#flat intellect

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

@ivxliwh

[SWAP-EUCLID blinks a few times before rolling his eyes.]

OH, IT'S THE WEIRD, SQUISHY, NOT-BILLY. THOUGHT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO ARGUE WITH ME ANYMORE, OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU INSOLENT, UNENLIGHTENED MORONS. I HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME?!

*holding @euclidean-geometry-supremacy all tied up*

We have our patient :)

Call the troops over

- 🦊

Oh, good! Everybody, the guest of dishonor is here!

@papafords-childrenshome @ivxliwh @the-muses-puppeteer @henchmaniac-ford

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

oh god not another one-

[ @ivxliwh ]

I COULD SAY THE SAME ABOUT YOU. LET ME GUESS: DESTROYED YOUR DIMENSION BUT DIDN'T HAVE THE DECENCY TO SAVE YOUR PARENTS? TYPICAL.

[natalievoncatte]

There was something decidedly… insistent about Lena’s footsteps. Kara knew it was her, of course, when she picked up Lena heading towards her apartment. Not just her heart rate but her breathing and mumbling to herself and the way she walked, her footfalls painting a picture of how she was walking, and she was mad.

Kara expected a complaint when she opened the door. Lena would sometimes launch without preamble into a rant about this investor or that senator or some such executive at this or that company and just rant adorably, balling her little fists. Kara would never tell her, because she’d feel patronized, but Lena genuinely was cute when she was angry.

Well, annoyed. When she was really angry, throwing a fit angry, fed up with the world angry, she was something else entirely. Kara would move heaven and earth, quite literally, to address whatever bothered her. When she was sad it was even worse and Kara just wanted to bundle her up in her invulnerable arms and shelter her from everything forever.

Lena walked into the apartment, not looking at Kara, and clearly fuming. She dropped the order she’d picked up on the way into the kitchen island and stared at it, then finally glared at Kara. There was no mistaking the subject of her anger.

Kara fidgeted nervously. She shifted on her feet, feeling a pressure of Lena’s gaze that forced her own away.

“Lena? Is something wrong?” She swallowed, hard. “Bad day?”

“Something is wrong,” Lena said, very softly, in the icy tone she reserved for the fools she did not suffer gladly. “Take off your glasses.”

“What?”

“Take off your glasses, Kara.”

“But I can’t see…”

Lena stepped forward and put her hand on the takeout order in its plastic bag. Kara had ordered it and Lena had agreed to pick it up, far from be first time they’d done that. Lena often ordered for them and Kara brought it when Lena was hosting.

Right now Lena was trembling, head tilted forward like she meant to charge, eyes locked on Kara.

“Glasses. Off.”

Kara hesitated briefly.

“Okay,” she muttered, screaming at herself not to do this, pleading for some kind of distraction.

All she wanted to do tonight was curl up with Lena on the couch and watch a movie and focus very very hard on not giving away how badly she wanted to make out with her.

Kara slowly took the earpieces in her hands and slipped them off, setting the too-heavy frames on the table with a soft clunk. The word rushed in, sounds more vibrant and distracting, colors almost unpleasantly sharp.

Lena was staring at her. Her nostrils flared and her fists clenched. She took her hand from the food bag and took another step forward, then another, finally picking up the glasses in her own hand, feeling them. She raised them as if to put them on and stared through them.

“For someone who says she’s blind without them, these glasses don’t have a very strong prescription, do they.”

Possibilities raced through Kara’s mind. Things she could say, things she might do. She’d squeaked out of this before, somehow evaded Lena’s staggering intellect. She had seen curiosity darken her brows, maybe even brief moments of suspicion.

This was different. Heavier. More serious.

“What gave me away?”

“Everything, really. All the pieces were there this whole time, but I just refused to put them together on my own. It took a flat out slap in the face to make me choose to see it.”

Kara’s chest felt like it was caving in. Everything was going wrong. Her chin quivered and the tears began welling hot behind her eyes.

Lena looked at her flatly. “The guy at the take out place asked me why I was picking up Supergirl’s order. I asked him what the hell he was talking about and he told me Supergirl comes on all the time. Then he showed me a selfie.”

Kara licked her lips.

“It has to be a mistake.”

“They have your number on their speed dial as Supergirl, Kara. You let their delivery kid take a selfie in your suit. They wouldn’t let me pay for it. The old lady that owns the place said ‘Supergirls girlfriend, no charge!’ and started laughing.”

Kara stared at her.

“Lena…”

“You better have a good fucking explanation for why your favorite restaurant knows who you really are and not your supposed best friend.”

The tension in their air was palpable, electric. Kara could feel it like the gathering energy in the air before a storm, ready to burst forth with energy and life or mindless destruction. She folded her arms around herself and looked down.

“You do know me,” Kara finally said. “You do know who I really am. You’re the only person who does.”

Lena’s extension was fixed, intense, edging between a scowl and a pout, and Kara realized with a start that she was holding back tears of her own.

“You’re the only person that knows me as me. You know me without Supergirl, but without all the fake stuff I do so people won’t realize I’m Supergirl. I don’t have to pretend to be clumsy with you. You’re not always looking at me like I’m super strong or super fast. I can just be me when I’m with you.”

“You’ve lied to me so many times,” Lena said, after drawing in a deep breath. “Running away from our lunches, telling me wild stories about where you disappear to at work, and I just bought every bit of it. You must think I’m an easy mark.”

“No, never.”

“I’ve always had it in the back of my head. I always thought there was something there, something between us that kept you from really, truly being yourself with me. The way your touches are always so whisper-light and you’re always stealing glances at me. Like you were afraid with every word or movement that you’d give something away.”

“Lena,” Kara began.

“I knew you were hiding something. I had hoped it was something else.”

Kara licked her lips. She quickened her perception, a little trick of will that took her out of sync with the humans around her, processing the world at her natural speed, which made her peers seem almost frozen in place by comparison.

She took this drawn out instant to really look at Lena, truly take her in, savor what she was seeing because it might be the end. She was suddenly heavily, painfully aware that this might be the last time she ever looked on Lena in person.

Great father Rao, she was so beautiful. Not hot or pretty or even gorgeous or sexy, beautiful. She was dressed for the autumn chill in a pea coat and turtleneck and black leggings and her hair was down, letting itself soften into her natural waves. She was without makeup, and Kara suddenly realized that she only ever saw Lena without makeup when she meant to be alone with Kara. When she was her most pure, most true self.

Kara slowed herself again and as she did the world sped up, and she drank in the soft sadness in Lena’s blue-green eyes and all of those things she’d pushed deep down came bubbling to the surface: imagined sighs and the feeling of that lustrous inky hair slipping through her fingers, her name whispered on pillowy lips.

Human thoughts. Alien thoughts. Desires no Kryptonian should even apprehend, much less indulge. The very idea of the non-procreative act was shameful, and to develop these emotional entanglement…

Kara had once mourned her failure, for she had been charged with preserving the ways of her people. Her first command had been to keep Kal Kryptonian.

A task she had failed even within herself.

“You hoped it was something else?”

Lena looked at her so sadly and so sweetly and swallowed.

“Yeah,” she said in a thick voice, “I kinda did.”

Kara smiled in spite of herself. When she sighed, it was as if the weight of a world slid off her shoulders.

“Can’t a girl have two secrets?”

Lena’s eyes widened.

“One day a long time ago, very very far away, a young Kara looked over her shoulder and watched the shockwave shatter the crust of her planet as its core exploded. She lost everything. Her world, her family, her culture, so many things. Tastes. Colors. Places. All gone.”

Lena wrapped her arms around herself, averting her gaze.

“I knew I’d lose you eventually. I just wanted to keep you as long as I could.”

Lena reached up and rubbed at her eyelids with her fingers.

“Do you remember when your mom’s goons threw you off the balcony?”

“Yes,” said Lena.

“Do you remember how I held you when I caught you?”

“I do.”

“I wish I hadn’t lied. I wish I’d never put you down.”

Lena said nothing and did not look up. Kara could hear her heart racing, practically feel the tension in her limbs across the room.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I lied. I’ve always known I could never keep you, I just didn’t want to make it end.”

Lena looked up with tear-wet eyes.

Then she lunged across the room, crossing the gap between them in long strides. Kara Danvers -Kara Zoe-El, Supergirl- was caught almost completely off guard. It wasn’t until Lena was practically charging into her arms, leaping into her, that she remembered to cushion the impact, catch her gently and make sure she didn’t slam herself into an unyielding wall of Kara.

She was so surprised, so shocked into helpless acceptance, that she didn’t offer the slightest residence when Lena reached, grabbed her neck in a firm hold, and pulled her into a kiss. Kara’s stomach did a backflip and she was helpless, undone despite all her strength. For a moment both their eyes opened and they looked at each other in a wordless exchange and Kara began kissing her back in earnest. Lena’s sharp breaths and soft moans instantly kindled a hot need inside her, thrumming like a plucked guitar string, and she effortlessly lifted Lena onto the kitchen counter.

“Holy shit, you’re strong,” Lena breathed.

“Of course I am,” she whispered into Lena’s kiss. “I’m Supergirl.”

And at long last, Kara found something she wanted to taste more than potstickers.

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

...Huh. Could've sworn he was here.

[SWAP-EUCLID looks at TRICKSTER-TRIANGLE. There doesn't seem to be any sort of malice behind his eyes.]

...Have you seen my son, by any chance? He looks like you, but a bit smaller, and also has a scar? Still confused as to how he got it...

@trickstertriangle

[SWAP-EUCLID floats back into the room, carrying one (1) HUGE TUB OF COOKIE DOUGH ICE CREAM.]

Billy! Your friends took me somewhere else, but I got bored so I snuck away. I got you some ice cream!

(@euclidean-geometry-supremacy)

*There is definitely not a loud screech from underneath tt’s bed that a triangle is definitely not hiding under*

[chewingbatmanlikeasqueakytoy]

Danny should absolutely rip on the Flashes

Realistically, Danny meeting the flashes and having any of them deny the existence of magic/saying "magic is just science we don't understand yet" should be met with ENDLESS mockery. Like come on The flashfam WORKS with gods, magic users, some of the JL/JLD are literally demons and ghosts. Diana/WW was MADE FROM CLAY in some canons!

Scepticism on that level should ABSOLUTELY be met with "I didn't know the Justice League worked with flat earthers" Type scorn. The burns should be third degree. The fatalities wide spread. No one who lives in a world with that much evidence of magic should be allowed to carry "magic isn't real" as an opinion and not be derided for having their head in the sand. As I understand it the scepticism comes out of the flash comics from like, the 60-80's which fair but the other heroes stories had to accommodate for each other when the crossovers started happening so I feel it's only fair to have men of logic like the flashes (so many of them are scientists of some type right?) deduce that yeah magic has to be real ESPECIALLY - When any of the magic users, ANY OF THEM - Could respond with a very simple: "Magic is science you don't understand." "What?" "I understand exactly what I'm doing. I understand exactly what I need to do to get repeat results, and I understand what not to mix not to get undesirable results. What about that implies a lack of understanding? Magic isn't something WE don't understand, magic is something you don't understand."

I enjoy the idea of the flashes being sceptics, I actually enjoy it a lot. Sceptics are very necessary to any narrative, but honestly the magic users deserve a chance to call them out because really having someone call your life's work and very real craft 'not real' 'hoaxes' and essentially parade it around as something they could come to understand better than you if they just looked into it but have made no effort to would be enough to make anyone break their teeth from clenching their jaw so hard.

Essentially early days flashes as sceptics makes total sense. The flashes continuing to have "magic isn't real" as an opinion for too long into the story gives them Flat Earther Level Intellect.

[aventurineswife]

In keeping with Amphoreus’s classical mythology vibes: can we get headcanons for Dan Heng, Phainon, and Castorice with a sorcerer/sorceress!Reader? Like, in general, Reader is a reasonable person, incredibly pleasant and hospitable, even — but if someone was dumb enough to seriously piss them off, Reader might just turn them into a guinea pig or a sprig of mint (like that one time some snobby researcher from the Garden of Life insulted them, and got turned into a dandelion for it). 💀

The Art of Restraint

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Castorice x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Sorcerer!Reader, Humor, Magic/Spellcasting, Fluff, Angst (light), Power Dynamics, Camaraderie, Lighthearted Revenge.

Warnings: Mild Violence (Transforming people into inanimate objects or plants, though it’s more comedic than harmful), Mild Dark Humor, Mentions of Death, Mild Mentions of Abuse/Insulting Behavior, Mild Language, Complex Power Dynamics.

Dan Heng is cautious by nature, and when he first meets you, he keeps a respectful distance. He’s heard stories of sorcerers and their power, and while he’s not afraid, he’s certainly wary. But after traveling with you for some time, he realizes you’re one of the most level-headed and kind people he’s ever met.

He admires your intellect and meticulous approach to magic. You remind him of a scholar more than a mystic—studious, analytical, and measured. He often listens in quiet fascination when you talk about the ancient laws of sorcery, the flow of energies, or the myths behind different spells.

He once made an offhand comment about disliking mint tea, and you, ever the playful one, asked if he had some deep-seated trauma involving an unfortunate sorcerer’s wrath. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer, which only made you more curious.

The first time he saw you turn someone into a plant, he nearly dropped his spear. Some overly arrogant researcher from the Garden of Life had been sneering at you, calling your magic "a parlor trick compared to true botanical science." With a serene smile, you flicked your fingers—and poof, he was a dandelion.

Dan Heng sighed. "Was that really necessary?" he asked, though there was no real judgment in his tone.

"He’ll turn back in a few hours," you assured him. "And maybe he’ll be a little more polite next time."

Over time, Dan Heng grows to trust you deeply. He appreciates your sense of justice—you never use your powers recklessly, only when absolutely necessary (or when someone’s behavior is so insufferable that even he considers it justified).

If you ever tease him about turning him into a dragon/reptile so he can match his past self, he just gives you a flat look. You swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

He’s not much for words, but he does find subtle ways to express his affection—bringing you rare books on ancient magical traditions, making sure you have the finest quality ink and parchment for your spellwork, and standing silently by your side whenever you need backup.

If he ever did get truly angry at someone for harming you, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike. But he’s also completely at peace knowing that, if it came down to it, you could handle things yourself… possibly by turning the threat into a rather unfortunate beetle.

Phainon is delighted to meet you. He has nothing but admiration for sorcerers and scholars, and he finds your magic incredibly cool.

"Oh, you’re a sorcerer? That’s amazing! I’ve read about the ancient schools of magic from Aedes Elysiae, but I’ve never actually worked alongside one before!" He asks about your magic constantly, eager to learn about everything from incantations to alchemical concoctions.

Unlike others who might be wary of your abilities, Phainon has no fear whatsoever. If anything, he enjoys watching you cast spells. He thinks magic is an art, and you are its finest artist.

The first time he sees you turn someone into a plant, he bursts into laughter. Some arrogant noble had insulted you, sneering about "uncivilized sorcery" while flaunting their wealth. You smiled, whispered an incantation, and in an instant—poof. A rather unimpressive sprig of thyme now occupied the noble’s seat.

"You turned them into a herb?" Phainon wheezed. "That’s incredible. Oh, please tell me this is reversible."

"Of course," you chuckled. "Eventually."

Phainon has an endless sense of humor about your power. If someone annoys him, he’ll dramatically throw himself at your feet and beg, "Please, my dearest sorcerer, make them a turnip. I implore you."

You have to remind him that, no, you’re not going to hex every person who mildly inconveniences him.

That said, when things get serious, Phainon deeply respects your power. He knows that magic like yours isn’t just about showmanship—it’s about wisdom, responsibility, and the will to protect. If you ever lose control or doubt yourself, he’s there to remind you of your strength and purpose.

If he ever sees someone trying to intimidate or harm you, his usual cheerful demeanor vanishes. He stands at your side, hand on his claymore, exuding an unshakable confidence that tells your enemies they’re severely outmatched.

He likes to joke that if you ever got tired of vanquishing Titans, you could make a fortune turning criminals into decorative houseplants. "Imagine it: ‘Sorcerer’s Justice—Transformations While You Wait!’ It’d be a hit."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but laugh.

Castorice is fascinated by you. As someone who communes with death and the divine, she sees sorcery as a sibling discipline to her own craft. Magic, after all, is just another means of understanding the mysteries of the world.

She appreciates your sense of reason and restraint—after all, power must be wielded wisely. When she sees how pleasant and diplomatic you are, she feels a kinship with you; like her, you possess strength but do not flaunt it.

The first time she witnesses you turn someone into a dandelion, she simply hums in approval. "A fitting fate," she murmurs. "There are worse things than being scattered by the wind."

Unlike Phainon, who finds your transformations hilarious, Castorice finds them poetic. She even starts a collection of pressed flowers and leaves from the unfortunate souls who cross you. ("This one was particularly rude," she muses, tucking a preserved violet into her journal.)

Despite her quiet, ethereal nature, she enjoys your company. The two of you often spend time in silence, working side by side—she preparing rites and funerary charms, you transcribing spells and crafting new incantations.

You’re one of the few people who can read her moods easily. While others find her difficult to read, you notice the subtle shifts in her aura, the tiny hesitations in her voice.

She’s endlessly intrigued by your magic. "The gods gifted you with power," she says one evening, her lavender eyes watching you closely. "Do you ever wonder what price they will demand in return?"

If anyone threatens you, Castorice is merciless. Not in the way Phainon or Dan Heng would be—she doesn’t shout or draw her weapon. Instead, she steps forward with the eerie grace of a specter, her scythe glinting under the moonlight. "You should leave," she whispers, voice like a funeral prayer. "Before they decide what to do with you."

She never asks you to use your powers for petty revenge, but if she ever sees you hesitate to defend yourself, she will remind you in no uncertain terms: "Your power is not a crime. Do not let the unworthy make you feel otherwise."

Over time, the two of you develop a quiet but profound bond—two people standing between the mortal and the divine, wielding power with wisdom, bound by an unspoken understanding.

[cece693]

hello^^ i have a slightly odd request

would you be willing to do something with Hannibal where like the reader is just off-putting constantly? like always has a blank expression and is just really morbid to the point of weirding out other people- (also whether or not reader is another killer and their relationship is up to you :]) ((and if possible could reader have an obsession with rats? if not its fine!^^))

thank you and no pressure!!! :3

Birds of a Feather (Platonic! Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Thanks for the request. Since you gave me creative liberty with what relationship the reader has with Hannibal, I'm expanding my creativity and trying to write platonic fanfics. Due to this, and my heart belonging to Hannigram, Will makes an appearance (not Abigail though, never got into her character.) Hope you enjoy it!

Hannibal Lecter had long believed himself immune to the bonds of familial connection. His life was one of solitude by choice, his relationships shallow performances for an unknowing audience. Yet with them—the peculiar, morbid teenager now under his guardianship—something had shifted. He hadn’t planned for this. He had taken them in because he saw a reflection of himself, unpolished and raw, with the potential to be something extraordinary. What he hadn’t anticipated was how deeply he would come to care for them, not as a mentor or an observer, but as a father.

They had first come to Hannibal at their parents’ insistence, dragged into his office under a banner of concern that barely masked their parents’ disdain. They hadn’t even tried to soften the language of their complaint: “They’re morbid. Obsessed with disgusting things like rats and death. They don’t have friends, they don’t smile. They’re weird. Can you fix them?”

Hannibal had known immediately what kind of parents they were—shallow, image-obsessed individuals for whom their child’s uniqueness was an inconvenience to be smoothed over, rather than a gift to be celebrated. He despised them almost as much as they seemed to despise their child. The teenager, however, had been fascinating. When Hannibal asked why they were there, they answered with a flat, emotionless voice.

"Because my parents don’t like me. They think I’m broken."

"And are you?" Hannibal asked, his tone warm, though his eyes studied them sharply.

They had tilted their head slightly, their gaze piercing and calm. "I don’t know. I don’t care if I am."

That first session had been an exercise in subtlety. Hannibal, as always, sought to probe beneath the surface, to see the layers of a person’s mind unfold before him. But with them, there were no layers—no artifice, no carefully constructed mask. They were disarmingly blunt, their morbid interests laid bare without shame.

"I like rats," they said when Hannibal asked what brought them joy. "I have nine of them. Bubonic’s my favorite."

"And why rats?" Hannibal inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"They’re smart. Loyal. They don’t care if you’re weird. They’ll eat a corpse if you leave it there, but it’s not personal. It’s just what they do. Survival instincts."

Their answers were a study in pragmatism, unvarnished and unfiltered. Over time, Hannibal learned more about their life—how their parents had ridiculed their passions, belittled their intellect, and dismissed their feelings as irrelevant. How they had found solace in the company of creatures most would find repugnant, and how they had begun to retreat into themselves, building walls not out of fear but out of indifference.

"My parents said they’d throw them out if I didn’t stop," they admitted one day, their voice betraying the faintest tremor. "The rats. They don’t like them. They don’t like me."

"And how does that make you feel?" Hannibal asked.

They paused, their blank expression unchanging. "I’d kill them if they touched my rats."

Hannibal had smiled faintly at that, sensing not a hollow threat but a declaration of what they believed was justice. Hannibal saw his relationship with the teen as one purely beneficial to him—some form of entertainment during the stagnant moment his life had fallen into. But when the teen arrived one day in session visibly shaken and on the verge of tears, Hannibal felt immense anger.

"Tell me what happened." he said, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The teen sat down at the chair and looked at their hands, fingers trembling. "My dad killed Bubonic," they said quietly. "He was going on again about how weird it was for a person my age to be such a recluse, how disappointed he was in me for not being the child he envisioned. I didn't care, I screamed at him to leave me alone. That all I needed was my rats, he didn't listen," They sputtered, tears finally escaping their eyes.

Hannibal's hands rested lightly on the arm of his chair, though his grip tightened imperceptibly as the teen’s words sank in. Their voice, typically steady and detached, was cracking under the weight of their grief, and Hannibal found himself unprepared for the surge of emotion it evoked in him.

"What did he do?" Hannibal asked, his voice gentle, though his mind already painted the scene in vivid detail.

The teen sniffed, struggling to steady their voice. "He grabbed Bubonic. Said if I loved those 'vermin' so much, then I’d learn what happens when I waste my life on them. He threw him. Against the wall." Their hands trembled in their lap, and then clenched into fists. "I couldn’t stop him. I tried, but I couldn’t—"

Hannibal interrupted softly, his voice firm yet soothing. "It is not your fault. Bubonic’s death lies entirely with your father. You mustn’t take the blame for his cruelty."

They nodded, though their tears continued to fall. For a moment, the room was silent, save for their quiet sobs. Hannibal remained perfectly still, his expression a mask of calm, though inside, a storm brewed. He had long mastered the art of restraint, of hiding the depths of his emotions behind a practiced façade. But now, the threads of that mask were straining.

His anger was not the fiery, impulsive kind that consumed lesser men. It was cold, methodical, the kind that calculated every step of its revenge with precision. He had no doubt about what he needed to do. Bubonic’s death was an affront to the teen’s spirit, an insult to their resilience and individuality, and Hannibal would not allow such an act to go unpunished.

He rose from his chair, moving to kneel in front of them, a gesture of rare intimacy. Gently, he placed a hand on their shoulder, grounding them. His touch was firm yet comforting, like the anchor they so desperately needed.

"You loved him," Hannibal said quietly. "And that love was real. It is not diminished by what your father did. Bubonic mattered, and his memory will not be forgotten."

They looked at him, their tear-filled eyes meeting his calm, steady gaze. For the first time, Hannibal saw a flicker of something beyond their usual detachment—trust, fragile and hesitant, but there. He gave them a faint, reassuring smile, careful to keep the rage simmering inside him hidden from view.

That evening, as Hannibal sat alone in his study, the weight of his decision settled over him like a second skin. He had already made up his mind; there was no room for doubt. The teen’s father was an unworthy man, cruel and petty, whose actions had irreparably harmed his child. The wife was not better, for who would allow such affronts to happen to your child? Hannibal would ensure neither had the opportunity to inflict such pain again.

The deaths were orchestrated with Hannibal’s usual elegance. The scene was staged as a tragic home invasion, violent enough to mislead even the sharpest investigators. The teen’s parents were swept away as easily as pawns on a chessboard, leaving Hannibal free to step into the role of guardian.

It was an arrangement he presented to the authorities as a matter of practicality—after all, he was their trusted psychiatrist, a respected member of the community. And with no other family member willing to take in the 'troubled' youth, Hannibal was seen fit as a caregiver. But in truth, it was far more than that. It was an act of reclamation, a way to give the teen a life they needed and deserved.

Under Hannibal’s guidance, they began to flourish. What had once been a life of isolation and condemnation was replaced with warmth, curiosity, and purpose. Hannibal nurtured their sharp intellect, encouraging them to explore philosophy, art, and science. He fed their fascination with decay and life cycles, finding ways to weave their morbid interests into lessons that expanded their understanding of the world.

Their rats, once crammed into a small cage hidden away from disapproving eyes, now thrived in a custom-built enclosure—a miniature ecosystem of tunnels and habitats that Hannibal had crafted himself. The teenager spent hours tending to them, speaking softly to each one as though they were old friends. Slowly but surely, they grew more confident, their once-detached demeanor softened by the security of knowing they were finally, unquestionably accepted.

So, when Will Graham entered their lives, Hannibal saw an opportunity to complete the family he hadn't realized he was building. At first, Will’s presence unsettled the teen. He was different from Hannibal—more empathetic, less polished. But there was something grounding about Will’s quiet intensity, his ability to understand without needing words.

Their relationship began cautiously, with the teen watching Will from the corner of their eye during his visits, studying him as though he were one of the rats they loved so much. But Will, ever patient, allowed them to come to him on their terms. Over time, the cracks of their tentative bond filled with shared silences and soft-spoken observations.

"You remind me of my rats," the teen said one day, tilting their head at Will as they sat together in the study.

Will blinked, unsure if it was meant as an insult. "How so?"

"You’re always watching. Thinking one step ahead compared to everyone else."

Will glanced at the teenager, amused. "I don’t know if I should be flattered or mildly offended."

They shrugged, their gaze steady and calm. "It’s a compliment. Rats are survivors. They’re smart, and they don’t waste energy pretending to be something they’re not. You’re like that."

Will leaned back in his chair, folding his arms thoughtfully. "Smart and a survivor, huh? Could be worse."

"Definitely worse," they replied, their tone so matter-of-fact that it made Will laugh softly. "You’d be terrible at being fake, anyway."

SMALL TIME SKIP

Hannibal leaned back in his armchair, his fingers lightly drumming against the armrest as he observed the scene before him. It was a tableau of quiet intimacy—his beloved Will Graham, seated cross-legged on the floor, and the teenager sprawled out beside him, their rats darting around like tiny, mischievous shadows.

Will had one hand resting lightly on the floor to keep himself steady while the other hovered hesitantly near one of the rats. "So, uh," he began, his tone unsure but willing, "what happens if I try to touch it? Am I going to lose a finger?"

The teen smirked faintly, their usual neutral demeanor softening just enough to give away their amusement. "Maybe. Cholera’s got a temper, but the others are fine. You just have to be calm."

Will huffed a quiet laugh, his tension easing slightly. "Calm, huh? Should be easy enough."

"You’re always tense," the teen said bluntly, tilting their head as they watched him. "The rats can tell. You should probably breathe or something."

Hannibal’s lips curved into an indulgent smile at their candor. He adored how effortlessly they spoke their mind—so different from the guarded subtleties most people employed. And Will, bless his complex mind, seemed entirely charmed by it.

"I am breathing," Will retorted, his tone carrying a note of mock indignation. "Maybe I’m just…different from rats."

"That’s debatable," the teen quipped, though their smirk grew into something warmer as one of the bolder rats sniffed at Will’s hand before scampering up his arm.

Will froze, his eyes wide, and Hannibal chuckled softly. "It seems you’ve been accepted," he remarked, his tone rich with amusement. "An honor not given lightly, I assure you."

The teen nodded solemnly, as though Hannibal’s words were gospel. "Yeah. If Cholera likes you, you’re okay."

Will glanced between them, his lips twitching into a bemused smile. "Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to be rejected by…Cholera."

The rat in question perched on Will’s shoulder, chittering softly, and the teen gave a rare, genuine laugh—a sound that caught both Will and Hannibal off guard. Hannibal’s chest swelled with warmth at the sight of the two bonding, the sharp edges of their respective personalities softening as they found common ground.

For Hannibal, this was more than he could have hoped for. Watching Will, the man who had captured his heart with his brilliance and empathy, and his ward, the child who had become the unexpected center of his world, grow closer felt like the culmination of something profound. He had orchestrated many things in his life, but this—this was pure serendipity.

Will, still adapting to the chaos of rats scurrying across him, glanced up at Hannibal. "You’re awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice light but curious. "Enjoying the show?"

Hannibal’s smile deepened, his eyes warm as they met Will’s. "Immensely," he replied. "It is rare to witness such harmony. You’ve both surprised me."

The teen, still laughing softly, looked between them and said, "You’re both weird, but I think that’s why this works."

Will raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hannibal. "Weird, huh? I guess I’ll take that."

"As will I," Hannibal added smoothly, his tone affectionate. "Weirdness, after all, is simply a deviation from the ordinary. And I would have no other way for our family."

The word hung in the air—family—and for a moment, all three of them sat in a comfortable silence. The fire crackled, the rats chittered, and the connection between them felt solid, unshakable. Hannibal, watching the two people he cared for most in the world bond so effortlessly, allowed himself a rare moment of unguarded happiness. This was it. This was home.

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

...Y'KNOW, I CAN'T EXACTLY REMEMBER ASKING YOU ABOUT THIS, OR WHAT A QUANTUM DESTABILIZER IS, OR WHY I WANTED IT, BUT IF IT'LL HELP ME DEAL WITH MY PEST PROBLEM, GREAT! ALSO, YOU HAVE BLUEPRINTS? YOU MADE THEM YOURSELF? MAN, YOU MUST BE MUCH MORE INTELLIGENT THAN MY UNIVERSE'S VERSION OF YOU. GOOD ON YOU, STANFORD PINES!

HEY, YOU HAVE A QUANTUM DESTABILIZER, RIGHT? I HAVE A CERTAIN YELLOW TRIANGLE THAT I NEED TO... DEAL WITH.

(@euclidean-geometry-supremacy)

"I don't happen to own one of those anymore. But I have a blue print and know the name of a man capable of building the device.. I also happen to know some weaknesses of said yellow triangle"

[kabr0ztrousers]

a fem!reader getting captured in a cave by a well endowed male lamia (with two cocks of course), using his immense strength to keep her bound up while he uses her like a fleshlight for who knows how long (it’s real dark in the cave so when she’s drifting in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion, she has no way of knowing how much time has passed)

Kabr0z Writes Episode 75: Snakes in a Cave

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Noncon; breeding; kidnap; imprisonment; bondage; intox; envenomation; impregnation

A/N: You mightn't have thought this was going to be yesterday's bonus, but has been giving me such difficulty!

##########################################

You'd never been caving before. You much preferred the open sky above you, but your friends had managed to cajole you into following them to their subterranean hobby. Of course, when your body includes seven feet of undulating tail dragging behind you, getting gear that fits is a bit of a pain. Nevertheless, they managed and so you descended with them. Headlamp and helmet strapped tightly under your chin, you negotiated your long, sinusoidal body down the narrow cave. It felt a shame to hide your emerald scales from the sunlight, but your body was well adapted for the dark tunnels under the earth.

You remembered stories your grandmother told you as a girl, how hundreds of years ago Nagas ruled the caves beneath mankind, first emerging some decades after magic started returning to the surface, joining the minotaurs, the catmen, and the werewolves. It fed into the stories everyone learns at school; one part myth, one part history, detailing the first appearances of what modern society would refer to as "variants" - though the term encompasses everyone with human intellect but not-entirely-human physiology, an umbrella so large as to be functionally useless.

You were last into the cave, your tail made it almost impractical for anyone to follow you. Thankfully, you're a strong climber as it turns out. Your body moved so easily through the caves it was hard not to believe this is what you were built for. You slid this way and that, following the man in front of you.

You yelped. A spider the size of your open hand had shot between you and your friend. It only took a moment to carry on its way, but it was long enough that you lost sight of the boots in front of you as they disappeared into the gloom. You listened out, able to hear the scrambling men in front of you. Following on was simple enough, right? You sure hoped so as you slithered on, flat chest held against the rockface as you slid through gaps just wide enough to fit through, the cold rock pressing in to you on both sides.

It never occurred to you that the men you were supposedly following were both quite substantially broader than you, nor how they said they were following an introductory route, with no tight squeezes. This became all too clear when the tunnel spat you out into a wider opening, tumbling down to the bottom of a cavern. You landed on your back, tail lay out, staring at the hole in the ceiling that dropped you here.

You looked around, the cave walls were bare. The only light was coming from your headlamp, anemic and yellow-tinged. You got up, slowly moving around the perimeter of the room. There were a couple of ways onwards from here, but you felt it's a better idea to stay put. The thought of being lost down here chilled you, even more than the cool stone under you. Hopefully staying put and not getting more lost would help.

You gave up staring down the crevice, turning back to the centre of the room.

You screamed.

A naga stood at the other end of the room. Tall and pale, his wide eyes milky white, forked tongue tasting the air. He could sense you, even without sight, sliding towards you, in no hurry to close the gap. You tried to squeeze into then gap, making a little progress before he grabbed your tail, yanking you backwards as your nails scraped the sides. Inch by inch you slid back into the cavern. The pale serpent gripped you tight, claws digging in to you. He drew you into his grasp, wrapping you in his tail as you struggled in vain against the muscular body intertwining yours. He bit your shoulder, cold numbness radiating from the site as his paralytic venom took hold. Your arm went to sleep, then your neck started to ache, followed by the other arm, then your tail began to shut down, losing control over its movements as the toxin shut down your motor neurons. You felt the naga holding you, almost gently as he wrapped himself tighter around your body.

He was stripping off your clothes, little by little, starting by revealing your body, then the form-fitting skirt around your hips, revealing your genital slit as the twin shafts of his cock stood to meet it.

His hand strayed to your slit, gently parting the lips, testing the supple flesh within. Was it the venom making you wet? You hoped so. Either way, you could feel him pressing two fingers into you with ease, rubbing your moisture around your opening, readying you for him. His body moved around yours, pressing the double-shafted cock against you.

The shafts slid into your welcoming body, fitting like a jigsaw piece. You gasped a little as it filled you, better than your baseliner boyfriend ever could, the twin shafts finding their marks inside you. Just because your body wasn't listening to you, didn't mean it wasn't sending sensation back. You felt every inch of the ribbed, tapering hemipene as he gyrated next to you, sliding it in and out, unhurried in all things. You aren't going anywhere, after all.

His cocks felt amazing, pressing and probing in ways you'd never felt before. It was like you were made for him. Your eyes rolled in your head, your tail twitching as you approached your peak, cunt squeezing against him as you came around him. You felt his cocks spasm inside, starting to fill you with his seed. He bit you again, more venom flowing into your body, knocking you out.

You woke up, he was still around you, soft cocks still inside you. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but only succeeded in waking the sleeping snake. He dosed you again with his fangs, needling into the meat of your shoulder again as the familiar numbness took you again. Again, he started slowly thrusting in and out, picking up speed at the grunts and moans that escaped you as your breath caught and your body responded to his. Again, you spasmed and shook as orgasm took you over, milking him into you as he gave you more of his venom, putting you out for another spell.

Again and again the cycle repeated, each time you woke he'd stir again, or already be midway through having his way with you. The light on your helmet long since went out.

Every so often he wouldn't be there when you woke, only to return some hours later with some variety of rat or other cave-dwelling rodent he'd swallow down, before tossing the other paralysed creature to you. Eventually he stopped biting you before having his way. Eventually you started to let him.

And so time went on, fucktoy for a blind, almost feral naga. You could feel the eggs moving inside you, fertile with your brood.

This is your life now

########################################

Yeah, yeah, this should've gone up like 7 hours ago, but I literally fell asleep after finishing it

Expect tonight's episode tonight, I guess?

[dastardly-imbecile]

RIGOR MORTIS

AO3 HERE

Jealousy petty enough that you know it’s childish, but still, you look at Simon—always straight-backed, at attention, watching Price with something that approaches reverence, worship for the hands that shaped him from the great primordial mire and brought him to this glorious cage of esse—and you wonder what he has that you lack. --- As the good Doctor's research assistant, you must take care of both him and his monster. | Frankenstein AU OR this is all an excuse to make a throuple, isn't it?

---

Wordcount: ~7k

TW for dubious consent

The good Doctor Price likes many qualities of yours: your quick, nimble fingers, your obedience, your willingness to get down on your knees when he asks you to. Sometimes, you can delude yourself into thinking he also admires the quickness with which you pick up mathematics in science, how you can replicate the circuitry of a machine with a glance, how you can lean over his shoulder and whisper, timidly, the solution to an equation before he finishes writing it down. 

Most of all, though, you think he likes your ability to hold a skull by its decaying hair and suppress your gag. 

Certainly, at the moment, that’s your most useful skill. Price does not spare you a glance—only a murmured, “there, keep still,”—as he sews careful sutures into the space between head and neck. The head was taken from a prisoner’s cemetery—those executed via guillotine. You do not know what crime the man went under the blade for, but it doesn’t really matter, not anymore, not when his face has decayed to the point of being unrecognizable as human. A gaping hole where a nose would be, eyes picked apart by carrion birds, and lips peeled dryly back to reveal yellowed teeth in blackened gums. 

Not ideal. You tighten your grip around the remnants of his hair and try not to look at the maggot peering out from his left eardrum. Avert your gaze, examine the rest of his half-body. His chest is in marginally better condition—taken from some fallen soldier, muscles well-defined, if bruised. Hip narrows down to a sexless pelvis, lean legs that you do not know the origins of. No hands, wrists cut off in flat longitudes of bone and tendon and nerve. 

Price finishes the last suture. Looks at you with that characteristic pleased look that has your chin inching forwards, smile brightening. 

You’re not a stupid girl. He wouldn’t employ you if you were, no matter how much he likes you to act pliably obsequious. He knows that you know that, and he knows you love him most when he praises you for your intellect, not only the fineness of your features, not only the warmth of your mouth and your quiet, docile moments. 

All that and more runs through his head, easily read in his eyes, when he turns to you. Gestures a single calloused hand towards the severed wrists. 

“Find a good pair of hands for me, Pet. That’s all I need.”

You nod eagerly. This, you will do. In a world where your kind, those of the fairer sex, are either housemaids or whores, you’ll do anything to stay in this rare position—in which you are not only an assistant to a greater man, but sometimes his muse. Sometimes—during late nights, in which he’s hunched over some problem of physics and electricity, trying to puzzle out the supernatural intricacies of the biological—you sidle up to him, whisper a solution that has his eyes widening, and you feel like an equal. 

So you will serve. You will please him, however he desires ((even if you prefer when it’s tasks like these, and not those that require your other womanly wiles (though, you’ll never complain, in that case, either.))

—

You spend a month roaming the city streets, pattering over the rough brick inlays and listening for words of gossip. Doctor Price has given you a handful of money on top of your usual monthly stipend—in case you must do something so uncouth as bribe a mortician, as pay your way out of a constable’s scrutiny—and your hands fiddle with the clean, crisp bills. 

It is one of those weeks in which you are distant from each other, which is not necessarily bad. You endure plenty of long stretches of partnership, crammed into a lab from dawn to dusk, midday to midnight, until you cannot smell anything but formaldehyde and leather, cannot see anything but dancing numbers and the crook of his smile. The perennial cycle of the binomial must be naturally balanced out by reserve, by your brief detachment into singular units. 

He spends his days penning through stacks of papers and fiddling with beakers of chemicals, working through the more conventional of his experiments—those that he displays to his fellows at the international symposiums, those that aren’t contained and rotting in the cellar beneath the house. You spend your days flipping through newspapers, sitting in patisseries, watching the ebb and flow of life, trying to pinprick where it falters, where you can reach in and staunch the flow. 

Nights, he spends in his study, penning letters to his distant, faceless family. You pad through gated cemeteries, toe at the freshly-dug graves. Peer through the window of the morgue, cataloguing the bodies within; trail behind the undertaker’s cart, handkerchief held delicately over your nose. 

It is practically a carnival of hands, that week, a catalogue, narrows your view to a single pinpoint. Strolling through the market, you look not at the shopkeepers’ wares but instead at the conditions of their fingers. When a handsome gentleman stops you in the street, whispers at you some honey-steeped woo, you brush him off with a smile and an admiring glance at his manicured fingernails. Gloves and rings, wrinkles and wrists, all the intricacies of the human body distilled to twenty-seven bones and thirty-four muscles. 

More than anyone else would, you take the job seriously, which is another reason that Price keeps you under his wing. He’s told you, many times, that it is not the eyes that are the window to the soul, but instead the hands—you may know everything about a person in the space between those five fingers. The callouses and dirt of a laborer, the grease stains of a factory worker. Know the washerwoman by the lye-beget cracks, know the noble by the pristine skin, as smooth and pale as cream. Spot the restless with their fiddling fingers, the murderer with the flecks of blood beneath the nails. 

The hands of the common, you rule out immediately. Too rough, skin sloughed away to reveal bone, jaundiced and colored with the grime of a hard life. Head of a prisoner, chest of a soldier, legs of some unknown class, you want something fine, something unique, perhaps even noble, for this final piece of the puzzle. 

You consider, briefly, finding a woman’s hands—you like the leanness, the slender fingers—but no, the image of a man must be entirely preserved. Besides, you think Price may see that as a bit of a slight—as putting too much of yourself into his glorious creation, diluting it with a feminine soul. Eve needs Adam’s rib, but Adam eschews all but what lays between her legs, perfection already, beget by the hands of God. 

As the week ekes on, you get closer. A sewer’s hands, a painter’s, a jeweler’s—that last one, you almost take. The fingers are long and svelte, well-proportioned, and there is just the right balance of callous and burn, teetering on the edge between pampered and industrious. The type of hand that knows both the sting of the flame, the thrum of the saw; and the heavy weight of gold, the feeling of opulence in the palm. 

Almost. Almost, but you shy away at the last moment, some dim part of your mind whispering that you can find better. 

Sure enough, it is on the seventh day that you do. Price watches you leave the dwelling with the same light, good luck, as always, but you can smell the impatience brewing, even if it has not yet materialized. He found the head in two days, the chest in three—he understands the necessity of perfection, but does not always adhere to those values. Sometimes, you fancy yourself—if not a better scientist—then, a better artist, a better eye for purpose than function. 

So, you set upon the streets with a mission. It is not yet midday before you find it, find the body in the morgue—a surgeon, cold and pale upon the table. Young, for both his occupation and his death, perhaps a decade and a half over you, yourself. If pressed, you could not name a single feature of his face, not the color of his hair nor the hue of his eyes, whether he smiled in death or snarled or wept. 

There is another thing to focus on. 

You look, and you know that they’re perfect. 

A physician’s hands. As dextrous as the jeweler’s, perhaps even moreso, hands well-worked. Same balance of both worlds, but instead of burying themselves in fire and metal, these fingers have known the body. Have known the push of the liver and the warmth of the blood, have touched the womb from the outside, performed some perverse violation of the art of birth—leave the mother through nature and instinct, return with the cold precision of a scalpel and the impersonality of rubber. 

It fills you with a brief joy to imagine. 

There is, as well, a connection to Price that you think he will appreciate, if not consciously. Doctor maker, Doctor monster. On those sleepy fall nights in which he indulges in the bottle, he tells you, sometimes, about his family—always his cousins, nieces and nephews and siblings. Never a wife, never a child. The topic is always skirted around with a reserved sort of sensitivity, despite the fact that you’re sure he would have both, if he could, if there was not some unknowable obstacle. 

So perhaps you will not make the monster into a son, with these hands, but you will connect them in a way you think he’ll be pleased with. 

Acquisition is a far easier task than location, funnily enough. You slip the morgue’s night guard a fistfull of crinkled bills, a coy smile and the promise of more, if he waits. Spend a few hurried minutes sawing at the hands with one of the Doctor’s serrated blades—less bloody, this many days dead—and shove them into a burlap sack. 

When you return home, under the cover of night, you first change your clothes from the formalin-soaked gore, scrub your hands down, and proceed down to the bereavement lab, where you upend the bag’s contents upon the great white table. Arrange the hands neatly, five fingers all splayed out, and only then do you ring for Price. 

With careful anticipation, you watch his face as he crests over the stairs, as his eyes alight upon your gift. First a contained interest and then, as he draws closer, it melts into flat-out intrigue. When he stands before the table, lifts them up and turns them about in the light, and you babble something about doctors and meat and dexterity, he smiles, turns to you. Wraps a single hand around your neck to tug you closer, brush a kiss over your hairline. 

“Good, Sweet,” he murmurs, “I knew you could do it. Good.”

You bask in his praise, as you have always done. Meet his eyes, and without needing to be asked, sink down to your knees. 

The mixing of the flesh and the theoretical is not too uncommon for Price. When he’s not in the mood to hear your input—or, when the problem he’s puzzling out is too complex even for you—he sometimes likes you under his desk as he scribbles overhead, finding the derivative of cosecant while you find the same in the gleam of his shaft, the heavy weight against your tongue. 

“A moment,” he says, moving swiftly off to one of the great refrigeration cabinets lining the room. He opens it to extract, of course, the half-man, the thing that is lining up to become his magnum opus: frost clouding his limbs, vaster than any human man would have the right to be. 

Price’s been refining it, in the time you’ve been gone. The face is still scrappy, almost repellant to behold, but he’s grafted upon it some other soul’s aquiline nose, refined the lips and cleaned the teeth to just off-white. It is eyeless, but you don’t miss, upon the shelves, a jar with two white orbs suspended in gray-green formaldehyde. 

With a grunt, he hoists the limp body up, carries him to the table and drops him with a limp thud. As he grabs a long silver needle and a spool of suture thread, you undo the buttons on his pants, slowly ease them down. Move to his boxers next, fingers looping under the waistband to tug them away for ease of access. 

If it were not for the hardness of his cock, you would not have thought he was aroused at all. Above you, his hands move with the practiced ease of someone who is utterly focused—threading the needle in a single thrust, picking up the hand and lining it up with the wrist. You hum in satisfaction when you see that it’s a perfect fit. 

It’s that that finally pulls an iota of attention towards you. He reaches down with a languidness that approaches absent, buries his hand in your hair and pushes you gently forwards, until your nose bumps against the tip of his cock. 

Right. The time for your scientific contributions is over, for the moment. Now, all it is is the widening of your mouth, the movement of your tongue as you flick it over the slit, lapping up salty drops of precum. He moves his hand back up to the creature, but not without an approving sort of pat, as gentlemanly as one would do to a dog. 

You lean forwards, taking more of him into your mouth, until he hits the back of your throat. Give him a light suck, tongue running over the most prominent of the veins. With your own hands, you reach up to cup his balls, squeezing them as gently as one would an overripe fruit. Not the most appetizing of metaphors, but you’re not in the mood to think of something more palatable. 

As you close your eyes, tears trailing off the edges, pushing his cock further into your throat, you almost laugh to imagine what your mother would think of you now. Somehow, you suspect she’d be less distressed over the image of you on your knees than she’d be over the visage of you in a lab coat, hair done up and graphite stick in hand. 

“I’m almost through with this side,” Price says, and you take it as the cue it is—hold your breath, move forwards, sucking and licking as much as you are able, cup his balls in the way you know he likes, after a thousand other nights in the lab. As his hand above ties off the final knot, his stomach stiffens, and he lets out the only indication of enjoyment this whole night, a low grunt that quickly dissipates. 

You have no opportunity to do anything other than swallow, as he unloads into the hollow of your throat. Another moment of rapturous tension before you cannot take anymore, before you must eject yourself backwards, draw a desperate heave of air into your lungs. You look up at him, trying to catch his eye, searching for approval in this art of yours as well. 

He does not meet your gaze, but he does extend a hand down—it smells faintly of rot and alcohol, of the sharp and the dull comingling into one—and uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. 

“I can handle the rest alone,” he murmurs, “thank you, Pet. Get some sleep.”

Obediently, you stand, brushing the concrete dust from your skirt. Proceed up the stairs and leave him to the darkest experiments of mankind. Down a glass of water to cleanse your mouth—necessary, if you’d like your tongue to taste any sort of pleasant come morning—but still, you mourn that bit of reminder, the tactile proof that you are loved, if only in a half, twisted way. 

—

It is not until the end of the month, until the autumn season begins to slide into an entropic sort of winter, that you’re called back into the lab. Also not entirely unusual, though the span of time is longer than you’re used to—but you find other ways to amuse yourself. Go rummaging through the market for dresses that you’d never find an opportunity to wear, spend morning hours people-watching in cafes and readjusting your comprehension of the human body from the phalanges to the face. 

Otherwise, you get to exercise the intellectual side of your mind by maintaining Price’s experiments, balancing chemical pHs and feeding the lab rats, marking down long lines of decimal-counted data. Even grade the rare student’s paper, when it passes across your desk. You’re sure that they—these gilded young men, hailing from rich families in distant, green lands—would throw quite the fit, had they known a woman’s hand gave them that red-inked, merely satisfactory, but that’s part of the fun. 

In all that time, you hardly see hide nor hair of the Doctor. A passing in the halls, wherein you do not have enough time to note any of his features except for the bags beneath his eyes. Half of a meal, during which he hurries out midway through, and you pack up his dinner for the next day (and, a week later, must throw it out, because he never came back for it). A quick suck in his study, where he leaves before you’ve finished swallowing, and you must wash blood out of your hair, scrub the crimson handprints off your cheeks. 

The night he finally calls you down, the sky is midway through birthing a storm—lightning striking indiscriminately at the ground, thunder speaking tongues of the ancients to the cosmos. His facial hair is thick and unruly, and his lab coat looks as if he has spent the entirety of the past month sleeping in it, but you cannot help the excitement bubbling in you as you descend the stairs—all this dishevelment only speaks of better things to come. He only ever loses track of his carefully-maintained facade when there is something bigger to worry about. 

Below, the basement is far messier than when you left it. The air is wet and heavy, permeated with a haze of decay. Every possible surface is crowded with opened jars, pooling discolored liquid, tools coated in gore. 

Most obvious, though, is the body laid out across the white table. Wrapped around its limbs like coils of chain are thick cords of copper wire, all of which spiderweb out to long, rodlike structures. As you draw closer, you’re able to make out more of its features, and they tell the story of work. 

Its—his, you suppose—face has graduated from ragged to defined, bones shaved away in some places, augmented in others, patchwork skin grafted over the wounds. Hair threaded like a wig, some dirty-blonde color that looks too smooth for its host. 

The rest of his body hasn’t been spared alterations either. Already-muscled chest padded out to gargantuan proportions, biceps almost as large as your head—when standing, the man must near seven feet. All decay cut away, replaced to a corpse in pristine condition. 

You hide a small smile when you notice he’s barely altered the hands, if at all. 

“What is this?” You ask, as Price buzzes around the room, checking the wires, flipping switches in small black boxes. He turns to you, and you do not miss the half-manic look in his eyes. 

“The boundary,” he says, looking up as if he can see through the basement floor, “that has never once been breached. The recreation of life, as God never intended.”

You draw in a quick breath. 

“What can I do?”

He shoots you a smile. You cannot tell whether it’s fond or patronizing. Probably both, but you choose the latter. 

“Watch, Pet.”

Thunder booms overhead. He steps back, moving to the doorway. A moment—the pounding of rain, the aftershocks of a storm, the buzzing of indeterminable power—and then, the room lights up. 

Every cord of wire flares bright white, and the body upon the table begins to jerk, spasming and seizuring with a force that would crack a normal human’s spine. Price rushes forwards, places a hand upon the chest, and though you know the art of science—frog legs twitching at electric shock, exposed muscle convulsing with a bit of salt—it looks, for a moment like magic. 

Moreso, when the lightning fades, and the body is still twitching, when its head slams each cheek against the table and…

And it is the hand that moves first. The twitch of the fingers, breaking free from the stiffness of quietus—and then, they clench into a fist. Price steps back. 

It fills you with a horrible, heady sort of terror to watch. You stumble back, pressing a hand against the wall, as you watch what you feel humans were never meant to behold—the cleaving of the veil, the swing of the elbow and the slow opening of the eyelids, revealing the rutilence of half-life behind them. Your stomach churns, pushing nauseous bile up your throat, and you must turn, retch some vile green liquid onto the ground. 

Intellectually, you prepared for this—no good result could come out of six months of collecting corpse parts, after all—but it is different to watch, as different as voyeuring a murder versus feeling the knife across your own throat. If it hurts this much to watch, you cannot imagine how it feels to engender—to bring life back to the dead, to buoy along the soul like Charon and his ferry. It would have driven a lesser man mad, you suspect. John Price is not lesser. Nor, at times, do you think he is a man. 

Certainly, he doesn’t look the part now, wild-eyed and laughing and cursing all at once, spitting the language before humans knew languages up at whatever Gods he purloined this soul from. You shy away, despite yourself. 

Upon the table, both hands move in unison. Even Price backs away a step as, with the clumsyness of a newborn foal, the monster pushes himself up to a sitting position. You resist the urge to put a hand over your face as he looks around, head ticking slow as a clock’s hand. Some animal instinct kicks up in your hindbrain, archaic warning of predators before humanity divined gunpowder from the womb of the earth. 

He opens his mouth, closes it again. 

“...Where?” He croaks out, eventually, the word so mottled by disuse that you only translate it when Price answers. 

“Life,” he says, “you are alive.”

He tilts his head. Surprisingly innocent, childish, but then—you suppose that this man, large as he is, is an infant in the technical side of things, in the eyes of God, if God dares to peer at this small crescent of His earth. If you were Him, you would let this storm rage until forty days of inundation wash all traces of this from the land. 

“I… I. I am? Am?”

Above, the rain lessens. Looks like you have once again escaped the merciful wrath of your maker. 

“Simon,” Price murmurs, reaching out to brush a single finger down the space between his eyes, as one might anoint the holy with ash, “Simon.”

“Simon,” he repeats. Slowly, he turns, and the dully-rising dread peaks when his eyes land upon you. They are a strange, electric blue, as striking as the storm that birthed him. 

Price says your name, but you don’t hear it, caught in the nexus of those eyes. The monster repeats it as well, and it’s only when his scarred lips form the shape of your soul that you snap back into reality. 

“Your hands,” you say, swallowing past the lump in your throat. He looks down at them, as if he’d not realized he had these limbs. “I gave them to you.”

You chance a look at Price, afraid that he will anger at your presumptiveness—really, you only found them, it’s him who gave them—but all he does is nod, a paternal sort of pride painted clear on his face. 

“And I, the rest. Price. Doctor.”

“Doctor,” Simon says, and this one comes with a low, hungry sort of growl. You must concentrate on not letting your legs give out beneath you, not letting the rasp of his voice shake you to the core. 

—

There is much to do during winter—a deceptive amount, especially with the new addition to your household. In the early days of spring, Price tells you, he has a yearly symposium—the largest, the glitziest—and there is only one creation he will be presenting. 

And so, besides the normal jobs, now, you must contend with the monster stalking your home. At the best of times, Simon is unnervingly quiet, an unknowable presence that lurks in the corners of the house, watching you with those eyes like midsummer noon. At worst, he trails hardly a step behind you, hands so close that they brush the small of your back. 

Hard to tell which one of you he takes to more. Spends more time with you than Price, of course, but that is simply because you have been set to the task of glorified governess. Smarts at you, at times, because you know your skills are higher than teaching a half-man the alphabet, but he takes to it surprisingly quickly. By two weeks' time, he can tear through any book you give him, discuss it in that gravelly, halting voice (that is, if he deigns to speak, which is not often). Mathematics, similarly, he soaks up like a sponge—arithmetic in two days, algebra in a week, trigonometry by the end of the month and calculus in three. 

Sometimes, when you perch upon the plush chair in Price’s office, teaching him in one subject or another, he seems to be hardly listening at all—fixes that queer gaze upon you, hands fluttering like caged birds, like he wants to grab something, twist something, break something. 

Quite the contrast to his manner around Price. Him, he watches as well, but there is a shade of devotion to his gaze that is off what he gifts to you—he is utterly still and utterly proper, always a polite distance away, speaks when ordered to and seems to leave you by the wayside. It smarts at you in the same way that catcalling men do, that your crisp University rejection letter did—the idea that you are somehow, automatically lesser, that you do not deserve that same measure of respect despite your competence. 

Perhaps it’s loyalty to his maker—nothing personal. Still. You cannot help it if you’re a bit snippier, next time you’re instructed to teach him something as inane as the history of the Greek city-states. Cannot help it if you try to meet his gaze, which is both bright as flame, and dark, dull as pennies, avert your eyes almost immediately. 

Spring approaches. There is a strange, thrumming energy in the air that you cannot quite capture, no matter how many times you attempt to revert to homeostasis. Help Price in the lab, and he is there, standing in the corner with hands behind his back. Spend time for yourself, those rare snatches that you can flee into the city streets, and it simply makes his presence all the more suffocating, when you return home. 

One night, you seek some release of your own, huddling under your sheets and running a finger through the slickness between your legs, only to see the gleam of blue in the darkness, the shape of someone in the doorway. 

“Out!” You shriek immediately, bolting up, smoothing your nightgown over your thighs. It is not even so simple an issue as a casual glance—he must have opened your quarter doors, stood there for who-knows how long. 

When you complain as much to the Doctor, he simply hums in acknowledgement. Does not even bother to look up from his newspaper. 

“It’s his way, Pet. He watches. Doesn’ mean he knows what he sees.”

Your neck bristles, and you turn to see him standing a ways behind you, watching, listening. “Price, Sir-”

“Relax,” he says, “lock your door, next time, if it bothers you so much.” 

You know that it’ll be no use arguing. Don’t bother to say you did, don’t bother to point out whatever smug satisfaction radiates from his broad shoulders. 

It is as if you are a moth, and Price, your lantern, your light, has been dimmed. Sometimes, taken entirely. Strangely, you find yourself missing those quiet moments in which he’d take his pleasure from you—now, all his time is monopolized by the hulking creature. Wherein once you would have had a brief snatch of free time, now, he stands in the lab and runs a magnifying glass over the expanse of his back, takes small samples of skin from his chest to biopsy in spinning machines. 

Jealousy petty enough that you know it’s childish, but still, you look at Simon—always straight-backed, at attention, watching Price with something that approaches reverence, worship for the hands that shaped him from the great primordial mire and brought him to this glorious cage of esse—and you wonder what he has that you lack. 

He plays into it too, you’re sure, though not sure enough that you can call it out without fear of appearing hysterical. Tilts his head up and exposes his neck in the way you know that Price likes, in the way that you perfected. Rasps quiet questions about his family, about his life outside the bounds of a lab, those that you have always wanted to ask, but have never mulled up the bravery to do so. 

When Price answers—muses on a childhood among the Swiss alps, talks briefly of some beguiling young love who he does expand upon—Simon fixes you with those eyes and you can swear he almost smiles. 

It all makes, of course, for a tense carriage ride to the Symposium, held in the center of Ingolstadt. You join, as you enter the city outskirts, many other carriages, all carrying scientists of varying ages and echelons, all carrying a menagerie of experiments. Tall machines of glittering copper that spin and squeal, animals with too many heads and too few limbs, anywhere on the spectrum from stark white to tar-black, great bushels of papers that are marked from top-to-bottom with lines of text crammed tightly as ants.

Price leads you through the streets with a hand upon your waist, the other wrapped around Simon’s arm. Two equal measures of possessiveness that somewhat shift your idea of the balance of power—he puts the same level of control over both of you, exerts it like a driver might the carrot and the stick, a scale balanced by a ton of feathers and a ton of hearts. 

The day of the Symposium is a blur of motion, sights and sounds and lights, until, suddenly—before you can even really think to process it—you are standing in the centre of a grand amphitheater, Price to one side and Simon to the other. His voice is strong as nails, carries to the edges of the space, as he details the process of resurrection—makes the act of the unholy into a simple recipe, a checklist of ever-increasing sins. 

It’s not until Simon steps into the limelight that the crowd gasps. Even without the necessary backstory, he is a striking sight—man of scar and gnarl, standing tall enough that he could hold the earth on his shoulders. Somehow, it puts him in a suddenly different light, than the one of half-vertigo, half-abhorrence—you can find traces of the grandiose in the space between his shoulderblades, see some ancient regality in the strongness of his features. 

He raises his hand as Price withdraws a long knife, so sharp that the edge is invisible. You bite your lip as he carefully steeples the blade against the skin and then draws a slash that has the crowd clamoring. Blood, red as jewels, seeps from the wound, but before your eyes, it closes, drawn tight by the suture of some invisible angel. 

After the dramaticism of the presentation, you flee back to your quiet room in the inn. Night falls, is long-past, by the time the Doctor returns—you’re sure he spent much of that time explaining the further intricacies of drawing life from the earth like thread from a spool. Simon, of course, trails behind him, but you’re gratified to see Price direct him into his own room. 

When he approaches you, you fall upon the bed, already assuming your position, eager to let him fill the ache that has had an entire season to fester. He does not, however, seek the warmth of your mouth—but, instead, undoes the clasp of his pants himself, and tells you, with a low voice, “undress.”

Your heart picks up pace. In all the five years you have served Price, he has taken plenty of climaxes in the warmth of your mouth, under the pressure of your fist. More rarely, has coaxed one out of you with the help of his fingers and his mouth. Only twice, though, has he truly fucked you—some hang-up that you have never questioned him about. Something that transcends the expected boundaries of the master-apprentice, the bounds of the illicit, and makes it into something that approaches a partnership. Puts you on the level of equals, somewhat, exposes a soft vulnerability that Price does not trust you enough to show. 

Today, though, you suppose he is exhilarated by a successful demonstration. Perhaps, also, on the glass of whiskey he no doubt had while talking business with his fellow men. In any case, it’s enough that, when you extricate yourself from his undergarments, he starts immediately upon your neck, sucking wet bruises into the skin. Moves to your clavicle, where he plants one right in the hollow center, and then down to your breasts, where his mustache tickets the sensitive skin enough for your nipples to harden. You wrap your hands around the back of his head—perhaps, the only time you have ever felt in control of this man—and allow him to take his measure from you. 

When his fingers dip into your slit, he groans. “Already, Pet?”

You can only whimper in response. When he withdraws from your breasts, you are suddenly near the point of shivering—but it only lasts a moment, as he lines up his cock with your hole, too desperate to continue his ministrations. Desperate for your gloved embrace, desperate for this to end—as with the previous two times he has had his fill of you, you can already sense that some vulnerable part of him is withdrawing into the darkness, that he is already half-regretting letting you take so much of him. 

When he thrusts into you, all that goes fleeing from your mind. He fills you to the brim, hips locked together, and though his kisses tastefully avoid your mouth, you take your pleasure where you can get it—this case, in the nips upon your throat, your earlobes. 

And then, everything freezes. 

The door to Simon’s room is open. He stands there, watching you with an unpracticed curiosity, and you freeze immediately, hands splaying against Price’s forehead and chest. 

“Stop,” you say, “he’s- he’s watching, he’s-”

Price doesn’t pause. Quickens, if anything, another powerful thirst that blows your words out from under you. Leans down, to whisper in your ear, “let him.”

When rapture washes over you, when your walls begin to stutter, and he pulls out to spray his spend across your stomach and breasts, your eyes are still locked onto Simon’s. 

—

Back at home, things are different, a buildup that escalates over the course of a week. Simon, now, does not only deign to follow—sometimes, you turn, to find him near-pressed to your skin, breath fanning out against the back of your neck. Dinners are somehow both more and less awkward—you are suddenly acutely aware of the balance of power in the room, the idea of the Doctor and his hounds. The hunter and the chaser, the killer and the lapdog. 

But you do not know what it is building up to—at least, not until you stand in your room, one hazy afternoon, perusing your books, and turn to find Simon—as per usual—close enough to stab. This time, he blocks your exit from the room. 

“Excuse me,” you say sharply. He does not move—simply tilts his head down, regarding you with those peculiar eyes. 

“You,” he says, voice deep and husky as laudanum, “you and the Doctor.”

Your skin prickles with discomfort, with the memory of being watched. 

“...Yes.” An attempt to sidle around him is quickly aborted by the shuffle of his body, and now you find yourself cornered against the wall. 

“What he does t’ you,” he says, drawing a step closer, chest now practically pressed against your face, “You must… must find a way.”

You blink up at him. He lifts his hands, flexing his fingers. 

“A way for what?”

“Y’ gave me these,” he says, reaching for the hem of your skirt, and you are suddenly acutely aware of the pace of your breath, “find me a cock, as well.”

The sentence is so absurd that it takes a moment to process—and, the instant it does, you’re trying to move, dodge past him. “I-”

He catches you before you can spit a denial, hand around your throat, the other coming around to your waist. Effortlessly, he lifts you, pinning you against the wall, bringing the one at your neck to traverse under your skirt, hemming you in with his body. 

“Can do so much,” he grunts, fingers navigating past your undergarments, “with only this, Dove, imagine-”

His finger sinks into your hole, aided by the slickness. You let out an inarticulate sort of cry, half-speech, half-moan, still wriggling in his grasp. The memory of his body flashes before your eyes—the smooth stretch of skin, between his legs, missing the masculine that characterized the rest of his bulk—but the thought flees as he adds a second finger, driving it deeper inside of you. Simply one of them, those long, surgeon’s instruments that you hand-picked, is enough to fill you—two borders unbearable. 

It’s enough to make you cry out. “I can’t,” you manage, but he shakes his head, growls something about need. 

You feel a third finger probing at your folds, and gather the last of your wherewithal to yell, “Price!” 

Simon does not quite laugh, but the rough exhale of breath might be a chuckle on any other man. He draws his fingers back, then thrusts them back in, curling them into your warmth. 

Just barely visible over his shoulder, you see the crest of the Doctor’s head, see the way he halts at the door. Steps into the room with a far more measured pace, circles around Simon to observe you with the same idle detachment that all of his specimens get. 

You can’t summon the breath to plea. Useless, in any case, as he places a hand upon Simon’s arm. 

“She likes it,” he says, “when you touch the clitoris. It should be higher.”

You jolt when Simon finds it, shockwaves pulsing at the rough brush of his thumb. You sob something, back rubbing up against the wall with the intensity, but all he does is smooth a hand over your hair, coo a few gentle words. 

“Shh, Pet. This is what I made him for.”

You throw your head back, not caring that it collides against the wall, as Simon slowly adds a third finger into your hole, stretching it beyond its limits. 

When you climax, it’s with a special sort of violence, that that pumps adrenaline into your heart, exacerbated only by the four pairs of hands running down your skin. Good thing you are being held up, because all the tension bleeds out from each joint, rendering you into jelly and pigfat. 

“Come, Simon,” Price says, and he spares you only a single further glance, as you’re lowered, not ungently, to the ground, left to recover yourself and reorient your mind, recover the memory of this encounter in the first place. 

—

It’s not a surprise when he calls you down to the laboratory. When Simon is naked upon the table and Price stands behind him, a hand upon his shoulder. Nods to you, benevolent smile upon his face. 

“I have a new job for you. Did so well on the last one, Pet.” 

Your eyes flick first to Simon’s hands, then, to the space between his legs, the emptiness. Swallow once, trying to harness the saliva to quash the arousal burning behind your naval. 

“Of course,” you say, dipping your head once, “anything, for you.”

You’re not sure who you’re talking to. You’re not sure if it matters. You’re all, in the end, one entity, lightning and flesh and eyes that pierce you like a butterfly to a pinboard. If this is another chance to seek approval, to prove worthiness, then so be it. There are, after all, many things to like about you, but it all narrows down at this moment to your ability to perform (though, of course, the body of a courtesan and the mind of a virtuoso don’t hurt, either).

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

i am in a romantic relationship with your son. @imbackbilly

- @sixfingrs

1. MY SON'S DEAD—JUST BECAUSE HIS NAME'S BILL CIPHER DOESN'T MEAN HE'S MY SON, AND 2. YOU HAVE HORRIBLE TASTE IN LIFE PARTNERS. I'D SAY YOU'RE NOT TOO BRIGHT, BUT THEN AGAIN, MY UNIVERSE'S VERSION OF YOU EXISTS, AND HE'S A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING IDIOT THAT NEVER PAYED ATTENTION IN SCHOOL.

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

YES YOU ARE, BILLY, YES YOU ARE!

iso smart .))) .) .) .)

[berilaksl]

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

notes ! sirius black x f!reader, fluffy and might be slightly witty

warnings ! none yet whipped sirius I guess?? fluff slightly suggestive

The Hogwarts library was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, though the distant tapping of enchanted quills and the occasional sneeze from the dust-riddled stacks kept it from being entirely silent. The smell of parchment and ancient ink mingled in the air like perfume—comforting to some, suffocating to others.

You sat cross-legged at your usual corner table, the one tucked beneath the arching stained-glass window overlooking the Black Lake. Your fingers delicately flipped a page of “Runes of the North: Decoding Pre-Wand Magic”, your brow furrowed in concentration. A soft hum of your favorite self-soothing melody left your lips. Your eyes danced across the worn text with intense focus, every now and then mouthing a translation to yourself

So, of course, this was exactly when he decided to strike.

“So this is where the cleverest student in the castle hides…”

You sighed. Not again.

“Hello, Black,” you replied, not looking up. “If I stay very still, maybe you’ll think I’m a statue and leave.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter — low and amused — and walked around the table to sit across from you, sliding into the chair like he belonged there.

“Tempting, but I’m far too enchanted. I’d probably end up serenading the statue.”

“Do it and I’ll Petrify you for real.”

“Kinky.”

You gave him a flat look, lifting your eyes just long enough to scowl. He gave you a grin that could melt chocolate frogs.

“You’ve really got to stop chasing me around the castle like this,” you said, calmly returning to your runes textbook. “It’s starting to look desperate.”

“Says the girl who hasn’t accepted a single one of my five — no, wait — six date proposals.”

“Exactly. You’d think you’d take the hint.”

“And miss out on the slow burn enemies-to-lovers arc we’ve got going on?” he quipped, leaning back in the chair and watching you with open amusement. “It’s practically Hogwarts folklore now.”

You blinked slowly. “We’re not enemies.”

“And yet you stab me with words like that.”

“Sirius.”

“Yes, love?”

You pointed your quill at him, exasperated and flustered. “Stop calling me that.”

“Make me.”

You gave him a long stare, then slowly turned back to your notes. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he said, voice dropping just a little as he rested his chin on his folded arms, “you never hex me. Which tells me you’re at least slightly fond of me.”

“No, it tells you I have self-control.”

Sirius chuckled. The warmth of it settled somewhere beneath your ribs, annoying and persistent.

For a while, he was quiet. Just… sitting there. Not fidgeting, not whistling, not pushing further. Just watching your quill glide across the page, occasionally glancing at your brows when they furrowed in thought.

And that — the silence — was somehow worse.

You looked up suspiciously.

“Are you actually being quiet right now?”

“I’m behaving,” he said, straight-faced. “Remus told me to try it. Said it might make me more appealing.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“He also said,” Sirius added with a mock-thoughtful tone, “that my charm was wasted on someone who values peace, intellect, and academic rigor above all else.”

“Sounds like he knows me better than you do.”

“Unlikely.” He tilted his head. “I know, for instance, that you bite your lip when you’re trying to remember a translation. That you tap your quill three times before committing anything to ink. And that you smell like old parchment and something floral — lavender, maybe?”

You blinked. For a moment, your heart jumped.

Then:

“So you’re stalking me now?”

“Only academically.” He smirked. “Genuine curiosity. I’ve caught it.”

You tried — really tried — not to laugh. But the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

And he saw it. He always saw it.

“There it is,” he said, sitting up straight like he’d just won a prize. “The smile. My favorite subject.”

You exhaled, setting your quill down. “Sirius, for the last time—”

“You’re not going to date me. Yes, I know.”

He stood then, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves with a dramatic sigh.

“But I reserve the right to be hopelessly enchanted and incredibly annoying about it.”

Before he turned to go, he added, without looking back:

“See you tomorrow, same table. I’ll bring you tea this time.”

You blinked after him, stunned by the combination of chaos and charm he always left in his wake. Your friends often teased that you were unshakeable — that you could hold your ground against even a Veela’s pull.

But Sirius Black?

He was going to be trouble.

Big, grey-eyed, endlessly smiling trouble.

[justwinginglife]

Can I please request the kafgang investigating a crankier than usual platoon leader reader? They assume its just a woman getting irritated because she looks like she's gaining weight but it's just her pregnancy belly showing with hoshina's baby...

Pregnancy hormones amirite? (I've never been pregnant before)

LOL I've also never been pregnant before but I love this prompt and I will do my best with it!

Soshiro loved that you were pregnant with his child. And not just because he'd done some delicious love making to get you pregnant, and not just because the idea of having tons of adorable little children running around was so precious to him, no- he loved that you were pregnant because he enjoyed all the ridiculous demands that you made.

Oh, today you wanted peanut butter on pickles? Sure, he could slather them up for you.

Oh, now you were crying because the sky was too blue today and it hurt your eyes? Alright, he could try a little rain dance to bring the clouds rolling in.

Oh, you didn't like the ending of a movie that was made decades ago and wanted him to fix it? Slightly more difficult, but he made bank as Vice Captain, he was sure he could hire a film crew and some actors and have that ready for you in a jiffy.

And then when the other officers started to pick up on your pregnancy-induced attitude, but didn't pick up on the pregnancy-induced part, he enjoyed it all the more. They figured you were just cranky because you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or it was your time of the month, but when your belly started to show more proof of Soshiro's love, they attributed your irritation to gaining weight rather than gaining a child.

And you had no idea, because no one would dare tell a Platoon Leader they were getting fat. So instead you had to deal with random outbursts of "It's okay, Platoon Leader L/N, you're still beautiful as ever," or "I know this great workout if you're interested," or "Honestly, metabolism is overrated anyway."

It wasn't even the words that they said that bothered you as much as just the act of them talking at all, their voices sounded like nails on a chalkboard to you, it was like the pregnancy version of a hangover- you just wanted everyone to be quiet.

Soshiro caught on and he steered everyone away from you until you could tolerate noise again, but not before he'd had a good laugh. Of course, if anyone dared to mention aloud that you were gaining weight or you looked different, like you were letting yourself go, he'd shut it down in an instant- towering over them with a booming voice and a threatening glare. But it cracked him up to see how cute your little nose was when you scrunched it up, confused at their attempts to make conversation with you. And it cracked him up that you were so obviously pregnant in his eyes and yet no one else had drawn that conclusion yet. He wondered just how bulging your belly had to be for it to register.

He thought he might make a game out of it, creating a points system in his head for each officer and awarding them whenever one of them got even remotely close to guessing correctly.

Shinomiya noticed that your requests had been seemingly bizarre lately and as you were a woman that she respected very much for your skill and your intellect, she knew there had to be a better reason for the fog in your brain. Point for her.

Nakanoshima noticed you'd thrown up in a nearby vase and while the men attributed it to food poisoning, she'd pondered a little bit harder about when the last time you asked to borrow a tampon from her was. Point for her.

Minase noticed (shyly) that your boobs were looking a little more rounded and plump than they usually did, and made a comment that maybe pregnancy would aid her flat chest as well. Double points for her.

Really at this point, it seemed the women were catching on faster than the men. Soshiro was suddenly embarrassed of his own gender when he had this realization.

He thought he might just break one day, screaming "I FUCKED A BABY INTO HER BELLY YA IDIOTS!!!"

But he didn't have to do that. Because one day, you'd strolled in while everyone was training and snorted loudly, saying "Wow, I could beat the entire sorry lot of you all at once even pregnant. Laps around the perimeter people!"

Everyone's eyes widened and their jaws dropped (the women a little less so than the men).

They'd barely had time to process this new information when you'd repeated in a louder tone, "Did I stutter? LAPS AROUND THE PERIMETER!"

And then they ran off, terrified at the thought of just how much torture one pregnant lady could dole out.

And Soshiro smirked again, amused as ever.

"Ahh, that's my baby. Almost makes me want to fill you up again."

[fafnir19]

Rise of the Phoenix

The university's sauna was a sanctuary for Logan, a place to escape the relentless grind of his studies. He was a scrawny blond freshman, his pale skin and slender frame a stark contrast to the muscular athletes that dominated the campus. But Logan possessed a different kind of power—a brilliant mind that could dissect complex theories and solve problems that left others scratching their heads. Yet, his intelligence was a double-edged sword, isolating him from his peers who often seemed shallow and uninteresting. On this particular afternoon, Logan sought the familiar solace of the sauna, his books and notes temporarily abandoned. His blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the dimly lit sauna, the wooden benches, and the bucket of water with a ladle for pouring. The silence was soothing, allowing him to indulge in his thoughts without interruption. The hiss of the water on the hot stones and the occasional crackle of the wooden benches were soothing companions. The tranquility was interrupted by the arrival of a new presence. Logan lifted his head, his blue eyes adjusting to the dim light, and took in the sight of a young man with the build of a Greek statue. Short black hair, slick with sweat, framed a face that boasted a strong jawline. This newcomer, Trevor, was the polar opposite of Logan—a jock, no doubt, and probably not the brightest bulb on the tree.

Trevor's presence filled the small sauna, making it feel suddenly smaller. "Hey," he grunted, his deep voice echoing off the wooden walls. Logan nodded, unsure how to respond to this stranger. He wasn't used to socializing, especially not with someone like Trevor. Trevor, sensing the tension in the air, offered a nod and a friendly, " Mind if I join you?" His voice, though slightly hoarse, had a certain warmth to it. "Didn't expect to see anyone else in here." Logan, caught off guard by the unexpected company, mumbled a quiet "Sure," his voice almost lost in the hiss of the steam. He shifted on the bench, making room for Trevor, who sat down with a satisfied grunt. Then Trevor spoke again, his voice carrying a hint of desperation to fill the quiet. "So, uh, you a freshman too?" Logan's blue eyes were dull and without any interest in the conversation. "Yeah. Logan." "Trevor." The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the sound of their breathing and the occasional drip of condensation.

Trevor, sensing the awkwardness, attempted to make small talk, but his attempts fell flat. Logan, lost in his thoughts, offered little more than monosyllabic responses. Finally, Trevor hit upon a topic that sparked Logan's interest. "You know, it's not easy being a freshman. Everyone's trying to find their place." Logan's curiosity grew. He found himself wanting to engage in this unexpected conversation. "I know what you mean. It's like everyone's already formed their cliques, and we're left on the sidelines." "Heard about the Phoenix Order, man?" Trevor exclaimed, his voice echoing off the wooden walls. "They're looking for new pledges." At the mention of the Phoenix Order, Logan's eyes narrowed. "Those pretentious jerks? They're like the epitome of arrogance, always strutting around like they own the place. Who'd want to join them?" His voice carried a hint of disdain, a rare emotion showing on his usually stoic face. Trevor chuckled, a deep sound that filled the sauna. "Right? I mean, who do they think they are? Just because they've got the looks and the grades, they act like they're better than everyone else." Logan's tone turned bitter. " Yeah, especially that Aiden, with his silver-tongued charm and those skimpy satin shorts, always showing off his body. As if we don't get it, he's a Greek god."

Trevor chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. "Oh, him, thinks he's God's gift. I can't stand those types. Always got something to prove. But you know who I can't stand the most? Rhet. That guy acts like his intellect is some kind of divine gift. Makes me feel like a dumb jock, which I'm not, by the way. Just because I don't have my nose in a book 24/7 doesn't mean I'm stupid." Logan couldn't help but smile, his pale face softening. "Oh, Rhet. Aiden's little lapdog. Always following him around, nodding like a mindless puppet. I can't stand his know-it-all-attitude, like he's some kind of intellectual, but he's just a snob." Trevor's laughter filled the room, "Hah! I know, right?" ." Logan's joined in to Trevor’s laughter, a sound rarely heard from the reserved freshman, "Yeah, Aiden's got this peacock-like strut, always flaunting his chest and..." He blushed, realizing he was describing Aiden's prominent manhood. "Yeah, they're all style and no substance," Trevor agreed, his voice rising with confidence. "I mean, who do they think they are?" The sauna seemed to get hotter as their conversation grew more animated. Trevor's muscular frame glistened with sweat, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "I mean, who would even want to join that frat?" Logan asked, his voice incredulous. "They're so full of themselves." "Yeah, it's like they're compensating for something," Trevor said, his laughter filling the small space. "Maybe they're not as confident as they seem." As they laughed, a strange camaraderie formed between them, two unlikely allies united in their disdain for the Phoenix Order. Their conversation flowed, a surprising ease settling between them. They gossiped, laughed, and revealed more about themselves than they intended. The sauna, a place of relaxation, had become a confessional of sorts, where two young men found common ground in their insecurities and shared disdain.

As their laughter subsided, a sudden realization hit them. The heat in the sauna had become unbearable. Logan stood up, wiping his palms on his towel. "Wow, it's hot. I think we should take a break." Trevor nodded, his face flushed. "Yeah, let's get out of here." They moved towards the door, but as Logan reached for the handle, his heart sank. "It's locked!" Panic filled Trevor's eyes. "What? No way!" They tried again, pulling and pushing with all their might, but the door remained stubbornly shut. The heat intensified, becoming oppressive. Logan's breath came in short gasps, his skin prickling with heat. "We've got to get out! It's too hot!" Logan's voice rose in desperation. "I'm trying, man, I'm trying!" Trevor banged on the door, his screams turning into moans as the heat scorched their skin. "Let us out! Oh God, it burns!" But it was too late. The sauna had become their inferno, flames licking at the wooden walls, the heat searing their lungs with every desperate breath. They screamed, their voices blending into a chorus of terror— "Help!" "Let us out!" "No, please!" But there was no escape. The fire consumed them, their bodies burning until they crumbled into ash, leaving two small piles on the sauna floor.

Hours later, Logan's and Trevor’s remains were discovered by two members of the Phoenix Order, their eyes gleaming with a sinister light at the scene before them. One knelt down to the ashes, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction. "Perfect. Just what we need." The other, tall and lean, with a condescending smirk, joined him. "Indeed. A fresh start for our little experiment." They collected the ashes, mixing them together in a small pouch.

In the cool evening air, the Phoenix Order gathered in their fraternity house, their laughter and voices echoing through the halls. Aiden, his silver-grey satin shorts and velvet jacket shimmering in the dim light, held a small pouch in his hands. He smiled, his white teeth flashing in the darkness. "Tonight, brothers, we initiate two new pledges. This pouch of ashes will fuel our ritual, ensuring our dominance on campus." The other frat brothers cheered, their voices filled with anticipation.

Aiden stepped into a circle of glowing runes, the ash from the pouch forming a small pile in the center. He began to chant, his voice deep and hypnotic. "Oh, ancient powers, hear our call. Bless these ashes, transform them all. From humble remains, let rise anew, loyal brothers, devoted to you." The room fell silent, save for the sound of Aiden's rhythmic chant. His hand moved to his crotch, stroking the bulge in his shorts as he continued the ritual. The fabric strained against his erection, and with a smooth motion, Aiden freed his cock, the satin shorts sliding down his thighs. "Oh, the power grows, the ritual shows. As I spill my seed, let the ashes heed." Aiden's chant was punctuated by the sound of his hand pumping his shaft, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. His eyes closed in ecstasy as he climaxed, his warm cum shooting onto the ash, igniting an explosion of flames. In that instant, a pillar of flame erupted, a fiery tornado spinning wildly.

From the heart of the fire, a figure emerged, its body taking shape amidst the dancing flames. It was Logan, but not as he had been before. His physique had changed, now boasting lean, toned muscles that rippled beneath smooth skin. He stood taller, his posture exuding a newfound confidence. As the flames licked at his body, Logan's eyes flickered open, revealing a changed consciousness. "Ah, you're awake," Aiden's voice cut through the haze, his tone laced with satisfaction. "What... what happened?" Logan's voice was hoarse, his throat dry from the heat. "You're reborn, my friend," Aiden replied, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you look damn good."

Logan's attention was immediately drawn to Aiden, and he felt a strange sensation. Aiden's signature style, the satin shorts and velvet jacket, which he had once found pretentious, now held an undeniable allure. The fabric's sheen seemed to beckon him, and Logan couldn't tear his eyes away. As if in response to his thoughts, the flames caressed his body, weaving a pair of satin shorts around his slender hips. The fabric was like a lover's touch, sending shivers of pleasure through him. His cock began to stir, growing harder by the second, and the shorts showcased his lengthening shaft. "Oh, you like that, don't you?" Aiden's voice was a low purr. Logan could only nod and a smirk played on his lips while the satin stimulated his glans. "Ah, the allure of satin," he moaned, his voice dripping with newfound arrogance. "I understand now, Aiden." The velvet blazer settled around his shoulders and the flames receded, leaving him standing as a new man.

"Logan," Aiden's voice cut through the haze of the ritual, "do you want to pledge for our fraternity, the Order of the Phoenix?" Logan's mind, once a bastion of intellect, now buzzed with a different kind of power. He felt a connection to Aiden, a bond he couldn't explain. "Yes," he heard himself say, the word echoing in his mind. "I pledge myself to the Order." As the words left his mouth, his thoughts shifted, aligning with Aiden's. The old Logan, with his insecurities and intelligence, faded into the background. He was now a creature of confidence and vanity, a reflection of Aiden's own persona. Aiden's hand rested on his shoulder, a possessive gesture. "Welcome to the frat, little bro. You're one of us now." Logan's grin mirrored Aiden's, a picture of devotion and admiration. He turned his head and noticed another circle nearby, where Rhet, Aiden's right-hand man, was engaged in a similar ritual. Trevor's body was being reformed, his muscles not as pronounced as before, but still exuding an attractive, statuesque quality. Logan felt a twinge of recognition, knowing that Trevor had been through the same transformation. "The combination of Logan's brains and Trevor's brawn was a stroke of genius," Rhet remarked, his voice carrying across the room. "Indeed. They'll make excellent pledges. And their devotion is already evident," Aiden replied, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. Logan's heart swelled with pride at the thought of being a part of this brotherhood. The two new pledges stood side by side, their eyes now filled with admiration for their respective initiators. Devotion - That's what Logan felt as he looked at Aiden. He wanted to follow, to learn, and to become everything that Aiden represented. And Trevor, now under Rhet's wing, seemed to feel the same, a silent understanding passing between them.

Over the next few weeks, Aiden took Logan under his wing, introducing him to the ways of the fraternity and the intricacies of field hockey. Logan proved to be a quick study, his natural intelligence and newfound athleticism making him a formidable player.

Every day, Logan felt himself becoming more like Aiden. He adopted his mannerisms, his charm, and his confidence. The satin shorts and velvet blazer became his uniform, and he wore them with pride, embracing the sensation of the fabric against his skin. Trevor, too, was changing. He spent his days with Rhet, learning the ways of the frat. His intelligence grew, and he became more articulate and Logan's trusted sidekick.

The transformation was complete. The once-scrawny nerd and the muscle-bound jock had merged into a perfect blend, their former selves a distant memory. They strutted through the halls with an air of superiority, their laughter echoing off the walls, a testament to their newfound arrogance. "Can you believe we used to hate these guys?" Logan chuckled, his eyes scanning the admiring glances of their fellow students. Trevor shook his head, his face a mask of disbelief. "I know, right? I mean, look at us now. We're the epitome of what we despised." "But it feels good, doesn't it?" Logan's eyes sparkled with mischief. "The power, the respect, and let's not forget the satin shorts." They shared a laugh, a bond forged in fire and transformation. Logan and Trevor, now brothers in more ways than one, had become the very jerks they had once sworn to detest. But in their new reality, it all made a twisted kind of sense. As they walked away, their laughter fading into the distance, one thing was clear: the Phoenix Order had claimed two new souls, and the campus would never be the same again.