#ITS SUPPOSED TO BE CONFUSING AND HARD TO GRASP

[gaypiratesandangels]

the straights really don't understand Asteroid City

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

Tintin Tarot, part 2 - the Fool's Journey Continues. Part 1 can be found here! Me and @josephscoat came up with a list of Tintin characters assigned to the major arcana cards in a tarot deck after she realised how well Tintin mapped onto the Fool.

The Hanged Man - Sacrifice, martydom and hesitation. Frank Wolff's death in Explorers on the Moon really stuck with me. I watched the 90s cartoon adaptation of it with a friend recently and even though I knew what was going to happen, it still hit very hard. I replaced the living tree, which represents the potential for growth and knowledge on the original card, with the planet Earth.

Death - New beginnings, metamorphosis, fear of change and decay. Even just for the imagery I had to use Rascar Capac. His use in the narrative seems to demonstrate a fear of the unknown. As the Hierophant and the child from the Sun card appear on the original Death card, I opted to use Rascar Capac as he's in the same story as the Prince of the Sun and Zorrino, who we assigned to the Hierophant and the Sun respectively! Professor Tarragon replaces the dying person on the ground in the original card, and Inti the Incan sun god watches over the scene.

Temperance - Middle path, patience, finding meaning, but also could mean excess and a lack of balance when reversed. Haddock is famous for his tendency to fly off the handle at a moment's notice. But Haddock also has endless patience for Tintin's bullshit. His character arc is one of finding meaning in his life after hitting rock bottom. He is pouring bottles of Loch Lomond, as seen in the Magician card.

The Devil - Addiction, lust, materialism, playfulness. Who else is more devillish than Tintin's arch nemesis, Rastapopoulos? His schemes grow wilder and larger as he pursues wealth and revenge. While sexuality is famously absent from the Tintin series, Rastapopoulos and his associates certainly lust over money and control. Tom and Allan are held in chains, though they are clearly removeable. The choice is theirs if they wish to walk away.

The Tower - Sudden upheaval, disaster, but also an avoidance of disaster in reverse. Calculus' reusable nuclear powered moon rocket was literally ahead of its time, representing a huge shake up in technological advancement in the Tintin universe. However, the moon mission attracted a lot of sabotage and disaster which was narrowly avoided. While the characters had to rely on the rocket for safety, it's not necessarily predictable.

The Star - Hope and rejuvenation, but also discouragement and insecurity in reverse. The phostile meteorite ushered a global wave of panic and speculation initially, but once it landed it became a beacon for competing factions to get to in time. It has a property that allows living things to grow quickly and abnormally large, representing the abundance the Star card is supposed to signal. The Star is supposed to follow the trauma of the Tower. Picking the rocket and meteorite felt thematically appropriate as both have associations with space, a relatively new frontier.

The Moon - Illusions, intuition, fear, confusion, misinterpretation. Professor Phostle jumps to conclusions and makes wild predictions from shaky calculations. He's also conveniently moon shaped.

The Sun - Inner child, joy, truth and liberation from struggle, or sadness and self doubt in reverse. Zorrino escapes the torment and bullying in his village and joins the Inca. Haddock and Tintin are immediately protective over him, with Zorrino being a little younger than Tintin.

Judgement - Releasing baggage, call to action, renewal, moving forward. Ramo Nash breaks free from Rastapopoulos' grasp and saves Tintin's life. I decided to depict the final confrontation scene from Alph Art where he pushes Rastapopoulos off a cliff, to his end.

The World - Culmination, success, completion, but stagnation in reverse. The Fool has seemingly completed his journey - Tintin has it all, a successful fulfilling career, friends who care about him and a manion to live in. But he is, by design, stagnant. Forever a cherub faced boy, stuck in an episodic serial by nature, Hergé wanted to kill him off by sealing him inside a resin statue, freezing him in place for eternity. He will forever be the Boy Reporter.

I dressed him as a Morris dancer because I thought it would be funny

[pucksandpower]

Inserts Himself Where?

Day 22 → Bedding Ceremony 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The room is warm, the air thick with lavender and a nervous sort of energy that seems to cling to the walls. Your maids bustle about, fingers trailing over the lace of your gown, smoothing the fabric, tugging it tighter in places.

You can feel the weight of their glances, the words they’re holding back. There’s something they want to say, something that’s been dancing in the air all morning but hasn’t quite landed.

“Hold still, milady,” Jeanne says, her tone gentle, though there's an edge of anticipation to it. She pulls a comb through your hair, carefully teasing the strands into place.

You feel the weight of the occasion pressing down on you. You’ve been preparing for this day for months, and yet, something about it feels … off. There’s a knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel.

A maid at your feet tightens the laces on your shoes, while another adjusts the pearls around your neck. Everyone is fussing over every small detail, yet they keep exchanging looks — nervous, knowing looks — that you can’t ignore much longer.

“What is it?” You finally ask, your voice breaking the silence. You glance at Jeanne, who’s avoiding your eyes, concentrating far too hard on an already perfect braid. “You’re all acting strange.”

Jeanne freezes for just a moment, the comb pausing mid-stroke. You see her exchange another glance with Marguerite, the older of your maids, who’s standing near the door, hands clasped in front of her apron. Marguerite clears her throat, steps forward, and it’s as if the entire room collectively holds its breath.

“There is … something we need to talk to you about,” Marguerite says, her voice careful, deliberate. You can sense her choosing each word like it’s something fragile, like she’s afraid it might break in her mouth. “About tonight.”

“Tonight?” You echo, confused. You already know about the feast, about the dancing and the endless stream of congratulations. It’s all been drilled into your head by your mother and your tutors. What else could there be?

Jeanne places the comb down, smoothing her hands over your shoulders, her touch soft but tense. “It’s about what happens after the wedding,” she says quietly. “After the ceremony … with Prince Charles.”

There’s a flicker of recognition somewhere deep inside you, a faint memory of hushed conversations you weren’t meant to overhear. You feel your heartbeat quicken, but you don’t understand why.

“What happens after?” You ask, genuinely lost.

The room falls into a silence that’s almost unbearable. Jeanne’s fingers tighten on your shoulder for a moment before she steps back, leaving Marguerite to speak.

Marguerite lets out a small sigh, one that seems to carry the weight of the world. “After the feast, after the guests have left … there’s the bedding ceremony,” she explains. Her words are slow, careful, as if she’s trying not to startle you. “It’s tradition. You and the prince will be led to your chambers to … consummate the marriage.”

You blink, consummate ringing in your ears. You’ve heard the term before, but only in passing, never with any real explanation attached to it. It’s something that’s been whispered about, something the older women in the court would smirk at when they thought you weren’t listening. You swallow, suddenly feeling like you’re on the edge of understanding something much larger than you’re ready for.

“And what does that mean exactly?” You ask, your voice quieter now. You know you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Marguerite glances at Jeanne, who looks like she would rather be anywhere else right now. Finally, Marguerite steps closer to you, lowering her voice as if that will somehow soften the blow. “It means that the prince will … well, he will lay with you.”

“Lay with me?” You repeat, still not grasping it fully.

Jeanne steps in again, her face a mixture of embarrassment and determination. “He will … be with you. As a husband is with his wife,” she tries, but it’s clear the words are slipping away from her.

You blink at them, frustration growing. “What does that mean?” You ask, more sharply than you intended.

Jeanne sighs, glancing at Marguerite as if pleading for help. Marguerite nods once, the movement almost imperceptible, before taking another small step toward you.

“Y/N,” Marguerite starts, and the use of your name makes you sit up a little straighter. “When a man and a woman are married, they … share a bed. And during that time, the man … inserts himself.”

The words hang in the air like a bad joke.

“Inserts himself?” You repeat, confusion evident in your voice. “Inserts himself where?”

Jeanne coughs, and Marguerite turns a shade of red you didn’t think possible.

“In you, milady,” Jeanne finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

It takes a moment for the meaning to settle in. And even then, it feels slippery, like something you’re not entirely ready to catch hold of. You stare at them both, waiting for them to laugh, to tell you it’s all some strange misunderstanding. But they don’t. They just stand there, looking at you with a mixture of pity and something else — concern, maybe?

Your heart is thumping loudly in your chest now, your hands clutching the arms of your chair. “That’s what’s going to happen?” You whisper, more to yourself than to them.

Marguerite nods slowly. “Yes, milady. It is … part of your duties as a wife.”

The word duties feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides. You’ve heard it a hundred times — duty to your family, to your country, to your future husband. But this? This is something else entirely.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” You ask, your voice small, almost breaking.

Jeanne steps forward, crouching down so she’s eye level with you. “We didn’t want to frighten you, milady,” she says softly. “But now … now you must be prepared.”

Prepared. The word feels hollow, like it could never be enough for whatever is coming. You stare at Jeanne, at her wide, honest eyes, and for a moment, you think about how easy it would be to just say no. To refuse. To walk away from all of it. But then you remember who you are, what’s expected of you, and that thought quickly fades.

“What if … what if I can’t?” You ask, voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady.

Jeanne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. “You can,” she says with more confidence than you feel. “Every woman goes through this. And you will, too.”

You glance at Marguerite, who nods solemnly. “It’s normal to feel this way,” she adds. “To be scared. But once it’s done … it becomes easier. You learn to live with it.”

The knot in your stomach tightens further at the thought of having to “learn to live” with something like this. You had always thought marriage would be a partnership, something beautiful. But now it seems like another duty, another burden placed upon you.

“What … what if I don’t want him to?” You ask quietly, barely audible.

Jeanne hesitates for a moment, her smile faltering. “It’s not about want, milady. It’s what must be done. For the marriage to be valid.”

You nod, though you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re suddenly floating above the room, watching yourself from a distance.

Jeanne’s hand squeezes yours again, as if trying to tether you back. “It will be all right,” she whispers, as if that could make it true.

But you’re not sure anything will be all right again after tonight.

***

The doors swing open with a creak, and the air shifts — heavy, thick with the weight of expectation. You take a step forward, your legs barely cooperating beneath the layers of your gown, and your maids gently guide you into the room. The space is dimly lit, candles flickering along the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance with the faint tremble in your chest.

A crowd lines the edges of the room, a sea of faces, each expression unreadable, their eyes fixed on you and Charles. They’re waiting. Watching. Witnessing. Your breath catches in your throat as the enormity of what’s happening presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You steal a glance at the bed — a massive, looming thing that takes up nearly half the room, its dark wooden posts adorned with silken drapes.

You can’t feel your hands anymore. Your fingers are numb as they clutch the folds of your gown, and your heart is pounding so loud in your ears that you can hardly hear anything else. The maids hover around you, their hands steady but their faces as tense as yours. Jeanne’s voice is low in your ear as she begins to untie the laces of your bodice, but the words barely register.

Your eyes drift toward Charles, standing across from you, surrounded by his own attendants. He’s calm — too calm. His posture is steady, his movements fluid as one of his men begins to undo the buttons on his doublet. His eyes meet yours for a moment, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical thing, grounding you and unsettling you all at once.

The room is suffocating, the walls closing in around you, and suddenly, your legs give a slight wobble. Jeanne catches you by the elbow, steadying you before anyone else can notice. She leans close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Breathe, milady.”

But breathing feels impossible.

The rustle of fabric fills the room as the maids continue to work, pulling at the ties of your gown, loosening it inch by inch. Your heart races faster as more of your skin is exposed, the cold air prickling against your back as they slide the heavy fabric off your shoulders. You feel the weight of every gaze in the room, the eyes of the witnesses burning into you, watching each movement, each breath.

Charles steps toward you, his attendants falling back, and in that moment, you realize that his chest is bare, his broad shoulders illuminated by the faint glow of the candlelight. He looks powerful, every inch of him radiating control, and the sight of him only makes the trembling worse.

You lower your gaze, staring at the floor, but his presence looms closer until he’s standing directly in front of you. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he watches you. Then, his hand reaches out — strong, firm — and he cups your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady.

You try to answer, but your throat feels tight, your mouth dry. Instead, you just nod, swallowing hard as his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek.

His touch is firm but not unkind, and for a brief moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. The witnesses, the maids, the ceremony itself — all of it fades into the background as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“They don’t matter,” he says, his tone calm, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He drops his hand from your face, letting it trail down your arm before resting it at your waist. “Forget them. This is about you and me.”

You blink up at him, unsure how you’re supposed to just forget the dozens of eyes burning into your skin. But there’s something in the way he speaks, the way he holds himself, that makes it sound almost possible.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, grounding you in the moment. “Look at me,” he says, and you do. His eyes are dark green, piercing, and for a moment, the noise in your head quiets, the panic subsides just enough for you to breathe.

The maids step back now, leaving you in only your shift, the thin fabric barely covering your trembling body. Your skin feels exposed, vulnerable, and the cold bites at you as the gown is carried away, leaving you standing in front of Charles in nothing but the flimsy fabric.

He nods to his attendants, and they move quickly, removing the last of his clothing. You can feel the shift in the room — the way the witnesses straighten, their attention sharpening as the final barrier between you and Charles is stripped away.

Your breath catches as you look at him. He’s … overwhelming. His body is all sharp lines and muscle, his skin bronzed by the sun, and he stands there, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. He’s everything you’re not — strong, powerful, certain. And yet, despite the fear twisting in your chest, you can’t help but be drawn to him.

Charles steps closer, his bare chest only inches from yours now, and you feel the heat radiating from his skin. He lifts a hand again, this time running his fingers lightly over your shoulder, down your arm, the touch both calming and terrifying at once.

“Look at me,” he repeats, his voice firmer now, but not unkind. His other hand comes up, cupping the side of your neck, and the warmth of his skin makes you shiver. “Focus on me. Only me.”

You nod, though your eyes flick nervously to the crowd.

“Don’t,” he says softly, but there’s an edge of command in his voice. “Pretend they’re not here. Pretend it’s just us.”

His hand moves to the ties of your shift, and you feel the world spin around you. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers work quickly, and the fabric falls away, leaving you utterly exposed. The cold air rushes over your skin, and for a moment, you think you might faint.

But then, his hands are on you — steady, firm, pulling you toward him. You gasp, but he holds you, one hand on the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair as he brings his face close to yours.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “Breathe.”

You force yourself to inhale, though the air feels thin and sharp in your lungs. His hand slides down your back, guiding you, and before you realize it, he’s leading you toward the bed, his steps slow but purposeful.

Your legs feel weak, but he keeps you upright, keeps you moving forward. The bed looms closer, and the witnesses fall away into shadows as you focus on the feel of his hands, his voice in your ear.

When you reach the edge of the bed, he turns you to face him again, his eyes searching yours. “Lie down,” he says, his voice still calm, still steady. It’s not a request — it’s an instruction, and there’s no room for hesitation.

You sink down onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and Charles stands over you, watching you with an intensity that makes your heart race. He’s so close, his body towering over yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the cold air around you.

He kneels beside you, his hands moving over your body in a way that’s both possessive and reassuring. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, and he leans down, his breath hot against your neck.

“Relax,” he whispers, though you’re not sure how that’s possible.

Your mind is a whirl of thoughts, your body trembling beneath him, but somehow, his presence — his control — anchors you. He’s dominant, powerful, every movement calculated, and though you’re terrified, there’s a strange sense of safety in his certainty.

He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the feel of him — his skin, his heat — sends a jolt through you. His lips find your collarbone, trailing soft, deliberate kisses along your skin, and his hand moves lower, his touch firm but not harsh.

“Focus on me,” he murmurs again, his lips brushing against your ear. “Only me.”

You close your eyes, willing yourself to block out the rest of the room — the witnesses, the maids, the ceremony. It’s just him. Just Charles. His hands, his voice, his body guiding you through the fear.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, his voice low, and despite everything, you believe him.

You have to.

The room feels like a furnace, despite the cool draft from the open windows. Every breath you take is shallow, every movement calculated, dictated by the presence of so many eyes around you. Charles hovers above you, his body a solid, commanding force. His hands, warm and firm, travel over your skin as if he owns it. And maybe he does — at least tonight.

He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear again, his breath hot against your skin. “They’re still here,” he whispers, and there’s a sharpness in his voice that sends a shiver down your spine. “Waiting. Watching. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your side, tracing lines that ignite something deep within you. You barely manage to whisper, “Why aren’t they leaving?”

Charles lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifts his weight, his body pressing into yours. “They’ll leave when they see what they came for,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. His fingers find the soft skin of your inner thigh, and your body tenses in response, your heart pounding in your chest.

Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the weight of what’s happening. But Charles — he’s steady, unshaken, like the eye of a storm. His hand moves with a deliberate slowness, sliding between your legs, and you gasp, your body arching involuntarily as his fingers brush against your most sensitive spot. He pauses for a moment, as if savoring the way your body reacts to his touch.

“They’re just waiting for a little blood,” he whispers against your skin, his tone mocking. “That’s all it takes to satisfy them. A few drops, and they’ll be convinced the marriage is … properly consummated.”

You try to focus, try to breathe, but the way his fingers move, the way his body presses against yours — it’s all too much. Your fingers dig into the sheets beneath you, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. Charles smirks, his lips trailing down your neck as he shifts his body, positioning himself between your legs.

“Are you ready?” He asks, his voice low, commanding.

You don’t know how to answer. Your heart is racing, your body trembling, but there’s something else beneath the fear now — something you don’t entirely understand. You nod, your throat tight, and Charles gives a satisfied hum in response.

He moves with purpose, and you feel the weight of him pressing against you. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else — the witnesses, the cold air, the fear — disappears. It’s just him, just you, and the heat that pulses between you.

“Stay with me,” he says, his voice firm but almost gentle. “Don’t think about them. Think about us.”

Then, with one powerful motion, he enters you, and the world narrows into a sharp, bright point of sensation. You gasp, your body tensing as the pain cuts through you, sudden and overwhelming. Tears sting your eyes, but before you can let them fall, Charles leans down, his lips grazing your ear.

“They’re still watching,” he murmurs, his voice dark, laced with a twisted sort of amusement. “Do you think they’re disappointed? Hoping for more drama? More blood?”

You let out a sharp, startled laugh — half from the absurdity of it, half from the overwhelming sensation of him inside you. The laugh turns into a gasp as Charles moves, slow but deliberate, his hips pressing firmly against yours. You feel everything — every inch, every movement, every breath he takes — and it’s all too much, too overwhelming. Yet, somehow, it’s not enough.

“Ignore them,” he whispers again, his lips brushing your neck, sending sparks down your spine. “Pretend we’re the only ones here.”

You try — God, you try — but it’s impossible to block out the weight of their stares, the silent judgment from the witnesses lining the walls. And yet, with each movement of Charles’ body, with every thrust that presses him deeper inside you, the world blurs at the edges. He’s taking over, filling every space, every thought, until nothing remains but him.

He groans softly, his breath hot against your skin, and you feel your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected. The pain begins to ebb, replaced by something else — a strange heat building inside you, coiling tight in your belly. You bite your lip, trying to keep the sounds inside, but Charles is relentless, his movements steady, controlled, each one drawing you closer to something you don’t quite understand.

His lips hover over your ear again, and his voice is a dark whisper. “Do you think they’re jealous? Do you think they wish they could be in my place?”

The thought is absurd, but another laugh escapes you — half gasp, half breathless amusement — and it startles you, the sound foreign and unfamiliar in the midst of everything happening. Charles grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself.

“See? It’s not so bad,” he says, his voice low, coaxing. “You’re doing beautifully.”

Your body is trembling beneath him, each movement sending jolts of sensation through you, and you can barely think, barely breathe. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the sharp contrast of his dominance, his control, with the tenderness in his touch.

“They’re waiting for the proof,” Charles whispers, his tone mocking again. “So eager to see it.”

You feel the heat in your face, the embarrassment rising, but before you can fully register it, Charles thrusts harder, his body pressing into yours with more force. You gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and your fingers grip the sheets tighter, knuckles white.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Let them hear you.”

You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress the sounds, but Charles isn’t having it. His hand slides up your thigh, gripping firmly as he moves faster, his body commanding yours, pulling you deeper into the sensations.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, his voice dark and intoxicating. “Let them know how good it feels.”

Your heart is racing, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and to your surprise, his words sink into you, fueling the heat growing inside. You can’t fight it anymore — not the sounds, not the way your body responds to his touch. You let out a soft whimper, and Charles grins, clearly satisfied with the effect he’s having on you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, and the words send a shiver down your spine. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His pace quickens, and with each thrust, the witnesses, the judgment, the fear — all of it fades into the background. It’s just him, just you, and the intoxicating rhythm of his body against yours. You feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter with every movement, every breath, until you’re on the edge of something you’ve never felt before.

You gasp, your body trembling beneath him, and Charles leans down, his lips brushing your ear once more.

“You’re going to come for me,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding. “Aren’t you?”

You can’t speak, can’t think, but your body answers for you, your hips bucking beneath him as the sensation builds to a fever pitch. You’re gasping now, your breath ragged, and Charles smirks against your skin.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “I want to feel you.”

And then, suddenly, everything snaps — the tension, the heat, the coiled tightness in your belly — and your body explodes with sensation, pleasure rolling through you in waves so intense you can’t breathe. You cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets, and Charles groans in response, his movements becoming harder, more erratic as he drives you through the climax.

Your body shudders beneath him, the pleasure overwhelming, and for a moment, everything else falls away. It’s just him, just you, and the raw, unfiltered sensation coursing through your veins.

When the waves finally subside, you’re left trembling, gasping for breath as Charles slows his movements, his body still pressed firmly against yours. He leans down, his lips brushing your temple, and you feel the faintest hint of tenderness in the gesture.

“There,” he murmurs softly, his voice still rough but with a new edge of satisfaction. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You can’t respond, your body too spent, too overwhelmed by everything that’s just happened. But in the silence, you realize something: the witnesses haven’t left. They’re still there, watching, waiting.

The room is suffocating in its silence. Your chest rises and falls, still trying to catch up with the intensity of what just happened. Your body hums with the aftershocks, your legs trembling, and all you want is to close your eyes and forget the weight of the gazes pressing in on you from the crowd of witnesses.

Charles is still above you, his body warm and heavy, grounding you in the moment. His breath slows, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow circles that should have soothed you, but all you can think about are the people watching — still there, still waiting, still leering.

And then, without warning, Charles drags the duvet up, uncovering you completely.

You gasp, your body jolting in shock as the cool air hits your bare skin. The sense of vulnerability swells in your chest, your hands instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it’s too late. Charles exposes the sheets beneath you, stained with the tell-tale sign of blood — the proof the witnesses had been waiting for.

Your cheeks burn, mortification flooding your body as you feel their eyes burning into you. You bite your lip, willing yourself to shrink, to disappear beneath the sheets. But Charles, in contrast, doesn’t flinch. His expression is calm, his body still and powerful as he scans the room, his gaze cold and sharp.

“Get a good look,” he says, his voice ringing out clear and firm in the stillness of the room. He gestures to the blood-stained sheet with a casual wave of his hand, as if this was nothing more than a trivial detail. “There’s your proof. Now leave.”

You hear the murmurs ripple through the crowd, hushed whispers that slither across the room like a serpent. But no one moves. They stay rooted to the spot, their eyes glued to the two of you, hungry and intrusive, unwilling to give up their position as witnesses to this private moment.

Your heart races, your pulse thundering in your ears as you look up at Charles. He’s tense now, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his body coiled with barely restrained frustration. He sits up slightly, still keeping you shielded beneath his frame, his hands never leaving your body.

“I said leave,” he repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone, like the low growl of a predator. His eyes flick from one face to another, daring any of them to defy him. But still, no one moves. The tension in the air thickens, suffocating, and you feel the weight of it bearing down on you, threatening to crush you.

Charles’ patience snaps.

“Get. Out.” His voice roars through the room, sudden and violent, like the crack of thunder in a storm. The force of it sends a jolt through your body, but more importantly, it makes the witnesses flinch. His eyes burn with fury, his body rigid as he glares at them, each word seething with barely-contained rage. “This is no longer your concern.”

The murmuring stops, and for a moment, no one dares to breathe. The power in Charles’ voice — his command, his authority — leaves no room for argument. Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to shuffle toward the exit, the room clearing bit by bit, though not quickly enough for your liking.

You can still feel the weight of their stares as they leave, lingering, prying. It makes your skin crawl, the discomfort settling deep in your bones. You can’t help but shudder, and Charles’ hand, large and warm, immediately rests on your back, steadying you.

“Don’t look at them,” he says, his voice softer now, but still firm. “They don’t matter anymore.”

But you can feel them. Even as the room starts to empty, their presence lingers like a foul stench in the air. The feeling of exposure gnaws at you, tearing at your insides, and you can’t stop the tears from welling up in your eyes.

You try to blink them away, but Charles notices immediately. His hand shifts, brushing your cheek, and when you meet his gaze, his expression softens slightly. “It’s over,” he murmurs, his voice low but sure. “They’re gone.”

Your lips part to respond, but no words come out. All you can do is nod, your throat tight, the humiliation still fresh in your mind. You feel Charles’ hand move again, this time slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

“Don’t let them see you like this,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re stronger than this.”

The words wash over you like a balm, and though the tightness in your chest doesn’t completely dissipate, there’s something in his voice — something steady and unshakable — that anchors you. You take a shaky breath, your gaze flicking down to the blood-stained sheet beneath you, and for the first time, you feel a strange sense of relief.

The worst is over. The witnesses are gone.

Charles pulls the duvet back over you, shielding your body from the cold air and the prying eyes that had only just left. His touch is still commanding, but there’s a tenderness to it now, a sense of care that surprises you. He leans down, his lips brushing your forehead, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything else that’s happened tonight.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body against yours settle into your bones, and for a brief moment, you feel safe. Protected. Charles’ presence, his power, has a way of making everything else seem small, insignificant. Even the lingering humiliation feels distant now, a shadow at the edge of your mind.

“I should’ve thrown them out sooner,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice dark with frustration.

You blink up at him, surprised by the hint of regret in his tone. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper, though the words feel strange on your tongue.

Charles’ eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze before it hardens again. “I won’t let them make you feel like that again,” he says, his voice firm, resolute. “Not ever.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. The vulnerability of the moment hangs between you, heavy and fragile, and you’re not sure if you should thank him or hide from the intensity of his gaze. Instead, you just nod, the weight of exhaustion finally settling over you.

Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, shifting to sit beside you on the bed. He’s still close, his presence filling the space around you, and though the room is quiet now, the tension hasn’t entirely lifted.

“They only stayed because they’re cowards,” he says, his voice low, as if continuing a conversation with himself. “Pathetic leeches, desperate for some form of power they’ll never have.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the night catching up to you. “You didn’t have to yell so loudly,” you murmur, your voice shaky but laced with a trace of amusement. “I thought they’d leave eventually.”

Charles turns toward you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though there’s a glint of humor behind them. “They deserved worse,” he says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Next time, I’ll throw them out myself.”

The image of Charles physically tossing a group of nobles out of the room makes you laugh again, this time more freely, though the sound is still tinged with disbelief. You never imagined you’d be laughing after a night like this. But somehow, here you are, with Charles beside you, his hand resting on your thigh, steadying you in ways you didn’t expect.

“Thank you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips before you even fully realize what you’re saying.

Charles’ gaze softens, just for a moment, before he nods. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says quietly. “This is my duty.”

But it doesn’t feel like duty anymore. Not entirely. There’s something more to the way he looks at you now, something that makes your heart beat a little faster despite everything that’s happened.

You glance down at the sheets again, the faint stain still visible beneath the duvet, and a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, heavier than before. Your body aches, your mind spinning with everything that’s transpired, and all you want now is for the night to end.

Charles seems to sense your weariness. He moves closer, pulling you gently into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You sink into him, your head resting against his chest, and for the first time all night, you feel a sense of peace.

“We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow,” he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “For now, rest.”

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, and slowly, the weight of the night begins to lift. You’re still raw, still vulnerable, but with Charles beside you, the darkness doesn’t seem so overwhelming.

***

The morning sun filters through the heavy drapes, casting a soft glow over the room. The air is cool, the bed warm, and you stir slightly, the weight of Charles’ arm still draped over your waist. You blink awake slowly, your face pressed into his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comforting rhythm against you. For a moment, you forget where you are, wrapped in the warmth of his body, the soft cocoon of blankets around you.

Then the sound of footsteps pulls you from your daze.

The door creaks open, followed by a collective gasp. Your body stiffens, and you can feel Charles tense beside you, though he doesn’t move just yet. His arm tightens slightly, as if to reassure you, before he finally shifts, lifting his head from the pillow.

Two of your maids stand at the foot of the bed, their eyes wide, shock etched across their faces as they take in the sight of you and Charles — still tangled together beneath the sheets, bodies pressed close, intimate. You can’t help but feel the heat rise to your cheeks, a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

You had expected to wake up alone, with Charles already gone to attend to his duties. Instead, here you are, cocooned in the aftermath of last night, and the sight is clearly not what anyone had anticipated.

“Good morning, milady,” one of the maids stammers, her eyes darting between you and Charles, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.

Charles sits up, propping himself against the headboard, but he doesn’t make any move to untangle himself from you. Instead, he casts a slow, measured look at the maids, his expression calm but commanding. “Her Highness,” he corrects them, his voice still gravelly from sleep, but carrying a distinct authority. “She is no longer ‘milady.’”

The maids exchange nervous glances, their cheeks coloring as they quickly curtsy. “Y-Your Highness,” they echo, clearly flustered by the correction.

You bite your lip, feeling the flush deepen at the reminder. It’s still strange to hear yourself referred to as “Your Highness.” The title feels foreign, like a borrowed gown that doesn’t quite fit, and yet there’s something about the way Charles says it that makes it feel … real.

Charles turns his attention back to you, his hand brushing against your waist as he leans down slightly, his voice low and intimate. “You should get dressed,” he says softly, though there’s a note of amusement in his tone. “We’ve scandalized them enough for one morning.”

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips, though your cheeks still burn. The fact that he’s still here, still close, feels … surprising, but in a way that warms your chest. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from him, and the maids rush forward, eager to help you from the bed.

As you stand, the cold air nips at your skin, and you suddenly feel exposed, despite the nightgown that clings to your body. You shiver slightly, and one of the maids, always attentive, quickly drapes a robe over your shoulders.

Charles watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering, before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. His servants enter the room then, bowing low as they approach, clearly hesitant to disturb the prince. But Charles merely waves them in with a flick of his hand, dismissing their cautiousness.

“Have her belongings brought to my chambers,” Charles says, his voice casual, as if he were giving the most mundane of instructions. He reaches for his own clothes, still laid out by the servants, pulling on his tunic with practiced ease.

Your heart skips a beat.

The maids freeze in place, their eyes wide, as if they’ve just heard something outrageous. You can feel their shock ripple through the room, though they try to mask it with a quick curtsy.

“Your Highness,” one of them stammers, clearly unsure of how to respond. “But — your quarters? Surely, you mean-”

“I mean what I said,” Charles interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t look at them as he speaks, busy fastening the leather straps of his tunic, but his voice carries the weight of authority that only someone like him can wield. “Her belongings will be moved to my chambers by midday. Is that understood?”

Your maids glance at each other again, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and dismay. The scandal of it is clear — they had expected you to maintain separate quarters, as was the custom for all noble marriages. The idea of sharing a bed — sharing quarters — on a permanent basis was practically unheard of.

“Y-Yes, Your Highness,” one of them finally manages to say, her voice small. They both curtsy again, though their faces are still flushed with surprise.

You can’t help but feel the weight of what this means — the implication of it — and your cheeks warm at the thought. Charles wants you in his chambers, in his space. It’s a decision that speaks volumes, one that suggests more than just a sense of duty or obligation. The intimacy of sharing quarters … it’s something deeper, something more personal.

Your gaze flickers toward him, but he’s already focused on his servants, giving them instructions as they help him with his attire. You feel a rush of emotions — nervousness, anticipation, and something you can’t quite name. It’s as if the ground beneath you has shifted, the reality of your marriage settling in ways you hadn’t expected.

The maids, clearly still rattled, help you into your gown, their hands quick and efficient but a little clumsy in their haste. You can sense their discomfort, though they don’t say anything directly. You remain silent as they lace up the back of your gown, your mind spinning with thoughts of what sharing chambers with Charles will mean.

Once you’re fully dressed, you turn to find Charles watching you, his eyes dark and unreadable as he takes in the sight of you. There’s something about his gaze that sends a shiver down your spine, something that reminds you of the intensity of last night, the way he had held you, commanded the room, and, ultimately, you.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, his hand brushing your waist as he leans in, his voice low. “Are you alright?”

The simple question makes your breath catch. It’s a small gesture, a quiet moment of concern, but it feels significant. You nod, offering him a small smile, though your heart still races.

“I am,” you say softly, though the truth is, you’re not entirely sure what you feel. There’s a whirlwind of emotions churning inside you, and you can barely make sense of them.

Charles studies you for a moment longer, his hand lingering at your waist before he finally pulls away. “Good,” he says simply, his voice firm. “You’ll get used to this. To all of it.”

There’s something comforting in his certainty, as if he’s made up his mind that you’ll both navigate this strange new reality together. You take a deep breath, the knot of tension in your chest loosening slightly.

The maids finish with your hair, pinning it up into an elegant style, and they step back, glancing nervously at Charles, as if still processing the scandal of his earlier command.

One of them finally speaks, her voice barely a whisper. “Milady, shall we prepare your things for-” She stops herself, catching Charles’ sharp gaze. “Your Highness,” she corrects hastily, “shall we prepare your things for the move?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. “Yes,” you say softly, though the idea still feels strange. You had grown accustomed to the idea of separate quarters, of having a space to retreat to, a sanctuary of your own. But now, you’d be sharing that space with him.

Charles gives a small nod of approval, his expression unreadable, though you can sense his satisfaction with the arrangement. He turns to his own servants, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “See to it that everything is ready,” he says. “I want no delays.”

The servants bow deeply and file out of the room, leaving you alone with Charles once more. The silence that follows is thick with unspoken tension, the weight of everything that has happened — and everything that is yet to come — hanging in the air.

Charles steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches for your hand. His grip is firm, steady, and you feel the familiar jolt of warmth spread through you at his touch.

“You belong with me,” he says quietly, his voice low and commanding, as if stating a simple fact. “That’s how it will be. From now on.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s no uncertainty in his tone, no room for negotiation. He’s made his decision, and you can feel the power of that decision pulsing through the air between you.

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Your Highness.”

He smiles then, a small, satisfied smile that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand tightens around yours for a moment before he releases you, stepping back.

“We have a long day ahead,” he says, his voice returning to its usual confident tone. “But we’ll face it together.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you nod in agreement. The future feels uncertain, but with Charles by your side, you feel a strange sense of reassurance.

***

The evening air in Charles’ chambers is cool, thick with the scent of freshly lit candles and the quiet hum of crackling fire. The servants had come and gone, preparing the room for the night, and now the two of you stand in a silence that’s more charged than it is peaceful. You’ve spent the day together, walking the halls of the palace, facing curious eyes and polite murmurs, yet now, here, in the privacy of the chambers you now share, everything feels more intimate.

You’re still getting used to the space, to the idea that this room is no longer just his — it’s yours too. The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window. It’s unsettling, in a way, this sudden intrusion into his world, and yet, it feels oddly right. Charles moves about the room with ease, as if he belongs here, as if he belongs with you, and there’s something comforting in that.

The evening had been quiet, the both of you falling into an easy rhythm of shared conversation and long, lingering looks that spoke more than words could. But now, standing at the foot of the large, canopied bed, you feel the weight of what comes next pressing in on you.

Charles steps closer, his eyes dark and steady, full of that quiet confidence that always seems to radiate off him. He doesn’t rush — there’s no hurry in the way he approaches you, but there’s a deliberateness in his movements that makes your heart race.

He stops just in front of you, close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you. “You look nervous,” he says softly, a hint of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.

You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I-I’m not,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, shaking just a little.

He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Liar,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, as he reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is light, gentle, but it sends a shiver down your spine all the same. “You forget, I know your body better than that by now.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite your nerves. His words are true, but it’s still strange to think that someone who was, just days ago, a stranger in many ways, could now know so much about you. And yet, here you are, bound together in ways you never imagined.

Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. He steps back slightly, his gaze holding yours as he speaks again. “It’s my duty as your husband to teach you what happens in the marriage bed.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you blink at him, confused. “Teach me?” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. “But … I thought-” You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I thought what happened yesterday was … all there is.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then Charles laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills the room and sends another shiver through you. His eyes gleam with amusement, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he looks at you, as if your innocence is both endearing and utterly baffling to him.

“Oh, ma chérie,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you look down, unable to meet his gaze. You had thought that after last night, you’d learned everything there was to know about what happens between a man and a woman. But now, faced with the way Charles is looking at you, you realize how naïve you must seem.

He steps closer again, his hand coming to rest lightly on your arm. “Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gentle but firm.

You do as he says, lifting your eyes to meet his, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch in your throat.

“There’s more,” he says quietly, his voice low and full of promise. “Much more.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air between you, before he continues. “And I’m going to teach you. I’m going to show you exactly what it means to be my wife.”

You feel your heart hammering in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation swirling inside you. There’s something in the way he speaks, in the way he looks at you, that makes your skin tingle, your body instinctively leaning into him despite your uncertainty.

Charles reaches for you then, his hands steady and sure as he guides you to the edge of the bed. You sit down, your legs trembling slightly as the reality of what’s happening begins to sink in.

He stands before you, his gaze never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, your voice shaky.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up in that confident, almost arrogant way that always makes your stomach flutter. “I’m going to demonstrate something for you,” he says, his voice calm and controlled, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “It’s called the lord’s kiss.”

You blink at him, confused. “The … the lord’s kiss?” The words sound strange to your ears, and you have no idea what he means.

Charles’ smirk deepens, and there’s a glint of something dark and heated in his eyes as he watches your confusion. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Before you can respond, he reaches for your legs, his hands firm but gentle as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. Your heart races, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as you try to process what’s happening.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Charles leans in, his hands sliding up your thighs as he positions himself between your legs. The fabric of your gown bunches around your hips, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes it aside.

Your pulse quickens, your body trembling with a mix of nerves and something else — something you don’t quite understand but can’t deny.

He pauses for a moment, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, as if giving you one last chance to stop him. But you don’t. You can’t. You’re too caught up in the moment, too overwhelmed by the intensity of his presence, the way he commands every inch of your attention.

Then, without another word, he lowers his head, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

You gasp, your body jolting at the unexpected sensation, but Charles doesn’t stop. His movements are slow, deliberate, his mouth tracing a path along the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your skin.

“Charles,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you.

He doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, he continues his slow, torturous exploration of your body, his lips and tongue moving with a precision that makes your head spin.

Your body reacts instinctively, your back arching slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he brings you to the edge of something you’ve never felt before.

You’ve never been touched like this, never even imagined that this was something a man could do. And yet, here you are, trembling beneath his touch, your mind a whirlwind of sensations that you can’t even begin to comprehend.

Charles pulls back slightly, his lips hovering just above your skin as he murmurs, “Do you see now?” His voice is low, rough, filled with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. “Do you understand?”

You can’t speak. You can barely think. All you can do is nod, your body trembling, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

He smiles then, a slow, satisfied smile, and before you can catch your breath, he lowers his head again, continuing his demonstration.

The sensations are overwhelming. You’re lost in the world Charles is creating for you, your body alive with a heat and need you never imagined could exist. His lips, his tongue, every movement is precise, deliberate, like he’s playing a well-rehearsed melody on your skin.

The sound that escapes your lips is beyond your control — a high-pitched moan, raw and unrestrained, tearing through the quiet chambers. Your hands twist in the sheets, and you arch into him, trembling beneath his touch.

Charles doesn’t falter. His grip tightens on your thighs, keeping you grounded even as you feel like you might fly apart. He’s relentless, each kiss deeper, more commanding, pulling you into a space where only the two of you exist.

Your moans grow louder, filling the room with a sound that feels almost foreign to your ears. You can’t help it — he’s drawing something out of you, something primal, something you didn’t even know was there.

“Charles,” you gasp, your voice thick with desire and desperation, barely a whisper in the storm of sensation. But he doesn’t stop. His focus remains unbroken, his mouth working you over with a precision that drives you wild.

The tension builds, like a coil tightening inside you, every nerve alight, ready to snap. And then, just as you feel yourself tipping over the edge, the door to the chambers slams open with a sudden, jarring force.

The sound startles you, and your eyes fly open in panic. For a moment, the world blurs around you, your mind struggling to grasp what’s happening, but then you see them — two palace guards, standing in the doorway, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.

“Oh my God!” You yelp, mortified beyond belief, scrambling to pull the covers over yourself, your heart racing for a different reason now.

Charles, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your thighs doesn’t loosen, and he doesn’t lift his face from between your legs. If anything, the intrusion seems to embolden him. His lips move with a newfound intensity, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you that makes your body jerk despite the embarrassment flooding your veins.

“W-we heard shouting, Your Highness!” One of the guards stammers, his face flushed as he averts his eyes. “We thought-”

The other guard clears his throat, equally uncomfortable. “We thought someone was hurt or … or being … shamed.”

You feel your face go up in flames, utterly humiliated. Your hands clutch the sheets to your chest, trying to cover as much of yourself as possible, but Charles … Charles remains exactly where he is, completely unfazed by the situation.

“Charles!” You hiss, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes darting between the guards and him. “Please stop-” But even as you plead, your body betrays you. A fresh wave of pleasure washes over you, and another moan slips from your lips, softer this time, but no less damning.

The guards exchange a look, clearly unsure what to do, their faces red with embarrassment. “Should we — should we call for help?” One of them asks, his voice almost panicked, still refusing to look in your direction.

“No,” Charles growls, finally lifting his head just enough to speak, his voice dark and commanding, but his face remains close to your skin, his breath hot against your thigh. “Leave.”

“But … Your Highness-”

“I said leave,” Charles snaps, his voice low but laced with enough authority to make both guards jump.

They hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether they should follow his command or call for reinforcements. But the look on Charles’ face — sharp, predatory, completely in control — leaves no room for doubt. They turn on their heels and practically stumble over each other as they rush out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Your heart is still racing, your face burning with humiliation. “Charles …” you begin, but your words dissolve into a gasp as his mouth moves against you once again.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice muffled against your skin, his lips brushing your most sensitive spot with a devastating precision. “Don’t think about them. Don’t think about anything but me.” His fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he continues his slow, torturous assault on your senses.

You can’t help it — the moment takes you over again, your body responding to his touch in ways you don’t fully understand. Despite the lingering embarrassment, despite the guards and the intrusion, your body betrays you. You sink back into the pleasure he’s offering, every nerve in your body alive, on fire, as he drives you higher and higher.

“You feel incredible,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and full of that commanding confidence. He’s barely paused, barely stopped his ministrations, but he’s still somehow able to speak to you in that dark, soothing tone that makes your pulse race. “Do you know that? How good you taste … how perfect you are for me?”

His words send another wave of heat rushing through you, your breath catching in your throat. You can feel yourself unraveling, your body trembling beneath his hands as he works you over with a mastery that leaves you gasping for air.

You try to form words, to say something, anything, but all that escapes your lips is a soft, breathless moan. Your hands fist in the sheets, your back arching as you teeter on the edge of something vast and overwhelming.

Charles notices, of course. He always notices. His lips curl into a faint smile against your skin, and he hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I can feel it,” he says, his voice a growl now, low and full of promise. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you trembling for me.”

You nod, unable to speak, unable to think of anything but the pleasure coursing through your veins, the way your body feels like it’s about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Let go,” he murmurs, his breath hot against you. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You fall, hard and fast, your body shaking as the tension finally snaps, sending you spiraling into a release so intense it leaves you breathless, gasping for air.

Charles doesn’t stop, his mouth moving against you with slow, deliberate strokes, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re trembling and spent, your body weak and boneless beneath him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls back, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watches you, his hands still resting lightly on your thighs.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he says softly, his voice full of that same commanding power that always makes your heart race. “Completely undone … because of me.”

You can’t find the words to respond. All you can do is lie there, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what just happened.

Charles rises to his feet with a grace that seems unfair, considering how your own limbs feel like jelly. He looks down at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that makes your stomach flip.

“You see?” He says softly, his voice smug but also warm, affectionate even. “There’s much more to being a wife than what you knew.”

You can only nod, still too breathless to speak, as you collapse back against the pillows, completely spent.

Charles leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur as he says, “And there’s still so much more to learn.”

[dollyhao]

gf!ellie with a oral fixation (sweet midnight sex)

you and ellie lay on your bed late at night getting ready to go to sleep. she's watching tv and your strolling through your phone while ellie starts to dose off. she shifts her body to lay her head against your chest. you pay her no mind because this is her little habit.

she fiddles with your tank top and gazes sleepily at the revealed skin of your breast. she tugs at the top of your shirt. "can i?" she mumbles as gazing up at you. you glance down at her seeing her droopy eyes plead with you as she slowly pulls your shirt down.

you nod at her, "but not too hard els. im sleepy." you say turning on your side to face her.

when ellie first told you about her oral fixation you were kinda confused. you knew she enjoyed putting stuff in her mouth but you didn't think it had a name. when she explained that thats why she liked having your nipple in her mouth so much without it being sexual all the time, you understood. so being the amazing girlfriend you are you let her whenever she asks.

she pulls your shirt up over your breast and takes them both in her hands massaging them softly. she kisses around your nipple before taking one in her mouth. she wraps her lips around it but doesn't suck wrapping her arms around your waist, pressing your body closer to hers.

you readjust yourself trying not to think too hard about the warmth of her mouth wrapped around you. it always takes you a minute to adjust to the feeling but it gets frustrating when her tongue flicks over your nipple. you let it go because this is what ellie says she needs.

you start to doze off when you feel ellie start to suck harder, her teeth grazing your nipple as she runs her tongue over it. her grip on you tightens her hand that's on your back trails down your thigh; lifting it over her hips. you glance down at her to see her eyes looking up at you. her fingers trail up her leg, grasping on your ass under your oversized shirt.

"ellie," you mumble brushing her hair out her face, "what are you doing?" ellie lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, "i dont know..." she says honestly. "i-i thought this was supposed to be innocent," you squirm as her hands creeps lower to your covered cunt, stroking your pussy with her middle finger.

"i know, im sorry." she rolls you over laying you on your back. "can i keep going?" she whispers to you softly as she sit in between your legs. you look over at the clock on your nightstand seeing that its 2 in the morning. you nod at her and she trails the kisses down your stomach to your underwear, pulling them down.

"i thought this was supposed to be innocent." ellie mocks your earlier statement as she sees how wet you are. "how was i supposed to keep it innocent with you sucking and rubbing on me, asshole." you say jokingly shoving her shoulder. ellie slips a finger into you kissing your lips again. its slow and sensual as she runs her tongue over your top lip.

your arms wrap around her neck as she fucks against your sweet spot. "mhmm~, more baby." ellie pulls away from your lips to look you in the eye as she adds another finger. you press your forehead against hers, panting out her name. "it feel good mama?" she asks mouth only a breath away from yours. "yess, faster els." you beg her. "ask nicely." ellie smirks bending her head to kiss your neck.

you run your hands through her hair, "please, baby?" you arch your back into her and and she slide her hand over your arch, pulling you flush against her. she does what you asked speeding up her thrust and you let go on her fingers. you come down from your high glancing over at ellie, who settled at your side, giving you a innocent look.

"you feel better?" you tease her. she nods settling next to your exposed chest. "absolutely not." you pull your shirt back down throwing your arm over her and laying on her chest, patting her shoulder. “go to sleep els.”

[elliesplug]

logan when you don't shave

logan howlett x reader

summary: you've been together for months, but how will he react when you forget to shave?

warnings: no smut but still nsfw

word count: 958

His touches make it feel like electricity is coursing through your whole body. Logan’s is simultaneously rough and delicate, his actions contradicting themself and leaving you all worked up.

You and Logan were supposed to be watching a movie tonight but he just can’t control himself around you. You were trying really really hard to focus on the movie but he made this an impossible task. The way he was rubbing tender circles on your thighs, inching further and further to your heat every once in a while, was driving you insane. His strong hands hold you in such a delicate grasp that fills your whole body up with a familiar warmth.

As the movie continued you could tell that Logan’s focus was tuned more onto you than the screen. The touches are slowly getting more impatient. Logan has your body memorized, cherishing every crevice and dip of your body.

The TV lights flicker in the dark, illuminating your features. Your eyebrows are ever so slightly scrunched as you pretend to pay attention to the movie. Logan stares at you with amazement, he will forever be in awe of your beauty. He inches towards you and wraps his arm around you, pulling you in closer. At this point Logan isn't even trying to hide the fact that he's not watching the movie anymore. Then you feel soft pecking on your neck and jaw, causing your breath to hitch. No one needs superhuman abilities to hear how fast your heart is beating.

“Do y’know how pretty you are, sweetheart?” Logan whispers to you.

You turn your head to respond to him, but the second that you open your mouth, his lips are attached to yours. Heavy hands wrap around your whole body, holding you tight. The kiss is passionate yet tender. Logan’s actions are a reflection of how badly he needs you.

Warmth radiates through your whole body. Without thinking your thighs rub together, attempting to give you any form of satisfaction. Noticing this, Logan places his hand behind your head as he guides you to lay down on the couch. Never breaking the kiss. His big hands continue to explore your body with a sense of hunger. The kisses quickly go from tender to rough. You place your hands behind his neck and wrap your legs around him. Logan groans into your mouth at the feeling of your warm body on his. Your panties get damp at that sound alone. And just like that he grinds down on you, both of your clothed centers rubbing on each other. Logan knows how to leave you feeling worked up. As the feeling of pleasure is taking over you, you whimper out his name with a soft sigh.

“Mmm you sound so pretty,” Logan says with a needy tone. “Need you s’ bad.”

A tug on your pants lets you know how eager he is. This feeling of your pants beginning to come off makes you jolt in embarrassment. After remembering that you didn't shave, your whole body is filled with nerves. Breaking the kiss, Logan instantly senses your body’s reaction. He looks down at you with a concerned gaze as he rubs comforting circles on your arm.

“Something wrong, darlin’?” He asks you. “Y’know you can always tell me if something is bothering you?”

Some men hate when you don't shave and some men say they don't mind it, when in reality they do. Its only been a few months with him but to avoid any issues you always shaved. Your fear of Logan’s reaction electrified your senses.

“It's just…I didn't really have the time..” You avoid eye contact in embarrassment before you responded. “I’ve just been pretty busy lately and I forgot to properly clean up…”

You look back at Logan only to find a confused look written all over his face. A horn must've grew out the middle of your forehead the way he was staring at you.

“I just haven't shaved and so maybe we should do this another time y’know?” You answer.

Just like that his confusion is wiped away and replaced with small laughter. Oh God. This is pure humility. You just confessed that and he was giggling? Just simply laughing at you? You instantly regret even telling him that much.

“Sweetheart,” Logan says with a chuckle, “I've been alive for over 200 years and you really think I can't handle a little bit of hair?”

Your eyes are drawn back to him as you listen.

“I don't know about any of those boys you've been with but I'm a man. I could give less of a fuck how you choose to present yourself to me, as long as it's you I'm fine.” He assures you, “In all honesty, if someone is giving that much of theirself to me, and I stop to worry about some hair, then I’ve gotta have some issues, angel.”

As simple as that, all humility leaves your body instantly. His words are genuine and comforting. Making you feel desired comes easy to Logan.

With a low tone he asks you, “You hear me? I want you no matter what. I will never let anything as miniscule as hair stop me from loving you. You got that?”

You cup his face in your hands as you stare up at him. The love he has for you makes your entire body tingle. His rough mutton chops rub between your fingers as you admire him. With a small nod you respond to him.

“Mmmkay” is all you can manage to get out under his gaze.

Logan grins as he hovers over you while placing sweet kisses on your collarbone, “Lemme just show you how much all that doesn't matter to me, sweet thing.”

[glossykissies]

can’t stop thinking about being clark’s cutesie girly girl cheerleader girlfriend … ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ³ ᵔ ꒱ྀིა

standing at 6’3, clark still gets nervous and stumbles over his words when you look up at him with those sweet, fluttery doe eyes. you got everything you wanted from him, without even fighting for it. he didn’t have all the money in the world, but that didn’t mean he didn’t spoil you.

there’s something broken in your house that you just don’t know how to fix? clark can already anticipate the phone call starting with “claaaaarkie…” meaning he’s going to have to drop everything to come right over. tired of walking? all you need to do is lift up your arms and he’ll lift you like the princess you are. need to get fucked through the mattress? well — he’s already pushing your knees to your chest with that clark kent smile.

you felt like everyone in smallville had to be missing something up there — clark was a walking action figure. drop dead gorgeous, kind, gifted in any sport you throw toward him, and always, always finding a way to be the hero. the only reason there was any confusion regarding your dating choices was because clark was just a ‘regular farm boy’, who often stuck to his two friends. that’s all people saw him as — but not you.

clark always finding a way to be at the scene of any crime saving the day had its downsides outside of bragging rights. sure, it felt good to always say “yeah, my boyfriend stopped that robbery.” “yes, it was my clark that saved that guy from that burning building.” but it often made your schedules unpredictable.

“i thought you were gonna take me out tonight, clark.” you sulk, standing in your doorway in those little frilly pink pyjamas you’d hoped clark would be peeling off you in the middle of the night.

“i know, look — i promise you, i am more mad at me than you are. but you know how these things always come up, there’s always something going down in smallville. i just can’t walk away.” he softens, furrowed brows framing the big innocent eyes you couldn’t say no to. he was so big, but he was folding, shrinking himself to be closer to your level in guilt, hands lifted in pleading.

you sigh, gnawing at your fresh french manicure as you eye him over. clark was a good guy, you supposed he couldn’t help it.

“do you wanna come in?” you offer quietly, and he seems to relax just a tad. nodding, he follows you inside but stays incredibly close — like he can’t bear for you to leave his sight again. he hovers over you aimlessly in the hallway as you stare up at him. “look clark, i understand you need to help people, but just… no more promises okay? i can’t take being let down anymore.” you look down at your slippers sadly and he catches your chin, tilting your head up to look into his desperate eyes. he was determined not to lose you to this.

“no more promises. i promise. wait—” he shakes his head, eyes screwed shut and you giggle softly, eyes a little tearful. “i will make the time for you, and try my best. but yes, i won’t make promises anymore… it’s not fair on you, beautiful.” the hand that gently grasps your chin slips round to cup your cheek. it was hard not to forgive him when he called you that.

surprisingly, this whole ‘no promises’ thing worked well in your favour. you wouldn’t get your hopes up, so when clark would randomly show up to a party you asked him to come with you to — your tipsy little self is thrilled, running over and throwing your arms around his shoulders. he looks a little dishevelled and distracted, like he’d just arrived from a life changing event, but he focuses in on you in a seconds notice, smiling softly as he wraps arms around your lower back, lifting you off your tip toes.

“clark you caaaame!” you grin.

“of course. couldn’t miss the chance to see my favourite girl now could i?” he warms as he softly places you back down on your feet, but you don’t let go of his biceps.

“mhm. i was hoping you’d — oops!” you giggle as you stumble on your feet. he catches you easily, raising an amused eyebrow.

“you okay there?”

“a little tipsy.” you admit, biting down on your glittery glossed lip. the playful sight sent pulses right down to his cock, the flag pole of an appendage jumping in his jeans.

“i can see that. let’s get you some water, yeah?”

the times clark couldn’t show up, he made up for with surprise dates and middle of the night visits. after begrudgingly blowing off your date night to save a hostage, clark shows up — standing guiltily in your bedroom when you step out your bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a short towel from your late night shower.

“clark?” you gasp and he spins around, nearly knocking over the trinket on your dresser he was inspecting.

“oh, um— hi…” he’s seen you naked so many times, and yet tries to maintain respectful eye contact.

“you came to see me.” you observe with a smile, walking over and stroking his arm happily. he clears his throat, ill-prepared for the way his dick started to harden. you had a kryptonite-like effect on him that totally weakened him.

“couldn’t stop thinking about you.” he voices softly, fingering the initial necklace that you never took off. the touch of his hand made you loopy, staring up at him with that helpless doe eyed expression. the look on your face gives him that surge of confidence that he knows you love, his expression hardening to one of more self assurance. “let me show you what i’ve been thinking about.” and with that, he kisses you — tongue swirling wetly around yours as he gently tugs your towel off your damp body.

“c—clarkie—” you shudder in a whiny cadence against his lips, and a hand that began to knead your tit slides down with urgency to push your thighs open, cupping your damp cunt.

“aww. you’re already wet.” he smiles against you, and from his tone you know he’s not even making fun of you, moreso observing in awe. “something tells me this wasn’t from the shower.” he presses the pads of his fingers against your wetness, pushing the arousal around and up to your clit as you whimper and buckle against him. his other hand pulls you against his body by your lower back, effortlessly holding your weight up.

“mmph— was thinking about you too.” you whimper and he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, tilting his head accommodatingly to look you over, finding his rhythm as he strokes your clit.

“yeah?” he cooes gently, only making you whine louder. “so sweet, pretty girl.”

@hanasnx for you to read and with u in mind … ♡

[sexlapis]

ᝰ.ᐟ mama cat

✮ cecil stedman x gn!hero!reader

sfw. fluff. no pronouns. cats. mentions of animal abandonment. cecil being cecil.

⤷ you have a thing for strays.

wc: 1.3k

a/n: another cecil fic <33

masterlist

*

Cecil looks pissed.

If his quick, furious stride, the wrinkled frown on his face, his balled up fists and the fact that it looked like steam was coming out of his ears was anything to go by, then yes.

Cecil is angry.

For good reason, you suppose.

You did ignore him when he was speaking to you over the communicator and then proceeded to simply take it out of your ear to stop listening altogether. His voice gets annoying after a while.

But you had a good reason, too.

Just as you were about to take off after a solo mission well done, you spotted a cat. It was a small cat, white fur soaked and matted from the abusive rain. Its blue eyes blinked at you slowly.

“Awww.” You had said. “Hi there.”

You stalked closer to it, shrinking yourself and holding your hands out. You didn’t want to scare the poor thing.

It tilted its head at you. As soon as you came within a metre of it, the cat turned around and trotted away. Not scurry away in fear, or sprint away in fright.

It wanted you to follow it. So that’s what you did.

That’s how you found a litter of almost identical, newborn kittens in a flailing cardboard box, wet from the rain. The kittens whined loudly, cold and scared. The cat wants you to help her kittens.

Someone must have just left them here. You frowned at the thought.

How could someone do that to these innocent babies? They could’ve just given them to a shelter. Was that so hard to do?

Driven by righteous anger and a need to protect, you scoop up what you assume to be the mother cat, the cat who had led you here. Surprisingly, she allowed it.

Maybe it’s the hero in you that made you do it, but you couldn’t just leave something so defenceless and vulnerable to fend for itself.

“Come on.” You told the cat, as if it understood. “Let’s get you some help.”

Now, you’re standing in the reception of the GDA Hospital, drenched to the bone, holding a box full of felines with god knows how many infections, and an angry looking Cecil is storming in your direction.

Well, that’s nice.

“What did I tell you?” Cecil spits as soon as he gets close. His arms are crossed and you think if he keeps making that face it will be stuck like that forever. “Hm?”

“Uhm-“”

He doesn’t let you answer. “I said, ‘You do as I say’ and you listen.”

“No, I-“”

“What the fuck were you thinking? I thought something happened or that we lost contact. I need to know what’s happening so I can keep you safe. Is that a difficult concept for you to grasp?”

“Look-“”

“No, you look- What the hell is that?”

Cecil looks down at the box in your arms. A tiny ‘meow’ can be heard. He looks back at you and blinks.

“What. Is. That.”

You chuckle, nervous. You really can’t tell if he’s confused or still angry at you. You pull your cape hood down.

“I found them.” You shrug. “The mom-cat led me to the rest of the kittens. At least, I think she’s the mom.” You open the box, showing them to Cecil. “See? I think someone just left them there. So I bought them back here to get them looked at and stuff. Can you believe someone would do that? A whole bunch of newborn kittens just left on the side of the street. I should just find whoever did it and-“”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Cecil waved his hands, shaking his head. “This is what held you up? These…kittens?”

You sniffle. “Well…yes?”

Cecil sighs. He pinches his nose. “You don’t just go dark on me. You understand?”

“Yes.” You deflate, suddenly feeling a little guilty. Cecil always tried his best to keep his heroes safe and he was probably worried out of his mind. “Sorry.”

Cecil sighs again. You’ll be the death of him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” He huffs. “Just don’t do it again.”

He knows that if any other hero did what you just did, they would’ve gotten chewed out. A warning. Perhaps even a temporary suspension of duty if he was in a bad enough mood. But you…you barely even get a shrug of the shoulders.

Seriously, Cecil can’t stay mad at you for long. You’re so brave, throwing yourself into danger at the detriment of his beating heart yet he can’t help but admire you despite that. You seem to be the only hero who doesn’t glare at him in irritation or even hatred. How you look at him with twinkling eyes, full of energy and so eager to please, especially please him…

So sue him if he goes easy on you.

“Yes sir!” You salute.

Cecil winces. “Don’t do that.”

You grin at him. He looks away.

A hospital employee just happens to walk by. You jump at them.

“Hey! Excuse me!” The doctor pauses. She looks very confused. “Can you help these kittens? I found them when I was on a mission. They were in the rain, I think they might have hypothermia or something…” You look over to Cecil. “Don’t you guys have a vet in here or something?”

“This is a hospital for people.”

“You have a McDonalds.”

“No, no, the Pentagon has a McDonalds.”

“Well it wouldn’t hurt to have a vet. We have animal heroes too.”

Cecil pauses. “… I guess that’s true. Maybe those tax dollars can go to something useful…”

The confused doctor looks between you and Cecil. She then looks over to Cecil for confirmation. Cecil closes his eyes and nods, exasperated.

The doctor cautiously takes the box of kittens from your hands. “…I’ll see what I can do.”

*

Later that night, you sit with the cat and her kittens. They had their own hospital room and everything. You were right - she was the mother of those kittens. She was barely an adult herself.

Mama cat was spayed, chipped and vaccinated along with all of her babies.

You smile as she purrs under your strokes. She is so adorable. Saving these cats is the most rewarding thing you’ve done all week.

The door to the room slides open - it’s Cecil.

“Still here?”

You nod. “I didn’t want to leave them alone.”

He huffs. “There’s like, seven of them. I don’t think they’re lonely.”

“It’s hard being a single mom. Maybe mama cat needs help.”

Cecil hums. He watches as you look over at all of the kittens, trying to give them an equal amount of attention.

It’s strange. You can cause so much damage, do so much destruction and yet here you are - doing baby voice to some abandoned kittens.

“Can we keep them?” You ask.

“Who?”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean ‘who’? Us.”

Us? You and him? Cecil likes the sound of that more than he wants to admit.

“Have you forgotten what my job is? I can't exactly go around chasing after cats. Also, their piss stinks.”

“You’re the US government. Think of something! Get a pet sitter. Make a pet room. Just for these cats.”

“I-“”

“Pleaaase? You gave Shapesmith a racecar bed.”

“Shapesmith is a martian child in an adult's body.”

“Exactly! So you like to help children.” You gesture to the kittens. “Help these kittens, Cecil.”

“Look-“”

“Please?”

Those damn eyes again. So endearing.

It’s really hard to say no to you. And Cecil is so easy.

“…Alright. I…I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yay!”

He points his finger at you. “No guarantees.”

You bite your lip, shaking your head. “No guarantees.”

Cecil wonders why he continues to do this job - to question his morals and character at every turn, to wonder if he’s the “good guy” in all of this, to be barely tolerated and downright despised by those around him.

Maybe this is why.

To help abandoned kittens and see the soft smile spread across your face.

*

[cloudcountry]

hello! I was hoping if u can do the ghouls reaction or what they would do if the reader or s/o was kidnapped thank you and have a nice day/evening!!

SUMMARY: while on a mission, you disappear from your partner. how do the ghouls deal with the fallout?

CHARACTERS: Alan, Towa, Taiga, Subaru, Haku.

COMMENTS: i left this a lil open ended anomaly wise so you can read this however you'd like!! thank u for being so kind, i had a lot of fun with this prompt <3

For this mission, it was imperative that Darkwick send the least amount of people possible. The anomaly in question had been observed "disappearing" people who entered its labyrinth in large groups, never to be seen again. The only way to get those people back, some said, was to solve the labyrinth...but Darkwick isn’t certain if that’s how it works. In order to assure the safety of you and the house you were assigned to, only one ghoul is allowed to come with you...

Said ghoul was intent on protecting you and getting to the bottom of this case without incident. He did his best to navigate the labyrinth with the supplies Darkwick had given and the research his house had conducted. It’s dark, the only light offered to your unfit eyes being the candles lining the walls. The bricks press closer and closer to your skin, and you shiver. He notices and drapes his jacket over your shoulders. You thank him softly.

He continues, checking back regularly to make sure you’re still there. His hand reaches for you and you take it, intertwining your fingers.

The second the pads of your fingertips touch the back of his hand, you vanish.

Subaru whips around and stabs at the air behind him with his umbrella, assuming a physical anomaly had ripped you out from his grasp. When he doesn’t see anything, he returns his weapon to his side and makes his way to the end of the labyrinth.

His heart is pounding and he isn’t sure if the information he’s received is correct, especially not after the anomaly had taken you when you were only a two person team. It doesn’t make sense. Darrkwick shouldn’t have sent you here at all, he knows that much—but when he pleaded with the Chancellor to reconsider, he was swiftly denied.

He’s the only hope you have. He’s the only one you can trust.

There’s something he’s missing. There’s something he’s missing.

What if he’s wrong?

Subaru tosses away those thoughts with resolute huff, eyeing the walls of the labyrinth. Rest assured, he will remain calm and see you to safety, so that when he finds you and the anomaly who kidnapped you, he can solve this peacefully. 

Taiga doesn’t play these games. You think you can just take the trembling kitty cat he was supposed to look after right from under his nose? No, he knows exactly what’s going on here. It’d be more strange for him to not understand.

He sighs deeply, scratching the back of his neck.

“You can do better than that, c’mon,” he taunts, taking out his gun, “Give me them back.”

And he opens fire.

The walls scream, wailing as his bullets sink into their flesh. He cackles as they scream, wide gaping mouths pleading for mercy from the pain.

“Give ‘em back!” he yells, jamming his foot into one of the contorted face’s eyes, “You want us to leave? Then cough ‘em up!”

If the anomaly knows what’s good for it, it’ll return you to where you belong. As trigger happy as Taiga is, he’s smart, and he’d had a feeling what the anomaly was doing from the start.

Towa turns back around to look for you, confused when you disappear. He mumbles a bit under his breath before flawlessly completing the labyrinth, coming out the other end with an expectant look on his face.

“~~~?”

“...! ~~ ~~~~!”

He has his ways of finding you. Without Haru or you, Towa is dragging his feet though...if nobody is here to praise him, then what is he even working for? He misses you. Knocking on the walls, he politely asks for you back.

“~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~? ~~~...”

Nothing.

Towa puffs up his cheeks and punches the wall hard. The force of it ripples the brick, a chorus of screams echoing throughout the structure. Towa is unbothered, staring dead at the screaming faces that emerge, wailing at the top of their lungs. Darkness falls over the labyrinth, each candle blown out one by one as the wind picks up.

“Where is Dandelion?” Towa asks, voice low and threatening, “I won’t ask again.”

Haku keeps his wits about him, even though you’re gone and he’s stuck gripping the space where your fingers were. He sighs, rubbing his temples before taking a deep breath.

Do not go for the easiest solution. Do not rush things. See it through. What would Subaru do?

And so, he stops. He sits down in the spot you disappeared and thinks, pushing thoughts about you in danger out of his mind. Those kinds of thoughts won't help you now. If only he’d know the anomaly would still target smaller groups, he would have gone in by himself and left you outside—

But that’s not foolproof either, since the anomaly could have a larger radius than he anticipated, and he could never have known you’d even gone missing until he left—

This won’t help you now.

He presses a hand against the wall to push himself up, and jumps when he begins to sink. Tearing his hand away, Haku stares wide eyed at the wall.

Oh.

That’s not something he expected.

Well, this makes this rather easy, doesn’t it?

Alan finds himself tightening his grip on where your hand used to be before letting go, whipping around to face you in hopes that you didn’t crumble from the force of his hand.

When he finds you gone, his heart shudders painfully in his chest. You’re in danger. He made a mistake, it is his fault, and now he has to solve it.

Carefully, Alan turns the corner, eyes darting along the different paths he could take. His feet carry him forward, but he stops. He starts moving again, and then stops.

Why does it feel like he shouldn’t leave the spot where you disappeared?

Trust your instincts Alan! They’re really good!

Your words still find him, even now.

Alan walks back the way he came to the spot you disappeared. Observing his surroundings, he takes note of blood, slipping through the cracks in the bricks.

He knows it when he sees it.

Rushing forward, he crawls his finger into the crack, tearing the bricks away from the wall. He hears the screaming but keeps going, fighting on auto pilot, clawing at the flesh of the labyrinth until his hand grasps yours and he pulls you out of the wall.

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Hello! How do you think König (or any of the guys really) would react to you calling them "my sweet lil guy"?

Thanks for this request!!🩷🩵🩷🩵 I just did this for multiple characters, as I thought this would be funny to see them! They’re short and sweet!

141 + Königs Reactions to Reader Calling Them "My Sweet Lil Guy."

Warnings: slight swearing, fluff, slight sexual references

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

Simon Ghost Riley-

“Bloody hell.” Simon groaned, his hands moving to grasp at his back. “Damn thing hurts.”

"Awe, my sweet lil guy got a backache?" You teased, moving to rub Simon's back gently.

Simon turned, slowly, toward you a look of mock horror on his face. "The hell you just call me?"

You bit your lip to prevent a giggle, watching the confusion on your boyfriend's face with amusement. "My... sweet lil guy?"

Simon stared at you, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but little isn’t one of them.”

“First for everything I suppose.” You shrugged your shoulders, struggling not to crack a smile under Simon’s intense stare.

“You’re a little brat, you know that?” Simon chuckled, kissing your temple.

“I’m the little brat, you’re the sweet lil guy.” You teased, scrunching your nose at him.”

“You’re pushing it, kid.”

Johnny Soap MacTavish-

“Everyone, I’d like for you to meet Johnny.” You smiled, introducing your boyfriend to your group of friends.

"Is this the "sweet lil guy" you've been telling us all about?" Your friend asked as she regarded Johnny with a smile.

Johnny blinked a few times before looking at you. "Your sweet lil guy?"

Your friend gave a hearty chuckle. "Yep, they call you thay all the time."

“Tha’ so?” Johnny quirked a brow at you, a devious smile making its way to his lips.

“Johnny no, pl-.” You started, but Johnny was quick to cut you off.

“That’s not what they were screaming in bed last night.”

Oh yeah, he won your friends over that night.

John Price-

“Cmon, sweetheart. It’s past midnight, surely you can put the book down and go to bed.” John groaned, it was well past his bedtime.

“Is my sweet lil guy tired?” You cooed, turning to face John in bed. “Promise I’m almost done.”

"Your sweet lil guy?" He looked at you, bemused by your nickname. “That really what comes to mind when you think of me?”

“Sure is.” You faked a yawn, flipping over to finish the chapter of the book you were reading.

John wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. “Yeah, you’re sure about that?”

Your cheeks burned crimson, the prominent bulge in your lovers boxers now pressing hard against your back. “Y-yes.”

“Give me about two minutes. Once my cocks inside that pretty little mouth of yours- you’ll be choking on those words.”

König-

“Maus, can you help me with these straps?” König asked, gesturing to the buckled straps of his vest. “I can’t reach them.”

“I’ve got you sweet lil guy.” You chuckled, making your way over to him. You began to fiddle with the straps before he stopped you, abruptly turning to face you.

Königs cheeks became beat red as he stuttered out his words. "W-what?"

“Sweet lil guy? I meant it as a term of endearment Kö.” You blinked a few times, watching as your boyfriend’s face became as red as a tomato.

König couldn’t explain why.. exactly the name had him feeling so flustered. He was ANYTHING but small, in any regard, but he…liked the thought. It made him feel you didn’t find his large stature menacing, and the thought was comforting to him.

“Can you.. call me that again?”

Kyle Gaz Garrick-

“Damnit!” Kyle exclaimed, running his hands over his head in frustration. “I was so fucking close! I had him!”

"Did my sweet lil guy lose?" You chided, watching your boyfriend throw his controller on the couch in frustration.

“Yeah. I fucking did. I’ve been trying to beat that game all.. wait what did you call me?” Kyle whipped his head around to you, and it took everything in you not to laugh.

“My sweet lil guy is throwing a tantrum.” You giggled, watching as the corners of his lips turned upward. “Does baby need a kiss to make it better.”

Kyle nodded, his bottom lip pouting slightly. “I do.”

You bit your lip in amusement, before wrapping your arms around your boyfriend pulling him close to you. “I’ve got you baby boy.”

Kyle wouldn’t ever admit it, to anyone, but he certainly wouldn’t complain if you wanted to call him that again.

[obsessedwithceleste]

Daisy Chains and Kept Promises

George Weasley x reader

Based on this request🫶🏽

Summary: George Weasley was never one to break a promise. Especially not one sealed by a daisy chain ring.

word count: 3.2k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

It was the first sunny afternoon in what seemed like forever, but in reality had only been a few days, and the residents of the burrow were eager to escape onto the vibrant, green lawn.

“Fred, George you stay out of trouble now!” Molly shouted from the kitchen as you run out the door with the twins.

“Come on now, it’s our last summer before they ship us off to Hogwarts! We gotta make the most of it!” Fred replies, sprinting out to the shed where the Weasleys stored all their brooms.

“Hurry up Georgie, or I’m taking the good broom!” You tease as you race past the other boy, snatching the best broom from the rack before he has the chance to protest.

“Aw c’mon! Why’s she always get the good one?” Ron complains as he catches up with you all.

“Oh shut it Ronald,” George retorts, not bothering to give his youngest brother a second glance.

The four of you spend the afternoon zooming across the field, a beat up quaffle tossed between you in carefree bliss as the sun shines down on you and Ginny watches from the ground below.

Eventually you all tire and you find yourself lying in the shade of the old oak tree that loomed over the garden. Thankfully the rain had scared off the gnomes that had a habit of sneaking into the garden for a tasty treat.

“Show me how to make those daisy crowns? Like the muggles?” Ginny asks, bringing over fists full of the little white flowers.

“Not now Ginny,” Fred sighs, rolling his eyes at the young girl.

“No, no, we can do it now,” you argue, patting the ground next to you, gesturing for the younger girl to sit beside you.

“Yeah, let her stay,” George agrees, smiling fondly at you.

Fred snorts at his brother, eyes rolling once more.

“You always side with her, you’re supposed to be my twin! How are you two going to survive without each other?” Fred retorts, leaning back against the tree.

“It’ll only be a year, then y/n can join us in the fun,” George replies happily.

“Oh at this point you might as well just marry her,” Fred responds with a huff.

You feel your cheeks begin to grow red and you turn to focus all your attention on the young girl beside you, showing her how to intricately wrap the stems together to form a chain of daisies.

You’d known the twins for as long as you could remember. You’d practically grown up with them. Your father Remus did the best he could raising you on his own, he really did, but it was hard. Especially on full moons. The Weasleys always took you in on those nights, often resulting in you staying for days while Remus recovered.

George had had a soft spot for you since the beginning, always being the slightly softer twin while Fred was more severe and brash. You could remember a particularly bad night when it had been storming, the loud thunder making you shake with fear. George had stayed up with you all night, making sure the storm didn’t get you. You had been seven at the time.

It had started back then you supposed, your little crush. It had confused you at first as you had thought of all the boys as your brothers, but now, at the ripe old age of ten, you could tell that Georgie was different from the other Weasley boys.

“There!” George announces excitedly, shaking you from your thoughts as he brandishes a single daisy up into the air, its stem tied rather roughly in a small circle.

Without warning, he grasps onto your hand, sliding the makeshift ring onto your finger, looking rather pleased with himself.

“There. You’re my wife now,” he says proudly as you stare at the little flower adorning your finger.

“You didn’t do it right! You have to ask her to be your wife. Everyone knows that!” Ginny exclaims, watching the two of you with a dopey little grin on her face.

“Oh. Right. Y/n, will you be my wife?” Georgie asks, batting his eyes dramatically at you and sticking out his bottom lip.

“Yes I will,” you reply with a laugh, admiring the pretty daisy that now sat on your finger.

“You two are so gross,” Fred says, making a face.

“Oh, oh! Do the promises! The ones where you say I do!” Ginny urges excitedly, clapping her hands.

“Alright. Do you promise to always laugh at my jokes, always be there for me when I need you, and always take my side when we argue with Fred?” George asks.

Fred begins to make dramatic gagging sounds.

“I do.” You reply with a giggle as Fred just glares at you. “And do you promise to always make me smile, always protect me, and always make me hot chocolate when I can’t sleep?”

“I do.”

It was dark. The whole house was dark really. All the time. Dimly lit and constantly smelling like mold and rotting wood. And the furniture seemed to be permanently damp, the coldness settling into your bones.

You hated it here at Grimmauld Place. The constant shrieking of decrepit, old portraits, the eerie feeling of constantly being watched. The only positive attribute about living in this wretched place was the fact that Remus had never been happier.

It had taken months to do it, but after Harry had been able to help Sirius escape the dementors, Dumbledore had inconspicuously been able to move Sirius into Grimmauld place where you had been staying ever since.

It had been strange at first, no doubt. You had only just met the man, but he grew on you quickly. Like a fungus. You loved seeing how comfortable he made Remus who visibly softened whenever the other man was near. And you hadn’t seen Remus smile as wide or as often, well ever. You could tell that the two of them were just meant to be side by side, and honestly, that was enough for you. Especially in dark times like these.

“Lighten up love, we have a surprise for you before dinner,” Remus announces, entering the drawing room where you sat wrapped in a pile of blankets, a book in hand as you tried to ignore the screeching bag lady in entry way portrait.

“Is it another one of those horrendous sweaters that Sirius keeps digging up from somewhere?” You ask, nose scrunching at the thought of another one of the putrid smelling things being presented to you. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you detested the nasty things, so you had been giving them to Kreacher to dispose of rapidly. “I know I keep telling him that they’re lovely, but how many of the things does he think I need?”

Remus just laughs, shaking his head. “I’ve told him to move onto something else, but he’s determined to fill your wardrobe I think. But no. It’s not another sweater. For now at least. No, I do believe you’ll quite enjoy this little surprise.” He tells you before leaving you to your book and your thoughts.

Dinner time couldn't come fast enough as you eagerly eyed the clock every fifteen minutes, only to be disappointed by how little time had gone by.

About thirty minutes before the three of you usually ate dinner, you began hearing a chorus of voices coming from the entry way. And not the familiar voices of the Black family portraits.

"Well where is she then?" a loud voice asks.

Hearing the voice, you immediately perk up, not quite believing you'd heard correctly. This place might be driving you mad.

"Oh bloody hell mate, don't seem too eager now," comes the sarcastic response.

You'd know those voices anywhere. Practically throwing yourself from the couch, you eagerly scramble to the door and down the staircase to be greeted by the whole Weasley family grinning up at you.

"Look Georgie, there's your wife, don't get your knickers in a twist now," Fred scoffs.

You fly into George's arms, sighing contentedly as his arms wrap securely around you.

"Well hello to you too," you hear him laugh as he gives you another squeeze before releasing you.

You hadn't seen him, or the other Weasley's for that matter, in what felt like ages. He and Fred had grown their hair out, and you didn't quite remember them being so tall last you saw them. His smile never changed though.

Bashfully, you greet the rest of the Weasley bunch, even Fred giving you a quick hug, before rubbing the top of your head affectionately and effectively tossling up your hair. You stick your tongue out at the boy in response, batting his hand away.

"I missed you all, so much! I've been going absolutely bonkers being here alone for so long," you tell them.

"Well not to worry love, we'll be here all summer. Hermione too, though she's not coming for another few weeks." George tells you.

Feeling eyes on you as you laugh with the boys, turning to see both Sirius and Remus gazing at you intently, eyes flickering between you and George.

Sirius silently points at you, then George before drawing a line across his neck with his finger before giving you a wink. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks as you turn back to the boys.

"What are you all doing here?" you ask eventually as the adults begin to file into the kitchen.

"Came to be used as house elves of course," Fred replies, earning him a nudge from George.

"Mum said that Sirius volunteered the house to be headquarters for the Order," Ron butts in.

"Yeah, then mum volunteered us to help clean the place up," Ginny adds.

You make a face at that.

"We have a lot of work to do then, this place is disgusting," you tell them, leading them up the stairs to the room you'd been staying in. On your way up the stairs, George's hand never leaves yours, fingers intertwined as you guide him up the dusty staircase.

"Long as there aren't any spiders," Ron replies, eyeing the spiraling stairs with suspicion.

You just look back at the boy with concern, pity overtaking your face as his own face turns pale.

For once Grimmauld place was silent. A rare luxury you'd found, especially since the Weasley's had moved in. Not that you minded, the red headed family made the grim, old place feel alive and vibrant. Something you thought the it needed desperately. But you liked the quiet too.

It had been a strange couple of weeks as everyone, the adults especially, seemed to be on high alert. And who could blame them? Hermione had just moved in, sharing a room with you and Ginny. You could hear their breathing now as you stared up at the dark ceiling above.

After the Weasley's arrival, you had all spent countless hours decluttering Grimmauld place. Sweeping, dusting, banishing the more mouthy portraits to the attic. It was hard work, but you had loved every second of it with George making you laugh until you keeled over, tears streaming down your face. His presence just made everything better. You thought so at least.

In the darkened room, your mind drifts to the conversation you had heard between the adults just hours ago. It definitely wasn't a conversation you had been meant to overhear, but Georgie had given you a pair of extendable ears that he and Fred had developed, and you just couldn't help yourself.

"Oh really Sirius, they've all practically grown up together, George would never do anything to hurt her," Molly had said.

At the mention of George's name, you just had to find out what they were talking about.

"We never said he was going to do anything malicious, we just don't want to see her get hurt," Remus replied with a heavy sigh.

Her?

"They're practically adults, you can't protect her forever. So what if they fancy each other? They're not children!" Molly retorts.

"Oh that's rich coming from you. Just the other day you were going on about young witches and wizards rushing into marriage during the first war. And how many times have you told the twins that they're forbidden from joining the Order hmm? They're adults, Molly, you can't protect them forever," Sirius responds.

"Oh but at least I've done all I can to protect them up to this point. What have you done for y/n? Nothing. Because you've been locked up!" Molly spits. You can hear the fury in her voice.

Your fists ball up in rage at her comments. None of it was Sirius's fault. He didn't do anything wrong. How dare she?

"That's enough!" you hear Remus cut in, a sharpness in his voice that you hadn't heard before. "We weren't coming to attack George, or the way you raised any of the children. We were simply raising our concerns, as any good parents would. Now that we've made our point, if you don't wish to interfere, fine. We won't either."

After that the only thing you had heard was the shuffling of feet as they abandoned the dining room. They had most definitely been talking about you. No doubt about it. You hadn't realized they were concerned about you. They never said anything. And it was only Georgie. The two of you had been married for six years now. In all the ways that mattered to you at least. He would never hurt you. In fact, he'd made it a promise.

Mind racing and unable to sleep, you slip out of bed, careful not to make a sound as you slowly creep to the drawing room that you so often took refuge in. To your surprise however, a dim light was already flickering inside when you approached, and a familiar head of red hair sat facing away from you on the sofa.

"Georgie?" You whisper cautiously, not wanting to spook him.

His head turns in surprise, but his face lights up when he sees you.

"What are you doing this up this late, love?" he asks.

"I could ask you the same."

"Fair enough. Just a lot on my mind I suppose."

"Me too," you reply.

A silence falls between the two of you as you stand, watching mesmerized as the light flickers on and off of the boy's handsome face.

"Want me to make you a hot chocolate?" George asks finally.

A smile grows on your face and you instantly perk up at the mention of your favorite treat. George always knew how to put you to sleep, and he always made the best hot chocolate. Nodding enthusiastically, the two of you make your way down to the kitchen where George begins gathering supplies.

One thing you'd always admired about him was that he never minded doing things the muggle way. While Fred was always quick to magic his way through things, George was content taking his time.

"Help stir the milk so it doesn't burn?" he asks, gesturing to the pot now on the stove.

You silently take the wooden spoon from his hand, fingers brushing ever so slightly, before focusing on the task at hand. George sets out two mugs on the counter before helping you melt in the chocolate.

It all felt terribly domestic. As if there wasn't a sociopathic murderer on the loose. Like it was just the two of you.

It isn't long before George is pouring the dark liquid into the mugs, sprinkling in a few little marshmallows and a cinnamon stick or two and the both of you are retreating back up to the drawing room.

The first sip sends shivers of satisfaction down your spine as you lean into George who wraps his free arm around you. You pull a blanket over you and revel for a moment in the comfort.

"Care to share what's been on your mind?" George asks, breaking the silence.

"Only if you go first," you reply, not quite sure how to explain that he was really the only thing on your mind these days.

George just sighs. "It's nothing you we haven't told you before," He tells you. "Mum is just fighting for her life to keep Freddie and I out of the Order, but Moody agrees with us. We're of age. There's nothing she can do to stop us."

"Will you be safe?"

"Safe as can be. Mum has made sure they don't give us any real missions. Just patrolling Diagon Alley since that's where we set up shop."

You simply nod your head, letting it fall against the boy's chest as you feel his even breathing and let it overtake you. You'd never admit it out loud, but you were grateful for Molly to an extent. The twins had an abysmal lack of self preservation skills, and you didn't know what you would do if you lost Georgie.

"And what's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

You feel your shoulders shrug as you think carefully of what to say.

"I overheard our parents talking today," you mumble, not exactly sure where you were taking this.

"Oh?"

"Dads are worried about us," you tell him, hiding your face in his chest.

"Worried?"

"I dunno. They said something about your mum talking about how a lot of wizards and witches rushed into marriage during the first war, and there was a lot of talk about you being of age and what not. It got intense. There was a lot of yelling."

You feel George's chest rumble with soft laughter at your words.

"Well that's a silly thing to be worried about considering we've been married for years now at this point," he says.

You're not sure if he's joking or not. Maybe the exhaustion was finally getting to you.

"I'm being serious Georgie. I didn't know they were so worried about me. And Sirius sounded so upset," you reply, sitting up to take another long sip of your hot chocolate.

"So am I." he responds, looking you dead in the eye. The usual mischievous gleam is gone this time and you know he's never been more serious about something. "You know I'm not one to break a promise."

The air grows heavy as you feel yourself freeze for a moment at his words before you sink back into his warm embrace.

"I still have it you know. Your ring. Your mum charmed it for me so it wouldn't wilt. She knew all along," you tell him.

"She tends to have a sixth sense when it comes to these kinds of things."

Another silence falls between the two, but this time, the silence brings comfort as you feel your eyes growing heavy. George tries to stifle a yawn, but it escapes anyway. It was later then you had realized.

"I'm glad it's real for you too," you murmur, leaning further into the boy as your eyes flutter close. Something about being in George's arms provided a sense of security you couldn't find anywhere else.

"It was always real. I'd never break a promise to you, love."

bby's first non-slytherin boy fic🫣

don't ask me if I edited this- the answer is no and I don't want to talk abt it💀

tag list: @sol-lupin-black @breeistired

[emasstars]

broken glass

simon riley doubts his worthiness of having you | hurt/comfort(?)

sorry i was gone for so long. i haven’t felt motivated in a while. this is just an attempt to get back into writing. i’ve been working on various projects, abandoning them halfway through. was relatively proud of this, so i’ve decided to post it.

mentions of abuse. insecurities. i don’t know, tell me if i missed any.

He was born into a home of broken glass, every argument a shard, every silence a fracture.

Simon Riley had been born into chaos. His earliest memories were of screams that echoed through the halls of a crumbling home, the heavy thuds of fists against thin walls, the sound of a door slamming as his mother stumbled from the house, her face bruised and hollow. His father, always drunk, was a constant presence—a shadow, a monster—who only softened when his fists fell silent, usually in a moment of fleeting remorse, or more likely, when his anger was spent.

He was a man who was shattered like thin glass, a splinter that made you bleed and quickly pull your hand away like there was fire. He drew blood, his hands rough and calloused, a man too harsh to be loved. War was all he had, and all he’d known, even if he wanted to know better. He had so many questions, and yet he choked on the words as he tried to ask, instead opting to drown deeply in the cacophony of screams. He searched for peace, a man who’d never experienced such, echoes of gunshots ringing in his ears and never offering any silence. He was engineered by a system to survive, to endure, but never to heal.

Simon didn’t sleep anymore, or, if he did, it was never rest.

His whole life had been dedicated to violence, actively seeking it as much as he avoided it. He felt stained with the blood he drew, scars along his back only indicating the pain he endured rather than that which he caused. Simon was a man who was supposed to be dead, and yet, the cruel God which seemed to have cursed him refused to let such a thing occur. His soul cracked in ways he couldn't articulate, his body a crumpled map of all he'd been through. He’d gone through existence without ever living.

He sought for warmth and comfort, even though he knew he could never be worthy of such a thing. He was a man who stained the snow-lands a deep scarlet. He was a wreck of a man who broke everything with his touch, strangling flowers in his grasp.

Perhaps that was why he fell so hard for you. You were like a beacon of light, granting him some solace. Giving him sympathies which he didn’t deserve, yet he yearned for. His head rested on your chest as he listened to your heart beat, assuring him that you were real and you were here. Whispered confessions of love still left doubt in his twisted mind, convinced you’d find someone better than him. He was convinced you might leave, holding on tightly to you and treating you as best as a man like him knew how to.

He’d never had a proper role model for love, most of the things he knew having been learned from books he’d stumbled upon or movies he’d watched. He was a man with a wicked father, and no matter the care of his mother, that evilness he believed was deep inside him could never be cancelled out. Love was a foreign language to him.

After all, there was no escaping the ghosts that haunted him, for he was one himself.

And yet you made him believe it might be possible.

His harsh voice would whisper your name like a secret prayer, his hand with its scarred knuckles gripping your gentle hand tightly. Perhaps he was finally starting to believe you might not go anywhere.

One night, in the capture of the moonlight which snuck through the cracks of the pulled curtains, Simon asked, slightly more loudly than he intended to, “why do you love me?”

Fingers that were previously toying with his slowed to a stop, and you adjusted yourself to stare at him. “What do you mean?” you replied. Your brows were furrowed, confusion evident on your face, and yet Simon could swear you looked like a deity. A blessing, was what you were to him. Someone who managed to let him know that maybe he wasn’t as ill as he’d convinced himself he was, a carefully-crafted facade having broken down more as the months turned into years.

He sat up, not sure how to word it. He was a man of few of those, after all. He plainly answered, “exactly what I asked,” slightly shrugging.

You bit your lip, seemingly thinking for a moment. It felt like a stupid question. Why did anyone love anyone, after all? Why did he love you, you could even ask. You swallowed, deciding to softly say, “because you’re worth loving.”

And perhaps he might one day start to believe he is, especially of the love of yours. The moments of bared insecurity were rare, occurring in only the latest times of night, the moon the only other witness of the confessions. They were caused by exhaustion, barely recalled when the sun rose. Yet, each night it happened, as he let himself sometimes cry in your arms after a nightmare, or letting drops of pain drip out of his soul, he was slowly starting to believe your honesty when you said you would not leave.

When you said that you love him.

He was a man with a shattered ego which he’d tried to tape back together flimsily, yet you made new parts of him which were whole. Certain parts could never be filled, but as long as you were in his arms, the pains of his soul may slowly fade away into nothing but background noise, lullabies of your words drowning them out as delicate fingers ran themselves over his scarred and tortured body.

A hand rough from holding knives and guns could tend for flowers as well, he was slowly starting to learn.

[carl-tabora]

The Necron and the Baby

An-nakhrimun awkwardly stares at the tiny human in her hand, confused and unsure. The human stares back, extending tiny hands towards her while making incoherent noises, clearly unafraid of the soulless Necron.

What is she supposed to do, is she supposed to eat her? She quickly glances up, seeking instruction from the mature human couple, yet to her dismay only receiving their smiles.

Ever since awoke from the Great Sleep and subsequent exile by Illuminor Szeras, she has been drowning in despair and sadness, wallowing at the memory of her failing her entire species and the terrible fate upon herself and her mother. Landing her ship on this nameless planet, she sat upon the top of her ship's exterior and fell into unmoving catatonia, with only the maintenance of her mother, now a mindless warrior, drove her to act slightly.

Not even herself realized how long it had been, but before she realized, an alien race that called themselves “human” appeared. Time has been hard to grasp for An-nakhrimun, as the humans have been in a completely different state each time she paid attention to them. From colonizing the planet, building gleaming cities, fighting among themselves against their robotic servants, collapsing into primitivism, and rebuilding their society with even more inferior technology. She is the only unchanged constant on this planet.

Humans have long used to her presence, sometimes even scaling her ship to try to communicate with her. Now, with her ship buried under dirt, humans have built a park around her seat, these interactions only became more frequent. Sometimes when she pays attention, she could even see humans sketching her figure with primitive pen and papers.

Most of the interaction has been quiet and distanced, but only once, she was forced into physical confrontation.

On a heavy snowy night, two tiny humans, male and female, wearing tattered clothes, stumbled to her seat, cold and shaking. They have no home to return to, and in the winter’s chill, they will not see tomorrow’s sunrise. They embraced the metal alien lady, waiting to die, instead, they found a warm energy dome around her. An-nakhrimun, frozen in confusion and flustered at the tiny humans grabbing onto her, channeled a deflection shield to repel the coldness, in order to try scaring them away.

She sighed a silent relief when they finally left when the sun rise, and didn’t even realize just for that night, she paid so much attention to those two humans, she even forgot to wallow in her own sadness.

Since then, An-nakhrimun sometimes would find small trinkets and items on herself and her mother, scarf, small flower, sachet. She does not understand the purpose, yet keeps them as it might be of some significance she doesn’t get.

Now the two humans have matured, and they came to her with their own offspring, like a female feline eager to show its master what she produced, and asked her to join them on a “family dinner”.

The word sounds so foreign, yet so familiar. Though she lacks the flesh to consume food anymore, she remembers how her mother used to be smiling at the dinner table even with barely any food. She glances at her mindless mother, and allows both of them to be dragged out of the park.

The interaction with humans has distracted her from her own sadness, and she doesn’t hate it.

Yet, such a time would be short lived, as the current Terra time is 850.M30, and the 16th legion of power armoured genetic soldiers, serving the self-proclaimed Emperor of Mankind, will be arriving into the system in less than a year…

Scene art for client's tabletop campaign, depicting the pre-campaign story of Lone Cryptek An-Nakhrimun, who sat on a planet being depressed for 10k+ years until Great Crusade came knocking. And the baby that would become the origin of her fake human face.

Reddit Source

[vagabond-umlaut]

for love is flesh, it is a flower flooded with blood

you're ravishing while gojo is ravenous— rabidly so.

gojo x fem!reader; everyone is 18+ here; somewhat one-sided enemies to lovers; the summary explains more than any no. of tags can ever; tw: cannibalistic tendencies & blood & violence [nothing of the like happens tho!!]; tw: mentions of throwing up and being sick; SATORU IS PINING HERE, AND IT AIN'T A PRETTY SIGHT TO GAZE ON; he seriously needs to go to therapy; unestablished relationship; there's fluff too, dw; 2.5k wc

belongs to the series 'fictitious force' but can be read as a stand-alone if you wanna

fic title from 'poem of the end' by marina tsvetaeva // header from pinterest // divider by @/adornedwithlight // jjk isn't mine

gojo wants to eat you whole.

too ridiculous, even for him— is it not?

maybe... maybe not... the man does not know. he decidedly does not care— not when you're there beside him. seeming this delectable. an alluring treat for his palate— he's surer of this than of the ridges in his palms.

you stir in your sleep.

something gnaws at his heart. shifts in the hollow of his stomach.

strengthening when your features relax. worsening when your mouth twitches, its shape pleased. settling down when your mien flattens in its wonted neutrality.

gojo bites back a groan. only to sigh noisily when you shuffle closer.

years ago, were anyone to tell him that one day he would be seconds away from dying from pangs of an indescribable hunger— agonising, antagonising— for someone catnapping in the seat next to his. in an overcrowded train, sickeningly so, at 10 on a monday morning—

he would have punched the informer. perhaps sent them into a coma if the day wasn't treating him very well... but then again.

you're not just someone, are you?

a bite of candy: so crunchy. refreshing. sweet. when his brain is a bit too tired. a bit too sluggish. a bite of mango: its addicting sweetness dancing on his taste buds. trickling down the corner of his lips. more than welcome after a year of wait. a sip of hot chocolate: the warmth of the drink, homely and sweet. lulling him into a dreamless sleep as he nestles in his childhood blanket. a sip of water: supposed to taste bland, but tastes so sweet. sweeter than nectar, after training—

it's confusing, even for gojo.

but the man believes you'll taste akin a mix of all these he has listed—

he stops. and wonders. will this hunger of his be satiated if he steals away only a small taste of yours? it won't be anything much!! maybe not even a taste, now that he thinks about it... just a touch.

yeah.

yeah, yeah, yeah. it'll be one and only one touch. and nothing more—

can he reach out and caress your cheek once?

he can... obviously, he can. there is nothing he, the strongest, cannot! but... what if his need manifests claws.

what if his need tears at the delicate skin. gouges the soft flesh there — deriving an animalistic, depraved pleasure from the rivers of blood which would be flowing—

no sooner does the image flutter into gojo's mind, than he screws his eyes shut and resolutely burns it. brain already whirring with the next possible course of action. something better. something cleaner—

can he intertwine his fingers with you then?

they look so small. they look so pretty. just so perfect. as if they have always been meant to slip into the gaps between his fingers. erasing the emptiness from there. and from within the fissures formed in his self, for once and for all time— ah.

but what if he squeezes your hand too hard.

what if he bruises you and breaks your bones, in his attempts to allay his craving for you. to mitigate his madness for you. the violet colour blooming on your unblemished skin. the following crack! and crunch! of your frail bones beneath his unyielding grasp. beneath the teeth of his hunger—

no, no, never, never, never!

a wave of something bitter, something bilious rolls through the man.

he draws in a deep breath— and pauses.

gojo can't touch you without hurting you, but he definitely can lean in a little closer... and get a whiff of your perfume, right?

not anything much, it'll be nothing at all. and it isn't like, the moment he tilts himself towards you, he's going to grow fangs— fangs, all too ready to sink into the column of your neck. thirsty for the feel of your blood. the tiny beads of it on his tongue, sweet. yes, addictively so— and maybe, since he's already there... he can leave a loving sign from his side on your skin. dark red. enticing, but defintely not as much as the taste of you. certain to linger in his mouth. persist in his thoughts— conscious and everything not. even after it's been eons—

the train lurches to a sudden stop.

and with it, does gojo's vivid daydream as well— but he doesn't care.

not when the resulting clamour in the compartment has awoken you. not when your face is gaining a shade of upset. pretty cute, he thinks. but the man also believes such a sight isn't meant for these unworthy souls in this place, so...

how bad then, is it not? that he can do nothing about it. he can't blind these people. nor can he ask you to not make such a face. you simply won't take kindly to either of those—

thus leaving him helplessly watching. shamelessly staring.

the way your eyebrows scrunch closer. lips dip into a small pout, then break apart in a yawn. finally followed by your eyes blinking open. too bleary for such a bright morning, but to gojo, they appear to outshine the sun itself.

it takes you a beat to find your bearings. he waits patiently, keen eyes watching your every movement. every minuscule expression. another yawn spills past your lips, noisier than the previous. making the man's cheeks twinge from the growing stretch of his grin. ribs ache from his swelling heart.

you take another moment to focus your foggy mind on him. frowning as you do. gaze flitting from him to your loud fellow passengers, then back to him.

your frown worsens. gathers a pinch of concern.

"is... everything okay, senpai? you don't look too alright out there."

he doesn't!?!?

no. of-fucking-course, no.

he's the strongest sorcerer in the world, yes. there's no doubt about it— but even he is a little too weak to not grow weary when fighting his irrepressible urges to gorge himself on you...

realising he has been silent for a tad too long, gojo struggles to drag back his fading grin. before deciding to just let go of it. dropping his mouth into the most pitiful shape he can, he grumbles. sounding so aggrieved and in such a terrible pain.

"you seeing this compartment, darling? it's so cramped, so noisy, so very under-ventilated— it's making me wanna puke, babyyy!"

features crumpling up— he chooses not to probe why— you exhale a rather heavy sigh. and retort, "i never asked you to accompany me to work, senpai. you were the one who insisted. who invited himself— 's not my problem if you bite off more than you c— wait a second," you cut yourself off abruptly, eyes becoming rounder and tone turning an awful lot panicked, "you aren't really feeling nauseous, are you? i have few candies and a packet of crackers— you wanna munch on those??— or wait a sec, you can drink some water from my bottle— or... wait. i'll just get up and tell these people to move away. you need some air to breathe freely—"

"will you let me eat you?"

lights flickering, the train shudders into a sudden start.

but gojo's heart stumbles into a stop. when he realises he has spoken something he must have never let see the light of day. something the man must have never let reach you— you might always be wearing an awful tough exterior, but you're rather sensitive beneath it... innocent and sweet, the lamb to his wolf.

the man probably shouldn't, yeah. yet he allows his insides to twist in glee at the face you make— bathed in warm hues as you gape at him.

those brilliant eyes, wide and unblinking. lips parted, not-too-slightly. the rest of your body, so perturbed not one whole minute back, but a little too still now in that uncomfortable seat— gojo wants to... but he decides not to jerk you away from a state as this. it isn't everyday you let him drink the sight of you in a state as this.

it takes you much longer than he expected you to borrow to recover. thirteen seconds versus your usual three.

the train picks up speed in the backdrop.

your face slips behind its mask of placidity. but the concern wrinkling your forehead and furrowing your brows is clear as day for him to see. loud as bells for him to hear when you speak, tone quiet and adorably soft.

"i think you need some rest, senpai. we'll get down at the next station and i'll call ijichi-san to pick you up then drop you home, okay?— i will also ask ieiri-san to check you once— think you've caught some virus, or maybe it's just fatigue. that's why you're looking and feeling so sick— definitely why you're asking me such a question."

gojo doesn't need any foresight to know he will regret his next course of action. very much, if not more than that ask which slipped past the cracks in his defenses— but now? in this specific instant? he reckons he'll regret even more if he doesn't do what he wants to do.

what that hunger within him wants him to do— fuelled by your worry for him. care for him. disbelief for him. the impending doom wherein you'll leave him behind, leave him suffering—

a voice floats through the air, announcing the train to be approaching the next station.

slipping the bag onto your shoulder, you move to stand up. a precious urgency highlighting your actions as you do— only for him to encircle your wrist in his fingers. yanking you back into the seat, before you've even left it entirely. a noise akin a gasp, a stifled gasp, spills past your lips. pinching him, helped by the startled look offered alongside. gojo wills himself to ignore the pain, however.

every sense zeroing in on you. only you. as he tugs you even closer to himself. and murmurs, words uttered, slowly and carefully. meant for you and him only, and not for anyone else outside this bubble he has been building around you both.

"but what if i say you are why i'm so ill, and eating you is the only way i can get cured— will you let me eat you then, darling?"

"i..." you start. but then stop. you look a little breathless, gojo thinks. a little too weak perhaps. your placid mask, a little too close to cracking open, falling to the floor in pieces...

the signs are all gone albeit, before the man can etch any of them to his brain. before he can even know if he was just seeing things.

"senpai," you reply evenly, calmly, "we are deboarding the train at the next station for sure. i'll book a cab there and personally drop you off at the school, yeah? ieiri-san needs to—"

gojo whispers your name.

its syllables, too piercing. too pleading. too foreign on a tongue which has only ever called you by terms of endearment. utterly uncaring for how much you complain. uncaring for the rumors, you've always said his antics will give rise to, when there's actually no fire to give birth to the smoke.

hah, if you only saw the fire melting him from within.

he makes a move to call you by your name yet again. but you cut him off before he can. the pieces of your mask crumble into dust, turning into nothing before he can even register what is happening.

your lower lip trembles. just once. barely noticeably so. "you're crazy. stupidly, unbelievably, insanely crazy— you need to get help, senpai."

you're insulting him. lowkey, highkey, it doesn't matter. nothing does, except the fact you're insulting him.

he doesn't even think before he decides it too doesn't matter.

tightening his grasp on your wrist, he leans towards you. shaping his lips in a grin. maybe a bit too predatory, but eh. if you have read him well enough to suggest needing help, he trusts you to know the kind of reaction he will return.

grin wavering for a beat, when your blood gives a frantic push against his thumb pressing onto your artery, he retorts, "what if i say i'm in no need of any help? what if u say i need you— just you— will you permit me then, huh?"

you probably won't, few voices in his head state. studying the utterly stricken look you're offering him in answer. the man doesn't hesitate to choke them into an eternal silence.

you ask, "will i be okay if i say 'no', senpai?"

"i'm hurt you think you won't be," gojo snaps back with a frown. soft but biting, a pretty intentional action of his. you wince a little. words not even taking one whole second to from before bubbling out.

"okay, yeah— 'm sorry. i know you'll never force me— i'm really sorry," you repeat, features more distressed than he would ever like them to be— he lets his frown smoothen out.

face lightening, he notes your shoulders slump a little— before seeing the way your eyebrows huddle together. he acutely registers you shift closer to him. voice ringing in his ears when you state rather than ask, "but you won't be okay if i say 'no', will you?"

"no," the word escapes him, as quiet as a breath the moment the last syllable leaves you—

sucking in a staggering breath, he shakes his head. and repeats, "no. i won't be. i really need you to live at this point, baby. i know you will be thinking how i'm love-bombing you right now, but trust me— i cannot survive without you. i need—"

"— me. yeah, i get it," you interrupt him. as rudely as always, but gojo doesn't find himself offended. too lost in the breathless chuckles tied into your tone. you lean back away from him, an amused glint in your eyes, in your tenor as you hum, "i don't know if this was you flattering me enough to make me cave into your demands... but it's okay. yeah. fine— i'll let you eat me. devour me. or whatever poetic shit you're on about— just don't forget to slice my carotids before you do that, yes?— don't really wanna go through the pain or the mess of being eaten while alive, you see."

[agreeing to be eaten by him is not the same as agreeing to date him.

gojo knows this. tough to believe, but he does. he really, really does—

but who the hell cares.

definitely not him, as he scribbles both of your initials on his mission reports later in the day. a big plus sign linking the two pairs of letters, an even bigger heart encompassing them—

pen stilling over the paper, gojo pauses. and grins.

sure. agreeing to be eaten by him is not the same as agreeing to date him— the former's far more intimate. entails much firmer trust, much greater love—

after marriage, will he take your surname, or will you take his?]

hope this was an enjoyable read! pls don't plagiarise, translate or repost this ❤️❤️

masterlist

[sxftkxssxs]

How would the main5 reader being related to Lucio? As I would have a field day with that information

I tried to balance lighthearted and serious thoughts in this one, it likely doesn't come across as well as I'm seeing it at the moment since it is late.

I hope you enjoy anyways!

Asra

Asra is appalled by this information.

You, the absolute love of his life, who was killed, albeit indirectly, by Lucio, are related to him? That's fucked up.

He's absolutely not happy. Lucio's somehow managed to screw with every part of Asra's life. His parents, Muriel, and his partner.

If you decide to play protagonist and try to make everyone get along, they'll tease Lucio to hell and back five times over with this.

It does not help that Lucio doesn't like Asra the most. Why'd his relative pick the worst one?!

He holds it over Lucio's head the rest of his life. He'll find so many ways to say the same thing over and over again.

"This is karma for throwing my parents in the magical realms."

Julian

Yikes, this one is a little hard to grasp for me.

He'll likely make some sort of joke or jab at the information but don't be fooled. He's processing.

He decides he doesn't really know what to feel, except for a reasonable amount of lingering anger, like any normal person would.

Lucio force-fed him a plague beetle, they aren't exactly on, "sorry we cool?" terms.

If you don't mind that you're related to Lucio he'll tease you about it, if not he'll leave it alone.

He's not gonna be very happy go lucky with him, but with you he's all teasing, especially if you indulge in his scheming.

Nadia

This woman cannot get a break, can she?

She's internally trying to see the resemblance but her ability to depends on your personality.

If you're an absolute menace to the living breathing world, she absolutely sees it. If not, she's at a loss for how the two could possibly be from the same family tree.

She doesn't see you or your relationship any differently, whatever she had with Lucio is in the very far past, but Lucio is throwing a fit.

Why are you with HIS ex-wife?? MC??? Hey! He's talking to you, MC!

Muriel

Yeah, no. sorry.

We all have to remember what that man put Muriel through. Muriel obviously held every single action that happened in that colosseum against Lucio. As he should!!

If we're talking about early Muriel he's immediately running from the MC. Get away, shoo!

If we decide to talk about late or even post-upright Muriel, we can have a different outcome.

He'll be upset, confused, and likely very apprehensive. Inanna is there as a bridge between the both of you.

He doesn't want to see you any differently, and he doesn't. But how can one relative be the absolute worst person to grace the earth and the other be the best thing to ever happen to him?

Portia

She's surprisingly only slightly bugged about it.

That is the man who force-fed her brother a beetle and gave him the red plague.

But if her brother can put it in the past then she supposes she can too. (But you can swear she gives Lucio the nastiest look when he isn't looking..?)

She still has some trouble fully letting it go, but instead of a full on grudge its more like when your friend doesn't pay something back. She'll just bring it up every once in a while.

Teases you about being considered royalty, even if Lucio isn't count anymore.

Lucio

He's having a field day, greatest day of his life even! He's sorta got a mini him!

...Until you start out-menacing him, even if its only in certain ways.

who knew that ran in the family tree? Morga is losing her mind in the background

[snail-day]

Ugh rough day today but the brain worms are really thinking about how Kenjaku isn't really…discussed. Like he would be one of the worst fates to end up with. A true bad ending.

Walk with me here:

It had been a rough day—an endless stretch of time in the cold, lonely corridors of Suguru’s cult. Hunger clawed at your stomach; it had been a week since your last meal. Suguru had always been a man of routine, almost obsessively so. Meals were structured, never a punishment. For all his monstrous tendencies, even he didn’t stoop to that level of cruelty.

But something had changed.

You remembered the last time you saw him, his arms cradling you as your trembling legs barely supported you riddened with love bites and rope markings. His fingers carded gently through your hair, grounding you in the haze of bliss he’d left you in. Those were the moments when you almost didn’t mind him—when the world narrowed to the warmth of his touch and the soft rumble of his voice.

Yet, even in your haze, you’d sensed something was off.

“Things are going to change,” he’d murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “When I get back, I’ll fully integrate you into the family.”

The words had confused you, but your mind had been too muddled to press for clarity. You had only hummed softly in response, earning a rare, tender kiss on your lips. He’d even whispered, “I love you,” or at least you thought he had. Maybe your fuzzy mind had imagined it.

Because if he loved you, would he keep you locked away like this?

If he loved you, would he leave you to starve in the cold, barren room you now found yourself in?

The sound of the door unlocking jolted you from your spiraling thoughts. Hope surged within you, and you glanced toward the figure stepping inside.

It was Suguru.

Except…it wasn’t.

The man standing before you bore his likeness—the same inky black hair, the same dark eyes. But the warmth that once softened his gaze was gone, replaced by a cold, cutting cruelty.

“I guess we’re all tempted by the weak at some point,” he mused, his voice low and mocking.

Weak.

The word stung. Suguru had never called you weak, even when you knew you were. A barely-passable Grade Four sorcerer, your abilities were laughable next to his. Yet, he had always reassured you, made you feel as though you had value—whether you wanted him to or not.

“Sugu?” you whispered, your voice trembling as you crawled toward him, desperate to grasp at the man you knew.

But every instinct in your body screamed that this wasn’t him.

This was something else.

You froze mid-crawl, the icy floor biting into your knees as you stared up at the man who wore Suguru’s face. Something primal in you begged you to retreat, but your heart—so foolish and desperate—still reached for the only comfort it had ever known in this place.

The man tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he observed you. There was no affection in his gaze, only something cold and calculating, as though you were a puzzle he wasn’t sure was worth solving.

And yet, his lips curled into a smirk that felt almost familiar. Almost.

“Well,” he drawled, stepping closer, the heavy thud of his boots echoing in the small room, “it seems even a broken little thing like you knows who holds the leash.

Your stomach twisted at his words, your instincts screaming louder with every step he took toward you. This wasn’t Suguru. This wasn’t the man who whispered reassurances in the dark or cradled you like something precious, even when his touch made you feel like his possession.

But…wasn’t it?

The way his fingers brushed your cheek when he crouched down, his thumb tracing your trembling jawline—it felt like him. The warmth of his palm, the tilt of his head as he gazed at you—it felt too close, too familiar.

And yet.

“You’re pathetic,” he murmured, almost gently, his thumb pressing into your skin just hard enough to leave a faint sting. “But I suppose even trash can have its uses.”

You flinched, your mind reeling, trying to reconcile the cruelty in his words with the tenderness of his touch. Suguru never spoke to you like this. He’d mocked you, degraded you to a point where you needed him, yes, but never like this.

“Do you still respond to this?” he mused, his hand moving to your hair, tugging lightly as though testing a theory. When you instinctively leaned into the touch, he chuckled—a low, almost sinister sound.

“Interesting.”

You swallowed thickly, your voice barely a whisper. “Suguru?”

His expression shifted, the smirk faltering for just a moment. His hand stilled in your hair, and something unidentifiable flickered in his eyes.

“Not quite,” he said finally, his tone more amused than anything else. “But I suppose some part of him left a mark on you. Or maybe it’s just this body’s muscle memory.” He tapped his temple with his free hand, almost mockingly. “A pathetic vestige of sentiment.”

You didn’t understand. You didn’t want to understand.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice trembling as tears stung your eyes. “Why are you—”

“Why am I keeping you alive?” he interrupted, his smirk widening as he released your hair and stood to his full height. “Because it seems even this body recognizes some…value in you.” He gestured vaguely toward you, as though you were some pitiable thing he was forced to tolerate. “And who am I to deny such an intriguing experiment?”

Experiment.

The word hit you like a punch to the gut.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, his tone almost playful now as he paced the room. “You can stay here, in this little cage, and continue playing the obedient pet. Or…” He turned to face you, his smile sharp enough to cut. “You can try to run.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement, and you realized with a sinking feeling that he wanted you to run. Wanted to chase you down, to drag you back just to prove you were his to control, no matter what Suguru—or whatever part of him—might have felt for you.

The room felt colder than ever as you knelt there, trembling, your mind racing.

And Kenjaku just watched, waiting for you to break.

His words coiled around you like a noose, tightening with every second of silence. You sat frozen on the cold floor, his gaze piercing through you, daring you to make a decision.

But there wasn’t a choice, not really.

The walls seemed closer now, the air heavier. You felt suffocated under the weight of his presence, of the way his dark eyes pinned you in place. And yet, something deep within you—some spark of defiance you didn’t know you still had—urged you to move.

Slowly, your trembling legs carried you upward, your body screaming in protest after days of starvation. Kenjaku tilted his head, his smirk never faltering, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he watched you stand.

“Ah, so you choose freedom?” he murmured, his tone almost gentle. “How bold.”

His amusement only spurred you on. You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond; your focus was singular now. The open door loomed behind him, tantalizing in its simplicity. It felt like a cruel joke, how close it was, how easily you might reach it if you could just make it past him.

You took a step back, testing his reaction. He didn’t move, his smirk widening slightly, as if this was all part of his game.

Then you ran.

Your bare feet slapped against the cold floor, your breath ragged and desperate as you darted toward the door. For a fleeting moment, hope surged in your chest. You were fast enough, weren’t you? He wouldn’t expect you to—

A hand closed around your wrist like a vice, yanking you backward so violently you stumbled. You barely registered the pain as you hit the ground, a choked cry escaping your lips.

Kenjaku loomed over you now, his expression a mask of bemused cruelty. His fingers tightened around your wrist, dragging you back toward him as easily as if you weighed nothing at all.

“Did you really think it would be that simple?” he asked softly, crouching beside you. His voice was almost tender, as though he pitied you for your naivety. “You’re free to try again, of course. I do enjoy a good hunt.”

You whimpered, tugging weakly against his grip, but it was no use. His strength was inhuman, far beyond anything you could hope to overcome.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “But next time… I won’t be so kind.” Pressing a light kiss to your cheek that made your skin crawl. 

The words sent a chill down your spine, and when he pulled back.

“You’re a fascinating little pet,” he mused, tilting his head with a frown as though examining you for flaws. “But pets do get boring, don’t they? Perhaps Mahito would enjoy you for a while.” His smirk widened, his dark eyes gleaming with malice. “He does love little humans like you.”

Your stomach churned, terror coiling tightly in your chest as the name left his lips. You weren't sure who that was, but you had a feeling you didn't want to know. You wanted to scream, to fight, to beg, but all you could do was tremble as he stood, releasing you only to brush his hands off casually, as though you’d dirtied him.

“Rest well,” he said, his tone mocking. “I’ll let you know if I decide to keep you.”

And with that, he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat there in the darkness of the room, shaking as the full weight of his words sank in. Escape wasn’t an option. Resistance wasn’t either. You were nothing more than a toy, a passing amusement, and now, you would have preferred the obsession compared to this.

Perhaps you would have learned to love Geto Suguru more to prevent whatever this was.

[yoonjae20]

Ric(hard) Fenton; Part 3

Read on ao3.

Masterlist. Previous. Next.

For several minutes after Jason gently laid Dick down, Jason just sits there, head in his hands as his world falls apart around him. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes — it could have been minutes or hours until he pushes himself to stand. He hesitates at the door, looking over to where Dick and Danny are laying. Dick must have moved during his sleep because he has a hand grasped around the hem of Danny’s shirt. They look so peaceful like that — but the sight of Danny screaming as he gets repeatedly electrocuted and Dick’s face twisting with pain is still burned into his retina. The pit rage roars at the sight. 

He leaves the building, hoping that he’ll be able to find his way back to it as he sneaks through the empty streets of Amity Park once again. He keeps to alleyways and stays out of the open, shoulders tense as he tries to make not a single sound. The city feels like a maze and the longer Jason trots through it, the more he wishes that he would have at least waited until Dick woke up — he has not a single clue where he is supposed to find an Ecto-Dejecto. The only clue he has is that Danny’s parents are crazy enough to build a portal into their basement — so he can only hope they are also eccentric enough that their home would stand out in the rows of family homes.

Now if he could only find his way out of the more commercial and industrial district of the town so he doesn’t have to stare at more skyscrapers, that would be great. Whoever decided on this infrastructure deserves hell. And he can’t even use the rooftops to orient himself from a higher vantage point because he of course forgot to bring his grapple hook with him and the skyscrapers are so high that even if he found a building with a fire exit ladder, they would block his view anyway. 

Suddenly the hairs on his neck stand up on their own and Jason pulls his gun, about to shoot until he comes face to face with the Blob Ghost from before. He blinks away the Pit Rage, perplexed as the ghost nuzzles his cheek, radiating safe, happy, protect. 

“Hey buddy,” Jason says, weirdly not being creeped out about the feeling of the ghost on his skin. “Think you could help me out?”

Confused, wary, scared.

“Do you know where Danny’s home is?”

Recognition, proud, excited.

“You do?” Jason feels a bit like a nut-jub talking to the ghost considering it can only communicate through emotions, but he still follows as it floats away. Better than wandering around lost even if it might lead him to the wrong house. He can start from there, if need be. 

It’s a bit hard navigating the city with a ghost as his tour guide, considering it just phases through the buildings in its path, leaving Jason to scramble after it. It takes every bit of Bat Training for Jason to follow in its step and to not lose it. He slowly starts to understand what Dick and Danny meant by Blob Ghosts being a bit stupid — they seem to have a single-minded focus. If Jason lost sight of it, he doesn’t think the Blob Ghost would notice until he arrived where the hell it is leading Jason to. 

By the time they come across the house he’s more than out of breath and sweaty. He stares at the big, bold sign titled “Fenton” and the large — whatever that is supposed to be on top of the roof and decides — yeah, there is no way this isn’t Danny’s home. The Blob Ghost makes a beeline towards it and disappears inside. 

Jason goes up to the door and to his surprise it’s not even closed, but slightly ajar. He knits his eyebrows together — remembering how the one agent told Dick they had taken the Fenton’s from their home. As Jason steps into the house it becomes clear that there was some kind of struggle — a broken vase on the floor, several holes in the walls — obviously the Fenton’s hadn’t just offered themselves up. He glances at the photos of the wall as he searches for the basement door, finally able to put faces to the names. 

Even from the pictures it’s easy to tell that they are a chaotic family and Jason is surprised to see that the latest picture includes Dick, the man standing between Danny and his sister as he beams at the camera. He wonders if the picture was made before or after the man regained his memories. 

Despite the situation he is in, Jason can’t resist snooping around as he inspects the inside of the house — while he might not like to admit it, he’s still a Bat after all. There’s a half-assembled invention on the kitchen table next to a carton of milk as well as a box of cereal and ghost magnets pin a class schedule on the fridge. By the looks of it seems like it might be Danny’s. Jason almost steps into the shards of a broken bowl as he steps closer to read through it and he gags as the smell of spoiled milk hits his nose. 

He steps back and tries covering his nose with the hem of shirt to no avail. His eyes trail the destruction from the kitchen to the front door. They probably overwhelmed whoever opened the front door before moving into the kitchen and surprising the other two. With the amount of agents they have, the Fentons had no chance.

He moves through the kitchen, side stepping the mess on the floor and finally finding the door leading down the basement. If he thought the rest of the house was messy but obviously lived in, the lab looks even worse. Mad Scientists fits the bill well — there isn’t a single surface that isn’t covered with either some suspiciously glowing chemicals, flasks, inventions or wires and machinery. And that isn’t even talking about the swirling portal that looks like a nightmarish Lazarus Pit. 

He sees the Blob Ghost floating in front of it before it enters it, leaving Jason behind.

Jazon drifts to the computer and his eyebrows rise to the top of his hairline as he realizes it’s not even password protected. He decides against snooping in their files — he already lost enough time as is. He searches for Ecto-Dejecto and feels baffled when the blueprints detail it being a literal syringe with the words Ecto-Dejecto printed on it. He looks around the mess and lets out a big sigh — here’s to finding the needle in the haystack. 

It takes him way too long to find where they store the serum. Jason thought the Batcave had many gadgets, but it’s nowhere close to the amount the lab holds. There’s also concerningly amount of weapons, making it obvious the Fentons must have been Ghost Hunters at some point in time — but he trusts Dick’s judgment of character. Dick would have never let Danny stay in this home if he was at risk of getting hurt by his parents. 

Also Danny made it clear that most of the town, along with Jason and Dick themselves are liminal and he can’t imagine that the Fentons didn’t used to have alarms or internal defenses against ghosts or as Dick calls them “ectoplasmic entities” — especially with an open portal to the Infinite Realms. They would have been activated by now if they were still any. 

He pockets the serum and makes his way back upstairs. Now to the bigger problem. How the hell is he supposed to find his way back to where he left Danny and Dick? He doesn’t have a guide anymore and he took so many twists and turns to follow the Blob Ghost that he lost all orientation. Not even speaking about the fact that he had wandered the town before that.

Jason sighs before he shakes his head. He doesn’t have time to hesitate, he just has to pick a direction and hope something seems familiar so he can retrace his steps from there. Mind made up, he heads across the street, but before he is able to duck back into an alleyway, something heavy hits his head. He has barely enough time to see a blurry white outline before he passes out. 

Bruce is already in the Batplane as Tim explains the situation and the information he found out. Damian had insisted on coming with Bruce but he hadn’t relented. He already put two of his sons at risk because he made a mistake — he will not be doing another that will lead to their death again.

The comm line is charged with tension as Bruce mans the plane to fly to Amity Park at record time and Oracle directs him so he doesn’t interfere with any commercial flights. In the meantime Tim works on activating the tracker on Dick — after Bruce got lost in the time stream, everybody but Jason — Bruce hadn’t asked him although he wanted to — had agreed to wearing a tracker at all times as an emergency beacon in case they disappeared or got kidnapped. 

He has a location once he sets down outside the city, leaving the Batplane behind. The sun will rise in an hour — he only has a small time window. 

“Oracle, do we have eyes?”

“Negative, something seems to be interfering with the signal.”

Bruce grunts and the sign he walks past almost seems to be mocking him. ‘Amity Park — It’s calm here.’

“Avoid people in white suits at all cost,” Tim informs Bruce just in time as he ducks into an alleyway and hides behind a garbage can as a group of agents holding strange blasters walk past it, discussing something.

“I always thought Operative O was too cocky — he had it coming.”

Someone snorts.

“No one will be missing him, for sure.”

Bruce knits his eyebrows together as the voices fade. A casualty on their side? Jason, Dick and Danny have only been in Amity for mere hours. How has something already gone wrong?

“Did you copy that Red?” 

“Copied. Operative O is one of the main agents assigned to Amity Park. He’s…” Tim hesitates rarely and it’s enough for Bruce to know that the man must be a big deal. “...rogue material.”

“Hood then,” Bruce affirms and strangely doesn’t even feel angry about the fact. “ETA for the signal?”

“15 minutes if you stay on the ground, 10 if you use shortcuts.”

“I’ll make it in 5.” Bruce aims his grapple at one of the roofs and swings himself up. They have no idea in which state they’ll find Dick in — according to Tim his signal has been stagnant for the last two hours. There’s also no guarantee that either Jason or Danny will be with him. “Prepare the Batplane for extraction.”

“Copied.”

Bruce runs across the rooftops, barely giving himself time to think as he hurries in the direction of the signal, using his grapple to catapult himself forward even as it strains his arms and shoulders. He slides down using the cord of the grapple, using minimal time to make sure they aren’t agents waiting in ambush before he storms into the building. 

He’s barely two steps in before Danny lunges at him with an animalistic snarl, Bruce narrowly evading with a backward roll and getting cornered as his back hits the door. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture and it’s all he can do as the boy heaves with exertion, claws barely prickling his neck and drawing blood through his cowl. 

The boy’s pupils narrow into slits as he takes in Bruce and bares his teeth at the man, sharp canines revealing themselves— and if he didn’t know better from Tim, he would think the boy is some kind of feline meta. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Bruce says calmly, eyes wandering to Dick’s prone form, but Danny instinctively blocks his vision, taking a few steps back. 

“And why should I believe you?” Danny growls, distrust in his eyes. 

Bruce frowns, mind reeling. 

“I don’t hurt kids.”

Danny barks out a bitter laugh. 

“Right,” he says sarcastically. “Only the bad ones.” 

Bruce knits his eyebrows together, staying quiet. 

“You are the one that implied I’m dangerous, that I need to be ‘vetted’,” Danny quotes and Bruce eyes widen — how long had the boy known? How did he find out? Did Dick tell him? — “See? Bet you are thinking of how to shut me up by now.” 

Bruce’s thoughts screech to a halt. 

“See that’s a difference between you and me. While my instinct is to trust, yours is to distrust,” Danny spits out. “But apparently not when it’s about me being a potential villain.”

“If you know I’m also Bruce Wayne... Why…” Bruce is almost afraid of the answer. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“BECAUSE YOU ALMOST KILLED ME!” Danny blurts out, panting hard before he folds into himself, voice barely a whisper. “You almost killed me — dropped me off like- like a pig to be slaughtered.” 

Danny tears his shirt down in frustration, revealing gnarly, twisted scars — a vivisection scar.

“You want to know why I don’t trust you? This is what you did to me — you and your goddamn team of heroes.”