#its just that rebellious magic

[dailycupofcreativitea]

Silly comic based off of that one Simpson's episode 😂🪁

(A little "what if Gohan tried to make super saiyan 2 feel natural like he did with super saiyan 1" except shenanigans ensue)

[gainercontent]

The Naughty List - Part 1

It was Christmas Eve, and 20-year-old Jason Price was in his usual rebellious mood. As the snow fell gently outside, blanketing the small suburban neighborhood in a layer of white, Jason lounged on his couch in a dark hoodie, earbuds securely in place, blasting music that was anything but festive. The rest of his family had gathered in the kitchen, baking cookies and humming carols, but Jason wasn’t having any of it. 

For years now, he'd grown cynical about Christmas. The magic he once believed in had been replaced with indifference and apathy. He hadn't cared about Santa Claus in ages, and to him, the holiday was just another marketing ploy to make people buy things they didn’t need. He never cared for the usual Christmas cheer—family gatherings, gift exchanges, the whole “being together” thing. In his mind, the whole season was just one big commercialized joke.

To make matters worse, Jason had learned that he was on Santa’s naughty list this year. Not that he cared; he’d long stopped worrying about whether or not he got presents. His rebellious nature had only grown over the years, and he wore it like a badge of honor. Sure, he’d gotten a few reminders from his parents, and even a half-hearted lecture about “the Christmas spirit,” but he had rolled his eyes and shrugged them off. If Santa didn’t like it, well, that was his problem.

The house was quiet, except for the sound of Christmas music drifting from the kitchen. Jason scrolled through his phone, avoiding the festivities and ignoring his family’s attempts to engage him. His mom had baked a fresh batch of gingerbread cookies, filling the house with the sweet, warm smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and molasses. But Jason wasn’t in the mood for any of it. He wasn’t interested in the cookies, the hot cocoa, or even the Christmas tree standing tall in the corner of the living room, its lights twinkling with innocent holiday joy. 

He tossed a glance toward the window. The world outside was still, save for the occasional flurry of snowflakes that danced in the light from the streetlamps. Everything felt like it was frozen in time, caught between the present and the past, and Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong in this world of traditions anymore.

Suddenly, a strange noise broke his focus.

**Thud.**

It wasn’t the sound of a car driving by, or even the wind against the windows. It was too heavy, too deliberate. Jason sat up, pulling out his earbuds and staring at the ceiling as the sound came again.

**Thud.**

A faint rustle, like something—or someone—was shifting on the roof.

Jason furrowed his brow, rubbing his eyes. What the hell was that? He’d heard noises on the roof before—possibly squirrels or the occasional raccoon—but this was different. The thuds were slow, steady. Almost rhythmic.

**Thud. Thud.**

He shot a glance at the clock. It was well past midnight. His parents had long gone to bed, and there was no one else in the house. It was just him and the sound of whatever was walking—or stomping—on the roof. 

Jason got to his feet and cautiously moved toward the window, pulling back the heavy curtains just enough to peer outside. The yard was still—no one was out there. The sky was dark and clouded, and the only light was from the moon reflecting off the snow. He listened again, straining his ears for any sign of movement, but the thudding had stopped.

Confused and a bit unnerved, Jason shook his head. "Stupid raccoons," he muttered under his breath. He was about to turn away when a faint, sweet scent reached his nose. 

The smell of freshly baked cookies.

It was the same warm, spicy smell of his mom’s gingerbread cookies. But it wasn’t coming from the kitchen. Jason’s eyes widened as he looked toward the staircase. He could smell it more strongly now, wafting down the hall.

“Mom?” he called, but his voice was hoarse from sleep, barely a whisper.

No answer. His parents were definitely asleep—he would have heard them if they were up. Still, Jason’s feet moved almost on their own, pulling him into the hallway, the smell growing stronger as he passed the kitchen and toward the living room. But the cookies... weren’t coming from the kitchen. They were coming from the fireplace.

His breath caught in his throat. The fireplace. 

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he was paying attention, it was almost as if the whole room seemed... different. The Christmas tree lights were flickering in a way that made him feel dizzy. A low hum seemed to fill the air, almost like a song playing beneath everything else.

Jason took a hesitant step toward the fireplace. The hearth was cold, empty—nothing unusual. The chimney was clear, but that strange scent—those gingerbread cookies—lingered in the air like an invitation.

He was about to turn away when, out of nowhere, there was a loud **CRASH** from the roof.

This time, it wasn’t a thud or a rustle. It was a full-on slam, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps—big, heavy boots thumping down onto the chimney.

Jason froze. This wasn’t a raccoon. Or a squirrel. 

Suddenly, the air in the living room grew thick with a strange energy, and the lights flickered once more before going completely out. For a moment, the house was plunged into darkness. Jason’s heart raced as he stood there, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Then, from the other side of the room, there was a noise—a deep, heavy breath, like someone exhaling after a long day of hard work.

Jason’s stomach dropped as he realized: something—or *someone*—was in his house.

He didn’t have time to react before the sound of boots against wood echoed down the stairs. A heavy, jolly laugh filled the space, reverberating in the room.

“Ho, ho, ho!” 

Jason’s mind went blank. He couldn’t believe his ears. Standing in the doorway, just beyond the shadows of the hallway, was a large figure dressed in red. A thick, snowy white beard covered his face, and his eyes twinkled in a way that made Jason feel as though he was staring at something from a dream.

There was no mistaking it. It was Santa Claus.

The old man looked at him with a knowing smile. “Well, well, well, Jason Price. You’re still awake?”

Jason could only stand there, his mouth hanging open. His head spun, trying to make sense of what was happening. “Santa...?” he managed to stammer.

Santa chuckled, adjusting the massive sack over his shoulder. “I see you’re on my naughty list this year, young man. But don’t worry, I’ve got something special for you.”

Before Jason could say another word, Santa reached into his sack and pulled out a plate of warm, freshly baked cookies. The same ones that filled the house with their intoxicating scent. He held them out to Jason, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and understanding.

"You’ve been a little too rebellious, haven’t you? Maybe it’s time to find some balance." 

Jason stood there, speechless. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t the Christmas he’d been expecting.

With a deep breath, Jason took the plate of cookies. As he did, he realized something—the world outside, the cold, snowy night, and the strange magic filling his house, felt like a new beginning. Maybe being on the naughty list wasn’t the end of it all. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be learned about Christmas after all.

Jason stood in the middle of the living room, still in disbelief at what was happening. Santa Claus, the jolly old man in red, had just handed him a plate of fresh gingerbread cookies, their spicy scent filling the room and tantalizing his senses. It didn’t seem real—none of it did. But there was Santa, smiling knowingly at him as if he’d been expecting Jason all along.

“Go on,” Santa said with a twinkle in his eye. “Try one. It’s part of the magic, you know.”

Jason hesitated. His stomach, still a little uneasy from all the holiday food he’d already eaten, growled at the prospect of another treat. But despite himself, the cookies looked too delicious to pass up. He picked up one of the small, perfectly shaped gingerbread men, still warm from the oven.

Santa leaned back slightly, his large belly shaking as he chuckled. “Ah, don’t worry, they’re not just cookies. They’ve got a little bit of magic in them. And trust me, they’ll change things for you.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, looking down at the cookie. The idea of magic seemed ludicrous—he wasn’t a little kid anymore, after all. But the cookie smelled so good, and for some reason, he couldn’t resist. He took a bite, letting the sweetness wash over his tongue. The spices, the warmth, the soft crumble of the cookie—it was like nothing he’d ever tasted before.

At first, there was just a sense of satisfaction. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he chewed, feeling the holiday warmth spread through him. But then, something strange happened.

A **tingling sensation** spread from his stomach outward, radiating through his limbs like a wave of warmth. Jason froze, feeling a strange tightness around his waist. His jeans, which were already snug after a day of indulgence, suddenly felt even tighter. His stomach rumbled—not from hunger, but from something else, something *different*.

He looked down in disbelief, his hand instinctively reaching for his midsection. 

Jason blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel it—his clothes were tighter, the waistband of his jeans digging into his belly, and his shirt was now stretching across his chest and stomach. He hadn’t imagined it. It was real. He’d just gained weight. Right there, in the span of a few seconds.

Santa, who had been watching him closely, broke into a warm grin.

“Magic cookies,” Santa explained, his voice as jolly as ever. “Each one makes you gain 10 pounds. I can see you’re starting to understand the magic now.”

Jason’s mouth went dry. “Wait... what?” He stepped back, his mind racing. “You mean... this is real? I just gained 10 pounds in like... a minute?”

Santa chuckled heartily, his belly shaking. “Indeed. Those cookies are no ordinary sweets, my boy. They come from the North Pole, crafted in the heart of the workshop, and they’re a part of my gift for those on the naughty list.”

Jason’s mind was spinning. "But why? Is this your way of punishing me?"

Santa waved his hand dismissively, his eyes gleaming. “No, no, it’s not about punishment. It’s about balance. You’ve been living with too much stubbornness, too much defiance. These cookies are a way to teach you a little lesson about... well, about how good things can come from unexpected places.”

Jason stared at him, still not fully comprehending what was happening. His belly was already feeling heavier, the pressure of the extra weight making him uncomfortably aware of his body. He could feel it in his limbs, in his posture—the slight shift in his center of gravity, the tightness of his clothes.

“So... every cookie I eat—what, I get fatter?” Jason asked, incredulous.

Santa gave him a knowing look. “Not just fatter, my boy. You gain weight in a way that mirrors the choices you make. Each bite reflects the way you approach life, and how much you’re willing to let go of your pride, your ego, and embrace something a little more... *sweet*.”

Jason looked at the plate in his hands. The other cookies were so tempting, so warm, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep going down this strange, magical rabbit hole. He’d already felt the effects of the first bite. His jeans were visibly tighter, the waistband straining against the added weight. He could feel his stomach protruding a little more, his face flushed as he glanced at Santa in confusion.

“Don’t worry,” Santa said softly, as if reading Jason’s mind. “You don’t have to eat them all at once. But you should know—you *will* feel the effects. If you keep eating, your body will change. But it’s your choice, Jason. You’re not forced to indulge in the magic if you don’t want to.”

Jason swallowed hard, looking down at the cookie in his hand, then back up at Santa. There was something undeniably *inviting* about it. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do in the moment. Maybe he could let go of his defiance, even if just for a while. Maybe he could try something new, something he’d never considered before.

“Just one more,” he muttered to himself, almost against his better judgment.

Santa gave him an approving nod. “Ah, good choice. A small step toward a new understanding. Go ahead.”

Jason, a mix of curiosity and temptation swirling in his chest, picked up another cookie. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He bit into it, feeling the warmth and the magic all over again.

Almost immediately, the tingling sensation returned, this time more intense. His stomach seemed to expand as if it were a balloon being inflated. His pants, which were already tight, seemed to fit even more snugly around his hips. His chest felt fuller, as though his body were adjusting to the new weight with an almost *unnatural* rapidity.

He wasn’t sure if it was the magic or his own choices catching up with him, but as the pressure in his belly increased, Jason could only stare at Santa with wide eyes. 

“Okay, that’s... that’s enough,” Jason said, trying to steady himself as his balance shifted. But even as he spoke, the strange sense of satisfaction grew stronger. He felt fuller, heavier, but oddly more *content* than he’d ever felt in his rebellious, defiant existence.

Jason looked down at himself. He didn’t know how much weight he’d gained this time, but the sensation was undeniable. He couldn’t ignore the tightness in his shirt or the weight of his stomach. It was clear that he was becoming a different version of himself with every bite, both physically and, in some strange way, emotionally.

“You’ve learned a lot tonight,” Santa said, his voice kind but firm. “But remember—there’s always room for change. Christmas can be magic, but only if you let it.”

Jason stared at the remaining cookies on the plate, still warm and tempting. His stomach was already uncomfortably full, and he could feel the pressure in his waistband increasing with every passing second. He was getting heavier, and each bite seemed to make the weight more apparent, pushing against his clothes, straining his chest, and making him feel like his body was no longer his own.

He looked up at Santa, who was watching him with that infuriatingly knowing grin, as though he’d anticipated Jason’s every move. 

“I think I’m done,” Jason muttered, trying to push the plate away. The first two cookies had been enough—too much, in fact. He was starting to regret even eating the first one, feeling the weight settle around his stomach and chest. But the strange part was... he didn’t *hate* it. 

His belly groaned beneath his shirt, a reminder of the two cookies already devoured. It was so full now that the idea of eating any more seemed impossible. Yet, there was something about the air in the room that made him hesitate. It was as if there was an invisible pull toward the cookies, a magnetic force he couldn’t quite explain.

“No more cookies for me, Santa,” Jason said firmly, setting the plate on the coffee table, but even as he spoke, his stomach rumbled loudly, almost as if protesting his decision.

Santa chuckled softly, stepping forward with a gleam in his eye. “Oh, Jason. I think you *might* be mistaken.”

Jason's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Santa placed a finger on his chin thoughtfully. Then, in a flash, he poked Jason’s belly—just a light tap, right on the soft, bloated area just below his ribs.

**Poke!**

Jason gasped. The instant Santa’s finger made contact with his stomach, a strange sensation flooded his body. His belly seemed to *deflate* for a second. It wasn’t just that the pressure lessened—it was like the food had disappeared. The bloating, the fullness, it all seemed to vanish in an instant, leaving him feeling... strangely empty.

And then, the hunger hit. 

A powerful wave of gnawing emptiness swept over him. His stomach growled, louder than before, a deep, almost painful rumble that seemed to echo in the quiet room. Jason’s eyes widened in shock as the hunger intensified, his gut aching with the need for more food. The pangs were so loud, so insistent, that they drowned out everything else around him.

Jason's hand went instinctively to his stomach, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he could somehow keep the sensation at bay. But the hunger didn’t stop. It was as if his body was screaming for food, his insides hollow, desperate for more.

“What the hell—?” Jason breathed, his voice shaking.

Santa just watched him, still grinning, his arms crossed over his chest. “I warned you, Jason. Every bite of these magic cookies does more than just fill your stomach. It changes how you feel. It alters your desires. And now... you can’t stop. You *need* another bite.”

Jason’s hands trembled as he looked at the plate, the third cookie sitting there innocently, just waiting for him to take it. His mind screamed at him not to do it. He didn’t want to eat another cookie. Not now, not after what had already happened.

But the hunger... the gnawing, relentless hunger in his gut... It wouldn’t stop. His body wanted it. Desperately.

“No...” Jason muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t need another cookie. I *don’t*.”

But the moment he said it, the hunger seemed to intensify. His stomach growled so loudly it nearly rattled his ribcage. The pressure returned in full force, and before he knew it, Jason was hunched over, clutching his stomach as if he could somehow stop it.

Santa watched him for a moment longer, his eyes full of knowing mischief. “I think it’s time for the third one, Jason. The hunger can’t be ignored, no matter how much you try.”

Jason’s resistance was faltering. He didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to give in to this strange magic. But his body was betraying him. He was too hungry, too empty, and the cookies were too close.

In a moment of weakness, Jason reached for the third cookie. It felt like an almost automatic response, his hand moving before his mind could even catch up. He didn’t want to, but his body needed it. Desperately.

Santa’s grin widened as Jason took the cookie and, without a second thought, bit into it.

As soon as the warm cookie hit his tongue, Jason could feel it—more than just the sweet flavor. His body reacted instantly. The warmth spread through him like a shock, and that empty sensation he’d felt only moments ago vanished, replaced with an overwhelming fullness. But this time, the fullness was different. It felt deeper. He could feel his stomach stretching, his pants tightening around his waist, and yet... it wasn’t painful. It was almost *comfortable*, in a strange, indulgent way.

Jason’s shirt grew tighter as he chewed, his chest expanding slightly with every bite. He could feel the extra weight settling on his body, his stomach swelling visibly beneath his shirt. With each bite, it was like he was ballooning outward, the weight accumulating rapidly.

He didn’t even notice how much he’d eaten, how much his body had changed until he looked down. His stomach, already soft and heavy, was now noticeably larger, pushing against the waistband of his jeans. His shirt strained to cover the growing mound of flesh beneath it, and the tightness in his pants was unmistakable.

Santa observed the transformation, his eyes gleaming with approval. “There it is, Jason. Just let go. Embrace it.”

Jason’s hands gripped his belly as if to hold the weight in place, but it was no use. He had given in. The hunger had won. 

But something else was happening now. Jason felt a strange, euphoric warmth spreading through his body. It wasn’t just the cookies that were filling him; it was the feeling of *acceptance*. He could almost hear the soft hum of magic surrounding him, as though the cookies had done more than just make him fat. They had somehow made him *feel* full—complete.

Jason swallowed, feeling the heaviness in his stomach, and for the first time, he felt something that wasn’t just hunger or defiance. He felt... *satisfied*. 

Jason had barely finished the third magic cookie when he felt an overwhelming shift in his body. At first, it was subtle—just a slight tightness in his stomach, like it had been stretched to its limits. But it didn’t stop there. 

The first thing Jason noticed was the pressure around his midsection. His jeans, which had already been snug before, felt almost painfully tight now, digging into his waist. His stomach, once slightly bloated from the previous cookies, had ballooned out significantly, pushing against the fabric of his shirt, the soft fabric straining to contain his expanding form. 

His chest had broadened too, his ribcage seeming to expand with every breath. As he looked down, his belly had swollen outward, a soft but firm mound of flesh that jutted noticeably past his waistline. The buttons of his shirt were pulling at the seams, and the waistband of his jeans was digging into his lower belly, the skin a little pink from the pressure. He could almost feel the weight accumulating beneath his hands as they hovered over the growing mass.

Each intake of breath made him acutely aware of how much he had consumed, and the feeling of fullness washed over him in waves. His belly had become an undeniable presence now, a heavy, rounded expanse that clung tightly to his body. It was as if every inch of his skin was occupied by this new weight, the feeling of it seeping into his legs, his arms, his chest. He wasn’t sure how much he had gained in total, but it was clear that his body had changed significantly with each magical bite.

But as he sat there, dazed from the strange magic, he realized that the hunger still hadn’t fully left him. His stomach rumbled again—louder, deeper than before. It was like a growl that reverberated through his entire body, leaving him feeling *empty* despite the vast amount of food he’d just consumed.

And then, before he could even process what was happening, Santa raised his hand with a knowing smile. The plate of cookies seemed to levitate, the two remaining gingerbread men sliding across the table toward Jason. 

Jason blinked. “Wait, what?” he said, still reeling from the effects of the last three cookies. But it was too late—the cookies were already in his hands, as if they’d been beckoned by some invisible force.

Santa's voice was calm, his tone warm. “You didn’t think it would stop at three, did you, Jason? The magic works in ways you can't predict, but now that you're here, it's almost a part of you. Go ahead... just one more bite.”

Jason’s hands trembled as he held the cookie in front of him. The pressure in his stomach was intense, a reminder of the weight he was already carrying. The thought of eating another one should have made him want to stop, but that gnawing emptiness still lingered in his gut, an insatiable, magnetic pull. His eyes traced the cookie’s edges, the sugary glaze gleaming in the soft glow of the Christmas lights. It was impossible to ignore.

Without fully realizing what he was doing, Jason took the first bite of the fourth cookie. His body immediately reacted, that same sensation flooding through him—the warmth, the magic, the sense of immediate satisfaction, and yet, at the same time, a deepening hunger. 

His stomach seemed to lurch, pushing outward with the added weight. The softness of his belly was now undeniable, the expanse of flesh that had once been confined beneath his shirt now visible as it pressed outward, expanding beneath his hands. 

Santa watched him, still smiling. "The magic doesn’t just fill you—it *changes* you, Jason. Every bite is a step toward something new. Something different.”

Jason couldn’t speak as the second cookie was placed into his hands. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He bit into it almost greedily, as if his body needed it. The flavor hit him all at once—spicy, sweet, with a warmth that spread from his mouth to his belly. 

And as soon as the cookie entered his system, he felt the unmistakable weight of it. 

His belly, already massive from the previous cookies, grew further—his stomach expanding with a slow but undeniable pressure. The tightness around his waist was almost unbearable, the waistband of his jeans digging in, as if threatening to burst. His shirt stretched across his chest, pulling tight over the soft, swollen mound of his stomach. The feeling of fullness had become almost overwhelming, as though his body had reached its absolute limit.

And yet, it wasn’t over.

Jason felt a deep, parched thirst suddenly wash over him. His throat felt dry, his mouth cottony. The hunger had finally receded, replaced by an almost desperate need for something to drink. 

Without thinking, Jason reached for the glass of whole milk Santa had left on the table. The cool, white liquid seemed like the only thing that could quench the fire in his throat. 

He brought the glass to his lips and began drinking, each gulp feeling like it was soothing something inside him. The cold milk seemed to settle in his stomach, cooling the heat from the cookies, and for a brief moment, he felt a little relief. But as he drank, his stomach continued to react to the magic in his body.

The pressure inside him was no longer just physical. His body was growing heavier with each swallow, his stomach expanding and stretching with the milk, the cookies, and the magic working its way through him. The fullness in his body wasn’t just in his belly anymore—it was in his arms, his legs, his chest. Jason could feel the weight of it spreading through him, sinking into his bones, his skin. He was *growing* with every bite, every gulp.

The milk, thick and rich, slid down his throat easily, but with every swallow, he could feel the weight of the magic pushing him further, making him feel more bloated, more *filled*. His body felt like it was expanding not just with food, but with *everything*. The magic was seeping into every part of him.

Finally, after Jason finished the milk, he let the glass slip from his hand. His stomach was so full now that it felt like it might burst. He leaned back into the couch, the weight of his belly pressing against his legs. He was *huge*—his shirt now clung to his swollen stomach, unable to cover the full expanse. His pants, once comfortably snug, now felt like they were cutting into his flesh. The waistband dug painfully into his soft belly, the fabric stretching in ways it wasn’t meant to. He couldn’t even move without feeling the tightness, the heaviness in every part of him.

Santa watched all of this unfold, a satisfied look on his face. “You’re learning, Jason. The magic isn’t about controlling you; it’s about showing you how to embrace what’s already inside of you.”

Jason could barely focus on Santa’s words, his mind fogged by the overwhelming sensation of his body. His stomach was so distended, so *full*, that all he could do was sit there, helpless against the pull of the magic. The once rebellious, defiant Jason had surrendered to it, his body irrevocably changed, his appetite insatiable.

Jason let out a loud, unintentional burp as he leaned back into the couch, the pressure in his overstuffed stomach making the sound escape from him. It was so loud, so sudden, that it echoed in the quiet room, a perfect, embarrassing punctuation to the magical meal he had just consumed.

"Excuse me," he muttered sheepishly, though a part of him was too full and too dazed to really care about the manners he normally would’ve worried about. His stomach was so large now that the idea of sitting up or moving was almost laughable. Every inch of his body felt stretched, as though he was on the verge of bursting from the sheer volume of food he had taken in.

Santa chuckled at the sound, an amused glint in his eyes as he looked at Jason’s swollen form. The old man’s gaze shifted down to Jason’s belly, now a soft, round mound pressing against his shirt. It was clear that Jason had eaten well—too well—and now, he was feeling the full force of that magic.

Jason sighed deeply, rubbing his hands over his belly as it grumbled, still not fully content despite the massive intake. It wasn’t just a growl anymore, it was an ache—one that he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he tried to distract himself.

"I’m... I’m going to go back upstairs to bed," Jason muttered, his voice thick from the fullness in his stomach. He could feel the weight of the cookies pressing down on him, and though he had no desire to move, he knew he had to. His body felt like it had been stretched to its limits, and sleep seemed like the only reprieve from the intense pressure he felt within.

Santa grinned, watching Jason shift uncomfortably on the couch. "You’re going to need a little more than just bed to recover from all this magic, Jason."

Before Jason could protest, Santa’s gloved hand reached out and poked Jason’s bloated stomach lightly. The action was playful, but the effect was instant. Jason gasped, his belly jumping at the poke, a shudder of sensation running through him. The pressure that had been building seemed to momentarily *shift* as his belly responded, like a balloon inflating and deflating under his shirt.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Jason said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll try to be better next year. But… can I just go to bed now? I feel like I’m going to explode.” 

Santa stood up, his merry eyes twinkling as he patted Jason gently on the belly, a soft tap that felt like the final nudge to keep him in place. “You’ve done enough, Jason. Just remember—next year, you’d better be on the nice list if you want to avoid more *magic cookies*. The world can only handle so much Christmas spirit, you know.”

Jason gave a tired but sincere nod, rubbing his now-aching belly. “Yeah, yeah… I’ll be good, I promise.”

With that, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, feeling the weight of his stomach shift as he stood, and made his way toward the stairs. Every step was a little slower than usual, his body heavy, swollen, and full. But it was Christmas, after all. He had indulged in the magic, and now, all he wanted was to sleep it off.

Before he disappeared up the stairs, he turned to glance back at Santa, who was still standing by the tree, watching him with that playful smile.

“Merry Christmas, Jason,” Santa said, his voice full of warmth.

Jason nodded, a smile tugging at his lips despite the discomfort. “Merry Christmas, Santa. And… thanks for the cookies.”

Santa’s eyes twinkled, his voice low and full of mirth. “Don’t mention it, kid. Just remember, no more naughty behavior next year.”

Jason was already regretting every bite as he made his way up the stairs. It wasn’t just the slow, lumbering pace of his steps, but the deep, weighted feeling of his body. Every movement felt heavier, every step more sluggish than the last. He had never felt so *slow* before. His legs seemed to protest with each step, the weight of the magic cookies settling into his body like a dense, unshakable fog.

Fifty extra pounds felt like a mountain on his frame—his stomach, still swollen from the five cookies and glass of milk, jutted out in front of him like a balloon. It was soft, round, and *massive*, and with every step he took, it seemed to pull down on him, making his movements even more labored. His shirt stretched uncomfortably across his chest, and his waistband was cutting into his belly, the fabric straining against the sheer size of him.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Jason was panting, exhausted from the simple effort of going up. He stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, his reflection hitting him like a slap. 

The sight of himself was almost foreign—his once lean frame had been completely transformed. His belly now looked like it was carrying a small beach ball in it. His shirt clung tightly to his swollen gut, the fabric stretched to its limits. Jason’s chest had widened as well, and his arms, once muscular but lean, now seemed thick and heavy, filled with the extra weight that had accumulated over the course of the night. His pants, which used to fit comfortably, were now pinching at the waist, the fabric pulling tight against his thickened thighs and hips.

Jason stared at himself for a moment, taking it all in. His face looked rounder too, a soft flush of color on his cheeks, as if the weight had even settled there. His lips parted, a silent exhale escaping as he looked down at his bloated belly once more, still feeling the pressure build, almost as if he had more room to grow. The fullness inside him was so intense that he could hear his own stomach growling softly, even though he knew he couldn’t possibly eat another thing.

“God, this is insane,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The discomfort was real, but so was the strange sensation of satisfaction—like he’d just indulged in something he couldn't control. Magic had a way of making everything *feel* so much more intense. And now, he had no choice but to live with the results.

With a sigh, Jason turned away from the mirror, giving his stomach a gentle rub as if comforting the weight inside him. He felt his body shift, a slight jiggle in his belly as he moved toward his bedroom. It was impossible to ignore the strain on his clothes, or the constant pressure on his stomach, but there was nothing he could do about it now. 

He collapsed onto his bed, the soft mattress groaning under his new weight. The cool sheets felt nice against his warm skin, but his stomach was too tight, too swollen to allow him to get comfortable. He shifted a bit, but his belly was so large now that it wouldn’t let him relax fully.

Just as he was about to close his eyes and try to forget about the strange night he’d had, a familiar scent wafted through the room. It was faint at first, but unmistakable—the sweet, warm smell of freshly baked cookies. Jason’s eyes popped open, his heart skipping a beat.

“No way…” he murmured, lifting his head from the pillow to sniff the air more intently. The scent was drifting in from somewhere. The familiar, inviting aroma of gingerbread, sugar, and spice. It wasn’t just in his mind, he could *smell* it.

Jason groaned, his stomach grumbling again, this time from something more than just fullness. It was that same deep, empty hunger he had felt earlier—magically induced, of course—but it was so overwhelming that he almost couldn’t fight it. His body *wanted* more. 

His eyes darted toward the door, half-expecting Santa to appear, carrying another plate of magic cookies. He could already picture them—those warm, sugary treats, the kind that filled him with a sense of indulgence and the promise of more weight, more fullness. 

The thought alone was enough to make him sit up, but the pressure in his belly made him stop. He didn’t know if he could take more, but the smell—*oh, the smell*—was so tempting, so irresistible. 

He groaned and turned over onto his side, clutching at his belly, trying to settle himself down. *Not again,* he told himself. *I’ve had enough for one night.*

But the scent was still there. Faint, but lingering. And Jason realized, with a sinking feeling, that no matter how much he tried to ignore it, that magic had already sunk deep into his bones. It wasn’t just in his body—it was in his mind too.

With a frustrated sigh, Jason closed his eyes again, trying to push away the hunger, the pull of that magic. 

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that the next time he smelled those cookies, he might not be able to resist. The thought made him shudder, even as he drifted off to sleep, his body still heavy and full, his stomach aching from the weight of what he had already consumed. 

Part 2 will be posted on December 25th

[senascoop]

☁︎ . , TELL YOU WHAT? , S.JY !

PAIRING: fiance ! jake × drunk ! afab reader. SYNOPSIS: getting drunk in hopes to escape your engagement and the sadness that came with it—you turned to a stranger or maybe... your fiance. GENRE: fluff, drabble. WORD COUNT: 541. [LIBRARY]

♫︎ REBLOGS + FEEDBACKS ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED

You had thought sneaking out of your engagement party to get drunk in the garden was a brilliant idea. A freeing, rebellious decision. No one would notice, you had convinced yourself. But as usual, life had other plans—and so did Jake, your brand-new fiancé, who somehow found you curled up on the grass, your pristine dress now speckled with dirt.

“There you are,” he sighed, sitting down beside you with a mix of relief and mild exasperation. “You do realize there’s an entire party looking for you, right?”

You waved him off lazily, blinking up at the night sky. “The stars don’t judge,” you slurred, the alcohol working its magic, “unlike Aunt Minji and her ‘oh, so you’re the bride?’ looks.”

Jake chuckled softly, brushing a speck of grass off your shoulder. “Well, Aunt Minji doesn’t have to marry you. I do.”

You turned to him with a mock glare, your cheeks flushed—not just from the wine. “You don’t have to,” you said, hiccupping slightly. “But if you want to, you should know I have a secret.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning in playfully. “Do tell, my mysterious fiancée.”

You sat up dramatically, nearly toppling over in the process. “I weigh over 45 kilograms!” you announced, as if it were the most shocking revelation in the world. “And—and,” you added, your voice dropping into a whisper, “my chest is still flat!”

Jake froze, caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. But it was the way your bottom lip wobbled, your eyes welling up with tears of tragic sincerity, that pushed him over the edge. He burst out laughing.

“You’re laughing?!” you cried, your voice a mix of betrayal and drunken indignation. Tears spilled over as you sniffled. “You don’t have it either! How dare you judge me?”

That was it. Jake had to press his hand over his mouth to stop the laughter threatening to spill out, but he couldn’t quite manage it.

“Okay, okay,” he said, scooting closer as you dramatically flopped backward onto the grass, staring up at the sky like a tragic heroine in a period drama. “You’re right. I don’t have it either. We’re even.”

You sniffled again, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your very expensive dress. “We’re both... flat,” you mumbled, your voice quivering. “What a sad couple we make.”

Jake sighed, leaning over you, his tone softening as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. “Hey, it’s not sad,” he said, his voice gentle but laced with amusement. “It’s… balanced. And you’re perfect, even if you’re drunk out of your mind right now.”

You squinted up at him, your lips curling into a pout. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck with me.”

Jake smirked, offering you his hand. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m saying it because you’re the funniest drunk I’ve ever met. Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up before Aunt Minji sends a search party.”

Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, leaning against him as you stumbled. “Fine,” you muttered. “But only because you admitted you’re flat too.”

Jake laughed, wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you. “Deal. Now let’s get back before you decide to share any more of our secrets with the stars.”

© senascoop | tumblr

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ BLOMSTERTID, PART ONE !

summary :: Centuries-old mage, Y/N L/N, possesses magical abilities unheard of. A few citizens monopolize the remnants of magic they find, of which they now title “Hextech”. Hearsay of this power bleeds through all of Runeterra, until Piltover and Zaun find themselves in an anarchic war to obtain said power. Before Y/N can even blink, however, the humans neglect their plans when they realize they’d rather have Y/N instead.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 4.3k

content warnings :: NO SPOILERS! g/n reader, harassment, death, parental abuse/neglect, animal neglect/cruelty, & elements of sexism.

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ ⸺ The sun feels blistering as it blankets you in its sweltering embrace. Body sheen with sweat, you halt your early-afternoon endeavors and begin the lengthy journey home. The flowers you’ve spent the past several hours plucking now rest in your wicker basket. It will be the perfect apology for your parents, you surmise. After all, you are miles away from being the exemplary model-child they swore they raised you to be. 

You take a moment to admire the Shurima empire in all of its glory. Even in the short frame of several decades, the discovery of this continent has managed to flourish so elegantly.

It is rare you are given the opportunity to see the fruits of the founder's labor. Nonetheless, you were not born in the lap of luxury. You were raised in the poor corners of civilization, which is exactly where you return to.

Stepping into the streets of the dank city, you are immediately met with the perfusion of dust and sand. You cough into your elbow from the sudden exposure (the mountain air has evidently spoiled your senses). All you can do is hope you survive the journey back home, and more crucially, the wrath of your parents. 

You still have yet to forget the stifling look of enraged disappointment in their eyes from the day before. 

A charming suitor, an impossibly rich one at that, gifted you a vase full of flowers native to his home country. You check off the list of physical and verbal cues your parents set out for you: batting your lashes, good posture, and how can you forget, the obnoxiously-flirtatious compliments and the innocent “damsel in distress” etiquette. 

So engrossed in the tasks at hand, the vase in your hands then slips from your butter-fingers and shatters against the pavement. A few of the cracked pieces nick the suitors ankles.

He had some particularly colorful words for you. Now, there is certainly no hope of marriage with this man. 

A selfish part of you is relieved. Marrying a man twice your age is a page torn straight from your worst nightmares. When you are inevitably faced with the incessant scolding of your parents, however, you find yourself wishing he’d just jam a ring on your finger and call it a day.

Doing anything to make your parents happy is the disposition you have molded your life around. Hence the flowers currently in your possession.

The very picosecond you became an adult, your parents scrambled to find you a spouse. Your mothers insistence on maintaining your “beauty” struck as strange, as you have never viewed yourself or others through an aesthetic lens. Even when a myriad of suitors were kicking your doors in to claim you as theirs, you still don’t understand where she is coming from. 

After all, they take one glimpse at your (in your father’s words) eccentric personality and they’re making a dash for the hills. 

It didn’t take long for you to understand that their proclamations of “ensuring a delightful life with me as my respected spouse” meant forging you into their submissive, braindead pet. So, in a petty, rebellious manner, you do not hinder the vibrance of your personality. Of course, you are acutely aware of how this behavior will never earn you a spouse. No man or woman would want something as unconventional as you, that has been made abundantly clear.

Because of this, you have resorted to pursuing other forms of validation from your parents.

Every ache that pulsates through your fingertips reminds of your utmost passion. Playing the harp has tended to your needs the way no suitor ever has.

You managed to snag the instrument when an indecisive elite tossed it out after a single attempt at learning how to play. It has now made a home in your bedroom, hidden behind the panel of the unfinished wall. When the weight of the world becomes too heavy (and when your parents have left the premises), you indulge in the peace the music provides. Every flick of your calloused fingers against the thick strings provides a solace you cradle close. 

With this passion follows hope, as well. You’re positive that with enough effort, you can convince your parents to let you pursue the art of music instead of marriage. Soon, you’ll flaunt your polished skills with the harp and earn the approval of your parents. That is most imperative now.

Something furry then brushes against your leg. A familiar purr rustles against your skin. When you look down, you are not surprised to find a Poro.

It is common for the rich to own them as pets, but of course, you get the few bunch who grow tired of the animals and chuck them out like trash. A few find their way to the poor side of civilization, where the critters are now lethargic and emaciated from the abandonment of their caregiver. 

The Poro's black, bulbous eyes peer at you in hesitation, before he flings his tiny body into the dark alleyway just ahead. You coo at the creature in an attempt at beckoning him back out from his hiding place. A fresh idea in mind, you dig a hand into your satchel and fish out the lunch you had forgotten to eat. It is mere scraps at most, but you have an inkling the little guy will be desperate for any form of nourishment.

Soon enough, you spot an eye peeking out from behind an empty wooden crate. When his gaze lands on the torn piece of bread in your hand, he takes a few cautious steps forward. Freezing periodically, anticipating your next move, the Poro soon makes it to your palm. His wide, slobbering tongue slithers around the small chunk of bread, before gathering it into his mouth.

Just as you reach your hand to pet the feathery tufts of fur atop his head, a door behind you bursts open. A burly man appears in the threshold, a tower of several more empty crates balanced in his fat arms. When the man's gaze meets yours, his expression drops into one of irritation. 

“Goddamn L/N…” 

He chucks the crates into a pile of many others, the collision loud and tumultuous. The Poro shrieks and scurries off into the distance. 

“Thought I told you to stop feeding the strays. Fur-balls always come back for seconds.” 

Animals have always struck a soft spot for you, more-so than others evidently deem admirable. You still remember the red-raged lecture you received from your father when you saved a suitor from a sly snake, before cooing at the slithering friend in your grasp and presenting it to the woman. 

In your father’s eyes, this was apparently inappropriate of you. What would other suitors think, after all? That you’d bring wretched creatures like that into their mansions? The answer is obviously yes, but you’re better off without more incessant scolding from him.

You shove the remaining clumps of food back into your satchel as though the incriminating evidence would vanish once stashed away. As you do so, a prideful smile creeps onto the mans face, enlarged cheeks stretching wide. 

“Finally meet someone stupid enough to set the date?” He asks, gesturing to your hand. 

When you follow his gaze, you see the ring you crafted yourself, realizing he had mistaken its origins. 

You have a tendency to sneak off into the rich side of Shurima and “borrow” a trinket or two. The ring you snagged happened to be an engagement ring a forgetful fiancé left by a bathroom sink. The intricacies and glittering shimmer were too stunning for you to ignore. So, the poor woman had to return home empty-handed that night.

“Never thought I’d see the day.” A mocking chortle exhales from the man's chapped lips. 

“Poor bastard.” Another man chuckles.

The two clearly find the prospect of you marrying to be hilarious. You don’t have it in you to tell them the truth, knowing they’ll surely find a way to twist your words to fuel their amusement. The ring is not even on your ring finger, to begin with. Rather, your index finger. 

You pretend to ignore the sounds of their wheezing laughter and hasten forward, desperate to escape their cruel words.

Unfortunately, these heavy words did not end with random pedestrians in the streets.

The very moment you enter your home, the anger of your father is almost palpable. It is uncomfortable and distressing, but foreseeable. With your track record, there is always something you’ve done to provoke his irritation. And the sight of you soiled with dirt and sweat leads him to wonder why he ever considered having a child in the first place. 

“I… I figured we could give a bouquet to the suitor and his mother as an apology.” You present the flowers to him. “Perhaps not in a ceramic vase, this time.”

You accentuate your idea with a dry attempt at humor, despite knowing how aloof your father is. As expected, his expression remains stern. You can’t recall a time you have ever seen him smile, for that matter. 

“Y/N…” He buries his face into his hands. “We’ve spoken about this…” 

Ah, yes, how could you have forgotten? 

Another lecture of millions instilled into your brain about how suitors only like someone who spends their time with meaningful tasks. These tasks include slaving the hours away cooking and cleaning, as well as raising enough children to fill a wagon. The mere thought of being prisoner to such responsibilities sends a wet shiver through your blood.

“Well…” You scoff. “You act as though any suitors still remain in town. What do you wish for me to do? Swim after their ship and grovel at their-?” 

His fist slams into the surface of the table. The force causes you to flinch; you would not be surprised if a hole was forged from the impact. His ugly face twists into a scowl as he points an accusatory finger at you — another sight you know all too well. 

“They have all left with no hope of marriage! Even with our offers of dowry, no man nor woman would ever want to waste a second more with you!” 

He speaks nothing of the truth, but still, it pierces sharp. 

“Day after day, your mother and I work tirelessly to ensure your future and you do nothing to express any gratitude!”

Speaking of the devil, your mother then enters the premises, startled from the sudden noise of her husband's anger. And like clockwork, her expression descends into one of disappointment at the sight of you. 

“Dear Lord, what have you gotten yourself into now?” She stomps over and begins fussing over the stains of dirt and grass smeared into your clothes. “You are surely something arcane, child.” 

You attempt to explain your intentions, but any hope of obtaining their approval falls on deaf ears. You should have known from the start they would not roll over so easily. Still, you keep crawling back to sit at their feet. Like a beaten dog desperate for a loving hand. 

Your mother proceeds to force you through another tangent about the horrid state of your appearance. How your poor diet is clearly showing through your choice of clothing, how the sun will ruin your already hideous skin — another lecture of millions detailing everything you are doing wrong in your life.

“Beauty is not eternal, Y/N. You do not have much time before your attitude begins reflecting in your appearance.”

Her words may sting had that not been the plan in the first place. 

What your parents fail to realize is that you are intending on allowing your “beauty” to decline. In the end, you’ll just be another atrocious, old bat who will never hear about the prospect of marriage again. Therefore, your parents will have no option but to support your dreams of music. Maybe then, they’ll finally learn to love you as you are. 

“We cannot survive another season without marriage.” You hear your father mutter as he turns to face your mother. “Will you inform them or shall I?” 

Your attention is now fully piqued, expressed through the furrowed brows and curious pout plastered on your face. Something that will provoke wrinkles, your mother always remarks.

Brutally, they enlighten you on how they intend on fixing your rebellious attitude. 

In the dawn of the following week, you’ll board a ship with other troubled youth and sail across the sea. When you arrive on uncharted lands, you’ll be handed over to a man old enough to be your grandfather. Here, he will “train” you into becoming a better spouse for future suitors. Once you prove yourself to him, only then may you come back home. Set to be married the very second you return.

Nausea stirs in your stomach as the weight of the situation settles at your feet. You’ve been receded to that of an object; a ticket to obtain the fortune your parents so desperately crave.

“Is that truly your intention? Sell me off like livestock while you both lay here comfortably!?” 

“I assure you, my child, this is for your own good-!” 

With forced sympathy, your mother attempts to console you. You tear her cold, neglectful hands from your shoulder and glare at your parents, glossy eyes overwhelmed with anger. They do not respond further; they have said all they have needed to say. 

Like a fussy toddler, you slam your basket onto the cement. The wicker weavings are now awkward and awry. With another scolding bridging on their tongues, you then stomp out of the house and slam the door in your departure.

The calluses in your feet pulse with every loose twig and pine cone you step upon. You neglect the unforgiving city and devote your journey to the forest, traveling as far as your body can take you. Past the spreading moss, the sky-high pines, the simmering fog; farther than you have ever ventured before. Anything to escape what remains at home. Why on earth would you want to return, anyway? To receive yet another lecture about your maturity? To inevitably be handed off to a stranger like chopped liver? 

You’d rather starve beneath a canopy of branches before you ever board that damned ship.

Time passes unbeknownst to you as you explore further. When the sun begins its descent into the sky, only then do you realize how far you have traveled. At this point, you have become lost in the maze of trees. Finding your way out is a fool’s errand now, but in this moment, you almost find that as a blessing.

Fortunately for you and your weak self, you find a river stream and can practically feel your legs sigh with relief. The frigid temperatures are almost equivalent to that of a warm blanket, soothing your muscles of the incessant labor you’ve forced upon them. The water swooshes and sways against your feet, following the drifting stream.

When you spot a foreign cave nestled beneath the hill’s ledge, overwhelmed with ivy and greenery, your curiosity is snatched like a feeble mouse in the claws of a hawk. The entrance is illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, almost as though the universe wished for you to stumble upon this sight. The rest of the area is drowned in a vast darkness. Something inside of you wants to explore further, despite the dangers you are positive lurk within.

To test the waters, you grasp a loose stone and toss it into the dark depths. You expect a gentle thud to help you judge the distance inside. Instead, the wall within crumbles from your intrusion and the avalanche sends a surge of rocks and dirt your way. 

Before you can question where you’ve obtained this sudden strength, an odd light sprouts from the darkness. The light is opalescent and dances in hues of violet and blue, almost swaying through the air like oil spilled into clear water. A tender frequency churns when the thundering destruction dies down. The sound shivers, but maintains an almost heavenly disposition. 

Sparkling in the corner of your eye, your gaze shifts down to your feet. There, you find that same light appearing like an ink splotch beneath where you stand. It increases in brightness, before fading away like a snuffed candle. Then, the light glistens again a few inches ahead of you, before dying out the same way. This process continues onwards, pressing footsteps into the jagged stone and leading to the destruction you caused. 

It’s as though something was beckoning you to step forward, yanking the strings of your curiosity like a child with a toy.

Now rendered silent (and any lasting rage eased), you tread further into the cave and follow the scintillating light. Peering a suspicious eye around the corner, you find the very last thing you expected. 

A crater had been carved out by some form of impact. Surrounding the crater are glimmering crystals, now jutting out of the cave walls. In the middle is a hunk of rock, blistering in even more intensive hues of blue and purple. It pulsates, as though it were alive — its heart hammering just like yours. 

For a reason you cannot explain, every cell in your body is alive with a strange, fiery exhilaration. The bliss encompasses your head, before spreading down to your toes, threading with every vein you possess. There is an underlying fear tickling the goosebumps across your skin, but the euphoria perceives it as delicious adrenaline. 

Simultaneously, your entire body is oddly tranquil. Like you’ve been submerged in thick honey, blanketing your muscles in complacent ease. 

It is an intoxicating oxymoron. So much so, you find yourself stepping closer to the ethereal boulder. When you are a mere feather touch away, your vision swims with delirium. It sways side to side in a sea of nauseous excitement.

Lifting a finger, you creep your hand closer to the boulder. A mere nudge of your fingertip against the rock and a blinding light floods the cave. 

The magical, colorful aura is snatched away when a sudden force bludgeons through the expanse. Without a mere second to spare, you no longer feel the ground beneath your feet. Your body is thrust against the cave wall. Rock matter plunges straight into your skull.

And just like the closing curtains you’ve always dreamt of being behind, everything cuts to black. You’re now lost in a dark void. No thundering applause or flower bouquets to welcome you.

When you gain consciousness, you are overwhelmed with suffocating darkness. 

Chunks of dirt flood your mouth, your eyes, your throat, and ensnare around your entire body. You struggle to no avail, with all of your limbs restrained beneath the weight forcing you down. Your heart thrashes like the bashing of a war drum. Oxygen abandons you and leaves your lungs burning with need. 

The fear enveloping your bones intensifies with its bitter touch. It intensifies and hastens until your body cannot withstand the force of it all. 

Another explosion pervades with a thundering force. Only this time, you are not met with harm. Instead, a light invades your vision.

Adjusting to the harsh intrusion of sunlight, you soon catch the sight of that familiar blue and violet light. They scatter in flickering specks through the air, like curious fireflies drifting through the Summer wind. As your eyes adjust to the new environment, you find yourself buried in a grave, of some sort. 

Climbing your weak body out of the hole, your brain is infested with mountains of questions. Was that just a dream? How did that even happen? How did you end up here of all places? 

Are you dead? 

And, of course, that unhealed part of you wonders where your mother and father are and why you cannot cling to their comfort. 

“Mama…” You whimper, not recognizing the voice crawling from your throat. 

You feel like a fresh fawn on legs when you bring your weight to your wobbly knees. Stumbling through the newfoundland, it does not take long before your body fails you and you collapse at the edge of a river. Your attempts at catching your breath are halted to a stunned silence when you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the water. 

The person you stare upon has been replaced by something different. Splotches of saturated colors splatter your skin, contrasting in varying sizes and hues. Most of which are the same purple and blue that have made a stark appearance time and time again. Your pupils, swimming in those same blistering-bright hues, have enlarged drastically. Your teeth are now crooked and bent as they jut in violent directions inside your mouth.

Trailing your gaze further, you find chunks of flesh missing from your body, which have now healed over rugged, rough, and raw. In the sun, incomprehensible gibberish glitters across your exposed flesh. Almost like some form of ancient rune. Sparkling when a certain patch of light hits it right. 

Something undead — that is your conclusion. You have died and been revived as a monster, that must be what has occurred. You peer over your shoulder to the grave you were buried in to confirm this suspicion. As you do so, something captures your attention.

In the sand, a footprint stands out to you as explicitly familiar. You’d recognize the pattern of that shoe anywhere after the multiple occasions you spent sweeping the debris in your home.

Your father was here. Likely your mother, too. 

The city must have heard the explosion from miles away, crowding to the source to identify the cause. In the debris, your parents had found you. Dead. In a sloppy attempt at concealing the truth of your disappearance, they had dug an impromptu grave and tossed the lifeless body of their only child within. No gravestone, no flowers, no proper burial. Absolutely nothing. 

All for your name to be forgotten about and to never see the light of day again.

You cannot piece together where exactly everything went wrong, what heinous actions you pulled in the past to deserve such cruelty. For all the years of your fleeting life, you’ve been balancing on the tightrope of perfection. Every inch of you has been scrutinized like a passionate scientist. No matter what step you took, you were always too much in one area, while not enough in another.

Now, you are overwhelmed with the revelation that it was all for nothing. 

It never earned you a spouse, it never earned you the status of a harp player, and most imperatively, it never earned you the love of your parents.

Betrayal squeezes the weight in your chest, snagging out rib-burning cries from your body. Globs of snot and tears embellish your deformed face. Standing to your feet, you can almost swear you heard a… Harp? The melodies swarm around you, like a lulling cloud of tranquility. 

In your attempts to step forward and locate the source of the sound, the sudden sound of squelching twists beneath your feet. 

When you glance to the ground, you find a flower blossoming just behind your ankle. It glistens with glitter, woven around the blue stems and fading into purple petals. When you take another step, the same occurrence happens. Another flower, just the same as the other, blossoms at the edge of your foot.

Your rendition of horticulture is weak, but you have never seen a flower quite like that before. Even when the richest suitors presented their collection of bouquets from all around the world, not a single flower shared a speck of familiarity with this new discovery. 

The sounds of harp still hold your attention, but despite your efforts to locate the music, all you find surrounding you are fields of nature, accompanied by these strange flowers you’ve somehow conjured out of the dry soil. It was almost like the sounds of harp were reverberating from you; as though the strings resided in your chest.

Step after step, flowers continue to blossom and harp strings echo in celestial tunes. You do not know where you intend to go, but you now know that all you have centered your life around has proven to be immaterial.

The only thing you have now is yourself. 

You dare to think that is all you need to survive.

To this day, this revelation proves to be correct. It manifests into everyday life where you have remained on the grounds of the Shimura Empire. 

Thousands of years have now passed. The powers that cave had gifted you have now been utilized to your greatest ability. Your parents are long dead, your suitors found better spouses to continue their bloodline, and your precious harp is now a mere gust of wind. You’ve watched civilizations crumble and rebuild themselves to fruition, all while you maintain the same powerful, immortal body. 

Who would have guessed that an “eccentric” personality like yours would lead you to where you are today?

Another year of thousands has reached its middle point. 2021 has begun like any other, but has suffered an abrupt shift when a few citizens tread a bit too close for your liking. It is merely a fragment of power they find. “Hextech,” they call it. With enough intricate studies and prosperous experiments, however, you fear it is only a matter of time before these scientists yank you from the comfortable shadows.

When hearsay bleeds through Runeterra of your powers being capitalized for violence, you know you have no choice but to stop them.

No matter what it takes.

        ⁺  🎧 ,  🪷  you are currently listening to . . .  ⁺  🪺  , 🎵  ꪆ

❝  THE RAYS OF THE SUN

APPROACH AND ALL IS REBORN . . .  ❞

gif creds.

tag list: @honey-beeuwu @mrprettycom @makangelo @thelonelyme @solavily @eldritch-bunny @decaffeinatedclodbagelweasel @orbitingmarswithp @frickidyfrog @phantomdomi @mermaidm0tel6 @numbu5 @applepinsss @anon34570 @biohazardousbunny @vogelaqwry @lorely788 @mellowangeltree @myathegoat @alix-37 @lavandercinnamon @vrnicky @mellowfishauthoreggs

[librababe99]

Healing Touch

cw: MDNI, 18+, Smut, Fluff, Young!Charles Xavier, Fem!Reader word count: 2.7K Summary: In the mid-1970s, Charles Xavier is a man haunted by loss and burdened by the weight of his own mind. When you, a fellow mutant, offer him not only companionship but a love he never expected, the walls he has built around his heart begin to crumble.

A/N: Since I wrote for Erik I felt that writing for Charles balances everything out <3 Forgive me if mentioning the cuban missile crisis at the beginning throws off the timeline in anyway, we don't have to jump into technicalities...lol! Anyways, please feel free to comment, reblog or like this <3 happy reading!

(Marvel Masterlist)

The 1970s had a way of weaving magic into the air—rife with a rebellious freedom, spinning off the back of a decade of upheaval. Amidst the intoxicating haze of civil rights movements, psychedelic music, and ever-changing fashion, there was something magnetic about this era, as if the world were in the throes of rediscovering itself. And in that same time, tucked away in the heart of Westchester County, Charles Xavier was a man rediscovering himself too—one who had seen the world both at its brightest and at its darkest.

The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning had become more than just a school. With the Cuban Missile Crisis a decade behind them and the threat of mutants still very much real, Charles had been pulled into a storm that had rocked him to his core. The man who had once been so full of optimism and hope had become someone else—someone hardened by loss, crippled both physically and emotionally. He had found himself retreating from the world, isolating behind the walls of his mansion, letting the noise of the outside world fade into a dull, muted hum.

But then there was you.

You had come into Charles’s life by chance, a fellow mutant with abilities that he couldn’t help but be drawn to. He had noticed you first because of your power—something akin to empathy, the ability to feel and manipulate the emotions of others. It was subtle, nothing explosive like fire or ice, but it was potent in its own right. In some ways, Charles found it even more fascinating, for it spoke to the heart of what he had always believed—that mutants were more than just their powers; they were people with gifts, capable of great good or terrible destruction depending on how they wielded them.

But it wasn’t just your abilities that caught his attention. There was something about you that stirred something long-buried inside him. You were strong, yes, but kind too—empathetic not just because of your powers but because of who you were at your core. And in a world where Charles had grown tired of fighting, tired of losing, you had become a beacon of warmth in the cold. Your presence began to thaw the ice he had encased himself in, and though he resisted it at first, that pull between you was undeniable.

It was a Friday night, and the mansion was quiet, the students having all gone off for the weekend. The air outside was thick with the scent of rain, the clouds heavy and swollen, but inside, there was a warmth that clung to the air. You had found Charles in his study, a glass of scotch in hand, seated behind the large oak desk that had become almost a throne for him. He was disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair slightly out of place in a way that made him seem more human, less like the esteemed Professor Xavier he had always tried to be.

You knocked softly on the doorframe, leaning against it with a playful smile. "You look like you could use a break."

Charles glanced up from his drink, his eyes settling on you in that way that always sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes—those sharp, piercing blue eyes—were tired, but they softened when they met yours. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "A break from what, exactly?"

You shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him. "From thinking. From brooding. From being Charles Xavier, mutant extraordinaire." You reached his desk and perched yourself on the edge of it, your knee brushing his thigh as you did so. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, and you saw the briefest hitch in his breath.

“I don’t brood,” he replied, though the smile that followed betrayed his words.

“Oh, you most certainly do.” You leaned forward, teasingly close, just enough that he could feel your presence in the air between you. “You sit in this big, empty mansion, all alone, with your thoughts and your scotch, and you brood.”

Charles chuckled softly, though there was something in the sound that was darker, more resigned. “Maybe I do.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes distant for a moment. “There’s a lot to think about these days.”

You watched him for a moment, your gaze softening. Charles had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, even before the accident that had left him in a wheelchair. But now, that weight seemed heavier, as though the world had taken too much from him.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist, and the moment you touched him, you could feel it—a deep, aching sadness, buried beneath layers of composure and strength. It was like touching a wound that had never quite healed.

“I can feel it, you know,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles looked up at you, and for a moment, the walls he had built around himself seemed to crumble, leaving behind the man he had tried so hard to hide. “Feel what?” His voice was just as soft, but there was an edge to it, a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

You smiled gently, your fingers trailing up his arm, barely grazing his skin. “Everything. The pain, the loss, the weight of all of it. You’re carrying so much, Charles. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he did. “And what if I don’t want you to feel it?”

“Then I won’t,” you whispered, your hand now resting against his chest, right over his heart. “But I want to help you carry it. I want to be there for you.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he seemed to struggle with something deep inside him, as though he were warring with himself. Then, slowly, he reached up, his hand covering yours as it rested on his chest. His touch was warm, gentle, and yet there was a tension in the way he held you, as though he were afraid to let go.

“I don’t deserve that,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Your heart clenched at his words, and without thinking, you leaned forward, closing the distance between you until your lips were inches from his. “You deserve so much more than you think, Charles.”

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first, tentative, as though you were testing the waters, waiting to see if he would pull away. But he didn’t. Instead, his hand tightened around yours, and you felt him respond, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that surprised you both.

The kiss deepened, the years of longing, pain, and desire pouring into it with a ferocity that neither of you had expected. You could feel the way his body tensed beneath you, the way his breathing quickened as he lost himself in the moment.

Before you knew it, you were climbing into his lap, straddling him as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. Charles groaned against your lips, his hands sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips as though he were afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice thick with desire and hesitation.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your forehead resting against his as you smiled softly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His response was a low, guttural sound that sent a thrill racing through you, and before you knew it, he was kissing you again, more desperate this time, as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and Charles let out a breathless laugh, the sound vibrating against your lips as you finally managed to push the fabric aside, revealing the hard planes of his chest. You ran your hands over his skin, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Charles let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that broke your heart. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his neck. “Then they’re all fools.”

His hands were everywhere, exploring your body as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His touch was gentle at first, almost reverent, but there was a fire behind it, a need that he had kept buried for far too long.

When you finally peeled off your shirt, you heard him suck in a breath, his eyes darkening with desire as he took you in. “God, you’re—” His voice broke off, as though he couldn’t quite find the words, but you didn’t need him to.

You kissed him again, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the way his body responded to you, the way he trembled beneath your touch. You could feel the tension between you building, the air thick with anticipation.

And then, slowly, you began to move against him, your hips grinding against his in a rhythm that had both of you gasping for breath. Charles’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you, matching your movements with a desperate need.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice ragged.

You didn’t need to ask what he wanted. You could feel it, the desire, the longing, the need for release that had been building between you for so long. You reached between your bodies, your fingers making quick work of the zipper of his pants.

When he finally slid into you, the sensation was overwhelming—an electric jolt that sent shockwaves through your entire body. Charles let out a broken gasp, his hands gripping

as he pulled you closer, his body trembling beneath yours. You could feel the tension in him, every muscle wound tight, as if he were barely holding himself together.

You both paused for a moment, the sheer intensity of the connection stealing the breath from your lungs. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like every nerve in your body had come alive, attuned to him and only him. Charles's forehead pressed against your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin as you both adjusted, savoring the feeling of being so intimately joined.

“God,” he whispered, almost reverently. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

Your fingers slid up into his hair, cradling his head, and you pressed a soft kiss to the top of it, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his voice. “Then take me, Charles. I’m yours.”

That was all the permission he needed.

With a low, guttural sound, Charles’s grip on your hips tightened, and he began to move beneath you, slow at first, a steady rhythm that made you gasp with every roll of his hips. He filled you so perfectly, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. You matched his pace, rocking against him, savoring the slow burn that built between you, the friction pulling you both closer to the edge with every passing second.

Charles’s hands roamed your body, sliding up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, then slipping lower, his fingers digging into your skin with barely restrained intensity. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat.

“Charles…” you gasped, your head tilting back as you gave him more access.

His lips parted against your skin, and you could feel the groan that rumbled in his chest. “I can feel you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Every thought, every emotion—it’s overwhelming.”

You leaned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with need, but there was something else there too—something raw, something so deep and primal that it made your heart race.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whispered, your hands cradling his face. “Feel me. All of me.”

Charles’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if letting go of the barriers he had so carefully constructed. And then, all at once, it hit you—the full weight of his mind brushing against yours, the flood of emotions crashing over you like a tidal wave.

It wasn’t just desire you felt—though that was certainly there, sharp and electric, searing through your veins. It was everything. His longing, his fear, the deep well of sadness that had haunted him for so long, and underneath it all, a love so profound it left you breathless.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as the sensation of his mind intertwining with yours sent a jolt of pleasure through you, heightening everything. The room around you seemed to fade, the only thing that existed in that moment was him—his body, his mind, and the way he was utterly consuming you.

Charles groaned, his hips bucking up into you with a sudden intensity that made you cry out. “I’ve never felt anything like this,” he panted, his voice strained, as though he were on the edge of losing control.

You could barely form words, the pleasure building inside you almost unbearable. “Charles, please…”

He understood without needing to ask. His hands slid down to your hips again, guiding you faster now, his movements more urgent, more desperate. You could feel the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring wound too far, ready to snap.

And then, with one hard thrust, you shattered.

A wave of ecstasy washed over you, white-hot and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in its wake. You cried out his name, your body arching against his, and you could feel him lose himself in the moment too, his hands gripping you so tightly it almost hurt as he followed you over the edge.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop, the only sound in the room your ragged breaths and the thrum of your racing heartbeat. You slumped against Charles, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you both came down from the high.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, as though afraid to let go. You could still feel the echo of his mind against yours, the connection between you not quite severed, and it brought a sense of intimacy that was unlike anything you had ever known.

After a long moment, Charles broke the silence, his voice soft and hoarse. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Neither did I.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes were still dark, but there was a softness to them now, a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You frowned slightly. “For what?”

“For reminding me what it’s like to feel something other than pain.” His voice was filled with a quiet reverence, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a slow, tender kiss. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Charles. I’m here.”

He smiled, a real, genuine smile that made your heart flutter. “I know.”

You shifted slightly, still straddling his lap, and Charles let out a soft groan. The movement stirred something in you both, a flicker of desire reigniting as your bodies remained entwined.

“You know,” you said playfully, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, “we’ve got the whole mansion to ourselves tonight.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his smile turning into something more mischievous. “Is that so?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Maybe we should take advantage of that.”

His breath hitched, and you felt his hands tighten on your hips. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smiled against his skin, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “Then I’ll make it a night you won’t forget.”

With that, you began to move again, slow and teasing, savoring every moment of the night ahead.

[calliesmemes]

YET ANOTHER ROUNDUP OF ASOLUTELY UNHINGED COMEDIC RELIEF

ASSORTED SENTENCE STARTERS FROM AROUND THE INTERNET, including quotes from Tumblr, Pinterest, TikTok, and X (formerly known as Twitter), for when a muse wants to be a bit silly <333

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

❛ I am not merely a clown; I’m the entire damn circus! ❜

❛ I will bite you if you continue this behavior. ❜

❛ Being a dramatic ass bitch isn’t a personality trait; it’s a lifestyle! ❜

❛ Trauma? Oh … you mean, my lore? ❜

❛ why must I cite sources? is it not enough to just say ‘trust me, bro’? ❜

❛ sorry for being a perfect sweetie and a genius it will likely happen again. ❜

❛ forget about touching grass; I need to touch WATER I NEED TO GO INTO THE OCEAN I NEED TO DIVE INTO THE SEA!!! ❜

❛ I’m attracted to men with muppet energy and no i will not be explaining. ❜

❛ you want me to make friends with people? the thing that killed julius caesar? ❜

❛ what’s your birthstone? mine is rock bottom. ❜

❛ I absolutely hate that I’m not bioluminescent. Pathetic. ❜

❛ ohhhhh my god i have got to stop mourning the past or whatever. ❜

❛ you expect me to act like a normal human being? I’m wearing a turtleneck! ❜

❛ i don’t struggle with same sex attraction I’m actually very good at it. ❜

❛ unfortunately i often find out without even getting the chance to fuck around. ❜

❛ I’m bisexual which means that I’m attracted to anybody who can defeat me in physical combat. ❜

❛ all anyone needs to know about me is that i’m a dumbass and i love women. ❜

❛ sorry but philosophers aren’t impressive i came up with stuff like that when i was 12. ❜

❛ I pay my own bills; I can cuss all I want! ❜

❛ I don’t have rizz; I have sad eyes and a weird presence. ❜

❛ my demons are chasing me and they’re doing the Naruto run. ❜

❛ honey we are ALL doomed by the narrative. it's not that serious. have some fun with it. ❜

❛ dating me is like interviewing a psych ward patient. ❜

❛ being a girl with very large brown eyes comes with great responsibility. ❜

❛ i’m autistic in ways that you can’t even begin to imagine. ❜

❛ being a loser may be a phase to you but its a lifestyle for me. ❜

❛ entering a magical portal in the woods would fix me. ❜

❛ I’m lonely but not in a hot mysterious way; more like in a pathetic way. ❜

❛ life is so unserious just say womp womp and move on! ❜

❛ you’re vibing? In this economy? ❜

❛ just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass. ❜

❛ my primary motivators are fear, spite, and aesthetic longing. ❜

❛ sorry about the chaos; I needed attention. ❜

❛ WHAT IS UP GIRL you look foreboding and malicious! ❜

❛ baby i can be your problematic bi wife. ❜

❛ i don’t think any of you understand how important i am to the plot. ❜

❛ what if we are both red flags? what then? ❜

❛ any dream can be a prophetic dream if you’re willing to do some really weird shit. ❜

❛ my hobbies include being right, being gay, and being a hater. ❜

❛ i have a phd in Loving The Color Pink And Also Glitter. ❜

❛ being a menace to society is a full time job and I am dedicated. ❜

❛ my life has been a bouquet of oopsie daisies. ❜

❛ i survive on spite, anxiety, and blasphemy. ❜

❛ if you’re not obsessed with me, why would I wanna be with you? ❜

❛ the hottest thing a man can be is a little afraid of me. ❜

❛ my love language is being a hater. ❜

❛ i don’t get enough credit for acting far less insane than i actually am. ❜

❛ the A in my name stands for always right. ❜

❛ Jesus is my homeboy but God has a lot to answer for and I will continue to be rebellious until he does so. ❜

❛ I’ll see a man with long hair and then remember that I’m not above temptations of the flesh. ❜

❛ i’m going to be honest with you I’m not going to be honest with you. ❜

❛ stop asking me if I’m ok I’ll literally make out with you. ❜

❛ part of my masculine charm is that I’m literally insane. ❜

❛ are you sure those are demons bro? or are they consequences from the choices you made? ❜

❛ i do not identify as a boy or a girl. i identify as a nuisance, an irritant, a fool, and a problem. ❜

❛ praying on someone’s downfall isn’t enough i need to participate in it. ❜

❛ we all need to chill. i won’t do it first but it’s something i noticed. ❜

❛ not to sound like a Victorian woman suffering from hysteria but going to the sea would fix me. ❜

❛ the silly goose convention called; they asked if you could be their keynote speaker. ❜

❛ i deserve unrestricted access to old castles and old churches i want to know all the secrets. ❜

❛ doesn’t matter if you’re cringe or based we’re all just here to suffer. ❜

❛ I’m no longer comedic relief I’m now serious panic. ❜

❛ this is getting difficult to romanticize. ❜

❛ done healing my inner child. next up is my inner teen. her highness needs a sword. ❜

❛ i am God’s silliest experiment. ❜

❛ i’m very vulnerable right now if anyone wants to take advantage of me. ❜

❛ sorry i overshared do you still think im hot? ❜

❛ I can yap for days and still maintain my air of mystery. ❜

❛ good luck sending me mixed signals; I don’t even understand normal ones. ❜

❛ not all of your life decisions have to be smart. some can be purely for cinematic value. ❜

[etherealily]

​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇱​​🇮​​🇳​​🇪​ // 𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘪 𝘷𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘬𝘺

Alexei Vronsky + fem!reader

Warnings : Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

'Cross that line for me, sweetheart?'

Desc. : You are not a temptress, but he is tempted.

══════════════════ ⋆🍷⋆ ══════════════════

It was curious, to say the least, how land was divided. The conch next to you was half your property and half the Vronsky estate's property. It had remained that way for ages.

The waves lapped up the sand, like a heart reaching desperately for its other half as you sat watching the entire ordeal.

The Line - one drawn up every morning and marked by tiny flags as placeholders - had always pissed you off. Intrigued you. What would happen if you were to... just a finger? The hem of your dress. Would you immediately be shot at by concealed snipers? Perhaps you'd have to be tried in court.

You had never really noticed much about this Vronsky character before. Another handsome, manipulative bastard. Nothing much.

In turn, he'd also never noticed you. A face. One of many. Beautiful, of course, he was not blind, but never seen as worthy of his efforts. You were not rebellious. You were not adorably innocent. He could not entice you. He could not corrupt you.

In theory, your paths were never to cross. Different lives, same circles.

The key word : theory.

Because there are moments in life when you know that nothing will ever be the same again, when you know that your proverbial pathway is forever skewed and rerouted. These may appear to you embossed in calamities such as loss and grief, or these may be whispered in your ear by silent smiles, lovestruck looks across a ballroom, or the simple offer of champagne.

Or, in the case of you and Alexei Vronsky, all of the above.

And this was one of those torturous, life-altering moments.

"-And that's when I said, it was just a bloody goat !"

Booming, drunken laughter ensued from your left - the other side of the Line. Fuck. Keep drawing, shut up, keep drawing, shut up.

Your pencil made unintelligible sounds as it scratched out a somewhat passable depiction of the moonlit waves. The screams and guffaws grew louder, but the issue was that if you moved, he'd assume you did it because you were on his side. You were not, but it would look highly suspicious if you fled.

No. They'd quietened down. Meaning either they left - highly unlikely - or, they'd noticed you.

"Oi!"

Don't respond, don't respond.

"You! Pretty girl!"

Drunk men are terrifying. How could such kind words be said in a way that made your skin crawl?

"Mate, maybe she's a mute. Or deaf. Or both."

"I know for a fact she's not. She's got quite a mouth on her, as I can remember from last year- HEY! LADY WITH THE SKETCHBOOK!"

And that was Alexei Vronsky. His story with the goat had ended, apparently. Ugh.

You turned. "Uh, hello."

"ARE YOU A MUTE?" his companion yelled.

"Are you daft? She just answered! How could she be mute?"

Drunk men are also idiotic.

"WHY DON'T YOU COME ON OVER HERE, WE'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO DRAW?"

Bellowing laughter followed.

For fuck's sake.

"I'm alright, THANKS!"

"OI, C'MON! WE DON'T BITE!"

From what you'd heard, he does.

"IS IT 'CAUSE OF THAT LINE?"

"Good night, Count Vronsky.", you called back, as you gathered up your things and stood, dusting the sand off your dress.

"HOLD ON! WAIT!"

"Let'r go, mate, c'mon, we've got a party to get back to."

"I WAS JUST BEING NEIGHBOURLY, YOU BITCH!"

FUCKING HELL.

"What did you just call me?!", you yelled, turning. He looked back at you in a swaying, inebriated haze, trying to focus those glaciers he called eyes on yours in the darkness.

"A witch. You've cast a spell on me, bewitched me, so to speak. You're magic."

Ugh. "Whatever."

"Just come over here, or I'll have to come there, and you wouldn't like that.", he slurred, his friends chortling and egging him on.

Buggering Christ.

"You can't. See?", you replied defiantly, pointing deliberately at the faint white outline of the line they renewed every morning with chalk powder. "That would be trespassing."

"I'm Alexei Vronsky."

What was that supposed to mean?

"So? It's still trespassing. My family's had it in for you for a long time - we'll take you to court."

"Then you come here.", he shrugged, taking an unstable stumble closer. "Cross that line for me, sweetheart? Yeah?"

"You're a creep. And you're drunk."

"You're a beauty. And you're technically trespassing, so I need to punish you."

"HOW am I-"

"Your pencil." Fuck. How is it he's sober enough to notice that, but not sober enough to know that his buddy said 'the coat storage' not 'the goat story'?

"It blew in the wind."

"Yes. To my estate."

"You can keep it."

"Are you sure? Isn't this your, uh, fabulous pencil from Paris you were talking of?"

"No." Yes.

"No?", he frowned, picking it up. NO! Not in his grimy, disgustingly delicate fingers. "Seems pretty French to me."

"Are you actually inebriated or do you simply enjoy pretending to be so that you can get away with things?"

He stopped swaying, pointing the pencil in your direction as he placed the other hand behind his back. "You're sharp."

"So you're sober?"

Drunk Vronsky could have been molded. Sober Vronsky was a cunt.

"More or less. My friends feel left out because they are unable to hold their liquor as well as I can, so I act for them.", he explained, with a small look behind him, at his comrades trying to jump over the waves as they came.

"You should be in theatre, then."

"Adding performer to my resume is just a smidge too over-accomplished.", he retorted, an amused glint in his eye.

Ugh.

"So you're going to hold on to my pencil, then, I'm guessing."

"What? No, I know how much this means to you."

Trap. You'd bet your entire estate it was a trap.

"I will give it back.", he continued as he paced, his hand still placed behind his back as though he were planning war strategies. "On one condition."

See? Trap.

"Dinner. With me. Tomorrow."

Did he think this was a smart way to secure an evening with a woman?

"I won't be here tomorrow." Bold-faced lie, and he could tell.

"Then tonight. Right now." You couldn't think of anything you were doing.

"And I'll get my pencil back."

"Yes."

"That can't be it. There's a catch."

"You are... remarkable. Yes. There is.", he whispered, softly, as though impressed that you caught on. "Champagne. I wish to see you drunk. Drunk, in denial and... ruined."

Lot of darkness for someone who'd just been talking about a goat.

"In denial?"

"Nothing. Just... join me for dinner and drink a little, and I promise you shall have your pencil back."

"I do not drink."

"Then I do not return fancy French pencils."

"I can always purchase another."

"You do not have sentimentality, then?"

"No." Yes.

"I see. Then you may be on your way."

"I don't have to go anywhere. I have every right to be here! This is still my side of The Line."

"Suit yourself, darling."

The silence that followed was torturous and unbearable. "I do not like steak."

"Then you shall have no steak."

══════════════════ ⋆🍷⋆ ══════════════════

His eyes focused on you from across the table, his spoon paused midway above his plate. Eyes like the ocean in a storm. Terrifying but alluring.

"Enjoying your not-steak?"

You hid a smile. "Yes, I am."

He nodded, bringing his spoon up to his lips as he watched you do the same.

"You've left your friends out there?"

"They know not to cross The Line. They will be alright."

"Why is it you wanted to have dinner with me? To trap me into trespassing?"

"I've wanted to speak with you since I first saw you." Lie.

"And I you." Lie.

"What was it you wished to say?"

"Simply a greeting. You?"

"The same."

He set down his spoon, scrunching up his napkin as he stood up and walked the short distance across the table to you, resting his hands on the back of your chair. "You promised you'd drink."

"I did?"

"You did.", he whispers, accepting the newly-uncorked bottle the servant handed him, and pouring it into the glass next to your plate, smoothly. "And you're a good girl who keeps promises, yes?"

You'd heard he loved using such degrading language, but this was the first time you'd seen it firsthand.

"What gave you that idea?"

"I just figured you were of proper breeding and were raised right."

Good answer.

"Well, the words 'I promise' never left my mouth."

"Well-bred women do not look for loopholes. And they most certainly do not argue."

Lord knows where he'd worked up the audacity to brush some hair off your shoulder, but perhaps he was born with it imbibed in his blood.

He narrowed his eyes at your unchanging expression. "Drink."

"I am not done with my food."

He breathes out loudly, taking your plate and thrusting it into the hands of the nearest servant. "Yes, you are."

"I still have dessert."

"No, you don't. Drink."

"This is not champagne. You said champagne."

"And you said you'd drink. We both have uttered falsities. Drink."

"I fear you may be trying to-"

"Poison you? I am not. I would not like to see you die."

Was that supposed to be some form of assurance? Romantic? Caring? That did not have the intended effect.

"Drink, lovely."

It irked you how invested he was to see you drunk.

You wrapped your fingers around the glass, bringing it to your lips. Tilting it upwards, you let the liquor cascade down your throat, and echoes of your sputtering filled the room - it burned.

He laughed heartily, shaking his head as he stroked your shoulder from behind you. "Do you know what that was?"

"No. But I do know I will not take another sip."

"It was vodka, my dear, and in a few moments, you will want more. Trust me."

"I'm not taking another sip of that ghastly liquid!"

"Not even for me? Not even if I begged?"

"You think your begging has any effect on me?"

"Doesn't it? I'm known to be quite persuasive, and- besides, aren't you supposed to be the empathetic one in the family?"

"And where did you hear that?"

"Just about everywhere, really.", he huffed, resting his elbow on the table as he knelt down by your side. "'The youngest is the nicest one. She cares the most. Empathetic.' Surely you are not telling me those are lies?"

"Not lies, but exaggerations, perhaps."

"I am quite literally on my knees, and you should realize how rare that is. Drink more or I will have to force you."

You frowned at him.

"I will do it. Force you. Don't think that because I have let you in my house so courteously that I will continue to be a gentleman with you."

"How could you be? You're nothing but a cad.", you scoffed, as you took another stingingly painful gulp.

He watched the glass, your tongue, your throat, almost mesmerized as he replied. "A cad?", he questioned softly, amused but still fascinated by your every movement.

"A cad.", you nodded, trying not to show how much you were gasping for breath. It hurt, satisfyingly.

"That's a first. No one has ever said 'oh, Alexei Vronsky, that cad'.", he murmured against his palm as he observed you meticulously.

"Then they have met a different person."

"You say this out of personal experience, do you?"

"I've met him. The Alexei Vronsky. He only thinks of one thing."

A lilt of his lips. "And that is?"

"Himself."

He concealed a grin.

"Or perhaps...", he mused, fingertips on the back of your neck as though he were playing your skin as one would a piano. "He is one who shows different versions of himself to different people."

"So he is deceitful."

"I'd say careful."

"Would you, now?"

"I think we put up far too many false pretences anyway. No point in fighting it - it is necessary, to be part of society."

"And what false pretences am I putting up, in your expert opinion?"

He smiled, one too pure to match the description you had so harshly delivered a moment before, but you knew more than most that it was a ruse. "Drink more."

"You're an incredibly demanding man, aren't you? Dine with me. Drink more. Not a single please, nor thank you.", you retorted, as though that could take away from the fact that you obeyed.

"When you are incredibly in demand, you learn to be incredibly demanding."

If ever a smoother talker existed, you'd wager he'd simply be Alexei Vronsky in disguise.

"So tell me, then. Are you a gentleman, a cad, or an opportunist, Count Vronsky?"

You had to steer the conversation back to him, because whatever this vilely beguiling liquor was, it was shooting through your veins at a rate too fast to risk talking about yourself, lest any family secrets spilled out.

"I am whatever you want me to be. And you? Are the rumours true? Are you a virgin, a temptress, or a genius?"

"I am whatever I want to be. For tonight."

"Come morning?", he murmured against your neck as he slipped a finger under a loose strand of hair, and twirled it with such dedication you would think that were his only purpose in life.

"A memory."

"Well, we can't have that.", he pouted, as he stood up, gently taking the glass away from you and finishing the last of it. "What does it take for a memory to stay in the present?"

"Vronsky-"

"A dance, perhaps, as they say you enjoy?"

If you weren't unsure of the functionality of your motor skills in your drunken haze, you'd have punched him right then and there.

"The rumours aren't true, you know?"

"What rumours?", he asked, feigning obliviousness.

He'd just spoken of them, but you were quite sure if you reminded him, he'd attribute it to the vodka. Tell you you were 'surely imagining things, dear one'.

"The ones that led you to come and have a go at me."

"Those? Oh, I didn't believe them for a second.", he grinned, his eyes examining the filthiest, most remote parts of your soul - ones that even you had never been privy to.

A moment washed over the both of you, tauntingly. You looked for any secrets in his eyes, and he looked for any in yours, albeit, more calmly than you.

"Come.", he mumbled, finally, offering his hand for you to get up out of his disgustingly well-crafted chair. "Let's get you back on your side of The Line."

══════════════════ ⋆🍷⋆ ══════════════════

"There. Oh, and here. I am of proper manners.", he added after you'd leapt over The Line, handing your pencil back over to you.

It felt oddly anticlimactic after the events of the evening.

His icy blue eyes - striking, so striking that they pierced you - fell onto your lips for just a moment before landing on the pencil in your hand. "You don't want it back."

"What? Of course I do."

He had you. He was onto you.

"Let me rephrase. You don't need it back."

"Sentimentality. Of course I do."

"You really don't want it to stay in my possession, instead?"

"No."

"Liar.", he smirked, his lips curving deliciously, and you just about lost it. "You know I'll take very good care of it, no? Like I took care of you, tonight. No complaints, yes?"

"Besides the aggressive persuasion to drink a fiery liquid that most probably burnt my throat off, no."

"You exaggerate. Tell me tonight was just another of your dull nights. Tell me I haven't been a source of reprieve from your tedious, mundane days of fakeness and gossip."

You scoffed, refusing to dignify that with a reply, although you already knew that any response- or lack thereof - would be all too telling.

"You cannot, can you?"

There was nothing you hated more than when men were right.

Especially men who were as captivating as Vronsky. It was unnecessary and dangerous.

He beamed, clearly so fucking proud of himself, as he looked out at the waves. "It is a lovely dress you are wearing."

No, it wasn't. It was the most commonplace of dresses one could wear. But he'd say it anyway. Because that was his play.

"Thank you."

"It is disgusting, though."

"In what way? A disgusting display of my wealth, or disgustingly lovely?"

He knelt down next to you from the other side, on the sand. "It is disgusting that such beauty and purity like yours can exist and people continue to slander its name."

Had you been a lesser woman, you'd have fallen for it.

It seemed, however, that he knew you wouldn't. It was confusing, to say the least, whether he was being genuine or being genuinely fake.

"It is how I live."

If you'd read him right, he should say something along the lines of...

"It shouldn't be."

There.

"However... the dress in itself is not disgusting?"

"No, it is spectacular- although, I must say, the woman wearing it is far more ravishing."

Games get boring when they are predictable.

"So. What is it you normally do after parties, since you cannot get drunk? Unless blackmailing women to dine with you and drink your vodka is your usual pastime."

He snickered, although a slight maliciousness infiltrated his gaze for a moment. "It isn't so much a pastime as... an unfortunately common occurence. Perhaps that's why you've got an opinion of me as a - how'd you put it?"

"A cad."

"Ah, yes, a cad. I wonder if your opinion has changed."

That was not hope in his eyes, no. That was a challenge. 'Go ahead, say no. If you dare.', his look said.

"I wonder that, too. Perhaps it will if you keep your promise."

"Promise?", he repeated, raising a brow. He knew. He knew all too well what you were saying.

"False pretences.", you reminded, watching him as he watched the waves distort the light of the moon. "You said you would tell me what false pretences you think I put up."

He was far too close. The incredibly fragile, entirely imaginary Line wouldn't be able to stop him from reaching over and touching your shoulder once more.

"I think... do you want to know what I think?"

"I might."

"I think that you're lying when you brush off the rumours."

"You think I am a slut? A temptress?" Now, suddenly, the monotonous nature of everyday seemed far more interesting than the thousandth iteration of the same conversation.

"No, I think you brushing them off is the lie. They affect you far too much." Alright. That was... progress.

"Do they, now?"

"Very much. And there is one more, as well, although I doubt you will like to hear it. You crave to prove them right."

Congratulations, Alexei Vronsky, you've caught my attention.

"That is an extremely, extremely bold suggestion."

"Yet you are not denying it."

"I do not wish to have my virtue questioned, Vronsky, and us having dinner does not change that."

"But it pokes at it, does it not? A slight scratch, an itch, asking if that is what you really want. It blurred the lines, did it not?"

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

"You're an incredibly delusional man, Count Vronsky."

"A delusional cad."

"Precisely."

You didn't miss the amusement in his tone, the laughter, the way he knew how perfectly right he was.

"Well, this delusional cad did not lie, earlier. You truly have bewitched me, my dear, and I do not think I shall ever turn you down."

He stood up, dusting the sand off his gloves and pants. You stood up too, not out of respect, but out of the desire to relish his face once more.

"Turn me down?"

"When you inevitably ask for me when your marriage is dry, lifeless and torturous."

Good lord. How long had he been- how far ahead was he thinking?

"I will be right here. On this side."

"Why are you so adamant that my marriage will be-"

"Because I'm the one you need. You've broken quite literally every rule tonight. Crossed the line, fraternized with the enemy, drank unfamiliar alcohol that could so easily have been poisoned or used against you."

"How does that make you the one I-"

"I'm taking you out of your comfort zone. Freeing you. What more would one want from a lover?"

So casual with that word. Lover. As though that was all you two had been, since the beginning.

"Have I mentioned that you're-"

"Delusional? Yes, you have. But you have also yet to mean it."

Who the hell allowed this man to be so confident?

His thumb rubbed against your cheek in pure tenderness that you are well-prepared for - you've learnt over the years he's unpredictable, and since his mercurial nature was the only predictable thing about him, it was easy for you to guess his next move.

Or at least, figure out that it would be the exact opposite of the tone of his words.

"I can help you, you see?", he said, words so faint they were almost whisked away in the sea breeze. "Honest."

"Was that the point of tonight?"

"No, the point of tonight was to get you so utterly inebriated that you would tell me your family's secrets, and hence, your own."

That was the only thing that had come out of his mouth all night that you could guarantee was the truth.

"And since that did not happen, you are doing this?"

"No, I couldn't let that happen. Unwrapping you, figuring you out, it is far too intriguing a task to complete with a glass of vodka and enticing words. I want to spend years, decades, the rest of my life, performing this task, revealing you slowly and addictively, until I have lost myself or driven myself crazy trying to reach the core of your soul."

The silence kissed you two over and over until you couldn't take it anymore. "You are terrifyingly good at this."

He almost looked like he was about to say 'at what', but it seemed his mood had turned too serious to coax a half-hearted insult out of you.

"And you are terrifying. You are like the eye of a storm, intricately, almost... sinisterly drawing me closer."

"I'm not sure what you want me to-"

His lips devoured your words, and you could not help but think that this night had progressed far too rapidly to your liking. He was a stranger, a random man who you shared nothing but a flimsy little line with, but here you were, letting him kiss you, letting him ruin you, letting him convince you with his words that this was a good idea.

"Come on, darling.", he murmured against your lips, his eyes still half-lidded in a triumphant haze. "Cross the line. I promise, I'll take care of you."

You surrendered, and all you could do was hope that his beauty was simply angelic in nature, and was not designed for the sole purpose of ruining you and every iota of self-respect you had.

Hard to tell, but perhaps he had meant it that way.

[dokidokitsuna]

The Diary of Penny Polendina

The other day I was inspired to try working on a different NeverFell Projects installment, one that would probably be a lot shorter and quicker to write, because it's not like I care that deeply about Penny, right??

Well, I was incredibly wrong. ^^; So wrong that I'm actually having trouble with this story now...essentially, Penny goes through a bit of a 'rebellious phase' (gross oversimplification, but that's all you get for now) and there are, surprisingly, a lot of aspects of that character arc that I want to explore. Plus, a pivotal connection with Pyrrha, the climax of which I haven't quite figured out yet...

God only knows if I'll be able to finish, or if I'll just write the first 2/3rds of the story and leave it at that. But I figured I might as well warm up by talking about the designs. ^^

Penny's new look is basically 'Disney's Pinocchio, color picked from Arthur Watts' character design'~

I didn't necessarily want her to look evil, just...bolder. Like she specifically picked 'daring' items that maybe her father or Ironwood's PR team would rather she didn't wear, at least not compared to the more innocent frilly pastels she had on before. Between the chest window, midriff, and short sleeves, she's actually showing a lot more skin than before, despite still being 90% covered up. ^^;

Those multicolored wrist accessories are prototype weapons invented by Dr. Watts, that mix and pressurize Dust from the cartridges to cast "artificial magic". This way I get to do a bit of the 'Winter Maiden Penny' stuff in this Vol. 3-locked AU~

Penny's magic usage is one of the things that stumped me when writing this story...In NeverFell, magic isn't just glowy rainbow lasers or weather powers-- it essentially allows the user access to any conceivable semblance at any time; its potential is limitless. Being a beginner, Penny would probably just come up with one signature 'spell' to use in tandem with her Floating Array...but I can't decide what I want her to do. ^^; I think I'd like for her to do something connected to dance, because I feel like that's something unique to her, the way she dances with her weapons before striking. Nobody ever points out how the "robot" in the cast is the one who chooses to spend energy on unnecessary movements that aren't even used to maneuver around an enemy; they're just cute and fun. ^^ I think that's a great encapsulation of who Penny is~

Redesigning Pyrrha is always super difficult, because her original design is so perfect. But I like this end result a LOT. ^^ I may need to adjust the pant legs a bit, but overall it feels like a very believable alt outfit that keeps the spirit of the character.

Pyrrha is another one of the stumbling blocks in this story, because I'm now forced to create at least one malleable personality trait for her-- i.e. one that isn't intrinsically tied to Jaune and/or the plot. Something that she could actually take into a meaningful relationship with a different character... I had the idea to expand her "I'm sorry!" gag into a real guilt complex, where she has trouble letting go of instances where she's made mistakes or hurt someone. In this case, dismembering Penny 1.0 and essentially ending her life. :T She seeks out 2.0 in a desperate effort to make things right, and ends up helping her with ...things, and growing as people or whatever, and all that other stuff I have yet to write. ^^;

I just realized that Pyrrha could use her polarity semblance to pull Penny towards her in a situation where they need to reach each other...that's so cute. ^^ I gotta remember that~

[magical-reid]

The Ravenclaw and the Shadowed Slytherin

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Ravenclaw!Reader

Warnings: None

Prompt: 8: “I’d feel much better if you’d let me walk you home.”

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: During a late-night patrol at Hogwarts, you unexpectedly cross paths with Sebastian Sallow, the notorious Slytherin troublemaker, who leads you to a hidden, magical room to escape the noise of the castle. As you share a quiet, vulnerable moment, you begin to see a different side of Sebastian, realizing there's more to him than his rebellious exterior, and the tension between you both deepens, hinting at something unspoken.

The chilly autumn wind swept through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, its cold fingers slipping through the cracks of the ancient stone walls and carrying with it the secrets only the castle seemed to know. The night air held a peculiar stillness, one that was broken only by the occasional creak of a door or the distant rustle of leaves outside. The patrol schedule for the Ravenclaw prefects had landed you with the late-night rounds again, but you didn’t mind. There was something about the castle at night that felt different—a world untouched by the chaos of daytime, where peace and mystery intertwined, and a sense of something older, something magical, seemed to linger in the air. It was eerie, in a way, but comforting all the same.

The faint glow of your wand illuminated the path ahead, its light casting long, wavering shadows on the stone floors as you turned a corner near the library. The silence of the corridors stretched out before you, broken only by the soft shuffle of your footsteps. It was almost unnerving, the way the castle could feel both alive and empty at the same time, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. You sighed, your thoughts interrupted by the faint sound of hurried footsteps from somewhere down the hallway.

You straightened, preparing yourself for another encounter with a student out past curfew. Honestly, you were used to it by now. Patrolling the castle at night often felt like a never-ending cycle of reprimands, but there was a strange satisfaction in the routine.

“Lumos Maxima,” you muttered, your wand flaring to life with a bright, steady light. It cut through the gloom, revealing the last person you expected to see: Sebastian Sallow, the notorious troublemaker from Slytherin. A smirk played at the edges of his lips, one that made you sigh before you could even stop yourself.

“Sebastian,” you said sternly, lowering your wand slightly, though the light still bathed his face in its glow. “Do you ever not break the rules?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he shot back with a glint of amusement in his dark eyes, leaning casually against the stone wall as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “Patrolling the castle at night? Sounds suspiciously like sneaking around to me.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms in a stance you knew would look perfectly authoritative. “I’m a prefect. This is literally my job, Sebastian.”

“And I’m just out for a midnight stroll. Coincidence, really,” he said, still wearing that infuriatingly confident smirk that never seemed to fade, no matter the situation.

“Coincidence, sure. What are you really up to?” You raised an eyebrow, the question slipping out before you could stop it. The tone was more curious than accusing, though you were well aware that Sebastian had a talent for getting into trouble.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, the playful spark in his eyes dimming slightly, as if something deeper had momentarily surfaced. “Not here,” he said, his voice suddenly a little quieter, his gaze flicking down the corridor as if checking for anyone who might overhear. “If you’re so curious, follow me.”

Your first instinct was to refuse, to stick to your patrol and keep him on track for his inevitable lecture. But there was something about the way he said it, something about the brief moment of vulnerability in his eyes, that made you hesitate. Against your better judgment, you nodded and followed him down the darkened hallway, deeper into the castle. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t a coincidence at all, but something else entirely—something that might be more dangerous than simply breaking curfew.

He led you to a hidden door near the entrance to the Undercroft. The air seemed to change as he muttered a spell, and the concealed door revealed itself to you, creaking open with a soft, almost inviting sound.

“Sebastian, if this is some sort of trick—”

“It’s not,” he cut you off, his voice a touch more serious than you were used to hearing. “Just trust me.”

You followed him into the room beyond. It was darker inside, the only light coming from a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to pulse gently from the walls. The Undercroft was rumored to be a place of quiet contemplation, a room that only a few students knew about. You’d heard whispers from other prefects, but you had never ventured inside before. As the door shut behind you, the quiet weight of the space settled around you, and for a moment, you felt almost out of place.

Sebastian turned to face you, his usual bravado replaced by something much softer, much less certain. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the light from your wand casting shadows across his face.

“I come here to think,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it before. “Away from the noise of the common room, the expectations, everything.” His eyes, usually so full of mischief, seemed to carry a weight tonight, one that he wasn’t used to letting others see.

Your expression softened, the sternness you normally carried starting to slip away. This wasn’t the same Sebastian Sallow who loved to push everyone’s buttons. This was someone who seemed to carry more on his shoulders than he cared to admit.

“And tonight?” you asked, your voice gentler than before.

His jaw tightened as he looked down at the ground for a moment, his hand fidgeting with the sleeve of his robes. “Tonight… I needed a distraction,” he admitted, his eyes lifting to meet yours. “But instead, I ran into you.” He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind you hadn’t expected.

You arched an eyebrow, not sure if you were being teased again. “Is that a compliment?”

“Take it however you like, Ravenclaw,” he replied with that same teasing tone, but there was something different about it now. Less smug, more uncertain.

You couldn’t help but smile, though you didn’t quite understand the shift between you both. The air between you seemed charged, like something unspoken was hanging in the balance. It wasn’t just the late hour or the secrecy of the Undercroft anymore—it was something deeper.

The silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it was the kind of silence that made you realize just how little you actually knew about him. You found yourself studying him—really studying him—for the first time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faintest hint of a scar just beneath his ear, the way his dark eyes seemed to hold storms behind them, like there was more to him than anyone had ever bothered to look for.

“You’re not what people think you are,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

His gaze snapped to yours, surprise flickering across his face. “And what do people think I am?”

“A troublemaker. A Slytherin who only looks out for himself,” you said, your voice almost wistful as you thought of the reputation he wore like a shield.

He studied you for a long moment, as if weighing your words carefully. “And what do you think?”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his question pressing against your chest. What did you think of him? Of the person behind the smirks and the rule-breaking? You inhaled deeply, the answer coming to you more clearly than you expected.

“I think…” You paused, gathering your thoughts carefully. “I think there’s more to you than you let on.”

His eyes softened for a fraction of a second before he stepped closer, and the space between you seemed to shrink. The tension was palpable, crackling in the air around you both like some unspoken understanding forming.

“For a Ravenclaw, you’re not half as predictable as I thought,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was something warm in it now.

“And for a Slytherin,” you teased, “you’re… infuriatingly charming.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted it. But Sebastian’s smirk returned, albeit with less edge this time. His eyes held something softer now—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Careful, prefect,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “You’re starting to sound like you might actually like me.”

“And you’re starting to sound like you care what I think.”

Sebastian chuckled, and this time, there was no teasing bite to it. Just warmth, like a quiet acceptance that settled between you. For a moment, you both just stood there in the Undercroft, the space around you seeming to hum with a quiet magic neither of you could quite define.

“Maybe I do,” he said softly, his voice unusually sincere.

The tension that had been building between you both felt almost tangible, like a spell that had been cast but not yet broken. Neither of you moved for a long moment, the silence stretching in a way that made everything else seem insignificant. The curfew, the patrols, the rules—they didn’t matter here. It was just the two of you, standing on the edge of something neither of you could name but both of you could feel.

Finally, you spoke again, breaking the silence but not the connection. “Come on,” you said, turning toward the door. “I’ll walk you back to the dungeons before someone catches us.”

“And here I thought you’d be dragging me to the Headmaster’s office,” he teased, though the warmth in his voice was unmistakable.

“Not tonight,” you replied, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

He followed you, his footsteps falling in sync with yours. As you reached the door, the world outside seemed to come rushing back to you, but you didn’t want to leave the bubble you’d created together. You stopped just as you were about to step out, your breath catching in your chest. Slowly, you turned to face him again, your heart racing in a way that made you feel suddenly vulnerable.

Sebastian didn’t say anything—he just looked at you, his dark eyes searching yours. The tension between you two was unbearable now, and before either of you could speak, he closed the gap between you. His hand came up to rest gently against your cheek as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was tentative at first, as if both of you were waiting for the other to pull away. But neither of you did.

The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, as if neither of you wanted to let go of this moment. For once, the world outside didn’t matter. The rules, the house rivalries, the patrols—none of it mattered. Only this moment. Only him. Only you.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and a little dazed, Sebastian gave you a lopsided grin.

“I’m not sure that’s allowed,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

“Does it matter?” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cool night air.

“Not tonight,” you replied softly, your heart still racing.

And as you both walked back through the quiet halls of Hogwarts, you realized that maybe, just maybe, rules weren’t the most important thing after all.

[empthy1]

hihi!! can i be your 🖤anon :)

could i request a rio vidal x fem!reader angst to fluff 🤭!! (i need more angst and smth to cheer me up after the new episode i fear...)

Death’s Invasion - rio vidal x fem!reader

tw: death, hanging briefly mentioned, threatening w/ knives (Rio being threatened), angst

sorry this took so long :( started it about a month and a half late. and yes ofc you can be 🖤 anon. 1k words.

The first time you saw her was just out of the corner of your eye. You’d been collecting herbs, thumbing through a worn, small book to find what exactly your coven needed. You were a small group, lead by an adept, old witch dedicated to the craft.

You see the flicker of a dark green cloak, your eyes darting to catch a glimpse of a bone-white jaw and teeth. It’s gone before you know it, but the settling feeling in your gut doesn’t leave.

Then, you hear a scream.

Your Lady died that day. Hung, strung up on the tree by raving men with pitchforks and torches. The scream you heard emerged from one of your sisters at the sight of their brutality.

She was silenced next. One by one, your sisters fell without so much as a muted cry.

By the time you’d crashed into the clearing, torn by wayward, reaching branches and bruised from a rather harsh impact with a tree in your rush, they’d all been taken already, not a wisp to be heard.

You buried them that day, circling the place they’d died—the camp you’d rested at. North, South, East, West. Your sisters, laid to sleep eternally. At least their magic still thrummed, forming a protective circle.

It is not the perfect, measured type, humming with energy carefully embedded into the spell. No—it’s angry, spitting. It protests your leaving, but allows it as long as you don’t stray to far, the threads of its power lingering in the back of your mind and screaming danger whenever someone so much as walks behind you.

The urgent nature of the magic calmed as the years went on. Soothed by the lack of threats, your placating offerings, and your strengthening magic, its gripping, frantic desire to keep you safe relaxing. You could finally venture into town, leave the boundaries of the unintentional spell and engage with the descendants of those who killed your coven.

It struck you, when the angry men you'd once seen vital and raving now reduced to withering sacks of flesh and bone. If they recognized you, they were unable to do more than huff out a shuddering breath between dry, crackling lips and raise a shaking, wrinkled finger.

You may have driven at least one to a not-so-early grave. You strive not to feel satisfaction in their suffering (but are unable to suppress the rebellious glimmer of curling retribution.)

That pleasure, which emerged light below your ribcage, suddenly tumbles down past the cavity into your stomach, heavy with dread.

It's the skeleton woman again. You don't just catch a mere glimpse, no—this time she stares straight at you. Her eyes are deep, intense, hidden by her low-hanging hood. The lower half of her face is skinless and eerie, her jawbone and exposed teeth an uncanny vision in the low light.

On such a nourishing day, with spring showers just now starting, such a grating show of death is sure to unsettle even a witch to your caliber.

Another issue? The deathly woman doesn't leave. She lingers in alleys and rests behind shaded stalls, hidden from the view of the unpowered but glaringly direct in her intentions. She wants you to look at her. She appears, again and again, in front of your gaze—no matter how often you avert your eyes.

You feel the magic rise in the back of your mind, sparking up your spine despite the distance. You've learned to listen to it. So when it chants run, run, run and filters a spell through your head, you don't hesitate.

Salva me, mater, et sorores. Veni ad me in tempore necessitatis et omnes homines violentos expelle—

You must look crazy, tearing away from the market on clicking boots, cloak tugged tight around you. Even through the thick hood you can feel the skeletal gaze on you. It makes your head twitch, jerking right involuntarily.

The cobblestones quickly turn to gravel, and then to dirt. As you cross the threshold and step over the glowing line, the tension releases. The knot forming in the base of your neck loosens. You didn't even notice how tight your shoulders were until they dropped.

Yet, you barely breath a sigh of relief before the frantic calls of danger start up again. Whirling around, you're faced with a different sight—but it's undeniably the same woman.

"You don't need to run from me. I'll get you anyway." The skeletal woman has a face now, black cloak switched out for a lighter, kinder green. Her tone is eerie, but not entirely threatening.

Still, the protection spell tingles. You wrench the knife from the holster hanging from the woman's waist and press it to her neck. The sudden motion makes her back impact a nearby tree. She doesn't groan, instead just giggling as your forearm settles against the side of her neck.

"Shh, brave thing. I'm not here for you now."

A relief, but not at all comforting. When Death herself stalks you armed to the teeth, a peaceful resolution is never the first thought.

"C'mon. I'm just here to study the magic. This rite is strong. They didn't even do any rituals. I want to know why it happened. I saw it, but I didn't feel it." She huffs, voice rumbling against your forearm. She's more petulant than expected, for a immortal being.

After a moment of silent thought, against all judgement, you release her. Your hand lowers, taking the knife away—leaving behind the faintest drip of red blood. It's already healing. She scoops up the crimson liquid and suckles on her finger, humming pleasantly.

"Haven't bled in a while." She saddles up behind you as you walk, almost stalking you back to your cottage. Her hand stalls you, tugging you back by the hip before you cross the threshold. "You make me curious to see where this leads."

...guess you have a new roommate. For the foreseeable future.

[gilverrwrites]

at this point we should give dick a sionis!reader and call it a day 💀 all the batboys have one now except for him (but I have no idea what his plot would look like compared to the other three)

Yeah, Jason and Tim dating with his kids and now Bruce sleeping with his ex-wife, Roman’s hatred of them is becoming more and more justified. . Can I also just add that Roman would be the most miserable girl dad. Imagining him with his 3 bastard girls and ex wife who he's still hung up on but can't win back fills me with joy and its becoming a full on AU in my head.

Anyway, okay, so hear me out with my pitch; Jason/The Rebellious child, Tim/The Favourite child, Dick/The forgotten child

Specifically, one who has tried so hard all their life to not be. Even more specifically, a dancer, a singer, maybe a triple threat. It’s not that you need the attention, you’re good at what you do, you get the parts, you have a small fanbase, you’ve won some minor awards. But just once you’d like to look out into the crowd and see your father or your siblings out there cheering for you.

You try so hard to be supportive of the rest of your family, always there for everybody. You listen to your rebellious sibling and your father bitch about each other constantly, you help them mend their bridges. Rebel is notoriously flaky, but you always step up and cover for them.

You help the favourite study. You were the only one who knew when they started seeing Tim and you helped keep it a secret.

You attend all your fathers parole hearings, all his club launches. You wear the stupid clothes and play the happy, smiling child whenever he wants to show his kids off at events.

But no matter how much you do for everyone, they never return the favour. As soon as you bring up an audition you need help with or a new show you’re in, everybody dips. Nobody takes you up on the free tickets you can get them. When you were training, Roman footed the bills and told all his buddies about his kid the dancer/singer/whatever, but not once did he show up to a single one of your recitals.

But one day, at one of his stupid galas, Dick Grayson catches you dancing by yourself on the patio outside and is instantly smitten.

“Where’s your dance partner?”

“Oh, haha. Can’t you see him? He’s right here.” You jokingly gesture to the air.

“Ah of course, hello sir. Mind if I cut in? Not at all, please be my guest.” He puts on a silly voice as he answers himself before offering a hand to you. “May I?”

And you’re sceptical at first, but you take his hand, and you let him whisk you off. You dance around in circles all evening, laughing and joking, and getting to know each other. You have the night of your life, but dating Dick Grayson seems like a bad idea, it’s not that you don’t want it, it’s just that your dad would so not approve. So, you resolve to move on, but will always remember that magical night.

Until a few weeks later, you step on stage and spot him front and centre in the audience looking elated. And although it's downright euphoric for you to see him there, you're not prepared to face him. Alas, he comes to your dressing room straight after the show anyway. Reaching you before you can sneak out, and confronting you about never calling him back.

You explain your hesitations and that golden child part of his brain understands, his heart aches for you. But he so selfishly wants to see more of you, so he gently mentions how your dad doesn’t seem to care what you do... and hey, maybe he’s out of line here and if you want to tell him to take a hike he will but all he wants is a chance to be a part of your life, can’t you spare him one date? Please?

And damn is he hard to say no too. So, you concede. And one date becomes two, then three, and so on…

It doesn’t take long for you to fall hard and fast for him. C’mon who wouldn’t?

He’s handsome, and charming, funny, smart, and superb dancer to boot.

But what really does it for you is how badly he really does wants to be a part of your life. Dick Grayson wants to dance with you anywhere and everywhere; At galas, in the rain on the way home from a date, in your kitchen at 3AM.

Dick Grayson could listen to you talk about anything and everything all day long. Doesn’t have to be performance related, but he likes it best when it is. He especially loves reminiscing about his circus days with you.

And though his job may get in the way sometimes, Dick Grayson wants to be front row at every single one of your shows. He wants to clap the loudest, and bring you flowers, and tell all of his friends, THAT’S MY BOO up there! From the moment he met you, Dick Grayson could never, ever forget you.

How we feeling about this concept?

[bisclavret]

there's a palpable missing link in gwen's characterization that the show has almost hinted at but never explored in a satisfactory way and after hours of riffing with @morganadismay i think it might be summarized with just. ambition? on a show as juvenile in its moral politics as bbc merlin ambition might be seen as a hunger for something and therefore a sinful bad thing so gwen just seemed to kind of seamlessly and elegantly rise to power, but honestly when you attribute a sense of ambition to her, the entire character that is guinevere clicks into place:

she has the most solid moral compass out of everyone in that castle - and she knows it. by her late teens she is already lady morgana's servant (morgana who, at this point, is the progressive and rebellious "adoptive" daughter of the king - perhaps someone to stay close to if you want to see reform?) and she flocks to merlin the second she sees him stand up to the prince. then, as soon as she realizes prince arthur actually listens to what she has to say and that it has an effect on his actions (makes him more progressive, open-minded, and class conscious) she subtly moves her interest from merlin and morgana onto him.

((affection is a propelling part of all these decisions, of course, anyone that's seen how gwen treats people doesn't doubt that it's with genuine love and kindness and care for their well-being. i'm just trying to argue that there's more to her than that, or rather that it's precisely this love that is driving her ambition as well:))

the show is written in such a way that only one person per episode can have a braincell so gwen's cleverness is often cast to the wayside so another character can have a go at using their brain, but we can all agree she is overall the smartest character out of the core four. and when you're as smart and full of love and worry as gwen is, it's intolerable to acutely feel the kingdom's injustices and do nothing about them. people often talk about how gwen is impossible to upset or make angry because she is just that empathetic and understanding and can easily put herself in people's shoes. these are definitely elements of gwen's personality, but i don't care how empathetic you are, when someone kills your dad - a sweet, innocent man - in the name of tyrannical ethnic cleansing of people with magic, you do not, you cannot brush it away. especially if you are as clever and empathetic as we know gwen to be.

and yet that's what she seems to do. in one of the most tone-deaf and frustrating and nonsensical conversations in the entire show, she tells merlin she would not kill uther, the mad tyrant king that just killed her fucking dad and is killing so many people on a daily basis, because then she would be just as bad as him. and i do think she believes this. because that's how she was written. however, there were other ways for her to show her displeasure with the royal family after they killed her literal dad. and she chose none. instead, she stayed close and hardly ever acknowledged her huge, enormous loss (elyan had been away for years and she had no mother to speak of - they killed her only family).

because she's strong? sure. but have you lost a loving parent? strength has nothing to do with what that sort of grief does to you. and i think it is precisely through that grief that gwen makes her choice to stick around and see this relationship with the royal family through as far as it can go. she lets her anger solidify into determination - determination to turn arthur into a better version of his father so these injustices have a chance at stopping once he's king.

she lets go of lancelot. she becomes more feminine, her hair longer and her corsets tighter every time we see her. she tolerates arthur's indecisiveness and brashness and morgana's increasing outbursts of cruelty. she never fully seems to expect to become queen, always quick to offer to let go of arthur for The Greater Good (merlin could take a page from her book), but that's precisely what makes her ambition a good trait. it's steadfast, it's logical, and the end goal isn't power for the sake of power. it's a slow, borderline sisyphean climb up the social ladder until she has stable enough footing to enact the reform that her contemporaries were too undiplomatic to achieve.

TL;DR you cannot get where gwen gets by the end of the show through true love or luck or a series of accidents. it would be a disservice to gwen's character to ignore the hints of calculating ambition in her actions and to pretend the compromises she had to make to get where she ends up were easy. what's amazing about her is that she is the sort of lovely, warm woman whose kindness could get taken advantage of until there is nothing left, but instead she turned her love and wisdom into an asset that helped her, essentially, win the game of thrones. i just wish the writers had let this side of her shine through.

[frraum]

The OurCats team

(a play on "outcast") unites characters bound by a common trait: rebellion against established rules.

OurCats is more than just a team; it's a group of unique fairies united by a desire to break the rules and live on their own terms. They are linked by a rebellious spirit and a yearning for freedom, a pursuit for which each has paid a price.

Kuro (20): (Silhouette in the art) For now, a mystery shrouded in darkness. Soon we will learn what brought this fairy to the ranks of OurCats.

Its founder is Alisa, a former angel, a fairy of cold flame.

Alisa (20): Alisa was Niru's guardian angel, but, demanding freedom, she went against the heavenly system. Alisa's banishment caused Niru's misfortune – an accident that cost him an arm and part of his memory. In the world of Magix, Alisa became Niru's caregiver, striving to be his true friend, sister, and protector.

Alisa reluctantly speaks of her past. Before life in the mortal world, she lived in the spirit world, born to a mortal mother – a keeper of cold flame. War destroyed their kingdom, and only those with magical energy entered the spirit world, gaining an angelic form. In Magix, Alisa finally unleashed her magical abilities.

Alisa is a hyperactive and cheerful girl, yet surprisingly modest. Her emotions bubble, bursting out in bright flashes of laughter (often nervous), irritation, or sudden embarrassment. An inability to control herself leads her to accidentally overstep boundaries or say something inappropriate, after which she instantly retreats into silent awkwardness. This expressiveness is her defining characteristic: Alisa expresses joy with leaps, and irritation with a torrent of rapid speech and clumsy jokes.

Sometimes an evening's joy is followed by a whole day of worrying about looking foolish. She sincerely strives to connect with everyone and is deeply upset if she fails. Awkwardness is her constant companion: falls, clumsy words that make her self-conscious – all part of her character.

Alisa's paradox lies in her love for brightness and brilliance: she adores cartoons and horror movies, hates fashion, but enjoys creating her own unique looks, using glitter and pastel eyeshadow, drawing patterns underneath, while avoiding full makeup.

She loves 2000s fashion but hates stilettos.

Her transformation outfit is pink and coral.

Emberly (19): A blue-eyed blonde with a bob haircut, a fairy of jewels and an heiress to the royal family, but she has no desire to be a princess.

This glamorous and active busybody, who adores dancing, dreams of becoming a dancer on a television show. Her cheerful and friendly nature is sometimes hidden behind a mask of arrogance – a tactic developed in childhood to protect herself from pressure. Despite this, Emberly respects herself and her freedom. Her wardrobe is an explosion of blues and pinks: trendy tops, mini-skirts with short leggings, bracelets, earrings, and sneakers.

Emberly can be too loud, although she tries to follow etiquette – childhood traumas prevent her from always controlling this. She's squeamish, afraid of insects and reptiles, loves gossip, horoscopes, and elaborate schemes.

Despite her craving for attention, she doesn't put herself above others. Her mischievous and goofy nature unexpectedly combines with the ability to roll her eyes and point out someone else's foolishness, making her resemble a typical princess (it's best not to mention this!). Sometimes she's a total tomboy!

Emberly's magical outfit is a blue shorts and mid-sole boots.

Sylvia (Syl, 19): A fairy of liquids, with blue-green eyes and red hair accented with yellow streaks. A former witch, banished from Pixieville for experimenting with blood magic on pixies. This experience, however, gave her a unique bond with the elf, Uni, who shares her love of mischief and adores fashion.

Syl is an intelligent high-achiever, but her sharpness and penchant for sarcasm hide her loyalty to her friends. She dreams of completely controlling her magic, including manipulating liquids and the blood magic available to her during the full moon. Her everyday look is a sleeveless rainbow sweater and a denim skirt.

She adores toads and frogs, constantly bringing them to her room after walks and training in the swamps. However, they invariably escape, and Syl loses them.

The girl is quick-tempered, but tries not to cross the line, limiting herself to barbs and cutting remarks. At other times, she might unexpectedly crack a joke, consult with her friends, or sincerely share something personal. She treats those close to her with respect, genuinely ashamed of her outbursts, although admitting this is difficult for her.

Sylvia strives to achieve maximum power to prove to everyone that she's not crazy or weird, as many believe. Although… maybe she is a little weird, but also powerful!

Her transformation outfit is emerald green, with a short skirt and boots.

Arian (18): A fairy of nightmares, a dark-skinned girl with white and coral hair. Unlike the others, Arian is the most level-headed member of the team. A former royal guard, she was banished because of the power of her magic, capable of harming those around her.

Arian is straightforward, kind, responsive, and sometimes amusingly pedantic. Her love of glamour contrasts with her rationality.

From a wealthy family, Arian adores luxury and glamour, yet remains sincere and natural. She's ready to support and advise, although she rarely asks for help, considering herself strong and without weaknesses. Her pride and joy is a pink limousine, which, however, she can't drive. When nervous, Arian heavily applies lipstick.

Brave and responsible, she isn't squeamish unless it threatens her expensive dresses and impeccable manicure; her hair is always perfectly styled. For Arian, a true beauty is someone who can stand up for themselves.

Therefore, she rejects any advances. Her goal is to be glamorous for herself and everyone, not for someone's attention. Even in critical situations, she strives to maintain calm and composure.

A former royal guard, Arian was banished after her powers were deemed too dangerous and traumatic for others. Skilled in combat, she prefers to fight with her feet to avoid damaging her manicure. At night, Arian accumulates the nightmares of those near her in her amulet. The stronger the nightmare, the more powerful the monster she can materialize from it in reality.

The presence of witches in her family has resulted in a partially dark nature to her magic, considered light only due to her fairy lineage. Arian herself doesn't want to be a witch, despising the mundane magic and tasteless fashion of witches.

Her transformation outfit is a vibrant purple suit with long boots.

Together, these five fairies form the unique OurCats team, ready to challenge the world, protecting their freedom and friendship.

[wonderlanddreamer]

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary - The high you get from drugs is nothing compared to the high you get from Eddie Munson.

Warnings - 18+ Only. Drug use. Explicit Sexual Content. Intense Sensory Experiences. Consensual Intimacy Under Influence. MDNI.

Word Count - 3246

The flickering neon lights of Eddie’s makeshift sanctuary in the trailer park cast a kaleidoscope of colours across the room, blending seamlessly with the thin, curling wisps of smoke emanating from the joint loosely held between his fingers. The air was thick with the scent of marijuana, creating a hazy veil that softened the edges of reality. 

The room itself was a dimly lit haven, a cocoon of muted hues and muffled sounds that provided a perfect escape from the relentless, harsh realities of Hawkins. On the walls, vibrant posters of iconic metal bands like Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Judas Priest proudly displayed their rebellious spirit, their edges curling slightly from the humidity and time. Each poster told a story of defiance, passion, and a love for music that transcended the mundane.

Scattered across the room, an eclectic mix of knick-knacks cluttered the shelves, each item seemingly random yet holding a personal significance to Eddie. A worn-out Dungeons & Dragons manual lay open on the table, its pages marked with notes and sketches from countless campaigns. A collection of vintage vinyl records stacked haphazardly in one corner, their covers worn but their contents treasured, added to the room's nostalgic charm.

The centrepiece of Eddie's sanctuary was an old, beat-up leather couch, its cushions sunken in from years of use but still providing a comforting embrace. A faded tapestry hung behind it, depicting a fantastical scene of dragons and wizards, adding to the room's chaotic yet magical ambiance. String lights, intertwined with the neon signs, draped across the ceiling, casting a gentle, almost dreamlike glow over the space.

This sanctuary, though chaotic in appearance, was a testament to Eddie's spirit—a blend of rebellion, creativity, and a longing for something beyond the mundane. Here, amidst the haze and the flickering lights, he could lose himself in his thoughts, music, and dreams, finding solace in the chaos he had come to call home.

"Here," Eddie said, passing the joint to you with a devilish grin, his eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and challenge. The neon lights cast a shifting glow across his face, accentuating the wild, untamed mane of hair that framed his features. He looked every bit the troublemaker everyone warned you about, but there was something undeniably magnetic about him—a whirlwind of rebellious energy that drew you in like a moth to a flame.

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze locking onto his. Those mischievous eyes seemed to see right through you, past the façade you wore for the world. Eddie Munson was trouble, that much was clear, but tonight, trouble felt like exactly what you needed. The weight of reality had been pressing down on you, and the promise of escape, even if just for a few hours, was too tempting to resist.

"Why not," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you took the joint from his hand. The moment it touched your lips, you felt a rush of anticipation. Inhaling deeply, the smoke filled your lungs, spreading a warmth through your chest that was both foreign and exhilarating. You exhaled slowly, watching the wisps of smoke curl and dance in the air before dissipating.

The sensation was immediate, a buzzing in your head that made the world around you soften and blur. The sharp edges of reality dulled, replaced by a comforting haze that seemed to wrap you in a gentle embrace. You sank deeper into the worn-out couch, the fabric rough and frayed under your fingertips, a stark contrast to the softness enveloping your mind.

Eddie chuckled, the sound rich and comforting in the otherwise silent night. It was a laugh that spoke of shared secrets and unspoken understanding. "See? Not so bad, right?" he said, his voice tinged with a playful yet reassuring tone.

"Yeah," you agreed, the words slipping out slower and more languid than you intended. Your mind felt as though it was floating, untethered and free. "Not so bad."

Eddie leaned back, his own head resting against the couch, eyes half-closed in contentment. The room was a symphony of muted colours and sounds, a perfect backdrop for this moment of shared escape. The flickering neon lights continued their dance, casting shifting shadows that seemed to move in time with the music softly playing from an old cassette player in the corner.

Minutes, or maybe hours—time seemed to lose its grip—passed in a blissful blur. The haze of smoke and the gentle hum of a barely audible heavy metal track playing in the background created an ethereal atmosphere, where reality and fantasy intermingled seamlessly, the sense of euphoria lingered, wrapping itself around the two of you like a comforting blanket.

But soon, the effects of the weed hit you harder than you had anticipated. What had started as a gentle buzz of euphoria quickly morphed into an overwhelming sensation that gripped you with surprising intensity. The room, once a comforting cocoon of dim colours and soft sounds, began to distort and spin, as if the very walls were closing in on you.

The neon lights, previously a source of ambient charm, now seemed to take on a life of their own. They pulsed rhythmically, synchronising with the frantic beat of your heart. Each flash of colour felt like a jolt to your senses, amplifying the dizziness that was steadily washing over you. You couldn't latch onto a single coherent idea, each one slipping through your mental grasp like sand through fingers. The warmth that had spread through your chest turned into a heavy weight, pressing down and making it difficult to breathe.

"Eddie," you whispered, your voice trembling and tinged with panic. "I don't feel so good."

Without a moment's hesitation, Eddie was at your side, his carefree demeanour evaporating and replaced by genuine concern. His mischievous grin was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and earnest eyes. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he said softly, his voice a soothing contrast to the cacophony in your head. "Just breathe."

His presence was grounding, a lifeline in the midst of your spiralling thoughts. Eddie gently placed his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to lie down on the couch. His touch was reassuring, each movement deliberate and careful, as if he were handling something fragile. You focused on the rough calluses on his fingers, a testament to countless hours spent mastering the guitar. The familiarity of it offered a small but significant anchor.

"You're gonna be fine," Eddie assured, his voice steady and calm. "Just close your eyes and breathe with me, okay?"

You did as he said, focusing on the rhythm of his breath. Slowly, the panic subsided, replaced by a comforting warmth that spread from where his hand rested on your arm. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest next to you, grounding you in the moment.

"Thank you," you mumbled, your voice still shaky but filled with genuine gratitude. A warm wave of thankfulness washed over you, momentarily easing the remnants of your discomfort. "You're really sweet, you know that?"

Eddie chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the air, making it feel a bit lighter. His eyes, warm and sincere, locked with yours, creating a moment of unspoken understanding. "Don't let that get around," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I have a reputation to maintain."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the air thick with unspoken words. Your mind, still hazy, drifted to thoughts of Eddie—the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, the way he always seemed to know how to make you feel better. You noticed the small scar above his eyebrow, a remnant of a long-forgotten skateboard accident, and the way his smile lines deepened when he was genuinely happy.

Before you knew it, you were leaning in, your lips brushing against his in a tentative kiss. Eddie froze for a moment, surprise flickering in his eyes before he responded, his kiss gentle and slow. His lips were soft, a stark contrast to the rough exterior he often displayed.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice husky as he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, mingling with the lingering scent of smoke.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes. I've never been more sure of anything."

With that, the last of the barriers between you crumbled. He took your hand and ledEddie's kisses became more insistent, his hands roving over your body with a mix of urgency and tenderness. 

He guided you to his bed, the sheets rumpled and smelling faintly of his cologne. As you lay back, Eddie's fingers traced intricate, delicate patterns on your skin, each touch sending electrifying shivers down your spine. His hands moved with a slow, deliberate grace, as if he were committing every inch of you to memory. His touch felt electrifying, each caress sending waves of exaggerated pleasure through your heightened senses.

He took his time, his fingertips brushing gently along your arms, then down to your sides, and finally across your back. Time seemed to stretch and warp, each moment lingering as if you were moving in slow motion. The reverence in his touch was palpable, each caress imbued with a depth of feeling that words could scarcely capture. It was as though he was discovering you anew, with an unspoken vow to cherish every moment, every sensation.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and awe. The words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. His breath was warm against your ear, sending another wave of shivers cascading through you. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His admission was like a key turning in a lock, opening a door to a shared vulnerability that neither of you had dared to breach before. You felt a rush of warmth, a mixture of relief and joy that settled in your chest.

“Me too,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of your own emotions. Your fingers found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft, unruly strands. The sensation of his hair slipping through your fingers was a tangible connection that anchored you in the moment. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Though the drugs had you floating, it was Eddie who truly had you soaring. You lay beneath him on his bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he clasped your hands above your head. His kisses were tender, his lips trailing down your body and brushing against your skin as he eagerly cast your clothes aside. Your body responded instinctively, arching into his touch, begging for more. You found yourself hyper-focused on the small details, like the texture of his skin the way his breath felt against your neck.

You could hardly think straight, the world around you a blur of colours and sensations. But Eddie, oh Eddie, he was the one clear thing in your mind. Your breath hitched as his lips worked their magic, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Your fingers intertwined with his, holding on like he was your lifeline. "Eddie..." you whispered, voice trembling with need. Every touch, every kiss, sent shivers down your spine, making your body respond to him instinctively. 

Eddie's eyes met yours, a mix of desire and tenderness reflecting in them. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice a husky promise against your skin. His kisses grew more urgent, yet still so gentle, as if he was savouring every moment, every inch of you. Your breaths came quicker, your body aching for his touch, for the connection that seemed to electrify the air between you.

You felt his hands slide down your sides, taking their time, memorising every curve. The intensity of his gaze made you feel seen, wanted, in a way you had never felt before. Eddie’s hands moved with a careful, deliberate tenderness as he began to remove your clothes. His fingers traced the outline of your collarbone before gently slipping under the fabric of your shirt, lifting it over your head. His eyes never left yours, filled with a mix of desire and deep affection, as he continued to undress you, each piece of clothing falling away to reveal the vulnerability and trust that existed between you.

With practised ease, Eddie then began to remove his own clothes, his eyes locked onto yours, never breaking the connection. He peeled away his shirt, revealing the contours of his chest, and kicked off his jeans with a casual flick. In those brief moments, the space between you seemed to buzz with anticipation of what was to come.

"Eddie, please..." you gasped, your voice barely a whisper as the world narrowed down to just the two of you. He paused, just for a moment, to look into your eyes, his own filled with a mixture of love and raw need. "I need you," you confessed, feeling vulnerable but safe under his gaze.

Eddie's smile was soft, yet filled with a promise. "I'm right here," he reassured, his lips capturing yours once more, sealing the promise with a kiss that left you breathless. His body moved against yours, the world outside disappearing as you surrendered to the intoxicating sensation of his touch.

Eddie's skin pressed against yours as he positioned himself, his tip teasing your entrance. He took the joint from his bedside table and rested it between his lips, taking a long drag before he took it from his mouth and offered it to you, which you accepted eagerly. After you took a drag, he placed the joint in the ashtray beside his bed and let his body sink down on top of yours.

As Eddie's weight settled back on top of you, you exhaled, the smoke curling around his face. Your eyes locked, the connection between you deepening, unspoken words and promises passing in the silence. "Eddie," you whispered, your voice breathless but certain, your heart pounding in sync with his.

A smirk played on his lips, his eyes dark with desire as he positioned himself once more, his tip teasing your entrance, heightening the anticipation. "You’re mine," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. His hands found yours again, fingers intertwining around yours as he pinned your hands above your head.

Eddie's eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he entered you with a slow, deliberate thrust, his breath hitching as he felt you envelop him. The initial sensation was a mix of tenderness and intensity, your bodies adjusting to one another in a perfect, intimate dance.

Each subsequent thrust was measured and deep, a rhythm that spoke of both passion and control. Eddie's movements were fluid yet powerful, each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. His hips rolled with a practised grace, driving deeper and harder with every motion.

The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in this shared moment of ecstasy. Your breaths synchronised, mingling in the air between you, each thrust drawing a soft moan from your lips. Eddie's pace quickened, the intensity building as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, your voice a mix of plea and gratitude, every touch, one that transcended the physical and touched the very core of your being.

As the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, your body trembled beneath Eddie's, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. His hands tightened around yours with possessive urgency, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, the connection between you deepening with every movement.

"Eddie,I’m gonna…" you gasped, your voice filled with desperate need. He responded with a deep, primal groan, his pace quickening ever so slightly, the intensity of the moment swelling around you. You could feel the tension coiling within you, ready to snap, and you knew he was right there with you.

Eddie's rhythm became more urgent, his thrusts faster and deeper, driving you both towards an inevitable, explosive release. The air between you crackled with electricity, every nerve in your body attuned to the mounting pleasure. His breaths came in ragged gasps, mingling with your own, the sounds of your shared ecstasy filling the room.

Your body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing over you, every muscle tightening and then releasing in an overwhelming rush. Eddie continued to move, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm, his own release following closely behind. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin as he found his own peak, a guttural groan escaping his lips.

For a few moments, the world was a blur of sensation, the two of you lost in the aftermath of your shared pleasure. Slowly, as your breathing steadied and your heart began to calm, Eddie loosened his grip on your hands, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your skin.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tender and full of concern. You nodded, a contented smile spreading across your face.

"More than okay," you replied, your voice a soft murmur. Eddie's smile widened, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Good," he said, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet room. He settled beside you, pulling you into his arms, the warmth and comfort of his embrace a perfect end to the intensity of your shared moment. 

As the moments slipped by, you found yourselves wrapped in each other, the intensity of your earlier passion giving way to a serene, comforting intimacy. Eddie's fingers lazily trailed through your hair, his touch soothing and familiar.

"I'm really glad you're here," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble against your ear. "I mean, I’m always glad when you’re here, but tonight... It feels different. Better."

You smiled, your heart swelling with warmth. "It does," you agreed, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Eddie's lips brushed against your forehead in a tender kiss, his breath warm against your skin. "I guess we both needed a little push," he said with a chuckle, reaching across her to grab the discarded, half smoked joint from the ash tray beside his bed. He rested it between his lips, sparking it to life with a steady inhale.

You shifted closer to him, your head resting on his chest. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, a comforting reminder of the connection you shared. "I always feel safe with you, Eddie," you admitted, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest. "Even when everything else feels out of control."

Eddie's arms tightened around you, his grip possessive yet gentle. "You're safe with me," he promised, his voice filled with sincerity. "Always."

The room was bathed in the soft glow of dawn, the first light of morning filtering through the curtains. The gentle illumination revealed the familiar outlines of Eddie's room—the cluttered desk strewn with scattered notebooks and D&D figurines, the posters of Iron Maiden and Metallica that adorned the walls, and the guitar propped up in the corner. Each detail was a vivid reflection of Eddie himself: chaotic, passionate, and full of life.

[jamiepaige]

Constant Companions Closeup #9: OBJECT OF AFFECTION

(also on spotify!)

O, wayward soul, I beg of thee an ear; Companionship, a Constant of desire, is all too fleeting. Would thee quell this fire? My love, do you know what you want to hear?

Welcome back to the Constant Companions Closeups - a series of in-depth dives into the songs off of my latest album, Constant Companions! Yesterday was some gay shit (Liaison) and today is some more gay shit (Object of Affection)

---

I'm usually pretty good about letting go of the things I make and letting them live imperfectly, but there is exactly one released song of mine that I've ever been actively unhappy with the final product of, that I haven't been able to let go of my displeasure with.

Honor Majesty, off of Autumn Every Day.

It's not that it's a bad song, or that it didn't have good ideas! In fact, I genuinely think it shares more with the music I make now than a lot of my older work does. Rather, it was incredibly rushed and full of uninspired choices I made for the sake of completing the song rather than making it the best version of itself, and it ultimately ended up falling incredibly flat relative to what I wanted it to be!

I really like the intersection of synthpop/electropop and fantasy. One of my favorite musicians ever is Baths, whose album Romaplasm is chock full of this exact thematic and sonic intersection, and it's so deeply inspiring to me that it still gets put on whenever I want to dream things up. I've always wanted to make things like that! Bubbly and fantastical, brimming with a sense of magic so pervasive it makes even the mundane seem mystic.

...Also I'm just a fantasy dork okay. I like wizards and shit. Sue me

I've been wanting to make a grandiose and fantastical story song for years, and my single attempt to do so felt like it missed the mark entirely. I did touch on fantasy a couple times on Bittersweet, but ultimately, when I started working on this album, I knew exactly what I wanted to take a second crack at.

---

The intended story in question here is fairly vague, but to sum it up as literally as possible:

A rebellious, disobedient, gender-questioning prince has mildly inconvenienced "his" royal lineage one too many times. Their solution is to invoke magicks widely regarded as heretical - what's a fantasy monarchy without some hypocrisy - to seal their "son's" soul within an automaton body, rendering "him" a perfect, subservient doll.

This doll is promptly spirited away under cover of darkness by a mage, and is granted free will once again. She experiences the crushing weight of newfound self-awareness and nearly spirals out of control, before realizing the mage who saved her is the same - a doll. It turns out being a magical-mechanical construct has its perks if you are TRANSGENDER. then they overthrow the monarchy and fuck nasty or whatever idk this is where the story gives way to things like "metaphor"

this is a song about artifice and being transgender

Seriously, though, I know that being an electronic-music-producing transgender lesbian with a thing about dolls or robots or whatever is a major endless-store-shelves-of-identical-buzz-lightyear-action-figures moment on my part, but dammit, I own a copy of Logic Pro and a genuine leather wizard hat, I inject estrogen into my stomach fat every Wednesday, and I think ball joints are cute. I'm posting this on Tumblr, for gods sake, I am unconcerned as an active choice

---

With the exception of Liaison, the entirety of Constant Companions utilizes only three unique vocal synth characters - ANRI, Gumi, and Teto. This trifecta was born organically from simply being the vocal synths I enjoy using the most, and in this song, I wanted to use all three of them almost like one single singer, freely shifting intonation based on the context. I messed with this idea before on Ballroom, my voice meshing and melting into Gumi V3's voice, but it felt especially appropriate for this context; Plus, I feel like there aren't a lot of examples of vocal synths being used/recontextualized in this way, and that's a shame in my opinion!!

I really want to do more story-driven songwriting like this in the future as well. Now that I'm a bonafide VocaloP I've been floating the idea of doing a song series with this trio... I'm mostly just worried I'll want to get too ambitious with it.

Off the top of my head, Object of Affection references at least eight other songs of mine - Honor Majesty is an obvious one, but it also directly samples parts of Autumn Every Day, and lyrically references genuinely just a bunch of things. I'm probably forgetting some, even!

I know I'm the Leitmotif Lover, but it's a lot even by my standards. However, this song's entire existence already served to satisfy a fairly self-indulgent desire, and these days, I don't deal in half measures. I think the final product serves as a lovely little look back at where I've come from, though, and perhaps even a little glimpse into the future!

That all being said, Object of Affection in some sense is also a love letter to a beloved part of my creative process - the voice memo. A lot of the audio I've provided with these posts have been recordings off my phone for good reason! Not only are the chops at the beginning of the song entirely comprised of edited recordings I got on my phone, but the sample at the very end happens to be from a particularly legendary recording, never before heard by the public...

Until now. I present to you an excerpt from "the worst beat on planet earth", featuring none other than unit.0.

That's about it for today!! If you have any questions, I'll gladly answer them below, but otherwise, I'll be back here tomorrow to talk about this album's title track laid askew - My Darling, My Companion!

[snoopledrooplecheesedoodle]

Day 5: Hearth: Fem! Malleus Draconia

@yanderecrazysie and @tink2kagome as I didn't give you credit in my other ones but seeing your posts made me go "I need to write these; the kiddos must be fed" so thank you for the inspiration. Hope you guys like hot lizard women.

TW: clingy ass dragon wife, needed a break from writing about men being crazy # feminism, mentions of murder, Lillia's bat dad ass being emotionally manipulative, wholesome and disturbing, reader is not Yuu, Lillia is a platonic yandere for Malleus, mentions of Lillia physically harming you, panic attack, Reader is becoming a bit too accepting

Winter in the Valley of Thorns is...brutal to say the least. Lack of technology meant you had to rely on the roaring magic hearth. Its green glow reminding you of your naive trust in a woman you once considered your friend. A woman who used your name to control and keep you passive.

You deeply admired Malleus for the way she carried herself and how afraid everyone was of her. You were always a bit too soft and too much of a people pleaser, trusting everyone had good intentions. How you got into a villain school you still don't know. How you met was...embarrassing to say the least. She found you huddled into a little ball on the ground in the bathroom, crying your eyes out. Being soft left you open for a lot of attacks from the nasty folks that liked picking on the weak (you weren't weak).

"Child of man why do you sit on the washroom floor, is this something common with man?" You flinch at the deep feminine voice that spoke to your shaken form. Your blurry vision takes in the tall statuesque figure of Malleus Draconia. You would be an idiot not to know about one of the most powerful mages in Twisted Wonderland. Her emerald colored eyes scrutinize your cowering form.

"Oh, I'm sorry, geez I really wasn't expecting anyone to see me like this." You fake a chuckle while furiously wiping away at unshed tears that threatened to spill. Of all of the people to catch you it had to be someone who could smite you for annoying her. The Draconia heir's expression was unreadable especially given your height difference.

"It is foolish of you to apologize to me; do you not know of what you've just done?" You blanch, oh my god she was going to kill you. "No, I didn't mean to upset you! I'm so-" Malleus bends down to your quivering form. "You aren't aware of fae culture? Your education must have been sorely lacking." Her glowing verdant irises displaying confusion and sincere concern. You blush embarrassed to admit you didn't bother to pay attention to any mention of the faerie in curriculum. Malleus offer's you a dainty gloved hand which you accept.

A huge amount of force pulls you up, Sevens is she strong. You feel the sides of your lips quirk upwards as you look at the mysterious woman. "Thanks for helping me up I'm (Y/N)!"

You cursed yourself to belong to her from the beginning

You lay shivering in a pile of blankets glaring at the fae responsible for the magic fire in your room (prison) going out. The black and pink haired menace seemed to be a bit peeved at your rebellious tendencies upsetting the Queen of Briar Valley. "You ought to watch your tongue Royal Consort, her majesty holds your opinions of her higher than my own." Lillia Vanrouge's sing songy voice chirps yet you glare at him.

"I didn't ask to be Royal Consort Vanrouge, don't forget I was kidnapped." It was unbearably true that the fae woman had taken you from (dorm that isn't Diasomnia) and forced you to share a room in Diasomnia together. She claimed that betrotheds should spend more time together in order to transition into married life smoothly. Every escape attempt was thwarted by the overprotective bat fae and two people you once considered friends. You move your hand to itch at the burn scars on your neck from one particular escape attempt.

"Ah yes a method most traditional for faerie folk with more stubborn lovers. You are so lucky that Malleus ordered me not to harm a hair on your head because I'd be glad to teach you another lesson in obedience." The burn scars get hot at the mention of "lesson" as your eyes widen. The older fae was capable of a lot of cruelty despite his youthful appearance.

"Even so if Malleus loved me, she wouldn't keep me here in this horrible palace where I'm miserable." Your sentence comes out a lot more unstable than intended. Lillia's pupils dilate as if he senses your fear which was very obviously displayed on your face. "Aw are you scared? I'm sure you would love to have Malleus come and tell mean old Lillia off." The fae taunts as you curl into your blankets more. Why won't he leave you alone? What did you do to deserve this?

"Please leave me be..." You whisper out but the bat fae's sensitive hearing picks it up. Lillia features soften as he kneels to stroke your hair, unsettling you further at the change in mood. "I have always considered Malleus to be a daughter of mine, her happiness is my own. When she first met you, she couldn't talk about anything else for a month." Lillia laughs sadly as a distant look mists his eyes.

"The two of you were so perfect together both socially inept and overly trusting in the other. Malleus treasured you above all else her first real friend and... mate." Lillia turns to you and sighs. "I only hurt you so bad because I saw that every time you escaped a part of her broke. Even now she's so distant towards me and her...guards." His cold pale fingers lift you chin up to look at you with a stern fatherly expression. "You need to quit acting like a baby. Don't you think if anyone truly missed you, they would have come looking for you?"

Your body shakes with silent sobs as Lillia's icy stare punctures your skull. He was lying someone had to be looking for you. Your friends, your teachers, your parents...

Your partner

You remember how fluttery they made you feel. Such a lively and intelligent Octavinelle student made your heart race. They were so cool and confident. You also remember telling Malleus about how you planned to ask out your crush, how she looked so blissful until you told her who it was.

You remember their charred carcass and Malleus's primal gaze that was so greedy, so possessive, so...dragonlike.

An icy grip squeezes your ribcage as the air is forced out of your lungs. Everything felt too loud and too quiet. The blankets felt so suffocating as you came to a chilling realization.

You were alone and no one cared

As you spiraled you didn't hear the door open nor the clack of boots. The only thing that tipped you off that Malleus had returned was the weight that sunk beside you on the bed and a deep purr echo from the dragon fae. "My Consort you did not attempt to hide from me, are you perhaps ill or..."

Malleus whiffs the air and glares sharply. Lillia was interfering with her marriage and pulling her darling spouse father away. As much as she loved him you were his and he had no right to harm such a gentle creature. No, you must be treated gently like one would hold a dove. The woman gently uncovers your shivering body and softens. You looked so helpless just like when she found you, before you were hers. She removes her gloves and caresses your side gently with a pale hand. Her cool touch made you jerk away instinctively, she was not pleased.

"Did someone hurt you while I was gone?" Malleus was planning on having a harsher discussion with Lillia if you said yes. You turn around and stare at her with your shiny (e/c) eyes. You were gorgeous, ethereal, yet so human. She loved you even when your face was red and puffy from crying. She flinches as she feels a heavy weight land on top of her.

"M-malleus please I'm so c-cold." You look deeply into your wife's phosphorescent eyes, your broken expression made Malleus ache to fix things. You then buried your face into the woman's ample bosoms causing her to gasp with shock. The dragon fae froze gauging if this were some silly human test, when you don't let go, she eagerly wraps her arms around you. She missed this, this willing affection, the heavenly bliss of your touch. She was determined to give you every star in the sky if only to hold you a bit longer.

Softly Malleus raises one hand a green flame flickers in the barren hearth filling the room with warmth. You immediately turn to the source of the heat hoping to gain more. Malleus frowns before pulling you back and casting a spell to make her cold reptilian body warm.

"There there my brilliant treasure, you shall never beg for warmth when I am near. I shall serve as your source of heat and light if only you'd hold me tighter." You look up at your wife's waxen face with awe? No that can't be right, she kidnapped you and let Lillia hurt you. Yet in this moment you saw your beloved Malmal the awkward and mischievous woman who you loved.... Loved perhaps as friends in the pass and yet in this perfect moment.

"Malleus can I ask you something?" You whisper as if speaking to loud would ruin the sanctuary your wife had created with warmth and magic. Her siren eyes glimmer in the hearth's viridescent glow. "Anything for you, my consort." Your stomach feels tingly at her words a light blush setting over your (s/t) cheeks. "Can I kiss you?"

Malleus's eyes widen as she stills, causing you to grow self-conscious. Did you upset her? Your wife looks at you with reverence as if you did the most marvelous thing.

"You are welcome if you wish." You gulp and nod propping yourself up on top of your wife who waits patiently to see what you would do. You lean it breath hitched as you are able to hear how loudly you heart was beating. Or was it hers? Gently you place your lips on the slightly chapped dark lips of the queen your wife. Your wife kisses back but allows you to take the lead, deepening the kiss as she growls steam rising from her nostrils. You pull back with Malleus chasing your mouth as if begging you to stay like that forever.

You look down at the woman beneath you and smile, she was so accommodating. Perhaps you could move on and forge a new relationship. You crash you lips against hers again in a more energetic kiss, causing the woman to gasp. Green glowing fireflies surround the bed as you indulge in your wife's affection.

Malleus held your still form against her eyes narrowed. She had gotten you to touch her willingly and she wanted more. A dragon will take until all the gold is in its horde. She would wait for you because there was something intoxicating in surrendering yourself fully to someone so much weaker than you. The dragon queen chuckles already imaging you pregnant with her brood (no matter your sex you are getting pregnant). Or you could get her pregnant. Magic was a wonderful thing after all. In the first time in forever Malleus let her eyes gently close as she hoped to see you in her dreams as well.

The green glow of the hearth sends whisps of smoke like thorns as the two-sleeping lover embrace each other. Unaware of a very satisfied ward who peeks through the door frame.

Yes, bitches I did it, I've got a paper but I'm not going to finish it tonight. Writing is the only thing keeping me sane and I love the idea of genderbending Twisted Wonderland characters. Also, I'm feeding the submissive Malleus fantasies a bit as I grow tired of seeing him in charge. He may be the king, but you hold all the power in your relationship knowingly or unknowingly. Also, lizard tiddies.