#the glitters absorb his power

[ryllen]

He, who shall not be freed

[solbaby7]

Drifting Away

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: angst (sorry but it just hurts so good) swearing, mentions of poor mental health, romantic undertones

summary: You've been drowning for a long time and finally someone notices

--

Azriel could hear you crying at night.

He wasn't sure when it started; how long it had been going on before the slinking shadows darted about the house, enjoying their free reign when he hears a noise. One so soft he nearly brushed it off as a breeze but he hears it again. A little louder, more throaty and then it clicks; the undeniable sound of despair being swiftly hidden away by the dark hours of the early morning when others were asleep and none the wiser.

There's an urge to check on you, one so overwhelming he taps his fingers against the smooth mahogany desk filled to the brim with mission reports and carefully notated maps with neat notes tucked in the corner. His ears strain for the sound again, mentally agreeing that if he heard it once more, he'd have no other choice but to check it out.

But nothing sounds.

Not for one minute, or two or twenty but he doesn't forget about it.

Especially not when he sees you the following morning, wearing a bright smile and laughing louder than anyone else in the room. He's subtle in the way he observed you, notating your mannerisms and the effortless charm that dripped from your tongue.

The picture of a well adjusted woman. One who seemed happy and fulfilled until the final line was spoken and the one-woman cast bowed for her performance, basking in the applause from a crowd well entertained.

You were attentive; borderline motherly in the way you took care of everyone around you--easily handing off the food from your plate without even batting an eye and Azriel's brow quirks in attention when he hears you decline more when offered; insisting that you're full, showing off a clean plate as you casually wipe your mouth against dark linen cloth.

However, he's certain you didn't take even a single bite.

It piques his interest; the warning signs of a silent struggle and he finds himself unable to stop from noting other things about you.

Like, the way you seemed to be a reliable sounding board. Mor or Feyre or Cassian would come to you for advice, spilling their burdens on your shoulders and you always welcomed them with open arms. You would nod quietly, never once interrupting and always providing such carefully curated advice. The kind you learned through life experience; pain and sorrow and true mind numbing emptiness that came from growing up with bright embers of hope; only to be pushed into the world and realize how far people will go to snuff those embers out.

And never once did they ask if you needed comfort in return.

“For a spymaster, I would have assumed you’d be better at being subtle when you stare.” It’s startling how silent you’d been, shifting from one end of the room to the next without being detected by his hearing or his shadows—shadows he now notices are circling around your feet, tickling at your bare toes against the wine red rug. “What were you looking at anyway?”

Hazel eyes are calculating when they take you in, brows furrowing when you smile down at him, humming to yourself as you twiddle your toes through the ebbing darkness that grows around your legs, teasing at the hem of your dress with a little tug. “You.”

Rhysand sits proudly in a chair big enough to be a throne, large decorative pillows perched under his arms and a grinning Feyre eased into his lap, head curling into his neck with content. Even Nesta and Cass were sitting closer than usual on the couch, feet bumping at the others as she pretended to be absorbed in some book but there was no way she was actually focusing with Cassian’s arm curled around the back of her shoulders. Mor chats idly with Armen, glittering jewelry shoved on two slim fingers and you can’t help but linger on all the incredibly powerful beings around you.

Such purpose all around and somehow you still couldn’t find your own.

“Well, it’s not everyday I get the privilege of your attention.” You twirl once, the material of your dress skimming the tips of his fingers. “Do tell—how do I look?”

Azriel doesn’t correct how that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s a pause, his voice more soft when he speaks so it gets drowned out in the chatter behind you. “You look lonely.”

The reply makes you stop your toying with the shadows, gentle smile faltering when you squint down at him, throughly caught off guard. “What?” Azriel watches the second you seem to recompose yourself, smile sliding back in place but he can see the way you look at him, regarding him cautiously; wondering where he was getting at. “That’s ridiculous. I live in a home filled with my closest friends and family.”

You anticipate the nod, the smile and then the conversation will continue like nothing had ever happened; the answer appeasing the questioner and you’d continue about your day as you did all the others. But Azriel doesn’t change the subject, doesn’t accept the answer provided. Instead, a golden hand raises, tea still steaming over the rim. “Then, why do you seem so sad?”

“Where are you getting this from?”

“Because I heard something last night,” He watches the way you freeze, lids squinting a fraction and your hands actually tremble at your side.

“Hm," It’s alarming how good you are at taking control of the conversation; how your body adapts to the emotion that your brain predicts Azriel wants you to convey—happiness. His head slowly tilts to the side when you tip your head back and laugh, one that was so convincing even he nearly fell for it; but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Always the spy, when do you ever take a day off?"

Az can't seem to tear his eyes off of you, not when Cassian chimes in with an inebriated laugh, a heavy hand clapping down on his brothers shoulder and you're grateful for the distraction. The ability to slink into easier conversation, to craft a carefully woven picture of serenity but the golden gaze boring into the back of your head is distracting; makes your hands shake ever so slightly over the width of your glass, the condensation dripping cool trails down the length of your arm.

He doesn't get the chance to speak to you for the rest of the night; either being whisked away by his brothers or somehow getting lead away by Elain and Fey when asking for help bringing out a few more things from the kitchen. Shadows trudge by, being his eyes and ears when one returns with the same conclusion; gone, gone, gone.

For the rest of the night, Azriel remained on edge, unable to relax into the drink in his hand and his foot is practically bouncing a hole in the hardwood when the others finally start filtering out for the night; stumbling into one another on their way to their rooms. Ears strain to hear each door close and he's light on his feet when he bristles down the hall, sharply turning to the right and once he's at the end of the hall he comes to an abrupt stop.

Light still pours out from the crack beneath your door and nerves build in his stomach when he sees the shadow of your feet walking past; there was no reasonable explanation to be here—on this floor—and that becomes abhorrantly apparent when the door opens and your raising a brow at him. "Listening in on ladies in their bedchambers is not very gentlemanly of you."

"I wasn't. Well, I was but it wasn't like that." Azriel's walking past you, entering your room without even asking and he seems genuinely startled by the way it looks. Not that it was dirty or unkempt but it was painstakingly bare. Years of living there and still there were no pictures on the wall, no trinkets or feminine flare; just a bed with thick blankets and a shelf filled to the brim with books. A desk with a single sketchbook and a little bag of pencils and charcoals.

"What?"

He's still taking it in; it had to have been nearly eighty years and still it looked almost identical as it had when Rhys had first offered it to you as your own. "It's just not what I expected, that's all."

Your arms are crossed over your chest, hair braided tightly and it swayed as you walked, still dripping wet from a shower. It was alarmingly warm but you still wore a long sleeved shirt and fluffy socks that went up to your knees. "What did you expect?"

Az shrugs, turning to face you when he hears the way you slowly close the door. "You've been here a while. I suppose I had just expected to see more of you in here."

"Another one of your assessments?" There's no hiding the bite in your tone, the defensive stance you take when he begins wandering around; eyes eating up what little things you did have. Fingers graze over the spines of books, picking up one with tons of little dog-eared pages. "Please do tell what my lack of interest in interior decor says about me."

Book pages flutter, stopping when he catches one page more crinkled than most and his brows furrow when realizing the wrinkly circular dots were tears—your tears. "I wasn't evaluating you but since you asked," Azriel tucks the book under his arm and your lips part with a huff but he doesn't acknowledge the grumbles you give about taking things without asking. He's too busy scanning the contents of your desk; a cup of pens, little bottles of paints and a few brushes to accompany them. The thin drawer attached is half-filled with sketchbooks that were tightly bound an sealed with wax; a clear sign to stay the fuck out. "It shows that even after claiming to be perfectly content in a house filled with your so called "closest friends and family", you still refuse to get settled. That could stem from a plethora of things; variables I've accounted for but a definite conclusion is still pending at this time."

"Asshole," You all but hiss, smacking his hands away from sifting through the pages of the sketches and scribbles scrawled beside them— angsty little depictions of your thoughts when things got too overwhelming; when all you craved was a hot bath, one of Rhys' expensive bottles and an empty house so you could dance the line on how long you could hold your breath underwater.

"You asked." Ever the observer, noting the key you pull from under the neckline of your shirt, bending at the knee to unlock the side cabinet and open it just enough to shove the sketchbook inside. It's locked up tight and the intrigue only grows. "You also didn't say I was wrong."

"Fine," You concede, arms behind your back and braced against the desk, a body barrier between him and the secrets you weren't ready to confess. "You were wrong."

Azriel only smiles and your breath actually catches by how genuinely handsome he is. For once, he's not in his fighting leathers but somehow, the laid-back fashion of his dark sweatpants and t-shirt had your knees even more shaky. "Okay, then tell me something about you—something real."

The request startles you, brows screwing up and nose crinkling. "Why?"

A hand waves around him, shadows sliding over barren walls as if to aid in making Az's point. "Because, I should be able to get everything I need to know from being in what should be the most intimate place in the world for you but all I can get is that you like expensive sheets and quality curtains."

"I enjoy good sleep." It was the only two things that mattered when the sadness really set in. When minutes blurred into hours and in a blink of an eye you'd somehow skipped all three meals and everyone was shuffling away to their rooms for the night. "And I'll have you know the pens and colored pencils alone are more expensive than the duvet and curtains combined."

Azriel hums, fingers ghosting over the tin specifically made to hold them in place, perfectly color coded and all sharped to a point. "You draw? How don't I know that?"

"Because it doesn't save lives." It's meant as a joke, it even sounds like one but for some reason the shadowsinger can't seem to share the laugh. You refuse to meet his eye, creating some distance and tucking the key swiftly back under the fabric of your shirt, hands moving to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves. "I'm not all that good anyway."

"Good enough to spend so much money on supplies."

You let out an annoyed sigh and it doesn't affect him one bit; in fact, he finds himself enjoying any other emotion besides the faux smile he'd seen permanently plastered across your features. Your room smells like something Azriel can't place and he finds himself moving again, taking in more and more, trying to find the source of the sweet scent. "Is there a reason that you're here? You know, in my room instead of your own on the floor above us." You begin to trail behind him, following his line of sight and you too begin looking for whatever he was, rummaging through your closet and sniffing at your perfumes. "What are you doing?"

"I can smell something," It comes out distracted, body working without rationality when he ducks into your bathroom, sifting around shampoos and conditioners, soaps shaped like flowers and ivy but none of it is right. Not until he moves to the little cart by your clawfoot tub, fingers ruffling about vials and jars until he finds something that has your spine straightening. “What is this?”

There’s a pause while your will your voice to relax. “Infused rum.”

“Infused with?”

A scoff, bare toes on glossy floors when you snatch the bottle from him. “I don’t know, I don’t pay extra to get a history lesson. I just like how it makes me feel.”

Azriel raises a brow, eyes scanning the rest of the cart before sparing a glance at the empty tub. “In the bath?”

“Everyone has their own version of relaxation.” The bottle clinks back into place on the cart, tucked inconspicuously next to the other brightly colored vials and jars; perfectly hidden to anyone not equipped to pay attention to such things. “Do you usually question Mor or Elain of their drinking habits?”

It’s meant to push him away. To cut deep and throw him off your trail because Azriel was getting too close—too personal. “I would if they came to dinners faking smiles.” One step ahead forces you to take one step back, eyes squinting like a wounded animal bracing for one hell of a fight if it meant getting away. “I would if I saw them fading into nothing after spending their nights sobbing themselves to sleep.”

“Now you’re just speculating.”

“Am I?” Azriel pushes, evading your space and ignoring your attempts to create distance. It has to be some sort of manipulation tactic; distracting you with his intense presence in order to scramble your brain so that by time you realize he’s backed you into a corner—it’s too late. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” His left hand raises, his wrist enclosed in shadows as his fingers curl around your neck. Your pulse hums against his skin, heartrate spiking at the intimate touch and all words are robbed from your vocabulary.

“Azriel—“

The low rasp of his voice cuts you off, gentle grip never faltering from your neck. A shiver runs down your spine, the callouses on his thumb a welcomed roughness when sweeping at the curve of your chin. “It’s okay to be sad,” His scent is overwhelming, affecting your body similarly to a few glasses of fae wine and it takes effort for your knees not to tremble. “Just don’t let it consume you.”

For a second you think he’ll kiss you with how intensely he stares at your mouth, pulse still jumping against his fingertips.

The distance never fully closes and the phantom reminder of his touch remains branded on your skin as he slowly exits your room. And for the first time in years, instead of sniffling wrinkles into novels overflowing with friendship and love or drowning your sorrows in curated liquors —you sit at your desk and draw the sharp lines of Azriel’s jaw and that intense darkness shadowing golden irises and somewhere along the lines, you find a sliver of hope.

[luludeluluramblings]

I got to say it's honestly funny that a lot of people forget Bruce's side does have powers. He's the descendant of Morgana. It's part of why no one wants to teach him magic. Not only would he have an extreme advantage, he'd be borderline unstoppable.

(There's also the fact he's canonically labeled as a Meta Human by Amanda Waller and that he's someone she wants for the Suicide Squad. His body absorbed Nth metal, which is literally the cause of Meta Humans on Earth. Though, to be fair, this was after Damian was conceived. So it shouldn't factor into this family gene pool.)

Imagine Small-town!Reader finding out that she's also has an advantage in learning magic?

We’ve all thought of the Hogwarts!AU. Having fun with the Muggleborn!Reader finding out about that fact and going back to school with a “Suck it bitches!” attitude.

I was really having fun with a Winx!Reader, though. I just think it would be ironic for Bruce to have a literal magical-girl (GN!) child kicking ass in frills with the power of friendship while he’s all dark and broody. I really really wanted to do something with this idea. The look on Bruce and the rest of the family’s faces as they watch the however long transformation sequence would be hilarious. (Plus, the whole, adding in the descendent of Morgana thing would make it even more ironic.)

To add the yandere aspect, everyone would be thinking Winx!Reader is too sweet for Gotham and wanna keep them safe. Even after finding out their some all powerful fairy they would still delude themselves into thinking Reader needs protection because of their preconceived notions on Fairies and because that much glitter is not practical. They don’t care if you can kickass with it, the answer is no. (And, then you can have fun with idea of them trying to actually take Reader’s wings for their safety. So messed up.)

[ebbaskitchen]

Suguru Geto x Reader

Text in bold italics are his thoughts 🤍

Summary: Geto comes back to you after his difficult missions looking for comfort.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Excorising, absorbing.

I kept repeating these tasks.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

No one knows...

the taste of Cursed Spirits.

It's like swallowing a cloth

that has wiped vomit.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

Continuously, unbeknownst of anyone around me.

Then, why am I lying here…

In your arms…

Small hands, warm and tender hands, run through his raven colored hair. Hands that somehow… just somehow, knew how to bring him comfort. Hands that knew where he was hurting — as the fingers trace the gentle crease of his hairline. Hands that he came back to every so often.

Your hands…

As your fingers waltzed with the strands of his dark hair, Suguru couldn’t help but ease into their touch …into your touch.

It always took him a bit to relax— starting from tensed muscles like those experienced in moments of shock or fear; but as he learned more about your touch by coming back to you so frequently, he began to relax in the feeling of them.

As your thumb gently swipes the tip of his nose to remove a fallen eyelash, he catches the lingering scent of cookie dough on your fingertips.

How did you know? I’ll never know…

But you knew the moment you asked me…

“Suguru, what do curses taste like?” You asked me with such gentle concern, I almost questioned if it was real or not. Was it a joke— was the world teasing me— or did you notice…?

I never got to answer your question… and still you knew.

If Suguru was to look up from his place on your chest, he knew exactly how you would look at him. Eyes that held nothing but adoration, concern, and gentleness. Eyes that glittered whenever they made contact with his dull orbs.

Knowing this, Suguru decides to look up, catching the way your pupils dilate when his stare meets yours— his natural strand of bangs falling into their rightful place.

You looked at me that way then too…

Studying your gaze, Suguru is reminded of a moment in his distant memory.

A few weeks after having met you, Suguru was assigned a mission on his own. He came back hurt, devastated — a look so dead in his eyes… but no one would notice that.

Subconsciously, he was looking for you when he had come back from that mission, but you were nowhere to be found. You had befriended him and he had taken a liking to you, your presence was comforting to him, even though he never expected anything from you. Giving up on the idea of finding you, he went to his dormitory, only to find the door was partially opened.

I thought it was a curse… I couldn’t bear to swallow one more that day.

I opened it hastily, wanting it to be over quickly but then I saw you…

And I smelled—- cookies??

He could never explain to you the way his heart fell to his stomach that day. And he could never explain to you the way his breath hitched in his throat when you said…

“To help with the aftertaste…” you whispered so softly

I couldn’t tell if the guilty look in your eyes was for being in my dorm when I wasn’t

or for making those cookies for me. Did you pity me…?

Though the first time he barely acknowledged the cookies due to fear that your concern for him wasn’t real, the second, third, fourth, and many other times you did make them, he was convinced it was more than just concern.

It soon became a ritual, whenever he went on a mission, he’d expect you in his dorm making cookies when he came back. And every time you’d say something along the lines of getting rid of the aftertaste from the curses he had to consume that day. And, on the more difficult missions, he would hesitantly lay in your arms. He knew you didn’t have his power, nor did you ever have to bear the feeling of eating or tasting a curse, but you did this for him as if you understood exactly what it felt like.

Now, in present time, looking back into your loving eyes, he swallowed something that, for the first time, wasn’t a curse.

I love you.

”Suguru,” your voice tickled his ear with warmth, “is something on your mind..?”

And he swallowed again.

I love you.

Your palm came to cup his cheek, the touch of you so magnetic, he slowly began to lean into it. And for a moment, no words are exchanged between the two of you, just audible breathing and even more audible heartbeats.

You began to lean your face closer to his, he didn’t notice how close you were until he could feel your breath on his skin. He held his breath the way he did when he first caught you in his dorm.

Your lips made contact with his skin. The press of them is so gentle against his forehead as if you could break him if you kissed any harder.

Lingering your single kiss there for a moment, Suguru couldn’t help but close his eyes under your affectionate lips. Pulling away from his forehead, he could see your brightly-dusted, pink cheeks that rose as you smiled so beautifully at him.

“I love you,” you’d be the first to say.

Excorising, absorbing

I kept repeating these tasks.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

No one knows...

the taste of Cursed Spirits.

It's like swallowing a cloth

that has wiped vomit.

Exorcising.

Absorbing.

“I love you too,” he would answer in a barely heard whisper. But you heard it. You always heard him.

But somehow you knew…

And I knew

As long as I come back to you…

I’ll be okay…

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Ebba’s Note

I hope you enjoyed it.

I used some of the script from the show but the rest is my original work.

Thank you 😊🤍

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Live from Baku

Word count: 1.2k

Pairing: Toto Wolff x sky sports!reader

Summary: On her first race day as a Sky Sports presenter at the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, Y/N navigates the chaos of a live grid interview with Toto Wolff, only to be caught off guard by him

________________________________________________________

Standing on the grid at the Baku City Circuit in Azerbaijan, with the imposing skyscrapers towering above and the Caspian Sea glittering in the distance, I still couldn’t quite believe I was here. This was my first full weekend as a Sky Sports F1 presenter, and everything about the moment felt surreal—the roar of engines, the scent of hot rubber and gasoline in the air, and the palpable excitement humming through the paddock.

Getting to this point had been a journey. Motorsport had always fascinated me, ever since I was a kid watching races on TV. My path into journalism wasn’t typical, but I’d clawed my way up from writing small blogs about motorsport to landing freelance pieces that covered F1. Eventually, those freelance jobs turned into bigger opportunities, and a few key interviews caught the attention of Sky Sports.

This gig with the Sky team was a dream come true, but it was also overwhelming. Friday and Saturday had passed in a blur—back-to-back segments, shadowing the seasoned presenters, learning how to manage the fast pace of the weekend, and absorbing as much as I could. The Baku Grand Prix was known for being unpredictable, chaotic even, and my first weekend here was no exception. I had to stay sharp, not just for the interviews but because the world of F1 is relentless. One mistake and the audience would pick up on it instantly.

By Sunday, race day, I had gotten a taste of the pressure. I’d already done some pre-race interviews, navigating through the throngs of team members, engineers, and VIPs walking the grid. The noise was deafening, the anticipation thick, but I was starting to find my rhythm. Being here, in the center of the chaos, was a rush like nothing else.

I stood next to Bernie, one of the veteran presenters, prepping for our next live segment. We were getting ready to speak to Toto Wolff, the Mercedes team principal. I’d seen countless interviews with him, and I admired how composed and sharp he always was, even under the immense pressure of race weekends. We had spoken to Christian Horner just minutes ago, and I expected this to be another routine conversation—just a few questions about race strategy, the pressure of the championship battle, and Mercedes’ performance. But nothing could have prepared me for what was about to unfold.

The engines revved in the background as Toto strode over to us. He was tall, confident, his stride purposeful. My heart raced—not out of nerves anymore, but out of anticipation. This was it: a live interview with one of the most powerful figures in Formula 1.

The grid was alive with the sound of roaring engines and the buzz of anticipation as the Azerbaijan Grand Prix was minutes away from starting. Bernie stood beside me, microphone in hand, her sharp eyes scanning the chaotic scene. I still couldn’t believe I was here, my first race weekend as a presenter for Sky Sports, and here we were, about to interview Toto Wolff.

Bernie nudged me with her elbow, her Northern Irish accent cutting through the noise. “Right, love. Time for Mercedes. Ye ready?” she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of warmth and professionalism.

I nodded, gripping my microphone a little tighter. “Ready,” I said, though my nerves fluttered in my stomach.

As Toto Wolff approached us, his towering frame moving easily through the grid, Bernie took the lead, her years of experience evident. She raised her microphone, smiling at Toto. “Toto! Good ta see ya. We’re just a few minutes away from lights out, how’s Mercedes feelin’ today?”

Toto smiled down at us, leaning slightly closer to hear over the roar of the engines. “Good to see you too, Bernie,” he replied smoothly, raising his own microphone. “We’re feeling confident. Yesterday’s qualifying was tough, but we’ve made some adjustments, and we’re ready for the fight.”

I was next, and though my heart raced, I reminded myself to stay calm. This was live television, and I had to focus. I stepped forward, lifting my mic and directing my question toward him. “Toto, after qualifying yesterday, do you think Mercedes is in a good position for today’s race?”

Toto leaned down toward me, his large frame towering over my much smaller one. It was so loud that I had to repeat the question. “Do you feel confident about today after yesterday’s performance?” I asked again, speaking directly into his ear.

His smile widened, and he straightened slightly, his eyes locking onto mine for a second longer than necessary. “Ah, yes,” he said smoothly, his voice almost teasing. “Confidence is always high, especially today. But I think having good company helps.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the way he said it. Was he flirting? No, surely not—this was live TV, after all. I forced a smile, assuming I was reading too much into it, and stepped back as Bernie jumped in with her next question.

“Now, Toto,” Bernie said, her accent making the words flow with a familiar rhythm, “what can we expect from yer strategy today? Red Bull’s been puttin’ the pressure on. Any surprises from Mercedes?”

Toto’s gaze flicked back to me for a split second before he turned to answer Bernie. “Well, we’ve got a few things planned,” he said with that same easy confidence. “But sometimes, surprises just… happen. Some things you can’t plan for.” His voice dipped slightly on the last part, and again, I felt a flutter of something—was it nerves? Or something else entirely?

Bernie shot me a quick look, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly, but she kept things professional as always. “Well, sounds like we’re in for a good race,” she said, wrapping things up. “Thank ye, Toto, for yer time. Best of luck.”

Toto nodded and gave his usual polite smile, but before he walked away, he turned back toward me, leaning down once again. “Before I go,” he said, his voice softer, meant only for me, “I’d like to get to know you better. Maybe after the race… I could get your number?”

I stared at him, momentarily frozen. Was this really happening? On the grid? Live? Before I could even process a response, his team radio crackled, pulling him away. “Toto, we need you back at the garage,” the voice of an engineer called through his earpiece.

He smiled one last time, giving me a small wink. “Think about it, *liebling*,” he added with a grin before heading off toward the Mercedes garage, disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there for a moment, my microphone still in hand, mind racing as I processed what had just happened. Bernie glanced at me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Did he just…?” I asked quietly, still unsure of what to make of it.

Bernie raised an eyebrow, her accent thick as she whispered back, “Flirt wit’ ye? Aye, I reckon he did.”

I felt my cheeks flush as Bernie chuckled softly beside me. “On live TV, no less,” she added with a shake of her head, her voice full of amusement.

We stood there for a moment longer, the noise of the grid surging around us, but all I could think about was what had just happened with Toto Wolff. My first race day, and it was already unforgettable in ways I hadn’t expected.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of the Heart: Chapter 32 (human Alastor x Married Reader)

CW: Fingering, nudity, consent is sexy

Prev Masterlist AO3 KoFi Show your support by leaving a tip, buy Kit a coffee

You and Alastor walked down the boardwalk, fingers woven together as your hands swung between you. The stars glittered above while the waves softly caressed the sandy beach. The moon was as bright as the eyes of young lovers to every person they passed, though few were out at the late hour. 

You chewed your lip as you listened to Alastor’s stories of his boyhood and the love of his mother while you kept stealing glances down at the hand holding yours. It was the very same hand that had coaxed you to indecency in a very public place. 

“And then the moon was green,” Alastor said, his words filtering through your brain, a relaxing sound that didn’t process in any meaningful way. “We rode horses to the castle.” 

“What?” Your eyes snapped to his. It was very clear that he had caught you listening but not absorbing his words. “I’m sorry, Alastor. I-” 

He turned to face you, snagging up your hands in his as he pulled you through a few simple dance steps, though there was no music to match it. Your eyes glanced down at the bite mark on his neck, clearly standing out from his open collar. 

There was no hiding what it was, and it had earned the pair of you looks as you walked through the throngs of people. Everyone knew what it was and from the smudge of pink still on his neck and the way he held onto your hand, they knew it was you who placed it there. 

As promised, he wore it with pride. He could have buttoned up his collar, put his bowtie on. You knew he had it stashed in his pocket. It wouldn’t be enough to cover it, hide it during the day, but with the long shadows of night, it would probably be alright. 

He didn’t try at all to hide it. 

“You seem distracted,” Alastor said as he danced you down the path, slowly leading you to your home for the weekend. You wanted it to be your home forever. It was a place where it was just you and Alastor, no one else. “Your mind on something else?” 

“Oh, I- I’ve just had my head in the clouds,” 

Alastor chuckled as he continued to dance. “The clouds? Perhaps I’m imagining your eyes on my neck where your mark seems to be clear as day.” 

“I didn’t mean to, I’m-” 

Alastor continued talking over you as he twirled you around, picking you up at times and swinging your legs through the air. “There will be no doubt to anyone that I’ve got a girl to call me hers.” 

It was such a unique way to word it. You’d often heard men speak about their partners, spouses, wives in ways that hinted at ownership and possession. Hearing him speak as if you could possess him, hold him in the palms of your hands, gave that power to you. 

“You’re mine?” you whispered, not meaning to say it. 

“I am,” Alastor said, leaning down and kissing you softly. “Yours. Only yours.”

“I wish I was only yours.” You hated the crack in your soft voice as you kept your eyes on him, trusting him to move you through the world safely. 

“You are,” Alastor whispered between kisses, “He just doesn’t know you’re not his anymore, yet.” 

Your back hit a light pole, not hard but sudden enough that you gasped. He pressed up against you, lips ghosting over your neck as he kissed his way to your ear. 

“Alastor?” 

“You’re not his anymore, not really.” His fingers gripped your hips as he kissed you deeply, leaving you gulping for air as he pulled away. “I can’t wait for the day when you’re no longer his.” 

“Do you ever think it’ll really happen?” you asked as he rested his forehead against yours. 

“I do,” Alastor whispered. “I will not allow him to hurt you for the rest of your life. But that’s enough of him for tonight.” 

“What do you- oh,” Alastor’s lips moved along your jaw until he captured your earlobe between his lips. He ran his teeth over the soft flesh, reveling in the way you gasped and moved against him. 

“You think I didn’t notice how you keep looking at my neck?” He pulled away, tucking your arm under his as he began leading you down the walkway toward the Villa in the distance. He spoke as if it was the most conversational topic in the world, leaning into your ear to ensure you heard every soft word he said. 

“Do you enjoy the thought of me walking around wearing a mark left by you while you were in the heights of passion?” Alastor didn’t wait for you to answer, knowing you’d struggle to form a sentence if he kept such thoughts at the forefront of your mind. 

He knew he should let you rest, let your emotions rest with how much he had already pulled from you this weekend, but he couldn’t help wanting to touch you again. The sounds you made, the way you flushed as you came undone, it was addicting. 

He longed for it almost as much as he longed for the hunt. It sounded so sweet in his ears, tasted rich on his tongue. If he could just have you, maybe he could put down his hobby. Maybe he wouldn’t need the thrill of the hunt if he had you to come home to.

It wasn’t likely. He knew that. It was love talking, singing its song in his ears, but for a moment he believed it. 

It didn’t change how badly he wanted to see you, feel you come undone. Holding himself back, trying to give your body time to recover from each wave of pleasure, was driving him mad. 

He hadn’t expected the feeling of your teeth sinking into his flesh to pull such a reaction from him. It hurt, sure, but not nearly enough to stop the shiver that ran down his spine or the need that sparked in his abdomen. 

“I saw how you watched me lick the sugar from my fingers. What were you thinking of at that moment? Was that why you were already slick with want before my hands were even on you?” 

You were crumbling now, and for Alastor, it was a delight to watch. It was adorable how you kept your eyes trained forward, not daring to look at him. He didn’t need your eyes on him to tell him how he was working you up again. The flush on your face, shallow breaths and the way you kept wetting your lips with that pretty tongue of yours told him all he needed to know. 

Alastor unlocked the door as you stood stiffly by his side. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he wrapped you up in his arms. 

“I’m sorry for teasing you so much,” Alastor whispered before kissing you deeply, not waiting to hear if he had caused offense. The way your arms wrapped around his neck, body stretching up in a adorable attempt to match his height, told him that if he did, you were aroused enough to forgive him for it. 

“You fluster me so,” you whisper as you came up for air. “I’m not used to such brazen attention.” 

“It’s only fair. You fluster me.” Alastor said, pulling the cord to light the lamp by the door. 

“I can’t imagine anyone flustering you,” you breathed the worlds, head tilted back as Alastor kissed along your throat. 

He was fighting the urge to do more than lick the skin. He could wear your marks and would, with pride, but he couldn’t leave any on you. What would it feel like to sink his teeth into your shoulder? To pull the muscle into his mouth and feel it flex as you writhed under him. 

Feeling a stirring, he slowed his thoughts, focusing on you. Your pleasure was what mattered, what he was chasing. He didn’t need to deal with his own body’s traitorous responses, so he willed his heart rate to slow. 

This was about you. Your pleasure. Your needs. He was on a mission to erase every memory of your husband’s brutal hands during this weekend. He would see to it that you struggled to even remember the name of the man you were married to. 

It was the least he could do. It was all he could do at the moment, at least. 

“You fluster me more than you know.” Alastor walked you deeper into the room, nimble fingers working the buttons free at the front of your dress. 

He didn’t need you bare, naked to see to your needs, but he wanted you to be. Your body was something he wished to gaze upon. This was the last night he had where he could hold you, bare skin against his chest as he watched you sleep in the safety of his arms. 

He wanted to map out every blemish and mark along your skin. He wanted the memorize the way you sighed in your sleep, the way your lips would part. The way you felt tucked into his arms was something he needed to learn so that he could spend his nights thinking about it, haunted by it.

With a brush of his hands, your dress slipped down, cascading to the floor. You nearly tripped over it while stepping back. His lips found yours again as he worked his way to the couch, tugging your half slip down lower and lower off your hips until it too fell to the ground. 

“Alastor,” you moaned his name as you worked at his buttons, wanting to feel him under your hands again. He wanted to hear you moan his name again. 

“Mine,” he mumbled into your shoulder as he pulled you down onto the couch with him. 

“Yours,” you gasped as his hands roamed over your body, caressing your ribs and back as he moved you to lie back.

Long fingers slipped under the back of your bra. “May I?” 

Your heart beat in your chest. This would be the night, you were sure of it, that Alastor would take you as a man takes a wife. You would feel what it was to lie with him in sin. It should have sent you running, but instead all it did was have you panting, eager to experience what it could be like, though it would be a lie if you said you were not a little afraid of the pain that would come with it.

“Yes,” you finally answered. 

He unlatched the band easily, scooping the straps off your shoulders. As the silk bra fell to the ground in front of the couch, you folded your arms over your chest. 

“Don’t hide from me,” Alastor said as he pulled your hands away by the wrists. You didn’t fight it, but you couldn’t bear looking at him as he looked at you. “You’re okay,” he kissed you softly. “I won’t do anything to hurt you.” 

Alastor chuckled as you relaxed. He peppered the ridge of your clavicle with soft kisses. Your back arched, pressing your front into him as he guided your body back against the couch. A blush dusted your cheeks as he pulled back. Ever the timid thing, you wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

The position was much like the one he had sat in, seemingly forever ago when he had first tested the waters of physical intimacy with you, only reversed. He had first touched you and showed you the pleasure you had been denied for so long that night. 

He folded over you as his lips worked down your chest. You wanted to cover yourself, but your hands rested on his arms as his lips explored the skin he had yet to touch. 

Warm breath washed over your nipple as you looked at the ceiling. That didn’t bother Alastor in the slightest as he warped his lips around the pebbled nub, enclosing it in an open-mouthed kiss. 

You struggled to think as he worked your nipple in a series of lavishing kisses that left you thinking about how he had worked your slit with his mouth the night before. The moan that slipped from your lips could have come from the memory or the way he caressed your other breast. Before you could decide which, he started kissing down your stomach. 

“Can these go too?” Alastor asked, running his fingers over the edge of your panties. 

“Okay.” 

You lifted your hips as his fingers worked under the hem of the last remaining fabric protecting any bit of your modesty. It wasn’t like they were protecting anything he hadn’t seen already. That ship had sailed. 

Alastor guided the garment down your legs and sent it to the floor. Strong hands ran up your legs as you finally braved looking at him. The sight he made stole what little breath you still had from your lungs. 

His hair was messy, the humidity from the ocean was waging a battle with the curls he had worked so hard to straighten. You wanted to run your hands through it, but if you moved, you were sure you’d wake from the dream you had to be in. 

He knelt, calfs between your ankles as he leaned forward, between your knees. His shirt was hanging open, not nearly open enough for your liking. You wanted him as bare as you. 

“You’re magnificent,” he whispered, voice so naked and him, as it had been so often since you had arrived at the little coastal town. His eyes were dragging over every part of you. “Did you know that?”

You didn’t know if you believed it, too many times had you been told your curves were too much or not in the right places. The way Alastor looked at you, the nakedness in his voice and the warmth in his eyes dared you to believe it. The soothing touch running up your legs as he parted your knees more dared you to challenge him on it. 

“Will you let me indulge in you again tonight?” Alastor asked as he blanketed over you, supporting himself with a hand placed on the back of the couch near your head while he ran his other hand slowly up your thigh, fingertips tracing patterns. “Or would that be too much for you tonight?”

Reaching out, you ran your hand up his chest. Strong muscles flexed under your hand, but what drew your attention was the way his heart hammered in his chest. With every move he made, you could feel his muscles jump as you ran hands over him, pulling at his shirt and fighting with buttons until it was hanging open. He was so hot under your hands as you tried to take in all of him. The heat of his body soaked into you as your breasts brushed against his chest. 

Feeling bold, you leaned up and placed soft kisses along his neck. You could just feel the start of stubble as you worked your way to his jaw, wrapping your arms around his back, under his shirt to help pull you closer and support your weight. As you went, he shifted and turned his head, allowing your lips to travel as you wished. 

Ghosting touches traveled down, feeling every flex and twitch of his abdomen and back. His shirt ghosted against your breasts as he gave you room to move, teasing her nipples with the ever so slight touches. 

“Please?” You whispered as your fingers ghosted over his belt buckle. Bold, he was making you feel safer, bolder. You wanted more. It didn’t matter if it hurt as long as it was with him. “Is it mad that I want you to keep touching me? Is it wrong?” Your tongue darted out as you placed a wet kiss against the marks left by your teeth on his neck. 

Alastor groaned as his hand stroked a path of fire down your inner thigh. He looked so good with his eyes closed, face flushed ever so slightly. Did you look good to him as you had your head tossed back in pleasure? Is that why he kept touching you?

As his fingers caressed over your slit, you found it hard to support the weight of your head. Positions flipped and now it was Alastor’s mouth working over your neck. 

“You’re so wet for me already,” he whispered, “slick spread over your lips just waiting for me to delve in. How do you want me to make you fall apart tonight?” 

Alastor’s fingers easily slipped through your folds, lewdly wet and waiting for him. The way you gasped had him closing his eyes again, trying to keep his mind on you and your pleasure and willing his body not to awaken. He counted his breaths, teaching each slowly into his lungs as you shuddered under him. 

He wasn’t expecting to find himself twitching, trying to come to life, but it seemed he was still being influenced by the way you had sunk your teeth into his neck still. It was unexpected, but that was to be examined later. Now was about you, having you writhing in pleasure under him as you panted his name. 

“You,” you whispered, face aflame as his fingers sank deeper, easily finding and breaching your opening, stretching you two wide from the start. 

“You have me, my darling.” 

Gasping, your back arched as his fingers spread you wide. You were more relaxed under his touch this time, Alastor was pleased to find. He knew it was pushing things for you to take two at once from the very start, but oh; you were far more ready for him tonight. You squelched around his fingers as your back arched. 

“Alastor,” you whined as his fingers flexed and curled inside you, caressing walls he had no right to touch. Sensations and pleasure had your head spinning with each flex of his fingers. All you could do was hold on to Alastor’s arm and try to ground yourself. What shame you had was dissolving with each time you whined his name. 

“You look so good like this,” Alastor praised, leaning forward and down, kissing you soundly. After he swallowed enough of your sounds, he pulled back and continued, “Just for me.” 

“Just you,” you repeated as he pulled you closer to the cliff, not really aware of what you were saying. “Only you.”

You ran your hands over skin until Alastor trapped one in the hand he was using to support himself. You did your best to take in the feel of him, moaning deeply as a third finger entered you, spreading you wider. 

“You take my fingers so well,” Alastor murmured as you panted, arching and twitching under him. Your desire poured from around his fingers. His name sounded like music when you panted it.

He couldn’t help but marvel at the way he enjoyed bringing you to the edge, only to hold you there for as long as he could, feeling your walls fluttering around his hand. Drawing it out wasn’t something he usually sought to do. With you, he didn’t want the moment to end. 

Typically, Alastor would see to it his partner finished once, perhaps a second time, if he was feeling generous and send her on her way. If he was lucky, he could keep himself to just hands and mouths and get the job done quickly. 

With you though? He had to breathe through the way your walls gripped his fingers, struggling to keep himself in check as he tested how long he could hold you there. He longed to kiss you, to taste you, to feel you around him. 

Why was it different with you? Alastor watched as your lips parted, eyes squeezing shut as you fluttered faster around his fingers when he reached deeper. You squelched, loud and lewd, as he worked his fingers in and out, faster, harder. 

Kissing you hadn’t been his intention, but somehow he was leaning closer, arm twitching as he continued to support his weight to allow him room to move. He kneed your legs further apart and now you were so lost in the pleasure he gave that they spread easily, allowing him to better run the palm of his hand over your clit. 

You ran your free hand around his neck and down his shoulder before you were greedily taking in his chest. Strong. He was so strong. Clear defined muscles he kept hidden under his shirts and blazers. How he could be so strong and so lean, you didn’t know. 

Kissing sloppily down his jaw, your lips found his neck. You were so close now to that breaking fall that he seemed to keep sending you over. 

“Please, Al-Alastor,” your lips moved against his throat as he seemed to stretch over you, chin up and head pulled back as he worked. Your fingers ran down his abdominals and along the hem of his pants. You could feel the tufts of hair, ever so slight and reaching toward his navel. 

You kissed his neck as you reached, fingers caressing his belt buckle. The place you had bitten on his neck was easy enough to find. The marks left by your teeth were raised under your lips. Temptation won out, and you left open-mouthed kisses that had you running your teeth over the place. 

“Oh!” Alastor jerked as his fingers twisted up, hitting something that had you seeing stars and convulsing under him. “Come for me,” Alastor urged, as if you were not already falling. 

Your fingers flexed, digging into the palm of the hand he had restrained. What Alastor wasn’t prepared for was the way your fingers flexed and twitched along his pants, dipping between his abdomen and the fabric. 

Aftershocks rocked your body as he pulled away from you, pulling his hips out of your reach. He sat back, fingers slipping from your twitching hole as he looked down at you and willed his body to calm only somewhat successfully.

You sat up, satiated, and yet still wanting in a way you couldn’t explain while you watched him lick his fingers clean. Wasting no time, you ran your hands up his chest and pulled his shirt down, letting it hang around his elbows. 

He watched you, lewdly running his tongue over his slick fingers and groaning at the taste of you. Focused on his breathing as you slid your very naked body against his chest. 

You moaned at the feeling of his skin against your overheated torso. What you were doing, you didn’t know. It was like something had possessed your body, instinct or a demon, you didn’t know as you pressed your breasts into him.

He was strong under your hands as they ran down his chest, back and sides. Lips worked over his neck as you tried to get a reaction from the man that was currently largely frozen in place, eyes closed and taking slow breaths. 

“Have you not had enough?” Alastor asked as he pulled away only for you to follow. 

“No,” you whispered, as your hand moved lower, caressing, until you pulled the end of his belt from the loops. “Have you really?” 

“Wait,” Alastor’s voice was naked, shattered as he grabbed your hands. “Stop.” 

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[sp1cy-t0ss]

Antares

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45534721

The first thing Nightwing hears upon regaining consciousness is ominous chanting. A man’s voice rings out over the rest, ranting about an Eternal King, infinite power, and -- oh boy -- sacrifices. He tunes it out to assess the situation.

He’s in an old warehouse. Robin’s here too, looking even more annoyed than Nightwing feels, and both of them have their hands and ankles bound in rope. His comm is on silent, just as he left it, like an idiot. The ranting man and his followers in matching robes are gathered around a ritual circle in the middle of the floor. Yeah, that tells him all he needs to know. They need to get out, now.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly when the leader finishes his speech and turns to them.

“So,” the man asks with a cruel smile. “Which of you ‘heroes’ will have the honor of bringing our Lord to this plane?” 

“I will.” Robin’s voice is sharp, unyielding. 

The man is obviously surprised to receive an actual answer to his taunt, but obliges. He pulls Robin away without another word.

“What?! No! Robin, you can’t--” Nightwing’s protest is cut off with a punch to the stomach from one of the robed lackeys.

“I have my reasons, Nightwing; it must be me.” Robin’s face reveals nothing, but he gives a subtle hand signal: I have a plan.

Nightwing forces himself to calm down. They’ll get out of this. He just has to trust his Robin. While everyone’s eyes are off him, he quietly works at the amateur knots.

The leader drags Robin into the circle without a fight. He raises a jeweled dagger, intentions clear... 

But Robin is faster. He bites his own wrist, hard, and spits his blood into the circle. The runes light up in terrible Lazarus green, and Robin pushes himself upright with a malicious grin.

The lead cultist scrambles back from the circle and into a deep bow. The chanting stops as his minions follow suit. Robin continues to look far too smug for his situation. Nightwing feels a headache coming on somewhere under his renewed panic.

This is his plan?! 

There’s a blinding flash of light. When the spots clear from Nightwing’s vision, the Eternal King is floating in the circle, mere feet from the bound Robin.

The Eternal King isn’t quite the grotesque horror he expected. Their body is a glittering black void, a sleek humanoid shadow with misty white hair and bright, bright eyes of toxic green. A cold fog rolls off of their body in waves.

“Antares,” the shadow rumbles, and Nightwing feels static thrum in his bones with the sound. The room is painfully cold, but the King doesn’t seem aggressive yet. Maybe they really can bargain their way out of this mess.

Robin doesn’t flinch. He looks the Eternal King right in the eyes, utterly fearless, and smirks. “Hello, Beloved.”

What?

The King stares silently, floating closer. For a long moment, no one moves. No one speaks.

“My lord, does the sacrifice please you?” The ringleader cuts in, standing up with a greedy gleam in his eyes. 

Something in the air changes as the King turns toward the man. Something cold, electric, heavy under the skin. Nightwing suppresses a shiver as he works through the last of the rope.

“You d̵̢̛a̵̼̽ṙ̴͎e̵͙̐.”

The leader pales and falls to his knees. “My Lord, if this offering is insufficient, we have another--”

The King s̴̱̖̺̺̓͊̕̕ć̵͇͇͔̈r̴̥͐e̸̥̬͌̂̌̊a̴̭̔̓̀̔͘m̵̯͑̋͌͠s̵̗̤̻̭̍̿, a furious howl that blurs Nightwing’s vision and claws his ears. The sound is everywhere, driving him to his knees. Growing shadows seem to absorb his little brother just as Nightwing realizes he’s blacking out. 

They’re falling, they’re falling someone help they’re screaming he’s screaming make it stop dead on impact blood and bones make it stop make it STOP--

When he comes back to himself, it’s quiet. Nightwing blinks tears from his eyes, gasping for frigid air that pierces his lungs like knives. The floor outside the circle is covered in blood splatter. The cultists have all been struck down, and many aren’t moving. 

But he’s not looking at them.

Because the monster is coiled around Robin like a snake, eyes burning as it surveys the room. Robin seems unharmed for now, but he has to get his baby brother away from that thing.

He steps forward, and those endless green eyes lock onto him. It snarls at his approach, revealing multiple rows of teeth. Claws subtly tighten on Robin’s shoulders. Nightwing sinks into a combat stance, and the creature braces itself to leap.

Pure, animal instinct screams that Nightwing won’t survive this fight.. It doesn’t matter. He’ll give his all like he always has, and Robin can escape. The others will find a way to take it down. He just has to buy time.

“Dove, it’s alright.”

To Nightwing’s amazement, the creature freezes. It turns to look at Robin, warbling in apparent confusion before turning back to Nightwing with a hiss.

Robin grabs its face in both hands and forces it to look at him. “No. That’s Nightwing, remember? He will not harm us. I am safe. We are safe.” His voice is steady, soothing as he gently presses their foreheads together. A spark of awareness slowly returns to ‘Dove’s’ eyes.

“Come back to me.”

The monster sags in Robin’s grip, slowly folding in on itself until a nearly-human teen with snowy white hair is left floating gently in its place.

Robin smiles, gentle and shockingly warm. “There you are.”

‘Dove’ is shaking. Their eyes are locked on Robin, as though he’s the only thing in their universe. “Antares,” they breathe, before wrapping Robin in a tight hug.

Robin briefly looks to Dick, gesturing toward the cultists. He then returns his attention to the distraught being, resting his chin on their head and both hands on their back. The obvious dismissal makes Nightwing uneasy, but the kid has a point. They'll just have to check him for hypnosis or mind control back at the Cave.

Now that Nightwing is actually looking at the cultists, their injuries are horrific. Deep lacerations, stab wounds, frostbite, severed limbs...none of them seem likely to die with medical treatment, but every last one is maimed. 

The ringleader is worst of all. His eyes are gouged out, and his hands ripped off and cauterized by the same unearthly frost that burns scattered marks into his skin. An unfamiliar symbol has been clawed into his chest. 

Nightwing looks back to the circle, where Dove is quietly sobbing. Their face is tucked securely into Robin’s neck, and Nightwing hears whispers of I was scared and can’t lose you too.  

This is the same person?

By the time the cultists are all secured and the police have been called, Dove seems to have calmed down. Time to play the diplomat. Again. 

Damn, maybe Steph has a point about Eldest Daughter Syndrome.

“I, uh, hate to interrupt, but we should probably get out of here, yeah? GCPD will be here in a couple minutes,” he proposes with a friendly smile.

Dove wipes their eyes. “Right.” Then they look around the room and wince. “Uhm, sorry you? Had to see that? I...panicked. You’re okay though, right? Not hurt or anything?” The question is disarmingly earnest, and there’s nothing but concern in their eyes. Hm.

“Nah, not a scratch,” Nightwing dismisses. Then he remembers he’s apparently talking to a king. “Thank you for saving Robin, Your Highness,” he adds with a bow of his head. 

“Nuh-uh, no titles. Gross.” The King makes a face, then smiles with renewed cheer. “Call me Phantom. He/him, ghost, and general pain in the ass, at your service!” He floats higher and punctuates his announcement with a midair flip. “You might as well know, since we’re gonna be seeing each other a lot now.”

Crap. “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Nightwing ventures.

‘Phantom’ exchanges a meaningful look with Robin. Nightwing barely has time to register the mischief on both their faces before Robin pulls the being down into a kiss. 

A deep kiss now. Really deep. Yeah, they’ve definitely forgotten he’s here.

When they finally separate, Robin looks quite satisfied. Phantom, however, sticks out a forked tongue and scrunches his face. “Blech, blood. What did you...” His eyes land on Robin’s still-bloody wrist, then the droplets still in the circle. 

“You didn’t.” A grin creeps across his face. “You have me on soul speed dial and you still hijacked a whole-ass summoning!”

“Tt. I was making a point.” Robin crosses his arms.

Phantom cackles. “You are literally the most dramatic person I’ve ever met!” he crows.

Robin raises an eyebrow and gestures to the warehouse full of mangled cultists. Phantom opens his mouth to retort, but it’s at this point that Nightwing finally manages to pull his jaw off the floor and speak. 

“Robin,” he says with deliberate calm. “What the fuck.”

And then they hear police sirens. Fantastic.

“Crap. Don’t worry, I got it!” Phantom declares as he rips a green hole in existence. Robin is unfazed, which is rapidly getting less and less surprising.

A woman in the corner stirs. Phantom makes a ‘one moment’ gesture before he stalks over and yanks her forward with a growl. “You’ve kept your tongue for a reason. Spread the word: Robin is mine.” (Robin stands taller, obviously pleased by that extremely concerning statement.)  The woman nods frantically, and Phantom drops her to the ground. 

Without further preamble, Phantom zips back over and shoves both vigilantes through the rip.

Just like that, they’re all in Damian’s bedroom. The two boys immediately sit together on the edge of the bed, while Dick remains standing. Dick doesn’t even know where to begin, so he can only give a helpless ‘why’ sort of gesture. Thankfully, Damian seems to take pity on him.

“Richard, this insufferable fool is my Beloved. His name is Danny, and he is seventeen.” Then he smirks. “You may refer to him as High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms; The Tyrant’s Bane, True Balance, Son Of Stars, Pride of Time, Death’s Chosen--”

The ghost groans dramatically, flopping across Damian’s lap like a wet noodle. “Oh my gawd, Dames, why would you tell him that?”

"It is very important that Richard recognizes your position and authority.” Damian says, not even trying to sound convincing.

Danny reaches up and pushes at Damian’s face. It brings to mind a pair of cats, especially with Damian doing his best to look annoyed instead of fond. “Betrayal! I want a divorce!”

That’s the last straw. Dick chokes on his own spit and has to thump his chest a few times to breathe right again. With monumental effort, he manages to wheeze out a strangled “Are you MaRriEd?!”

Danny tries to sputter out a reply, but Dick is distracted by Damian laughing. It’s a low, light sound, with no attempt made to disguise it. 

“Of course not,” Damian says. He cards a hand through Danny’s hair, the other boy sighing contently and looking up at him with adoring neon eyes. “We've only courted for seven months now. It will be another three years before we wed.” 

Dick is just. Gonna ignore that last bit. For his own sanity. “Wait, how did you keep a whole boyfriend secret for seven months? In this family?” 

“Bribery.” “Threats.”

Yeah, that sounds about right. Babs and Duke probably know then.

“Cool, good to know. One more question.” Well, more like a billion, but he may as well start with an icebreaker before the inevitable interrogation. Besides, it’s a big brother's duty to embarrass his siblings. “Why Dove?”

Damian says nothing, but his deep blush is almost audible.

“Because I’m cute and fluffy!” Danny chirps.

“Hardly,” Damian scoffs. “It’s because you are raucously annoying and constantly crash into windows.”

Literally everything about this situation is baffling, but Danny looks so offended that Dick can’t help but laugh.

“You lying asshole!” Danny screeches.

Damian turns to Dick. “He attempted to use a grapple three times and broke eleven windows; four of them with his face. I have videos.” Danny gasps, the two start bickering, and Dick is left to his thoughts once more. 

Even as the pair separate to point fingers and trade increasingly creative insults, their body language is completely relaxed. As much as Dick is panicking about a powerful undead monarch around their family, Damian is happy. He has been for months, now that Dick thinks about it. He’s been loosening up a little, leaving the manor more, and even mentioning a few new friends (though he refuses to use the word.)

Whoever or whatever Danny is, he’s been good for him.

“Well,” Dick cuts in, interrupting an inventive declaration about overripe cheese. “We’ll obviously need to talk about this. But for what it’s worth,” he smiles. “I’m happy for you, Baby Bat.” 

With that said, Dick walks out of the bedroom. Danny gives him a grateful smile, and a quiet thank you, Richard can be heard as he closes the door behind him.

Dick walks away at a leisurely pace until he reaches the end of the hallway, where he promptly breaks into a sprint toward the Cave. Checking the Batcomputer to make sure Damian hasn’t noticed the planted bug yet, he turns on his comms. Unsurprisingly, the entire family is yelling and demanding answers.

Well, at least he won’t be the only one having a heart attack tonight.

[misseviehyde]

REVERSE THERAPY

Martin had known he was potentially risking his entire career when he agreed to treat his daughter's bully through specialist therapy sessions. He should have announced to her family that he had a vested interest, but Gracie and her rich Daddy had no idea that the guy administering experimental therapy to the bored, spoiled rich girl, might have an axe to grind.

Gracie and Martin's daughter Susan attended the same prestigious school, but whilst the blonde, sexy and confident Gracie was popular and the Head Cheerleader - his daughter was a nobody bookworm. Gracie bullied Susan constantly and Martin was determined to help end the cycle of negativity. After all, he strongly believed in the power of therapy. Gracie was obviously bullying Susan because of her own hang-ups... he could cure her.

Gracie was actually a highly compliant subject and her mind seemed particularly susceptible to his therapy process. Martin was experimenting with a mind melding technology that allowed him to share consciousness with his patient. He was determined to see if he could turn Gracie from being a mean girl into a nice person by examining her experiences and tweaking her personality.

They both lay in Gracie's pink princess bedroom, the mind transfer bands round their foreheads. Deep in a meditative trance, their minds merged and Martin floated inside Gracie's consciousness.

It was a petty, spiteful, narcissistic mind. A mind that hungered for sex, power and constant attention. It was an enticing combination of sharp glittering edges and soft spoiled silk - you could lose yourself in a mind like this.

Deliciously toxic femininity washed over Martin as he tried to absorb Gracie's memories and life story so he could try to understand why she was such a bitch.

He would try to control and alter those memories to make Gracie ashamed of being cruel and evil. He could make her a better person.

Instead, he found himself being overwhelmed and flooded with strong sexual desires as he began to relive memories of Gracie's depraved life and found he enjoyed it.

He groaned and his cock got rock hard, as sensations and memories of being an evil bad girl pulsed through him. Gracie got off on being mean.

His lips curved into a smile as he experienced the memory of clopping through the school halls in high heels, his tight shaven pussy dripping wet as everyone got out of his way. Chewing gum, Martin blew a bubble and giggled. It felt so fucking good to be feared and desired.

These memories felt good, but nothing had prepared him for how much it would turn him on to relive memories and experiences of bullying his own daughter.

Cruel, mean, dominant emotions rushed through him. The way he called Susan a fucking loser, the satisfaction when he saw tears in her eyes. Making her do his homework, spreading rumours about her.

Even hotter memories rushed through his mind. Susan whimpering as he rubbed his pussy in front of her face, his cheerleader skirt hiked up and his minions pinning her arms back as he laughed and squirted all over her glasses and face and made her lick up his cum as he finished orgasming.

"You're a fucking loooooser Susan and that's all you'll ever be. A poor, worthless, pathetic little loser. I'll always be better than you."

Seeing his daughter humiliated and destroyed should have angered and enraged him... instead it just felt so fucking good. Martin had a big smile on his lips, he shivered in taboo pleasure. Being a bully felt good... it made him horny.

His daughter WAS a fucking loser. It felt good to think it... to feel it. His hands clenched and he imagined pink acrylic claws on his fingers. He imagined boys worshipping him, having a tight slutty body.

He wanted it bad.

With a gasp he awoke and ended the therapy session.

***

Martin realised something was wrong but he was now too addicted to stop. The therapy wasn't working right. Instead of making Gracie better, the therapy was making HIM worse.

He now couldn't stop thinking about being an evil teenage bully and destroying his pathetic daughters life. Gracie's cruel and spoiled personality was transferring over to him... and he liked it.

He began to find phrases and idioms that Gracie used were now part of his vocab. An 'OMG', 'loooser' or 'bitch pleeease' would occasionally escape his lips. His physical mannerisms had changed. He was now more expressive with his hands and his lips had become a constant bitchy sneer.

He lay on his bed pumping his cock, imagining he was Gracie. Imagining he was the bully and desiring more.

Each time they had therapy, Martin would now dive into Gracie's mind and let her evil personality wash over him. He sucked it into himself - pushing out his own memories and thoughts to make room for more of Gracie's.

"Yessss, fucking infect me with your bitchiness," he hissed in pleasure as he eagerly fed on Gracie's wicked personality and mentally orgasmed.

"I'm a bitch, I'm an evil fucking bitch" he groaned in his mind, cumming again and again to the sensations of being a tight, bullying slut.

But as the sessions continued and Martin adopted more and more of Gracie's personality and memories he began to notice that she was acting weird too. She began dressing more demurely and her bullying, confident attitude began to fade. She even began to act more friendly towards Susan.

He began to realise that he was somehow draining Gracie's evil mind into himself. The memories, thoughts and feelings he was pushing out to make room were taking hold in her mind. Soon she would be a good girl trapped in a slutty bitch body and he would be a bitchy bully trapped in a mans body. This would never do...

Deactivating all the safeties on the therapy bands, they lay in Gracie's bedroom. Martin moaned as he entered Gracie's mind and felt one last moment of doubt. Could he really take it all? Could he absorb all of Gracie's remaining bitchy mind and BECOME her? Could he slide into this body and be the new driver, leaving her as the controller of his old body?

A memory of Susan, a memory of the love he once had for his daughter almost stopped him. Then an image of Susan kneeling at his feet begging for mercy made him groan in delight and he knew what he wanted.

"Give it all to me you bitch... your mind, your memories, your BODY! Ooooh fuckkkk yesssss!"

The duo convulsed, sparks flying from the transfer bands. Martin screamed in pleasure. He greedily sucked and sucked, drinking in and absorbing all of Gracie's memories. "Yessss I'm mmmmh a bully, I'm hot... I'm a girl! Yessss make me an evil princess!"

Martin's mind warped and buckled. Images of pink lingeire, of shopping with his girls of being a self-entitled brat overwhelmed him as he drew them into himself and pushed out his own memories. His sense of self, collapsed and the new Gracie purred as she felt the last remaining hold-outs of her old personality forced out.

She was a fucking bitch now. She remembered she had once been Martin, but this was soooo much better.

"Yesssss I feel sooo fucking good," she moaned flowing with a wicked grin into HER body. There was another mind in here, but it was weak and she tore it loose- hurling it back into the body she has just come from.

"Hahah fucking looooser," she gloated as she flowed into her body and took control. She groaned as she ripped the transfer band from her head and sat up.

Blonde hair fell around her head... HER blonde hair. She looked down and wiggled her pretty pedicured toes, giggled at the sight of her pert titties on her chest... the feel of her deliciously feminine body.

Gracie could taste lip gloss and smell Chanel perfume. She was all-girl now and she loved it. She was the Alpha Bully now.

"Wh... what did you do?" moaned a male voice and she turned to see Martin groggily rising from his seat.

Throwing the transfer band to the floor, Gracie brought a wedged heeled foot down on the delicate circuits- hearing them crunch and break forever.

"It's like simple loooooser. I'm like totally Gracie now and you're that fucking sad sac Martin. We swapped and if you like ever try to tell anyone I'll fucking destroy you. You like remember just enough I like hope to know I don't make threats."

"You evil slut, you mean I have to be a man? I can't remember anything other than I used to be you!"

"That's like right. Your life, your memories, your soul... they are like totally mine. OMG - you're the Daddy of that fucking loser Susan now."

"Susan... I... I love her?"

"Yeah you do, although part of you still hates and despises her, especially because losing this body is kind of all her fault. Mmmmh in fact, just because we swapped doesn't mean EVERYTHING has to be the same. How about you bully Susan too? Between the two of us we can make her life hell."

Grabbing Martin's cock - Gracie giggled as she began to stroke.

"Ughhhh that feels good. What are you doing?"

"Teaching you how to be a good boy for me. Let me give you some real therapy. This time just using my mouth and my tight body I'm like going to make you HATE your daughter again. I'm like gonna corrupt your soul baby until you're evil again."

Martin moaned as Gracie's pink bubblegum lips slid round his cock and she began to suck. Mmmmh being a man wasn't that bad after all. Under Gracie's tutelage he would learn to be an Alpha man and would soon enjoy the benefits of his new body.

Banging her tight pussy every chance he got would bring out the bastard in him and help turn him against his daughter. Not that she was really his daughter... was she?

Martin was confused - but as Gracie took control of him he realised it was simply easier to let her do the thinking.

After all, she was the trained therapist and SO good at sucking cock...

THE END

[unabashegirl]

Entangled | sneak peak

Y/N, punished by her gang leader for a failed mission, meets Harry, a rival gang member, at a club. Their encounter turns intense and passionate.

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you are all doing well! I wanted to give you all a sneak peak of the one shot that has just been uploaded on my Patreon. It is a two part one shot with smut included. Both parts have just been uploaded!

check out my patreon and get full access to the first part (+4K words) and much more :) thank you beforehand!

masterlist

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The club's music thumped steadily in the background, creating a heavy rhythm that seemed to sync with Y/N's racing heartbeat. Neon lights flashed in sync with the beat, casting alternating shadows and bursts of color across the dance floor. Feeling the need to escape the intensity of her thoughts, Y/N made her way to the center of the crowd and began to dance. Her movements were fluid, confident, and for a moment, she allowed herself to get lost in the music, the energy of the club enveloping her.

From his vantage point, Harry watched her with a mixture of surprise and admiration. He had never seen this side of her before, and it intrigued him. As she moved, completely absorbed in the rhythm, Harry felt an irresistible pull. He made his way through the throng of people, closing the distance between them.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” Harry murmured as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her ear.

Y/N smirked, not giving him the satisfaction of a straightforward answer. “You don’t know half of it,” she replied, her eyes glittering with challenge.

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Care to enlighten me?”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “And give you more ammunition? I don’t think so, Styles.”

He leaned in even closer, their faces just inches apart. “I don’t need ammunition, Y/N. I know what makes you tick.”

She felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of annoyance and undeniable attraction. “Nice try,” she said, her voice steady despite the proximity. “But you’ll have to work harder than that.”

Harry’s lips curved into a sly smile. “I like a challenge.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “You’ve got your work cut out for you then.”

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate in her ear. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They sipped their drinks, the moment stretching between them, charged with a tension that was as much about attraction as it was about rivalry. Y/N could feel the heat of Harry’s gaze on her, a weight that was hard to ignore.

“So, tell me,” she said, turning the tables. “What’s it like being the big bad boss now? Enjoying the power trip?”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened slightly. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Too many people to keep in line, too many responsibilities.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow, leaning closer to him. “Having second thoughts?”

He shook his head. “Not a chance. Just stating the facts.”

Y/N leaned even closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Admit it, Styles. You love the control.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh. You have no idea” he smirked. “I bet you enjoy it too”

She laughed, the sound almost lost in the thumping music. “Oh, I don’t need power to make an impression. I can do that just fine without it.”

Harry’s smile widened, a hint of admiration in his gaze. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes locked on his. “How are you keeping everyone in line?”

Harry shrugged, his expression nonchalant. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“Care to share any of those tricks?” she teased, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm.

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate. “why would I give away my secrets to the enemy?”

“Maybe because the enemy is more fun than you expected,” she shot back, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Harry’s gaze softened, the intensity between them growing. “Then I’d rather show you and tell you”.

Harry grabbed Y/N’s hand. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she followed him as he navigated through the dense crowd, leading her toward the back of the club where the bathrooms were located.

The music grew slightly muffled as they moved away from the main floor. Harry glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression unreadable, but his grip on her hand was firm and urgent. They reached the bathroom, and without hesitation, he pushed the door open and dragged her inside.

The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, casting an unflattering glow over the white tiles. The hum of the club was still audible but muted, providing a strange, almost surreal backdrop. Before Y/N could react, he pushed her into one of the stalls and followed, locking the door behind them. The cramped space forced them into close proximity, their breaths mingling in the confined air.

“What the hell, Harry?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart...

[vylad243]

Some Sonic universe HCs because I have no control in my life

Shadow has both reproductive organs, but he is infertile

Shadow gained a good portion of his powers after he sexually matured, hence why some are much later than other

Sonic can and will tackle hug his friends after saving the world

This is just canon, but Amy is the strongest of the gang. The headcanon part is that everyone forgets until she traps them in a bear hug

Shadow has a card where if he does a certain amount of favours for Rogue, she'll leave him alone for one week. He has never cashed it in and Rogue has forgotten about it

Shadow has blown up his apartment. Multiple. Times. Apparently nightmares and having the ability to blow yourself up doesn't mix well

Shadow now has to live with Rogue and Omega because he isn't trusted alone

Tails likes to recycle Eggman's robots and reuse the metal. It's why he has a countless amount of supplies

Vanilla let's Amy train Cream because she knows Amy is the best choice for it and she wants Cream to be able to defend herself and Cheese

Big has once found an injured chao while fishing and gave it to Shadow. He believes Shadow just needs someone to look after

Everyone is aware of Shadow's fear of heights. He's terrible at hiding it

Sonic sleeps while standing up sometimes and he sleepwalks a lot

Knuckles and Rogue like to spar with Omega and Shadow as the referees

The master emerald gravitates to Shadow for his natural chaos energy and Knuckles fucking hates it

Cream has made Shadow watch My Little Pony

His favourite pony is Princess Luna, but he would never admit that

Sonic does like Strawberry Shortcake, but he likes seeing Amy mad because he thinks she's cute mad

Omega follows Shadow and Rogue like a lost puppy when he has no mission

Shadow doesn't feel like he belongs on Mobius, but he also feels like he doesn't deserve to live on Earth

Rogue is a pansexual queen

Tails has nightmares about rusty tools

Whenever anyone gets injured outside of missions, their instinct is to try and find Shadow and have him heal them

No one knows why or how this started

Vanilla likes to bake and cook for everyone

Amy volunteers at the local library

Whenever someone pisses off Shadow, they give him coffee beans in hopes of pacifying him

Or when they're about to do something really dangerous (not a mission) they give him a bunch in hopes he'll heal them

Rogue is drowning in coffee beans guys. Shadow can't eat them that fast, he doesn't have the proper stomach to digest human food properly

Amy writes in a glitter pink pen and in cursive

Shadow writes in cursive

Sonic writes like a 2nd grader

Tails writes in printed

I'm convinced Knuckles can only read and not write. How would he hold a pencil?

Omega writes with bullets and will shoot at a wall to write

Rogue has tried to convince Shadow to go dark mode and hero mode multiple times. She has been unsuccessful each time

After Shadow received his hero, dark, and neutral form, he developed Sectoral Heterochromia and has a bit of blue in one eye and a touch of gold in the other. His eyes are still mostly red

Tails likes to work on Shadows rings and rocket boots

Infinite is living in Null Space and has been there for a while now. He has no plans to attack. He's been keeping Null Space empty

Infinite's real name is Zero

The Phantom Ruby has been fully absorbed into Infinite, making it so he no longer needs the ruby, but he doesn't know that

Tails used to step on his extra tail

Knuckles mostly has trust issues because of Rogue

Shadow fears the day he outlives everyone and doesn't want to be alone again

Shadow's blood is green and it still freaks everyone out to this day

Rogue pretends Shadow is her boyfriend whenever she's uncomfortable and has a codeword with him

Shadow can recognize the 'help me' look from women and will take immediate action

Sonic used to call Shadow 'Faker' more after finding out Shadow is a hybrid, until he realized it actually really hurt Shadow's feelings

Knuckles and Amy are brother/sister. Fight me

Cream likes to have Shadow and Amy over at the same time because she thinks the three of them make an amazing trio and wants to actually fight crime with Shadow and Amy

Sonic hates Shadow's eyes because they glow in the dark.

On a completely unrelated note, Shadow loves scaring the shit out of Sonic

Rogue likes to brag about how she's the only normal one in Team Dark

Shadow, Rogue, and Omega have a concerning amount of jewels in their apartment

Shadow ranks as the Ultimate Lifeform. He is the strongest of the strongest, but he's still learning his own powers and capabilities, which is why the others are capable of surpassing him

Amy loves flowers but is allergic to flowers. You will catch her with so much Benedryl in the spring

Shadow is the only one who can breathe easily in space. The others struggle

Sonic has tried multiple times to get over his fear of water, with the help of others. It has never worked out

Eggman likes being in his underwater bases because Sonic can't swim

That's all I got for now! Just saw sonic 3 and it was so good! Enjoy the headcanons!

[gurokiitty]

how about a crazy ex girlfriend! reader and Strade🔪🩸 I really like your writing its really good!

a/n: i wasn't sure what flavour of crazy you were hoping for, so i went with the classic 'break into your house and hold you at gunpoint to express her love' kinda crazy. hope you enjoy!

THIS LOVE

{ strade x f! reader }

word count: 1.5k

warnings/tags: DUBCON to consent, implied stalking, obsessive behaviour, gun use, nonconsensual bondage, threats of violence, some gaslighting, self-injury (cutting and stabbing), bloodplay, woundfucking.

The moon casts an eerie glow over Strade's house as you approach, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. The gun tucked into your waistband feels heavy, but it’s a necessary weight.

It's been months since you last saw him, since he cast you aside because of your jealousy and the scenes you caused. But tonight, you will make him see reason. Tonight, you will make him understand that you belong together. Your love is a storm, wild and consuming, and nothing will stand in its way.

The lock clicks open under your deft fingers, and you slip inside, the familiar scent of his home washing over you. As you move through the darkened hallway like a spectre, your fingers trail along the walls, absorbing the essence of the place where he lives—where he breathes. Every step deeper into his sanctuary feels like a step closer to your destiny.

Your eyes are drawn to the living room, where you can almost feel his warmth, his musk lingering in the air. Bathed in glittering moonlight, Strade lies passed out on the couch, an empty bottle at his feet. His chest rises and falls with the rhythm of deep, alcohol-induced sleep, a scene so deceptively peaceful it almost makes you hesitate.

Almost.

You retrieve zip ties from your bag, your hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You move silently, slipping the ties around his wrists and tightening them until they bite into his skin. He stirs slightly and then wakes, thrashing and confused like an ensnared boar. His eyes dart wildly before settling on you, widening in shock. “Was zum Teufel…?”

“Strade, my love,” you whisper, pressing the gun to his temple, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing. “Don’t move. I have a gun.”

His eyes flash with a dangerous glint, muscles tensing as he tests the restraints. “W-What the hell are you doing here?” he growls, his rough voice trembling slightly.

You smile as dread floods his features. It's as if a shell crumbles before you, revealing the soft, vulnerable creature within. The expression on Strade's scarred face assures you that you are in control—you have the power to sway him your way.

“I’ve seen them,” you say, your finger hovering over the trigger. “All the... the sluts you bring home."

You've watched from the shadows, seeing people come but never leave, witnessing his hand itch down their backs as they drunkenly stumble in. Some are hardly conscious, their heads lolling as he carries them inside. The images gnaw painfully at your heart as your digit glides over the steel pad, just itching to press down.

"It makes me so angry... So jealous. I'd decorate this couch with your brains if I didn't love you so much..." Your voice is laced with desperation, your brows furrowed and pout immanent. It was an expression as familiar to him as one of fear, but it frightened rather than thrilled him.

“You’re insane, you have no clue what you see,” he spits, struggling against the zip ties.

“No, I'm in love with you, Strade,” you insist, tears blurring your vision. “I came here to show you don’t need anyone else. Just me. Only me. I can make you change your mind—make you remember the love we shared..."

You're on him in an instant, leaning in to smash your lips into his, the kiss sloppy and desperate. He tries to pull away, but you hold him in place, the gun digging into his temple. You straddle his hips and fumble with the waistband of his pants, pulling them just enough to expose his manhood.

You grind your clothed body against him, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Yet, he remains unresponsive, his eyes cold and narrow. The realization cuts deep, and you stop midway, staring down at him with a mix of anger and despair. Memories flood your mind—how he used to grip your throat just a little too tight, how he’d smile when you cried out in pain, how his eyes would light up at the sight of your scars and bruises. He had always seemed to enjoy getting off on your suffering, pushing you to the edge, revelling in your pain.

“Y-You need to see me bleed, don't you? See me in pain?” you ask, your voice tinged with urgency. “That's what it takes to get you off, isn't it?”

Before he can reply, you slide off him and scurry to the kitchen, tucking the gun back into its holster. The knife drawer opens with a metallic clink, and you rummage through, frustration mounting as you find only dull blades, their edges worn from neglect. Your fingers finally close around a steak knife, the one sharp exception among the rest. Its pointed edge gleams under the dim light, forged for gliding effortlessly through meat of all kinds; a weapon used for dining rather than violence. You grip the handle, feeling its weight, the promise of pain and power thrumming through your fingers.

With the knife in hand, you return to the living room and straddle Strade’s thighs once more. He relaxes slightly, his expression softening with a mixture of curiosity and caution. You can feel his gaze following your every movement as you push your shirt up, exposing your stomach to the cool air.

Slowly, you trace the knife down your abdomen, the sharp edge grazing your skin just enough to draw a thin, blooming line. His eyes darken, his interest piqued despite his earlier defiance.

“You always did like to see me bleed, didn’t you?” you murmur, the knife trailing lower. His eyes remain fixed on the blade, and you can see the flicker of something primal in his gaze. He bites his lip as if trying to stifle a response, but his cock bobs in approval.

You smirk, feeling a sense of satisfaction at his reaction. “Then watch closely,” you whisper, reaching for him with your free hand. You press the knife a bit harder, small droplets of blood forming where the tip bites into your skin. Leaning forward, you glide your torso against him, the fresh wound skimming the length of his shaft and coating it in a cherry-red sheen. You can feel him slowly hardening in your hand, slick with blood and arousal.

"You know, I'd cut my heart out for you if it would make you happy," you huff, a small smile playing on your lips as you lean back on your heels. "But then, how would I get to see your handsome face when I present it to you?"

Strade's brows raise in amusement as you continue to toy with the knife. "You can see my face now, Liebling," he murmurs, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. "So, go on then. Bleed more for me. Go deeper."

Without hesitation, the blade pierces your flesh again, and a small cry escapes your lips. You push the knife deeper into your abdomen, feeling a hot, searing ache radiate through your body. Blood wells up, spilling over your fingers as you pull the knife away and let it clatter to the floor.

With a grimace, you push your own fingers into the gash, feeling the warmth of your essence coat your skin. The pain is blinding, but you don't stop. You want him to see, to understand the lengths you’ll go to for him. Your fingers move inside the wound, exploring the torn flesh, and you gasp again, your breath coming in ragged bursts.

A curious smile tugs at the corners of Strade's mouth, and you can feel his erection twitch in your bloodied hand, responding to the perverse tableau before him.

"D-Do you see?" you gasp, your voice trembling. "I bleed for you."

You then lean forward and guide the head of his cock into the open wound, pressing it against the jagged flesh. Pain and ecstasy blur as you stroke the base, feeling the hot throb of his arousal against your anatomy. His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper into the wound, and you yelp, your head falling forward as your hair cascades over your sweat-slick face.

"Haah.. F-Feel... Feel me..." you stammer, your voice breaking with the intensity of the moment. Your hands move with frantic urgency, stroking his length and smearing your blood over him.

The world narrows to the point of pain where his cock and your wound meet, a singular focus of raw, consuming sensation. Every thrust sends waves of agony through you, yet a familiar pressure builds in your core.

You sob his name, your voice a weak, broken plea. "Strade… I… I love you…"

With one final, savage thrust, he shudders, his climax tearing through him. You feel the hot flood of his cum seeping through your tissues, the sensation overwhelming, yet so rewarding. As the intensity peaks, your vision blurs and your body succumbs. You collapse on top of him, darkness closing in as you bask in the aftermath of your union, skin against skin.

[ihrtlino]

“Nazar.” ---------------------------------------

(ie. Captured my interest.)

pairing: Desi dancer y/n x poetry lover Minho.

synopsis: How could Minhos eyes never leave her? she just seemed to capture anyone’s attention.

word count: 839 words, 4871 characters.

—————————————————————————————————————

🪕 🪷

Minho hadn’t meant to look.

He would have walked by, the dusty tattered book of handwritten poetry being his main interest. Despite being uninterested in the topic of romance, it sparked emotion in his soul.

His feline eyes had seemed engrossed in the faded but coarse letters - although his ears caught on to the faint tunes and crowd, whistling and chattering excitedly in the distance.

Putting his book aside, he seemed to allow his body to drag him to the location of interest.

Women and men adorned in lavish style, gems and various adornments decorating their silk and lace blouses and skirts as they excitedly gaze ahead, chattering amongst themselves. Typical higher class attitude, Which Minho despised.

The money, power and rich attitude. They had it all. Their hearts just didn’t reflect the same generosity.

The space seemed to be a rather chipped although grand architectural space, stone seats acquired for those to be seated. Small lamps and lit eathern diya’s sparkle along the dim walls. It seemed quite full, The most properly lit space - the large stage covered by red flooring and empty for now. The stage’s backdrops are lavish black curtains, made of net and roped with fancier lighting.

The event seems to just be starting, Minho too enamoured to refuse a seat.

Musicians sit by the corner of the stage, microphones near their instruments for audible hearing in the crowded audience - a burly man and rather hefty woman quite heavily drowned in richest clothing they can afford, seeming to be the singers of the evening.

Minhos heart races in his chest, round eyes having to absorb the chilling but exquisite energy in this event. He’d never felt this way before, especially having always been engrossed in books or staying away from crowds. Now he was too fascinated to leave, not unless he saw the main event.

Finding a seat in the midst of the crowd, he squeezes himself between. Body buzzing with curiosity and anticipation burning in his veins, he’s never felt such emotion for an event.

Admist the murmurs of the crowd, the jingles of heavy anklets and chimes of the oxidised jewellery silences the crowd. Minho tenses as the stage light dims, almost falling dark.

A silhouette seems to glitter in the dark, the white light enunciating her bodily curves - reflecting off her chest and graceful arms as she takes position.

Her outfit, the embodiment of the swan feathers and gleaming of white - her figure so delicate but full of energy that is controlled until she begins to move.

Her face, covered by the lacey fabric adorned with glitter - sparkles along with the makeup that highlights her features. The jewellery, probably costing dimes a dozen blind the audience, signifying the amount of elegance and beauty of the woman present before the audience.

The tune begins to flood people’s ears, and Oh, is Minho taken aback.

She’s beyond breathtaking - an angel which no one can dream of having. He’s beyond words, beyond the poetry that remains in his heart.

He feels like his book has come to life, hypnotising him into a trance that he can’t refuse even if he wished to.

His whole body burns for more, unable to move an inch in his seat as his pupils follow even the slightest movement this dancer has graced everyone’s presence with.

Her body seems to tell a story - writhing, battling against invisible obstacles and melting against the melody which cascades her form.

Her eyes, so raw of emotion glittering under the lights as they portray it all within flashes - love, betrayal, power. It sweeps Minho of his feet.

he’s mesmerised.

The powerful duo of the singers voices boom into the audiences ears, leaving them desiring for more as the silence speaks much louder than ever.

She spins, writhes on the floor, her body flowing freely as a river - her dress following her movements, ornaments tuning to the music and her body hypnotised.

The audience is left stunned in silence, as their widened pupils watch.

Soon, the song seems to die down - the singers voices dulling overtime as the song ends.

The dancers movements soften, the beautiful female who’d captured almost 2500 people’s attention has her chest heave up and down as she seemed so drunk in the song.

Taking her final position, she gazes away from the crowd - breath shallow.

The audience can’t even seem to move a muscle, too overwhelmed to even react - until someone enthusiastically whistles, erupting the crowd into a standing eruption and loud cheers.

The female dancer gasps under her breath in shock, slowly standing up and bowing politely.

Minho, whose breathing is so laboured, palms sweaty and mind a mess - jumps up and claps the loudest he can, eyes never leaving hers.

That is when your eyes meet.

Hers.

And his.

Round feline eyes capturing hers.

It’s You, the female he’s so mesmerized with.

“Jisse uski nazar hati hi nahi.”

(through which his eyesight never left.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

just a small Drabble that I was very interested to write. Hope you enjoyed it :)

Tags: @weird-bookworm @dandelions-143 @calypsohan

(let me know if you’d like to be tagged!)

[technically-a-kiwi]

I humbly request some core information I must know before I start drawing the cosmic chars for the next 2-9 days

just so I don’t mischaracterize any of them cuz then I would cry and I cry glitter mixed with acid

hum… core info you say ? 🤔

it’s a little hard, there’s no wrong or right way to go with them

in general the cast is a mix of chaos, silliness, otherworldly and MESSED UP. If you keep that in mind you’re already off to a good start

for each character tho hum…

well for starters, C Pep is just regular Peppino really x), stressed out and very impulsive in his emotions and actions. The major difference is that he has a much bigger knowledge about pretty much everything, basically you can bet that if you’re looking for something, he knows what you’re talking about and can give you precise details about it. Oh and of course, he’s basically like a sun here, any strong emotion will make him shift and go up in flames, everything in him is flames, he's just a big ball of flames.

For C Noise, again, it's just The Noise, chaotic, over the top, witty, and INSANE, but with the host attribute very exaggerated, passive agressif with every sentence and not taking his guests too seriously, often destabilizing them for a good laugh. He barely has a moral compass, willing to do anything for a good scoop, for a good program, create a kaiju fight in the middle of a city ? Let's go ! Change the color of the sky just to record people's reaction? Roll the cameras. All there is to know is he's basically a chaos god who records his mischief, always a smile on his face, he loves to mess with people, even with his fellow cosmic entities (to Peppino's displeasure) .

C Noisette is still Noisette, kind, bubbly, head in the clouds. She loves to talk, basically being a chatterbox, a little annoying if you're not into long conversations. She'll talk to anybody but C Noise, why ? Nobody knows, she'll always make the " >:( " face when she sees him, and promptly leaves, even if she's in the middle of a conversation.

C Pepperman is kind of the same as Pepperman, the self absorbed artist, marginal and very peculiar. He just DESPISE Peppino for holding the power of creation, either gaslighting or acting passive agressif toward him. Other than that he just acts like THE scholar of art, always bragging about his work, how his powers allow him to do what is impossible for mortals or talking about random art stuff (like composition, the meaning of colors...) and if you dare think he's annoying, you can bet he'll give you a lecture... Or turn you into a pepper... It depends...

C Vigilante is kind of different, he's just a very chill cheeseslime living in the country side of a cheese village, being the tired old man on the swinging chair, telling stories to younger cheeseslimes about the cosmic realm, legendary creatures, he takes care of his little farm, just living life you know. Although he's VERY paranoid about the cast coming over one day, he's convinced that they want to destroy him or his world, he's chill... But with a hint of stress...

The Ticket booth is very... Strange... It's actions are very aleatory, but it's fairly tamed. What he wants the most is for people to have a ticket, if you don't have a ticket, it won't bother to talk to you, if you want a ticket maybe he'll address you. If it considers you as some kind of threat (scammer, stealer, someone trying to kill a possible clients) that's when he unravels the horrors

C Pizzahead is kind of like Pizzahead, he's wiser than his classic counterpart, keeping the silliness for the stage only, but that doesn't stop him from cracking a joke or two here, a little prank there, he found the right amount of balance to be loved and unravel pure silliness. He's REALLY chaotic on stage (dangerous too...), but kind of a funny clown outside of the stage.

C Mr Stick is not much like og Mr Stick, he's stern, concentrated on his book, not caring much about stuff around him, he's not as interested in money as his counterpart, but he does love collecting more riches "hey, you're gonna use that 5 dollars ?" You see ? He's almost constantly the nose down his book, keeping track of everything and anything, you can ask him about the state of a random graph and he'll tell you ! When he's not counting or keeping track of stuff, he's building some random object, like an automatic spoon or paint thinner brush...

This took some time to write down oh my... I fear it's a little too much for being just the core, but I hope this will help you

[candyswirls]

Crying in the Dark: PT 6 - Revelation

Previous - Next - MasterPost

Summary: the Little One’s past is revealed. But only to the reader >:3

His death and pain echoed across the warp. His brother had shattered his soul. Pieces glittered as they flew and small vermin tried leaping up and catching them.

Slowly, through the years and centuries, they found their way back to the main piece. Each time he found a part of himself, he grew more whole. He gained more power.

He could appear to others, his sons. He began creating a paradise for his sons. Doing what he could as he was dead.

He’d come across splinters of Magnus. Bits of Vulkan from each time their brother Curze tortured and killed him.

He tried to help them. But how could he when he was in such a state?

H…. Him. He couldn’t even refer to Him by name. The way He had killed him… the brutality… the look of pure hatred and rage… it haunted him. Waking visions of… Him attacked him throughout the day.

He was weak. Still healing. He feared he’d never stop healing. That these wounds would never become scars. The pain his brother inflicted would never leave him.

It took so much power to appear to his sons as a glorified and magnificent being. As if he was whole. He didn’t want the living ones or the imperium to worry and fear. He also didn’t have much time with this visage. As soon as he finished in a dream or vision, he retreated back to the warp where his perfect Angel persona faded away to his regular horrifying appearance. He had to have some of his sons describe it to him.

Constantly bleeding from cracks and fissures in his skin, leaving a trail wherever he moved. Dark blood stains that formed a mask on his face and ran part way up his arms and legs. His extremities faded to pitch black. Both wings were mangled and sparse with feathers. One was stiff and held tightly to his body. The other was limp and dragged behind him. One arm was hard to move and he held it close to his stomach. One knee was mangled and caused his foot to stuck out. He walked with a limp. His hair appeared dull and paler. Ratted and dirty. Choppy and brittle.

Scars of his battle with… Him littered his body. His eyes sported dark circles and bags under them. His sclera was bloodshot. His sons all said the same thing. He looked haunted and hurt. He looked exhausted. He was. It took so much just to function. To move. Often times he’d fall into deep sleeps that could last up to years. A few times had lasted near a century.

He used to cry. Cry at how far he’d fallen. No one would recognize him as a Primarch or son of the emperor now. Often times when he went to meet recently passed sons, they took him as a crude daemon attempting to pass as their Primarch. It broke his heart. Now he had his other sons go meet them.

But each piece of his soul he found, he got better. The souls of his sons were always near. The best he could do for his living ones was visions and sending the Sanguinor.

He found himself often ravished with hunger. Out hunting creatures of the warp, draining their vitality. It was his only moment of solitude. Though his sons always trailed behind him some distance.

He was hunting now, wheezing as he tracked the same type of small vermin that had tried to get bits of his soul.

He had put some distance between his sons and rested within a ravine. Sand whipped around him.

“Far prey from that cat you slayed and sported,” a voice said.

He whipped around, snarling and barring teeth.

He froze.

“Malcador?” He questioned.

“Hello Sanguinius,” the Sigilite greeted. “I’d say you are looking well but…”

He stood atop a ledge near the path.

“This is a trick,” Sang wheezed. “A figment of my…”

“There’s no need for that,” Malcador assured as he moved down. “I have some pieces of your soul.”

He presented three golden and glowing flecks that floated just above his hand.

Sanguinius didn’t think, staggering forward and snatching them from his father’s right hand man and absorbing them in. The blood stains receded a few centimeters as did the cracks and fissures.

These pieces felt good. Well taken care of. They had been safe and hadn’t needed to survive.

He looked at the Sigilite.

“Why are you here?” He questioned. “You died. Right before we to fight… that… H… Him… the one…”

Sang gripped his hair as he breathed heavily. A hand steadied him.

“I know how it affects you,” Malcador spoke. “The pain. The horror. Even now I come concerning remnants of your soul.”

“You have more?” Sang questioned, he wrinkled his nose. “Why not bring them here and now? Are they trapped?”

The Sigilite spoke, “There is much that can and cannot be explained. But yes, I know where more pieces of your soul are. Fifteen to be exact. But you cannot take them back.”

“Why?” He demanded, emotion in his voice. “Are you holding them from me? That is my soul! I need it! I-“

“Easy, easy,” Malcador soothed. “When you see, I don’t think you could bring yourself to do so. They are… well, you’ll see.”

“What?” The Angel questioned. “What do you mean?”

Malcador removed a pendant that had been hidden in his robes and held it out to Sanguinius. The ninth Primarch slowly reached out and took it. It was ceramite. On it was a common lizard from Baal, carved into it. Other Baalian symbols were upon it. The pattern and sequence was a declaration of familial love, adoration, and gratitude. Children typically gave less precise and skilled versions back on his home planet to family members.

“Th-this was given to you,” Sanguinius deduced. “Where? Who?”

“Come and see,” Malcador said. “Come and see the power of your soul.”

“My sons are tracking me now,” he mumbled.

“I know.”

“The Sanguinor too.”

“I know. They will be fine without you for a bit.”

Malcador offered a hand and a soft smile. He took his hand and followed.

Whether by powers of the warp or the Sigilite’s power, Sanguinius found himself stepping into a courtyard modeled after the older sections of the imperial palace. Vines and trees over grown onto the architecture. But what caught his attention was a large mural just below a veranda.

With intense detail and miriad of glorious colors was a portrait of him. Eyes closed, facing down, smiling.

He found himself limping towards it. He had seen countless remembrancers and artisans create visages of him. But this… this spoke to him. It wasn’t a glorified piece or one that had the artists awe in it. It was… him.

He gently ran fingers along it. Another painting, just down a hallway caught his eye.

He moved to see a similar mural. This time of his brother Vulkan. He was laughing.

Then further down was one of Magnus. Proud as psychic waves surrounded him.

As he followed the hall he found countless depictions of him and them. Some together. Different styles. Different mediums. Some carvings done with utmost skill and expertise.

The final was the biggest. It had him, Vulkan, and Magnus in separate panels. Images of them caught mid laugh. Then there was a fourth. An eldar woman with utmost beauty.

“Wh-who painted these?” He asked.

A gasp rang out.

He looked in its direction searching the brush. It was a small humanoid creature. Metallic skin. Her hair glowed yellow. Eyes glowed blue. She had long ears that flopped to the side of her head. A tail that split in two.

He could not take his eyes off of her. He felt like was peering through a mirror. The face seemed to change and he could see Magnus. No, Vulkan. Him again.

Malcador trailed behind him.

He said softly. “This is Hapipola.”

Sanguinius mouthed the word.

“Joy in Baalian,” he whispered.

Hapipola approached him, eyes staring up into his own and he collapsed to his knees.

He reached out his hands, the connection between them growing strong till his hands brushed her cheeks and she rested her palms over them.

Suddenly he was transported. Back. Back to the moment his soul shattered. The moment… his… his brother… Him.. killed him. The brutality of it. He saw the shattered pieces go flying off. Just as he remembered. But a group of them stayed together. Confused hurt. Looking for familiarity. They went to the astronomicon. There was something else there.

Then he saw countless images of Curze killing him. Bits of him being torn off. They went flying to the astronomicon as well.

Then, the screams of his world and sons dying. The wolf king slamming him down, breaking his back in two. Parts of his soul splintered off. A group looking for safety.

All three met one another. Confused, afraid, not fully understanding what happened. They clung to each other and they search. For what? They don’t know. They travel the warp and begin fusing together. Each with a piece of Magnus, a Piece of vulkan, and a piece of Sanguinius.

They’re in a horrible realm. Foul and rancid. But something draws them in. A tune. Incredibly lovely.

They see her. Trapped. They come to her. Eldar. She is kind.

“My only hope,” she says.

She speaks to the owner of the garden. Horrid and large. Yet he happily gives her what she asks for. Various materials.

Then she makes something. Then she takes them and combines them then breathes life into them. Memories of creatures from youth and human from their fathers take over as they form.

Everything goes dark for a moment. Then… they each wake up. They’re in her embrace. She is exhausted from creating. Yet so proud of them.

They’re alive. Each an individual. Fifteen of them. Daughters. Each with their own quirks and personalities. Each with the memory of their three father’s deaths.

They cannot stay long. Master of the Garden has plans for them. They’re vessels. They could carry his wretched gifts to others.

They have to flee. They’re so little.

Mother whispers a prayer before she sends them off.

“Emperor of Mankind,” she cries. “Please, find these members of your progeny.”

As they exit the garden and escape… the soul of the Sigilite is waiting for them.

His eyes finally open again. It’s not just Hapipola with him. It’s all fifteen. Different colors. Different hair lengths and styles. But they’re here and they’re his. They’re all his. His daughters.

He pulls them into an embrace the best he can, tears streaming down his cheeks.

They squeal and giggle as they swarm him. Calling him father and nestling into him. Some cry with bright eyes and wide smiles. Overjoyed he’s here.

He can feel that they did have a portion of his soul. It is now one with the other two pieces. They are their own persons now. He couldn’t take it back even if he wanted to.

“They are called the Angessa.”

He looked up, still in shock.

“Malcador,” he half laughed. “I-“

He put up a hand, “Easy Sanguinius. You have endured much. Your soul is weary.”

He moved forward and Sang took his hand.

“These are your daughters,” Malcador continued. “They discovered them right before they entered Nurgle’s garden and I could not follow. I was there when they exited. The Eldar goddess of Life, Isha’s plea with them. I call them the Adeptus Angessa.”

Malcador sighed as he sat next to Sanguinius.

“Your father is weak in his current stare,” Malcador told him. “He has… I fear he has lost all hope. I have helped raise them but they cannot stay here. I need to help your father. These little ones long for a father. Vulkan is not available and Magnus is out of the question. They can help you. I-“

One of his daughters said something in a language he didn’t recognize to one of her sisters.

“Kettra!” The sigilite scolded.

Her ears went back as he berated her in another language.

She held her arms to her chest, pouting and looking ashamed.

“I swear,” Malcador muttered. “

“What did she say?” Sanguinius questioned. “I’ve never heard this language.”

“It is my native tongue,” Malcador explained. “It is now extinct. She has a habit of using swears and other crude words just like many of her sisters. She knows better. They do not know high gothic. The plague god managed to curse them to not be able to learn it. For some reason he did not want them communicating with the Death Guard. They know a few words but otherwise cannot speak it or understand it. You can teach them Baalian though. They can only learn one’s native tongue.”

One of them offered a carved reptilian figurine to Sanguinius.

“Thank you,” he smiled at her. She giggled and ran off.

“They’re so sweet,” he laughed as another rubbed her face against him.

The Sigilite sighed, “They’re are. Except when they’re not. They’re little gremlins. Destructive and feral. I suspect they act a lot like you before you were taken in by that tribe.”

Sang just smiled while glancing at Malcador.

“I will warn you,” Malcador added. “They have a quirk from your brother Vulkan. They can and like to set themselves on fire.”

***

The cherub was now cinder and ashes.

A son of the Phoenix held an angry Hapipola outward. She pouted, smoke still coming off of her.

Smyne cackled as Lion held her outward. She sparked and blew raspberries at the cherub.

“No, no Daemon,” hissed ChiChi-Bon.

An ad mech cried over “pookie”.

Lion sighed as he turned Smyne to face him, “You just add more and more mystery to who your father is.”

She giggled at him.

[sluttyten]

UNHOLY - Chapter Twenty (Finale)

full masterlist || UNHOLY chapter index

summary: you're finally back with your boyfriends, but there are introductions that still need to be made, and a few final loose ends to wrap up.

length: 6,472 words

<-previous 

“This is nerve-wracking,” Ten mumbles under his breath, tugging at his collar. 

Yuta shushes him quickly. 

Mark silently appraises your two demon boyfriends, tucking his hands into his pockets, though you think it must just be to hide his nervous hand-fidgeting. 

“Which part has you the most nervous?” WinWin asks from just behind you. “Meeting your girlfriend’s father for the first time, or meeting him here?”

The five of you are standing in Hell. A nice little meeting room in the palace that looks out over a glowing view of Hell stretching out below. You’re trying your best to ignore the billowing heat that rolls in through the open balcony, but the black stone chair you’re seated on doesn’t help with your comfort level either. 

WinWin’s hands rest on the back of your chair. He hasn’t taken a seat or relaxed even a little bit since you left your apartment this morning for the trip down here. 

All four of them have been on edge since the letter arrived at your apartment three days ago. In pure black paper so dark that the sheet seemed to absorb all the light that touched it, a handwritten letter was scribed to you in a glittering golden perfect, flowing font. 

Dearest Cousin, the invitation began. 

Terror followed your eyes tracing those words; terror that you were about to be called to stand for your crimes, that Ten and Yuta were about to be pulled back down to Hell for their escape and complicity in your assassination of their tyrant. 

Instead, your fears were quickly assuaged. 

The new King of Hell was simply inviting you and your companions to attend a summit he was hosting. Newly crowned in his reign, Kun was taking matters of diplomacy into his own hands. He was tired of Hell being shut away below the surface world and looked down upon. 

Now, here you sit with Ten and Mark fidgeting on your left. Yuta sits like a statue beside you; you’re not even certain he’s breathing. WinWin stands firm at your back, refusing to let his guard down. 

All four of them cautioned you against accepting the invitation. They all feared a trap, the repercussions that your mind had also first jumped to when you saw the letter. There had been a lack of detail, a certain vagueness to the invitation from Kun, but it held enough to entice you into accepting. Still, all of your boyfriends were worried, and that worry only grew for Ten and Yuta when your father reached out to let you know that he’d received an invitation as well, and he was curious what your thoughts were. 

Ever since your successful rescue of Yuta and Ten, Ira had kept in steady contact with you. 

You’d gone to visit him the day after your return from Hell, temporarily parting with your boyfriends (to their reluctance), but you wanted to see Ira alone. You’d been surprised when you swam through the waters of his private sea, surfacing to the sunlight and the sight of your father splashing into the shallows to meet you. Ira had grasped you beneath the armpits, hauling you out of the water and into a tight embrace. He’d cried, berated you, hugged you again, told you he was proud of your bravery and angry with you and so beyond happy to see that you were alive. 

You’d stayed there on the beach talking for hours, recounting your journey to Hell and through it, the ways you’d used your powers to free your boyfriends from the Queen’s dungeon, the escape through Hell, the run-in with the Princes and the Queen that had ended in her ultimate demise. Ira had been fascinated by your flaming sword and the death of Hell’s Queen of the Night at last. 

You were a little surprised to find that most of his gathered heist crew had left the island nearly the same day as you. Once they all realized that you’d gone, and figured out where you’d likely left to, they’d gone. Now the sirens still sang their hunting melodies down in the cove. And Renjun was still there on the island, though not alone. 

After ascending the stairs from the pebble beach up to the lighthouse, you heard peals of laughter coming from the porch of the house, and as you approached, there was the sight of Renjun sitting in a wooden porch swing between Minnie and Haechan. 

“Have you got any room in your apartment in the city for them?” Ira asked you beneath his breath. “Your cousin, Renjun, is always welcome here. And this is Minnie’s home as well, down in the sea. But that vampire.” He shakes his head disapprovingly, but you can see the curve of amusement teasing at your father’s lips as he says, “He’s troublesome. The three of them together…. Chaos.”

You ate a meal with Ira, Renjun, Haechan, and Minnie before leaving. And ever since that day, Ira had kept in regular contact with you.

But Ten and Yuta had yet to meet him. 

Naturally, this summit of Kun’s in Hell was to be their first introduction. 

When the doors of the meeting room bang open, you jump in your seat. Mark hisses. Ten actually leaps to his feet. 

Kun, the crowned King of Hell, sweeps into the room, followed by his train of brothers. Behind him is your father. 

Kun takes his seat at the end of the table opposite you  so he’s framed by the pulsing orange glow of Hell at his back. The demon Princes fill in the seats at that end of the table. Ira scans the room with his dark gaze, offering you a soft smile, sharing nods of familiarity with Mark and WinWin, and finally his gaze lands on Yuta and Ten. 

Beneath the table, Yuta’s hand finds yours on your thigh. His pinky overlaps yours, curling your smallest fingers together. Ten finally ceases his fidgeting, growing very still like prey under the watchful eye of a predator. 

“So this is them,” Ira says, lowering himself into an empty seat around the middle of the table’s length. “The lovers who broke the rules for you.”

“Sir.” Yuta jolts to his feet, bowing slightly and extending his hand to your father just a few empty seats away. “Sir, I’m Yuta.”

Ten’s chair scrapes across the floor as he rises to lean across the table to greet your father and introduce himself too. He’s just reached his hand out when the door of the meeting room bangs open again. Ten drops back into his seat in surprise while your father leaps to his feet.

The wizened figure of the High Watcher hobbles into the room, flanked on either side by silver-robed Soldier Watchers. 

For a moment, your heart stills in your chest. What are they here for? To reclaim you and your boyfriends, to take you all to trial?

Ira remains on his feet, hands clenched into fists and pressed white-knuckled against the tabletop. His eyes blaze with fury and you catch a dim glow of a golden halo surrounding his head. He follows with his eyes every move made by the High Watcher and the two soldiers until they take their seats across from him at the midway point of the table.

Kun smiles calmly from his seat, his fingers steepled together in front of him. Two of his brothers – Chenle and YangYang – are whispering to each other. Xiaojun looks bored, chin propped on his hand as he gazes longingly out towards the hellscape beyond the balcony. Of the Princes, only Hendery pays any attention, looking intrigued by the new additions to the table. 

“My friends,” Kun begins, “I’m so glad you’ve come today.”

The High Watcher’s silvery eyes trace every face lining the table before finally resting on the new King of Hell. His face crumples into a scowl. “You made promises, boy. That’s why we’re here.”

Promises? Did Kun mislead you when he let you, Yuta, and Ten run free from Hell? Has he truly betrayed all of you to the Watchers, called all of you and your father too just to be handed over?

Kun’s eyes narrow. “I’m not my mother, High Watcher. I keep my promises. I mean what I say and say what I mean. I’ve asked you all to this summit so we can all achieve peace. First, my takeover from my mother’s reign was possibly less than ideal. My brothers agree that it was necessary, although they don’t entirely approve of the method. My plans are to free all of demonkind; I wish to create laws to maintain order, but give my people the freedom to live here, in Hell City aboveground, or even among mortals. However, how can I claim to give demonkind freedom when two of them stand accused of failure to appear at a set trial date, as well as accused of escaping prison. 

“And then there’s my dear cousin,” Kun says, gesturing towards you. “Half-demon, yes, but still considered under demonkind. The Watchers would accuse you of aiding and abetting the unlawful escape of Ten and Yuta, though admittedly they’re rather lacking in evidence for the initial jailbreak since that was carried out by my mother. They seem to think that you aiding their escape from my mother’s imprisonment also counts.”

“That’s bullshit,” Yuta hisses, glaring at the High Watcher. “We’ve said it before, but all of the charges you hold against us are bullshit.”

Kun waves a hand, and Yuta falls silent. 

“I agree, Yuta. That’s why I’ve called this summit. I think that it’s time that we abolish the treaty created between The Queen of the Night, the High Watcher, and your departed mother, cousin.” His gaze meets yours. “You deserve freedom to live where you want, to learn what you want, to come into your powers and just simply live your life without the constant fear that either the Watchers or demons will come after you because of a stupid contract that was drawn up before you were ever truly aware of the world around you. I move to unbind the ridiculous peace accord centered around her life.”

Your end of the table immediately erupts in complaint.

“Unbind it? Won’t that still put her in danger?” Your father barks above the noise.

Kun, again, raises a hand. The table falls silent. 

“Of course, a new peace accord will be written and put in place following the abolition.” Kun looks at the High Watcher. “I desire a long reign of peace, a partnership between the justice systems of the Watchers and the demons of Hell. That begins with decriminalizing the actions of my cousin and her lovers. I would also like to formally pardon them for any injuries, harm, or deaths that may have occurred during their departure from Hell a few weeks ago.”

The High Watcher’s lip curls. “You would undo all this, boy?

Kun smirks and leans forward. “You may call me King. Not boy. And yes, I will undo all of this. It was fucking stupid in the first place. Life is constantly evolving. New lives are created, new species and new combinations and new innovations. When we discover something new, do we destroy it out of fear for what it could become? No. The Watchers sought to end my cousin before her life could truly begin. My mother wanted to take that unknown power and harness it for herself. My aunt simply wanted to protect the life of her newborn daughter. That is what the peace accord was drawn up for. 

“But times have changed, the world has continued spinning and growing and developing, and with it so have we – the demons, the Watchers, every culture in the supernatural world – yet still this contract remains between us. You can’t stop her from being who she is; no law is going to change who she is or what she can do, it is innately a part of her, as inevitable as rain. If we want peace, it’s vital we create a new peace – one that protects all those that are given life through the union of two different types of supernaturals. They deserve the same freedoms and liberties as any of the rest of us.”

You sit silently at your end of the table, listening to your cousin ardently defend you. You think for a moment after Kun concludes his stated argument that the High Watcher is going to disagree and leave.

The High Watcher folds his frail, wrinkled hands together at the edge of the table. He stares down at his hands in contemplative silence for seconds that stretch into minutes. Prince Xiaojun coughs into his fist after a couple minutes of the odd silence, and you notice him hiding his amused smile into the curve of his fist. To your left, Mark huffs out a small laugh as well, curling a hand over his mouth as he exchanges a mirthful look with the demon Prince down the table. 

Another few moments of the strange silence pass, restlessness growing around the room.

Finally, Ira breaks the silence. The feet of his chair grate jarringly loud against the floor. “Make a decision!” He drops a fist down on the table, and you’re not sure if his white-knuckled clench eased at all since the High Watcher first entered the room. “Brother, this is my daughter. My daughter! All of this accord you signed years ago looks silly now, doesn’t it? Because she’s just a girl with the powers of a Watcher, just a girl with demon powers. She can create, and she can destroy. But she’s sweet and good and full of so much love, that I don’t think we’ve got to worry about her. She’s my daughter, brother. Just erase the old damn accord and create this new one with the new King of Hell.”

The silver-robed soldiers shift uncomfortably behind the High Watcher as he lifts his milky gaze from his hands. He stares at your father. 

“You know I met her once. Your demon, Ira. Before the accord, before you and her created your daughter.” The High Watcher blinks slowly. “I can see why you liked her. She was outspoken and smart, unafraid to make her voice stand out even in the face of adversity.” He laughs, then says, “I recall one meeting had between myself and her father when he was King of Hell. She burst in the room, demanding a seat at the table because if she was going to be forced to be Queen, then she at least wanted a say in — and I quote — what the old fucks were deciding.”

You laugh, quickly smothering the sound with the back of your hand. That does sound like your mother. She rarely cursed, but when she did, she made it count. And she’d always been a big advocate for equal rights. 

Ira nods, and although he’s trying to appear perfectly serious, his lips twitch into a brief smile. 

“I know the world changes. I’ve been here to see it all. And I must admit that maybe this change isn’t as fraught with disaster as we first imagined it might be.” And now the High Watcher addresses you, “Your mother was a force to be reckoned with, full of power, set to inherit the throne of Hell. Your father is one of the most powerful Watchers beneath myself. I’m sure you can imagine how that combination might create some fear, yes? Especially since both of them were forced into their roles, vocal about not wanting to be in charge, and somewhat ousted by their communities. I believe we Watchers as well as the Queen of the Night and much of demonkind feared retribution if your parents were to train you to use the full extent of your power to seek vengeance.

“But from what I know of you, what I saw while you were under my care, the stories I’ve gathered of you in the time since you escaped the House, I’ve come to realize, as your father and your cousin have just pointed out, that you aren’t the danger we assumed you would be.” The Watcher smiles. “You could be, as evidenced by the jailbreak of your boyfriends and the death of the Queen. But the difference lies in knowing that you have the power and knowing that you don’t want to use it for evil.

“I agree, King Kun.” The High Watcher declares, now turning his attention to the demon king. “I will agree to a new law built to protect not only this lovely young woman, but all people of supernatural origin. And I suppose, in the process of all this, we may as well exonerate the two demons.”

Beneath the table, Yuta tightly clasps your hand. Ten turns to you with a bright grin. Winwin sighs with relief, leaning back in his chair. Mark lets out a quiet whoop of glee that draws a laugh from a couple of the Princes of Hell. 

Yuta leans closer, pressing his head against yours, he excitedly whispers, “We’re free! All of us!”

An intense feeling of relief and happiness washes over you, and that sensation only intensifies over the next couple of hours as you sit there with the High Watcher, the King of Hell, and your father to write out this new law of the supernatural, just the four of you there in the room for its creation. 

Seeing the official document on the table before you, watching as each of them sign their names, that gives you the biggest rush of excitement and relief of all. 

Your father, with a simple wave of his hand, creates two duplicates of the original document. He passes one to Kun, one to the High Watcher, and the third he hands to you. 

“Why me?” You question, warily accepting the paper. 

You understand each of the other two having a copy. They reign over their people, so having a hard copy of the policy makes sense. But you?

“The people of Hell City, all of the supernatural community that resides on Earth without necessarily coming in direct contact with the Watchers or with the King of Hell deserve to know their freedoms are now protected wholly too.” Ira nods at the document. “I know that there’s not technically a governing body or a government building in Hell City, but from what I understand, Mark is a pretty powerful guy. He can spread the word. And it’s important for you to have a copy of it.”

You carefully roll the document into a tight scroll. With a twitch of your fingers, you create a secure tube to slip the paper into. There’s a strap on the tube, and you slip it onto your shoulder once you’ve got the new peace accord safely inside the tube. 

The High Watcher rises slowly from his seat. “The Watchers will spread news of our new peace and law, as well.”

Kun doesn’t move from his seat. Instead he leans back and kicks his feet up on the table. “This is just the first of many changes I’m hoping to implement here in Hell. Cousin, I will hold my demons to the letter of the law, don’t you worry about anything.”

You’re not worried. Strangely. You trust all of them to keep their word. 

The High Watcher hobbles towards the door. You watch his gnarled fingers twist the knob, and no sooner has he opened the door than his guards are there to flank him, escorting him quickly out of sight. 

“Daughter,” Ira speaks low, keeping his words just between you and him, “I would like to invite you and your lovers to the island. To allow a proper introduction between myself, Ten, and Yuta.”

You nod. “I think they might like that. Both of them have been pretty nervous about meeting you, actually. So, please, do your best to not scare them.”

Ira smiles, his eyes glow with a surprisingly mischievous light. “I welcome them with open arms.” He leans in, kissing your forehead. You feel a warm glow radiate from the spot his lips meet your skin, the sensation trickling through you. “There, now you can visit any time you like. Any body of water will act as a portal for you. See you shortly, I’ve got to get back and make certain your cousin and his friends haven’t destroyed the place while I’ve been gone.”

And then your father disappears out the doorway too, leaving you alone with Kun.

Finally, he pushes away from the table, his feet hit the floor. 

“You’ve got a cousin through him?” Kun asks, coming around the table to stand at your side. 

“Renjun. Half-elf, half-Watcher.” You take a step towards the door. “So this new law will benefit him too, luckily. The Watchers kept him under their thumb for most of his life, so now he’ll have the same promise of freedom as I do.”

Kun nods, letting a gentle smile leak through his otherwise solemn facade. “I hope you truly enjoy your freedom, cousin. Please, visit Hell whenever you like. I can already tell that you would probably like it here. Half of your boyfriends are from here, and if I was reading the room right earlier, I believe my brothers like your boyfriends. As a matter of fact, I think we may find them all together. Would you like me to show you the way?”

Part of you had expected for your boyfriends to linger protectively outside the door of the meeting room once they’d been kicked out, but as you follow Kun from the room, you find the corridor empty. 

You let the King lead the way. 

On your previous visit, you hadn’t had much of an opportunity to explore the palace, only the throne room, the dungeon, the secret tunnels, the baths, and the Queen’s chambers. But Kun guides you along the scenic route. You climb and descend elaborate staircases — one of which spirals around a chandelier that you swear is alive as it seems to change shape and color and, maybe it’s your imagination, but you could swear that it sings a soft, slow song — passing by courtyards that remind you of those you’d seen in the House of the Watchers. There’s a vast dining hall, a smaller dining hall, a ball room that’s larger than your kind can comprehend upon your glance inside. 

Eventually, Kun leads the way down a corridor to a room that you can only describe as a Man Cave. It’s not quite the same as the man caves that you’re familiar with — large flatscreen TVs, maybe video game consoles, posters of sports cars or half-naked models — no, this space has rich, decadent furnishings and walls that are heavily detailed wood-working. There’s a blazing fire, smoke curling in the air, shimmering light off decanters of amber liquid. There are games scattered around the room — a dart board that appears to have crossbow bolts sticking out of it; something that looks like a foosball table though, you swear that little figure are wiggling; there’s a wall decorated with gaudy looking weaponry along with a chalkboard that seems to be a scoreboard for the brothers. 

“Here they are,” Kun announces, stepping into the room. “Boyfriends and my brothers.”

Mark and Xiaojun and Chenle are laughing together at a pool table on one side of the room. WinWin and Hendery are apparently debating something in front of the fire. Yuta and Ten are speaking with YangYang, but all three of them break off from speaking as soon as you enter the room. 

Ten holds out his hand to you, and you quickly go to his side, grasping his hand and tucking yourself against his side. 

“How did it go?” Yuta asks. 

“As well as I could have hoped.” You feel the tube resting against your other side. “Ira thinks that Mark is a big enough personality in Hell City that he can help get the word around. He also would like the five of us to come visit so he can properly meet you two.”

WinWin drifts over, leaving a frowning Prince in front of the fire. “Back to the island?”

“Just for a little visit,” you say, “and then we can go right back home.”

Yuta smiles. “I’m ready for that part.” 

You roll your eyes. “Ira isn’t bad at all. And he says the two of you are welcomed with open arms. He’s promised he’s not going to try to scare you or intimidate you.”

King Kun snorts from behind you. “He didn’t actually promise that, though. He just said they’re welcome.”

Ten hisses something in the demonic tongue that makes Kun’s eyes flash. 

Yuta reaches over and hits Ten on the arm. “He’s the King now, at least try to show a little respect.” But you look at Ten just in time to see him make a face, and you know that he has no intention of being respectful, which considering the stories he’s told you since your reunion about his time with the Prince Kun, it seems like they’ve always had a good camaraderie, an easy friendship. 

It’s hard to pull Mark away from the demon princes. He definitely seems to get along well with them, and you have a feeling that you’ll have to take Kun up on his offer of you coming to visit Hell whenever you like. Eventually, though, you do pull him away from his game with Chenle and Xiaojun, and after you thank Kun repeatedly for putting this summit together, you and your boyfriends finally take your leave. 

Ten and Yuta lead the way to the strange obsidian forest that surrounds the pool you’d first meant to escape through. You walk with Ten, a little behind the others, clutching his arm and knotting your fingers through his nervously as you walk closer and closer to that clearing where you took the Queen of the Night’s life. 

Up ahead of you, you can hear Yuta talking quietly with Mark and WinWin. 

As you enter the clearing where everything changed, you do your best not to look at the spot where it happened. But it’s almost impossible to miss. 

“Woah,” Ten gasps, gawking at the spot where you burned the Queen’s body. 

Frosty, crystalline spurs have risen from the glassy black obsidian soil, coiling as they grow higher, growing together almost as if they’re building themselves into the image of a full-skirt, tapering towards a waist. 

“That’s fucking strange,” Ten comments, wrapping his free arm around your waist and hauling you a little faster towards the pond across the clearing. “I’ll make sure to send word to Kun that he needs to get the gardeners to come trim down that growth.”

“Come on!” Yuta calls from the edge of the pond. 

You’re glad to see that the black water has filled back on after it evaporated to prevent your escape last time. 

“I don’t like that,” Yuta says with a jerk of his head back towards the spot the Queen fell. “Let’s hurry up and leave.”

“Everyone hold on. I feel like we probably need to be connected for Ira’s key-spell or whatever he gave me to work.” You hold tightly to Ten’s hand, but you offer your other hand to WinWin, who greedily takes it. Mark takes Ten’s other hand, Yuta takes WinWin’s, and together you step into the pond. 

It swallows you whole, and you feel it bubbling against your skin like you’ve stepped into a vat of carbonation, but instead of rising, the bubbles are sinking you down into the blacker than black depths. 

And then the spot Ira kissed on your forehead tingles, and a light blooms before, a flash of brightness than has you squeezing WinWin and Ten’s hands, it has you squinting against the light. 

Your face breaks the surface. You taste salt on your lips as you pull in a breath. You hear the crashing rush of waves running through the pebbles on the shore. Winwin gasps for breath to your left. 

“Shit, that was easy!” Mark laughs. You hear splashing, and blink stinging saltwater out of your eyes in time to see him doing a clean breaststroke towards shore. He calls back over his shoulder. “Hardly any swimming compared to the last few times.”

WinWin lets go of your hand and sets off after Mark, cutting through the water a little less gracefully. 

Yuta and Ten both tread water beside you. “Ready?” You ask, looking between them. Yuta nods with a brave face, and then he decides to swim for shore. 

Ten swallows nervously, staring ahead at the shore, at the intimidating cliffside. You laugh, kicking lightly at Ten beneath the water. “He’s just my father, Ten. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“That’s not it.” Ten shakes his head. “I’ve seen this place before. That light. When we were in her dungeon and I tried to reach out to you. I saw this place.” He’s staring up at the lighthouse with what you now realize to be awe. 

Mark and WinWin arrive on shore, dragging themselves from the water with laughter. Mark’s quickly up and climbing the stairs. 

Ten continues to tread water. “I didn’t think it worked. Not really. But you were here. I saw you here. She’d blocked our powers to such an extent that I really didn’t think it was possible.”

“I think we were meant to be, Ten. The five of us have a connection that goes deeper than any I’ve ever had before.” You start to move through the water towards shore. “I think we’re soulmates, and nothing your Queen tried to do could cut off the power of that connection.”

“Hey!” Ten calls out after you, and you catch the sound of him slicing through the water behind you. But he can’t catch up; you’re a faster swimmer, and you beat him to shore. 

Mark has already reached the top of the stairs, and WinWin is helping Yuta up them. 

Ten, soaking wet and grinning, slops onto shore just seconds behind you. He throws himself against your back, arms around your waist as he smacks a kiss to your cheek. 

“Listen, I’ve told you once before, and I’ll tell you again,” Ten says, “but that demon, she wasn’t my Queen. She ceased holding that title for me the moment I met you. She wasn’t my Queen, so please, don’t refer to anyone like that except yourself.”

You laugh. “So I should expect to hear you call me ‘my Queen’ now?”

“Maybe.” Ten breathes out his laughter against your neck. “For now, though, we should head up there and meet your dad.”

Ira is waiting on the front porch of the house as you and Ten reach the top of the cliff stair. He’s just sitting on the porch swing, drinking in the view of the ocean in the distance and sea birds swirling in the sunlight. 

Ten’s hand nervously twists in yours. 

“Sir, I’m Ten.” Ten bows his head respectfully towards your father, which he then follows up with extending his hand for Ira to shake. 

Ira glances at you, and then he looks at Ten. You watch the way his gaze falls on Ten’s visible demon marks on his arm, how Ira looks up into Ten’s eyes which have become the cat-like slits they do when his facade slips. 

“Welcome, Ten.” Ira clasps his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. And not just from her.” He inclines his head towards you, still shaking Ten’s hand. Or maybe Ten is still shaking Ira’s. “Mark and WinWin had a lot of good to tell me about you.”

Ten offers a smile. You squeeze his hand that’s still clasped in yours. 

“Come inside. Everyone’s already at the table.” Ira releases Ten’s hand, and he leads the way inside, saying backwards over his shoulder, “I should warn you that the meal we’re about to have was made by Renjun, Haechan, and Minnie. They ventured through the portal for the ingredients, so I can’t claim any of the credit or take any of the blame for how it’s turned out.”

As soon as you’re inside the lighthouse, you can hear the noise coming from the kitchen — a mess of voices, clanging dishes, the hissing and sizzling sounds of cooking being done. 

Mark is standing beside Haechan at the fireplace, laughing with him. Yuta helps Renjun carry food onto the table. Minnie, with her silvery blonde hair is filling drinks around the table, and she looks up when you walk in to flash you with a sharp-toothed smile. 

Ira settles at the head of the table, WinWin takes the seat at Ira’s right hand. Ten takes his left  

Everyone fills in around him, weighing the table down with the amount of food the trio prepared. You sit between WinWin and Yuta. Mark sits across from you, and beneath the table he nudges his foot against yours, then hooks it around your ankle. 

Renjun takes the seat opposite your father, but he doesn’t let that — or the fact that Minnie, Haechan, and Mark sit in the way — stop him from pulling Ten into conversation. 

You smile, looking around at these people who you’ve come to regard as your family, as close friends. 

You watch as your father engages Yuta and WinWin in conversation. You feel a beam of warmth fill your chest as you watch Minnie lean into Renjun’s space, watch Haechan pout and pull her hand until she sits a little closer to him. 

Everyone is happy. 

Everything feels settled and complete and so good. 

A cool autumn breeze whirls the crisp orange leaves through the air. 

It’s evening, with sunlight breaking through the low clouds to lay golden rays through the branches of the trees, casting the side of the building in a reddish-amber light. The willow branches flutter in the wind, but you stay on your path, leading the way through the cemetery. 

This was Mark’s idea. Or he’s at least the first one that brought it up to you. 

Earlier this morning you’d been in bed, rejoicing in the coolness of Mark’s skin due to the unnaturally hot day in Hell City, when he’d said, “Do we ever get to introduce ourselves to your mom and human dad?”

The question had caught you off-guard. 

You sat up and looked down at him. Mark raised a hand to play with your hair where it fell loosely over your shoulders. 

“I know they’ve passed away, of course. But still,” he says softly, raising his gaze to yours. “We could all go together to see the place you laid them to rest. To say hi.”

Maybe you’d spent the next few minutes crying about his sweet offer because yes, of course, you would be glad to take your boyfriends to see the graves of your parents. 

Technically, Yuta and Ten had already been there, had already made an introduction of a sort at your parents' graves. Although that hadn’t been a great first impression in all likelihood. 

When all five of you were gathered together a few hours later, you’d made the suggestion, and now here you are. 

You haven’t been back here since… well, since Yuta let you come back after that first little stint in Hell City, which now, knowing everything you do, seems like such a bad idea. 

And now, as you bring your boyfriends along the path to the back of the cemetery, you feel a weight settling in your chest. It’s been so long since you’ve actually been here to pay your respects to their graves and go catch them up on your life. A lot has changed. 

WinWin places a hand on your back when you stumble. “Are you okay?” He asks.

You nod, blinking away the sudden tears that have risen to your eyes. “It’s just been a while since I’ve come by to talk to them, to pray.” A choked out laugh layered with a sob leaves you. “So much has changed.”

WinWin laces his fingers with yours. “We’re here for you.”

“We can come here once a year, twice a year, however often you like.” Yuta says from your other side. “Hell, I’d be fine with living here. It may take some adjusting, but I think I could really like it here.” 

Ten scrunches his nose in mild disgust, and you laugh, right there along with him. You loved it here, but now you know what the supernatural world is like, and you enjoy it there much more. Plus, your boyfriends don’t have to hide anything about themselves in Hell City. 

Your parents' graves sit clean of debris just off the path in the back. The little stone vase at each headstone has nothing but wilted, brittle flowers that rattle in the breeze, showing you just how long it’s been since your last visit. 

You kneel before their graves, and with a wave of your hand you produce two bouquets. One of simple red roses for your dad’s grave. A mixture of red carnations and daylilies for your mother. 

The boys are all talking, taking turns to, you think, introduce themselves to the parents that raised you. You’re not really listening, too focused on holding back the tears the brim in your eyes, focusing on tracing away the dirt that has settled in the letters of your mother and dad’s names and the matching date of their deaths. 

Tears spill over, dripping warm down your cheeks into your lap. 

“Darling,” Ten crouches beside you, wiping at your tears with his thumbs. “Would you like some time alone with them?”

You nod. 

Your boyfriends leave you there by yourself, moving only up the path far enough to give you privacy, but still close enough they can see you. 

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” You clear your throat, brush away a leaf that’s caught on the knee of your pants. “I know the truth now. The whole truth, and I want you to know that I’m not mad, I love you both. I know why you didn’t tell me. But so much has changed since we last spoke.”

You kneel there until your knees ache, talking to your parents graves, spilling out your heart, laughing and crying, and filled with a great want of having them here with you to actually see them, to hold your mom’s hand, to have your dad wrap you in a warm hug like you’d experienced so many times in the past. 

And when you’re finished with your story, when all’s been said, you rise to your feet, you brush off the dirt, and you reunite with your lovers who are waiting for you in the shade of the willow tree. 

THE END

a/n: It's over 😭 of course this has been a long time coming! When I set out to write Unholy, I never imagined it would end up with a length of 248k words, like it was meant to be a Halloween drabble in the beginning 😂 and once I started posting this story on January 1, 2023 the story only continued to grow, like the word count actually doubled from the original draft up until this finale.

For anyone who's stuck with this fic, for those of you that have actually read it from start to finish, thank you so much! I've enjoyed creating this world and it's characters (even though they're obviously based off of the NCT members, I feel that they've almost taken on a life of their own), and I'm so glad that you've enjoyed it as well.

Thank you so much, and I hope to see you all again!

[loonarii]

Idolizing Imperfection: The Ancient Allusions of 'Midas Touch' - KISS OF LIFE (an essay)

I have missed writing kpop essays so much and after watching the new Kiss of Life MV, I couldn't resist doing a scene by scene (with some lyrics) breakdown of the allusions to ancient mythology - (there are lots of other modern references, especially to Britney Spears, but the ancient ones are what I will be focusing on here, believe me there is more than enough to talk about.) I don't have any official qualifications surrounding this field (yet), but I am studying classical civilization and roman literature for a qualification, and I have a long time obsession with Greek mythology especially. Obviously all of these are my interpretations, this is not a definite guide to what exactly the creative direction team at S2 Ent. were thinking about for this comeback, and if you think I missed something or have a different interpretation of one of the scenes, please let me know in the reblogs/comments.

Let’s begin with the title of the track, ‘Midas Touch’. It references the Greek myth of King Midas, who (according to Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’) after winning the favour of the god Dionysus, was granted any wish he desired. Midas chose the ability to make everything he touched turn into gold, a wish driven by greed. Midas revelled in his new found powers, but the problems arose when he realised that all food he touched would be turned to gold too - he had condemned himself to starve to death. The myth is essentially a cautionary tale about the effects of greed; Midas is a tragic hero that brought about his own suffering due to his hamartia (tragic flaw) - his blessing becomes his curse. Today, having a ‘midas touch’ means that everything you are involved with is successful, but the main association of Midas with greed still remains. In the context of the song, KOL are saying that a relationship with them, although destined to end in tragedy, would be worth it for the ‘gold’ they can bring - “위험할수록 재밌잖아” (“The more dangerous it is, the more fun it is”).  Midas may have died a tragic death, but his time alive was quite literally golden. Still, it feels slightly odd that KOL are associating themselves with someone so flawed - an idol should be the image of perfection, and in this way, the meaning of the song becomes quite subversive on a meta level. Keep this interpretation in the back of your mind, we will return to it later.

Within the music video itself, each of the four members are given solo scenes that I believe allude to different women of Greek mythology. Julie is first, depicted lying on a blush pink velvet heart with gold embellishments, shell and heart shaped boxes littered around her. The composition of the framing, as well as the beach imagery seems to allude to Boticelli’s ‘The Birth of Venus’, linking Julie with Aphrodite/Venus, the goddess of love. In Greek mythology, Aphrodite is seen as beautiful beyond compare, but is also often characterised as highly vain and self absorbed. After hearing that some Greeks had begun to worship the ludicrously beautiful mortal woman Psyche instead of her, (and also out of protection of her son Eros to whom Psyche was married), she sent Psyche on a series of impossible trials designed to kill her, so she could remain the most beautiful. Once again, KOL compare themselves to people in the ancient world who were famously flawed.

Natty is seen next, intertwined with glittering spider webs. This is perhaps a reference to the tale of Arachne, a mortal woman who was highly skilled at weaving. She boasted that her skills were greater than Athena herself, the goddess of handicraft (and many other things), and Athena transformed her into a spider as punishment for her hubris (excessive pride). Like the tale of King Midas, Arachne’s story also centres around a fatal flaw bringing your own downfall, and like Midas and Aphrodite, Arachne is not typically remembered fondly within Greek Mythology canon.

Perched on a half dress, half throne that resembles a peacock, Belle is seen next. Originally I wasn’t certain who was being referenced here, but after some research I believe it may be Hera, although if you have another interpretation here I would love to hear it. Hera, the goddess of marriage and fertility, queen of the gods, and wife to Zeus, is affiliated with peacocks as they are one of her sacred animals, and are said to pull her chariot like horses. Hera is also, like Aphrodite, a goddess often portrayed in a negative light in mythology, repeatedly characterised as jealous and spiteful. A famous example of this is when Hera sent two snakes to strangle Heracles/Hercules, the illegitimate son of her husband Zeus, out of spite and jealousy for the boy’s mortal mother. Whether Hera had a right to be annoyed at her husband’s repeated adultery is another discussion, but generally speaking, when Hera is in a myth, she is often the villain.

Finally, we see Haneul, perched upon a corinthian style column (we love a greek column) surrounded by severed heads on spikes, a clearly war ridden scene. This is the allusion I am the least confident about, but I think perhaps she is supposed to be Helen of Troy? Helen is famous for being the catalyst for the Trojan War (perhaps this is the war scene she sits within?), she is the ‘face that launched a thousand ships’. Depending on the source, Helen is either a victim, kidnapped by the Trojan prince Paris, or she was seduced and went willingly, abandoning her Greek husband King Menelaus. The second seems to be the accepted narrative among many Roman authors, with writers such as Martial (in Epigrams 1.62) portraying her as the polar opposite of Penelope, who was seen as the image of loyalty. As a result, Helen is commonly portrayed as disloyal and unfaithful, the opposite of what an ideal woman in the ancient world was supposed to act like.

In their group scenes, there is also SO MUCH Medusa imagery - with snakes crawling all over their faces and hissing at the camera, and half broken stone statues littered here and there. As I am sure you are probably aware, Medusa is very much a villain in the myths she is depicted in, and despite modern reevaluations of her story (that I agree with) portraying her as a victim, in the primary sources, she is essentially an evil monster for Perseus to destroy - her death marks Perseus’s ascension to hero status.

So why oh why are KOL comparing themselves to figures so flawed? In their previous releases, especially their first comeback with ‘Bad News’, the girls are depicted trying to fix injustices in society - they expose corruption in corporations, they combat casual misogyny and sexual harassment, and they call out bullying and abuse. In ‘Midas Touch’ I believe they continue their addressing of injustices and double standards, this time with a focus on the idol industry, their own stomping ground. In the kpop industry, idols are expected to be perfect in every way - beautiful, highly skilled, never controversial, and loyal to their fans. Should an idol fail to uphold these impossible standards, they are relentlessly punished, especially if the idol is a woman. Last month, Karina’s earnest apology to ‘fans’  for falling in love exposed how ludicrous the standards are to the world, and other idols like Sakura, Wonyoung, and Jennie, continue to get bullied on a daily basis for not meeting all of the bars the industry sets them. A kpop idol should be talented, but never show off, they should be beautiful and care about their looks but never be vain, confident but never egotistical, and driven by passion, not the desire for fame and money. It’s all fucking impossible, especially when what constitutes being called the second traits is utterly arbitrary and depends on how many people woke up on stan twitter and decided they didn’t like you that day. In ‘Midas Touch’ KOL calls this out by openly depicting themselves with the traits that kpop stans hate - Julie is Aphrodite, beautiful but vain, Natty is Arachne, talented but boastful, Belle is Hera, confident but jealous, Haneul is Helen, influential but disloyal, and they all are Midas, spurred on by greed instead of passion. They recognise that these accusations are unavoidable, and by reclaiming the imagery of these symbols of undesirable traits, they call out and reject the standards the idol industry places upon them. Like Medusa, they may be seen by many fans as a villain, a hurdle for their favourite groups that have more promotion and budget to overcome on their way to the top, but in actuality, they are victims of an industry desperate to mould them into products to be bought and sold. I’ve seen lots of discussion online about what KISS OF LIFE’s concept is, as it seems to vary every comeback, but after ‘Midas Touch’ I am led to believe that their concept is rebellion, against society, idol culture, and the things they deem as wrong in the world. Other groups have  done concepts similar in the past, such as LOONA in ‘Butterfly’ (you really thought I wasn’t going to bring them up at some point?? Are you new here??) but KOL is doing it explicitly, and consistently, and to me, that's very exciting. The kpop industry is ever changing, and with the foundations of the new 5th generation being established as we speak, perhaps KOL could cause it to change for the better. In summary, I am SO excited to see what they do next.

That honestly took a turn I wasn’t fully expecting at the end, but I hope you enjoyed regardless - I didn’t really talk about the actual song here, but I fucking loved it, and my full review will be part of my April monthly roundup - see previous installments on my masterlist. I encourage all of you to listen to ‘Midas Touch’ if you haven’t already, congratulations KISS OF LIFE for graduating nugudom, stream Birth by ARTMS, stan loona, and prepare for the loossemble comeback - lmk if you have any thoughts on my analysis or any other interpretations, or any topics you want me to write an essay on. cya next time ~ ari