#lars barks

[cosmicseafoam]

You can't just tag that one mindvirus post as Phantom and not elaborate 👀

😇

I’ve talked about it a teeny little bit before but haven’t gone super in depth. Sorry this got so long lmao

CW for dubcon mentions.

I think phantom absolutely uses their quint powers for evil. It’s all pre-discussed and consensual, and certain ghouls have agreed to not know when they’re going to use it.

Aether and Omega both think it’ll be impossible for phantom to take them down. They’re much bigger than bug, and they’ve been around a lot longer. Plus they know bug doesn’t pay much attention in their lessons, comes across as uninterested in harnessing their skills. But the look of fear that flashes across Aethers face when he sees just how quickly Phantom weaves their magic into Omegas brain will fuel their orgasms for the next Millenia. Now sometimes when they're having infirmary meetings, Phantom will locks eyes with Aether and smirk as they gently ghost a fingertip over Omegas neck and let a tiny bit of quintessence slip in just to smell the panic and arousal.

Swiss can feel it as it happens but loves not knowing when it'll be. Can feel the lightning crackle through his blood, can see the lavender haze swirl across his vision before it takes over. He likes it when Phantom takes it slow and teases him with it, they both like that Swiss pretends to put up a fight about it. As if the small amount of quintessence he harnesses could ever be a match against Phantom. Sometimes Phantom likes to give him an out of body experience, uses him like a doll while all Swiss can do is watch on. Sometimes Phantom likes to make him hyper aware of his actions but completely out of control. This is how it all started, really. So sure of themselves but too nervous to ask Swiss to be rough. To make Phantom take everything he was willing to give. So they pumped him full of quintessence, laughed at the confusion on Swiss' face and sighed. "Oh no, please don't hurt me. Please please you can't cum in me I'll get pregnant. No, please, don't." All while making Swiss manhandle them like a ragdoll.

Rain hasn't let Phantom use it on him yet, but will gladly join in while they pump Dewdrop full of quintessence. Sometimes Dew just desperately needs to get out of his own head, and Phantom is more than happy to help him with that. Will lean him back to chest on their lap, slender hand gently wrapped around his throat until his eyes glaze over into a soft purple. Will hold him there and softly stroke across his stomach and chest, holding Dews legs open with their own while Rain eats him out before Rain takes turns fucking them both with his tentacle.

I think the first time Rain ever lets Phantom use their quintessence on him is when his clutch comes early and he NEEDS to lay them but Dew is away with Papa on important abbey business but Rain is too embarrassed to ask outright. Comes to Phantom with tears in his eyes, places Phantoms fingertips onto his temple and they know exactly what he needs. Takes Rain back to his nest and pumps quintessence into his skull until Rain has them pinned with their legs to their chest, telling Phantom to "fucking take it" and their eyes roll back in their head at the feeling of Rain emptying his eggs into them.

The first time they use it on Cumulus is so she'll fully seat herself on their face, happy to be used as a toy for her pleasure. The first time they use it on Cirrus, it's to lull her into an almost sleep, interlocking their legs together and rubbing their little t dick against her clit but not letting her cum for hours. The first time they use it on both of them together is just because they want to watch the girls fight for dominance. Phantom isn't even involved, just watching to the side as they wrestle each other, trying to get the other to submit for long enough to pin the other down and fuck them with a quint strap.

Turns out, Mountain is actually the hardest ghoul for Phantom to take over so they HAVE to do it when Mountain is blissfully unaware. Typically sneaking into the greenhouse when Mount has been out there too long, snakes their skinny arms around his waist and underneath his singlet, pumping as much quintessence into him as quickly as possible before he realises it's happening. Phantom has gotten in trouble for many broken pots this way but it's worth it to watch Mountain lose control of his glamour, growing impossibly huge and pinning Phantom to the dirt, fucking them until they can't take it anymore.

To me, Phantom and Aurora are siblings so they only ever use it for really childish things like a classic "stop hitting yourself" or when Aurora pours the last of Phantoms favourite cereal but Phantom wants to take it without a fight.

[honeydippedfiction]

Someone send help, I'm falling back into my old men are hot phase again😭😭😭 (very hyperfocused on Metallica again like oh my godddddd🥲🥵🥵)

[guy60660]

Lars Udsen | Bark Europa

[guentzel]

Spring Training, Day 1

+ bonus

[eye-cri]

His mullet looks like Sonic the Hedgehog ngl.

[90shetfield]

idk who named this song but those lyrics make me feel some way...

like?? squeeze suck the dead? what are you referring to James??? please be what I think it is

[lars-nutbaar]

*insert the sounds they make in cartoons to indicate horny*

[starbirdsonthebat]

LHRHSJSBVRIFJEVWBWNVWEHRURJCBBFKDLKD LOOK AT THIS PERFECT MAN ❤🤍❤🤍❤🤍❤🤍

[pier-carlo-universe]

Il Sonnambulo di Lars Kepler: un thriller che svela l'orrore nelle tenebre dell'anima. Recensione di Alessandria today

Un'indagine mozzafiato tra il gelo della Svezia e le ombre della mente: Joona Linna affronta il suo caso più oscuro.

Un’indagine mozzafiato tra il gelo della Svezia e le ombre della mente: Joona Linna affronta il suo caso più oscuro. Biografia degli autori Dietro lo pseudonimo di Lars Kepler si cela una coppia di scrittori svedesi, Alexander Ahndoril e Alexandra Coelho Ahndoril. Entrambi autori affermati, hanno unito le loro forze nel 2009 per creare una delle saghe thriller più amate e vendute al mondo,…

[invincibledc]

McDonald’s Drive Thru

Pair: Raccoon!Reader x Platonic!Robins au

AU: If Batman adopted all the batboys as when they were robins. The robins found, especially Damian, found y/n in a trash bin and adopted the hybrid as a sibling and now it’s chaotic with the raccoon. The robins are 8-12 years old.

Summary: when a toy car gets the hybrid an idea where to get food.

It’s a hot summer day, the Wayne brothers, the robins who exchange simple places during patrol as robins. The robins are relaxing in this faithful day, the yellow-orange sun beaming on the boys as they were in the back yard.

Dick, the oldest kid was doing cartwheels.

Tim, the second youngest who is admiring his big brother with big blue eyes, clapping and cheering.

Damian, the youngest of the brothers who’s playing fetch with Titus.

And you, a random raccoon hybrid child who they found randomly and got adopted to the family. But there’s one robin you’re close to. And that’s Jason. The second eldest.

Jason was reading to you, speaking in a soft tone. He knew you don’t know English phrases well as you let out a soft chirp. You were truly the youngest of them all. “And then the.. the hungry caterpillar ate the apple in one big gulp.” You lean your head into Jason’s shoulder, making him has his head on yours.

“The caterpillar is realllly hungry, chirpy.” You chirped as you place your small hand onto the caterpillar word of the book. “Ca-aaaa” trying to say the word, Jason’s eyes light up as he puts the book onto your lap.

“Yes! Cat-er-pil-lar.” He says slowly. “Cat….uh….pill… lar. Cara pillar!” Jason chuckled out loud. “You tried your best [nickname]!” He pets your head whilst you chirped, smiling wide showing your sharp canines.

Dick coming showing off his backflips, he then flips into air, perfecting the perfect landing in front of you and Jason. With a proud smile, he gives off a bow as Tim comes over with a smile. “That was amazing Dick!”

“I know right.” Dick turns to you, wanting also your approval.

“Cmon, say that your big brother is cool… say it…” he thought as he placed his hands onto his hips.

“Rich!” You pointed at him with a small yell.

Dick deflated at how you used his real name in your own way. After Damian said his full name in anger and out of petty, your small brain started to call him “rich”.

Jason hollers with Damian in the back coming with Titus, holding the big dog on a leash with a smug smile. Tim could only snicker behind his hand whilst Dick could only dramatically sigh louder.

“It’s not funny… you guys have to stop saying my full name in front of them.” Dick sits by you, petting your head. Letting out a chirp of appreciation, you take your head from Jason’s shoulder and put it on Dick’s shoulder.

Jason grabs his book back from your lap, the two young brothers then sat around like a circle. Just you and the boys as you play with Dick’s fingers.

“Well I’m bored.” Tim says with slight crossed arms, Damian nods as he pets Titus and then look at you who is just minding your own business. Dick and Jason were by your side like some kind of guards protecting the royal.

The boy couldn’t help but puff his cheeks, he wants to be a knight for you just like in those fantasy stories Jason reads him.

Moments later of just sitting in boredom, heat bouncing on the boy’s back even more before the beginning of this evening.

Your stomach soon started to growl, making your brothers get up and stare at you.

“Hungry?” In unison they all said as Titus barked and go inside to go alarm Alfred in his dog language that you’re hungry.

“Ah… ah..” rubbing your stomach with a frown, you guess that doing nothing really made you hungry. Although you would love some fruits with nuts or at least some crackers, you feel hungry for… some junk food.

Looking around, you seen a toy car that Bruce bought Jason for Christmas. Smiling mischievously, you got up and went over to it. Dick’s eyes widen as if he knew your little plan already.

“Ah ah! No! No!” Dick runs over to you with Jason and the other hot on his tail. You get in, checking the battery of this Giant 24v Big Kids Ride On Super Car XXL 180W Motor & Rubber Tires black car.

It’s ready. And you already know where to go. You buckled up, ready to step on the peddle. That was before Dick grabbed you up and Jason unbuckling you.

Tim and Damian push the car from you.

“Y/N! As your big brother, and as big brothers do protecting their siblings. You’re not getting in that car!” He points when finishing his last sentence at the car that’s being guarded by the younger brothers.

“Unfair! Unfair!” You chanted, stomping your feet with your ears flatten and your ringed grey tail going under between your legs.

Jason could only frown as Dick glares at you. “You can say ‘unfair’ all you want, but I’m putting my foot down.” When Dick was angry, he was angry. A glaring battle between you and the first robin, the second robin that is witnessing this puts a hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

“Hey bro, why not just let them do it? We can just make sure they don’t get harmed.” Dick whips his head to glare at Jason. Jason stared back, not impressed by the glare. He’s seen worse than a boy that’s older than him stare him down like an angry mother.

Finally letting it go, seeing it was having no effect on him. Dick sighs and loosens up to look back at the raccoon child trying to get through two young robins to the sweet toy ride.

“I.. guess so.” Said hesitantly by the first Robin who goes over to the raccoon who’s trying to get through the younger brothers. Not even trying to use their claws on the two.

“Y/N.”

You turned towards dick with a glare, hissing at him which makes him flinch back before standing up straight.

“…What’s your plan?” Those words made you drop the hostility and smirk.

“Me. Know.”

And know you did as Dick screams trying to control the car while you were on Jason’s lap screaming with joy. The car rides into the road with cars zooming past and swerving. Jason held your waist tightly with a bright smile as Damian and Tim held onto each other tightly.

“WOOOHOOO!!” You yelled as the civilians around either moved around or scolded the boys and you for being reckless.

Dick started to swerve, making Jason hold you tighter, hiding his face into your back while you clapped chaotically. Tim screams, having Damian pushed him away for “blowing his ear drum”. Finally you guys stop a red stop sign due to yknow, following the law.

Each one of y’all has messy hair and different expressions from this crazy ride.

“I think I’m gonna -gag- hurl..” Tim covers his mouth as Damian scrunches his face. “Don’t barf next to me drake!” Dick let’s put a calming breath and fix his hair. “Is everyone alright?” Jason a lifts his face up, smiling wide as you kept clapping.

“Yeah, chirpy here is happy, so I am too.” Jason watched how your eyes light up. “Go! Reen!” You pointed at the green traffic light. Dick couldn’t help but chuckle and drive slowly this time. He was getting the use to driving, although he may like to drive a motorcycle one day.

This time the drive was calm, Tim was better as he glared at Damian who kept making small comments to him. You played with Jason’s fingers that were on your waist while the said boy was relaxing with his eyes closed. Feeling the wind through his red hair.

Dick hums a simple tune as he sees batburger and smiles. “Guys, how about we stop for some grub? Since Y/N is hungry.”

Immediately the boys nodded eagerly, you chirped as you stopped playing jason’s fingers and gave a thumbs up.

Dick smiles with a soft chuckle, pulling over to the drive thru. As he pulls up with the toy car, he leans on the door. A feminine voice calls from the intercom.

“Hello, welcome to Batburger! What can we get you?”

“What do you guys want?” Dick says as he turns to look at his siblings and the hybrid. Tim hums before nodding as he calculated his want of order. “The Bat-Mite meal, but I also want a Choco-Bat Milk.” Tim finished as Dick notes that, he turns to the green eyed boy who has his arms crossed.

“I don’t see why I have to say my order, you already know what I want, Richard.” Dick has an unimpressed face before telling the intercom for a Bat-Mite meal. Damian scoffs. Jason leans over dick to look as he points to the menu.

“The Batburger Delxue with the dark sprite.” Jason says with a smile as he turns to you who just stares at it. All the letters and words looked scrambled to you, you frowned, ears flattening whilst you looked at Jason who nods.

“Y/N will have the Bat-Mite meal,with the Robin nuggets. Bbq sauce and a small side of Dr. fries.” Dick could only stare at Jason before sighing. “It’s scary how well you know Y/N…” the red haired boy could only smirk. “That’s cause I’m their favorite.”

A harsh gasp was heard before Damian pulled jason’s head. “I am! You are not worthy of that placement!”

“WOAH WOAH!” Tim pulls the triggered boy away from Jason. Jason whips his head, wanting to throw hands, but he can’t risk to harm you so he just scoff and turns his head.

Dick nervously chuckles before looking at the menu. “I guess I’ll have the Batburger with just Dr. fries and ketchup packets.”

After the orders were made, they were told to pull up. But while pulling up, Tim says something that made everything stop.

“Wait.. we didn’t bring money.”

Dick slams on the break, almost flinging Damian out of the car before Tim pulled him down without looking.

“Shit.” Jason says, covering your ears while Dick gave him a slight glance. “Language.”

Now the boys looked at each other until you reached into your crazy hair and pulled out wads of money.

“Mon-mon!” Smiling proudly, the oldest gasped dramatically with Tim and Damian leaning over from the back to look.

“You been planned this!?” Tim exclaimed looking at your hands to see crumbled up bills of people you pickpocketed from the amount of swerving. But that’s just your little secret.

Jason takes the money from you and smirks, “Guess we’re eating good boys.” Dick begins to drive to the window, snatching the money from the red haired boy and giving it to a shocked employee who didn’t expect the sons is Bruce Wayne.. and some random raccoon looking kid who’s tail is swaying happily.

She grabs the money without any questions and give them their orders. Dick checked each bag to make sure the orders were correct before giving his siblings each of their meals.

“And what do we say?” Dick looked at his brothers before turning to the nice young lady.

“Thank you!!!!” Said in unison by the other brothers.

“Tha! Tha!” You said as you started to eat your nuggets. One of the people in the back recorded this moment with adoration in her eyes. “Aww this is so cute!!!”

Dick drives off with you guys eating, Damian looks into his bag, smiling happily that maybe he would get a Batman toy in his meal. As Tim finished his meal quickly and started to drink his chocolate milk, he sees Damian’s face dropped at seeing a joker figurine.

“MOTHERFUCK—”

“Language!”

[cosmicseafoam]

Pigeon?

Pigeons!

[guy60660]

Lars Udsen | Bark Europa

[muiitoloko]

A Scoundrel’s Devotion

Summary: George has always taken what he wanted, but when his wife gives him her love freely, he finds himself at a loss—because for the first time, he wants to be worthy of it.

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Dirty language.

Author's Notes: I think I made the sheriff very comical, and I don't know if that's good or bad.

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

You stepped through the door, closing it behind you with a soft click. The journey back from the market had been uneventful, save for the strange whispers that reached your ears the moment you passed through the castle gates. Servants murmured in hushed tones, their faces alight with barely concealed amusement and concern. The words "Sheriff... attacked Sir Guy... with a spoon?" floated through the corridors, leaving you to wonder just what kind of chaos your husband had caused in your absence.

And now, as you stood in your shared chambers, you found the source of the commotion sprawled across the bed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

George lay on his back, his long black hair spilling over the pillow, his tunic half undone as though he had barely made the effort to dress properly. His heavy black cloak lay discarded on the floor, a clear sign of his utter disregard for tidiness. One arm was thrown over his forehead in mock exhaustion, the other resting lazily on his stomach.

You exhaled sharply, bending down to retrieve the cloak, folding it with deliberate care. "So," you began, your voice laced with exasperation. "Care to explain why the entire castle is talking about you attempting to murder Sir Guy?"

George barely cracked an eye open, his lips twitching into a smug smirk. "Because he deserved it," he muttered, his voice thick with self-satisfaction. "Filthy bastard is lucky I didn’t gut him where he stood."

You placed the folded cloak on the chair by the hearth, your patience thinning. "George," you pressed, arms crossing over your chest, "what did he do this time?"

At that, George rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His hazel eyes darkened with fury, his black beard framing a scowl that promised impending doom. "He dared to insult you," he hissed, as though the very words burned his tongue. "He called you ugly. Ugly. As if I would allow such blasphemy to go unpunished."

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but before you could respond, he sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His fists clenched against the mattress as he glared at the floor, nostrils flaring. "I will kill him," he growled. "I will make him bleed. He will beg for death before I’m through with him!"

You sighed, tilting your head in exhausted disbelief. "Oh, will you?"

George snapped his gaze up to meet yours, his anger momentarily pausing at the unimpressed expression on your face.

"George, are you planning to kill yourself, too?" you asked, voice deceptively light.

He blinked, thrown off. "What?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You heard me. If you’re going to kill Sir Guy for calling me ugly, will you also punish yourself for every cruel word you’ve ever thrown my way?" You took a step closer, eyes narrowing. "Shall I bring a blade, so you can start flaying yourself?"

George’s mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed. He genuinely seemed bewildered by your logic.

"But—that’s—" He shook his head, his long black hair falling into his face. "I thought you had forgiven me!"

"I have," you said simply, shrugging. "Just as I forgave Sir Guy."

George’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with frustration. "It’s not the same!" he barked. "I— I am sorry! I have changed! I do everything for you now! You are the only woman I take to my bed, the only woman I desire!" He surged to his feet, closing the distance between you in three swift strides, his voice dropping into a deep, desperate growl.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the entire kingdom, my wife, my woman." His large hands gripped your waist, his touch burning through the layers of fabric. "I have given you freedoms that no other woman has, let you walk amongst the people like a queen—"

"But Sir Guy is not sorry," you countered, your hands pressing against his chest in defiance. "And that’s the real issue here, isn’t it? It’s not about my honor. It’s about yours."

George’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening.

"You can’t stand the fact that another man dared to insult what belongs to you," you whispered, challenging him.

His nostrils flared as his grip on you tightened possessively. "Damn right, I can’t." His voice dropped into that dangerous, wicked baritone, the one that always sent shivers racing down your spine. "I can’t stand the thought of anyone looking at you with anything less than worship."

"Then perhaps you should have started with yourself," you shot back, refusing to yield.

George’s breath hitched, his entire frame tensing. For the first time in a long time, you saw it—the flicker of guilt in his hazel eyes.

George stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his hazel eyes burning with a mixture of frustration, regret, and something deeper—something he couldn’t name. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just been in battle.

"I have changed for you," he said again, but his voice was weak this time, almost pleading. "But you… you don’t see it."

He turned on his heel, his long black hair whipping over his shoulder as he stormed toward the door.

"George," you called, a slight waver in your voice.

But he didn’t stop.

You took a step forward, as if to follow, but then hesitated. Perhaps it was the weight of the argument, the exhaustion of years of tension, or maybe you just knew that this time, he needed to be alone.

So you let him go.

George stormed down the twisting stone staircases of Nottingham Castle, his boots slamming against the cold floor with each step. His anger, his humiliation, his wretched love for you burned inside him like a fever. He kicked a passing rat, sending the creature squeaking down the hall. A particularly fat frog hopped across his path—he kicked that too, grumbling as it plopped into a puddle.

"Bloody rodents. Bloody frogs. Bloody wife."

At last, he reached the dungeon’s lower depths, where the air was thick with the stench of damp stone, rotting straw, and whatever hellish concoction Mortianna was brewing in her ever-bubbling cauldron.

The old witch stood over the cauldron, her long white hair hanging in tangled strands around her wrinkled face. One eye—milky and blind—stared into nothingness, while the other, sharp and brown, flicked toward George as he entered.

She did not greet him. She rarely did. Instead, she continued stirring whatever foul potion she was brewing, muttering in some forgotten tongue.

George sighed dramatically and threw himself into a dark corner of the room, his back against the damp stone wall. He pulled at the fabric of his tunic absentmindedly, a habit he had never quite outgrown, something he had done as a boy when sulking.

Mortianna, without turning around, finally spoke.

"Something troubles you, my lord?"

George scoffed, resting his head against the cold stone. "Only everything."

She nodded sagely, adding a pinch of something suspiciously wriggling into the bubbling cauldron. "A woman, then."

George groaned. "How do you always know?"

Mortianna let out a raspy chuckle, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. "Because, dear boy, lately you only come here when it’s about her."

George growled under his breath. "I love her, Mortianna. I love her like a madman. And yet… she sees me as the villain! As if I have not changed!"

Mortianna finally turned to face him fully, the dim candlelight casting grotesque shadows across her wrinkled features. She studied him for a moment before clicking her tongue.

"You are too soft," she muttered, shaking her head. "You let a woman—a woman with a scar, no less—hold such power over you? Ridiculous. Get rid of her. Take another wife. A younger one. A prettier one."

George shot to his feet, his fury immediate. "No!"

Mortianna barely flinched, only raising one thin eyebrow.

"I don’t want another," George snapped, pacing in a circle, his hands gesturing wildly. "I want her! It is her I love!"

Mortianna let out a long, heavy sigh, as if dealing with a particularly dense child.

George stopped pacing, raking his fingers through his long black hair. His chest ached. His hands trembled. And then—humiliatingly—his eyes burned.

"Oh, for the love of—"

He barely had time to compose himself before tears began rolling down his face.

Mortianna took a step back, crossing her arms. "Oh, not this again."

But George was already full of self-pity, collapsing onto the floor in a graceless heap, dragging the fabric of his tunic over his face.

"I’ve tried everything," he wailed, his voice muffled. "I changed for her. I stopped sleeping with prostitutes. I eat meals with utensils now. I even bathe regularly, Mortianna! BATHE! Do you know how much work that is?!"

Mortianna, completely unimpressed, rolled her one working eye.

"And yet," George continued, sniffing loudly, "nothing is ever enough!"

He let out a shuddering breath, pulling his knees up to his chest like a great sulking beast. "She loathes me," he muttered. "She says she forgives me, but she still looks at me as if I am the man I was before. She still thinks I—Oh Gods, Mortianna, what do I do?"

Mortianna sighed again, rubbing her temples. "First, you stop this pathetic display."

But George didn’t hear her. His sobs only grew louder. His nose was running now, his breathing uneven and sniffly.

Mortianna watched him for a long moment, clearly disgusted. Finally, she shuffled forward, reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder, as one might do when attempting to console a particularly oversized toddler.

"There, there," she said dryly. "Become a man."

George ignored her, still sniffling. Then, in a motion so quick she barely had time to react—he reached for the edge of her tattered dress.

Mortianna’s milky eye twitched.

"George," she warned.

But it was too late.

George, the terrifying, ruthless Sheriff of Nottingham, the scourge of England, the man who once threatened to carve out a man’s heart with a spoon, promptly buried his face in her skirts and blew his nose.

"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—!"

Mortianna yanked her dress away from him with a look of sheer horror, staring down at the wet and now slightly green patch of fabric.

George, meanwhile, sat back on his heels, looking considerably less miserable as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

"There we go," he muttered, sniffling. "That’s a bit better."

Mortianna gaped at him. "You… you absolute filthy—!"

George ignored her, already standing up, stretching his arms above his head. "I suppose I should go," he mused, sighing dramatically. "I have an apology to make. Again."

Mortianna, still seething, glared at him. "You are a grown man."

George grinned, grabbing a rag from the table and wiping his nose one last time before tossing it directly into the cauldron.

The liquid inside immediately turned an alarming shade of green.

Mortianna let out an inhuman shriek.

George, cackling like a devil, sprinted for the door, dodging a wooden spoon Mortianna hurled at his head.

"GEORGE, YOU FOUL, DISGUSTING, UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BASTARD—!"

He was already halfway up the stairs, laughing breathlessly.

Yes, he had an apology to make.

But first—he had to find a clean tunic.

He had snot on this one.

Dinner was always a private affair now.

You sat at the grand dining table, waiting patiently as the castle’s many torches flickered, casting shadows against the towering stone walls. The air smelled of roasted lamb, freshly baked bread, and the faintest trace of something spicy—cloves, perhaps. The table was set meticulously, goblets of deep red wine reflecting the candlelight, platters brimming with decadent foods.

And yet, your appetite was tempered by anticipation.

Because George was late.

Not that this was unusual. Your husband, for all his newfound devotion, had a flair for the dramatic, a need to make an entrance even in his own home.

And when he finally appeared, you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

George strode in like a monarch surveying his court, his long black hair still damp from his bath, curling slightly at the ends. He had donned yet another of his absurdly extravagant robes—this one an even deeper shade of black, lined with velvet and adorned with golden embroidery so intricate it looked as though it had been stolen from the king’s own wardrobe. The attached cape, more theatrical than ever, billowed behind him as he walked, catching the air like a storm rolling through the hall.

You sighed.

“Another robe, George?”

He smirked, flourishing the cape dramatically as he approached. “You wound me, my love. A man of my stature cannot simply wear the same thing twice. What would the people think?”

“They’d think their taxes could be better spent,” you muttered dryly, motioning for the servants to bring dinner as soon as George sat down.

He did so with a flourish, settling into his seat with all the grace of a lounging predator. The moment the food was laid before you, George dismissed the servants with a flick of his wrist, as he always did now. Private dinners had become your routine—a tradition he had instilled with unwavering insistence.

The moment the last servant disappeared, you reached up, removing your veil and setting it aside. The cool air brushed against your skin, but before you could begin eating, George reached out, catching your hand.

His fingers, rough yet warm, curled around yours.

You paused, looking up at him. His hazel eyes—so often filled with mischief, cruelty, or amusement—were now softer.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “For today. For yesterday. For… before.” He swallowed. “I know I can’t undo the past, but I need you to know—I’m trying to be better.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You’ve changed with me, George. But you’re still mean to others.”

His lips twitched, as if resisting the urge to smirk. “It’s in my nature, love.”

“Then change.”

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “And how would you like me to do that, exactly?”

You considered your words carefully, then took a breath. “I saw a starving mother today. She held a baby in her arms, wrapped in rags. They had nothing, George. No food. No shelter.”

His jaw tightened. He released your hand with a sigh, reclining further into his chair as if bracing for an argument.

You ignored the gesture, pushing forward. “We need to build a shelter for these people. A place where they can have a roof over their heads, warm food in their stomachs—”

George abruptly reached for his knife, cutting into the roasted lamb before him.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t ignore me.”

“I’m not ignoring you, sweetheart,” he said, voice infuriatingly smooth as he took a bite. “I’m simply feeding myself before I’m forced into another one of your little projects.”

You folded your arms. “What would you do if you were in her place?”

He chewed slowly, his eyes flicking to yours. “If I were a starving mother?”

“If you had no home. No food. No help.”

George snorted, setting his knife down. “That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Is it?” You leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “You claim to have changed, George. But if it were me—if I were that woman—what would you do?”

He scoffed, but there was an edge to it. “First of all, none of my children would ever be on the streets.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because they would have me,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “No child of mine would ever go hungry. No wife of mine would ever live in rags.”

You raised a brow. “But not everyone has a Sheriff of Nottingham to protect them, George.”

He exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, tilting your head. “You know I’m right.”

George groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “What exactly do you want from me, woman?”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “I want you to prove you’ve changed. Build the shelter. Feed the hungry. Show your people that you can do more than steal from them.”

George looked at you, his hazel eyes searching yours for a long moment. And then—

He smirked.

A slow, wicked thing.

“You just love making me suffer, don’t you?” His voice dropped into that familiar, velvety growl. “Tell me, my sweet wife—does it arouse you? The thought of bending me to your will?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Does it matter?”

His grin widened. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

George sighed, shaking his head dramatically. “I suppose I must. You leave me with no choice.”

You smirked. “You could resist me, you know.”

He laughed darkly, eyes gleaming. “Darling, resisting you is a battle I never wish to win.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, pulling you forward just enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“But you will owe me for this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And I intend to collect.”

You swallowed. “Is that so?”

His teeth grazed your earlobe. “Oh, yes.”

You exhaled sharply, your body betraying you, pressing closer. But before you could say anything, George leaned back, resuming his meal with an infuriating smirk.

You glared at him. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “And yet, you adore me.”

You huffed, shaking your head. But you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that played at your lips.

Because you had won.

And George, for all his theatrics, for all his cruelty and dramatics, couldn’t resist you.

Two months had passed since that dinner, and George had followed through on his word—grudgingly, dramatically, and with frequent complaints about how much he was suffering for your sake.

The shelter was well underway.

True to his promise, he had bought a plot of land on the outskirts of Nottinghamshire, one that had once been an abandoned, rat-infested ruin, now slowly transforming into something worthy of its purpose. He had hired the best architect in the region—who had promptly quit after George threw a spoon at him for "suggesting that a window should be slightly to the left"—and replaced him with another who had been sufficiently terrified into compliance.

George, of course, had taken full credit for the progress, puffing out his chest whenever the townspeople murmured in admiration.

"And who, might I ask," he had declared just the other week, standing atop a wooden platform in the middle of the construction site, "is the man responsible for this act of sheer generosity?"

The townspeople, who had learned by now that answering incorrectly led to immediate taxation, had chorused: "YOU, SHERIFF!"

He had smirked, preening like a cat in the sun. "That's right."

You, standing off to the side with your arms crossed, had merely raised an eyebrow. "Really, George?"

He had turned to you, grinning. "Oh, my love, I adore how suspicious you are of my virtue. It's almost endearing."

You had rolled your eyes but said nothing. Because, despite the dramatics, despite the insufferable preening and self-congratulatory nonsense—George had done this. He had spent hours overseeing every detail, ensuring that no corrupt official could siphon funds, that the workers were fed and paid fairly, that the stone used was sturdy enough to last for generations.

And now, as you sat beside him in the carriage on your way to inspect the site again, you found yourself watching him with something dangerously close to admiration.

He was leaning back lazily, his long black hair unbound and wild from the wind, his cloak draped over his broad shoulders. His black beard was neatly trimmed, though his hooked nose and sharp cheekbones still gave him the air of a villain, the kind of man who would sell someone’s soul for a particularly well-aged bottle of wine.

He caught you staring.

"What?" he smirked, his hazel eyes glinting with amusement. "Falling for me all over again, sweetheart?"

You scoffed. "Hardly."

"Liar," he purred, shifting closer, his knee pressing against yours. "You've been watching me like a lovesick maid since we left the castle."

You huffed, turning your gaze out the window. "You're delusional."

George chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. "And yet," he murmured, reaching over to trace a slow, teasing finger along the bare skin of your wrist, "you're trembling, my love."

You stiffened.

He smirked, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration, skimming along the inside of your palm, down to the delicate pulse at the base of your wrist. "Shall I remind you, wife, of just how thoroughly you belong to me?"

Your breath hitched.

George leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Say the word, and I'll have this carriage turned around. We won't leave that bed until you're screaming my name."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

Damn him.

With great effort, you composed yourself, pulling your hand away as you fixed him with a withering glare. "I think the people of Nottingham would be very disappointed if their oh-so-generous Sheriff abandoned his precious project for such… selfish desires."

George exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he studied you. Then, slowly—deliberately—he dragged his gaze down your body, taking in the way your breathing had quickened, the way your fingers trembled slightly where they rested in your lap.

"You can lie to yourself, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dark with promise. "But you can't lie to me."

You swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The people of Nottinghamshire greeted you both with warmth as your carriage rolled through the bustling streets. You waved at the crowd with a soft smile, your veil fluttering gently in the breeze. George watched you out of the corner of his eye, admiring the way you carried yourself—graceful, composed, regal in your own quiet way.

He thought you looked particularly beautiful today.

A part of him wished you would drop the veil, let him see you fully, without that cursed fabric acting as a barrier. But he said nothing. He had learned by now that some wounds took longer to heal, that patience was a virtue he was still mastering.

So instead, he simply enjoyed the comfortable silence between you, watching as your gaze remained fixed on the people outside, oblivious to his staring.

Then, you turned to him with a sudden thought. “After we inspect the site, can we stop by the market? I’d like to buy Emily a toy.”

George blinked, briefly thrown off by the shift in topic. Then, his lips twitched into a smirk. “Already spoiling the child, are we?”

You rolled your eyes, though there was a small smile playing at your lips. “She reminds me of… well, me. When I was little.”

George tilted his head, studying you. He knew how much you doted on the maid’s daughter, how you slipped her sweets when no one was looking, how you always remembered to bring her something whenever you went to the market.

He also knew—deep down—that you longed for a child of your own.

The thought lingered in his mind, a realization settling within him like a slow-burning fire. Before, the idea of children had always been tied to duty. That was why, in the beginning—when he despised you, when he saw you as nothing more than a political pawn—he had still taken you to bed. It had been about securing an heir, about ensuring his legacy.

But now?

Now, the thought of having a child was no longer about duty.

Now, when he imagined it, he saw you—sitting by the fire, knitting tiny garments with that same focused determination you had when crafting Emily’s doll. He imagined a little girl with your eyes, or a boy with your quiet strength, sitting on his knee as he read them stories (dramatically, of course). He imagined you—soft and glowing, a child resting against you, loved and wanted.

The idea no longer felt like an obligation.

It felt like something he wanted.

George cleared his throat, forcing the thought aside before it could unsettle him further. “Fine,” he relented, feigning exasperation. “We’ll buy the brat a toy.”

You beamed at him, and God help him, he felt something in his chest tighten.

Before he could dwell on it, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the construction site.

George stepped out first, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder as he extended a hand to help you down. You took it without hesitation, your fingers curling around his. He smirked slightly at the sight—he liked the way your smaller hand fit into his, liked that you reached for him without hesitation now.

The architect was already waiting for you both, an older man with thinning hair and a permanently nervous disposition (likely due to the incident with the first architect and the spoon).

“My lord, my lady,” the architect greeted with a low bow. “We’ve made considerable progress since your last visit.”

George nodded, clasping his hands behind his back in an appropriately sheriff-like manner. “Well, I should hope so. If I’m going to be a saint of the people, I expect results.”

You shot him a look.

The architect coughed nervously before gesturing toward the half-constructed building. “As you can see, the foundation is complete. This will be the main hall where meals will be served. We have planned separate quarters for families on this side, and individual rooms for those in need of temporary shelter over here.”

George watched as you inspected the design, nodding thoughtfully as you took everything in. He could see the way you envisioned it already—how your mind was putting everything together, piece by piece.

“I’d like to have a small garden here,” you said after a moment, pointing to an open patch of land beside the structure. “Somewhere people can grow herbs, vegetables. A way for them to sustain themselves, even in small ways.”

George arched a brow, glancing at the architect. “Make it happen.”

The man nodded quickly, scribbling notes on his parchment.

As the architect continued his explanation, George found himself less interested in the details of where the chimney should go and more fascinated by you—by the way you bit your lip in thought, the way you gestured as you spoke, the way you had so seamlessly stepped into this role of leadership.

He still remembered the first time he saw you—veiled, silent, hesitant. The woman before him now? She was someone entirely different.

And he liked it.

“Once the shelter is completed,” George mused aloud, breaking the conversation, “I’ll need you to start drawing up new plans.”

The architect blinked in confusion. “For what, my lord?”

George waved a hand toward the future shelter. “This is just the beginning. We’ll need a school next.”

Silence fell over the group.

You turned to him sharply, eyes widening. “A school?”

George smirked, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell.

“Think about it, love,” he said, tilting his head. “What good is a full stomach if one’s mind remains empty? We can’t have a bunch of uneducated brats running about Nottinghamshire. Might as well give them some schooling so they don’t all grow up to be idiots.”

The architect looked utterly gobsmacked.

You, however, were watching him with something else entirely in your gaze.

“George,” you said, your voice softer this time. “You would really do that?”

George shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Well, if I’m going to be a reformed man—” he interrupted himself.

The moment your veil fell away, caught in the breeze as it drifted to the ground, George's world seemed to slow.

You had never done this before. Never removed it so openly, so deliberately, in front of others. It had always been a shield, a fortress between you and the world. Between you and him.

And now, you had cast it aside.

Before he could fully process the significance of it, you grabbed him by the collar of his absurdly expensive, dramatically embroidered robe and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It wasn’t soft or demure.

It was searing.

The kind of kiss that made him feel as if the entire world had been swept out from under his feet.

George, despite his usual flair for theatrics, was caught completely off guard.

There was no hiding behind fabric, no carefully orchestrated distance. There was only you, your lips pressing against his, your hands clutching at the front of his tunic as if he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And then—finally—his instincts caught up.

He kissed you back, with every ounce of passion he had been bottling up for months. His hands grasped at your waist, fingers tightening as he pulled you flush against him, deepening the kiss with a desperation he hadn’t even realized he possessed.

The architect, caught in the unfortunate position of being a witness to this spectacle, quickly turned away, rubbing at his temples as if contemplating the meaning of his existence.

George couldn’t care less.

You were kissing him, here, in front of everyone, without shame, without hesitation. And then—just as he thought he had finally regained control of the situation—you pulled away, just enough to whisper something against his lips that shattered the very foundation of his world.

“I love you.”

George froze.

His mind went utterly blank.

His hands, still gripping your waist, trembled.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you—really look at you. As if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

You had never said those words before.

Not once.

Not in the entire miserable history of your marriage.

But you were saying them now, your eyes burning with something raw and genuine, your lips parted as if waiting for him to respond.

And George—who had always been a master of words, a man of dramatic declarations and cutting wit—found himself utterly, incomprehensibly speechless.

“I—” He choked on the word, swallowed, tried again. “You—”

For the first time in his life, George, Sheriff of Nottingham, feared that he might actually faint.

Because, surely, this was a hallucination. A fever dream brought on by too much wine and not enough sleep. You could not have just said that. You could not have just—

“George,” you whispered, smiling softly. “Did you hear me?”

His heart was pounding so violently he was half-convinced it might burst from his chest.

“I… I heard you,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse, breathless.

You arched an eyebrow, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his tunic. “And?”

George, completely beside himself, did the only thing he could think to do.

He grabbed your face—scar and all—and kissed you so fiercely that your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

The architect made a noise of protest, but George paid him no mind.

He kissed you until he was certain that you could taste every ounce of his devotion, his desperation, his absolute, undying love for you.

And then, pulling away just enough to press his forehead against yours, he exhaled shakily, his voice raw with emotion.

“You ridiculous, impossible woman,” he murmured, his hands tightening around you as if terrified you might disappear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done to me?”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers over his jaw. “I imagine I’ve given you an aneurysm.”

“Correct,” he growled, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I have spent months—months—waiting for you to say something, anything about your feelings for me, and then you just throw it at me like—like—” He gestured wildly, voice rising in dramatic outrage. “Like a casual remark?!”

You smiled, amused by his theatrics. “Would you have preferred I declared it from the castle walls?”

“YES!” he barked, then paused, blinking. “Wait. No. Actually, yes. That would have been preferable.” He grinned suddenly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “In fact, I demand it. Right now. You will climb to the highest tower and—”

You rolled your eyes, cutting him off with another kiss.

It worked immediately.

George, ever the insufferable romantic, melted like butter, his earlier indignation vanishing as he deepened the kiss with renewed fervor.

The architect, long-suffering and utterly exasperated, cleared his throat loudly.

“Perhaps, my lord, you might save your affections for a more private setting?” he suggested, pinching the bridge of his nose.

George, looking thoroughly unrepentant, smirked. “Ah, but you see, my dear architect—” He pulled you against him once more, nipping teasingly at your lower lip before flashing a smug grin. “—this is what happens when you fall madly, hopelessly in love with your wife.”

You flushed at his words, but George only beamed, practically preening in satisfaction.

The architect sighed deeply, clearly questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

“Shall we continue discussing the shelter, or would you prefer I leave you two to, ah, celebrate your newfound affections?”

George, ever the dramatic menace, actually seemed to consider it.

You, however, nudged him hard in the ribs. “Behave.”

He pouted but relented, turning back to the architect with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

And so the discussion resumed.

But George, for all his newfound philanthropy, was hopelessly distracted.

Because you had said it.

You had finally said it.

And now, there was absolutely nothing stopping him from making it his life’s mission to ensure that you never regretted it.

The scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and fragrant herbs mingled with the crisp autumn air as you and George strolled leisurely through Nottingham’s bustling market. The cobblestone streets were alive with activity—merchants haggled, children weaved between stalls, and the chatter of townsfolk filled the air.

For once, George was in an exceptional mood. Not only had he basked in your public declaration of love earlier, but he had also discovered something truly unexpected—being nice was astonishingly profitable.

"Another gift?" George smirked as the baker’s wife pressed a bundle of warm gingerbread into your hands. “Darling, at this rate, we won’t have to buy supplies for weeks.”

You cast him a knowing look. “You do realize this is because the people actually like us now?”

George scoffed. “No, they like you. I am simply basking in the benefits of your saintly presence.”

You shook your head in amusement, placing the bundle of gingerbread on top of the already considerable pile of gifts George had been forced to carry. Fresh apples, a fine wool scarf, a bundle of herbs—items freely given with kind smiles and murmurs of gratitude.

George, for all his complaints, wasn’t truly displeased. In fact, he was rather enjoying this new role of “beloved” Sheriff. The perks were undeniable—free food, admiration, and the absolute best part: you.

His attention briefly drifted as you continued browsing, oblivious to the young man making his way towards you, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his hands. George immediately narrowed his hazel eyes, his grip tightening on the gifts he held.

The man’s intent was obvious—to present you with the flowers. The nerve of him.

As the man drew closer, George bared his teeth in a slow, menacing snarl.

The poor fool hesitated.

George’s scowl deepened.

The man’s resolve wavered.

Then, wisely, the young man turned on his heel and fled, the bouquet still in his grip.

George smirked in satisfaction before turning back to you, still blissfully unaware as you examined the finely crafted dolls on display at a nearby stall.

A woman approached, handing you a small bundle of lavender. “For you, my lady,” she said with a smile.

George watched as you thanked her, slipping the lavender into the crook of your arm. His smirk widened. Yes, this was the life. If he had known that being benevolent would be so profitable, he might have started sooner.

Just as he was reveling in his newfound “philanthropy,” George felt an insistent tug at his cloak.

He glanced over his shoulder, then down.

A small girl, no older than six, stood at his feet, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his cloak as she gazed up at him with large, solemn eyes.

George blinked, his expression immediately turning into one of mild horror. What in the blazes did she want?

He tried to shake his cloak free, but the child remained steadfast, unperturbed by his obvious distaste.

“What,” he muttered, peering down at her as if she were an inconvenience. “Do you want?”

Without a word, the little girl lifted her small hand, revealing a single daisy.

George frowned.

A flower? For him?

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t poisoned, is it?”

The girl just blinked up at him, uncomprehending.

George sighed, rubbing his temple. “Listen, child, I don’t know what you expect me to—” Before he could finish, you turned and noticed the interaction.

Your lips curled into a warm smile as you knelt beside the little girl. “What a lovely flower,” you murmured, reaching out to accept it. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

The child shook her head and pointed at George.

George, utterly baffled, stared between the two of you. “What? Why me?”

You giggled, brushing your fingers over the petals before tucking the flower into George’s lapel. “Because she wanted to give it to you.”

George exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. His fingers briefly touched the daisy, as if assessing its worth, before quickly withdrawing as though burned.

As he attempted to regain his composure, you took the gingerbread bundle from the pile of gifts he was carrying and handed it to the girl. “Here,” you said softly. “For you.”

The little girl’s eyes widened with delight as she took the gingerbread, clutching it to her chest before turning and dashing off.

George watched, his gaze lingering on the gingerbread as it disappeared into the crowd. He sighed dramatically. “I was going to eat that.”

You patted his arm sympathetically. “Yes, but she needed it more.”

George grumbled under his breath, adjusting his now slightly lighter load of gifts. “If people keep giving you things and you keep giving them away, we’ll be right back where we started.”

You only laughed, slipping your arm through his. “Then you’ll just have to carry more.” George sighed heavily but made no move to untangle himself from you.

As the two of you resumed your stroll through the market, George caught sight of the flower still tucked into his lapel. He huffed, plucking it free.

Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, he tucked it behind your ear.

Your eyes widened slightly, but before you could say anything, George smirked and pressed a swift kiss to your cheek. “Let’s go, love,” he murmured. “Before more peasants decide they adore us.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, but as you walked on, you reached up to gently touch the flower, a small smile lingering on your lips.

And George—grumpy, dramatic, ruthless George—allowed himself to be led, carrying your gifts, basking in your warmth, and wondering, perhaps being a better man wasn’t so terrible after all.

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

Something fluffy and romantic with Cliff? Cookies if he survives the bus crash and the driver dies instead.

A/n: Cookies, now >:(

Warnings: Hospital setting with hospital stuff, Cliff is in the ICU

You heard all about it, the ice, the crash, most importantly your boyfriend Cliff. He'd fallen from the window of the bus and was crushed under it.

The call nearly broke you, James was panicked on not too clear as he spoke so that didn't help. There was an accident, Cliff had gotten crushed under the bus and was currently in the hospital, that's the most you could make of it.

It was too risky for him to get flown back home so the guys paid for you to get flown to Sweden. You were panicking the whole way but you had to see him, you had to make sure he was ok and you were going to be with him if he died, as much as you didn't want to think about it you needed him to know you were there with him.

You were restless on the flights and the ferry, the taxi three hour long taxi ride to the hospital. You had just one bag that carried all your things, that's all you brought.

You ran straight to the nurses station, breathing already heavy even though it wasn't that far far of a run. You hadn't even noticed the tears welling in your eyes.

"I-I'm looking for Cliff Burton?" You asked, desperation in your voice.

The nurse behind the counter sighed. "And who are you in relation to the patient?" She asked, sounding far more tired and annoyed than you could handle as tears started streaming down your face.

"I-I'm his-his partner? I-I came all the way here from L.A., please, just-just let me see him, I need to see him!" You pleaded, knees shaking under you. You hid your face in your hands, wanting to curl up back home in bed in Cliff's arms. You wanted it all to just go away.

A hand landed on your shoulder and you spun around to find Lars standing behind you. "He's fine, just in the ICU."

"That's not fucking fine, Lars." You bit, he rolled his eyes and started leading you down the hall to an elevator. Lars was happy to be your human punching bag, he understood your pain so he didn't mind if it came with a few harsh words. He was just happy you were here and he'd let you cry on his shoulder.

The bright lights that surrounded you hurt your head, the white walls and floor and ceiling mixed together as Lars led you down the maze of halls. You got to a part in the hall where women swarmed, all gathered with gifts and when they noticed Lars they ran to him, asking for information he didn't have or couldn't give out.

You struggled to get through the crowd, eventually getting pushed further back away from what was very evidently Cliff's room. You stood there, watching as these girls who didn't know your boyfriend tried desperately to love him in a way they couldn't.

Tears continued to fall from your eyes and you did your best to keep your sobs quiet.

The door to the room opened and you saw James push his way through the crowd, barking and nipping at the women to get lost as he made his way over to you, strong arms wrapping you up in a warm hug.

"It's ok, Cliff's fine." He assured, keeping his voice low in your ear. He held you tight, letting the compression comfort you. "Well, he's not fine, but... he's alive, doctors have high hopes."

You looked up at him and he brought a hand up to wipe away your tears. "Can I- can I see him?" You asked through sniffles and choked out sounds. James nodded and pulled you with him to the door, using his bigger body to get through the crowd of girls who he couldn't but glare at. Such a serious situation and they were treating it like a meet-and-greet.

You got through the doors and froze when you saw Cliff. The room was dazzled with flowers, on his bed tray he had some empty pudding cups along with a heart box of chocolates.

Cliff had tubes sticking out of him every which way, you tried not to look too closely but it was hard. You moved closer to him and he pulled you onto the bed the second you were within arm reach.

Cliff held you tightly to his chest, hissing at the pain it caused with his stitches and wires, it didn't matter, you were finally with him. "I missed you so much." He mumbled, pressing kisses all over you, wherever he could reach.

Your crying only got worse, you knew he was in pain, you knew you getting on the bed was painful, but you wanted to be selfish for a minute and Cliff didn't mind.

"I-I-I thought you-you were dead, Cliff!" You cried, body shaking with sobs. Cliff rubbed your back soothingly and nodded.

"I know you did, but I'm not! Isn't that great?" He asked, kissing the top of your head as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. "I'm alive, and when I'm better we're going back home and we're gonna get that perfect house, you hear me?" You gave a weak nod. "Good, now lighten up, I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."

"You kinda can't, there's a tube up your dick, Cliff." James muttered, looking over his friend with his arms crossed over his chest. He was tired, you could see it in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes at the blond and focused back on Cliff. "You don't get to scare me like that again." You said. "Better buses from now on, and you don't sleep by windows.

Cliff chuckled but nodded nonetheless. "Whatever you say, princess." He cooed, letting you relax against him, although he did have to adjust you so it wouldn't hurt him or pull out any of the stitches.

[serickswrites]

Eyes Like Fire X

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Warnings: destruction, fire, physical violence, mayhem, blood, unconsciousness

Hero was in over their head. They were in over their head and they knew it. But it didn't matter. They had to stall Supervillain. They had to stall Supervillain long enough for Organization to rally enough heroes to actually launch a true defense. They were the sacrificial lamb. But they were willing to do that if it meant the rest of the heroes would defeat Supervillain.

"You are wasting your time, little human," Supervillain drawled as they stood in the center of the flames. Supervillain had been in the middle of destroying a city block when Hero had used the fire to block Supervillain's path forward. It seemed Supervillain was weak against fire.

If only Villain had been willing to help them. Hero couldn't blame Villain for disappearing, the hellhound fading from their vision as well. Still, Hero had wished they had the advantage of Villain's flames. And, they realized with a pang of sadness, they wished the demon had stayed. They had grown....fond of Villain. The thought should have scared them, but at this point what did it matter? They were going to die anyway, may as well be honest with themself. They had grown attached, and were probably well on their way to more than liking a demon. A demon. The thought nearly had them laughing. Which is why Villain's absence hurt them all the more.

"I can't let you hurt any civilians," Hero called from where they had been hiding, throwing their voice so it sounded like they were further away. They had to leave this hiding place soon. Supervillain had slowly been blasting away all the places Hero could hide.

Supervillain laughed, the sound high and unnatural, making the hair on the back of Hero's neck rise once more. "I can do whatever I like, human. You are powerless to stop me."

"I may not stop you. But my colleagues will." Hero braced to run to their next hiding spot. Just a bit longer. Just a bit longer.

"No one will stop me. I shall make this my new home and rule of what humans I allow to remain. Pity you won't be here to see it," Supervillain said as they took aim at the piece of rubble they knew Hero was hiding behind.

"Time to end this game, I grow tired of it," they said as they released the energy lurking beneath their skin.

***

Villain watched Hero trap Supervillain. While Supervillain was much more powerful than Hero, Hero was smarter. Villain couldn't help but be proud that the human who had trapped them would outsmart Supervillain.

Perhaps humanity did have a chance.

Hellhound whimpered beside Villain. Villain patted the hound's side. "It's ok, Supervillain doesn't know we're here. You're safe."

The hound barked, and took a step forward. Villain opened their mouth to soothe the anxious hellhound, but instead followed the hound's gaze, their mouth going dry. They watched as Supervillain sent an energy blast at Hero. Hero flew threw the air, blood flowing from their nose and mouth. They were horribly still as they landed in a heap.

No. Hero had to get up. They had to keep fighting. They couldn't be dead. Villain couldn't stand it if Hero were dead. They had to get up.

"Don't worry, puny human," Villain heard Supervillain said as Supervillain raised their hand to strike the final blow, "you won't be around to witness the subjugation of your race. I'll save you that indignity."

Villain couldn't let Supervillain do this. They couldn't let Supervillain kill Hero. They wouldn't. They took a steadying breath, gathering their energy and their courage so they could do what they had to do. What only they could do.

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[oros-ash3s]

📻 one for Dior and one for Atlas? 👀

|I 𝗖𝗼𝗶𝗻-𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗕𝗼𝘆 𝗯𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗱𝗲𝗻 𝗗𝗼𝗹𝗹𝘀

OKAY NOW TO PREFACE THIS YOU CAN TAKE THIS SONG IN TWO WAYS. The actual meaning of the song, as well as the in-story references that relates to Dior’s character. Moving on.

Dior has a difficulty connecting with people. Like many of the members of the Division, they’ve experienced an extreme amount of loss and death in their short lifetime. Due to this, they’ve experienced a lot of isolation and just loneliness that has prevented them from developing the proper skills to engage with others. They’re traumatized and shut off from the idea of making connections outside of the four walls of their bedroom.

This song to me relates to that. Unbeknownst to the current audience, Dior’s curse allows them the ability to control souls and imbue them into inanimate objects. They’re an inventor, so a lot of the time these objects tend to be wind-up dolls, which I think fits with the whole coin-operated part of the song. Their creations, in such, are their only “friends”.

This song also relates to Ryuji. He’s the first person to reach out to Dior and truly strike up a conversation with them. It’s confusing, because they aren’t used to such a random act of genuine kindness from a practical stranger. He’s patient and kind, and it forces them, for the first time in nearly a decade, to wonder if they were wrong about humanity — and the world.

Coin-operated boy

All the other ones that I destroy / Cannot hold a candle to my boy and I’ll

Never let him go and I’ll never be alone / And I’ll never be alone

Go

And I’ll never be alone

These lyrics fit their own personal struggles very well I think!!

|I 𝗜 𝗪𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗕𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗗𝗼𝗴 𝗯𝘆 𝗠𝗲𝗽𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼 𝗪𝗮𝗹𝘇

Atlas, by the time he’s 18, ends up viewing himself as a dog. Obviously, he doesn’t believe it in the literal sense of actually physically being a dog, but due to the conditioning at Eden, he views himself as sub-human. He’s been chained up, muzzled, branded, and controlled. The dog motifs littered throughout his character are actually very intentional!!

Throughout recovery he manages to shed this mentality in the little ways he can, but it never fully leaves his mind. When stressed, he has a tendency to growl, bite, or bare his teeth, having become so used to being treated like an animal, that at some point, he ended up acting like one, too. This is only multiplied after he gets into a relationship with Daphne, who never took him seriously. She takes advantage of his past and his bad habits, pushing him back into that mentality to gain leverage over him. It messes with his mind, and he feels extremely ashamed and embarrassed whenever she pokes at him about it, asking if he’ll bark for her.

So messed up I want you here / In my room I want you here

No we’re gonna be face-to-face

And I’ll lay right down in my favourite place

And now I wanna be your dog

These lyrics are simple but they fit him very well ^_^

Thank you for the ask!!!!!

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