what you think. Be honest.” 

“You look bellissimo!” you say, clapping your hands as you grin at him. “The most handsome Papa to ever grace these halls.”

“Ha! And it’s all thanks to my very talented amore. I am so lucky, molto molto fortunato!”

You stand up as well, let him pull you into a tight embrace. He’s solid and his arms feel strong as they squeeze you to his body. He’s not quite recovered, and you know it will take more time, will take you a lot of convincing to get Sister to reduce his workload, but you can tell he’s feeling better for now.

And that’s what truly matters.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

thanks for reading :) if you want more comfort fics check out this fic, this fic or this fic hehe ♡

bob reynolds x thunderbolt!reader (post thunderbolts, no spoilers!)

The first time you kiss Bob Reynolds, it’s over a box of pizza and a half-finished card game. He’s not expecting it. Neither are you, really.

It’s only a short kiss, but he’s blinking fast as you pull away, lips parted and a deep red blush crawling up his neck. You notice he leans forward a bit, following you as you pull back, probably without realising. It’s so cute, you have to stop yourself from kissing him again.

“Wh—why’d you do that?” He asks, dazed.

You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. I like you,” you say softly.

To be honest, something just took over you. You’ve finally got a moment alone with him, when usually you’re surrounded by your team of vigilantes who don’t seem to understand the concept of privacy. And he looked so lovely, sitting there laughing at your terrible joke, and pretending like he wasn’t totally letting you win the card game on purpose. He’s been so sweet to you since you met, and you’ve liked him for just as long.

Bob stutters, “You… like me?”

You nod earnestly. “Yeah, Bob. You couldn’t tell?”

Bob shakes his head vehemently, his mouth shut tight like he doesn’t know what to say, or can’t say what he wants to say. You smile at him, feeling fond all over, your limbs heavy with it.

“I thought I made it obvious,” you say.

You really tried. From the moment you realised you liked him you tried flirting, but he’d get so red in the face you’d feel bad and have to force yourself to dial it down for his sake. You’re pretty sure everybody but Bob himself knows how you feel about him, including Alexei, who’s usually about as oblivious as a teaspoon. In the end you settled on just being friends, but clearly, you couldn’t settle for long.

Bob just blinks at you. “I… I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

You have to laugh. You’ve got no idea why he’s apologising, but he tends to do that a lot. He’s working on it.

“S’nothing to be sorry for,” you tell him, shaking your head. “But I really do like you.”

Bob gazes at you, something unameable in the way he looks at you. It makes you nervous, stirs a soft buzzing in your chest like a honey bee.

He leans forward an inch like he can’t help it. You feel much the same. The closer he gets, the less you seem to be able to think straight.

When he finally speaks again, it’s with utmost sincerity.

“I like you, too,” he says. His hand moves to touch your forearm, warm and gentle, and you go very still. You think he might kiss you again. You want him to kiss you again.

“Yeah?” You find yourself moving towards him, his touch drawing you in, the two of you a pair of magnets unable to stay apart. His fingers drag up the length of your forearm and he nods.

“Yes.” His hand cups around your elbow, so gentle it aches. He swallows, then says, “Will you kiss me again?”

You don’t have to be asked twice.

brb rereading this until i have it memorized

The Archivist - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Weeks after discovering some ancient tomes you're unable to decipher, you reach out to the Ministry of Magic Archives for help decoding the timeworn pages. The last thing you'd expected was for Sebastian Sallow to show up, much less for him to be so... attractive. Had he always looked like that?

Alternatively summarized as Sebastian Sallow pursued a professional career as a book nerd and also happens to be really well versed in sex.

Word Count: 6,969 (LMAO)

Warnings: 18+. aged up characters, explicit sexual content, size difference, Sebastian wearing glasses again

Up on Ao3 here for your viewing pleasure

You honestly didn’t think you’d ever thrown on clothes faster than you did the day someone apparated into your living room with a deafening crack, followed by a crash and a muffled, “Shit, ow.” 

If you were to die, you weren’t eager to do so half-naked and half-asleep. 

After hastily tying your robe around your waist and stuffing your feet in a pair of deteriorating slippers, you cautiously stuck your head into the hallway, the unruly strands of your bed head sticking to your cheeks and poking you in the eye as you assessed the situation. 

At the end of the hall you could see a stack of books scattered across the floor, along with a previously organized collection of newspapers now strewn over the top of a prone body. Said body was stirring beneath the crumpled parchment, and you bit your lip and wished desperately for coffee as you weighed your options. 

Option one: it was a murderer and you should leave immediately. The only problem was that the hallway leading to the front door was now blocked. Shit. 

Option two: it was a burglar, and if you could remember where you’d left your wand last night, you could petrify the man in place until officials came to your aid. 

Option three: it was a murdering burglar, and you might as well attempt to find out as much as you could before you wound up gruesomely cut down so you could at least haunt the bastard. 

As the concealed figure attempted to sit up, you heard another thump as something fell from above them, followed by an irate groan, and you gripped the doorway to your bedroom tightly as you managed to call out a meek, “Hello?” 

All movement and noises in the living room ceased for a moment, the air still and silent. You swore if the intruder dropped so much as a pin, you would hear it. The pair of feet belonging to the unknown man dragged along the floor as he seemingly stood himself up, and figuring that no burglar would be such a noisy wreck, you took your chances and slowly made your way down the hall to take in the damage done to your living space. 

Bizarre as it was to be so civil with someone who’d essentially broken into your home, you rounded the corner and found yourself asking, “Are you alright?” 

You were met with your potential adversary as he turned around, and you were equal parts surprised and confused to discover that it was none other than Sebastian Sallow. It had been years since you’d last seen him, the two of you having gone your separate ways after graduation as you continued hunting down ancient magic sites and he pursued a career within the Ministry. The last letter you’d received from him had come in a little over a year ago, sadly informing you that his sister had finally passed, albeit peacefully. 

To find him now standing in the midst of your demolished living room was a shock in and of itself. 

“Sebastian?” you asked incredulously, your eyes raking down his disheveled but well dressed body. He had certainly grown since you’d last seen him, his long legs accentuated by pressed slacks, and the suspenders that wrapped over his sculpted shoulders left little to the imagination. The button up he wore was just shy of being too small for his broad figure, and when you glanced back up at him, you watched as he brought one of his hands up to his face to fix his crooked glasses. 

“Hi,” he said lamely, flashing you a somewhat sheepish smile. “Sorry for the mess– I, uh– well, I think I landed on something when I popped in.” 

Your eyes flicked down once more to the toppled stacks of books that now covered the floor, and your brow cocked of its own accord as you breathed out a laugh, “You don’t say.”

Still reeling from the abrupt wake up call, you could only stare dumbstruck as Sebastian fixed his clothing and picked invisible lint off of his shirt, then offered his hand to you. “Sorry about the books. And the, uh, language. I’m here about the old tomes you found?” 

As you accepted his outstretched hand and tried not to pass out from the firmness of it, you blinked and attempted to figure out what he was referring to. “Tomes?” 

“The ones you wanted looked over?” He let go of your hand to rifle through the small satchel strapped to his thigh, and it took a herculean effort not to drool over the sheer width of his leg. Merlin’s bloody balls… you’d been holed up indoors for too long. “You sent in this consultation request a few weeks ago,” he said, pulling out a small slip of parchment decorated in your familiar scrawl, and then it all started to come back to you. 

It had been nearly a month since, but during your last excursion to Scotland, you’d come across a set of unique, fragile tomes buried deep in an ancient magic site there. As curious as you’d been to read through their contents, the text within was hardly legible, and in truth, you weren’t even sure it was written in English. In a bid to still make use of the age-old books, you had reached out to the Ministry of Magic Archives to have someone potentially aid you in deciphering the timeworn pages. After almost a month with no response, you had simply shelved them all and moved on to planning your next trip.

“I completely forgot,” you muttered, taking the paper from Sebastian to read it over. “I kind of gave up hoping that the Ministry would send someone.”

“They weren’t planning on it,” he started to say, sounding conflicted as to whether or not he should continue. “But after I got my hands on the request, I took something of a personal interest in the case.” 

Jokingly, you teased, “You hold that much sway working in the Archives?” 

“I do when I’m the Archivist.” 

“You’re the Archivist?” Your jaw dropped comically fast, your eyes wider than saucers as you processed his statement. Suddenly you were looking at your former friend in a whole new light. In your mind, you had always assumed the Ministry’s Archivist would be… well, ancient. Old and withered, graying and feeble. Not youthful and– quite frankly– hot. “How did that happen?” 

Sebastian rocked back on his heels as he stuffed his thumbs in his pockets, the very picture of modesty as he shrugged, “It’s technically my trial period since the old Archivist just died a few months ago. But yeah, I guess my thirst for knowledge and reading habits paid off. At the very least it impressed the Minister enough for him to promote me.”

Eventually you managed to pick your chin up off the floor so you were no longer gaping at him like a fish, and you bashfully tucked a particularly stubborn strand of hair behind your ear as you cleared your throat and said, “Well, congratulations then. Glad to hear you’re doing well for yourself.”

Sebastian stared at you for a long moment before laughing softly under his breath, his hand sweeping through the front of his curly hair, “Thanks. But anyways, I can take a look at those tomes now if you’ve still got them?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure. They’re on the shelf by the couch, let me just get changed.” 

“No worries,” Sebastian said quickly, grinning widely as he moved around you further into the living room, his eyes roving over you momentarily. “I’ve got this.”

Did he just… check you out? No way, you thought, shaking the idea from your mind entirely. 

You tracked the brunet as he strode over to the cluttered shelf beside the sofa, watching intently as he moved a few books around until he found the unmistakable tomes propped against the wooden panels. With the utmost care, Sebastian carefully withdrew one of the three with delicate fingers, his touch featherlight and ever conscious of the fragile nature of the bound piece of foreign literature. As he thoughtfully deposited the book on top of the coffee table, you couldn’t help but admire how gentle he was being with it; with hands that big, you found his tender touch to be something of a contrast to his entire person. 

Shamelessly, you also found yourself wondering how those hands of his might feel against your skin. 

Beating back your lustful thoughts with a mental brick, you managed to say with an even tone, “I’m surprised you can tell what’s what in that mess of a shelf. I’ve been told I have a bit of a hoarding problem– most people can’t separate the floor from the walls.” 

“Well, I’m not most people,” he retorted, flashing you a dazzling smile from over his shoulder. “It takes a bookworm to know one. My old overseer at the Archives used to tell me I ‘had no shelf control’.”

The silence that settled over the room was utterly loud, and as Sebastian’s face took on the hue of a ripe tomato, you were fighting a grin with every fiber of your being. Your lips contorted into something resembling a downward smile while the Archivist-in-training turned back to the bookshelf, dragging a hand down his flushed cheeks as a pained groan weaseled its way out of him. “Please forget I said that. I’ve picked up on one too many library jokes in the past five years.” 

Sweet Merlin, he was dorky as hell. Please leave, excessively hot Archivist. Either leave or stay for about six hours and don’t go until I’m ready to let you.

To spare him his dignity and also because you needed to refrain from staring at his attractive backside, you spun on your heel to head into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Please,” he sighed in agreement, sounding all too excited about the change in topic. 

“I’ve got tea, coffee, and… water,” you finished pathetically. The barren cupboards above the pantry nearly brought a tear to your eye, and you made a mental note to do some shopping later if you had the time. 

Sebastian set the second tome down on the coffee table at the same time he called out to you, “Tea is fine, thank you.” 

It took a smidge longer than normal to boil the water, seeing as you had to pause your efforts to find your wand buried beneath the piles of maps in your bedroom. Once you had it in hand, however, you whipped up two steaming cups of black tea and returned to Sebastian minutes later to hand his cup over to him. He took it graciously, plainly eyeing you up over the brim of the mug as he took a tentative sip, and your stomach flipped at the suggestive look he fixed you with. 

“I’m a little jealous, you’ve got one hell of a collection here. I almost wish I could take some of these old books off your hands.” 

“Mm,” you hummed around a mouthful of tea, swallowing pointedly. Sebastian’s eyebrow twitched minutely. “Well, I think it might be time for me to clean house a bit anyways. If you wanted to, you could always come back and take your pick of what you like.” 

His brows rose momentarily before settling, a muscle in his defined jaw ticking as he glanced between you and the tomes on the table. Then with a voice like pure sin, Sebastian smoothly said, “And what if I like more than the books?”

Shit, shit. Redirect. You fought to employ every ounce of self-control in your body so you wouldn’t just jump into his strong arms and straddle him right there, but you were acutely aware of a few facts; you looked like you had fought a Hippogriff in your sleep, you had sorely little on under your robe, and Sebastian's eyes had been devouring the noticeable outline of your collarbone for the last minute or so. Fuck. 

“Then it sounds, uh,” you started to say, struggling to form words with the broad shouldered Adonis across from you seemingly undressing you with his eyes. “Like we might be on the same page.” It was the truth– you were as interested in the Archivist as you were in the purpose for his visit– but once the unintentional pun registered, you rolled your eyes and dug the heel of your palm into one eye, swearing softly. To his credit, Sebastian just laughed, taking another hearty sip of his tea as you shyly smiled up at him. 

With more work to be done back at the Ministry and your tomes in hand, Sebastian dutifully let you know that while he couldn't stay presently, he would absolutely be coming back later that night. He followed you into the kitchen to deposit his cup beside the sink, intentionally reaching over your shoulder to set the mug down before letting his fingers ghost along the skin of your neck. Goosebumps broke out all over your body at the contact, and when you turned around to face him with the counter pressing against your rear, his hands came to deftly adjust the revealing neckline of your robe with a coy smirk tugging at his lips. 

“See you at seven,” he purred, leaving you a blushing mess in your kitchen as he stepped back, winked, then apparated away. 

—

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, you had bathed, gone to the market to replenish your sorry excuse of a pantry, tidied up the previously demolished sitting area, and started cooking dinner. Part of you felt like you were getting ahead of yourself with everything, but after spending the entirety of your day reflecting on the stolen glances Sebastian had sent your way and his rather telling comment in the living room, you told yourself it couldn’t get any more obvious than that. 

He had always been rather cute during your time at school, but something about seeing him grown and fully matured had ignited a fire in your veins that stubbornly stayed burning for hours. 

When he showed up five minutes early at six fifty-five with freshly washed hair and wearing a darker version of his earlier outfit, your doubts all but vanished. Clearly you weren’t the only one itching to make a good impression. 

Sebastian followed you into the living room, now noticeably cleaner than it had been earlier in the morning, and held up the bottle of wine he’d been holding at his side. “I know you’ve got tea and water, but uh. I figured why not. It’s Friday after all.”

You smiled softly and let your hands brush against his as you took the wine from him, curiously watching as his fingers flexed when his arm returned to his side. “Thank you. I take it the Archivist doesn’t go to work on the weekends, then?” 

“The Archivist in training doesn’t, but I’m sure my free time will be a commodity before long. I’m pretty sure the last one frequently slept under his desk at the Ministry Headquarters. What about you? Any drab desk jobs to speak of?” 

“Nope,” you said, gesturing to the couch as you turned to head back into the kitchen. “When I need the extra money I’ll help out Sirona at The Three Broomsticks, but for the most part my explorations and Professor Fig’s estate hold me over well enough. I’m hardly ever home anyways, so it’s not like there’s many expenses to keep track of.” 

“I see,” Sebastian huffed as he collapsed into the couch, spreading his long arms along the top of the backrest as he took in the neater state of the living room. “I’m guessing your adventuring is why there’s so many books in the first place. Have you ever thought about upsizing?”

“Hardly,” you set the bottle down on the kitchen counter and chanced a look at the man on the sofa, oddly pleased to see him so at ease in the midst of your cluttered home. “I’d much rather downsize the collection. I don’t even need the majority of what I have– I’ve read through it all ten times over.” 

He nodded, “Fair enough.” 

“Anyway, I imagined you’d be hungry, so dinner’s almost ready.” 

“Oh, damn,” Sebastian mumbled, sitting forward to run a hand through his drying hair as you flitted around the kitchen. “You didn’t have to.”

“Unless you planned on feeding yourself later, I think most shops will be closed by the time you leave,” you said pointedly, turning to hide your grin when you observed the brunet flushing bright red. Miraculously you resisted the urge to add ‘if at all’ to the end of your statement. You unearthed the corkscrew buried deep within the kitchen drawers and popped open the wine bottle, filling two glasses before striding back into the living room to hand one over to Sebastian. “Feel free to take a look at any of the books, see if any of them might be worth taking to the Archives.”

The larger man gave you a lopsided smirk as he took the offered glass and clinked it gently against yours, muttering his agreement before shamelessly ogling your retreating form returning to the kitchen. The cinched waist of your otherwise simple dress was incredibly distracting. He elected not to sift through the piles upon piles of books, opting to instead watch as you hummed to yourself and stirred something on the stove, which Sebastian was beginning to realize smelled pretty fantastic. He was grateful for the distance between you both so you couldn’t hear his stomach growling. 

Once the food was ready, you ate with comfortable conversation flowing between the two of you the entire time. You asked Sebastian what he did in his soon to be nonexistent free time, and you were surprised to hear that he had taken on the role of Feldcroft’s token handyman. In his own words, the muggle approach to fixing things was relatively therapeutic, and he loved getting his hands dirty almost as much as he loved having his nose burrowed in book pages. It explained his physical appearance, at the very least. Until now, you’d just assumed he had a habit of squatting massive stacks of books in the Archives when he was bored. 

In turn he had asked you about your hobbies, about the ancient magic sites you visited, and about living on-the-go so regularly. It was so normal for you now that you barely batted an eye at being away from home for weeks at a time, and you told him as much with a half-hearted shrug. 

Lazily, you swirled the remaining wine around in your glass, bringing it to your mouth as you murmured, “It’s not like there’s anything waiting for me here, so I don’t mind it.”

Sebastian watched you intently as you finished off your drink, taking in the pretty flush decorating your cheeks and the delectable way you licked your wine-stained lips in the moment that followed. “Anything, or anyone?” 

“Hm?” 

“You don’t have anyone to come home to? No pets, no kids…” he trailed off, the rest of his question dangling in the air like a lone cloud. Your eyes fell to Sebastian’s hand as he sensually ran his pinched fingers along the stem of his own glass, and his half-hooded eyes hidden behind his glasses said everything in place of the missing portion of his sentence. 

No lover, is what you knew he was indirectly asking. 

“Do you see anyone else here?” you teased, the sides of your mouth curling into a coy smile.

“No,” Sebastian retorted, pushing his empty glass away as he sat back in his seat, amusement etched across his handsome face. “Then again, it doesn’t hurt to check. Had to make sure I was reading things correctly.” 

You perched your elbow on the armrest of your chair and balanced your chin on top of your fist casually before asking, “Was that another one of your jokes?” Hoping that you looked more confident than you felt, you mirrored his position and crossed one of your legs over the other, taking immense satisfaction in the way the brunet’s throat bobbed at the sight of your legs outlined through your attire. 

Sebastian looked puzzled for a moment before realizing what he’d said, and he rolled his eyes at the same time an airy laugh spilled from your lips. “An accidental one, make no mistake,” he moved forward to the edge of his seat, leaning forward to play with one of the folds of your dress with his index finger. “But I have been thinking about you all day, and I may or may not have convinced myself that you’re way out of my league.” 

“You should be more confident,” you whispered, dropping your hand to clutch at the one the Archivist was inching towards your leg with. His fingers immediately spread to accommodate your smaller ones, and you tugged him a smidge closer so your noses were mere inches apart. Jokingly, you taunted him further by asking, “Did you still want to look at my book collection?” 

Before you could so much as yelp, Sebastian closed the distance between the two of you in a flash and pressed his lips to yours fervently, any lingering awkwardness falling away like leaves on a tree. His free hand came to curl around the back of your neck, holding you firmly against his mouth as he angled his head to the side to deepen the kiss further, and you couldn’t help but moan against him at the brutish feeling of his broad hand holding you in place. 

He pulled away just enough to brush a tinier, more delicate kiss against the tip of your nose before he sighed, “I really don’t give a damn about the books right now.” 

A budding Archivist not caring about books? The scandal, is what you wanted to say, but then Sebastian’s lips were back on yours, swallowing your pending comment with a ferocity that had your stomach churning wantonly. Those brilliant hands of his left your neck and your hand to trail along your waist, his fingers digging firmly into the bodice of your dress to pull you towards him, and you followed his guidance all too willingly as he urged you from your seat. Within seconds you were in his lap, melting against him as he ground his hips up into yours while simultaneously using his hands to rock you against his hardening cock, and a satisfied groan emitted from him as you allowed him to move you as he pleased. 

In-between kisses, Sebastian managed to croak out, “Bedroom?” 

You barely managed a nod, too enthralled by the man under you to form actual words, and at the same time you dove back in for another heated kiss, Sebastian looped an arm around your back and the other under your ass as he stood up, lifting you with him as though you weighed nothing. Instinctively you hooked your legs around his hips, letting him haul you along to your bedroom while your hands flew to his neck to clutch at him ardently in a bid to keep your mouth glued to his. His ability to multi-task was something to compliment later on, because he kept walking and working his mouth over yours with a finesse that bordered on inhuman. 

The next thing you knew you were being thrown down on the mattress, bouncing in place briefly before you had to bite your lip to stifle a curse as you watched Sebastian fucking crawl up the bed towards you, predatory and sexy as hell. As soon as he was within reach, you grabbed for one of his suspender straps and pulled him closer, kissing him once again and moaning eagerly when you felt his hand grip at the seductive curve of your waist to squeeze before he settled on top of you. With his knees on either side of you, it was impossible to overlook the feeling of his achingly hard cock pressing down against your leg, and Sebastian groaned loudly when you tried lifting your hips to convey your impatience. 

“Someone’s excited,” he murmured against your swollen lips, grinning to himself as you worked to catch your breath. “Have you been thinking about me, too?” 

“Yes,” you gasped, your train of thought momentarily derailing when Sebastian moved so his chest was pressing against your clothed breasts, his hips flush with yours to better grind against you. “Don’t you own a mirror?”

Instead of replying to your thinly veiled compliment, Sebastian dipped his head into the crook of your neck to nip and kiss his way along your jaw with a rumbling moan, the force of his ministrations forcing your head back against the pillows. He was as eager as you were, that much was certain. As he rutted his concealed cock against your thigh, you heard and felt him shudder against you, and in an attempt to silence himself, the Archivist’s plush lips latched firmly onto a patch of skin under your jaw to suck a mark there. 

The stinging sensation of him biting down had your eyes fluttering shut, your entire being relishing in the light pain his teeth bestowed upon you, and Sebastian blindly reached for your wrist to pin your arm above your head. The dominant display had you voicing your approval in the form of a low moan, enjoying how being stretched out for him allowed for his other hand to rake down your side to start bunching up your dress. His movements didn’t cease as he lifted his hips slightly to free up the rest of the fabric trapped beneath him, and he expertly collected the material into a disheveled heap below your navel. When his dexterous fingers ghosted along the waistband of your undergarments, your next breath caught in your throat and caused you to gasp shakily. 

You felt as Sebastian’s lips curved into a smirk against your spit-slick skin before sitting back on his heels to murmur, “You’re so noisy.” 

Through his lashes, he watched as a brilliant flush swept up your neck to cover your face, and you timidly tried to hide your cheeks with the back of your free hand. “S-Sorry,” you stammered, but the man above you was having absolutely none of your self-consciousness. 

Your mediocre shield was wrenched away from your face and pinned up alongside your other hand in an instant, and you blinked up at Sebastian in blatant surprise as he leaned menacingly over you. “Don’t stop,” he implored you, biting his lip as he took in the sight of you beneath him. “I love it. 

The brunet secured your wrists into one of his hands so he could drop the other one back to your aching center, swiping two of his fingers up your slit through your underwear to feel the wetness that had collected there. The sensation left you breathless, another choked gasp weaseling its way past your lips and earning a dark chuckle from Sebastian. His digits moved up to slide beneath the fabric blocking his path, and a low groan sounded from him as he felt how truly soaked you were from his efforts. Without looking away from your pinched features, he gingerly slid a single finger in, biting his lip hungrily at the way your lips parted and your head rolled to the side when he began steadily pumping in and out of you. 

When you felt his thumb begin to rub against your clit, your eyelids fluttered shut from the intense pleasure that washed over you, pulling a strangled whimper from you. “Fuck, Sebastian–”

The hand he had securely wrapped around your wrists tightened a fraction to draw your mind out of the gutter, and he roughly gritted out, “Look at me, darling– open those pretty eyes for me.” You couldn’t help but oblige him when he referred to you so sweetly, and when you cracked your eyes open once again, his body seemed to shudder with delight as he growled, “So fucking perfect. My name sounds damn good when you say it like that.”

With his gaze burning into yours and the close proximity between the two of you, you didn’t think the overwhelming euphoria you felt could get any better. That is, until he added a second finger into the mix. The initial stretch was felt only briefly before his thumb pressed against your sensitive bundle of nerves, the persistent ministrations against your clit muting any discomfort and leaving you arching brainlessly beneath him as that hot, incessant feeling in your gut roared to life. It was tantalizing, and your hips bucked off the mattress in an attempt to chase his movements and reach the climax you were utterly desperate for. 

“Please, please,” you begged mindlessly, your desire to come so potent that it was almost painful. “Please, Sebastian, please.” 

“Already?” he tsk’d mockingly, shaking his head minutely as he eagerly wet his bottom lip and removed his thumb from your center. “I think you can hold on a bit longer, don’t you? I’d much rather end this with my cock, if it’s all the same to you.” 

The lack of friction sobered you up instantly, and the lustful haze that had clouded your mind cleared enough for you to blink blearily up at him, a small frown playing on your lips. “Really?” 

Sebastian cocked a brow at you, as though daring you to tell him he was being unreasonable. “Would you rather this end with my hands?” 

You tried to roll your hips up into his hand before relenting rather quickly, and you muttered, “F-Fine. Just hurry up, I might throttle you if I have to wait any longer.” 

Sebastian grinned wickedly at the way your back arched when he curled his fingers inside of you before torturously withdrawing them. A small sigh slipped from you when he let go of your wrists and slid away to hastily begin shedding his clothing, taking care to be gentler with his glasses as he set them down on the nightstand, and once he was wholly bare before you, the only thing you could do was stare. 

His physique was mind boggling; toned, defined muscles made up every inch of his torso, accentuated by broad shoulders that you were convinced didn’t belong anywhere near someone who worked in a glorified library of all places. His skin was sun-kissed and peppered with freckles, a testament to the aforementioned physical labor he claimed to enjoy. It hadn’t made much sense to you before when he’d told you– forgoing magic to use his own hands to help fix things. But if a habit like that gave a man a body like his, you would never doubt his preferences again. 

All of Sebastian looked positively divine, including his cock. Thick, hard, and twitching tellingly, it arched proudly against his taut stomach, the head violently red and already leaking beads of pre-cum in response to the situation at hand. You swallowed thickly when you realized that that would be inside of you, and you were suddenly grateful that he’d told you to wait. Not to discredit his fingers or anything, but you had a nagging feeling that you would enjoy his lower parts far more than his hands. 

Ignoring the nervousness that settled in your stomach, you sat up to quickly pull the sleeves of your dress down your arms, wriggling out of the attire quickly before throwing the bunched up material to the floor. As you reached down to slide your underwear off, Sebastian returned to kneel in front of you and stopped you by lightly pushing you flat against the pillows, then ran his hands along the plane of your stomach. 

“Allow me,” he said chivalrously, taking care to gently slip his fingers under the waistband and sensually remove the material entirely. With nothing else separating you from him, Sebastian took his time eating you alive with his eyes, letting his hands drag up your thighs and squeeze at your knees before pushing your legs apart so he had space to siddle forward. The blunt head of his cock bumped against your slick cunt, and a barely there shudder ran down your spine in anticipation. 

It took a good amount of self-control for you to let Sebastian press into you achingly slow, his eyes pinching shut while his teeth savaged his bottom lip, and when he was finally sheathed inside of you fully, the brunet was practically shaking with the desire to fuck your brains out. He waited, though, his palms sliding from your knees to your upper thighs to dig his fingers into the skin there, raking his hungry gaze over you while he gave you a moment to adjust. 

You appreciated the sentiment, because Merlin– he was big. It was impossible to overlook every delicious inch of him pressing against your inner walls, the subtle grinding of his hips stretching you out more and more to the point where your breath continuously caught in your throat. It felt good, though. Good enough to leave you wondering why you’d never sought him out when the two of you were still in school together. 

At some point, however, you realized Sebastian was fucking with you. It probably had something to do with the repetitive, shallow thrusts he teased you with, and when you craned your neck up to look at him, he was already staring at you with a wide grin splitting his face, his tongue poking out between his teeth. 

“W-What?” you grumbled, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Are you going to make me beg or something? I already said please.” 

“I was just enjoying the face you were making,” Sebastian said, rocking his hips just enough to leave you arching towards him. “You look like you’re trying really hard to keep it together. It’s cute.” 

“I’m flattered,” you breathed out around an airy laugh, then wriggled your hips down in an attempt to bait the Archivist into moving. Mercifully, it worked. 

Sebastian gave a throaty moan, leaning forward to brace one hand on the side of your waist while the other gripped at your thigh tighter, and he withdrew his cock languidly before plunging back in. Your breathing hitched and your head fell back against the pillows at the abrupt sensation, and the sight of you so obviously enthralled by his efforts was what expelled the remainder of his patience. 

Holding onto your thigh with bruising strength, Sebastian fell into a steady, toe-curling pace. He pulled you onto his cock with every deep plunge, digging his feet into the bed to lend some force to his thrusts, and his reward was the sound of your shaky voice reverberating off of the bedroom walls as your spine rounded. You keened loudly, overcome with both the feeling and the sight of Sebastian– because not only was he deceptively good at rendering your mind into a puddle of mush, he looked amazing while he was doing it. The muscles in his arms rippled as he supported himself above you, his brown curls falling into his face as his head hung heavy between his sculpted shoulders, and when your arousal had you clamping down on his cock harder, those full, kissable lips of his fell open around a guttural groan. 

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he grit out through his clenched teeth, gazing down at you with lust-dark eyes that made your blood burn hot in your veins. “So bloody gorgeous– like a fucking work of art.”

His praises left you whining in earnest, and you didn’t bother to keep your voice down in the slightest. With every sinful noise that escaped you, Sebastian’s hold on you seemed to intensify, and his thick cock filled you harder with every desperate pump of his hips. His ragged breathing left you craving more of him– all of him– and you rutted against him as much as was physically possible in a bid to take him deeper. 

Sebastian picked up on your desires wordlessly, and he shifted his hold on your thigh so his hand was looped around it to better pull it to the side, giving him the room he needed to spear into you with wicked precision. It also allowed him to discover what you sounded like crying out for more, your voice reedy and strident within the four walls of the bedroom, and when he shifted his hips down to achieve new depths, your moans echoed around him. He had to be hitting a good spot. 

“Right there, Sebastian, fuck– right there–” 

Your lower half was positively shaking, and Sebastian was honestly at his limit. He sat up momentarily before grabbing both of your legs, watching as you blearily tried to figure out what was going on while he pulled your knees over his shoulders. Moving over you swiftly and urgently, he bent you back and rammed his thick cock back into your tight heat, animalistic grunts sounding from him as you arched tight and cried out, but you were barely given the space to breathe before he was fucking you hard– hips bucking rough and deep and so fucking good that you were left screaming and gasping helplessly at the sheets. 

Sebastian pinned you to the bed and pounded into you, his own moans dripping loud from his lips as his hands grasped at the sweaty, flushed skin of your waist, pulling you close while he filled you over and over and drank in your noisy pleas for more until your back was arching clear off the bed and your thighs were shaking. You were barely holding on, your climax from earlier roaring back to life in your gut and rendering your tongue a lead weight in your mouth.

Forming words was damn near impossible, but you still managed to babble out, “Like that, Sebastian, fuck, just like that– I’m close– please, I’m–”

He obliged you instantly, keeping up his pace while he brought his hand between your legs to thumb over your bundle of nerves, his hips angling upwards with every deep, precise plunge. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, you watched through your slitted eyes as he bent forward to press a chaste kiss to your parted lips, swallowing your breathy whines with a satisfied expression playing over his face. “Come on, darling. Let’s hear how you sound falling apart on my cock, yeah?” 

As if you even needed the encouragement. 

Every muscle in your body tensed as a wave of unparalleled ecstasy crashed over you, and your hands flew to Sebastian’s shoulders to absentmindedly attempt to grasp at something to ground yourself. His movements didn’t stop as you writhed beneath him– milking every possible noise out of you with unconcealed fervor– and it was only when you sagged into the sheets twitching and whimpering that Sebastian let your legs drop to the sides so he could wrap his arms around you to give you the last of his deep, quick thrusts before he was coming too, your name tumbling over his lips as he fell alongside you. 

“Fuck,” Sebastian murmured directly beside your ear, still draped in a boneless heap on top of you as you trembled against him. One of your hands slid up to bury your fingers in his tangled curls, and you mumbled something unintelligibly into the crook of his neck. He pulled back slightly to hear you better, “What?” 

Your eyes were still glazed over as you came down from your post-coital high, “Are the Archives chock-full of sex books or something?” 

Sebastian smirked tiredly at you, pulling out gently before collapsing beside you with his arms still wrapped securely around your waist. “One or two. Why?” 

You stared up at the ceiling in a daze and shook your head softly to yourself, “Because you’re a little too good at that. It’s kind of scary.”

“Good scary or bad scary?” 

“Good scary,” you clarified, turning over so you could face the brunet and smile softly at him. The way his entire face lit up at the sight of you would live on in your mind for years to come, you were sure, so you wistfully said, “We should do this again sometime.” 

Sebastian paused, leaving you worried for a short second until he wriggled in a way that let him press his hard cock against your stomach, and he closed the distance between the two of you to give you a chaste kiss on your nose before grinning mischievously. “Like right now?” 

You raised your eyebrows in silent surprise before laughing playfully, rolling over onto him before taking his face in your hands to kiss him deeply. It was a sweet moment– tender, affectionate, and heartwarming. It only ceased when you let go of his cheeks to move down his larger body, already itching to put your hands to better use. 

The only thing that stopped Sebastian from staying holed up within the warm, comfortable confines of your bedroom with you forever was the imminent arrival of Monday, but Saturday and Sunday were days well spent. You were rather disappointed when your time together came to an end– enough so that you actually pouted when Sebastian had slid out from beneath the covers to get ready for work. Thankfully though, the Archivist was as unwilling as you were to call it quits after everything, and following a heated, lengthy kiss, he promised to come back as soon as he was able. 

It only took him eight hours to find himself back in your bed, but you knew then that it would be impossible to stay away from him for very long from here on out. 

THIS IS SO COOL AND BEAUTIFUL HOLY COW

GHOST / PAPA EMERITUS IV — Alternative Movie Music Poster Original image of Papa Emeritus IV by elizzziebeth

right where you left me

Summary: You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

I profusely apologize for the pain.

Inspired by @sychenb for the prompt idea. Also crediting @sloanesallow for her headcanon about Sebastian keeping track of numbers.

(also sort of inspired by Unus Annus - iykyk - and Taylor Swift, if you couldn't guess by the title)

Tags: Angst, F!Reader POV (you), unreliable narrator, vague ship (Sebastian x reader/Ominis x reader), Sebastian was in love with you but never confessed, death, grief, ambiguous ending, overall the sads in general, I cried while writing this

AO3/Wattpad

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

oops I might have a new hyperfixation for a moment.

would literally lose my fucking mind if you wrote carmy like touch starved, idk maybe everyone is staying after to celebrate something and he’s dragging you into his office to eat you out with absolutely zero shame because he needs it so bad

your wish is my lifelong quest i love you, hope i did it at least some justice loml

Carry You Away With Me

carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader

He looked sheepish for a moment, lips curling into a grin for another split second before returning to his natural expression, eyes finding yours and locking you into his gaze. "Do you think anyone would notice if I took you elsewhere right now?"

[4k] | chef ill be honest with you this is just porn, needy!carmy (he's fucking adorable), office sex if that's even a term, established relationship, cunningulus, unprotected sex, cum-play. my apologies to the church

reblog and/or like for a kiss, feedback much appreciated! not proofread.

It was around 11 when you returned to the restaurant with a bottle of champagne cradled in your arms, watching as Gary and Tina pushed a few tables together to make a bigger one for the rest. Eating together wasn't a rare occurrence, but it often only happened an hour before service in the morning— dinners were mostly had at home or skipped altogether, depending on the importance one put into their health. But tonight called for an after-hours get-together, one that Sydney and Marcus pushed for when Ebraheim showed up in the morning with the latest issue of Gastronomica, featuring a very familiar name this time around— Carmen Berzatto.

"You know— I bet you can like, make it to a Vogue issue sometime later on, too."

"That's not exactly food-related."

"I'm just saying, dream high and—"

The few clinks of a spoon against the glass cut Fak right off and Carmen made a mental note to thank god for that later on, his gaze lifting from the long, full table that everyone was surrounding to the source of the sound; the now-empty champagne glass that Richie held.

"Can we all take a moment to stop stuffing our faces with this whatever-the-fuck it is to congratulate my cousin right here?" he spoke up, bringing a smile to your lips as you reached for Carmen's hand from under the table and muttered out "chou à la crème", another dish that Marcus had been experimenting with lately. A short chuckle left Carmen's lips when he vaguely heard what you said, and he gave your hand a firm, appreciative squeeze before rubbing his thumb along the back of your palm. "Gastronomica isn't just any magazine. I think it's supposed to be one of the good ones, like—"

"—the Vogue of food!"

"Maybe! Who knows, anyway— really, I'm proud of this mess of a man and you all should be, too." and maybe this was the most affection that Richie could whip out in public, but it was more than enough— because despite his hate for having the spotlight directly on him, Carmen was currently busy offering a smile to Richie, which the other reciprocated shortly before sitting back down, his quiet little hum of affection drowned out by the mutterings of 'cheers' along with the clink of everyone's glasses.

Proud was an understatement for this little dysfunctional found-family.

But you knew Carmen, you knew that he'd much rather skip on the compliments and pats to the shoulder; and you were way too sure that he'd need a moment to himself sooner or later. That moment came almost fifteen minutes after, when everyone split themselves into a few groups of completely different conversations, scooped up chocolate sauce and cream and small pieces of the delicate pastry got left behind on the empty plates— you felt Carmy's fingers wrapping around your upper thigh, concealed by the dimmed out lights and the table.

"S'up?" you returned your attention to him upon feeling his fingers tapping along to some nonexistent rhythm on your clothed skin, not too invested in the story Richie was busy telling everybody with the loudest voice he could muster to begin with.

He looked sheepish for a moment, lips curling into a grin for another split second before returning to his natural expression, eyes finding yours and locking you into his gaze. "Do you think anyone would notice if I took you elsewhere right now?"

"Elsewhere?"

"Not too far, jus' my office. For a couple of minutes at most." he leaned in closer to your ear just so you could hear him over the 2012's pop playlist Manny whipped out earlier, a completely mesmerizing turn of events when he started singing along to a random Katy Perry song— but that leaning closer action proved Carmen to be just another self-saboteur because he was feeling specifically out of place all day and to feel your perfume so close was a pull with a force out of this world. He couldn't pull back away then, couldn't return to his own chair and you had no choice but to push him away manually. "I promise."

"Any ulterior motives I should be aware of?" you grinned, letting your fingers curl right over his own on your thigh— and making a mental note to ease him into the habit of using hand moisturizers regularly sometime, upon the roughed up feel of his skin.

"You wound me, baby." his expression seemed to linger over offense, but his eyes told a completely different story; and before you knew it, he was pushing his chair back to get up, patting Gary's shoulder on his way to the back of house, a momentary turn of his head just so he could silently tell you to follow with his eyes.

And that, you did, despite the raised eyebrows of Richie's that you met along the way.

The kitchen smelled like a different kind of citrus, one that only belonged in dishwashing detergents as you maneuvered through the stations, cleaned up from the day's worth of filth. From your peripheral vision, you noticed Carmen reaching behind to undo the strings of his navy apron, leaving out the top string that he'd have to pull over his head until you could catch up and he could get to the office. His shirt was, again, as pristine as ever and it was a work of magic how he managed to come back home with a perfectly clean white t-shirt each day, if not for a few little drops here and there.

Finally, he pushed open the door of his office for you and you stepped in, finding your way to his desk in the darkness to flip the switch of the small light that illuminated the paperwork mostly. When your eyes found him again, the apron was long gone— tucked away in a corner, folded, although not so neatly. "Happy now?"

Instead of a reply, he just plopped down on the old, squeaky chair by the desk, thighs spread and arms wide open to make space for you. You took the offer right away, seating yourself on one of his thighs but still balancing yourself on your feet too, in order to not just dump your whole body weight on him and potentially numb out his leg. He couldn't care less, as he wrapped himself around you tightly and pulled you closer. "I don't really give a shit about Gastronomica."

"I figured," you mumbled against the material of his shirt, lungs filling in with a scent that only he could carry— a surprisingly pleasant mix of cigarettes, sweat, and gravy. It belonged to him, at least. "When's the last time you gave a shit about anyone's opinion outside of here, anyway?"

A soft hum left his lips, one that feigned agreement— but he wasn't paying much attention to what you've been saying to begin with, mind all muddied with specific moments in time that included you. Come to think of it, he'd been like this all day, even when Richie jokingly smacked him across the face with the magazine or when Tina elbowed him while he was trying to explain why she had to strain the mixture twice to get a flowing consistency— on the back of his mind, there was always you; always the lack of time he got to spend with you when the rush hour got too much to bear and he couldn't bring himself to lift an arm when he came back home to you.

When was the last time he properly touched you, took his time to memorize all the little ridges and beauty spots across your body, he couldn't remember.

So as you spoke, listing out all the reasons why he should be proud of himself for all the accomplishments, Carmen's arm curled around your waist and his fingers found your thighs again, the warmth of his palm seeping through the material of your leggings and from the way they teased upwards, you knew where this was going. "... that you managed to turn— are you not listening?"

His smile was so smug that you wanted to either kiss, or slap him. "Not really. But go on."

"Carmy, if you actually think that I'll do anything non-churchy with you here while everyone's literally twenty feet away, you're so wrong." you breathed out, because that's all you could do when his lips ghosted over the side of yours, before trailing down to where your jawline met your neck. He only hummed as a reply, clearly not giving a shit about your opinion either at that moment— but to say that you weren't enjoying the attention would be a blatant lie.

His fingertips traced the seams outlining your underwear through the extra layer of fabric while his lips latched to your neck, finally, with his warm breath hitting against the sensitive skin and the usual wet nature of his kisses leaving behind a glistening spot of adoration. You leaned into it, rather shamelessly— legs parting and fingers carding through the locks on the nape of his neck, and that only encouraged him further, causing him to whisper out a curse and a few sloppy words of praise. "Just let me, hm? Please?"

The sense of desperation in his tone was enough to push back any words of disagreement that you could blurt out at that moment. You knew you had to power through, it would be so embarrassing and disrespectful to let him have his way with you right here, while everyone else was still at the FOH— but the way his palm covered your clothed core and his fingertips teased the slight outline of your slit, all while his pretty lips were oh so busy whispering absolute filth in your ear was slowly taking away all the care you had in the world. "Carm— not a good idea."

"You weren't saying that last week, right here," two weeks ago, to be exact, but you couldn't blame him for not being able to tell time apart. "Had to cover your mouth and all, s'loud for me—"

"You're getting carried away." you chuckled, the deepest of breaths still not enough for the capacity of your lungs as you tugged on his locks slightly, prying him off of your skin just so you could get a look at him.

"Let me carry you away with me. Please, fuck— I can't think of anything else when you're on my mind." he pulled away a little from your neck, eyes of pristine skies staring right at your soul with the expression of a kicked puppy— he knew exactly how to get his way when he was miserable like that. His fingers were still against your heat, expecting permission. "Ten minutes only, just let me touch you."

You could recognize that tone, that incurability way too well— it was often reserved for nights shared between hushed whispers of promises, where he was too needy to form a single thought and all he could do was to cover your body with his and curl onto you, to feel your warmth against himself and to be one body and one soul for an hour. Uncommon in nature, even rarer to take place in a room that he reserved for professional affairs only— but the heart wants what it wants.

To his surprise, you suddenly pushed your lips against his— letting his fever take over you as well, with your hands clutching onto his shoulders and hair. You could hear the slight groan escaping his lips when his fingers breached under the tight waistband of your leggings, pushing the material down slightly with the bend of his wrist before turning his hand a little to tug it all downwards, urging you up on your feet. You got up from where you were seated, now standing between his legs with your back bent just so your lips would be on his, but he broke the kiss with a smile that took over when he finally pulled down both articles of clothing at the same time. Your back straightened when he managed to push them both down to your ankles, your hands on his shoulders to help with your balance as you stepped out of them, feeling his moist lips over your abdomen for a second before he pushed you backwards slightly, towards the desk.

He took that momentary advantage to get up on his feet and pin you right in between his own body and the desk, hands blindly pushing the loose folders to the side. You felt too exposed when his palms gripped the underside of your thighs just to prop you up on the desk, lips finding and panting against yours, a clear indication of his need seeping through the way he tugged and nibbled before his tongue found its way to caress yours.

There was nothing nice about it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care— not when he whispered your name against the plush of your lips so sweetly when your fist closed around his hair, not when he didn't even know what to do with his hands; grabbing, fondling at every inch of your skin that he could reach shakily. He pulled you flush against his body, letting you get a feel of the harsh dark denim against your bare center and you had to bite into his lower lip to stay quiet, ultimately earning a groan from him when his hands slipped under your shirt.

"Bear," you whispered out, his lips chasing yours when you pulled away to speak— which made you chuckle quietly, as he looked at you again. "Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," he parroted, the usually wide eyes of his now hooded, pupils blown out as if he was looking right at the sun. When you reached in to kiss him again, you couldn't catch him fast enough— he was already holding onto your thighs to crouch down, looking up at you with a Cheshire grin when you spread your legs a little further apart, a force of habit.

Leaning back on your palms against the desk as much as the cramped space could allow, you took a deep breath— but it wasn't enough to prepare you for what came next when his tongue trailed a bold line across your slit, spreading your folds apart gently. It was a pleasant routine, one that you never quite got used to; because when he was down on his knees with his tongue tracing abstract shapes across your clit in a teasing manner, it was all about you and to think that a guy who often rushed things and went through life at a 2x pace would slow down just to put all of his attention on your pleasure only was more delightful than any compliment one could attain.

Carmen's fingertips were perhaps digging into the skin of your thighs a bit too hard, but could you possibly complain? The tip of his tongue dipped between your folds to spread your essence upwards, a mix of his saliva and your wetness covering your clit when he closed his lips around it and sucked— letting out a blissed groan, one that he'd scold you for if you were the culprit. You could only imagine how hard he must've been at that moment, he was always a sucker for situations like this, with the thrill of doing something so forbidden, right where he could be caught and your taste on his tongue, thighs on either side of his shoulders.

Imagining it didn't help your situation at all, it was hard to focus on one coherent thought when he kept flicking his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves but you forced through— with the thought of the blunt tip of his length all flushed and leaking in your palm, curses leaving his soft lips whenever your fingers got a bit too tight around the girth. He liked it when you put your focus there, tip of your tongue tracing the slit and leaving kisses over it while the rest of your palm jerked him off— firm and slow.

And you'd always let your lips stray when he got close, deciding to suddenly bite into the skin of his inner thighs or to lightly trace his perineum with your tongue, just to have him reduced to a writhing, whining mess with not enough air to survive in his lungs. He'd spill onto your fingers and you'd clean him up right away, moving your way upwards with wet little kisses until you reached his lips. And he was one dirty fucker because tasting himself on you when you kissed him all sloppily was probably one of his favorite things in the world.

Drowned out in all the thoughts, you didn't notice how close you were until your thighs were shaking around his shoulders, and he finally added his fingers into the mix then— his middle and ring fingers easily breaching through, grazing all of your sensitive spots from the inside. You had to press your palm against your mouth to not let a sound then, when your climax finally hit you, and you'd probably slide right off the table with how quaky your whole body was at that moment if it wasn't for Carmen's strong grip on your body, holding you right where you belong.

The position was a bit merciless on his legs so far but he made it up to his feet again, giving you a light peck on your lips before his fingers found his mouth, his tongue circling the digits to clean them up as he stared right at you, into your soul. He pulled them out with a slight pop, and licked his lips clean. "How long did we take?"

"I don't know," you panted out. "I was busy imagining the way you come."

His light laughter brought a tender, yet bittersweet ache to your heart. "Fuck, you get off to that?" and you could tell him all about just how beautiful he was, and how much it turned you on to see him blissed out in pleasure— but you didn't know if your lung capacity allowed for it at that moment, as being quiet came with the benefit of holding your breath for longer than you should. "Tell me more."

You giggled against his lips when he braced himself on the desk with his two hands holding onto the edge on both sides of your thighs. Both of your hands moved down to the front of his pants, too fucked out to care about timing as you palmed him through the material just to see that grin on his lips falter. "I'm gonna make you jack off and watch sometime." you mumbled, slowly pulling the zipper down after setting him free from the belt and the button. He hummed, forehead to forehead, before reaching for another little peck.

"As much as I don't see why I should jack off while you're in front of me," he spoke, a sharp intake of breath cutting his line of thought halfway through when your fingers finally wrapped around his cock. "but— shit, if you're into that… Only if you do it w'me, though. I wanna watch too."

"You don't get to watch." you sighed, bringing him closer with your legs to line his length up with your entrance. "You're just gonna sit there and come on your hand like a loser."

Carmen couldn't help the short snort that left him. "Are you even capable of being mean to me?"

"Mm-hm, I'm very mean when I wanna be." and right after that, his tip slid right into your cavern, pulling a deep exhale from both of you when he pushed a bit deeper. His lips found yours, mostly to keep the noises at bay while his hips rolled into yours, grinding against you before retreating a little, only to push in harder this time around.

You felt so full and blessed that you didn't even have to imagine anything to get lost in the feeling.

His pants slid further downwards with each thrust until they pooled around his ankles and your thighs wrapped tighter around his body, trapping him in. His arms were so delicately wrapped around your waist that you had to hold onto him with your whole remaining power to not slide further towards the wall, but he couldn't exactly notice that when he was feeling so damn lucky, whole length wrapped in a warmth beyond his comprehension.

And again, you couldn't blame him, because neither of you managed to notice when the skin slapping against skin got a bit too loud, and your lips pulled away from his just to breathe out the filthiest little nothings, like how much you needed him to fill you right up to the brim. "Fuck, give it to me." your hips met his thrusts half-way through when you pushed yourself against him. "Carmy, come inside me, please."

"Yeah? Are you gonna take it all?" his voice sounded broken, and his fingers would surely leave imprints on your hips with how tight his grip was. "Won't let you waste a drop, baby. I won't."

Somehow, through how feral he was with the way you were begging him, the responsible side came forward and captured your lips in his again— because while his team was full of respectful people, they were also little shits who would never live it down if they heard those beautiful sounds that escaped your lips with each hit of his blunt head against your sweet spot. The thought somehow egged him on further— he couldn't exactly decide if he was too possessive to let anyone hear or if he was possessive enough to make sure everyone knew he belonged to you, but at that moment, both of those thoughts turned him on too much, enough for him to feel his high approaching. And judging by the way your walls cramped down on him tighter with each passing second, you weren't too far behind.

You could feel yourself gushing around him, coating both of you in your essence beyond simple cleaning, but that was a matter to worry about later, not when the love of your life was balls-deep inside of you, his rough grunts right against your ear when he reached to press his lips right below it. "Close?" he mumbled, and even though your mind was too busy to hear and comprehend him properly, you nodded— feeling his arms wrapping around you tighter, pulling you closer to the warmth his body provided. And while as much as you'd like to keep this going for longer, witnessing his pace falter and voice break as he moaned out your name, filling you up in the most delicious way slowly was enough to have your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure, and to have the knot finally snap.

Your whole body was buzzing, shaky even when he held you so tight against his chest as if you'd vanish right there and then— something that he always did after sex, no matter the circumstance. You giggled wearily against his shoulder, leaving a few kisses here and there before he pulled away slightly to pull you into a kiss— nothing like the ones you shared in the past minutes, this one was all sweet and loving. "Might drip if I pull out."

"You can't stay there forever, Carm."

"Oh, but I want to." he huffed out but still moved to slowly pull out of you anyway, having you both hiss in sensitivity and just like he thought, his come was ready to spill all over the place. Quick-thinker in nature, he caught his seed with his fingers right before they could go further, pushing them back into you just to hear you gasp— and slap his shoulder playfully.

"You're a fucking freak."

"Shut up— round two at my place? Kinda wanna see where that watching me jerk off fantasy of yours might lead us."

a/n: once again i could be easily manipulated into breaking into your house with a part two, who knows

also @carmensberzattos consider this a marriage proposal

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 6

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: Even though you have finally begun to translate Elizabeth's diary, you still need context. A visit from the archivist answers some questions but raises even more.

Word count: 4.6k

A/N: Helloooooo! Thank you all again for your extraordinary patience in the long wait for this chapter. It isn't the most eventful (nor am I the proudest of it) but things are definitely happening, and I think you all will enjoy where it's going!

P.s., the identity of the archivist was inspired by the lovely @writingjourney <3

Warnings: Nihil being a bad dad (again), descriptions of anxiety/panic, descriptions of afab people being seen as objects

AO3 / Chapter 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Secondo thinks that abdicating the position of Papa might be the best thing to ever happen to him. 

That’s not to say he disliked being Papa. Quite the opposite, really—holding the scepter, wearing the crown, and hearing the title were all a generous ego boost. But the aspect he loved the most was that he could promote the tenets of the Lord Below how he wanted, how he felt was most effective. He was the mouthpiece of Satan, the proprietor of His word and the bridge between his unholy flock and the fires of Hell. 

But that’s about it. He loved the glory, sure. He did not like the man that the Ministry molded him into. Once he stepped down, it was hard to look himself in the eye without cringing. He was supposed to hold the power for Satan, not the Clergy, and certainly not for Sister Imperator. 

Just about the only thing he has to thank that woman for is the time he’s gotten back after “stepping down.”

Secondo has always been interested in the archives, ever since he was a boy. He would sneak around the Abbey in Rome into places he shouldn’t have been and see things he probably shouldn’t have seen, and keep everything he saw to himself. Having the knowledge of secrets he wasn’t supposed to know made him feel important, like he held some power over the Clergy if he decided to open his mouth. 

So when he'd stumbled upon a dim room towards the back of the library at the tender age of eight, he thought he’d found the Library of Alexandria. Wall-to-wall shelves of thick leather bound books, stacks of tightly-rolled parchment and linens depicting unholy scenes. An old wooden table holding a desk lamp and a magnifying glass. A single lone lamp that, when he’d pulled the chain to illuminate it, had emanated a click so loud that he thought he’d be caught for sure. 

He’d been so disappointed when he realized he couldn’t understand any of the books or scrolls or linens. They were all written in a language unfamiliar, which he knows now to be Latin. But at eight years old, his primary focus was to learn the unholy scripture, to serve Satan in his duties as an altar boy, and to make his father proud. 

That last point… he never did accomplish. 

But he did eventually learn Latin, so that he could read what was in that dim room. He’d learned to shimmy the lock open (the Roman Abbey is ancient, it wasn’t a difficult task) and sneak in, absorbing as much information as he could. 

Secondo learned about rituals that haven’t been done in centuries. He read prayers and psalms that had been forgotten with time. He found drawings of long lost artifacts and relics shrouded in mystery. Each new bit of knowledge gave him that rush of adrenaline that could only come from forbidden things. 

When he was old enough, he was allowed into the archive room. Of course, no one had known he’d already spent countless hours there. His father wanted him to know his family history if he were to take up the helm of Papa one day. You need to know what is in your blood, his father had said. Just as Primo does, and just as Terzo will. 

Secondo had wanted to ask, what about Copia? But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want his archive privileges revoked as soon as he’d gotten them. 

The first thing he’d done was find his family tree. Who came before him? Who was Papa before his father, and before his father’s father? How far back did the Emeritus bloodline really go?

It was in the family tome that he first discovered the words Primus Motor. Up until a specific time, every Emeritus heir had been conceived by a woman with the title Prime Mover. Then the women proceeding them had lost that title, with seemingly no pomp or circumstance. Nearly a thousand years ago, the title had been dropped and forgotten. The final Prime Mover, it seems, had been a woman named Elizabeth. 

When her diary had been found in some random basement room of the Abbey, Secondo immediately requested to be the archivist in charge. She was his ancestor, and the last Prime Mover on record. Her diary must have an explanation, or some insight as to what exactly a Prime Mover is. There were Prime Mover rituals outlined in those books he’d found as a boy, sure. But none ever explained what the significance was beyond “the chosen maternal body.” It all sounded rather dehumanizing.

But Sister Imperator had told him to keep that fact a secret. She’d brought in a translator to decipher the diary without telling her the whole story. So, he wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that you’d requested to speak to him, or that when he finds you in the restricted room, you look like a deer caught in headlights.

“Papa,” you say, standing to greet him formally. You bow your head out of respect and give him your name. “I can be out of your way, if you need—” 

Secondo simply puts a hand up to stop you. “No, sorella. I am here to speak to you about the diary, as you requested.” 

Your eyes go so wide that he almost laughs. “Wh-what?” You swallow. “Forgive me, Papa, I didn’t know that you are the archivist who evaluated Elizabeth’s diary…” 

“Is that going to be a problem?” Secondo asks. 

“No! No,” you scramble, shaking your head slightly to align your own thoughts. His intense gaze pins you to the spot, and not in a good way. Not a bad way, either, but… not in the way Copia’s gaze does. 

Determined not to make a fool of yourself, you steel your nerves. “It’s not a problem, Papa. I apologize. I have only… the highest member of the Clergy I have ever met until I arrived here was Bishop Beaumont. I still find myself a bit overwhelmed, sometimes.” 

The corners of Secondo’s painted lips tick up at your admission, but he makes no mention of it. “No matter. What is it you wished to discuss?” 

You sit and turn your notebook around so Secondo can read the translation of the first line. Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover. 

“I was wondering,” you begin, “if you might be able to tell me what a Prime Mover is.” 

After reading the translated line, Secondo leans back. “I do not know much,” he answers gruffly. “But I do know that it was an esteemed position. Something to do with continuing the bloodline. However the title of Prime Mover is no longer used.” 

“How come?” You ask. 

“I do not know.” 

You hum and look down at Elizabeth’s diary, like it might speak the answer to you itself. Something to do with continuing the bloodline? “Sister Imperator told me that you estimated this diary to be about five hundred years old,” you say. “Is there a reason you chose that number?”

At Secondo’s silence, you meet his eyes again to find that his brows are furrowed and his jaw is set. His lips form a tight line, deepening the clefts beside his mouth. “I only ask because it may help with context,” you offer, defending your question. Your chest flutters with nerves again. You hope you haven’t somehow angered him… he’s quite intimidating. 

Secondo’s mind turns. Sister Imperator hadn’t told you that he was the archivist, and she’d told you a different number than the one he’d estimated. She asked him to keep Elizabeth’s status as the last Prime Mover a secret. It seems odd, like she knows something that she wants neither you nor Secondo to. He finds himself annoyed that Sister wants to keep something shrouded in such unnecessary mystery. 

“Sister Imperator has given you the wrong number,” he says after a moment of tense silence. “I believe it is nearly a thousand years old.” 

“A thousand?” You gape. For a volume that’s a millennium old, it’s in remarkably good shape. You’d thought the same when you believed it was just five hundred years old. 

Secondo nods. Whatever reasons that Sister Imperator has for wanting to keep the diary a secret, he doesn’t know. But if he can do anything to learn about his family and its history, or if he can spite Sister… he’ll take that chance. “Elizabeth is the last Prime Mover on record. I do not know why the title was dropped, and I do not know why it is supposed to be such a secret.” 

Oh. Yes, you understand. Papa must have his reasons for disliking Sister, and you have your own. If you can contravene her in this small way, a secret kept between an archivist and a translator, you will. You’re slightly ashamed that the thought makes you a little giddy, but not ashamed enough to not do it. 

“So,” you guess, “you’re hoping that this diary answers that?” 

“Correct,” Papa nods again, and stands. “I ask that you keep me informed, sorella.” 

“Of course, Papa,” you say with a polite smile. 

He leaves the restricted room and you’re left alone with Elizabeth again. Only this time, there is a new clarity between you and your subject. Your gaze drops down to the pages of jumbled letters, wondering. 

Papa Secondo had said that the position of Prime Mover was esteemed. If it had been, why was it dissolved? Perhaps it wasn’t dissolved at all, and it was only forgotten? And… the position is related to the Papal bloodline, so surely these Prime Movers would have been the mothers, right? 

The answers lie in front of you, waiting to be translated. Elizabeth herself beckons you with her slanted script, saying, read me. Hear what I have to say. 

And how you want to focus. How you want to spend the next weeks painstakingly deciphering letter by letter, word by word until you find these answers which will sate your curiosity. But, damn it to Hell, all you want to do is find Copia and tell him what you’ve found out. You want to tell him that you’re still here, that Sister Imperator had agreed to let you stay after your dramatic, last-minute discovery. You want to ask him all sorts of questions about what he might know of Prime Movers or his ancestors. You want to watch the excitement bloom in his eyes as it always does when you speak about the diary. 

You have your reservations, though. Going to Copia on anything other than Ministry business feels like you’re overstepping your position. Who are you to assume that you’re important enough to him to just pop in? 

In those moments in the gardens, and in the chapel, though… it sure felt like you were. He had looked at you like you were. In the gardens he was Copia, and you find within yourself that you’d rather be sent back to Liège than see Copia as only Papa again. 

~~~ 

It’s been two days since Copia has seen you. Two full days since he’d watched you half-waddle down the Sibling corridor, soaking wet and shivering and covered in mud from the knees down, and he can’t focus on anything whatsoever. 

There’s some official bulletin or another on his desk, awaiting his signature to distribute it out to the rest of the Ministry, but he can’t bring himself to pick up his pen and sign it. Not for a lack of caring—the bulletin is actually quite important—but because he’s conjured up this beautiful picture of you in his head, and he’s afraid that if he moves he’ll lose it. 

You must be busy. You’d told him you had an idea about the cipher on your way up the hill out of the gardens, and if he hasn’t so much as gotten a glimpse of you around the Abbey, it must have been a breakthrough. He knows how frustrated you’d been, how determined you were to figure it out, as you’d said. I want to stay and figure it out. 

Another part of Copia’s mind, the part he doesn’t want to listen to but that is so very loud, tells him that perhaps your idea had been wrong, and Sister Imperator had sent you home. Maybe the reason he hasn’t seen you is because you’re not even here anymore. 

So, he keeps still, his eyes unseeing as he stares into nothing but his own mental image of you. If you’re really gone, at least he has this. You might not be gone, but he’s almost scared to go looking for you because he might find that you are. As it stands, you are Schrödinger's Sister of Sin. Here, and not. 

His, and not. 

“Al diavolo questo,” Copia grumbles to himself, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds his desk, sending a few loose papers (including the bulletin he’s supposed to sign by the end of the day) to the floor, and swings open the door to his office. He turns left, towards the library. If there’s a chance he can see you, rather than his limited mental image of you, he’d be foolish not to take it. 

His footsteps are determined, bringing him quickly down the stairs to the main artery of the Abbey, and across the wide hall towards the entrance to the library. His breath picks up and his heart pounds in his ears like he’s sprinting. By the end of this agonizing trek to the restricted room, he just might be. 

He takes the stairs to the right of the library entrance two at a time. Usually he would smile and wave to whichever Sibling is working the front desk, but not today. The guilt he feels is quickly squashed by the pressing need to either see you or not see you. It feels like it’s eating him up, not knowing. 

Copia has tried to be patient and give you time, if you are still here. He knows that what happened between the two of you in the chapel was a lot, all at once, and even if nothing had been said explicitly, you must know. You must. 

For a moment, when he reaches the top of the stairs, he wonders why it is that he feels so strongly for you, so quickly. It’s as if Satan himself deposited you on his doorstep, just for him. As if Satan had kept him from sleeping that night, so that you could run right into him outside the restricted room door. 

He rounds the corner to walk further into the library, into the shelves of romance books (which, he admits, is rather serendipitous placement). His heart thuds against his sternum when he sees the little square window in the door illuminated. Who else would be in that room with the door closed but you? Who else would have any reason to spend more than five minutes in there, aside from you, or Secondo?

Copia loves his brother. He really does. But he hopes to Lucifer that it isn’t Secondo behind that door, or he might punch him simply for the fact that he’s not you. 

He reaches the door, and pauses. His hand rests on the brass doorknob, but doesn’t turn, because what if you are gone? 

No, no. You aren’t gone. You can’t be gone. 

He turns the handle and pushes the door open on squeaky hinges. There you are, sitting at the desk you always do, head tilted up to see who is at the door. Your brows are slightly raised, your shoulders are hunched—you must be tense from sitting over your work all day—and your finger is placed against that grid of letters as if you had been in the middle of decoding a word when he walked in. The light of the desk lamp attached to your station casts your skin in a warm glow. 

If he thought his heart would calm when he saw that you’re still at the Abbey, he was mistaken. Just the sight of you here, that slight hint of heat in your face illuminated so plainly by the desk lamp has his chest vibrating with relief. At least his mind quiets, the tempest of thoughts and questions finally calming after a long, sleepless two days. 

“Papa?” You ask, after a long moment. You sit up a bit straighter and tilt your head. The slight crease between your brows returns, and Copia wishes he could kiss it smooth again. “Are you alright?”

Your voice seems to break Copia out of whatever reverie he’s stuck in, because he finally blinks and his jaw closes. “I— eh, yes, I’m alright.” 

You slowly stand from your desk and round it, but keep a respectable distance between you and Copia. “You don’t seem alright,” you say. “Copia… what’s wrong?” 

It feels like a weight off his shoulders to hear you call him by his name. With you, he’s not Papa. He doesn’t want to be Papa, not to you, not when you’re looking at him like that. “I thought you might have been gone,” Copia breathes, his voice just above a whisper. “I thought she might have sent you back.” 

“She didn’t.” 

“Good, that’s… good.”

You and Copia stare at one another for another moment. The air is thick with something unspoken. 

“I figured it out,” you say. Then you add, “the diary,” because you both know that there are two things you had to figure out. The diary, and… this. 

You’re still working on whatever this is, and Copia is still staring at you. 

“Copia,” you say with an awkward little smile, “why are you staring at me?” 

His own lips curve into a smile. “Sorry, cara mia. I’m just happy you’re not gone.” 

“Me, too.” 

“So, eh… what is it that you figured out?” Copia asks, blinking a few times in rapid succession. His heart still hammers in his ears. 

You round your desk again to turn your notebook over and show him. “She’s clever. Every word requires a new key, which is why we could only decipher one word using her name,” you explain. “Every decoded word is the key to the next one.”

Copia leans over to read the notebook. You have it flipped open to the complete translation of the first line, and his eyes scan the sentence a few times. “Prime Mover?” he asks, looking back up at you. 

“I don’t know, either,” you tell him. 

He hums in response, his gaze falling back towards the diary and your notebook. 

“When were you going to tell me that your brother is the archivist, you ass?” 

Copia’s head whips back up, afraid that you’d be actually angry at him. His mouth opens, prepared to defend himself because how would he know that you were planning on speaking to his brother? But he sees your wry grin, and the protest dies on his lips. Instead, he releases an airy laugh and his shoulders drop. “Ah, yes… I suppose I should have mentioned that.”

“Sweet Satan, I made myself look like a fool,” you laugh. “I’m not used to Papas and Cardinals walking around yet. Every time I see one I nearly fall over.” 

“You don’t seem so intimidated by me,” Copia says, half relieved and half worried. “What, am I not as scary as Secondo?” 

“Not nearly as scary, no! He could stare someone to death,” you say through a chuckle. “That, and when you and I first met, you were wearing sweatpants and rat slippers.” 

Copia smiles fondly, though you don’t catch it. “So you’re not starstruck by me, tesoro? I’m hurt.” 

“At first I was!” you defend yourself. “But somewhere after that I guess I just… forgot.” 

“Forgot to be starstruck?” 

“Forgot that you are Papa.” 

Oh. Oh, Copia could kiss you, you sweet thing. He doesn’t ever want to go this long without seeing you again. It’s all he can do to stop himself from walking over to you and sweeping you up in his arms and kissing you silly. His hands itch to hold you but you aren’t ready for that yet. So he says instead, “I don’t want to be Papa with you.”

Your heart rises to your throat. “You don’t?” 

“No,” Copia says softly. “I don’t.” 

You have to fight off the smile threatening to stretch your lips. You don’t want him to be Papa with you either, but you don’t know what you do want him to be to you. 

You do know that you want him to kiss you. You do know that the thought of leaving the Abbey without resolving whatever this is made your heart ache, but that talking about whatever this is would make it real and that terrifies you. You do know that falling in love with him means you have something to lose. It’s not quite that, not yet, but… it could be. 

Copia can see your mind working itself in circles. He knows that you’ll talk yourself out of it—whatever it is—if he doesn’t intervene. “Tesoro,” he calls to you, pulling your focus back out from inside your head. When he’s certain you can see him and not just through him, he takes a slow step forward and gently reaches for your hand. The white linen of your gloves, worn while you handle the diary, is a stark contrast to the black leather of his. It slips against his glove and settles into his palm like your hands were crafted for him to hold. Sathanas, your hands are perfect. You are perfect. “Please… tell me you know. Tell me you feel it.” 

Your eyes are wide when they meet his own. “I know,” you whisper. Your voice is shaky with the weight of speaking your feelings, making them real. “And I don’t.” 

His thumb rubs circles on your knuckles. “Cara… you know. You must.” 

“I…” you swallow dryly. “I do, but it’s… it’s scary, Copia. It’s happening and I have no control over it and…” 

“And?” Copia whispers. He takes your other hand, stepping just close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheeks. 

“And I will have to leave,” you respond. Your eyes burn with unshed tears that you desperately try to blink away. “As soon as the diary is done, I will have to go back.” 

Copia looks at you for a silent moment. His eyes search your face, noticing all the details he hadn’t noticed before. This is the closest he’s ever been to you. A tear rolls down your cheek and he reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, but doesn’t return his hand to his side. It cradles your face like you’re something precious, and to him, you are. 

He gently tugs you closer and wraps his arms around you, holding you against him. You tuck your head under his chin, savoring the smell of him, the comfort of his embrace and the warmth of his body through his suit. “It will be alright, carissima mia.” 

You shut your eyes and two fat tears escape as you do. Your body shudders with a repressed sob. 

Copia simply holds you closer, fighting back tears of his own. 

He’d nearly forgotten. Of course you would have to leave again, once your project was done. Just because you’re here now, doesn’t mean you will always be here. 

Maybe there are ways to have you stay. Maybe if he asked Sister Imperator, she would find a place for you here, doing translation as your sole duty. But can he keep you away from your home, when it’s so obvious how fond you are of it? How could he ask you to stay, knowing you would miss Marseille the whole time? 

Copia squeezes you tighter. “Will you do something for me?” He asks so, so softly. One of his hands strokes the back of your head, drawing you closer into his embrace. “Come and work in my office with me, yes? Just for a little while. Or a day or two, maybe. I hate that you’re all alone up here.”

“I can do that,” you say, and draw away from him slightly so you can look at him. You’re sure you must look a mess with your eyes puffy and nose running. But standing this close to him, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it grounds you to the world, you can’t bring yourself to care. “But I need permission from Papa or Sister Imperator to remove the diary from this room.”

Copia smiles. “Well, I have good news, then,” he says with a quirk of his brow. “There’s a Papa right here. Perhaps you should ask him?”

“Right, yes, I forgot,” you laugh. “Papa, do I have your permission to take Elizabeth’s diary out of the restricted room?” 

Copia laughs back and his breath is warm on your cheek. “Yes, tesoro, you have my permission. Only if you bring it straight to my office.” 

“Of course, Papa,” you nod, smiling. 

“Bene! Let me help you with your things.” 

Copia steps away and releases you from his grasp to help you gather your materials. For a brief moment you’re disappointed, but your cheeks warm at the thought that maybe he might hold you again in the safety and comfort of his office. Maybe you might gather the courage to allow yourself to feel the feelings you’re desperately trying to suppress, and maybe he might feel them back. 

But, you chuckle at his charming urgency to help you. You work on wrapping Elizabeth’s diary in its linens, and placing it in a wooden box you retrieve from a small shelf in the corner of the room. You still wear your white gloves. 

“Shall we?” Copia gestures to the open door once you’re both done preparing to leave. His eyes shine with mirth and something you might think was affection if you weren’t doubtful to a fault. 

“We shall,” you reply. He lets you slip past him and out the door, then falls into step beside you as you make your way down the curved staircase. 

~~~

March 27

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover. 

Mother said it is a gift from Satan to be chosen. I am to conceive the next Papa, and continue the bloodline with the blessing of the Olde One. 

Truthfully, I am frightened. Mother said that it is now my only duty. She said it is an extreme privilege to be a Prime Mover and to carry the blood of Emeritus inside me. But I did not get a say. I was chosen, and that was the end. Papa did not even tell me himself, it was Mother. She said it is better to hear the good news from the mouth of the fairer sex, from the woman who did her duty as I must. 

Fairer sex. I must laugh at that. Fairer sex, and yet I must be a vessel for Emeritus blood at the whim of Satan. Fairer sex because I am beautiful but better to be seen and not heard. And yet I am expected to carry and birth the most powerful man in the Ministry, a power that no one else has. To ‘fairer sex’ I bite my thumb. 

There is to be a ritual tomorrow night, to solidify my role as Papa’s Prime Mover. I am horrified. Mother said that a woman can only hope to be so lucky as to be Prime Mover. Must I pray to be a bred heifer? What of me? What of my own wishes? 

I believed the Dark Lord to be wiser than this. I believed he would not ordain any sex to be lesser than the other. I believed in his doctrine of free choice, of fairness and civility, after having been cast down for disobeying. My faith wavers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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