#and i have a vision for..red gem...

[whereishoney]

gem for gemweek! gem for gemweek!

first time officially drawing gem.. and i wanted to give her a cargo skirt. does it look like one? erm,. the vision is there though. and a dress shirt with an interesting neckline inspired by her hermitcraft skin heehee

oh yeah @dronepikachu for coming up with gemweek yaya

[cryo-a]

Omg i see it.

I like to imagine post-winter Phos being freakishly tall. They’re already canonly a bit taller than the other gems because of the alloy heels (if I remember right), but I need them to be 7ft tall. Absolutely towering over the other gems. This doesn’t make sense (the alloy wouldn’t make them THAT tall) but I don’t care, I just need them to be so tall that they can’t fit through doors. And since Cairngorm is canonly the shortest gem, just a tiny bit shorter than the others, Phos can and will lean on them whenever possible. It’s simply in human nature to lean onto those shorter than you.

[tarotbyjam24]

Pick a card : Your wedding day with your future spouse

Masterlist\ pick a piles feedbacks piggy bank

pile 1 pile2

Likes , reblogs and feedbacks are very much appreciated 💗

Disclaimer: this is general reading . It may or may not resonate . If reading doesn't resonate let it fly and choose another pile or simply there were no messages for you through this reading 😊 Take the reading lightly as nothing's set in stone until you believe so 🕊️

Thankyou for stopping by let's dive in ☄️ Choose the pile you feel most drawn to 🧸

Exchanges : open , collabs for paps : open

If you like my work you can now tip me on kofi too ,leave 🖤

I also offer paid readings you can book one as it'll help me a lot and don't forget to check the free readings offer ✨

Pile एक :

Hello pile 1 , I feel this will be the dream marriage that everyone wants and you'll be experiencing it finally. You'll be thinking about it even in your sleeps too . You'll be exited for your marriage. Your prince charming will really be coming on horse to take you with them . This is literally the fairytale coming true for you all pile 3 . You're so lucky omg✨🎀. On your wedding you'll be dressed prettiest too and your hairs and accessories in it will only accentuate your beauty. There's this vision I'm getting you walking to them with a bouquet of colourful flowers and not looking at them because of shyness and keeping your eyes only on bouquet. They'll be actually melted by seeing you like this 🐾🩰. I feel your dress will be more curve hugging which will highlight your silhouette very well. Both you'll feel that wedding is happening divinely and God itself is watching it and blessing you . Even god may show some good omens at your wedding day .

Ahem ahemm. Your spouse's eyes will only be setting on you. They'll be enjoying their time with you and tmi but they won't be able to wait for the night to spend with you. I can feel their passion while doing your reading right now. I also feel you both may actually decide to keep the wedding theme like the one that happens in disney movies and dress accordingly to that like your spouse wearing tailsuit and a crown similarly you wearing a princese ball gown which is highlighting your neck, shoulders and chest and wearing a crown too you may even colour your hair temporary like pink , purple ,red or brown and for ambience you keeping a cloudy theme where everyone feels like this wedding is happening in clouds 😭 and have some plants in surroundings too probably light pink roses . I see your spouse will be very calculating with everything so that you won't have to worry about anything. If there's anything specific you'd like to do on your wedding day they'll beforehand calculate and plan everything and show it to you . This relationship will be very fulfilling to both of you. You'll feel like you won a trophy and same feelings will be happening inside them too. In the your ceremony is done you both will feel like you're on cloud nine and lemme tell you they'll be protective of you even when you're asleep because you're their gem . They'll like to take the lead . I feel they can be the oldest in their family too . I feel you both may like stargazing so you may do that together in night. Your wedding may happen somewhere around streams in mountains and greenery maybe in valley I feel . Thank you for reading 😊

resonated with above reading? Get your personalised readings

previous reading your wedding day moodboard

Pile दो:

Hello pile 2 , let's start with your reading . First and foremost I feel you're manifesting this wedding to happen and it's happening successfully. You maybe telepathically sending messages to your future spouse or even whispering to them in their dreams . This wedding can happen fast like both of just set one day and boom it's all done . You both may not be into planning things ahead although you may roughly have a vision on how you wanna organise your wedding ceremony but you both are more sort of going with flow person and enjoying what life has to offer you. When marrying to eachother you both will feel confident and feeling grateful that you both chose eachother but deep deep inside there can be bit doubt lingering if all of this is going to work out . They will be guarding your heart and make your that you won't feel unsafe and uncomfortable in any situations. You may feel their attention is divided by the people around them on wdding but they would really like to shift all of their attention to you and the feeling of finally getting married. Both of you will look pretty on your precious day and they may come from behind you in your dressing room and hug you from behind when you're lost in your thoughts looking at mirror and calm you down from running mind .

Also your future spouse may not show much love infront of everyone on wedding day as it was all hasty but they for sure gonna shower you with gifts privately and send them to your room when you're getting dressed highlight will be a bouquet of deep red roses which will make you feel the happiest that day . Your wedding may happen at ship . This may not be for all but your marriage could be a contract marriage due happening for your business Successes like in movies or dramas. Although it won't be like no feelings marriage but a arrange marriage where you both make moves slowly. On your marriage day your spouse will actually would like to be with you alone only so maybe only few people will be invited to the wedding and you both may want a grand honeymoon instead to connect and know eachother. On wedding day they'd be constantly thinking about you and wondering if you've eaten or not . Are they doing okay . Are they feeling bounded in this marriage? You may also think if this marriage will last or was it it a mistake to take a fast decision ? Are we both resilient enough to be with eachother. The answer is yes. You both will be in good harmony and making this marriage successful . Thank you for reading 😊

resonated with above reading? Get your personalised readings

previous reading your wedding day moodboard

I hope you liked the reading . Thank you so much for letting me read for you . Wishing you best ahead . 🎀Bless you and have a nice day🌸🐰 I'd love to hear which pile you chose

Loads of love , jam🩷

[hcneymooners]

⋆ the only difference between a kiss and a bite is how deep the teeth go.

warlord!ambessa x bene gesserit!reader. men & minors dni.

you do not have to have read or watched dune to understand this.

synopsis: primed to be one of ambessa's hand-picked elite, you have wanted nothing but to be ambessa's top commander. but then she discarded you, chose the kiramman girl instead. she might have thrown you out, but someone else took you in.

cw: bene gesserit!reader, age difference, older woman/young woman, power dynamics, power imbalance, pining, sexually explicit content, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, oral sex, face riding, impact play, pain play, light sadism, light masochism, dom/sub, switch!reader, switch!ambessa, service top!ambessa,strength kink, face-sitting, face fucking, implications of grooming, slight dub-con (bc of the voice though it is not used sexually), angst, angst with a happy? ending, ambiguous ending, sexual tension, hate sex, misandrist!reader, beefing with your age gap object of affection's daughter because that should've been your daughter.

wc: 8.06k

notes: we're back and more evil than ever. it's me and my lana del rey-length titles against the world. thank you for being patient with me. i'm glad i could return to you with this.

it’s incredible how people tend to misremember the occurrence of an event when they are the ones in the wrong. 

you have never misremembered. 

since childhood, your memory has been a diamond trap with steel teeth at the center. whatever falls within will never be free. your voice is the same. you have no interest in sounding as honeyed as your sisters. you need the command to be felt and heeded. you understand, however, that if you let your emotions completely consume you, you will be disposed of. the sisterhood does not need weakness, nor does it require a fractured image. so, you stay silent and beautiful. therefore, you are in control and tolerated. 

(you are more than tolerated. you are loved. you have not seen this yet.)

the day starts as any other. you wake earlier than the others, sliding out from around the curled body of one of your sisters. her hair is bone white, made that way from trauma from what you understand. she has a young face, one with no tired lines and an open horizon. she sees differently than you do, often has nightmares, and climbs into your bed. you hope her vision never fades. it is good to have a soft heart.

the two of you were called lambs when you arrived. the reverend mothers would hide a smile behind their hands as they called after one of you, asking, “where is the other lamb?” 

the sentiment echoes across the empty floor of your mind as you gently stand, adjusting the blankets behind you so your sister is not as cold as you are now. she is one lamb, but you are not the other. you used to be, but that has been stripped from you underneath harder hands. and you weren’t even chosen for the slaughter in the end. 

your face twitches, and you try to refocus, sitting on the floor in front of the long mirror in your bedchamber. carefully, you weave your hair into a plait but find that your hands only remember what she taught you when you were still her lamb.

your hair is dragged tightly into a tight war braid, your scalp screaming for mercy. you never listen. fear is the mind killer, and pain is the strengthener.

from there, you rise, sliding into your well-loved woven navy robe. you had bathed late last evening, and now it was so early that the morning could still be confused with the bite of the night. somewhere outside, an animal is howling, or maybe weeping. you cannot tell the difference.

maybe it is you making the sound. 

you slide on your headdress, the metal webbing across your face like a second skin. it is fine as chainmail, but heavy with wealth. each link is adorned with a gem the color of a bruise: deep sapphires, violet amethysts, the muted red of garnets too dark to gleam. a lattice of silver threads drapes over your crown and temples, with tiny golden hooks pulled at the skin just behind your ears to keep the veil in place.

it is beautiful. it is painful. the weight reminds you.

the metal burns against your lips, and you think of how you wish to always be shielded. 

you walk the halls. it is cool here in the shadows of the tall, cool, black stone. you are sheltered from light as you wisp silently across the floors, feet bare and hot with a phantom heat from a ground that is far too cold, that it almost burns. the stone dispels into feathery grass, the blades kissing your calloused skin as you continue to hike further and further out into the landscape. 

you are glad you are here, that you are one of them. you are glad to have sisters. outside of here, back home, no one seems to understand that you are angry. here, they understand, and they still call you the other lamb. in a way, you suppose you are. sometimes, you graze.

you walk and walk, trespass over borders until the ground begins to change. the terrain buckles, the grass falling away to reveal rich dark soil, then veined stone, marbled like muscle. this place is old, untouched even by the sisters who pride themselves on touching all. you do not come here to pray. you come to see.

nestled in the earth is your mirror.

not glass. it is too breakable, highly mortal. what rests here is a polished slab of clearstone: thick as a sword’s width and just as sharp, its surface tempered in volcanic heat and alchemized by bene gesserit archivists. beneath its sheen, a hundred visions have burned away and returned.

the clearstone is set in obsidian, carved into the rock like a wound that never closes. it is an echo of you. around it: salt lines, laid by your own hand. a single strand of your hair. a ring of pressed primrose and dried bloodroot. you learned this watching one of the older sisters in a trance. 

you learned this the way you learn everything: precisely, completely, without permission.

you kneel, sliding the veil of your headdress back so your breath might warm the surface. you place your hands on either side of the scrying stone, fingertips just brushing the edge. it’s cold. it always is. it demands something before it gives anything back.

so you feed it.

a memory. the scent of iron and smoke. the last time she looked at you, the feel of your heart splitting cleanly into six pieces. you breathe in. you begin.

your voice does not rise. it drops, low and guttural, like an incantation slid through gritted teeth.

"reveal her. bring her to me."

the mirror clouds, then clarifies.

and then, she is there. ambessa medarda. warlord. mother. deceiver. betrayer. the only woman your soul has ever known.

she’s crouched low, speaking with someone. blue hair, rigid posture—caitlyn. you do not taste jealousy. you taste rot. this is your fruit left too long on the branch. you taste all the years wasted carving yourself sharp while she looked elsewhere. you do not speak. your cheek bleeds; you have bitten down.

you wait. you watch.

eventually, she is alone. she leans forward over her knees, rolling her shoulder, her back to the mirror. her muscles glisten in the waning light. the moment stretches like a taut wire.

then, she stills.

the voice is not needed now. she knows.

you keep the window open, watch her face tense and shift as she registers being observed. she looks up from where she is hunched over those open knees, her muscles rippling under that dark, regal skin. you keep waiting because she is intelligent, highly so, and you know that she will find you.

she does. 

ambessa medarda straightens herself and turns, looking over her shoulder with those cruel, bright eyes, and stares into the looking glass across from her. you do not flinch. you do not fear. fear is the mind killer. it is stronger than her, and now you are stronger than both of them.

you let her watch. she turns to better see you. you preen just slightly underneath the attention, but the sweetness soon sours. you make ambessa medarda stare at your reflection. you are the weapon and the girl she forged. 

you are the woman she discarded.

your veil begins to retract. not by your hand, but by design. it was always made to reveal, never to shroud forever. layer by layer, the silk and metal webbing slides away from your face until the sharp planes of you are shown. you are not what she remembers. you are something else now.

you hope she is seeing the edge of you: gleaming, bitter, and perfect.

the connection balks. you hold. the veil closes.

you hope she knows you will once more make her choose. or you will kill her.

time will decide.

𓃖

the bene gesserit do not accept contracts; they orchestrate them. you do not request. they summon. but time decides so, they have agreed to one. 

ambessa medarda is no fool. her empire swells, but her bloodline thins. there are threats the blade cannot cut, ones that fester in secret folds. so she sends word. the sisterhood replies.

you know who will be chosen before the reverend mother superior dictates her law over the land. when your name falls from behind her teeth, you expect it. you expect the way the other name falls, too. you feel the sister settle beside you as you bend in deference and accept the assignment. you are comforted by the way she watches you with a lack of interest.

so, they send their two: you, and the sister with whom you’ve always walked in parallel. you share no friendship, but your silences are aligned. you trust her. enough.

you arrive at night. it is not meant as secrecy, but it is loaded with intention. 

the soldiers of the medarda camp are already at their posts when the air shifts. low fog unfurls across the stone, rising like breath from an unseen lung. the horses smell it first, and then the men. the silence tastes different. charged. ionic.

two figures begin to descend the path carved into the cliffside, ceremonial hoods low but posture unbent. they do not speak. they do not need to.

the first is robed in burnt saffron and oxblood. pansa. broad-shouldered, flanked by iron cuffs, the oldest girl-child of a desert house long swallowed by sand. her presence carries weight similar to the feeling of seeding conflict, and her silence is an elegy. there is power in the pacing of her movements. 

beside her: you. [name], though they are probably unaware.

the more in the dark you were, the more ambessa could provide you with “light.”

your indigo robes ripple like stormwater, sheer in places where flesh must feel the air, the cold, the world. this is your house’s doctrine: truth borne by skin, suffering made visible.

chains run down your sleeves like adornment, but the glint of each link speaks of restraint, not vanity. at your throat, a collar forged of black steel, inset with bruised stones: garnet, tanzanite, onyx. each is a sigil of mastery, a tale of blood. the veil over your face is gauze-thin and luminous. it doesn’t hide you. it is slightly uncomfortable to be so revealed.

you move as one, you and pansa, like a hymnal in a dead tongue.

the camp watches. no one dares to speak. but she knows you’ve come. you know this.

ambessa emerges from her command tent the way storms break: abruptly and unrepentant. she's dressed as always for conquest: dark leathers, sleeves rolled, arms dusted in the pale film of exertion. her hair is coiled high, braids tight at the sides, a crown of discipline. your scalp aches in understanding. she halts when she sees you.

she does not kneel. you do not offer her the comfort of a name.

the air is dry and perfumed with spice. 

she does not speak to you first, but you feel the throb of her recognition in your spine. from behind her emerges caitlyn with her hair thick around her face and her face flushed pink as if she has been eaten by another mouth. you think of what pansa said as you traveled here, how the girl was primed for betrayal. how ambessa would be blindsided by it as long as she remained unaware. you’d laughed at that. 

now, a smile twists at your mouth before guttering out. for a moment, the fire crackles loudly.

a sound like an organ crushed rings out, though no one else reacts. the melody may just be playing for you. it is not the first time.

you stand just beyond torchlight, veil drawn. still, silence.

“come to finish the job?” she finally asks. 

the question irritates both you and pansa. it is her request that secured this audience, but even now, she plays for power despite not fully having it.

“that depends,” you answer, smooth and unhurried. “have you decided who you are today?”

pansa continues, “yes. which are you? warlord or mother?”

ambessa’s jaw tightens. you think you hear it crack. her eyes narrow, alight with annoyance. there’s something close to a smile on her mouth, though it does not reach her. she speaks louder, addressing the air.

“so they sent the one who hates me.”

pansa’s voice comes low, deliberate, and polished.

“no,” she says. “we brought the one who understands you. best there be no surprises. ”

a beat. ambessa looks between you both.

“and you?” she asks pansa.

“i do not hate you,” pansa replies, steady. she does not give any more.

a rustle passes through the soldiers behind her, but ambessa holds up a hand. no need. she knows what this is.

you watch her then. watch her watching you. she cannot help herself. she was always a student of strength, of shape and bearing. you wear your body like it is both a weapon and an altar. she built the first half of you. now, she must contend with the rest.

you bow your head, barely, and only to the ritual. you do not kneel. pansa, without question, remains standing. her head never dips.

and ambessa, once your ruin, now your ally by necessity, tilts her head and laughs under her breath.

“then let’s begin.”

𓃖

the decision comes at dawn. 

ambessa gives the order to break camp, her voice slicing clean through the cool morning air. no one argues. no one ever does.

you and pansa are offered horses. you refuse. when your hand presses into the small of pansa’s back, she accepts. the path is remembered by your body. 

it will carry you.

ambessa rides ahead, all ceremony and command, but you keep your pace slow. it is not surrender, only familiarity. you’ve made this pilgrimage before. when you pass the red rock outcrop that juts like a broken tooth from the earth’s skull, you remember the blood it once drank. yours.

the palace rises in the distance like a mirage made of bone. you feel your own ring with memory. neither of you is beautiful in this place. you are exact.

inside, you remove your veil. you are not a guest here. you are a returned variable. a ghost that knows the way the light’s path runs alongside the architecture. you know every inch. you are mapped the same way.

you are led to chambers that had once been yours. nothing has changed. this is intentional. you leave your robes folded like memory and dress in metal instead. you drape yourself in what you survived. you are practical now; the ceremonial is no longer necessary. 

when the door opens hours later, it is not ambessa.

it is the girl.

she does not knock. she walks in as if it were her right, and perhaps, here, it is. she carries the signature ease of someone born into hierarchies like these.. her boots barely make a sound.

“you must be [name]. i am mel,” she says. “my mother asked me to attend the meeting. i came early.”

you turn only slightly. 

“to see me?”

she looks at you. you’ve redone your hair with brutal precision: braided back, coiled tight, a single sphere of amethyst nested in the center of your plait. it glints like an eye in the candlelight. you look, now, like one of ambessa’s elite. one of her many trainees. but the set of your jaw is not hers. the clear grief, the loose fit of this fighter’s skin? that is yours.

mel continues to watch you, eyes tracking the way you stand in a simple black high necked gown, cinch a belt and gaping open like a slit belly in the back. you say nothing and only adjust the vambrace over your left wrist. she notices you’ve stripped yourself of any further ornamentation save for the onyx collar at your throat over the fabric and the house-mark inked into your back. coordinates. 

she doesn’t comment on either.

you are militant, clearly, but dressed like a religious devotee. 

“i see now,” she says after a pause, “why they said you were hard to read. i see they just lacked the language.”

you meet her eyes. still no warmth, but no dismissal either. just a sort of studied apathy. briefly, mel realizes you scare her.

“i don’t need their filthy mouths to define me,” you reply.

mel tilts her head in interest. you mimic the action in the opposing direction, so that she can see the dog that she is. she corrects herself, embarrassed. good. she cannot be so open with her enemies when she reads them.

you wonder how much of her is her mother’s and how much is something still forming. if whatever is being birthed will reveal itself to be something softer, still steel, but in a different shape.

“strategy room is this way,” she says finally, gesturing.

you don’t thank her. 

you don’t have to.

the chamber is circular, high-ceilinged, and domed with shadow and the illumination of high-rising flame. the table is long and set with terrain markers, silk maps, and crystal pieces shaped like predators. medarda excess masquerading as military efficiency.

caitlyn is already seated, her posture composed but frayed at the edges. she looks…unwell. waxy, as if someone has drained her of life and ordered her to keep living. she stands when you and pansa enter, as if uncertain of what this demands.

pansa nods once. you only look away from her.

ambessa stands at the head of the table. she is not dressed for battle now but for rule. deep crimson and gold fabrics wrapped sharp to her body, armor only in metaphor. her hair is bound with golden wire and restraint. the grey takes nothing away from her beauty. you feel the weight of her gaze before it finds your face.

you hate the way your stomach flushes with warmth. she used to never look at you. 

mel takes her place beside her mother, heir-apparent and new to its gravity. she observes more than she speaks. you and pansa move in tandem, flanking the table. you do not sit. you rest your hands lightly on the wood. palms down. no invitation to softness.

ambessa doesn’t speak immediately. she’s watching. no, reading. you can feel her taking inventory: the way your sleeves continue to hide your arms, the way your shoulders square instead of slouch, the house-stone in your hair, the absence of veil, and the bareness of your back as you twist to catalogue the meeting’s attendants.

she looks like she wants to say something just to see how you’ll respond. if she speaks, you might strip her of skin.

mel notices it first: the standoff framed in silence. caitlyn shifts in her seat. you look at her again, think of how red her blood would be against the navy of her ponytail. she tenses, and you smile. it’s a quick, white slash of teeth. there is a sapphire inset upon each of your canines.

pansa, unimpressed by drama, begins: 

“the sisterhood sends us for information, not flattery. shall we get to work?”

ambessa’s mouth plateaus. she leans forward, bracing both hands on the table. she still doesn’t look at pansa.

“of course,” she murmurs, but her eyes never leave you. “if you’re ready.”

mel tracks everything: caitlyn’s nerves, your coiled silence, the flicker in her mother’s voice that is not annoyance nor command, but something else. she doesn't dare to name it. she just watches.

the first question comes from an officer. some minor strategist, brittle with pride.his face sags with the crueler marks of age, and you feel a twist of disgust. men are like animals to you. most of the time, you ached to put them down.

“why them?” he asks, gesturing at you and your sister with a flick that should cost him fingers. “why not a neutral envoy?”

before ambessa can speak, before pansa can scold, you answer.

“because we are not neutral,” you say evenly, almost pleasantly, “and we’ve never pretended to be. it is almost always personal, officer.”

the officer falters at your impeccable use of noxian to address his station. you continue.

“i was trained in piltover. groomed, they’d call it. measured for dresses i wasn’t allowed to pick, instructed in the politics of voice modulation and eye contact, given tests of how well i could wield a weapon whilst walking alongside an empress.”

you tilt your head toward caitlyn, toward the other lamb.

“i was meant to be you, commander.”

a ripple cuts through the room. caitlyn’s jaw clenches. you keep going.

“i passed every exam. i aced every simulation. i made the right friends, attended all the right parties. and then, when the moment came to choose who would be elevated, who would be adored, i was told it would be her. to this day, i don’t know if it was a result of house influence or if i was always meant to be humiliated. if that was my ritual.”

there’s no venom in your voice. that’s what makes it worse.

“i was escorted out of the kiramman estate with grace. that’s where they held the decision night,” you clarify. you can feel ambessa’s attention. it is a relentless, gravity-inducing pressure. “they gave me a coat for the cold. i was seventeen.”

you like eyes with mel. she’s very still. she is the same age you were then.

you tilt your chin, and your voice softens, but only in pitch.

“that night, cassandra kiramman came to me. said she felt sorry for the way it had ended. said i should be proud to have helped in training someone so luminous, to have trained beside her precious light of a daughter. that some of us were made to support the light, not stand in it.”

your emotions are beginning to rise. you sip your wine despite seeing the reflective sheen atop it. poison does nothing to you. the mere attempt makes your voice begin to rise. men were such putrid, leeching, pathetic creatures. so insipidly stupid and devoid of any worth.

it burns going down. your expression doesn’t change. but your voice curdles into something slow, sticky, vile.

“she told me i had a future still. that the world needed girls just. like. me.” every word is its own person. “quiet, composed, and eager to serve.”

you take a step forward.

“and then she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. the way a mother would. the way she knew my mother never did. it was meant to be reassuring.”

you close your eyes for one brief second. a single, crystalline snowflake falling behind your lashes.

“that was when it rose. the voice. not the one they trained. mine.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

mel inhales sharply.

“i saw her skull shudder beneath her skin. a crack formed across her cheekbone. her teeth fell out one by one. i hadn’t touched her.”

caitlyn’s chair scrapes. she remembers her mother in perfect image: cold, an incredible force, and mutilated unexpectedly on her left side. she rises, fury blooming in her throat. “you—”

you don’t even turn your head. your lips part and your throat expands, a word expelling.

“sit.”

your voice doesn’t echo. it reverberates.

caitlyn’s body stiffens, jerks, then slams back down into her seat with enough force to rattle the iced fruit in her water. the silence now is unnatural. even ambessa’s protective guard glance at one another, uncertain. mel is rigid, with lips dry and cracked. you slide her the unpoisoned chalice.

you go on, soft again, as if nothing happened.

“i let cassandra live, though i marred her. i thought mercy was strength.”

you look at everyone and no one.

“then, she died. three weeks later. murdered, if i remember correctly.” you have never forgotten. “her face was unrecognizable. her mouth was open.”

you meet the strategist’s eyes.

“i know how to make hard decisions.”

then you look at caitlyn, who cannot move.

you slide your tongue, pink and wide, across the plump plane of your lower lip. you suck off the sticky film of the toxin. you look away from her to the strategist, then to the right of him, where another man has been watching you drink all this time. you speak again. 

“pick up the blade.”

with shaking hands, he slides his hand forward without choice and picks up the letter opener sitting neatly before him. you take another sip of wine. again, you speak.

“drive it into your throat.”

his eyes widen in terror, but the command has been given. he must obey. like the animal—no. you love nature’s creatures, the mother’s children. like the parasite he is, you rephrase, he infests himself with the pointed tip of the blade. it pops through with a wet squelch and does not stop until it comes out from the back.

around him, his colleagues either retch or begin to pray.

you step forward, lean down, and let the wine dribble from your mouth. it erodes through his skin. 

there is silence now. pansa looks immeasurably smile. the mutual respect deepens.

“i know how to execute,” you say into the silence. “and i know how to live with it.”

you step back, then, and clasp your hands across your stomach. 

“any further questions?” 

there are none.

you look at ambessa. you recognize the look on her face. you would never misread desire, not when your own threatened to strangle you every night. 

“good.” you nod to yourself. “shall we have a break?”

you don’t wait for an answer. you turn and leave the room. you decide there is a break.

you never return, even when it’s over.

𓃖

the palace at night feels like a mouth that’s swallowed its own tongue. silent, damp, vast. 

the corridor outside your chambers has long gone quiet. no footsteps. no guards. no pansa in her rustling, soft silks. they’re giving you space. after what you did, they would be fools not to.

you should be asleep. you aren’t.

you sit at the edge of the bed, spine straight, shoulders loose, your hair still damp from the bath you drew yourself. the nightgown clings to you like mist: sheer, pale, and translucent as moonlight poured thin. beneath it, nothing. just skin and breath and heat. you sleep better when nothing cups you from below.

your belly aches. not with pain, but with pressure. with wanting. 

desire has found you once again, heavy in the belly with the water threatening to break. 

found you is a wishful phrase. it has never lost you.

you told yourself it was residual power, the lingering echo of your voice having snaked to life when you revisited cassandra’s cruelty. you told yourself it was the adrenaline. the blood on his hands, his body collapsed like a snapped bowstring after having stabbed himself, and ambessa’s men frozen in place by what you had ordered.

but that was hours ago.

now the ache is something else.

you hear her before you see her. the door opens slowly, deliberately. no knock. no hesitation. just a push and a presence. you understand her best after all. you, therefore, will best understand her intentions.

ambessa steps into the room as if it were her bedroom and never yours. she’s softened herself with her luxurious oils and long, silk robe, but the leather smell still clings to her like duty, like instinct. she’s done her hair in a row of four neat cornrows. you always liked it best that way.

her eyes sweep over you. it feels like a trial by fire.

your bare feet press against the cool floor, your toes twisting as she appreciates how the candlelight ghosts over the curves of your breasts through the nightgown and your open hands.

she closes the door behind her.

you don’t speak.

she does. “you’re not afraid of the implications of what you did.”

“no,” you answer. your voice is quiet, but still steeled. “he tried to kill me. i defended myself and my sister, albeit rather dramatically. a point had to be made. if anything, be grateful that pansa and i have not decided to contact the reverend mother superior.”

“i agree.” ambessa takes a few steps closer. “you’ve grown stronger, little one. the way you did it was so final. so fast. my advisors have been silent ever since.”

“good.” you tilt your chin up, meeting her gaze like a blade to a whetstone. “let them speak to each other, if they’re so desperate for noise.”

your brow furrows. you say something more.

“do not call me that.” the voice rocks through her imperceptibly. "i am not little.”

she halts a pace from you, the flame pulling the sharp lines of her face into something less severe, maybe even tired. “that,” she says, “is a horrible feeling.”

“it’s not meant to be pleasant,” you tell her.

she nods. “you didn’t flinch. earlier.”

you look at her. not away. at her. “would you have, if it were mel’s chalice?”

ambessa tenses at the mention of her daughter. you smile as you glance down, cold and mean.

“is that her full name?”

ambessa makes a scoffing sound somewhere in the back of her throat. your smile widens.

“she’s a good girl. weak at the moment, but good. most likely will be formidable. and your son…” the silence is thick. “kino, right? the one with the silver tongue. i take it he is the weakness you wish to iron out?”

you glance over your shoulder then and find her with her mouth pursed in barely concealed fury. family was always a bruise on the skin for her. you didn’t have the same attachments coming from your house. 

“well, we’ll begin properly tomorrow. i trust pansa did nothing but lead the room in circles without me there. she is cunning. she will never plan without another sister there to reinforce her, which is smart. that’s why she was chosen, if you were wondering.”

ambessa doesn’t answer. she just looks at you. really looks.

“you’re not wearing anything beneath that,” she says at last, low, rough.

your lips curl, just barely. “you shouldn’t. it’s bad for circulation. and your cunt needs to breathe.”

that earns you the smallest flicker of her smile. the one that still cuts you with its honesty. once, her happiness was all that you could ever imagine.

“i never imagined the bene gesserit would teach such wisdom.”

“it wasn’t the bene gesserit,” you say. “it was cassandra.”

her eyes sharpen, just a little. you rarely speak of the woman in a benevolent light. but tonight, the air is already split open. you smile wryly.

“she always knew i wasn't a true contender. she pitied me. i was the one with my foot in the snake’s mouth with no knowledge of its venom.”

ambessa’s eyes flick. a blink, maybe. or a tremor. but you’ve studied her too long not to notice the way her jaw ticks, just once, at the name. cassandra kiramman was as strong a ghost as she was when she possessed vitality. that woman’s memory would always cut like wire through wet flesh. it would destroy her daughter in the end. 

but ambessa does not bleed. when she speaks, it is in that too-light voice she uses when she's balancing the edge of a blade on her tongue.

“how thorough of her,” she says, her voice low and teetering on the edge of venom. “tell me. do you teach people how to touch you properly, using the voice?”

your spine straightens, your chin lifts, but you do not answer. it is so wildly inappropriate, so surgically meant to harm, you almost laugh. instead, you sit with the taste of it in your mouth. 

you recognize the wound she’s trying to carve: jealousy, intended to maim. she can’t stand the idea of you being honed by anyone but her. after everything, she still thinks she can lay claim. your mouth twists. you give her nothing. 

just the cold flint of your gaze. only ambessa doesn’t need your permission. 

she steps forward, closing the space like she has never lost her entitlement to it.

"you think you’re free,” she murmurs, a thread of smoke in her voice. “but i made you. you came back for me. every inch of who you are, every whisper in that sharp little tongue of yours. i shaped it. i sculpted it.”

her fingers ghost down the front of your nightgown.

“you’ve never not been mine, sister. you are another repeat of the pattern. commander kiramman left, too, then limped back like a little child.” oh, you think, so the deceit has begun, then. you’ll be sure to tell pansa. “it never leaves you. i never left you.”

you inhale slowly, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter. her hand fists the fabric at your chest.

“and this,” she says, almost disappointed as she tears the delicate cloth from your body in one clean rip, “this is thin work. i expected better from a sister of your rank. given your mission. given me.”

the fabric pools like spilled milk at your feet. you don’t flinch.

you look her in the eye and say, “the real one is.”

that stops her, for just a beat. her mouth twitches. then your voice cuts through the space again, low, intimate, deliberate:

“but i know how you are.”

like a wolf who’s caught the scent of blood, her expression shifts into possession, ravenous and half-crazed with hunger. you’ve baited the beast, and you can see her deciding whether to bare her teeth or bury them in you. her hand lands on your jaw. it’s gentle, almost. but the heat beneath it burns with old fury.

she will devour you, if only to prove she still can.

you strike her hard. she falls against the side of the bed. it feels good to move her. you bend. your breasts hover, full and glossy with your perfumes.

“i came back for me. i found my voice. you are like the rest, so arrogant and all too eager to take credit for things you don’t fully understand.” your breath smells sweet as it runs haggardly across her face, like strawberries singed with blackened sugar. “twisting those girls into weapons? yes, ambessa, that was you. but what i am? that is in my blood. you fight because you cannot speak.”

ambessa’s eyes glitter. that jagged, serrated shine that threatens a lineage torn in two. she exhales through her nose, slow, calculating. then, she laughs.

a single, humorless sound.

then grabs you by the throat. just to hold. to show you her hand still fits there. you are young again.

“you say i can’t speak,” she murmurs, voice close to reverent. “but i’ve always known your dialect best. i know what makes you beg.”

your blood thrums like war drums. you let her drag you backwards until the backs of your knees meet the bed. you fall onto it, neither helpless nor defeated. you are not as young as you once were.

she climbs over you with the patience of a beast about to feast. she doesn’t kiss you, not yet. she hovers, her mouth close enough to graze, but never give.

you breathe her in, let her essence sit behind your ribs like a calcification.

“the first step of harnessing the voice,” you say, voice deliciously devoid of feeling, “is learning how to use your mouth.”

and then you roll her. she doesn’t expect it. how could she? you’re twenty-something-summers young, and she’s upward of fifty and built like a living weapon. but you take her with a grunt, your thighs pressing into hers, your fingers biting into that thick, corded shoulder. you move like you’ve been waiting years to do this.

you shift, knees dragging up along the mountainous hills of her ribs, until your cunt hovers above her mouth, eclipsing her face entirely. her eyes flare with something primal as you seat yourself over her mouth. this is not an offering. this is a usage. as far as you're concerned, this is what you’re owed.

she moans against you as she licks into the pink of you, mouth hot as tar as she sucks. she sighs like she's grateful, but you don’t look at her. you only lean backward, sweat beading along your back, one hand braced on one of her large thighs.

you rock back and forth, eyes closed and brow furrowed. her tongue is thick as it fills you, the sounds of her feasting upon your cunt obscene. you grow steadier, more precise. the tempo quickens. you’re truly riding now, tits bouncing in tandem with your impatience.

ambessa trails a hand up until she reaches your cunt, playing with the lips as she spreads it further to provide her with more acces. she lifts you easily, holding you suspended with one hand and dragging a finger from the other up and down. her mouth runs a mile a minute, a stream of filth.

“you’re so tight,” she murmurs against your thigh, the words hot against her veins. "perfect and so eager for me. so fucking eager despite your resistance, aren’t you? you need me, don't you?”

you try to answer, fury rising, but then ambessa slips a finger in and fucks into you. you lose all ability to create a sound. one of her hands moves to rise and twist into your hair, yanking a mass of it as you chase every push. you groan gutturally, the pain so familiar and so fucking good.

but, as always, you regain yourself and your strength. you push her wrist down and out, and sit to once again smother her. she allows it, squeezing your ass as you begin to curl over her.

you grind in tight circles, chasing the peak, your hips drawing runes of impatience onto her mouth.

once.

twice.

your hands shake with pleasure and power. you come with a snarl and tears on your cheeks. it’s messy and furious and decidedly not romantic, despite this being one of the things in life you had wanted most. you grind down until your thighs are soaked and her mouth is slick with you.

you lift off, breath ragged, but she laughs. the sound rings deep in her chest. 

“done already? i thought i trained you to be able to withstand, to have more stamina.”

she flips you like you weigh nothing, like you are nothing. in a matter of minutes, she has you belly-down, hips high, your knees braced. a parabola of flesh and fury across the bedspread. her hands spread you open with greedy precision.

she watches both of your holes clench, one slightly loosened and the other tight and puckered. she spits, letting you feel it slide down the crack of your ass into the hot, wet, sticky cavern of your cunt. she demeans you, over and over, only to then:

crack.

the strike lands hot across your thighs. you flinch. 

she does it again.

and again.

the pain flays you open from the inside. you cry into the sheets, face sticky with tears, but your spine doesn’t break. your body shakes, but you don’t beg. you refuse. and she’s rutting into you with her tongue, carving you out like she can burn her memory back into your skin. but she still hasn’t given you what you came for.

you wrench upward, spit still shining on your thighs, and when she reaches for something to fill you. fingers, weapon, something blunt—

“stop,” you say.

she stills. you speak again.

“get up.”

she rises as though she can’t help it. she cannot. her knees betray her. her body conducts itself according to your code.

you slide on a shirt, something old and scent-worn from one of your chests, and begin to walk. you are barefoot through the dark halls. bare soles kiss the cold marble of your pilgrimage. each step echoes, lonely as a bell. you are a shadow gliding down a corridor built to swallow noise. 

ambessa’s breath is still hot on your skin. you don’t have to look back to see if she follows.

it is not difficult to navigate these halls, to find your way to commander kiramman’s room. you spent so many hours doing the same steps while deciding whether or not to kill her. to mutilate her just like her cunt of a mother.

the doors, when you find them, rise before you, gold and inlaid with the kiramman crest. your heart twitches with violence at the sight.

the doors creak open with a sound like a death rattle. wood gives. dust lifts.

the room is dimly lit, velvet-draped, and humid with something that smells like sweat and something softer. a traitor’s comfort. you step in, barefoot and borderline blissful at the dense presence of subconscious fear that floods your mind. even the air folds around your voice like it’s afraid. you’re trembling with the anticipation of it.

ambessa is still following, caught in your undertow and half-naked, though covered enough and glistening with your need.

the bed is absurd in its grandeur, wide enough to bury three bodies and posts like cathedral spires.

caitlyn, ambessa’s beloved right-hand-in-training, is curled into another woman’s side. their limbs are tangled like there is a grave and they are preparing to both lie in it. her throat is blotched red, pale collarbone smeared with kisses. neither breaks from the other at first, but then you purposefully shuffle over the floorboards. 

caitlyn hears you first and then bucks against the fleshy prison of her lover’s arms when she sees you. the other one—short, stocky build, and a shock of pink hair—lets her go after a moment’s confusion, limbs scrambling upright as she follows suit in taking you in. 

you step forward lazily, every muscle in your body drawn taut like skin stretched back over a corpse’s bleached bones, sinew humming with ancestral effort. with you comes ambessa, eyes glazed over with a horrifying detachment. your mouth opens, and what comes out is more vibration than sound. it is something warped, raw, and cruel in its precision.

“and to think your mother died for this.”

caitlyn flinches and shifts, her foot slipping off the bed and touching the floor. her mouth parts. her shoulders drop a fraction, and in that fraction is submission.

“stay on the bed.”

she gasps, small and sharp, and rocks in place. her eyes lock on your face, wide with a personal terror. she knows you will never care if she lives or dies. the pink-haired woman, violet, remains in her place. good, she’s more than just sloppy drinking and bloody fists.

caitlyn is unable to look away from you. you with your shirt too big and riding high on your hips, inner thighs slick with want, and your most personal war. those glacial eyes flicker behind you, to where she sees ambessa just behind you, sweat-beaded and dazed, her lips parted like she’s forgotten how to close them.

she swallows. she has never seen mental control up close like this. it is always so disturbing the first time. 

at least it was for others.

your gaze pins her like a blade tip to the breastbone.

“do you really think i care about strengthening a bloodline that is not my own?” you ask her, voice low, guttural, awful.

neither of them answers.

you step closer.

caitlyn curls instinctively toward vi, who twitches like she might fight. her breath even hitches like she might cry out, but for whom? you? but it’s already clear: you are the most dangerous thing in the room. even with no earthly weapon. even with your thighs still trembling from the last time ambessa buried her mouth in you. still, you warn her,

“don’t be stupid, violet. the wealth she inherits does nothing to obscure her perception of your inferiority. the indoctrination takes years to bleed out. ideally, you would like to live long enough to see if i’m telling you the truth.”

the only sound is the drip of something unseen. candle wax, or blood. your voice has stilled the room. your voice has ruled in silence before the verdict. you take one step forward, and caitlyn tries to recoil. her stupidity bites at you.  her hand clenches the sheets like she might find safety in fabric.

that makes you laugh.

it is as you said in the strategy room. you are never a neutral creature. there will always be a side you lean towards. tonight, you are evil. there is no grey. there is just the black against the “white.”

ambessa hasn’t spoken since you ordered her up. her silence is leaden. the command has worn off. you made your utterance weak on purpose. she stands right behind you now. her chest is rigid, and her throat bulges with the constant swallow of her rage. she is silent, imperial with wide eyes and the shine of your wetness still glistening on her lips like sacrament.

she should look terrifying. she does. but she also looks small. 

they all do.

you speak then, softly.

“i hope she was worth it, ambessa. your toy soldier. your little court pet. you gave her what was mine, and you did it knowingly. my title. my power. my place at your side.” it is so still that one could hear the fall of dust in a corner. “pattern this and pattern that. you thought i would never come back. you understood i was warped. a deviant.”

you tilt your head, as if curious. as if this is academic.

“and this is what you built your empire on? a woman who cowers at the sound of me?”

you laugh. all this joy is intoxicating.

vi places herself between you and caitlyn, squared like a wall of flesh and instinct. that almost makes you smile again.

like putting an ox before a landslide.

you lay down your law.

“three lives. one decision.”

you step back, a slow pivot on your heel until you're one end of a triangle, the other ends crowned by the lives arrayed before you. the geometry seals shut: you are the point of origin, they are your consequence.

“one death. or three.”

you don’t need to say any names. everyone understands their place.

you look to ambessa. from your sleeve, you draw what you hid before leaving your rooms: a hand-held sickle, curved like a stolen smile. you place it in the center, between you all.

her mouth parts. yours opens.

your face changes. it contorts: godlike and grotesque. a twisting mask of recollection made monstrous. this is your grief made primal. grief too wild, too large for the bone.

no one has ever understood just how angry you are.

your cheeks flush hot, then frost. your eyes glisten, salt-hot with unshed joy. you sway under the weight of what’s to come.

they see it. they see the end.

you will not leave empty-handed. you are hideous with your hunger for vindication.

caitlyn begins to cry, body jerking awkwardly under the command, you spit upon her. she is right to weep. ambessa, the empress who has had your thighs over her shoulder like spoils, who’s felt your voice pour into her spine like acid, does nothing. that is the medarda way

loyalty is expected. never returned.

besides, she couldn’t have saved anyone if she tried.

your voice doesn’t rise, but it erupts. it shatters the bedposts. curls the fireplace flame. peels the paint. your body bears it all: sore and aching. raw, desecrated, and divine. your lungs expand with relief as you let it go. 

it is final.

it is lacerating.

it tunnels into ambessa’s mind, snaps her bones, and robs them of marrow.

it drags itself out of you, twisting the skin at your jaw. your veins stand high. your eyes rattle in their sockets as it scrapes through every last one of you.

“choose.” 

© hcneymooners.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you write about the reader being either Ford or stans controversially young spouse? Like they're close to their 20s instead of their 60s

Ooh to be their controversially younger spouse what a dream I wish I could live lmao 🤣

Before you became Ford’s spouse, the man would always use the age gap between you two as the sole reason as to why you shouldn’t be together romantically, he’s sweating bullets and loosing sleep over it because it’s just so glaringly obvious to him that you shouldn’t.

However this was all just a cover up for the fact that he did indeed feel things for you in a romantic sense. You were great with Dipper and Mabel, encouraging their passions and even getting involved in them should they need someone to be dazzle in gems or go out into the woods to look for the supernatural.

You even got along with Stan, which was only an added bonus for Ford but still he kept reminding himself that he was far, far too old for you that he might as well have been old enough to be your father/ grandfather! Wasn’t that enough to disturb you?

He knew some people held a liking towards older people but believed it was more for their wisdom and life experience, not the romantic kind.

Apparently it wasn’t because Ford accidentally over heard a conversation between you and Wendy regarding his age;

Wendy: isn’t he too old for you?

You: negative, I love older men. Especially older men who are smart, a little socially awkward and plays dungeons, dungeons and more dungeons.

Wendy: …respect dude.

Needles to say after hearing that Ford’s face became as red as cherries and his worries regarding how you felt towards the age difference seemed to have dwindled slightly, but still he worried that others would view you as weird for being with a man more then twice your own age.

Sure there wasn’t many…worthy candidates to date in Gravity falls but surely he couldn’t be the only one worth your gaze? Mabel must’ve at least tried to set you up on more then one occasion, but according to her you just never seemed to jell with the people she set you up with, saying that you had a distant look in your eyes as though you could be anyone else then at the date.

When Mabel confronted you about it one day, you told her that you liked men a little older then you, Mabel then asked why but you only ruffled her hair and told her that she might see the vision one day. Ford was now being presented with more proof that you would be more then content with dating him, it was undeniable and he even indirectly heard it from your own mouth, so what else could he possibly be held back by?

Fear and rejection from society if they ever were to see you both in a romantic setting?

Then again you both lived in gravity Falls and there were things far weirder than an 20 year old dating a 60 -pushing 70- year old man. And thus began Ford’s new hypothesis; how to win over a 20 year old’s heart.

After you stated dating, you beating the other ladies and men off with a stick because that sexy silver fox was yours! FINALLY! It was your turn to have a sexy older man in your bed!

Other then that you loved being with Ford as no two days were the same, you could be going out with him to look for supernatural as a date, thankfully surviving when Ford got a little distracted by spouting facts on what was trying to kill you both and ending up sat on the porch of the mystery shack and laughing together afterwards.

Or be in his lab and watching him work while admiring how handsome he looked with greying hair and an aging face, but Ford would see it otherwise and become a little insecure and reserved.

‘Don’t you think it weird?’ He’d ask you one day.

‘About us?’ You didn’t have to hear him respond when you knew that Ford was still a little uncertain with your age difference still after seemingly accepting it. You sigh and walked over to him and sat on his lap, making him blush and his eyes widen as you hold his face between your hands.

‘Ford, sweetie I don’t care about what they think, I’m just glad that I got to be with you after pinning for so long. I understand this is new for you but all I ask is that you trust me,’ you kissed his nose softly, ‘and trust in our relationship, there’s nothing weird about it unless you make it weird.’ You add with a smile as Ford rested his head against you, his hands now resting comfortably on your waist.

‘You’re right my sweet,’ Ford said, ‘I’m just worried that you might find someone close to your age more appealing then some old man.’ You couldn’t help but chuckle as you leant further into him.

‘Who could I ever find more appealing than you mr sixer?’ You asked rhetorically, ‘you’re more than perfect the way you are and I’m the lucky bastard who gets to call you mine, so everyone else can stay jealous for all I care knowing I have the most perfect man ever.’ You add as you kissed his lips this time and smiling when Ford reciprocated it with his sweeter, soft kiss.

You probably have moments where you recall something Ford wouldn’t understand and Ford would reference something that was older than you, it’s funny regardless of how you looked at it.

Ford’s body still has aches and pains despite keeping himself healthier than Stanley and so you would help him during these times and coddle him lovingly, while reminding him that he needed to take it easy on himself once in a while.

Ford apologises for it but you only shut him up and remind him that he has nothing to apologise for.

You didn’t treat each other differently because of your ages, if anything you made Ford feel young again and Ford gifted you advice and made you feel just that little bit smarter, which boosted your confidence in yourself. It was a beautiful relationship that was pure and sweet it could give anyone cavities.

Stanley didn’t give a shit you were dating his brother, he knew you liked men above a certain age when you kept eye fucking Ford whenever he walked past you, or how Ford would look at you longingly when you weren’t looking . He saw this shit coming from a mile away as it wasn’t exactly subtle on either end and may have made a bet with Wendy about how soon you’d come to him to announce you were dating his brother.

Stanley won the bet much to Wendy’s dismay.

You saw Ford shirtless once and went apeshit much to his surprise because weren’t people your age into six packs and hairless upper bodies?

Nope, not you, you loved his tummy and body hair that you clung to his side and spent the afternoon kissing his scars and embarrassing tattoos he kept covered in turtlenecks while whispering reassurance that reminded him that you were attraction to him was more then surface level. Ford would return the favour when you had episodes of insecurity would remains you of such by comparing your every insecurity to something beautiful.

Acne? Constellations/ clusters of stars

Stretch marks? Lighting strikes

You’ve got a tummy and thick thighs? Didn’t you know that they(thick thighs) saved lives?!

Needless to say that you came out with a newfound love for yourself afterwards.

You constantly held his hand and kissed each finger to show that you didn’t care about anything but him and his wellbeing, it warmed Ford’s heart as he found to love himself a little more with your help, and in doing so he was able to show you love by kissing your cheek in greeting or making you breakfast in bed or draping his coat over your shoulders when he saw that you were cold.

It was sweet and innocent but still it was enough to have you smiling and feel loved, which is all Ford ever wanted you to feel while with him.

Ford’s love was chivalrous, stubborn and awkward, but you wouldn’t want it any other way as you wanted Ford just the way he was and thrived when you saw his eyes gleam with excitement as he makes a discovery, leading him to grasp your face and kiss you on the lips while holding you close to his chest as he explained what he had done; all the while you stared at him with awe and love because he was really attractive when he was talking about things he was passionate about.

Ford would then catch himself and apologise for rambling but you would kiss him on the cheek and ask him to continue, to which Ford happily obliged, now aware that you were staring at him as though he had hung the stars in the sky.

Ford would find himself looking at you in a similar fashion when you were going on about what you and Mabel did in town, and Ford couldn’t help but hone in on your smile, shining eyes and hand gestures that told him that you enjoyed the hijinks that had happened while wearing the sweater that Mabel made you the entire time.

You’d catch him staring intently at you and suddenly you’re flustered and playing with the sleeves of your bright and vibrant sweater. ‘It’s kinda corny isn’t it?’ You’d ask as Ford chuckles, reaching out to hold your hand reassuringly in his.

‘No, not at all my sweet, I in fact find your adventures with my niece and nephew endearing and sweet. So please continue to tell me how you drop kicked a gnome into Mabel’s leaf blower.’ Ford said and within seconds you were back to being bright and talkative about your adventures of fighting off gnomes, barf fairies and pulling Mabel away from fae traps.

You both were each others listeners and would remember anything and everything said because you actually liked to hear where the other got up to when apart from one another.

Bonus; you definitely have a spot in his journal where he goes in depth of your relationship before ending it with: ‘they’re someone I don’t think I could envision a future without, for they make me young again while loving me regardless of our differences in age and much more. Thank you for loving me y/n, even when I don’t think it’s deserved.’

[radiance1]

Witch au but Sam looks far too much like Martha Wayne than a lot of people are comfortable with.

I hear you ask, "but Sam is younger than her in this au" and I tell you that Martha Wayne had the genetic trait of looking younger than she actually was, a trait that was in her family for generations.

Thus, we have Sam who resembles Martha Wayne far too much, the philosopher's stone that makes her immortal, and a genetic trait that has Martha looking younger than she actually is and you get misunderstandings.

So, Sam was just minding her business trying to figure out what exactly for her castle to be anywhere that wasn't Amity Park when someone stepped onto her property and, getting a feel for them she realized that they don't seem to be magical in nature.

Also, scratch that, it was more than one person.

So, she decided to give them a... 'warm' welcome.

A group of people who believed in the supernatural decided to get together one day to explore the castle that spawned randomly one day in Gotham for shits and giggles. So there they were, stepping through the fog, barely able to see the ground let alone each other.

They had to solve a puzzle for the door to the castle to open in those conditions, which was weird but it was also the fun kind of weird so they weren't complaining about it. When they opened the door it was very dark, which made them second guess themselves for a second and then they decided to step in anyway.

They live in Gotham what's the chances of this castle being worse than what they go through weekly?

The door slammed shut behind them as soon as the last person stepped inside, leaving them in total darkness for a moment before candles lit themselves up and they saw the inside of the castle in its full glory.

It looked, very, very beautiful.

So beautiful in fact, that they almost missed the woman stood at the top of the stairs. She looked very, very beautiful and was wearing a dress that looked very expensive (think Blue Diamond from Steven Universe but black) with a red gem right in the middle of her chest.

The lady welcomed them into her castle, and suddenly they found their vision going back as the woman's sinister chuckle echoed all around them and they found themselves in separate rooms of the house.

Fun fact, this group of people were also streamers and streaming everything up to the point of Sam's entrance and then her magicking them all in different rooms. They also had a pretty good following, so safe to say the chats were going crazy over what just happened.

So, the various live streamers investigate the castle to find a way to escape before their assumed death, they solve various puzzles both with their own wit and the help of their chat that were magical in nature. The various puzzles and traps were, genuinely, very fun to solve, both for the chat and the streamers doing them.

All the streamers manage to meet up again, and boy are they genuinely thankful for the fact that-so far at least, this doesn't seem to actually be anything life threatening and just seemed to be a grand time all around.

Then they all headed down a hall together, and the chat just went absolutely ballistic when they saw a large portrait of the witch and another man standing together and smiling.

The chat never got a good look at her before the streamers got teleported to different rooms, but that painting?

It changed everything.

Because the woman standing in that picture-as pointed out by a chat member, looked an awful lot like Martha Wayne, and the man standing next to her? Thoms Wayne.

The streamers, obviously, think they've hit the jack pot because their viewer count is just going up and up because of this new information and also think they've hit some sort of scandal because, wasn't Martha Wayne dead?

Eventually, the find themselves sitting at the dining table with said woman who was silently drinking tea with a bunch of food sitting on the table in front of them. The woman smirked as she placed down her cup, asking if they enjoyed the various puzzles she laid out for them.

Everyone agrees, and the chat is exploding for them to ask if she's actually Martha Wayne.

She doesn't answer save for a cheeky smile and then suddenly they were standing outside of her castle and couldn't get back in.

Safe to say, reporters were flocking to ask various questions.

[toto-the-cactus]

Primarchs + Daughters (2)

Finally finished the damn part two. Been kinda busy here and there with my new job but lo and behold, the one yall asked for. Soon enough, yall find out why it took me a while writing this one for the two main guys I had to add here.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Konrad Curze

A’right, I’ll open this one with the fact we all know that this man shouldn’t even be legally allowed to have children. I’m gonna be real for a hot second and admit that I stared at the screen for HOURS not knowing what to write because any poor little girl that is born from this guy will have the dubious privilege of being the most sheltered and hidden secret the Primarch ever kept close. With all those visions of death and inevitable doom mixed with the sudden power rush that fatherhood gave him, it left in its wake a perfect storm for this lunatic to develop a paranoid and obsessive need (NEED) to keep his daughter safe; something hard to achieve when he already knows the essence of his Legion. His fatalistic nature regarding his own future would suddenly clash violently with the Primarch’s new found protective stance concerning his child. It's almost sad to consider that this poor man GENUINELY wished to avoid becoming the monster his visions showed, but knowing that he’ll be balancing in the thin line of one day hurting his precious girl (or worse than that) it'll put him in the hard decision of having to let go of her eventually. He is no Perturabo, for that matter. In the rare and far away moments of lucidity, I can see Konrad choosing to protect the innocence and life of his child by trusting in the last person ANYONE might expect the Night Hunter would seek help: Vulkan. Honestly this is just plain sad, man.

Sanguinius

This is it! The golden boy, yall! We all know the kind of person Sanguinius is, but add a precious little daughter in the equation and all you get is the perfect example of textbook girl dad. No matter how busy this man is, somehow he’ll squish some playtime with his baby and enjoy every bit of it. Seriously, this guy acting like a dedicated father is worth being in a stockphoto image. His baby girl asks him to play tea party? Some astartes will find their Primarch hunched over, awkwardly holding a comically small cup between his thumb and index while his precious princess pretends to pour more tea for herself. The daughter of Sanguinius doesn't go a single day without knowing that her papa loves her a lot and when the man isn’t around, the Blood Angels Legion are close to keep her company to the point that even she calls them ‘big brothers’. No one is safe when she wants to play dress-up. The single problem I see with Sanguinius when raising his little girl is that he sins of being completely oblivious to the more mortal side of his daughter’s needs. He easily gets so wrapped up in his role of The Perfect Angel that he doesn’t realize his tiny princess has boundaries that are being constantly crossed, but since she feels the need to prove that she can be like her father, endures all those problems and refuses to seek help about anything. It becomes a kind of toxic mix considering how much Sanguinius is loved and adored by others, to the point that his daughter becomes like a coveted gem too by relation, making her need to prove her own ‘perfection’ an unconscious action the older she grows. I’m not even gonna touch with a ten feet pole the “fun fact” called the Red Thirst on this one because, let's be fair, that would require for me to write more than 3 pages with ONLY Sanguinius and his daughter in the spotlight and that’s only assuming his baby girl didn’t inherit it. I specialized in visual arts and marketing, not psychology jfc.

Ferrus Manus

It took me a while but after some investigating and more reading I can safely put this man in between the Papa-tier and ‘tough love’ guys. His practical mentality and belief of the strongest are (oddly enough) healthily separated from his parenting skills. This is one of the few Primarch that can see their daughter as an individual of their own and makes sure to be as present as possible in her life but the loyalty of this man to the Emperor is his own flaw. Not in the case that he’ll choose the Imperium before his little girl, but because it’ll put him in the dreading and guilty notion that he’ll always prioritize his daughter despite his oath to serve for the Great Crusade. Most of his brothers (except maybe Jaghatai and Konrad) just assume or don’t even think about the long term future of their daughters or simply presume that they will become a great part of the Imperium’s well oiled structure. Not exactly their fault since they never grew up with anything resembling normal. On the brighter and wholesome side (whiplash change!), this is a man who finds handmade gifts more meaningful and always makes sure to explain the reason behind them mostly out of the enjoyment of watching his little princess look so amazed at her papa’s skills. More often than not, Ferrus’ belief of the strongest would falter a little as he perceives the true fragile nature of his daughter and, even if she share the resilient blood of a Primarch, that isn’t enough to convince him that she isn’t vulnerable but instead of letting the worry fester, he’ll try to teach the girl the art of fighting. That’s where the ‘tough love’ kind of guy I mentioned comes out to light. He will not spare kind words during those moments of teaching, as he wishes for his princess to prevail any difficulty but he’ll make sure to always end any sort of training with “I love you so much that the idea of one day not being there to protect you, pains me beyond any form” to make sure that his harsh actions have a reason behind. Honestly, it's the kind of father-daughter relationship that possesses so many shades that makes its own drama novel. Good thing that uncle Fulgrim is always there to smooth the hard edges that may come in the future and makes up for the lack of spoiling the little girl deserves. Ferrus is not amused by it. Forgot to mention that the Primarch will be even more motivated to take off the metal of his hands, for he has yet to truly feel the warm and soft flesh of his baby’s hand. It's the one feeling he keeps missing and craves so much.

Angron

Oh man, another of the hard ones. Okay, if I managed with Konrad, I can tackle this bitch too. You need to comprehend that we are talking about a guy that has been so intimate with the meaning of pain that it's amazing he’ll be capable of ranging through other emotions that don’t involve fury into that combo too. That being said, this whole shitshow of being the father of a young girl can only be described as sad AND tragic. First off, Angron’s daughter wouldn’t even be allowed to leave her chambers at The Conqueror for obvious safety reasons and having her stay on Terra can’t be an option too, as Angron would rather be death than leave in a silver plate this one single pittance of good he helped to create under the light of the Emperor. That being said, any little girl born from Angron would be terribly isolated and one can’t even blame the Primarch for that as he, despite his disposition, finds his daughter as a genuine reflection of what he could never ever dream to have or be. That sometimes results in him feeling short and spontaneous moments of anger from the impotence of not being able to be close to his daughter, let alone console her with anything resembling compassion. This is a man that is horribly aware that he’s away from one sharp stab of the Nails to his brain to end up killing his little girl in one single swat of his hand. The moments of anything resembling fatherly love are few and very tense, for Angron has to constantly be focused on not letting the pain control his actions and that always looks as if he’s dismissing his child’s love language or actions. What else can I say that most people don’t know already? This is just a sad story waiting to end in tragedy and had it not been for how Sanguinius ended during the heresy, I can see The Great Angel taking Angron’s daughter under his care as the only consolation and promise to his corrupted brother before his demise. After becoming a Daemon Prince, Angron’s only genuine and foggy memory of his little girl is her crying while calling him with heavy despair. Goddamn I almost tear up with this one.

Roboute Guilliman

Look at my big nerd! One of the few guys that actually is humble enough to feel more human than any of his brothers… sometimes. I gotta say it, Roboute has the vibe of what happens when someone incredibly autistic suddenly becomes a parent; expect lots of books to try and be prepared for what entails to take care of a mortal baby. He’ll have a wholeass strict routine of activities and diets that you AND the baby must follow to ensure both of your health along with “fun facts” regarding a toddler’s development that half of the time lack the keyword ‘fun’ in there. Honestly, Euten will be a BLESSING sent, for she’ll be the one railing back the most extreme attempts of her adoptive son to try and raise his little princess like she was just another task of paperwork. Over all his quirks, the Primarch of the Ultramarines is absolutely trying his hardest to be a good father just as the one that raised him, but this is a man that half of the time ends up clumsily trying to spend time with his little girl only for it to backfire as he simply doesn’t understand how to entertain his daughter. Good thing the child will simply be happy to spend time with her papa despite his weird personality. More often than not, some of the astartes will see the young lady at her father’s chambers in a little booster chair beside him, doodling on some papers to pretend that she’s a big girl helping her papa with his very important job. It's probably the most adorable sight anyone can ever get the chance to see. Just like most of his brothers, Roboute isn’t that good at expressing his love towards his daughter with words, so he simply let his little princess be on his lap and hug her as if it will be the last time.

Mortarion

I’ve written enough of this man being a father that you all can get a wild idea of how he will be when confronted with parenthood. Even if he believes himself to be undeserving of anything resembling happiness thanks to his perception of being nothing but a tool of the Emperor, this guy will only need to see his precious little flower and feel like everything in the world can be forgotten, including his ever festering negative emotions. His daughter is the single light of love that he selfilish believes is his right after such torturous upbringing although that mentality rarely affects his princess, as he simply shows nothing but care and tenderness towards her. He may be a nervous trainwreck, fully aware that his Legion and himself aren’t exactly safe-hazardous, but that never has stopped him from doing his utmost best to protect the little girl from anything that may hurt her. Like most of his traitorous brothers, Mortarion would not hesitate to bring entire worlds into devastation if it meant that his family can be safe, even if that’ll end up making a terrible gap to grow between him and those he loves. It's quite terrible and sad to know that, unlike Fulgrim or Angron, Mortarion was the closest to his daughter and showered her with as much genuine love as he could in an attempt to avoid being anything like his supposed father (adopted or creator equally), so when he turned into a Daemon Prince, the festering and rotting resentment that consumes him sometimes simmers down when he remembers the laugh of joy his little princess often released when he would carry her up in his arms. Oh yes, some good ol’ gut-wrenching emotional damage, teehee.

I will not apologize for being a mean bitch by writing sad shit. XOXO

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

I’m not sure if this is where requests go, but can you do a platonic!yandere! Charles Xavier and Magneto with child reader? Maybe she’s around 13-14. She’s a decently strong mutant who can control shadows and has similar powers as Raven from DC? I don’t see a lot of platonic Charles and magneto. Maybe some headcanons and small snippets? Idk. Thank you!

THE SONG OF THE RAVEN.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Charles Xavier x Raven! Fem!reader x Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr. (Platonic Fic)

¿Request? Yes!

This is a Headcanon!

warnings ⸺ mdni! Dark themes, violence/death, blood, insolation, invasion of privacy, scars, delusion, Angst, ¿OOC Xavier and Magneto? Idk, fights, Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Gaslight, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Paranoia, Manipulation.

sinopsis ⸺ A young girl caught between two worlds: the war of a man obsessed with a cause and another who has a completely opposing vision. She desperately seeks to escape the fate that both are trying to impose on her. Amidst silent dinners and celebrations she never wanted, a solitary raven watches her from the shadows, a symbol of the freedom that always seems just out of reach.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish — I didn’t know if you wanted me to do it together or separately. Just send me a message and I’ll make another one for you.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... met you in a disturbing and violent way, a storm of chaos surrounding you as you remained expressionless on the threshold of his door. The contrast between your cold determination and the horror of the blood covering you fascinated him immediately. He felt in you an internal storm as powerful as the one raging outside, a repressed power that he needed to comprehend and, more importantly, contain. The way the red gem on your forehead gleamed with darkness only intensified his desire to guide you, to be the only one capable of unleashing your true potential... to control you.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... perceives the fear in the hearts of those around you. He knows that the students and the other X-Men watch you cautiously, whispering about the dark energy that emanates from you, the shadow that always seems to follow you. But for him, that darkness is what makes you so fascinating, so special. While others retreat, Xavier moves closer. He uses his powers to silence those murmurs before they affect you, convinced that no one else, except him, can see the beauty in what you truly are. Every time his thoughts touch your mind, he feels your confusion, your internal struggle with the dark power within you. And that only reinforces his desire to keep you close, to have you trust only him.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... insists on training you personally. He does not trust that anyone else understands the depth of your abilities as he does. His training sessions are intense, his mind enveloping yours as he guides you through the darkest corners of your powers. He assures you that only he can help you control it, to master it, and with each passing day, you feel more bound to his presence. You feel him, always in your mind, always near, watching you even when you think you are alone. Sometimes you wonder if he is protecting you or if he is caging something within you that he only wants to possess. But you dismiss those thoughts because, after all, he was the only one who took you in despite everything.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... obsessively cares for your well-being, to the point of seeing you as a daughter who needs to be watched at all times. He provides you with an isolated room, away from the other students, a place where you can be "safe," although you feel it is more like a prison disguised as protection. Every time you leave your room, his eyes seem to follow you, and his words are always filled with care: “It’s for your own good. I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed by the weight of your power.” But in his voice, there is always something more, a need to keep you safe... safe only for him.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... knows he cannot allow the world to harm you, and in his twisted mind, that justifies any invasion, any manipulation. He follows you in dreams, watches over you through his powers even while you sleep, ensuring that no nightmare, no vestige of Trigon or your own darkness reaches you. Sometimes you feel his presence within your mind, a forced calm that leaves you uneasy, but when you try to confront him, he simply smiles at you kindly and says, "I just want you to be at peace, Y/N. I won’t let anything hurt you."

Yandere Charles Xavier who... sees in you more than a student. You are his creation, his project, his daughter in a sense deeper than anyone else could understand. He has shaped you, protected you from yourself and the world, and in his mind, only he has the right to be so close to your essence. Sometimes he talks to you about a future where no one else can hurt you, where he will be everything you need. And in those moments, you see in his eyes a glimmer of something disturbing, a need that goes beyond the mentor that everyone sees.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... has made the entire mansion a refuge for you, although it really feels more like a prison from which you cannot escape. The mental bond he has established with you is so strong that even if you wanted to leave, you would feel an invisible resistance. Charles has intertwined his mind with yours in such a way that it is impossible for you to imagine a world without him, and that dependence is exactly what he has desired all along. Because in his vision, absolute control over you is not something to be feared, but a demonstration of his love and care.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... knows that the dark power dwelling within you could destroy the world if not contained, and yet, he increasingly feels tempted to unleash it, to see you in your purest, most chaotic form. But he would only do it if that means he will be the only one capable of guiding you, of touching that part of you that no one else should know. The thought of losing you or your power at the hands of another is unbearable, and that leads him to make increasingly extreme decisions, justifying his actions as if they were for your own good. For Xavier, you are more than a powerful mutant. You are the center of his world, the living manifestation of everything he fears and everything he desires.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... begins to see with you the same dark and melancholic series that seem to attract you, those that reflect your own internal struggle. The hours you spend together in the mansion's living room are an attempt to understand you more deeply, and although the plots are often laden with fatalism and sadness, Charles watches them carefully, always studying your reactions. “I wonder if you see anything of yourself in these characters,” he comments one night, as a gloomy episode unfolds on the screen. He says it in a casual tone, but his interest is deeper, always trying to unravel the corners of your mind. You allow yourself a slight smile, a reflection of the dark sarcasm that sometimes dominates you. Charles remains silent, but his mind works frantically. He cannot help but feel fascinated, even more connected to you, by that dark side you share through the screen, knowing that only he can help you confront it… and control it.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... tensed the first time you spoke of Trigon. You mentioned him with a chilling calm, explaining how your destiny, according to your mother, was marked by his shadow. “He is my father,” you said one day in one of your mental sessions, while you were both immersed in that peaceful void that Xavier created for you. “And he is also my curse.” The words resonated in his mind with a weight he could not ignore. Charles felt a dull anger in the depths of his being, a resentment he did not expect toward an entity he had never known. Trigon. That malignant presence that had tried to claim you before he found you. "You are not a curse, my child" he replied, his voice firmer than usual, trying to maintain his composure while feeling something dark stir within him. “You are not your father, nor the destiny imposed on you. You are much more than they will ever understand.”

Yandere Charles Xavier who... felt something dangerous when you mentioned your mother and your dimension, Azarath. It was a calm conversation at first, you talking about her with a mix of nostalgia and sadness, a mother who had tried to protect you, but also one who had allowed Trigon to leave his mark on you. Charles listened in silence, but with each word you spoke about her, he felt a growing resentment. She had brought you into this world of darkness, a girl who did not deserve to be subjected to that cursed fate, and no matter how hard she tried to protect you, she was the one who deliberately delivered you and put you at the mercy of Trigon. "She didn't really understand you, Y/N," Charles said one day, his voice laden with careful control, fearing to say something that would upset you, but with a latent fury that only you could perceive if you looked closely. “Not like I do. Not like those who truly want what is best for you.”

Yandere Charles Xavier who... organized a small celebration on your fourteenth birthday, a day that should have been joyful, but he knew meant something very different for you. He watched your empty expression, your indifference toward the candles, the few gifts the students dared to give you. You discreetly stepped away from the celebration, seeking solitude. Charles followed you, his chair moving silently to the corner where you had taken refuge, away from the bustle. “I’m not celebrating this day, Charles,” you said, your voice laden with a coldness he could not ignore. “My birth was a curse. This day, in the future, will be the downfall of all humans in this dimension.” His eyes watched you with a mix of compassion and pain. The feeling of helplessness briefly overwhelmed him, but it was replaced with a fierce determination. “No, Y/N. It was not a curse,” he replied, moving closer. “Your birth is the arrival of a messiah to the earth, and nothing that happens will change my mind. You are free to be whoever you want to be, and I will help you see that. I… will always be here to remind you.” His warm, paternal hand touched yours, trying to make those words penetrate the darkest corner of your mind. “You are my daughter, and no destiny imposed by a foolish demon can change that. So let’s celebrate.”

Yandere Charles Xavier who... felt a mix of pride and relief as he saw how, year after year, you remained true to the X-Men, but more importantly, true to him. While the other students grew, forming deep friendships and even romances, you remained distant, always the solitary shadow doing what was necessary but not truly connecting with others. Charles noticed this, and although he pretended to worry about your loneliness, deep in his heart, he felt satisfied. He knew you had remained intact, far from the influences that could have pulled you away from his control. In his mind, that distance was proof of his success, of how he had shaped you to depend only on him.

Yandere Charles Xavier who... as he aged, felt pride every time he looked at you and saw that you remained his daughter, his creation. You were no longer the teenager who arrived at the mansion covered in blood and viscera, but you still did not allow anyone to affect you deeply. “You have grown so much,” he told you one afternoon, his voice soft but laden with a possessive love that had always been present. “Not just as an X-Men, but as a person. You have given me more than I could ever imagine. And I thank you… for staying by my side.” His eyes, now older, more tired, shone with pride that bordered on obsession. He knew you had overcome your demons, but he also knew it was because of him. And as long as he could keep you close, away from any other influence, he would be happy.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... found you in a dark alley after an uncontrollable explosion of power had left devastation around you. Your emotions had exploded after your arrival from Azarath, and Erik, seeing you surrounded by shadows, immediately felt a connection. “You are a mutant,” he affirmed, recognizing the immense power within you. But as he saw you more closely, his motivations began to mix. At first, he saw you as a tool for his cause, but the fragility of your emotions awakened in him a deep concern.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... took you under his protection with an obsessive intensity. Although he trained you hard, his desire for control was evident, convinced that only he could help you channel your power. “You are stronger than you think,” he would tell you in moments of greatest despair, but what he truly longed for was to mold you into someone who shared his struggle. For him, your potential was unlimited, but also a source of fear.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... obsessed over seeing you in the white suit you had brought from Azarath, interpreting it as a symbol of your purity. However, there was a dark desire within him: to see you covered in red, a color that for him represented fury, destiny, and his cause. Although his exterior seemed serene, in his mind, Erik struggled against the growing need to possess you, to protect you not only from others but from yourself.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... felt trapped between the desire to see you become a warrior and his paternal instinct that pushed him to protect you. Your demonic lineage generated both fear and admiration in him, and every time you showed signs of rejecting the path he had laid out for you, his frustration grew. “You can’t escape what you are,” he would tell you, although he knew those words hurt you deeply. What he didn’t understand was that your internal struggle went far beyond the war between mutants and humans.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... tried to isolate you from others, especially from those who showed you any kindness, like Charles. “They don’t understand you, kid” he warns you, trying to sow doubt in your mind. But deep down, Erik feared that others could offer you the balance that he, in his obsession, denied you.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... wakes in the middle of the night to hear your frightened whispers. He knew you had nightmares, but he could not stand to see you in such a state of vulnerability. Not knowing how to comfort you without seeming weak, he stayed by your side, watching your tormented expressions. In the end, he would gently wake you, murmuring, “Nothing will happen to you while I’m here.” However, his need for control grew every time he saw you affected. He couldn’t bear the thought that something, not even in your dreams, could hurt you.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... is surprised the first time he finds you watching a romantic series. “Why are you wasting your time with that?” he asks you, disdainful at first. However, over time, he begins to tolerate it only because he sees you more relaxed. He doesn’t admit it, but he secretly watches you, intrigued by how you can find peace in something so far removed from his reality. Although he despises those stories, he starts to buy them for you in an attempt to keep you entertained and close to him.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... begins to get angry when he notices that you are becoming friends with Pietro Maximoff. He is deeply bothered by the closeness you develop with his son, as he fears that his influence will pull you away from him. “Pietro is unstable,” he warns you, trying to sow doubt in your mind. But you can’t help feeling freer with Pietro, who understands your desire to escape better. Every time Erik sees Pietro make you laugh or when he talks to you about the freedom he feels when he runs, Erik becomes increasingly jealous, wishing to control every aspect of your life.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... becomes furious every time you escape. Even though you try to do it discreetly, he always notices and takes it as a personal betrayal. “Where do you think you can go without me?” he asks you when he finds you, his voice filled with a mix of disappointment and possessiveness. Erik justifies himself by telling you that he only wants to protect you from the dangers of the outside world, but the truth is he cannot stand the thought of losing control over you. Every time you return, he locks you further in his world, believing he will keep you safe.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... listens carefully when you talk to him about Azarath and your father, although his expression hardens at the mention of Trigon. “Your father has no power here,” he assures you, as if his words could ward off the danger he represents. However, he cannot help but compare himself to Trigon in his mind. His desire to protect you intertwines with a dark satisfaction: he is the one who has pulled you from that world. Still, his disdain for the demonic seeps into his words, sometimes making you feel that Erik does not understand the depth of your internal conflict.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... at first gets annoyed when you refer to him as your mentor instead of your father. For Erik, the relationships of power and control are clear, and your resistance to see him in a paternal role confuses him. “I care for you as if you were my own daughter,” he says, trying to soften his tone, although what he really wants is for you to feel more dependent on him. However, little by little, he realizes that being your mentor also gives him a position of influence, shaping you in his way. And although he does not admit it, sometimes he would prefer that you did not see him as a father, as his feelings toward you become increasingly complex.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... becomes irritated when he sees you seek comfort in other mutants or in your memories of Azarath when you feel alone. For him, those connections are a threat, as he fears that any bond outside his influence will lead you to distance yourself from him. “They don’t understand what you can become,” he tells you, convinced that he is the only one who can help you reach your true potential. But every time he sees you embrace your past or connect with others, the need to isolate you intensifies.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... sometimes struggles with the desire to let you go and allow you to be independent, but that thought consumes him with jealousy. Every time you show glimpses of autonomy, his possessiveness increases. Although he respects your strength, his need to protect and control puts you in a constant cycle of tension. “You will always need my guidance,” he assures you, convinced that his presence in your life is indispensable. However, he does not realize that, despite his obsession with keeping you close, you see him only as a teacher, not as the omnipresent figure he aspires to be.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... at first saw you as a key piece in his fight for mutant supremacy. He trained you hard, wanting you to be his perfect weapon against humans. But over time, something changed. He no longer cared if you fought in his war; he wanted you to be his daughter. Now, instead of training you in combat, he teaches you to control your powers in ways that, according to him, will only make you stronger, but without putting you in danger. “You don’t need to risk yourself for a cause that no longer makes sense to you,” he tells you, ignoring your own desires to fight or make your own decisions. He only cares about keeping you close, protected, and under his control. He is no longer interested in the war; his only obsession is to keep you in his life, away from any conflict that could take you away from him.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... has become addicted to the moments when he can feign paternal normality with you, like the dinners he organizes almost every night. He knows that his presence makes you uncomfortable, especially when he watches you with an intensity that makes you nervous, but for him, it is a ritual that reinforces the connection he believes he has with you. Every time you try to avoid those moments, he insists: “It’s important that we have dinner together, as a family.” Although his attempts to create a family atmosphere feel forced, you stay because you feel you have no other option. Every dinner is laden with awkward silences and glances that make you feel like you are under a microscope.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... is terrified to witness, for the first time, how Trigon attempts to possess you. It was an unexpected and terrifying moment, one that left him powerless in the face of a force he could not control with his magnetism. He watched you struggle against the influence of your demonic father, and for the first time in a long time, Erik felt a fear he had not felt since childhood: the fear of losing you, but in a much darker way than he had ever anticipated. When you managed to resist the possession, Erik took you by the shoulders, his eyes filled with a mix of panic and fury: “I won’t let that monster take you. Never.” Since then, he has redoubled his efforts to keep you close and under control, looking for any way to prevent Trigon from attempting something similar again, even if that means isolating you even more from the outside world.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... has never understood why you are reluctant to celebrate your birthday. For him, celebrations are important because they reinforce the idea of family and unity. But you have always avoided Erik marking that date, and each year you try to spend the day in silence or distracted by anything else. Despite your resistance, Erik always finds a way to get you a gift or prepare something special, even though he knows it makes you uncomfortable. “No matter what you think, this day is important,” he insists, ignoring your wishes. For him, celebrating your birthday is not just a symbolic gesture; it is an affirmation that you belong to him and that, even if you reject it, you cannot escape his influence or control.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who...feels increasingly obsessed with the idea of having a perfect family. Although at first he saw you as an ally in his war, now he sees you more as his daughter and less as a warrior. Every time you mention the possibility of fighting for mutants or exploring the outside world, he cuts you off with cold determination: “Your place is here with me. You no longer need to prove anything to anyone.” This only increases your frustration, but Erik seems more than willing to do anything to prevent you from exposing yourself to danger, even if it means cutting all your external connections.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... watches every movement of Y/N as she trains with her powers, controlling shadows with impressive skill, his eyes burning with a mix of pride and possession. Every time she makes progress in her control of her powers, he feels his own purpose renewed: to protect her from a world that does not understand her. He feels jealous of the attention she gives to Charles, but at the same time, he knows he needs her to see him as a paternal figure as well.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... takes her to therapy sessions to help her cope with her nightmares, creating a warm and welcoming environment. His approach is more understanding and emotional, and although he feels threatened by Erik's intensity, he strives to be the father that Y/N needs, even if it means yielding in some aspects to Erik's demands.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... cannot stand to see Y/N go on a mission with Charles or the other mutants. Although he knows it is part of her training, his protective instinct kicks in, and his scheming mind seeks ways to dissuade her. When he finds her talking to Charles about the mission, his voice hardens. “It’s not safe for you to go out; you could lose control and hurt yourself,” he warns her, his tone filled with concern and jealousy.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... tries to calm the situation, reminding Erik that Y/N needs to have experiences and learn to defend herself. “You can’t always protect her, Erik. She needs to learn to face the world.” His tone is firm, but in his eyes, there is a spark of challenge. The rivalry between them intensifies, but both know that their ultimate goal is the same: to protect their little Raven who is so lost in life.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... feels helpless when Y/N expresses her desire not to celebrate her birthday, a day that is painful for her to remember due to her own traumas. However, upon seeing how Charles plans a small celebration, his anger erupts. “Why are we celebrating a day that represents her vulnerability?” he yells, even though inside he is torn by the idea that he cannot be the only one to make her happy.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... realizes the importance of this day for Reader and refuses to yield to Erik's doubts. “She deserves to enjoy her life, Erik. You can’t keep her in a bubble.” Although both fight for Reader's attention and affection, the celebration becomes a point of unity, combining their efforts for the well-being of the young girl.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... feels a pang of jealousy and frustration when Charles invites Y/n to the mansion to spend time with family and have dinner with the other X-Men. “Why are you bringing her here? She should be training, not sharing laughs with them,” he reproaches, his voice tense as he watches Y/n smile and interact with the others. Erik cannot help but feel excluded, fearing that by spending time with Charles and the X-Men, Y/n will drift away from him and his teachings.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... tries to see the best in the situation, explaining to Erik that Y/n needs moments of normalcy and connection with others. “Erik, you can’t protect her from everything. It’s essential for her to learn to interact with her family and friends,” he says, trying to remain calm. However, he realizes that Charles's words only ignite Erik's anger further, who believes those moments are a dangerous distraction.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... feels even more upset when he learns that Charles is fostering a relationship between Reader and Pietro. “She doesn’t need a boyfriend, especially not that boy who will only hinder her development,” he tells him in a grave voice, raising an eyebrow at the complicity between the two. His scheming mind fills with jealousy, convinced that Pietro, with his carefree nature, could negatively influence his daughter, diverting her from the seriousness he believes her life should have.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... tries to calm Erik, reminding him that the bond between Y/n and Pietro could be beneficial for her development. “She needs friends her age, Erik. Who better than your son? You can’t be the only one in her life,” he insists, although the tension between them feels palpable. In reality, he does this to torment Erik and make Y/N want him more.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... feels irritated when he sees Y/n wearing battle clothes that he hasn’t chosen. He hated that she dressed in that dark attire. “Why are you dressing like that? You need to be ready for battle, not for a parade,” he tells her, frowning as he sees that Charles allows Y/n to wear whatever she wants. When she appears uncomfortable with her choice, Erik feels frustrated by the lack of control he has over his surroundings. “I don’t want you to feel vulnerable,” he says with concern, but his way of expressing it is possessive and almost demanding.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... intervenes, defending Y/n right to choose her own clothes. “She should feel comfortable and secure, Erik. Strength doesn’t just come from appearance, but from the confidence she has in herself,” he argues, trying to show him that possessiveness is not the answer. However, Erik feels overwhelmed by the desire to protect her, thinking that clothing should be an extension of that protection, not realizing that his approach may be making Y/n feel trapped.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... one night, upon seeing Y/N wake up startled from her nightmares, cannot help but feel a pang of pain. “I won’t allow them to trap you like they did me,” he murmurs, gently taking her hand. However, his possessive nature surfaces, and a flash of fear crosses his face at the thought that she might distance herself.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... encourages her to talk about her fears, using his telepathic abilities to connect with her in those mental landscapes. “You are not alone, my girl. We are here for you,” he tells her, his voice soft and reassuring. Their emotional connection strengthens in those moments of vulnerability, and although Erik struggles with his own instincts, he realizes that together they can offer her the protection she needs.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr who... joins Charles to defend Y/N from an external threat, forcing a collaboration that seemed impossible before. Both are aware that, although their methods differ, their love for her transcends any rivalry. “If we lose her, there will be no victory,” Erik says, his voice deep as he watches Charles nod, understanding him.

Yandere! Charles Xavier who... is also compelled to recognize the value of Erik's strength. “We need to join our forces if we want to protect her from the darkness that lurks,” he agrees, looking at Erik with a mix of respect and challenge. Together, they form a formidable front, balancing Erik's brute strength with Charles's cunning and knowledge, becoming two protective fathers seeking the best for Y/n.

Yandere! Erik Lehnsherr and Yandere! Charles Xavier who... finally find an understanding in their struggle to protect Y/n. The rivalry that once separated them becomes a bond that unites them, each complementing the other as they face the adversities of the outside world, with the Raven of freedom always present in their hearts.

A/N ── I don’t know much about Magneto (surprisingly), so I did what I could with him. Still, I wasn’t satisfied with his part, and that’s what worries me the most, but I think with a look at the comics, the movies, and watching a few videos, I’ll learn more about him.

I separated them because I think in Xavier’s case, Y/N would feel more drawn to his affection and appreciation, which is why she would remain loyal to him without wavering, which is different in Magneto’s case.

Raven is a character I really like, in several adaptations, except for two that I don’t like much mainly because of how they were written.

Feel free to ask me anything if you want. Just go to my profile and message me; I always read your ideas and requests.

Take a Bath!

[anisangeldust]

Pretty when you cry 𝜗𝜚⋆

Summary: feelings are hard.

Pairing: young politician!Coriolanus x Fem!reader

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, Coriolanus is stressed and needs you, emotional vulnerability, mentions of parental loss, crying.

A/N: just some heart-achy fluff bc I’m in the mood to coddle someone rn🎀

Masculinity and Bravado were drilled into the brain of Panems president since the day he was born, festering like an infection, multiplying like an invasion, until all he could feel was shame for feeling.

So often he’d find himself teary eyed, chanting soliloquies of “Men don’t cry, you aren’t weak, crying makes you weak.” like mantras around his apartment, such nonsense that those superior used to undermine his naturally empathetic soul.

It wasn’t until many moons later that he crossed your sacred path, your mere presence a soothing compress on his aching heart. Little by little, you cleared his night skies from its once insurmountable peril, the darkness that had consumed his soul was no longer seeping through his core, instead it soaked through his eyes, salty drops of crystalline water flowing down his milky cheeks.

At the moment, he was being comforted by his ever so generous and loving wife. The emotions he buried so desperately were now flowing like a river in front of his own personal Aphrodite, a tsunami of emotions flooding his soul, lapping at the weak spots of his delicate being. Never would anyone describe Coriolanus Snow as vulnerable, but right now he was. Your tenderness akin to the mother he lost so long ago, and his trembling frame that of a little boy. This is love in its rawest form, the ability to express vulnerability without judgement, the thing Coriolanus so clearly craved his whole adolescence.

Heaven was breaking down in your arms, having a rough day and coming home to you, the woman he loved with every ounce of his being, to have you hold his face and tell him it was all going to be okay; your murmured words like a warm compress on his aching heart.

So often he reminded himself that he was allowed to have bad days, being president was draining, and the cracks in his mask were deepening, he could no longer hide from the flood, he had to just make sure he didn’t drown. Luckily you were his life boat. Despite all his hard work, sometimes the darkness prevails, dawning cloaks of false serendipity, only to shed its light and consume your dignity. The darkness that clouds his vision, creeps into the corners of his mind, dampens his thinking, the darkness only you can cut through. He beam of light, his saving grace.

Coriolanus was a blubbering mess, your fingers running in his platinum curls a reminder that he was safe, that he was going to be okay. Slowly, he lifted his head from your chest and sniffled.

“I don’t deserve you..” he murmured, eyes red and puffy from crying so hard.

“Shhh, just lay on me baby, it’s okay, I’ve got you” you cooed, pressing his face back into the soft fat of your chest. As to which he happily complied.

The muscles of his shirtless back were relaxed, melting into you and your warm embrace. He wrapped his arms around your middle and hugged you like you were going to disappear if he let go, you were his most precious gem, a beauty unmatched by the most divine beings, a goddess amongst men, and Coriolanus was your most devoted apostle.

Slowly, his breathing regained stability, his pink lips no longer quivering, chest no longer heaving. You peppered his teary cheeks with kisses as he calmed down slowly. His mind slipping form consciousness as he fell asleep.

“I love you” he croaked gently, voice rough and tone uneven, the most vulnerable state Coriolanus Snow could be in, the one reserved for you.

“I love you too baby boy, so much. Now sleep, it’ll all be okay” you mutter as he flutters his eyes closed and lays on you completely, your own personal weighted blanket.

Coriolanus was truly sculpted by the gods, how else would he be so pretty when he cries?

[harrywavycurly]

I’m dying to see Harry trying to help with wedding planning because god that just seems like it would be so overwhelming 😫

Hiii babes!! I hope you enjoy this! I agree it seems like it would be so overwhelming and he would do his best to help anyway he can!💖

-find all things for the Lonely series here✨

A/N: You’re worried that you won’t have centerpieces for your wedding but Harry is there to help fix it all, enjoy✨

You try your hardest to keep your facial expression polite so you don’t let your eyebrows rise too much or your eyes get too big and you make sure your smile doesn’t falter not even for a second as Malory, the lovely woman showing you some examples of centerpieces for the tables at your reception, places a giant floral arrangement that’s full of red roses that’s in a jeweled vase on the table in front of you. You want to give up, this is the fifth arrangement she’s shown you and you don’t know where she’s getting the inspiration from because you had told her what the theme or vibe of your wedding was a few weeks ago when you called to set this appointment up and she had assured you she understood but so far nothing was giving you that impression at all.

“Is your fiancé joining us?” Malory asks with a smile as she stands next to the table holding the hideous flower arrangement.

“Yes he-”

“Sorry I’m late sweetheart Gem needed my approval on her dress and it took ages longer than intended.” As if on queue Harry walks through the door of the little shop and you instantly feel like you could cry the moment his eyes lock with yours and his soothing voice fills your ears.

It’s moments like these that you’re thankful that Harry has known you for as long as he has because he knows what’s going on the moment he sees you and takes in your glassy eyes and the way you’re biting your bottom lip, so he briefly looks away from you so he can give Malory a warm smile as he walks over to her. “Hi I’m Harry the fiancé of this lovely woman over here and I’m just wondering if I could get a few moments with her? Haven’t seen her all day and I just-”

“Oh of course! Yes I’m Malory and I’ll just go get the next few arrangements ready.” She gives him a knowing look and a playful wink as she pats Harry on the arm before she turns and heads off towards the back leaving you and Harry alone in the front of the shop. The moment she is out of sight Harry is turning around and taking the few steps over to you so he’s standing in front of you wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest while his lips press a kiss to the top of your head.

“What’s wrong baby?” He asks as he gives you a nice squeeze as you let out a deep sigh and close your eyes and let yourself get engulfed in the comfort that is just being with Harry, he’s always been able to wrap you up in his arms and make you forget about the world around you and you need that in this moment more than anything.

“They’re all ugly.” You mumble with your eyes still closed as your arms snake around his middle pulling him closer to you. Harry begins to run his hands up and down your back as he places a kiss to the side of your head. “We get married in nine months and we aren’t going to have any centerpieces.” You explain as you try to fight back to urge to just let out a frustrated sob because you didn’t think picking out a centerpiece would be difficult but it’s proving to be just that.

Now Harry isn’t going to lie and say he’s been the best at helping plan this wedding, he has left a lot of the details to you but does give his honest opinions when you ask for them but lately he’s been able to tell that the few wedding related tasks left have been a bit more daunting and he’s adamant on not letting you have a breakdown over something like a seating chart or flower arrangements. So when you asked him to come help pick centerpieces he didn’t hesitate to say yes, he knows what the vision is for the wedding and the reception and he knows that with the help of Jane, the wedding planner the two of you hired once you realized planning a wedding on your own wasn’t something you were cut out for, it shouldn’t be an issue to get exactly what you’re looking for. But going off of the way you’re practically clinging to him and on the brink of full on crying in the middle of this flower shop he is clearly mistaken. Harry decides in that moment when he feels your grip on him tighten as he hears you let out a shaky breath that he is going to make sure you leave this shop with a smile on your face.

“We are going to have centerpieces love don’t worry.” His voice is soft and soothing in your ear as he begins to ever so gently rock you back and forth a bit in his arms. “Let’s have a look at the options she’s shown you so far yeah?” You open your eyes and look up at him so your chin is resting on his chest and Harry looks down at you and gives you a reassuring smile as he leans down and places a quick kiss to your lips.

You reluctantly let go of him as he loosens his hold on you so you can turn around in his arms. His hands move to your shoulders as he walks a half step behind you as you lead him over to row of tables that hold the examples of centerpieces Malory has given you so far. As he stands there Harry can’t help but raise an eyebrow as he looks at them, he doesn’t know why the lovely shop owner would show these to you after you gave her the inspiration for the wedding because these don’t fit the theme at all so he can understand why you feel defeated and upset.

“This can’t be right.” You just shrug at Harry’s words as you look at the arrangements again trying to maybe find one you don’t dislike too much. “You told her where we are getting married and everything?” He asks and you nod because yes you told Malory all the details of your wedding.

“Yes and I think she even talked to Jane as well.” You answer and Harry is officially dumbfounded but he doesn’t have time to ask anything else before Malory walks in with another centerpiece in her hands and this one is no where close to what you’re looking for with all the bright pink and white flowers sticking out of a clear vase with a big pink tule bow wrapped around it. Harry feels your shoulders slump under his hands and even though he can’t see your face he knows you well enough to know you’re putting on your best fake smile as you look the arrangement over.

“This one can be done is different heights as well and we can add candles around it or-”

“I’m sorry Malory but are you sure these are for our wedding?” Harry doesn’t want to be rude but he also doesn’t want to look at anymore centerpieces that aren’t anywhere near what you want and he knows you’re too polite to say anything so he will happily do it for you. Malory turns her attention away from the arrangement and faces Harry with a slight look of concern on her face so Harry does what he does best and turns on the charm flashing her a smile that shows off his dimples as his gently squeezes your shoulders.

“I only ask because while these are just lovely arrangements,” she smiles and you see a slight blush take over her cheeks and you almost feel bad because you know how overwhelming Harry’s smile and slow and soothing tone can be especially when you’re not prepared for it. “They aren’t really the right fit for our wedding.” He explains with a warm smile and Malory looks away from Harry’s intense stare so she can turn and grab her clipboard off the table next to the last arrangement she brought out.

“Let’s see the notes I have for your wedding are classical glamorous romance with reds and pinks but also the classic touches of white-”

“Sorry for interrupting but whose wedding is that for? Because that’s not ours.” Harry asks in a soft tone as he continues to soothingly rub your shoulders, he knows you’re on edge because you don’t like this sort of thing and he’s aware you view this as a form of confrontation and you would rather just look at arrangements that you hate than tell Malory you don’t think these are meant for your wedding.

“Oh god I’m so sorry these are for the Gibbs wedding.” You feel your whole body relax as Malory admits the mistake because you now know it’s not that she doesn’t understand your vision for the wedding it’s just that she had the completely wrong wedding in mind.

“Ah that explains it then because we are the Styles wedding.” Harry states as Malory gives you an apologetic smile as she reaches for one of your hands.

“You must’ve been freaking out oh my goodness I’m so sorry.” You let out a sigh of relief making Malory chuckle as she gives your hand a squeeze. “Again I’m so sorry about this but let me just go grab your sheet and show you some examples that actually fit your wedding theme okay?” You just nod as she gives your hand one last squeeze before letting it go and heading off to the back to grab your sheet and start setting up some examples of centerpieces you’ll actually like.

“How do you do that?” Harry raises an eyebrow at you as you turn around so you’re looking up at him with a look of almost disbelief on your face because you really don’t get how he manages to just swoop in a save the day all the time.

“Do what?”

“You come in here and I’m on the verge of a breakdown and not even five minutes later is all fixed.”

“I just don’t like it when you’re upset.” He answers as he places a hand on the side of your face while he other one rests on your hip. “So I try to fix it as quickly as I can so if that means I have to tell Malory that she has to start over with the arrangements then so be it.” He explains with a shrug because for Harry it comes without any hesitation to do whatever he has to in order to make you feel better. That’s just how he’s been since the day you met all those years ago so he has no plans on stopping and if anything now he’s just willing to do even more to stop your tears because you’re going to be his wife soon and the idea of you being upset makes his heart sink to the bottom of his chest.

“I’m so happy it was just a little mixup.” Harry smiles as he watches you look genuinely more relaxed as you lean into his touch.

“Me too because I really didn’t want to have to fire her.” You roll your eyes making Harry raise an eyebrow at you. “What? You don’t think I’d do it?”

“You can’t fire her Harry because we haven’t hired her yet.” You state as you loosely wrap your arms around his neck. “This is like the test run and if we see something we like then Jane will handle setting it all up for the day of.” Harry just nods and you begin messing with the hair at the back of his neck.

“Well just for the record I’d happily fire her if I needed to.”

“Really?”

“There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for you love.” You smile at his answer as he leans down and places a kiss to your forehead before he leans all the way down and places a sweet kiss to your lips. “I love you.” He mumbles against your lips before giving you one more little peck.

“I love you too” Harry can’t help but grin as he pulls away because he’ll never get tired of hearing those words leave your mouth.

“Okay now tell me does this fit your wedding more?” Harry’s hand drops from your face and your arms go from around his neck as Malory appears with one of the most beautiful arrangements you’ve ever seen in her hands. Harry smiles as he watches you walk over to the table she carefully sets it down on so you can get a closer look but he can tell by the smile on your face that you love it.

“This is gorgeous.” Your answer makes Malory smile as she goes to grab another example for the two of you to look at. “We might actually have centerpieces at our wedding.” Harry chuckles as you turn and stare at him with a giant smile on your face as you excitedly clap your hands and do your signature happy dance.

“Thank god because what’s a wedding without centerpieces?”

[leighsartworks216]

Flight of the Crows

dragon/fiend!Sylus x gn!dragon/fiend!Reader

Might fuck around and make this a short little series cuz like 👀 This definitely taps into my early fanfic days of "What if they're a monster like him but DIFFERENT??!!" and it slaps idc Written with my Raven character in mind, but can be read separately from that

No spoilers for his myth please!!! I'm only gonna be basing this off what little I know but that is really not a lot so please just hush lol

Title from "Flight of the Crows" by Jhariah

Warnings: slow burn, dragon/fiend Sylus, dragon/fiend Reader, implied/referenced torture, blood, injury, near death experiences

Word Count: 647 (this is mostly a teaser/proof of concept tbh)

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form (fill this out to be tagged in future fics)

Your lungs heave painfully as you clutch at loose gravel in the fight to catch your breath. Half of the battle comes from the burning pain that rockets through your veins, begs you to collapse, to lay down and die. The other half comes from crawling on hands and knees up the rocky side of the mountain.

Your fingers are bleeding. All of you is bleeding. Where the blood stops and your skin begins is a mystery.

Grime sticks to your bloody hand as you turn it over. Your nails have been filed to nothing; down to the quick and beyond. The plate scales that once trailed up your arm were removed by any means necessary. Knives, brute force - whatever it took. Tossed into the crowd of onlookers like souvenirs to your suffering.

The plating on your face hurt the most. Exposed muscle as it was imprecisely removed. It would most likely get infected from the dust and rock. You'd much rather die up here than in front of those monsters.

"Well, well, well."

You jolt back to rest on your knees, glaring up at the imposing figure before you even as your vision swims with the motion. His armor and red eyes give him away: he's a fiend.

Just like you.

"This is my territory," he bites. If cruelty had a voice, he is not the owner, but he mimics it well enough. He smirks dangerously. "I don't like to share."

Your legs shake with effort as you shove yourself to your feet. Fire ignites along every nerve in your body. Your back is a raging inferno. Spots prick at the edges of your sight.

He tsks. "You're brave, aren't you? Standing up to me in that state."

Blood drips to the ground. It is already stained where you were hunched over before, but now it puddles on top of the saturated dirt, beading up like delicate gems. You can't tell where it's coming from any more.

Your fingers are cold. Your toes are cold. It's blazing hot up here, in the fiend's territory, but you're so cold.

The world tilts on its axis. You don't catch yourself. Your exposed jaw skids into the little pebbles and rocks. They stick into the sinewy muscle, jabbing through, down to the bone. You paw weakly at the ground. You have to get up.

"They've really done a number on you." You can hear his boots as they scrape along the dirt, but it's distant, echoey. You have to close your eyes to hear it better, too distracted by your swirling vision to focus. Your palm scrapes the dirt again as you try to push yourself up. "And yet you still fight. Are you that desperate to live?"

A shadow covers your face. You blink your eyes open, but they don't focus. They can't focus.

The silhouette of the fiend kneels down beside you. His head tilts. Sun bolts into your eye. You hiss and turn into the remaining shadows.

"You want to live so badly, but you haven't even asked to make a deal," he hums. "I could save you, you know. But what would you give me in return?"

Gods, it hurts.

It hurts.

He grabs one of your horns, what little is left of it, and lifts your head harshly from the dirt. "Do you speak?" he growls, patience wearing thin.

You're dying.

You're dying, you're dying, you're dying and-

And you can't.

Gods, you can't die.

Not at their hands.

Not of their doing.

Dirt clings to your dry lips. "Help..." It's barely a whimper. Barely coherent. You see the shadow of his head lean forward to listen even closer. "I'll..... I'm......"

He lowers your head back to the ground, softer this time. "We'll discuss payment when you wake up."

What feels like streams of cool sand glide up your body as unconsciousness claims you.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy

[etherealmaidenprincess]

Why I Stopped Chasing

Shadamy/Sonamy

It was a cool winter evening. The moonlight peaked through its phase to give off a bit of a soft gleam. Amy laid in her bed, candles lit, fairy lights gingerly twinkled and calming classical music playing through her headphones. Allergies, possibly a small cold, had really messed her up and she needed the rest. However that wasn’t all that was keeping her down tonight. Physically she felt congested but inside the small flicker of guilt that had lingered for years, gnawed at her gut.

Closing her eyes she didn’t notice the near ominous specks of green light seemingly appear out of nowhere. Growing more and more until a small breeze brushed past her quills, eliciting her to look at where it came from. Considering her window was shut tight for the winter. Upon seeing a familiar red and black silhouette, with a rather obvious green chaos emerald in hand, she slowly lifted her head in confusion.

“S-Shadow?”

“Apologies for barging in without knocking.” His usual demeanor that reminded her of a tuxedo chao, evident whilst putting the gem in his jacket pocket.

“It’s…fine. Why are you here?”

“Your friends are worried and I couldn’t take the insistent, worrisome whining. According to them you haven’t been…yourself lately.”

“Yeah well that’s what happens when one is struggling to breathe due to allergies and a possible cold.” A more sarcastic smile as she gestured to herself and the multiple small tissue boxes on her bedside table. He raised a brow, arms folded that clearly stated he wasn’t convinced this was it.

“What?”

“Is this really what’s bothering you?”

“I mean I couldn’t fake this nor did I want it.” She groaned, laying her head back down.

“You’ve stopped chasing after him.”

Amy blinked, glancing at one of her scented candles. The guilt continued to make her feel so queasy, she hadn’t been able to eat properly for days. Shadow noticed her annoyed and irritated expression instantly vanish to one look he was very familiar with. The pain in her eyes, evident as it was easy to read. But it wasn’t so simple.

“Yeah” She finally spoke with simple and soft acknowledgement. “So what if I did? It’s probably for the best. Not to be rude, Shadow, but why do you care if I do or don’t?” Watching him be the one to look at the same candle before shutting his eyes and giving a more…heartfelt answer than she expected.

“The same reason you reached out to me back when we were enemies.” Amy blinked as memories of her begging and pleading with him to save the earth, that he is more than revenge and that if anything else she would care for him. Gesturing to her bed, he sat down as they just looked at the flickering flame for a bit.

“At first it was out of embarrassment.” She began. “Once I realized that what I was doing was desperate, obsessive and really unhealthy, even if I never meant to do it, I felt…awful. The guilt grew overtime and while I’ve always been reassured and proven that our friendship and my help isn’t a lie, I can’t shake off the past version of me.

There are three things that got so lost in translation. I don’t believe in the whole ‘love at first sight’ bs. At first I thought it was just deep admiration. But I kept getting strong intuitions of us together and those kept getting stronger overtime. Some turned out to be visions. Heck the amount of times I tried using my tarot cards to prove it- and it came true. Though I haven’t in awhile when I learned that it might’ve been wishful thinking on my part.”

“You do have a true gift for reading people as well as your strength.” Pausing, she couldn’t help but have a small smile peak through before continuing. 

“I think overtime…I truly have fallen for him naturally. It’s part of why I have backed off.”

“Seems…counterproductive.”

“You know the old saying ‘If you love someone, set them free.’-”

“ ‘If they come back it was meant to be.’ I believe the rest of the saying goes.” Catching her tilted yet admiring expression he coughed and glanced away.

“Maria and I studied much literature when we were on the ARK.” Amy knew she shouldn’t push, but every bit of information he willingly gave about that part of his life, she cherished in her heart.

“My point is this. What I love about him, among many other things, is that drive of freedom, adventure and living in the moment. The thought of being with someone, that traditional idealistic stigma of ‘settling down’ would terrify anyone that doesn’t want that for themselves. I may not always look like it, but that life is so boring to me. It ties into the third point in all of this.”

“You long for that sense of freedom too.” Shadow guessed as it slowly clicked.

“I rather go see the world, go on journies that I can’t always experience back home. Live my life to the fullest. I may not want everything that Sonic does, I am my own person after all, but I wanted him to see that I wouldn’t want him to change, ever. But my actions would seemingly counteract my intentions, even if I tried to talk about my honest truth. Though I will admit, I’m not my best at communicating when I feel so flustered, annoyed and not thinking clearly.”

“Seems pretty clear to me Rose.”

“Yeah well, he’s not here.” She giggled nervously before reaching for a tissue, and hand sanitizer, before turning away.

“So you stopped chasing after him because-?”

“I stopped chasing after him to one, stop being so clingy, two to try and convey that I want him to live his best life as I try to live my own. Three so I can truly ask if this was honestly meant to be or if we have to stay friends, which….I’m okay with.” A brief pause as she wanted to say one more thing that was another reason why. One that had red highlights, can be broody and is sitting her listening to every word she had said. Her heart still yearned for Sonic….but it now also yearned for Shadow’s.

“I think I understand.” Shadow’s voice broke the growing silence. “But…do you still care for him in that way?” Holding out his hand for hers before gently pulling her upright.

“Yes. There is…one other factor but…I can’t say what just yet.” Amy breathed softly as she felt her head being guided to rest on his shoulder.

“Faker truly doesn’t see what’s right in front of him.” The usual annoyance in tone was added in with something else she wasn’t expecting. This level of care seemed so out of character and yet, also felt so right.

“I’ll be okay with that if he never does…I’ll have to be okay with that. Besides, he’ll always make me laugh and will be there to help if needed.” Amy giggled, letting this moment linger a bit before slowly laying herself back down.

“I’ll tell the other’s I’m okay and once fully over all this.” Gesturing to her face, tissue in hand. “I’ll be back for more adventures.”

“I’ll let you rest.” Shadow got up and pulled out the gem. Preparing to go back and let the other’s know she was fine and needed rest.

“Shadow, wait!” Amy called out as he glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you for checking in and hearing me out. I deeply appreciate it.” She smiled as he rolled his eyes before giving a small smirk.

“Anytime, Rose. Chaos Control!” Another flicker of a breeze and she pulled the blankets over herself, drifting back to sleep slowly.

Meanwhile a blue hedgehog unintentionally found himself outside her window, originally preparing to make a visit, but lingered in on the conversation. Heart pounding and a blush against his cheeks.

‘I should’ve known this was much more than what it seemed. Especially since it’s you, sweet Amy.’ Sonic thought before slowly peeking through the window, opening it slightly just to cover her up more with blankets. Running a hand through her quills with a soft smile.

‘You mean so much more to me Ames. One day I’ll make sure you know….soon.'

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

ANGST SHADOWXREADER IDE BC I CRAVE FOR ANGST LIKE A B★TCH

Hey I was wondering if you could do a shadow the hedgehog x reader fanfic where Reader gets corrupted by black doom (not possessed)

(Side note: I got this idea for the fact we know shadow HATES black doom and the black arms and was really shown in sxsg)

Reader acts more cold,apathy,untruthful and cruel

their fur now with a notice able fade of black,dark red and red, Their pupils now the same as black doom, they wear the same golden chains with a set of gold-spiked medallions possessing a gem, and a double black cord necklace with red, blue, yellow, and purple ornaments on one and golden and silver pendants on the other that resemble the Black Arms' insignia,their fingers? More like demonic claws, Voice? Cold and uninterested., rest of their outfit? Robe like Just like black doom’s and shows of uneasy aura and power

“Where it Hurts Most”

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Corrupted Mobian Reader

Requested: Yes (by an anon).

Description: Never did he think Black Doom would be back. And never did he think would he use the person that he loves most to hurt him–you.

Notes: I decided to set this during Shadow Generations so I hope you don’t mind! Hope you enjoy it regardless!

(Reader will be gender-neutral.)

(Not proof-read/beta-read.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

“(This white space is weird,)” you thought to yourself. “(I haven’t seen anyone in here!)”

You had been transported here suddenly on your way to Sonic’s birthday party, and you hadn’t even seen any sign of Sonic.

Or Shadow, for that matter.

Or…anyone.

It was beginning to worry you.

When you next take a step, something wraps around your foot, causing you to yelp out of surprise.

It…seems to be this black-colored goop.

When you take a step back, the goop attaches itself to the ground and pulls you further.

“Nononono, I’m not dying like this!” you yell, trying to pull yourself free.

“FOOLISH FLESH,” you hear a voice say. “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DIE. NO, IT’LL BE MUCH, MUCH WORSE.”

You let out a loud scream as you’re dragged into the goop, it surrounding your body, a burning sensation covering you until your vision goes black.

When you next awake, you feel…better.

Stronger.

Perfect.

Looking down at your body, it seems you’ve undergone some fantastic transformations.

Your fur is now black and red, with gold chains littering your body, with a gold medallion placed near your neck, like a better necklace.

Different colored ornaments are strewn about the chains, and oh my Doom, your claws.

They seem to gradient into a black on your fingers, with your claws being ever-so-slightly red.

You also appear to be wearing a robe similar to your new overlord.

Black Doom.

Before you can admire your new form any longer, a set of footsteps causes your now dark-red-tipped ears to flick.

You turn around, looking at the mobian responsible for these footsteps, only to find fear in his eyes.

Shadow’s eyes.

…

Good.

“[Name]? What the hell happened to you?!” Shadow asks.

You let out a chuckle, an echo in your voice.

“I became better, Shadow,” you tell him. “And you can become better, too. Join me on the side of the Black Arms, and we’ll never be apart again.”

Shadow lets out a growl, getting into a defensive stance.

“I don’t want to fight you, [Name],” Shadow says. “Just snap out of it.”

“Snap out of what, exactly?” you ask him. “My glorious new overlord’s control?”

“Let them go, Black Doom! Right this instant!” Shadow demands.

“I’M AFRAID I WON’T BE DOING THAT, SHADOW,” you and Black Doom say at the same time. “THEY’VE BECOME BETTER, STRONGER, DON’T YOU SEE? YOU CAN BECOME JUST. LIKE. THEM.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…I’d NEVER join you!” Shadow states.

“THEN HAVE FUN GETTING YOUR PRECIOUS [NAME] BACK,” Black Doom spats. “YOU MAY NOT BE ABLE TO BREAK THEM OUT OF THEIR CORRUPTION.”

“Go on then, Shadow,” you start with a mocking voice. “Attack me.”

“I’m sorry for this, [Name],” Shadow mutters to himself. “But I’ll get you back. I promise.”

[jessamine-rose]

Happy Cat Day ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

One day, I realized I’d unknowingly started a tradition of writing a holiday-themed Dottore fic for each year. Here’s the fourth installment for 2025, in celebration of Cat Day ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡

Note:: Modern AU where animal hybrids are treated like domestic pets, this drabble can be read as romantic or platonic

♡ 0.6 words under the cut ♡

♡ Truthfully, Zandik was not the pet you had in mind. But fate works in mysterious ways, and that’s how you found yourself welcoming the cat hybrid into your home. The adoption process was fairly easy, and he seemed agreeable to his new owner. Though he insisted on keeping his name—whether it came from a caretaker or himself, he wouldn’t say.

♡ Zandik may not have a pedigree, but such certificates don’t hold a candle to his individual traits. Fluffy ears and a long tail, the same shade of blue as his hair. An observant gaze colored in crimson. A high intelligence quotient, at least by hybrid standards.

♡ The first weeks are a matter of adjustment. At first, Zandik keeps to himself, exploring his new environment or focusing on his toys and books. Other times, you feel a familiar gaze on you as you go about your house. For safety reasons, he is forbidden from going outside but every so often, you’ll catch him brushing twigs and leaves out of his tail.

♡ The only time you are guaranteed his company is during mealtimes. That is when Zandik enters the dining room, sits across from you, and picks up his cutlery. The ideal hybrid diet is fish and poultry, cooked with simple techniques, and he always leaves behind an empty plate. Once, he snuck a few bites of your food, and you only found out after he got a stomachache.

♡ You aren’t the type to show off your pet, but it doesn’t stop you from dressing him up. Cravats, buttoned shirts, light blue gems, and—most importantly—his leather collar. The garments make him look extra sophisticated; though by the end of the day, they are disheveled from his daily activities. He is able to pull off an open collar and rolled-up sleeves rather well.

He is an enigmatic creature, really, giving and withholding affection as he sees fit.

♡ On good days, Zandik will wordlessly enter your room and demand cuddles from you. Many nights, he will forgo his king-sized bed in favor of sleeping in yours. Every time you leave for work, he follows you to the front door with downturned ears. When you return, he either greets you in a polite manner or is caught hiding the evidence of his mischief.

♡ Zandik certainly lives up to his IQ results. He likes to play subtle tricks on you in order to get more cuddles and attention. The mice he catches are always…killed and played with in intricate ways. And who can forget the time you began seeing a red dot in the corner of your vision? That dot would always disappear in a second, leaving you to question your sanity. One day, it moved to the left and you quickly followed it…and that was when Zandik smugly revealed the laser pointer in his hand. You still don’t know how he got his hands on that device.

♡ There is also the time you woke up to find your pet missing and the backdoor unlocked. You spent the whole day searching for him, looking around the area and contacting acquaintances. Only when you returned, close to tears, did Zandik happily come out of his hiding place and say he wanted to see “the lengths his owner would go to find him.” He was put on timeout for that; but judging by his satisfied smile, his findings were worth it.

♡ It’s…nice to have him around, honestly. Thanks to Zandik, your home has become warmer, livelier. There is a certain comfort to be found in gazing at his photos in your phone screen and office cubicle, knowing he will be there to welcome you home. And that is why, on the day he asks you why you chose him, your answer is preceded with a fond smile.

♡

One of these days, I’ll figure out how to evict Dottore from my head. But until then, he shall continue to inflect my brain with ideas :’>

Anyway, Happy Cat Day!! I have no plans to continue this AU, but it was very fun to think of Dottore as a scheming cat hybrid. Also, fun fact, this post is scheduled for 02/22 at 2:22 a.m. JST!! Next year…let’s see which holiday will be celebrated with the wicked Doctor <3

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @boundinparchment @dawn-sky-collective

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Dagger? I hardly know her

Barbies:male!reader x Harry hook

Summary:reader gets kidnapped and hilarity ensues

Warning:kidnapping, knife kink (no blood), sex on the floor, mutal handies, degradation Harry receiving,spit kink?, I think that’s it but idk

Harry Hook is an asshole. Though, you weren't exactly pleasant to him either. Any chance you got you were insulting him. You couldn't remember how all this started. Maybe it was just the way he breathed that pissed you off. Maybe it was his stupid eyeliner. Maybe it was the fact that he seemed to be able to make you blush with just a look. Maybe it was fuck ass hook. Whatever it was, it made you want to shank him. First he has the audacity to speak to you. Now he has the audacity to kidnap you?

Sitting on the boards of Uma's ship, your arms tied behind you, you planned all the ways you'd kill Harry. You were locked in a cabin with a desk. There was a cushioned chair behind it. The desk was messy, nick nacks and papers skewed everywhere. The flooring was still the classic ship wooden floors. There was one porthole, covered with a red piece of fabric. The sun was beaming through the fabric, tinting the room with a red light. The was a rug thrown out on the floor. It reached back behind the desk and jutted out in front of you. It didn't reach the edges of the room, settling closer to the center. The door across from you opened, the sun making you squint. A man walked into the room. As he got closer you recognized him. Harry Fucking Hook. Harry stood next to you, leaning into your ear. He quietly whispered a hello. You called him every name you could think of in your head. You rolled your eyes and jerked your head away from him. Harry stood up, walking around to squat in front of you.

"Comfy?" Harry muttered, giving you a cocky smile. You glared at him, pressing your lips together.

"Kill yourself." You snapped, yanking on the restraints. Harry clicked his tongue. He stood up, staring down at you. Harry knocked his hook under your chin, making you look up at him. Harry smiled at you. You felt your face start to heat up. You yanked your face away from him. Harry sighed before turning and walking away.

You weren't sure how long you spent alone and tied up. The longer time went on the more you started to plot. You found a nail that was raised above the boards. You scooted over towards it, spinning around so your back was to it. You scraped the rope against the nail. It scratched your hands occasionally, but you wanted out. Your hands separated. You brought them in front of you, rubbing at the marks on your wrists. You stood up, your heart was beating quickly. You wondered if Harry would kill you if he found you. You doubted it though. You looked around and walked to the back of the desk. You rifled through the papers on the top. You looked through the nick nacks, trying to find something sharp. You opened the first drawer coming up with nothing except papers. You opened the second drawer and right on top of a book was a dagger. A blue gem set at the bottom of the handle. You almost thought it was a mirage. You quickly picked it up, closing the drawer. You made your way to the door. You tried to open it, the handle did not budge. You tried it again, no dice. You sighed. You'll have to wait until someone comes to the door. You surveyed the room. You were reminded of the porthole. You walked over, pulling the fabric up. You squinted covering your eyes. You looked out the glass once you regained your vision. You saw the ocean and near that a dock. If you could squeeze out the porthole, you could swim to the dock. You looked around the edge of the window, finding no latch. You stuck the dagger in the back of your waistband. You ran your fingers around the edge, looking for anything. Nothing.

You heard footsteps approaching the door. You quickly drew the dagger, silently hiding next to the door. As the door opened you grabbed the person by their shirt, slamming their back against the wall. You closed the door with your foot. You pressed the dagger to their face, finally meeting their eyes.

"Fuck you, Harry." You whispered. Harry grinned.

"God I wish you would." He muttered. You pulled him forward before slamming him into the wall again. Harry hit his head against the wall, he grinned at you. You glared at him, holding the knife closer to his face. Harry kept his eyes on you as he leaned forward. He stuck his tongue out slowly dragging it up the edge of the knife. You stared at him. You stored the dagger in the waistband of your pants again, tugging Harry against you. You kissed him roughly, nipping at his bottom lip. He returned the favor, dragging his hands over every inch he find. You gripped his shoulders, spinning you both around. You push on his shoulders, forcing him to him knees on the rug. You broke off the kiss staring down at him. His eyes were glazed over with lust. You pressed your palm to his cheek. You pulled your hand back before slapping him. His head shot to the side making him stare at the ground. Harry started giggling looking back up to you. You gripped his cheeks.

"Lay down." Harry listened, laying on his back. You straddled him grabbing both his wrists in one hand. You pulled them above his head before meeting his lips again. You dipped down under his chin, kissing down his neck. You realsed his wrists the drag your hands to his shirt. Harry worked on your shirt as you flung his away. He dropped your shirt in the same direction you did his. You kissed on his sternum before pulling back. You stared at him as he held onto your thighs. You ran your hands down his stomach finding the button of his pants. You quickly unfastened them. Harry met your pace, reaching for the hem of your pants too. You both slipped your hands past the other's hem of their underwear.

Harry groaned when you finally gripped him. You watched his eyes rolled back when you swiped over his slit. You moved your hand up and down slowly. Harry moaned and copied your movements. His pace was slower than yours. Dragging his hand up and down your length at a tantalizing speed. Harry had his eyes screwed shut and his jaw cleanched. He slid his thumb over your slit. You picked up your pace, him following your lead. His precum lubricating himself. You leaned down towards his ear.

"Whore." Harry moaned in response. Your hand met the pace of his breathing. His gasps becoming faster, you knew he was getting close. You pulled the daggger from the back of your waistband pressing it to his throat. His eyes rolled back and he closed them.

"Slut." You patted his cheek and gripped his chin. You tilted his face to the side. You spat on his cheek. You patted the other cheek making him look straight up again. Harry smirked before sticking his tongue out and liking at your spit.

"You're a filthy filthy cock slut, aren’t you?" Harry held eye contact with you as he came, moans falling off his lips with whispered curses. Your orgasm quickly followed his. You gently slid your hand off of him, not wanting to overstimulate him. Yet.  He moved his hand out of your underwear, pressing it to your stomach.You stood and rebuttoned your pants. Harry stayed glued to the floor, staring up at you with glazed eyes. You turned and left the room, locking it behind you.

[atamascolily]

Wow, okay, so I was so distracted by Kyubey hiding behind the blades of the fan (not visible in this particular frame) that I didn't notice the... cards? stickers? playbills? whatever the hell these things are attached to the glass, which I have circled in red. They look like the pages from the book of witches elsewhere in the trailer, and while the resolution is not great, you can see what looks like Anthony (rose witch's puffball minion)'s silhouette in the lower left above, and on the left in the book shot.

So what's going on here? I don't know, exactly, but I know I've seen something very much like in the Magia Record anime (also a Doroinu Curry production), in episode 17 where Madoka et. al go to Kamihama and find the emblem of the Magius everywhere.

Interestingly, Madoka uses using her soul gem ring (!!) to examine them by looking through it, which is something I don't think I'd ever seen before.

This scene is somewhat confusing in its framing and there's not much dialogue, so I'd need to rewatch it again to be sure I haven't missed anything, but Homura appears to do the same thing with her glasses, because we see a similar glow and then a shot from what appears to be her POV, showing that the "sticker" is a recruitment poster for the Magius (i.e., the same thing Madoka saw just a moment earlier except that Homura's glasses have a larger field of vision) and which is noticeably absent in any of the wide shots.

Which is really interesting when you remember one of the Clara Dolls doing something similar with a magnifying glass in the Walpurgis no Kaiten trailer.

And while this may or may not be connected with the Clara Doll eye (same lashes) on the air conditioning unit, you gotta wonder what are they looking at, and who might be leaving stickers with hidden messages of witches and familiars scattered around the city in the first place?

Based on what we've seen so far, I think one of the recurring visual motifs of Walpurgis no Kaiten will be "seeing things clearly"--or not, as the case may be--whether through mirrors, magnifying glasses, or directly, which also ties into the reflections/doubles imagery (and from there metaphorically to witches and hidden messages, two other recurring themes of the franchise). It's all connected.

While I have all the images in one place, I'd also like to point out the juxtaposition of fans (spinning circles, another recurring motif). Based on the context clues, the fans in the glass with the witch/familiar stickers are associated with the other Homura, while the fan with the Clara Doll eye and stitched together with pink packing tape and stickers with a goblet representing "fragile, handle with care" represent the original Homura, and their two contrasting systems. Combined with the broken cup on the table in the flooded cafe and the salamander being stabbed, I'm inclined to wonder if another theme at play here is that alterations to the representations of the system reflect the state of the system as a whole, as a visual metaphor for how Homura's (and her competitor(s)'?) world is impacted by events in the film. [Note what appears to be tape on the outside of the glass in the shot of the witch/familiar stickers and the fans, which suggests that doppelganger!Homura has had at least one setback.]

Now, given that metaphors also tend to be literal in Madoka Magica, this suggests that some kind of sympathetic magic is going to be a thing where there's an actual casual relationship between the two, but we'll have to see. This would, however, make the appearance of vandalism, graffiti or unwanted stickers far more intrusive--not just visual clutter on Homura's world, but an active threat to it, in addition to whatever other powers or messages they might carry.