#like they tend to look more of a glassy/icy blue instead

[knightowl-studios]

Now that I finally managed to snag a comm I feel like I can upload these hehehe...some just-for-fun dogification of my WoL, Lio!

[littlefreya]

Penny Dreadful

Summary: Sherlock is cold, troubled and upset, his mind is fixed on cracking an unsolved murder. It’s the worst time to disturb him. But his hot-blooded little succubus wants to drag him into sin.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (First-person POV)

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: 18+, smut, teasing, bratty behaviour, ass-smacking with a cane, slight cane play, primal play, unprotected rough sex, biting, slight size kink, MaleDom, drug use. Lots of curly hair descriptions.

A/N: Not canon to books Sherlock, obviously, but seeing the photos and teaser Henry as Sherlock just sets up the vibe. So I had to. Many thanks to my beta @agniavateira​ !! Sorry for the ugly cover art :D.

Title: Penny Dreadful

Sherlock’s study was a bleak, musky chamber deprived of heat, notwithstanding the many candles that burnt at every corner. Perhaps it was the pristine heaps of snow that piled on the ledge of the window, or maybe it was his sullen mood that gave the room a sense of icy wilderness. 

Fumes rose from his mouth, vaping into the air. The tawny light kissed his thick mane of luscious, chocolate curls while he stood at the fore of his desk and leered at some parchments that troubled his brilliant mind for whatever reason. 

Fist seizing the golden tip of his cane, his thumb stroked the engravings that embellished the metal. Cases that he couldn’t crack often left him frustrated to the point of madness. Those wicked, sly obsessions made him even more irresistible.  

My nails bit into the wooden doorframe. Consumed by yearning, a blaze licked up my soul with its monstrous tongue. I often wondered how something so pure as love could be dangerous, to which Sherlock would reply, 

“Love is the greatest villain of them all.”

Unlike him, I didn’t care for evil. 

The detective unclipped the small chain he kept fastened to his vest and opened the silver locket, gathering a wisp of white powder on the tip of his pinky finger and pressed it to his nostrils. A small grunt escaped him, his eyes turning glassy. The “fairy dust” tended to sharpen his perception and elevate his stamina.  

I dropped to my knees at his sight, crawling on the floor. The black silks of my dress made a brushing noise as it dragged on the Persian carpet; my breasts peeked as my corset shifted with every move. Sherlock often said we must imagine ourselves as animals once we let desire play our strings. 

Accepting my inner wildness, tonight I was a cougar stalking her prey. 

By nature, his senses were sharp as blades, though the substance that streamed through his veins made a more heightened grip of the reality that surrounded him. He noticed and yet ignored me, letting his hot-blooded harlot crave for his attention.

If I was to be the feline predator, Sherlock was the hunter who pursued me for sport. An unfair game, yet nevertheless my favourite. 

Bathing in my own little fountain of mischief, I allowed my fingers to sneak toward his cane, brushing up and down the mahogany in slow, languid motion. My slender digits licked along the shaft and my bosom followed, pressing against the hardwood. I dragged myself up slightly to glimpse at my master from below: my Sherlock, always a sight for a famished girl; a colossus, intimidating, and breathtaking. Like a moth to a flame, I inched closer dazed by the light, wanting to bask in its radiance. 

The muscle in his cheek tensed, thick brows furrowing. A little squared wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose as he brushed through his dark locks with agitation.

“What ills that glorious mind of yours?��� I hummed, playful fingertips climbing further up at the length of his cane.

“Something I can’t grasp,” he spat, not giving me the time of day. But I knew he noticed every detail of my wanton behaviour, it was evident by the way his breath swiftly became heavier. Sherlock might have solved crimes by profession, but all women were natural detectives; evolution granted us with a definite survival instinct, learning to read men between the shadows.  

“You can possess me,” I offered, fingers scraping over his thumb as it pressed onto the cane’s golden tip. My voice dropped to a whisper while my hand left the cane in favour of his thigh. The muscle flexed and twitched under my sinful touch, the fabric of his breeches stretched as his cock grew with its natural need to fulfil the wet, convulsing void in me.

“You’re distracting me,” he warned, voice low and stern. His lashes hardly even fluttered to my direction. 

Every delicate little hair stood up at the sound of alarm yet instead, I inhaled the soot of peril, allowing my hand to travel further and meet his hungry girth. It rose to my touch with gratitude, flinching even harder at the clutch of my claws. The flavour of desire was honey and salt on the tip of my tongue.

The low animalistic vibration of his voice wavered through his solid form. I felt it shudder all the way down to his swelling cock. A cautious man, Sherlock was measured and forbearing to a point that made me wonder if he even liked women at all before we fell into the vicious pit of decadence and violent delights. 

It was the contrary that was true: Sherlock loved women very much, his desires were simply… of a certain quality. 

His groin was warm and firm against my cheek. The crystalline-blue glare finally graced me with a sight so brooding my bones clattered.  

“Later, I need to work.” By the drop of his voice, I knew there won’t be a third warning. 

“Later, Later…” I taunted, rolling my chin over his aching need. “All work and no play…”

The gasp that pushed out of my lungs nearly whisked the candles off as Sherlock hauled me up by his hand and bent me over the desk.  

“Should I teach you how to respect my time?” He snarled, throwing the skirts of my dress over my head like a cape of the midnight sky. Stars collapsed under my skin at the sensation of his touch exploring the curve of my bare ass. Talons ruptured the tiny blood vessels, squeezing with the affirmation of his ownership. 

“No undergarments?” Sherlock growled dangerously while his thumb brushed over my silken entrance, toying with the rich elixir and smearing it further down my anticipating petals. I answered with a deep moan, stretching on this desk with a succumbing plea. 

“You came here aimed at disturbing me while I work.”

Settling onto the surface of the desk, I reached forth one arm lazily and chuckled. “You are a great detective, I… oh!” 

Something cold and solid caressed my dripping lips, driving between them in slow, calculated strokes. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I noticed Sherlock holding his cane against my sacred cove, staring at it as if I was yet another piece of evidence to be explored. The golden arched-tip pushed-slightly between my petals and entered just enough to make me hiss. For a mere second I wondered if he was going to fuck me using nothing but his cane.

“Look away; this is going to hurt.” 

I hardly had time to protest when the first smack hit the pillow of my cheek. A wheeze of disgrace shot from my throat, husky and embarrassing, but not as degrading as the sting the metal left at my burning backside.

“Bad girl,” Sherlock ticked his tongue and lifted the cane midway in the air, a flare of noxious desire bursting in his pale-blue orbs. This time I turned away and shut my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned dead-white. If only it did anything to dull the pain, the sting was even more prominent, shooting all the way up to my spine where it coiled and forced a strident yip from my clamped lips. 

Yet the throb in my cunt was unmissable.

Sherlock knew very well that the hurt allied with pleasure, enhancing it even, like his powdery magic dust. 

Another smack and my nails scratched at the wood. Like a sinner nun indulging her own beating, I rode the waves of pain as they broke onto shores abundant with pleasure. There were hidden cracks in our public figure, the place where I burnt and Sherlock ascended as we pried our claws into mortal deadly sins. My senses rose to conflict with every smack and Sherlock took joy in every involuntary squirm of my body. 

Tongue pressed between his lips, he hummed as he admired his handiwork, painting my ass in obscene hues of violence. “Had enough? Or want to see which will break first, the rod or your arrogance?” Sherlock chided and pinched my sore cheek to further increase the pain. 

Embers whispered beneath my flesh, my legs jolted from the intense beating and by god, the trickle of my juices rolling down the back of my thighs made even a sultry woman such as myself drown in white shame.

Sherlock’s breath was a heavy guttural waft. His cane dropped to the floor and I heard the sound of metal clicking as he fumbled with his belt. I would be damned if I let him fuck me from behind. To have those eyes look away as he entered me was a vice I wouldn’t stand. 

“No!” I yelled, bracing on my wobbly elbows as much as I could and turned to face him. 

Sherlock’s glare widened, a chill of ice blew through his eyes and his pupils dilated like a crazed feline. “You’re saying no to me?”

“Yes!” I heaved and reached my hands to cradle his skull, pushing myself against the hardness of his body and forcing my lips on his. My kiss was feral, bruising the plush skin on and around his mouth, nibbling and biting until we tasted iron on our tongues. It was not long before I was shoved against the wall, our mouths still united, sharing one breath.

Or rather stealing it from one another.

We were pleasingly unequal. Sherlock was all iron and stone; a bulky, tall man who could tear me apart with his bare hands. I was a little lush thing, so tender, so easily bruised. Despite his power, the desire to claim the tiny wet hole between my legs was unquenchable, reducing him to a savage thing that spoke in raw inarticulate sounds.

He tore his mouth from mine and swept me up from the ground, hiking the skirts of my dress urgently to expose what he coveted the most. I felt the supple velvety texture of his hardness grind against my thigh, smearing the pearly drops of his arousal onto my skin. We both moaned at the sensation and moved to the rhythm dictated by our most primal instincts.  

“You want my cock?” He growled and gnawed his teeth at my neck, biting deep enough to break through the skin. I whined in pain, my voice rising a pitch as I writhed against him to ignite the smallest of frictions and serve the demon of desire in me. 

“Fuck me!” I begged, sliding my fingers through the mass of soft curls and tugging them with need.

Answering my plea, Sherlock speared into my unruly cunt, brutally spreading me open like he would tear the petals from a flower. I yipped into his luscious hair, my nails tearing into his nape as his intrusion claimed everything my body had to offer. I always found it odd how my flesh would resist and beg for him at the same time, my succulent canal fighting to push him by instinct yet he only further rutted into me. He reached his hands to my sore ass to squeeze my cheeks apart.

“Such a tight little harlot,” he groaned, engulfed by my garden of mysteries. Moaning so loudly, our duet reverberated through the corridors of the house. His lashes fluttered with ecstasy as he pulled back only to force me down on his imposing cock, attempting to rip through my denial. Or it was to tame me as I clenched around his girth, accepting and resisting him at the same time. I was nothing but a vessel for him to fill, and he did so with a fiery passion, glaring straight to my eyes while thrusting deep and hard into me.  

Books fell from the shelves nearby as we battled against the wall, my legs sliding up and down his waist, spreading helplessly in the air until my boots pressed into his arse. One of his hands reached for my corset, tugging on the ludicrous outfit to expose my breast. Ravenous, he licked his bloodstained lips, giving me a stare that made my cunt clutch him harder before he sank his fangs to pierce cavities in my tit.

“No!!!” I cried out and gasped as he thrust deeper to punish me for my protest. His heavy cock hit a spot so deep inside me that tears instantly emerged and fell down my cheeks, the pang bringing through a spasm of odd relief. 

Blood and saliva smeared along my cleavage as he dragged his lips further, licking and then kissing every patch he bruised. I moaned breathlessly, throwing my head back against the wall as his nimble fingers surveyed my neck, laying small threats to show me how easy he could simply suspend my very basic need. 

But my survival instincts already flew out the window the moment he penetrated me.

His lips hovered above mine as he fucked deep into my body, our cries creating an obscure symphony as he continuously slammed into my hilt, harder and more urgent with every plunge. The tears that fell down my cheeks were tainted with the conflicting aphrodisiac that pain brought through. In that instant I was whole, gratified by the friction created of the collision of our wet organs.

“Do it!” I gasped and nodded through glossy stares, swallowing hard to gesture what he already knew. With a swift snap of his hands, his fingers were bruising on my neck and he slammed into me at a furious pace, giving no care for my broken screams. 

Euphoria tore through my soul, crashing like hot waves of eternal fire. I came apart around his thick rod crying for God and Satan at once. Sherlock never slowed down, not even as he felt the tightening of my ring around him. It only made him fuck me harder, burying his face at my collarbone, chasing his own rapture at a punishing speed, grunting like a beast. Finally, he shuddered and pumped me full of his thick, silky milk. The muscles of his behind flexed and he ground his hot load into my warm cavern, making sure I received every drop. My hands reached to squeeze his taut ass as my legs clutched him still, wanting to keep him inside me. 

As if he had any intentions of leaving as he moaned and spasmed inside me. 

Smoke filled the room as few of the candles died; the scent of ash and the musk of our sex seeped through our noses while we remained entwined, shaking in each other’s grasp. Breathless and damp with sweat, Sherlock lifted his face from my neck and glanced at me looking so vulnerable, almost appearing lost. I moved my trembling hands back to his face, my thumbs caressing his sharp cheeks. 

“I know I am harsh…” he murmured, his eyes digging into my heart with nothing but a gaze of despair, “but please don’t ever leave me.”

My face fell at the sound of his words, my lips parting with awe. My detective could solve the most outrageous crimes, and yet he couldn’t realise I was shackled to him for all eternity.  

[soulmate-game]

I might make this a tumblr only mini-series of connected oneshots, and I might or might not put them up on AO3 when they are all done. We’ll see how I feel.

I know I submitted this AU to Multifandomscribette, but this is my take on the prompts I gave them. This is not the same AU, and I am not using their headcanons. Just the same basic premise of Marinette being Stephen Strange’s biological daughter.

You know Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, but this story is about

Lady Strange, the Grand Guardian.

What is with this family and alliteration?!

—*—*—*—*—*

Stephen Strange was a narcissistic, emotionally constipated bastard. But he was rich, well known, and handsome, which counted for a lot when he decided he needed some time to relax, unwind, maybe with another human.

And when Sabine Cheng realized what had happened, that night she had catered for a high society medical conference gala in the States, she vowed to never drink again.

She also vowed to never tell Strange about the child growing in her womb. The only person she ever told about her child’s true origin was Tom Dupain, the man she started dating a month after her chance encounter with Doctor Stephen Strange. Nine months after that, when Marinette was almost a month old, she would propose to Tom in blatant disregard of tradition. She would be waiting for years if she wanted Tom to get up the courage to ask her, and even though it hadn’t been a full year yet Sabine knew what she wanted. Seeing the gentle way Tom held her daughter, their daughter, seeing the way he looked at the little baby as if she hung the stars for him, well that only solidified the little Chinese woman’s love for the french man.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng would not know about her true father’s origin until she was twelve, when a science lecture at school had her asking Sabine who had blue eyes in each of their blood lines.

When Sabine hesitated, Marinette knew instantly that something was wrong. Sabine never hesitated. She was a whirlwind of decisiveness, always knowing what to say and how to act. Hesitation wasn’t a part of her.

Sabine told her everything. How her biological father was someone she only met once, how he was a successful surgeon who had won many medical awards. How he didn’t know she existed.

Of course, Marinette was immediately obsessed. Hurt by her mother’s secrecy, she turned her feelings of betrayal into curiosity and researched everything that there was to research about Stephen Strange. Apparently blue eyes ran on his side of the family. His own were more icy than hers, closer to a blue-gray, but familiar all the same. Both his parents were already dead though, so there went her hope of having another set of grandparents.

Marinette even went so far as to read the research papers he had written, and did follow-up research until she understood as much of it as she could. It helped that Professor Mendeleiev was more than willing to sit down and go over the medical papers with her so they could try to understand it all together.

One day, while Marinette was sewing a new dress, she paused with her needle in the air and stared at her fingers. After that day, she took much more pride than before in how steady her hands were. Her father was a surgeon, it must have been a biological trait. She clung onto anything that connected her to the oh-so mysterious Stephen Strange.

And then came Marinette’s thirteenth birthday. The same day that Stephen Strange was in a car accident and deemed in critical condition.

If Marinette kept an app for American news sources on her phone and set them to alert her if the name of her biological father was mentioned in any reports? Well, her parents didn’t need to know.

She didn’t tell her parents about the reason she was so morose for the rest of the day. She didn’t tell anyone.

She cried herself to sleep when Doctor Stephen Strange was declared to have irreversible nerve damage in his hands, and again when he went missing on a mysterious “vacation” that no media sites seemed to have any information on. She didn’t know why she felt so much connection and pain for someone she had never met, but she couldn’t help it. She would keep researching, keeping her eyes out for any mention of the man online without any luck.

That is, until Master Fu and the Miraculous entered her life. Slowly, she began to neglect her obsession with her biological father. Her passing crush on Adrien Agreste even faded away, never having much traction to begin with because of her overlying concern for the father that didn’t even know he had a daughter.

When Marinette was fourteen, the city of Paris was flooded and she had to swim through the quickly bloating bodies of the dead in order to defeat an Akuma. She reversed the damage and everyone who died was resurrected with no memory of their demise, but Marinette would never forget. All it took was a glimpse of the wrong face on the streets and she would be overcome with a panic attack, with the sight of glassy eyes and blue faces.

That was when Hawkmoth’s attacks picked up in intensity. When people began to die during Akuma attacks more frequently. When Marinette stopped sleeping in quite so much.

Her obsession over her father was a mere footnote by then, something she would idly look into on her ever increasingly rare free time with no success.

When Marinette was fifteen years, six months, two weeks, and two days old, Master Fu died. Marinette assumed the alias of Lady Strange, alongside her identity of Ladybug, so that the Miraculous wielders could contact her and know she was the new Guardian without knowing that she was also their leader in the field.

On the one year anniversary of Lady Strange being the Grand Guardian of the Miraculous, there was a worldwide magical disturbance.

Unlike Fu, Marinette did not limit herself to reacting to Miraculous problems.

—*—*—*—*—*

When Stephen glided back down from the equivalent of thousands of years bargaining and dying with Dormammu, he expected Hong Kong to be in a mess. It had been, from what he remembered of the scene before he created the time loop.

But it wasn’t. Instead, the streets looked as if no damage at all had been created. Kaecilius and his remaining zealots were tied up, quite literally, in what looked like string and hung upside down from a lamp post. Sitting down on the curb of the sidewalk and giving him a dangerously sharp glare was a young woman in a spotted costume, a mask over her face. When Strange realized he could not get any of her features to stick in his memory, he realized what she was.

Another magic user, but different from a Sorcerer. Her Neptune blue eyes bore into him with an intensity he was wholly unprepared for, but had no problem baring. After dying almost a million times, a guy tends to grow a backbone of vibranium.

Wong and Mordo stood on either side of the girl, both at a respectful distance. Wong had this wide-eyed look on his face, so much more expressive than usual that it caught the new Sorcerer Supreme off guard. Wong looked… awed?

Mordo, on the other hand, was regarding the girl with a look of barely disguised disdain and distrust. That was in character though, so Stephen didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, he walked over even as his bargain with Dormammu kicked in and Kaecilius’s cult was banished to the Dark Dimension.

“You reversed the damage, then?” He asked without beating around the bush, glancing down briefly to assure that the Eye was, indeed, still on him. It was. The girl stood up, her eyes continuing to blaze with an unknown soup of emotion.

“I did,” she confirmed easily. It wasn’t until he stopped only a few feet away from her that the sorcerer noticed how small she was. The only detail his mind allowed to stick with him besides that fact was that she also looked young. Too young to have to deal with a mess like this. “You might not know of me. The Temple Of Guardians made a deal centuries ago that all records of their existence and our own magic be removed from any Sorcerer sanctums.”

“The temple that appeared in Tibet out of nowhere more than a year ago?” Strange asked, eyebrow raised. “I remember the Ancient One briefly mentioning how much of a hassle it was to hide their reappearance and teleport the temple’s location somewhere new. I was under the impression that all the members of that temple have been in a pocket dimension separate from this reality for almost two hundred years.”

“They have,” the girl confirmed with a nod. “But before that, one of the Guardians escaped that fate. He became the Grand Guardian, and was my teacher until he passed last year. He named me the new Grand Guardian to take his place,” she turned, looking at something that Stephen couldn’t see. “I have illusions keeping us from being seen by the crowd, but it would be better if we took this inside the sanctum,” she said, nodding her head to the Hong Kong Sanctum’s door behind them. Strange simply nodded, more than willing to distract himself from his immeasurably long torture by indulging his curiosity. If this girl showed up and went out of her way to repair the damage the sorcerers and Kaecilius caused, then he wanted to know why.

“Wait,” Mordo barked, walking up to have a heated discussion with Strange that ended in the former storming off. Stephen knew he should be concerned about his former friend’s desertion, but he couldn’t muster up the energy for it yet. Focusing on the mysterious girl in a ladybug suit was an easier topic for his exhausted mind to latch onto.

When they got inside, the Sorcerer Supreme saw that she had even reversed the damage in the building. He saw a few scattered disciples rubbing their heads and looking around in confusion from their spots crouched on the floor. Stephen was almost certain he had seen those same people as corpses before.

The ladybug-spotted girl had scarcely removed her gaze from him for even a second, and easily picked up on the older man’s train of thought.

“My powers reversed all the damage I could handle, including physical wounds and death,” she told him. Strange blinked.

“That explains why I thought you all looked odd. Your clothes are spotless and you don’t look like you’ve fought at all,” he directed that comment to Wong, who merely nodded. “But that doesn’t explain how you can do such a thing. I’ve been intensely studying magic and magic theory for the past almost three and a half years, and I haven’t come across any healing spell that can be this effective without the subject of the healing themselves helping to work the power through their body. I know you are not a sorcerer like we are, but what exactly is your magic? Who are the Guardians? And who exactly are you?”

The girl pursed her lips, waiting until the two older men led her to the still-wrecked tea room. Her power hadn’t been able to reach that far when she had to focus on reviving so many people without the regular Cure. That only worked on victims of Miraculous magic, what she used on the Hong Kong streets and the Sorcerers was a more advanced usage of Tikki’s powers that she learned from both Fu and her periodic visits to the Tibet temple.

“The Guardians are a group of monks dedicated to the protection and distribution of Miraculous, which is essentially magic jewelry. I would normally go on to say how this might sound unbelievable, but you have a very similar pendant around your neck right now,” she pointed out once they all sat and Wong conjured some tea for them all. Stephen tensed at her mention of the Eye of Agamotto, his eyes narrowing. Did she..?

“I know what is inside the Eye,” she confirmed his silent thought, her voice soft but firm. “And I don’t care about it in the slightest. It is probably a good reference point for my explanation though. At the birth of the universe—“

“The Stones came into existence, each one representing and controlling a core aspect of reality,” Strange interrupted impatiently. “I am the Sorcerer Supreme, girl, I already know that.”

The young female rolled her eyes, huffing. “If you listened patiently, you would know that the story you were told is only partially true,” she snapped back with false patience. “The Stones were not the only things of great power to be created during the birth of the universe. Kwami, the first living beings to be born, were also created. They are each living representations of abstract concepts, some of which overlap with the powers of the Stones. The first to be born is the Kwami of Creation. She is essentially the goddess of creation itself, the living embodiment of that very term in every way. She is the source of my abilities, she lends me her power as I am her chosen Wielder. It is that same power of creation that allowed me to essentially counteract the destruction that was caused today, by having a condensed form of her power combat the direct source of the destruction and nullify it. The second Kwami to come into existence is her counterpart and the only one equal to her in power, the Kwami of destruction. There are a lot more, including the Kwami of illusion that used her power to keep us from being seen outside. And the Kwami Of time, which allowed me to experience the time loop you created,” the girl’s eyes sharpened again, boring into his own. “I left it after the equivalent of a few weeks, when I realized I couldn’t join you and do anything to help. The Kwami Of Time is about two-thirds as powerful as the Stone by itself, and there are more than double the amount of Kwamis as there are Infinity Stones,” she took a deep breath. “My job as Grand Guardian is protecting all of them, and distributing the jewelry they are bound to as necessary to combat world or reality threatening events.”

Strange remained quiet after that, drinking in the information and doing his best to wrap his head around it. Perhaps this young woman wouldn’t mind telling him more at a later date, especially seeing as they held equivalent ranking in two separate secret magical organizations. His eyes trailed down to a necklace she was wearing.

“How many of these pieces of jewelry—“

“Miraculous,” She corrected. “That is what they are called.”

“... Miraculous, then. How many are you capable of wielding at once, if they are so similar in strength to a Stone?” Wond asked, crossing his arms. The pigtailed girl leaned back from her spot sitting on the ground with them, humming in thought for a second as she decided what to tell them. A glance at Stephen seemed to make up her mind.

“Creation and Destruction hold equal power to a Stone. The Miraculous one stage lower than that hold four-fifths the power of a Stone. The last tier, where the Time Miraculous sits, is two-thirds,” she told them from memory. “I can wield Illusion, which is on the second tier, along with two third-their, and both Creation and Destruction at the same time,” she admitted. “But it saps a lot of my energy and I rather not ever do that again, if you don’t mind. I can wield all of the Miraculous though, since all of the Kwamis like me and are loyal. I can wear any three at a time, and I can switch between them as quickly as I need to.”

Strange really needed some sleep. Five thousand year’s worth of sleep would be nice. He ran a hand over his forehead, wondering who in the world gave this much responsibility and power to a child.

“One last question, and then you can spend the night if you wish, we’ll begin reconstruction of all the Sanctums in the morning,” Stephen spoke, forcing his back to straighten and his eyes to meet the girl’s. “You never answered it, actually. Who are you?”

The girl's mouth twitched in the first semblance of a smile he had seen on her yet.

“When I am in this transformation, I am Ladybug the hero of Paris,” she said with a grin. “Spots off.”

A soft pink glow ran down her body, very similar to the ring of power that sling rings produced to make portals. It left behind an adorable teenage girl with blue-black hair pulled back into pigtails, and striking blue eyes. She was clearly of Asian descent, but there was something else very familiar about the sharpness of her jaw or the stubbornness in her lip.

“My real name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. However, I go by an alias whenever I act as Grand Guardian, so that there is an extra layer of secrecy to protect me and my loved ones. I created that alias based on my biological father, who was never told that I was even conceived,” she said meaningfully, never losing eye contact with Stephen. His eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s pitiful, but what does—“

“My alias is Lady Strange.”

Wong barked out a short laugh before he forcibly covered his mouth, his eyes filled with sadistic amusement as he watched Strange’s reaction. The elder Strange, that is.

The new leader of the Sorcerers opened and closed his mouth like a fish, completely caught off guard. He looked over to Wong.

“Is there a spell to test paternity?” He asked warily. Marinette’s smile fell a bit, but Wong nodded.

A few flashes of orange light and two green ‘99% Match’ results later, Strange let his head fall into his hands.

“Alright, Marinette,” he finally managed to mumble through the slightly trembling appendages still covering his face. “I just spent thousands of years in a time loop with the Lord of Chaos, my back aches, my head aches, I will deal with this in the morning. Or whenever I wake up. Figures my own blood relation would end up in a position of extreme magical power, must be genetic. I still have questions, but sleep comes first. Don’t expect me to be a good parent. I really need sleep.”

Marinette just giggled, standing up and helping her father to his feet with surprising ease. “Just tell me where to go and I can drop you off in your room. No more magic for the rest of the day, you’re clearly spent. And as long as you make an effort, I’ll be fine. But don’t expect to ignore me and I’ll just go away, I have ways to track you to the ends of the universe and across the multiverse and time itself, and I will not hesitate.”

“Yep, she’s your daughter alright.”

“Sleep, Wong. It’s good for the brain.”

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

The Dark Soul In The Glass

I’ve wanted to join in on Flash Fiction Friday for forever but it was only this week that I saw the prompt and something...exploded in my head. A revelation one could say, though I know it’s several hours too late @flashfictionfridayofficial​ I’m hoping you’ll at least see it, and others will, and enjoy the first piece of original poetry I’ve posted publicly in...a long time. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- One deep, navy-blue night I looked into my looking glass and was surprised by fate

Met with an uncanny mirror image of my soul, but another person’s kind face

Enshrouded by a darker world, gloomy and cold, with storm clouds accumulating above their head

Whereas my darkness held hopeful pinpricks of stars shooting through city light, as I watched from my bed

There was sadness and regret I could feel whenever they spoke 

A person who’d fought hard, batting at the clouds and the smoke

The wispy tails of misery that I’d felt so vividly more than once myself

Prompting me to reach my hand out, beyond my fears and darkness, hoping to help

The darkness started to fade and the figure’s movements followed my own

I twirled, they followed, I raised my hand to wave, I jumped up and down

They reflected me but I soon realised their every move was the opposite of mine

Yet still, I ran and skipped, swayed from side to side, and they mirrored me every time

Like a well-choreographed dance I stepped forward, so did they

I took a peek through the glass into their world as the clouds cleared out of the way

Behind them was a twisted, almost overgrown path covered with gorse and roots

There were worse paths veering off, made of sharp, upturned rocks, leading to dark woods

I recognised that twisting, heartaching path, it mirrored the winding one behind me

The same twists and turns, but opposite again, left turns where they should be right, strangely

The same tree roots jutting out, sharp splintered hands groping to make travellers fall

The same side paths that wound up at the same torn up cliffs, with the whistle of lost souls

Around them stood tumbled down structures like mine, beautiful spire castles collapsed

There were wilted flowers and broken marble tiles, torn and coffee-stained books scattered

I can’t...enter, the glass separating us, but on it I give a tap-tap-tap and hope they look up

They do and I hold up a flower bouquet, and read from my own stack of coffee-stained books

Books and journals, one and the same with stories of characters both invented and real

I show them small sketches of theirs and my tumbled down towers rebuilt 

Different from origin but still the same fairytale fortresses we once played in

Praying wholeheartedly that with the right tools, our castles in the air would rise again

By their feet, lay a dull, chipped sword with spiky, greyed rose vines coiled round it, engraved 

On the broad side, under the dust and dirt, the deteriorating steel said “faith” 

The handle was leather-bound, and aged, like mine but instead of being held by a weak fist

It was lying on the cold, stone floor, slabs and sword alike blood-stained from an accident

Day after day, tap-tap-tap and the clouds of mystery and enigma around them clear

Colours dance in the sky, lilac and blue, as clouds blow a snowflake flurry everywhere

The Wind Woman hums, the breeze of her laughter brushing the smoke away

And the glass shines translucent, allowing me to see a compassionate face

There’s sorrow, and a cold quality to the sharp pretty features, like an artist’s charcoal sketch

A slim figure with dark-chocolate strong eyebrows and curly, dark hair to match 

But looking closer, sparkling, amused eyes that through trial and hardship have stayed bright

A good-natured, ghost of a smile dancing on those pursed lips and dark eyes

A dark reflection in many ways of myself but with a spirit identical to mine I know

Behind a diamond-glass wall that may take eternity to break through

One day I leave the glass untapped, shrouded by grief darker than black

Then I hear a muffled voice over my heartbroken sobs, and behind me a “tap-tap-tap”

There he stands, a sight I’d never seen, someone calling, wanting to reach out to me

Around him are...books mended, flowers tended, growing and cared for, and in his hand I see

That sword, no longer covered in soil and dust but shining brightly, polished by his efforts

The clear, compressed carbon crystal between us holds a few scratches, but he looks worse

He’s tired, hands are bloodied, stumbling forward and yet still so strong 

raising the sword above his head to do what he can to chip away more

Of this unbreakable crystal wall, staring me in the eye, “I won’t let you go easily”

I peer behind him and am shocked by reflections of my castle sketches, half built, that I see

My vision blurs as heartfelt tears fill my sad, glassy eyes and trickle down my pale, scarred cheeks

Tracing translucent tracks of happiness over old paths of suppressed fiery anger, heartache and grief

There’s an icy determination I feel in my spirit flowing through me, a cold burn in my chest as I stagger forward

Inspiration has struck, so I make my dua and intention to fight, mirroring him as I face the diamond wall with my sword

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I wrote this today, took a few hours because I was for some reason very stubborn about getting it perfect on the first draft. Somehow, I actually feel I have, the imagery is so vivid to me that I may even draw this out in the future, a full comic, who knows? 

Edit: Tumblr is not co-operating on formatting, this is meant to be split into quatrains but never mind

[durmstrange]

Ripples - Draco Malfoy

Welcome to another Draco blurb!  Hope you enjoy :)

word count: 1,964

There was a weakness in Draco that you saw.  You were sure you were one of the few, if not the only person at all, to see it in him.  To others, he was brooding, cunning, and bitter with just about anything and anyone he came in contact with.  But, to you, he was kind.  He was gentle, caring, and so careful.  

Draco and yourself were an odd and unlikely pair.  You were a Ravenclaw, who was witty and too kind to too many people, who adored the bitter boy with every fiber of your being, and so much more.  You had met in an equally unlikely situation as the pair you were, when you were tending to plants you were keeping in an empty classroom.  

Draco had caught sight of you roaming the empty corridors, which he thought was odd, and he could not resist the urge to follow the gorgeous student slipping into the empty classroom.  He waited a few moments, his ear pressed to the door, but all he heard was the consistent sound of water dripping.  When he stealthy slid into the classroom, he sucked a sharp breath through his teeth.

Around him was dozens of plants.  Some appeared to be moving on their own, despite the lack of a breeze in the room.  The large windows had their dusty, ragged curtains drawn back to bring light into the otherwise dark and musty room.  But what surprised him most was your actions.  Your back was to him, stretching as tall as you could to reach a plant hanging from the ceiling, trying desperately to water it.  Your body was the perfect silhouette from the windows in front of you.  “Blasted plant.  I don’t know how I hung you this high in the first place,” you muttered to it as you fell back onto your heels with a huff.  

As you turned, Draco grew rigid, and realized it was too late to hide.  Your eyes fell upon him and you jumped, a frown growing on your face.  For what felt like ages, the two of you simply stared at one another, without a word.  

Finally, with a small sigh, you set your watering can down and crossed your arms over your stomach.  “Are you going to rat on me?”  You asked in a slightly sad, but understanding voice.  Slowly, Draco shook his head.  You smiled then, widely, and scooped the watering can into your hands once more.  “Wonderful.  Come water this plant for me, then, seeing as I can’t reach it.”

From that moment on, the two of you grew a fondness to one another that puzzled many of your classmates.  You were often spotted together, eating lunch in the Great Hall, studying in the library, or walking together on the grounds.  There had even been a few rumored sightings of you in the cool, damp Slytherin common room disguised in a Slytherin cloak with the blue tie of your true house sticking out from your uniform like a glittering jewel.  

From time to time, you would get the occasional question of what Draco’s relationship was to you, and you would just shrug it off with a “not really sure”.  You were not necessarily lying about this.  You adored Draco, far more than he knew, and felt as if you were constantly pining after him for no good reason.  The part of you that was lying was the tiny voice in your head that constantly reminded you that Draco could never love, or ever really have any romantic feelings for you, his closest confidant.

This thought was in your head as you stared out of the window of the History of Magic classroom, watching as rain pelted down relentlessly.  You enjoyed the rain, and enjoyed the feeling of it on your skin, and with this sad feeling you had in the back of your head at the moment, you wanted nothing more than to feel the rain pelting against your skin at the moment, instead of against the window.

As class drew to an end, you dismissed yourself from your group of friends, and instead of congregating in the Great Hall for dinner, you found yourself wandering towards one of the courtyards.  You slipped through the heavy wooden doors, feeling the cold breeze cut through your clothing and cooling you to your core.  Nonetheless, you moved to lean against the stone wall surrounding the courtyard, beginning to feel the icy cold rain against your hands and face.  You shivered, but stared still, watching the rain falling into puddles, splashing up, and rippling quickly.  The sight brought a small smile to your face.

It felt like ages passed before you heard the doors you had left through opened once more, and you glanced over your shoulder, which was now damp and feeling heavier than it did before, and gave your close friend a slight smile.  “You are going to get sick,” Draco reminded you.  Despite his words, he moved to stand next to you, staring out in the courtyard and allowing the rain to fall on him as well.

“I’m not too worried about it,” you admitted to Draco with a small, crooked smile.  

Draco chuckled, and shook his head.  “Why are you out here?  Are you not hungry?”

He was always checking up on you.  Ensuring you ate well enough, you were healthy, you weren’t being bullied or ridiculed by others.  You were in no way defenseless, but he always took it upon himself to be your protector.  You always wondered why, but perhaps it was oblivious to you how much he adored you.  “Hm,” you hummed and pressed your temple against a cool stone column, “I suppose I am rather hungry.  I’ve just been lost in my thoughts today, is all.”  You explained with a small sigh.

With a nod, Draco put his hands in his pockets.  “What has you so concerned, then?”  He continued to question.

You shook your head lightly as you backed away from the column.  You didn’t want to talk about how he was the only thing on your mind at the moment, and everything he has ever done or said to you was floating aimlessly in your tired mind.  “Nothing that concerns you, Draco,” you lied lightly and gave him a faint, ghost-like smile and picked your bag off the small bit of dry ground against the castle.

Without another word, you left him there to his own thoughts, rather than yours, and escaped towards your common room.  Draco stood there for a moment, taking in your words and allowing a frown to form on his face.  You never hid anything from him.  In fact, you often used him to vent or spill your emotions to, and it felt foreign and wrong for you to hide things from him like this.

The next day, you had a set date with Draco to study Astronomy together, but as he sat at the same table you always met at, twenty minutes passed the agreed upon time, he grew suspicious of your behavior.  With slight anger, he closed the book set out in front of him and gathered his belongings into his bag.  With a huff, he drew it up onto his shoulder and set out looking for you.

About an hour later, wandering the castle and checking your favorite spots for you, Draco gave up with a huff and began the trek into the dungeons to return to his own common room.  As he approached the entrance, he paused in confusion for a moment as he spotted you, standing in front of the entrance with a worried look on your face.  “Trying to get in?”  He asked you as he approached.

You jumped, clearly not expecting him to sneak up on you like he did, and shook your head vigorously.  “Er - no, actually.  I was looking for you,” you said quickly as you crossed your arms over yous stomach shyly.

Draco raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.  You cleared your throat, “Sorry I didn’t come to study.  I’ve had a lot on my mind,” you told him slowly as your eyes fell to the floor, focusing on something Draco couldn’t see, “Which is actually why I ended up looking for you.”

Draco didn’t make any effort to move, or even indicate how he felt at the moment.  Instead, he just watched as you fidgeted under his gaze relentlessly.  “Right, well,” you began with a hitch in your voice, “I’ve come to tell you that the reason I have been distant recently is because I like you, a lot more than I should and a lot more than you know, and it has been eating my mind and heart inside out because I know I am not your type, and I know that you don’t really typically date anyone, and I know that there isn’t a chance in the world you would ever like me the way I like you, but I had thought telling you this would make me feel better, but it isn’t and I am so sorry for putting you in this situation, Draco, I’m sorry,” you rambled on and on in a fast voice and gave a small sigh between your next set of words.  “And now that you probably see me as a fool, I am going to go ahead and go because I feel that I might be sick at any moment.”  Your words echoed in his ears, and as you moved to brush by him, he held an arm out and captured you in his grip.

His eyes landed on your reddened face, and the tears he saw building up in your glassy (Y/E/C) eyes.  He had always loved your eyes.  They were so deep and joyful most of the time, but now they looked shallow and so sad.  “You’re right,” Draco said softly as he slowly herded you to stand in front of him.  You refused to look at him, but stared at the ground instead.  “I don’t date.  I’ve never cared enough about someone to date.”  He said in a voice you couldn’t quite interpret.  Your heart ached at his words and you felt the tears that had been building up spill over your cheeks and watched as they fell onto his perfectly polished shoes.  “At least, until I met you,” he added quietly.  Slowly, and carefully, he moved his hand from his side to caress your cheek, and he guided your head up so your eyes would meet his.  

The tears streamed down your face rather steadily now, as if you were unable to stop them, and he carefully began whisking each one away with his thumbs.  “I don’t like to see you cry,” he murmured and leaned down rather far so his forehead pressed against yours.  “It is foreign to me to care about someone like I do for you.  I would really like to try to do this, with you.”  He finished as his eyes fluttered shut.

Slowly, you took his hand from your face and held it gently in your hand.  “I’d like that, too,” you told him softly.  

He smiled then, a smile that was foreign and unknown to you, one of pure bliss.  “I’ll never do anything to hurt you.  I’ll never pressure you, or do anything without your consent.”  He promised lowly and leaned back, but not pulling his hand from you.

“Please kiss me, Draco,” you murmured.  He smiled again, and obliged, pulling you against him with the hand you held, and kissed you softly.  Your hands rested on his chest while he held your waist gently.  You hummed lightly, out of pure relief and pure happiness.

The ripples in the puddles outside felt much like your heart now.