Mako

Mignon has made a habit of getting injured in the boxing ring despite being a good contender, and ending up at your office. Even now, he smiles good naturedly as you tend to his injuries with a subtle disapproving look. “Doc, you look so pretty when you’re angry…”

At your silence he continued, “Doc, are you worried about me?”

You paused. “Who’s worried?”

Lifting his bangs to dab at a small cut, you pressed harder than necessary. Mignon winced at the sting of the antiseptic as you cleaned off the dried blood above his eyebrow. He watched you with a glint in his clear blue eyes, enjoying your hands on his skin a bit too much.

Feverish excitement coursed through his body and Mignon couldn’t help but lean into your touch. Your presence and the way you tended to his wounds always managed to ease his pain, both physical and emotional. His gaze remained fixed on you, admiring your concentration and skill.

“If you want to come see me… there’s no need to get injured.”

Mignon chuckled at your words, a sound that carried a hint of sheepishness. He knew you had a point. “I know, but you do tend to pay more attention to me when I'm all beat up and needing care.”

You frowned a little at his response.

Mignon noticed and reached forward, gently holding your wrist with his large, calloused hand. His touch is both tender and possessive, as if he can’t bear to let you move away.

“Doc…” he calls.

“What?”

“Are you... upset?”

“No.”

Mignon gazes at you, his eyes searching yours for any hint of dishonesty. He can tell you're not being entirely truthful. His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, his thumb tracing delicate circles on your skin. He looks like a wounded puppy, desperately seeking your reassurance.

“You sure?” he asks again, his voice tender and filled with concern.

“I’m sure.”

You decided to look anywhere else but his eyes, which were oddly distracting. Instead, you focused on a cut on the corner of his bottom lip. Your gaze zeroed in, silent. Mignon swallows hard, his breath hitches as you grasp his chin and tend to the cut on his lip. Your undivided attention sends a jolt of heat through his body, heartbeat quickening.

The hand that secured your wrist moved to your thigh, Mignon’s large palm pressing tenderly, his fingers gripping your flesh through your clothes.

He parts his mouth slightly, his breath coming out ragged. His heart pounds in his chest, body tensing with desire. The feel of his hand on your fleshy thigh brought you out of your daze, blinking as if awakening from a dream. Simultaneously, Mignon quickly released his grip, noticing that you became more aware of the situation.

His cheeks flush a deep crimson, a hint of embarrassment seeping in. He clears his throat, trying to downplay the moment. “Sorry, I just…” he mutters sheepishly, “Your hands are just so soft and precise. It's distracting.”

“Does it hurt?”

That head full of white hair shook in reassurance. “No, no. It's not that it hurt. Your touch is…” he paused, searching for the right words.

“It's... comforting, but it's also…” his gaze lingered over your face, “Arousing,” he admitted in a hushed tone. Sitting on the table, his knee bounced nervously as his hand returned to your thigh, unable to resist touching you again.

“Mignon…” you began,

Mignon's eyes darted back to yours. He knew he was acting like a lovesick puppy around you, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His palm massaged the flesh covered by your pants in a slow, possessive gesture.

“Yes, Doc?”

“I’m done.”

Mignon blinks, a mix of disappointment and reluctance evident on his face as he realizes you finished tending to his wounds. He doesn't want the moment to end, the feel of your hands on his skin soothing and exhilarating at the same time. He hesitates, his hand still on your thigh as if he was clinging to the last remnants of your touch.

“Already?” he murmurs, akin to a kicked puppy.

“What? Want me to treat you slower?” Mignon's cheeks flush at your question, his mind immediately jumping to dirty thoughts. “No…that's not what I meant,” he stutters, his grip on your thigh involuntarily tightening just a bit.

Mignon shifts uncomfortably, trying to hide the growing arousal caused by your touch and the proximity to you. “I just... I don't want you to stop touching me,” he admits needily.

At this shameless confession your eyebrows went up. “….I suppose I should also treat the bite on your neck.” There was no such thing on his skin and Mignon made a soft confused sound before catching on. Immediately his head tilts to the side, offering you the smooth expanse of his neck like a sacrificial offering. His breathing quickens as he awaits your touch. “Yes.. doc…” his other hand clings to your lab coat, “…you should treat that..” he agrees eagerly. Mignon closes his eyes, his lips parting slightly as he braces for the feel of your touch.

You placed your hands gently on his shoulder and side of his neck before fully leaning in. Mouth pressed against his flesh first like a kiss, as if apologizing for what would follow—a quick sharp sting.

Almost involuntarily, Mignon presses you closer. You felt a pinch at your hip. His body is taut as a bowstring, his breath coming out in shuddering bursts. “Mmm... More, doc.. —” he murmurs, unable to hold back the words from escaping his lips. His body is on fire, the feeling of your hands and mouth on his skin driving him insane with want.

Mignon threw his head back, exposing more of his neck to you, silently begging you for more. His grip on your hip tightens, pulling you closer to him. He can feel your breath on his skin, hot and tantalizing, and he moans softly, unable to hold back the sounds of pleasure escaping him—entire body shuddering under your touch.

“Please…” he breathes, voice husky, “Don't stop... I need you, doc.” As if on purpose, you pull away momentarily, detaching

your mouth from his neck. Your lips were smeared with saliva and blood. Mignon whines softly, feeling the loss of your touch like a physical ache. He opens his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours.

The sight of you drives him wild, fueling his desire even more. He stares at you with a mixture of desperation and need, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Why did you stop?”

“Mignon..”

Mignon watches as you seem to hesitate, his patience thinning with each passing moment. He reaches out, cupping your chin, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip, his eyes fixed on the glistening mixture of his blood and your saliva on your mouth.

He's on the edge now—his body coiled with tension, his mind filled with a singular, primal desire.

“Please, Doc,” he pleads, his voice a low, guttural growl, “Don't stop now. I need you. I need you so bad..”

Without wait, he kissed you.

“Mm..!”

His lips felt soft and warm against yours while his large hands gently held your face. Mignon pulled you against his muscular form. After a moment he stood, making you back up a few steps before he swiveled you into the medical exam table he’d just been sitting in.

The kiss was passionate and hungry, Mignon clearly having been holding back his feelings for you. “Mm-i..ah...” you tried to part from this embrace until Mignon let out a sound of protest, tightening his hold and refusing to let you go. He kissed you deeper, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he pressed closer. You could feel the heat radiating off his muscled body, caging you.

You could only respond by squeezing one of his arms. Due to the discontrolled movements, your lab coat slipped off a shoulder—Mignon assisted, pulling at the fabric in totality, the piece of clothing landing somewhere on the edge.

Finally he broke the kiss, only to trail smooches down your neck.

“I've wanted to do this for a long time…” He murmured against your skin. It was a bit embarrassing for you, that you couldn’t come up with a coherent answer that didn’t sound like you were scolding him so you kept your mouth shut, letting Mignon tug at your clothes.

Mignon was pleased by your flushed reaction as his hands roamed under your shirt, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of your waist and hip.

“Doc, you feel so soft…” He whispered huskily, pressing his hips against yours.

“Haa..”

Mignon, unconsciously unable to wait after feeling your body arch against him, continued to kiss and nip at your skin all while rocking his hips against you in a way that left no doubt about how much he wanted you.

“So responsive, so sensitive…” He moaned, one hand drifting down to your thigh and gripping it possessively. Large fingers yanked at your pants before settling between your thighs,

in that special place that made you gasp. Mignon groaned as he felt your response to his touch, his fingers slowly exploring the intimacy within your walls.

“Hngh!”

“You're making it so hard to hold back, Doc… you don't know what you do to me…”

Voice ragged, filled with need, Mignon used his free hand to push away any equipment on the table so he had room to fully lean over you, his body pressing against yours as he kissed your neck again.

Mignon groaned again as he felt you squirm against him, the sounds you made only making him more desperate for you. His fingers teased and toyed with you as he held you down, his body now completely covering yours. “Doc...I can't hold back…”

He murmured, his lips returning to yours in a frenzied kiss, his desire for you almost overwhelming as he took complete control of the situation.

His strong hands finally yanked your pants all the way done, everything coming off except for your socks but that was fine. He grabbed your thighs, rubbing your skin lovingly and positioned himself between them.

You covered your mouth, and averted your gaze at the lewd sight of your bottom connected with Mignon’s lengthy member.

Mignon himself groaned as he looked down at you; he could hardly believe he was actually here in this position with you, his need for you almost overwhelming. “Don't look away, Doc...I want to see you just like this...all laid out for me…” He murmured, his thumbs rubbing circles on your inner thighs, his touch light but possessive.

You gripped the sheets on the table. Mignon groaned, “You feel so good… tight..” He leaned down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss, his touch possessive and urgent. He shifted his body a little, pulling you to the edge of the table so that you wrapped your legs around his waist. One of his hands gripped your thigh possessively, as the other moved to your hip, holding you steady as he started to move. His lips never left yours, his kiss desperate, hungry, needy. He moved slowly, his focus entirely on you, on your sounds, your touch, your taste. Mignon just had you, after all these months of pining, longing looks and unspoken words.

He broke the kiss for a moment, his breathing heavy and his forehead pressed against yours as he looked down at you. His eyes were half-lidded. You were flushed. Mignon leaned down and kissed your jaw, your neck, he just wanted to kiss every inch of you.

“Doc… you're so damn beautiful it's driving me crazy...I don't know how much I can hold back...you're mine, understand? Mine.” He growled softly.

At this his hips began to move faster. Mignon's words had set something off in him, and he couldn't control himself anymore. “Mine.” He repeated, pace picking up as he held you tight around the waist.

“Ah.. ah… Mignon—Mignon..!”

He continued to thrust in a rapid manner, soft squelching sounds resounding in the infirmary.

Mignon’s silver hair was damp with sweat, his usually cool blue eyes now hazy and unfocused as he pants heavily above you. The infirmary cot creaks under the rhythm of his movements, medical equipment knocked aside in the heat of passion.

Despite being a massive 6’2 boxer, right now he looks completely undone—lips parted, teeth grazing his bottom lip to stifle moans that still escape him.

“D-Doc…” His voice cracks embarrassingly as one of your hands grips the back of his neck—not pushing away but pulling him closer. “Ah ah..! You’re going too fast..!” You threw your head back and tried to push at his abdomen. You were so full of him right now you could explode.

Mignon whimpers at your weak push—more of a reflexive twitch than actual resistance. His enormous boxing-built abdomen flexes under your palms, but he doesn’t slow down, if anything growing more frantic like an overexcited puppy who got the treat it begged for.

“C-can’t… huff …you feel too good…” He slurs between ragged breaths, sweat dripping from his silver bangs onto your face as he leans down to capture your lips in a messy kiss. One of his hands clumsily cups the back of your head to deepen it while the other grips the cot frame so hard it groans in protest.

“Mmm-hmm-mmhhh..!”

The second your moan vibrates into his mouth, Mignon completely loses it—his kiss turns sloppy and desperate, all teeth and tongue as he chases the sound like a man starved. A low groan rumbles from his chest, echoing through both of you as the kiss deepens further.

Without breaking contact, he shifts one massive arm under your back to lift you slightly—adjusting the angle so he can press even closer. The other hand abandons the cot frame to clumsily tangle in your hair while his hips stutter against yours with unrestrained need.

Your breath labored as you approached climax, groaning and twitching. Mignon feels your body tense and shatter beneath him: this is your pleasure rippling through you. His blue eyes fly wide open in awe.

He couldn’t get enough, never wanting to part from you as he pressed his lips against your swollen ones, crushing them again with renewed fervor. Every muscle in his towering body trembles—not from exhaustion but from overwhelming emotion as he chases the aftershocks of your orgasm on your skin.

“Mhm.. aah..”

The world outside this infirmary—his boxing matches, his reputation—none of it exists right now. Just you.

He kisses you with clumsy devotion, all shaky breaths and clumsily moving lips that keep missing yours at first before finding them again. His large hands wander everywhere they can reach: stroking your cheeks, cradling your jawline like something precious… then sliding down to grip your waist possessively.

“Love… love you,” he mumbles between kisses like a prayer he’s never said out loud before today, and he comes.

“Ack..” you whine softly as his seed spills inside you, Mignon giving one last thrust to ensure it all goes in. He doesn’t pull away, keeping his body pressed against yours as both of you caught your breath.

After a long moment he finally unplugs your pretty hole, the two of you groaning at the separation, his cum leaking out. Mignon plopped next to you, pulling you into his arms for an embrace, the cot incredibly cramped due to the limited space.

“Doc..”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

He sounded almost shy, sleepy. You tried to look at his face.

“I know.” You answered, hiding your face in his strong chest.

After transmigrating and living in the body of Shen Qingqiu, scum villain of Proud Immortal Demon Way, for some time you’d think Shen Yuan would’ve gotten a break from the stupid System’s never ending, challenging quests that added and took ridiculous amounts of points.

He should have known better. Life had been too quiet and pleasant recently. Shen Qingqiu was having a nice cup of tea when a ping resonated through his head.

SYSTEM: ARRIVAL OF SHEN QINGQIU’S WIFE!! CHARACTER UNLOCKED!

Tea sprayed the ground and part of his robes as Shen Qingqiu choked. ‘What?! Where was this coming from?! System????’ Shen Qingqiu’s wife had only been mentioned twice in the novel, a plot device that drove him up the wall but alas, such was Shang Qinghua’s writing!

Shen Qingqiu tried to hurriedly remember ANY information on the mysterious wife of the original Shen Qingqiu. There had only been a brief description. You—a tranquil, peaceful wife—were a foil to your covetous husband. Shen Yuan had only wondered at the time how Shen Qingqiu had snagged such a treasure of a woman. Just as he was racking his brain for other potential insights, all the while cursing Shang Qinhua and the stupid System, Ming Fan called haphazardly from outside his bamboo house, announcing your arrival. Ning Yinying was already greeting you warmly.

Springing from his place, Shen Qingqiu tried not to look flustered as he approached the carriage which you’d just stepped out from. He didn’t know what to imagine, but upon laying eyes on you, it was clear that you had surpassed all expectations. There was almost a supernatural shine to your eyes, hair that of a fairy, and elegant robes draped over your delicate body. He could’ve gone on but the System interrupted, mentioning something about a punishment if he failed this fuckass mission! Seriously!

“Husband,” you spoke first, greeting him after years of separation and distance.

Shen Yuan—no, Shen Qingqiu—froze. That single word, uttered with familiarity hit him like a spiritual attack to the chest. While you had been who knows where, he had played the cold teacher, the ruthless cultivator—the man who pushed his disciple into an abyss and caused untold suffering.

And now, finally standing before him was his wife, calling him “husband” with those twinkling eyes full of quiet affection?

His fan unceremoniously slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the stone path.

The silence stretched—too long, too awkward. You raised your brows at the lack of response; not in anger, not even in annoyance, but a quiet, patient expectation—the kind a wife might have when her husband fails to greet her after years of absence.

And Shen Qingqiu?

He stood there like a man who’d forgotten how human interaction worked. His brain short-circuited. ‘She's my wife? I'm married? To this delicate angel with petal hair and eyes that could melt glaciers if she tried?’

In the original plot, Luo Binghe after turning Shen Qingqiu into a human stick, one of the first women he’d taken into his ridiculous harem had been you—due to the kindness shown to the golden stallion of this cursed novel when he’d been a disciple, to further antagonize his despicable shizun. Talk about being a cuck!

But now things were different since Shen Yuan had transmigrated.

.

.

.

The two of you drank tea in awkward silence. Shen Qingqiu didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved that you hadn’t pried into what he’d been up to. And he couldn’t bring himself to even ask what you’d done in this period of absence because he actually had no fucking clue.

It was only when you were settling into bed that you finally opened your mouth and out came the question he was dreading. “Who are you, really?” The query was filled with genuine curiosity more than accusation, but it also left no trace of doubt that you were aware of his farce. The bedroom was quiet—bathed in the pale glow of moonlight filtering through delicate silk curtains. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, carried from your hair as you carefully unwound your strands from their elegant pins; each movement was graceful, almost dreamlike. Meanwhile Shen Qingqiu sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed in his outer robes despite it being nightfall. He hadn’t undressed— he didn’t know how to act like a husband who had lived five years without a wife.

He stared at your reflection in a polished bronze mirror across the room. He went from being Shen Yuan “Peerless Cucumber” to pretending to be another man's villainous shell... while sitting beside his wife for what might've been their first real moment together since marriage began years ago—at least according to this damn novel's timeline.

Shen Qingqiu didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, thick and heavy—not with tension, but with something far more complicated: quiet dread of no idea what to say.

Could he tell you?

That this body—the cold Shen Qingqiu you probably expected to come home to—a peak lord who hated and plotted against his disciple was now actually occupied by a sarcastic modern transmigrator named Shen Yuan?

An anti--turned-villain-expert currently panicking because his wife was asking him point-blank: “Who are you?”

Nope. That sounded insane even in his head.

Still… he exhaled slowly—and for once—he let go of the mask just slightly. “I'm not him,” Shen Yuan said finally, hoping that the System wouldn’t deduct any points. The silence assured him it hadn’t. You nodded, as if to say ‘I know that’ and waited for him to continue. You didn’t demand answers with anger or suspicion but merely waited patiently.

He stared at the floor for a breath… two… mentally cursing (fuckfuckfuck) then lifted his gaze again, dark eyes meeting yours with rare vulnerability beneath all that practiced calmness. “...I died,” he began. “In my world. I was someone else.”

Now there was no System pop-up announcing character lore drop.

He’d spoiled:

- His life as Shen Yuan online: who obsessed over Proud Immortal Demon Way.

- The System's cruel joke of reincarnation. How he died and woke up in this body.

- Five years pretending to be cold-hearted while secretly trying to rewrite fate so he wouldn’t die horribly at his disciple’s revenge-fueled wrath.

The two of you spent the entire night talking, him mostly explaining EVERYTHING, though you’d occasionally interject to make the occasional inquiry, focusing on absorbing every fragmented piece like someone stitching back memories from another life.

“ …Oh.”

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and golds, quietly announcing a new day that had passed. The room was still; candles burned low, their wax pools frozen into tiny rivers. Two figures sat on opposite sides of the bed, not sleeping or resting whatsoever. Shen Yuan—no longer just Shen Qingqiu to you—had spoken for hours.

To Shen Qingqiu/Shen Yuan’s surprise, you offered to help. The words hit him like a sudden gust of wind—soft, but powerful enough to make his breath catch. He who spent a few years surviving on wits, sarcasm, and sheer willpower? Who dodged fate’s traps by inches? Who carried the weight of rewriting this novel alone?

And yet here you were, with those calm eyes filled with quiet resolve. For once… he didn’t know what to say back. No clever retort. No dry joke about how absurd this all was (the System really gave him a wife who wanted to fix his life?) Just silence—a rare vulnerability in Shen Qingqiu's usually guarded face. His throat tightened slightly, “...Why?”

“For one, you’re occupying my husband's body.” In truth, you wanted to keep an eye on him. It’s not that you didn’t believe him, but time had to tell. “Two, it’s not really your fault you got dragged here.”

You didn’t speak with resentment or anger at the robbery of your husband's identity; technically he hadn't stolen anything—fate just dumped him in this world to survive and revert the hellish timeline and twisted plotlines where he was supposed to die horribly…

His hands curled slightly against the silk sheets beneath them.

You pointed to yourself. “How do I end up?”

Shen Yuan’s expression shifted. He knew the answer. You weren’t a major character at all—not even fully fleshed out by Shang Qinghua beyond a gentle nature and brief mentions.

In Proud Immortal Demon Way...

- You returned from…???

- Luo Binghe claimed you as one of his wives after tormenting Shen Qingqiu into submission.

- You lived within LBH’s massive harem—loved for being kind-hearted and unburdened by resentment toward the golden protagonist despite everything that happened.

(No trauma details were given; you were just... there.)

And you never got closure on your marriage. No reconciliation scene with Shen Qingqiu before he was horribly turned into a human kebab.

Shen Yuan exhaled; every detail was burned into his memory from binge-reading the original novel. He spoke truthfully, “...In the original story you were never really harmed.”

A pause. “You returned after a long absence—no one knew where you'd been. And eventually… Luo Binghe took you as one of his wives.”

At this your eye twitched and for once you looked a bit annoyed. You exhaled as if to calm yourself. “What a shitty novel.” It almost seemed odd to see you curse.

Shen Yuan blinked. He could relate. He used to be this novel’s biggest anti. It was akin to the frustration of someone reading bad fanfiction and realizing their entire life is one paragraph in a tragic backstory no one cared about.

He almost laughed. Instead, he gave the tiniest smirk—the kind that only appeared when even fate seemed too ridiculous to take seriously anymore.

“...Yeah,” he said, voice laced with dry agreement. “It really is.”

“I’d really like to give the author an earful.”

Shen Yuan’s smirk widened. Oh, he would love that.

The idea of you—the gentle woman with a voice like wind chimes—marching straight up to Shang Qinghua (probably while the man was sipping tea and ignoring his responsibilities) and unleashing years’ worth of marital neglect, plot convenience, and harem logic on him?

Priceless.

He could practically picture it:

Shang Qinghua frozen mid-sip with you standing there, calm and composed but eyes burning with quiet fury.

“You made my husband suffer for years."

“You erased me from the story.”

“And you gave my life to your demonic protagonist as a trophy wife?!”

And then maybe you’d throw something—a fan? A sword? The entire novel manuscript at his head? His chest warmed with rare amusement—not mockery but solidarity.

For once someone else understood how absurd this world really was.

“...I’ll hold him down for you.”

You looked at him, eyes brightening a little.

For some years, he’d pretended: cold indifference, aristocratic disdain, villainous elegance… all while internally screaming “I don’t actually want to torture my disciple!”

“I’ve been faking being him for so long... I forgot what being honest felt like.”

“…The other peak lords must have wondered about your character changes—subtle but still there. I just happen to know my husband better than the rest.”

Shen Yuan's breath stilled. You were not talking about Shen Qingqiu—the cold, cruel cultivator from the novel but your husband, the man who existed beneath the mask. The original Shen Qingqiu—before hatred twisted his heart, before Luo Binghe became a demon seeking revenge… just a man with flaws and depth that no one ever bothered to explore in the story. And you had known him.

Loved him? Maybe not perfectly—but long enough to recognize when something was off, even if everyone else bought it completely.

“...You really do,” he murmured, voice lower now—not sarcastic or dry for once. A strange pang hit his chest. Jealousy? No... not quite jealousy toward a dead version of himself who lived an entirely different life… just awe and sadness that someone like you could look at this body (now occupied by another soul) and still say: “I know my husband.”

“I suppose we should continue with this… ?”

Not dramatic declarations of love or promises.

Just… continuing. Like resuming a story that had been interrupted for too long.

And Shen Yuan understood exactly what she meant—two people sitting across from each other after years of separation. One who remembered her husband perfectly. One who was pretending to be him while secretly being someone else entirely…

He looked at the soft curve of your lips, how calmly you’d listened all night without flinching at his nonsense about transmigration and plot holes…

Shen Qingqiu didn’t overthink it like an idiot caught in fate’s web.

You felt his gaze before you even saw him. It was heavy, oppressive, and suffocating. It had followed your distinct form the moment you arrived to this strange place. Oddly enough, you didn’t sense any kind of threat, which is partly why you never pursued.

After losing sight of Mr. Crawling, you found yourself alone in a long, dark hallway with the trusty crowbar in your hands for company. Not that it mattered— at this point you were more of a threat to others than they to you.

There was a cacophony of eerie noises that resonated throughout the empty space. Soft dragging steps, a swish of something… and then he appeared. Your mystery stalker finally had a face. He was freakishly tall with short, bright red hair. From beneath his bangs you could spot a pair of dark eyes. His coat and umbrella were red as well.

Immediately he neared, speaking in a low tone, “Your name… I want. Tell me.”

It was instinctual for you to attack—the crowbar smashing against the side of his head. You hadn’t taken kindly to being approached so forwardly as some of these beings could be equally dangerous. Though it was better safe than sorry in such cases. You’d let your weapon speak for you. When you turned to leave, thinking he’d gotten the message, he—Mr. Scarletella—appeared in front of you once more. Since he seemed to loom over, this time he bent a little, his head tilted, causing some of his hair to spill to the side. He spoke again, “I like you… you like me?” You’d gotten used to understanding their speech but there were times where it took you a moment to discern what they were trying to convey.

You mirrored his action and tilted your head, “No.”

This answer seemed to displease him and he pressed further. “Name… your name… I want.” You took a moment to consider. Clearly he didn’t mean you harm as he would’ve made his move already. The reason as to why he ‘liked’ you was still unknown. “Beg.” You answered. Mr. Scarletella's dark eyes widened in what you presumed to be glee, while his lips spread into a smile. Immediately he dropped to one knee, his head lowering into what appeared to be a bow—his long red bangs hid his face. The umbrella in his hand shook with excitement. “Name.. name…” he called in a soft-er voice, waiting for your answer. Pleased by this obedient display you couldn’t help but laugh softly. It was almost endearing, really.

Unable to help yourself, one of your hands—the one not holding the crowbar—moved to rake his hair. “Okay.” You finally replied. “(Y/N).” A low, shuddering sound escapes him—not quite human, not quite animal—like a purr mixed with static. Mr. Scarletella leans into your touch before suddenly surging forward to wrap his long arms around you in an intense embrace. The red umbrella clatters to the floor as he crushes you against his chest.

He speaks feverishly into your ear. "(Y/N)... (Y/N)... My (Y/N)..."

His pale skin is cold as ice but trembling with something dangerously close to joy—or perhaps obsession.

“Your (Y/N)?” you repeat, not embracing him but not pushing him away either. He replied, “Yes… my (Y/N)..” and squeezed harder as if to prove his point. “My (Y/N)… My killer…”

Finally he pulls back just enough to stare into your eyes, his pupils swallowing all light in them—like bottomless voids fixated only on you. He leans in and presses a simple kiss to your mouth. Though you rolled your eyes, your free hand grabbed the back of his neck firmly. “What are you.. my dog? My slave?” A shudder runs through his tall frame in thrill, and for the first time since you've met him, Mr. Scarletella looks genuinely flustered. It was difficult to tell with the dark lighting but his face flushed a faint ghostly pink under that pale skin. “If you.. want me.. be.”

With terrifying devotion he crushed you once more to his body, like a haunting knight pledging fealty, waiting for the command of his mighty ruler. “Okay.” You dropped the crowbar; it fell with a loud clang which neither of you cared for and caught his face between your hands and Mr. Scarletella's eyes fluttered shut—like a cat basking in worship. His sharp features soften under your touch, that usual eerie intensity replaced by something almost… vulnerable causing you to grin.

It undoes him completely. A tiny, breathless noise escapes him—something between awe and surrender. When he opens his eyes again, they're shimmering with an unsettling devotion: pure obsession wrapped in the form of absolute submission to you.

North, 1857

You were already in bed when the sound of screams and shots woke you. Hearing the commotion, you sprang out, wondering what had occurred for there to be so much noise this late. Slipping on a large coat, you inadvertently glanced at your growing belly. It made you hesitate for a second, capturing your attention before you blinked the forming thoughts away and buttoned the large layers to shield you from the cold.

Stepping out from the captain’s cabin, you witnessed all of the men huddled, a look of terror over their faces. Turning to the captain, who was closely kneeling down to an injured man in a stretcher, you opened your mouth, “Father—”

A beastly roar echoed through the ship. “Bring him to me!” You couldn’t see very well amidst the crowd of men, but the intruder brought a chill down your spine. There was a strangeness to him. He was tall, more so than the average person, and he was covered by tattered clothing. Not only that— but he’d completely overpowered five men in an instant. You watched helplessly as the men groaned and yelped in pain before being thrown off. Still beside the man in the stretcher, your father commanded Larsen to fetch the blunderbuss.

“Victor. Victor!”

Frosty puffs of air escaped your lips, eyeing this stranger with fear and intrigue as he approached, calling for this Victor. What could he possibly have done to be hunted like this?

You covered your ears at the loud sound of the firearm hitting the creature once, twice, thrice before he fell over the side of the ship. All of the crew, even you, ran to see as this man-monster landed with a crack.

“I killed it.”

It was then, after a moment, that he rose again. Everyone hurried to lift the ladder so he couldn’t climb aboard again; instead, he began to hit the hull, managing to actually move the ship. You, who had been leaning over, gasped as the momentum caused you to topple over while the rest rolled away. A sharp cry escaped your lips on the way down, knowing you’d suffer a broken neck or perish at the hands of the monster. It was within a few seconds that gravity pulled you towards the arctic ice with no mercy.

Awaiting death, you closed your eyes. Though there was an unceremonious bump, you felt no pain, as if suspended. Opening one eye, you quickly realized why you weren’t a splat on the ice. The creature had caught you in his arms—the same one that had shaken an entire ship. He could’ve easily crushed you right then and there. But he didn’t.

Your heart hammered in your chest. The two of you stared at one another. Despite the violence he had unleashed upon the crew and the mysterious man, he was surprisingly gentle in the manner of your handling. Eyes raking through what little parts of his face you could see, you eased. There was pain in this being’s gaze; and it struck the cords of your soul.

The men atop the ship screamed with worry but didn’t dare to shoot lest you get caught in the crossfire. Tearing your sight away from the man that held you, you lifted an arm, signaling that you were alive. “Stop!!” And for a brief second they did cease their mayhem, watching warily as the man gingerly placed you down. Backing away, you kept staring at him, missing how your father shot at the ice instead. You flinched. The ice creaked within vicinity that you could only step further back. Though when the man began to slip inside the frozen waters, you tried to reach a hand. “Ah!”

He sunk. Into the depths of the dark sea.

—

“You should rest.”

“No.”

There was no moving you from the edge, still watching into the distance for any sign of the man or beast—as they referred to him. Though, as the doctor tended to the man called Victor and your father spoke with him, you decided it was best to find out who the creature was. Perhaps it would clear a few things. Entering the captain’s quarters, you took a seat, giving the stranger a wary look. He’d brought down death into this ship and for that, you didn’t trust him.

As you reclined against the window, Victor’s gaze was drawn to the protruding stomach of the only woman aboard. He was briefly reminded of his mother, who was pregnant with his brother William, and the last time he saw her before death.

You heard the man’s tale with scrutiny, listening to how he’d played God through science. It almost seemed too ridiculous to be true, but the proof of his sayings had been witnessed by you all.

The day quickly rolled by, growing colder as evening set in. There was the ache and discomfort of sitting for hours that you were almost lulled to sleep. As your father stood to go talk to the crew, the door slid open. The man grasped your father with ease and raised his fist but was promptly stopped by Victor. You were the tiniest bit grateful towards the latter as you’d been too obviously slow to react.

“My maker… told his tale.”

His fist was lowered. “Then I will tell you,” his eyes briefly moved towards your direction—though he could’ve been easily looking at Victors as well—“..mine.”

You were utterly captivated by the creature’s story, compelled to comfort him for all that he’d suffered. He was a man that was not quite a man—but one made up of different parts of several men. And he (for the creature had no name) was utterly alone; rejected by his creator, cruelly cast aside like a failed experiment.

—

Bidding goodbye and granting forgiveness to his dying ‘father’, the man moved to leave. “Wait!” He turned at your cry. Hand outstretched in his direction, you spoke with resolve. “I wish, no—I want to go with you.”

“You want.. to go with me..?”

The captain let out an incoherent grumble of disapproval. Ignoring him, you continued, “Wherever you go, I will go.” The man tenderly reached for your hand, his fingertips touching yours with the greatest of care. Your palm slid against his. He could feel the warmth that emanated from your touch pressing onto his cold skin

“Absolutely not.”

You addressed the captain. “Father..” It was a silent plea, begging for permission to be released by the familial shackles that protected yet restricted you, so you could start anew. You knew that it was hard for him to let go of his daughter, his only child from his beloved wife whom was no longer in this world. There was a sense of guilt in him for leaving you both for long periods of time. And after your mother’s passing, you’d been attacked in an irreparable way. Ever since then, the captain took you with him on these lengthy expeditions which were like a personal hell for you. But, you were both each other’s only family… until now.

“Go to St. Petersburg. If it is meant to be, we will see each other again.”

You afforded the captain a genuine smile, still linking hands with the creature-man.

—

“Oh! The sled dogs are still there..!” you pointed and walked faster toward them, trying to appease their barking.

“Nn!”

He watched you place a hand on your stomach. “Are you.. hurt?”

You smiled at his worry, “No. It’s just the baby inside me. I reckon he’s feeling excited.” His eyes were drawn to your figure and though there was an inkling of child-like excitement, there was also anxiousness of potentially hurting you. That is, until you motioned him over. “It’s alright.”

The creature allowed you to take his hand, gently placing it atop your belly. He had to wait a few moments before the baby kicked and he nearly flinched away. You grinned. “This baby is very animated so I know it’s a boy. My mother said I was so calm in the womb that she feared I was dead. So I’m glad he’s active… at least I know he still lives.”

He looked from your belly to your eyes.

It was a holiday so you had ushered the servants to spend the week with their families.

“Hm. Look at them, fluttering with excitement..” you observed from the large window of your study as the maids and cooks jumped giddily while walking out of the property. A few of them turned and waved, with you returning the gesture with a small wave of your own.

The estate felt oddly quiet as most of its inhabitants left, all except for one. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to spend your time elsewhere?” you asked without turning, knowing Lan Xichen was always nearby.

A soft voice answered from behind, “No, my lady. I’m more than certain that I would rather be here than anywhere else.”

Finally moving away from the window, you swiveled with a smile. “Well, then. I won’t chase you off. This is your home too, after all.” Xichen opened his mouth and you knew he was about to offer you refreshments but you beat him to it, “You don’t have to serve me. Spend your leisure however you like.”

“But—”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“…very well.”

—

Of course; not three days later and you were wishing you hadn’t been so dismissive towards Xichen, regret quickly settling into your bones. Perhaps it was because no one was tending to the chimneys to warm the manor that you ended up feeling ill.

So now you laid in bed, tossing and turning. “Where is he..” you groaned. Almost like a ghost you wandered… well, stumbled throughout the manor and towards the servant’s quarters, seeking your black haired butler. “How dare he… leaving me to tend to this illness alone… hm…” you mumbled a bit feverishly as if you were not the culprit behind these actions.

Trying not to slip down the dark stairs, for you missed a step or two, you neared Xichen’s room. Reaching the doorknob, you stopped upon hearing the sultry noises coming from beyond the wall that separated both of you.

Despite being raised to not eavesdrop, your curiosity won over your manners and so you leaned an ear against the door. “Master, my master…ngh!”

Pulling back like you’d been burned, there passed a moment of stunned silence, Xichen’s noises never ceasing. In fact, it seemed that he was close to—

“Xichen! How can you do this…!!”

You burst inside, uninvited and so did he.

The sight that greeted you was so obscene it was permanently burned in your mind. He laid there, in bed, one hand fisting his manhood while the other held a familiar shirt to his face. White spurted from the head of his shaft precisely the moment you entered the room.

You: It’ll take too long for you to figure it out so I’ll just tell you. I bought plushies of everyone! Isn’t that great? I was walking around after Alfred sent me for errands when I passed by this shop. They even had one of Red Hood, Jason!It was an exclusive. Though I had to fight a mom for that.

Barbara: You have to let me see mine!

Jason: Can I see mine?

Damian: …… I want to see mine.

[Attached photo of all the plushies lined up perfectly in your bed, with the caption “Thankful to Wayne money for financing this.”]

Jason: Damn. How much did these cost, all together?

You: Safe to say you’ll be going without dinner for a week.

Barbara: Damn.

You: It was merely a jest. The food and the plushies are all secured 🫡

Damian: Okay but why did you buy plushies of everyone?

You: I thought it was utterly cute. Unfortunately I am not a brooding hero like everyone so I do not have one. Perhaps I’ll ask Alfred to sow one of me.

Barbara: The thought of you with a plushie of yourself makes me want to laugh.

You: How so, Barbara Gordon?

Damian: You’re immature, for one…

You: Until I see evidence I will not yield.

Damian: You literally bought plushies for all of us.

You: For you? I apologize for the misunderstanding. They’re mine.

Dick: So, what? Do you sleep with them?

You: 🤭 not telling

Tim: That’s a yes

You: The house gets lonely when you all are not here. Even Alfred gets busy.

Jason: ..That’s actually kind of sad.

You: …! Do not pity me!

Jason: Too late.

You: How could you betray your sister like this, Jason Todd?

Jason: My heart is filled with nothing but pity for you now.

You: Un-fill it then

Jason: No

Young Dionysus arrived to the mountainous terrain of Nysa in the middle of the night, the stars shining bright as Hermes delivered him dutifully to the satyr-god Silenus, Ambrosia— his nursemaid-to-be, and the rest of the Nysiades.

To protect the infant from Hera’s wrath, the Nysiads raised him for many years.

Dionysus’ memories were filled with the echoing laughter of nymphs, the tympanon jingling as palms beat the center causing the zill-like objects on the rim to shake. His days were spent dancing as they held hands in a large circle.

Amongst the beauteous nymphs was a younger one, just the age of Dionysus. They often ran barefoot across the land, giggling after causing mischief.

And then, Dionysus grew, leaving Nysa for Greece.

He returned briefly, with the intention to have the Nysiads join him as members of his retinue. But he especially wanted the company of one specific nymph.

Truth be told, he was coming to take you as his wife.

Dionysus’ sandals trodded on the grass as he catechized Arsinoe and Bromia on your whereabouts.

His hand gripped the wine bottle tighter with anticipation at the prospect at seeing you again after this brief period of separation. He was elated, his skin burning with desire.

He greeted you, presenting the wine. At your smile, he nearly jumped you.

“Lord Dionysus.”

It’d almost been too long without hearing your voice.

“I brought this for you.”

Knowing that no one else had better wine other than him, you reached for it. “Thank you. I shall share your precious gift with my sisters.”

His grin faltered. Of course, he was fond of the Nysiads but right now— he wanted to be the only one to enjoy your company. “I see.”

“I suppose that’s all well. I just thought you’d want to drink with me..”

“Oh..!”

“Yes..”

There was a moment of awkwardness between you two. You cleared your throat, “Ahem. You want to drink with me?”

You clutched the bottle to your chest. “Not that I can compare.” His reputation preceded him, after all. His cult of followers were always in a frenzy. Dionysus let out a snort at your comment, amused.

“And you’d be right, my dear. You cannot.”

His slightly arrogant tone was tinged with truth. “Naturally. I am the god of wine. Haven’t you heard?” He joked.

“I have heard, my lord.”

You and he chuckled for different reasons.

You could always, despite his cause for madness, feel at ease with him. Dionysus managed to make you laugh, his words were targeted to swoon you. In Dionysus’ case, he thoroughly enjoyed your usage of “lord”. He sought to take it directly from your mouth.

He had this insatiable thirst for you that unfortunately for you, couldn’t be quelled. His eyes examined everything about you. From the strands of hair to your youthful face, and the curves of your body. His gaze settled on your collarbones that poked above your tunic — his urge only increasing with each passing moment.

Almost as if drunk, he swayed forward. Normally Dionysus wouldn’t be this restrained but he had a fear of scaring you from him. “Your beauty is unique amongst ages.” He breathed right by your ear.

He was close enough to feel the subtle heat emanating from you. “Shall we?” you proposed.

“We shall.” He eagerly reached for your hand, leading up to a clearing, settling on the bed of grass, the wildflowers as spectators. Dionysus tugged you down; the two of you now sitting down on the soft ground. Without taking his eyes off you, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink, letting out a contented sigh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. After a moment he saw you reach out.

Dionysus took your hand carefully, feeling the softness of your skin against his. He noticed how delicate your hand was against his and the thought of how it feels to have you so vulnerable and close gave him mixed feelings: on one hand, it gave him a primitive desire to possess you, to control you and keep you by his side forever. On the other hand... the desire to protect you and guard you from every harm.

His gaze is locked on yours as he brings your hand to his full lips. You blinked in surprise, “Ah.. the wine, my lord.” Dionysus chuckled as he realized what you meant. “Of course.” He said, his lips curving into a playful smirk. Releasing your hand, he lifted the bottle to your lips, tilting it slightly and letting the sweet liquid touch your tongue. He watched you with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, waiting to hear your opinion.

“Mmm—” It was a bit much, swallowing more than intended, you pulled back. Dionysus watched in fascination as the sweet liquid dripped from your lips and onto your elegant robes, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone.

His breath hitched, gaze glued to the drops of wine that marked your neck. Suddenly, the need to lick the liquid from your skin was overwhelming.

Dionysus watched as your laughter filled the air. It sounded like the music of the nymphs, sweet and alluring. His heart was pounding again, and he had the sensation that his skin was burning.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and with his thumb, he caught a drop of wine on your chin, bringing it to his mouth, and licking it.

The sweet taste of the wine mixed with the scent of your skin was almost too much for him.

His hand moved to your cheek, gently cupping it and wiping another drop of wine from your neck with his thumb, his touch leaving a trail of fire on your skin.

He can't take his eyes off you, and the sight of the wine staining your robes is both incredibly enticing and torturous to his senses. His thumb rubs circles on your skin, the touch is almost reverent.

“Lord Dionysus..”

—