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bebx · 8 months

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one thing I think is both neat and terrifying about tumblr is its ability to let you queue and schedule your posts because you could be dead for literal years and your blog would still be up and running and making new (scheduled) posts and reblogging (scheduled) stuff and your moots would never know they’d been interacting with a corpse

this could be a plot of a halloween themed crack fic actually

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miamierre · 2 months

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strollonso + teeth

If you'd told the Lance of five years ago that he would be here right now--back flat against a tall marble pillar in the middle of a midnight-dark graveyard with a stranger bearing down on the exposed skin of his neck--he...well, he might have believed it, considering the tendencies he'd had when he was still in school and putting out for every older rich man in the area that bothered to buy him a couple drinks.

But contextually, he certainly wouldn't have believed it: and really, there's no explanation that could make it believable in the slightest, considering the way Fernando's sharp teeth are glinting in the moonlight spilling through the branches of the dying willow tree towering over them like the moon is trying to emphasize how they're not just teeth but fangs.

Fangs--like vampire fangs, a discovery he'd made about five days prior and has been thinking about it ever since, the idea of his favorite (and hottest) coworker on the night shift sinking a bite into Lance, breaking skin and entering his body in a way more intimate than he'd ever imagined anyone doing--

"Eres tan hermoso pequeño," Fernando practically growls, nose bumping just under Lance's ear as his mouth presses lightly to graze his neck and knocking Lance out of his own head as he shivers against the marble. It's insane, how much he wants this: how it's consumed him entirely, had him up into the early hours of the morning when he should've been sleeping looking into vampirism in other species and not even bothering to open a private browser, how he'd touched himself thinking about this man hovering over him in bed and flaying him open like a creature of the night.

"Fuck," Lance gasps when the older man's lips purse gently to press an innocent-seeming kiss to his jugular, tongue slipping out and leaving behind just enough wetness for the night air to breeze across it and draw another shiver out of him, "Nando, please."

send me a ship and a word and i'll write you five sentences <3

#rip i fear they're going to **** nasty in a graveyard. maybe it's even halloween. Fernando Is Down Horrendous #strollonso #14 x 18 #fic #five sentence fic meme #ask reply #singsweetmelodies #gjdsklgjdslkj katie thank u for all this inspo ily

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pipitwrites · 6 months

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trick or treat ! 👻

happy halloween!! 🧡 here is a snippet of my latest bit of self-indulgence... i love art nouveau style jewelry, especially rene lalique works, so that is the major inspiration for this au ;;

“We were hoping for something a bit more extravagant, as befitting of the Palais Garnier.” Unlike his predecessor, the current manager of the Paris Opera was a thin, anxious-looking man with a tendency to wring his hands. He was wringing them even now—Pierre did not follow the theater gossip as closely as his friends did, but even he had heard about the young darling ingénu who had apparently stolen the lead for the season opener right under the nose of the former Lyric Theater’s principal. Privately, Pierre thought it was foolish to hope that the critics, ready to pounce on any weakness, would be distracted by any gold or jewels but he bowed in deference.

“Of course, monsieur,” he said in as agreeable a tone he could muster. “And my model?”

“Yes, yes, let me introduce you.” The manager of the Garnier stepped to the side, beckoning forward his companion who had been lingering in the antechamber, head bent over some of the smaller display cases. “Come now, don’t be shy!”

Peeking out from under an extraordinarily broad-brimmed, feathered hat, Charles Leclerc’s face broke open into a smile as he turned to face Pierre, bright like the sun rising over the golden wheatfields outside of Rouen.

“Charles,” Pierre breathed out in shock.

#halloween meme #duquesademiel #cl16 #pg10 #pierre/charles #oh it's midnight... i will go to sleep now but i will come back to work on the rest of these tomorrow 🙏#my fic #works in progress

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theangrypomeranian · 6 months

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Trick or Treat!

i will give you a sneak peak for the Roudise Halloween fic i'm working on! (that will hopefully be done tonight but more than likely will be late lol): “Louise, it’s a classic!” Rudy insisted. “It has Rick Moranis in it at his prime! And a young Steve Martin!” “You’re saying these names like they mean anything to me.” “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids?” “Nope.” “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles? Roxanne? Father of the Bride?” Louise gave him a look. “Rudy. Buddy. You know I don’t know movies.” The look on his face would have had her in stitches if she wasn’t so annoyed. “Those are classics, Louise! How have you not seen them??” “Have you met my family? We aren’t exactly classics people.”

#pom answers #writing meme #hey nikki #roudise #halloween fic #trick or treat

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bericas · 6 months

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Trick or treat!

3 sentences of fic in an au where Everything is the Same but the ships are scerica, boydia, allisaac, stora, dethan, jaiden, and malira, and also they get to have pool parties sometimes, set in s4:

"Stop!" Erica shouts, voice raw. "Stop! It's Scott!" Her hands are stained with Scott's blood, claws still out. She can't focus long enough to remember how to retract them.

#no one say anything abt me answering the halloween meme on nov 10th! grad school is kicking my ASS #asks #spikeface #have decided 4 fun and ease im gonna be doing 3 sentence fics from aus that live in my little head<3 #soooo hard to summarize the plot succinctly tho bc i cant shut up<3 #tot*#<--- tag for blacklisting<3

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captainbobbin · 6 months

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Trick or treat!!!

Happy Halloween! Heres a DQ fic preview -

‘It’s okay. I’ll be here with you. It will be okay now.’

Like training a dog that had lived on the streets for it’s puppyhood; for the son of a noble, elegant and ethereal and pretty, to invite Hendrik, all simpleness and crudely put together angles and despair, to find comfort in his bed, to be allowed comfort… Hendrik had continued to shake as he had drifted over and managed to get himself to lie down. They did not touch. They barely even spoke. Norberto had simply gotten comfortable, eyes closed in the low light of midnight, moonlight and sea air drifting in from his balcony.

Hendrik had always had trouble sleeping. He had lain there, paralyzed, staring, trembling. The darkness was everywhere, and it ate, and it did not care who it ate.

But. Surely if there was anywhere to be safe, it was there. Next to the only person besides Jasper who had ever beaten him in a fight, lean and debonair and untouchable, powerful without trying, perfect without effort. Hendrik had laid there, and eventually the shaking stopped, and he had listened to Norberto's slow breathing through the night. He had been right. It was okay. He had been there with him.

#fic preview #dq fic #hendrik #sylvando #captainbobbin #winxixia #happy halloween!#dqxi #fanfic #sylvendrik #dq11 #ask meme

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frownyalfred · 6 months

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Have you ever... written a Halloween fic?

actually...I don't think I have, anon.

(send me an ask about whether I’ve written a thing [ship, trope, dynamic, category of fandom, etc.] and if I’ve written it, I’ll link you. If I haven’t written it, I’ll tell you how I would write it if I did)

#this is a glaring error #how have I never written a halloween fic #the bats are so spooky #asks #anon #ask game #ask meme

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hosseinis · 7 months

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Fic emoji meme: 🤡🌞🎃

🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?

i'm about to be so real, part of the reason i wrote that werewolf fic the other day was because i thought about the one character saying "what the hell's the matter with you" in a flat deadpan that made me laugh while i was getting gas for my car :'D i had to figure out what he was saying it in response to!

🌞 Do you have a preferred time of day to write?

my best ideas come to me when i'm trying to fall asleep, so i have a bunch of half written concepts on the notes app on my phone, if that counts. :')

🎃 Do you write fics for certain holidays? Which is your favorite holiday inspired fic?

actually, not really! in fact i think i've only written one 'holiday-ish' fic before and that was for boardwalk a million years ago. i don't consciously avoid holiday fics, thought it may be a subconscious thing since i'm a christmas baby. the biggest holiday of the year has been stealing my thunder my whole life :/

#im mostly joking lmaojgs #but actually i've never thought about how i don't write holiday fics #wild!!! i'll probably do a halloween-ish thing this month tho!!#thank you <3 #goatsandgangsters #ask meme #replies!

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miamierre · 6 months

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Omg trick or treat!!!!!!

logan!!!! TRICK OR TREAT <33

hm. i dug around in the ol treat bag and found a little bit of toxic piarles...hehe...tw for infidelity and the general "i dont condone this" tagline.

It’s a reward, maybe, for moments like this. “Just this once,” Pierre whispers, leaning close so that his lips brush at Charles’ blush-hot cheek, and Charles nods faintly. What’s one more lie between them when they’re barely treading water as is? It makes it better, pretending he means it: that this will be the last time he gives everything he has to Charles, fills him up and spreads him out and reminds him that no one will ever know him better.

One of his hands comes up to cover Pierre’s, like a twisted sort of anchor, and it’s that sight that really sends Pierre into overdrive: Charles’ wedding ring glinting under the bathroom’s ugly light, a perfect mirror to where Pierre’s other hand has grabbed the side of his face firmly. Maybe a few years ago, he might’ve felt sick at the way it could’ve been them with matching bands: now, though, it only makes him desperate, hungry for the safety he only knows deep inside Charles’ soft, pliant body.

“Are you going to make me wait,” Charles breathes. Grabs at Pierre’s ringless hand and squeezes it with a strength that echoes his own need. It’s…Pierre swallows thickly, then surges forward to suck a bruising kiss into the sweet, soft skin at Charles’ collarbone. No one can know they’re in here doing this, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want Charles to have his mark when he goes home. When his wife asks what happened, Charles will lie and say there was an encounter with a rogue fan who’d managed to sneak past his security guards to grab him. The thought makes him shiver.

#a fic that will never see the light of day! but will happily sit in my little archive for myself (and the chosen few) to perceive #mwah ily thanks for stoppin by <33 xoxoxo #piarles #10 x 16 #halloween meme #ask reply #wolfiemcwolferson

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 2 years

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for the spooky prompts !! if the mood sways you, perhaps grima with "fog rolling on an open field" ?? 👀💀💗

I was asked for spooky and uh...wrote some spooky-adjacent smut instead. You're welcome world.

But thank you so much for the ask! I am happy to have cranked something out that is a one shot and not 8k words long - a marvel upon marvels.

Title: Wondrous Works

Rating: explicit

Characters: Grima, Eomer, the dead

Pairing: Grima/Eomer

Summary: The second harvest is being brought in, the sun is beginning its slow decent into long winter nights, and the dead are out to remind the living what is owed. But mostly, Grima and Eomer shag.

Note: takes place post-Cycles of Song/the war and also Be Not Afraid of Plenty but no need have read that monstrosity of a trilogy+ to follow this. Just know it's post-war and Theoden is still alive.

AO3 Link

Halloween Prompt List

Night, late, and the air is collecting itself into mist which hugs the ground of freshly reaped fields. Second harvest is the singing harvest. It is also the one to let the dead into the world of the living until Spring Jol where they will dissipate again into their halls and barrows and mounds. The unknown lands that exist within and atop of and beneath the known.

Gríma drinks fresh mead that could have stayed in the barrel for another month and watches the fog gather. Are there shapes within it? Shadows moving, creatures venturing to eat what was left for them but only through the safety of night when all is hidden.

In Gondor, there had been a man Gríma got drunk with during one of the many feasting days after Aragorn’s coronation and Gríma had explained second harvest to him and the hallow dark days that end come middle-March. There are moor-walkers, shadow-walkers, death-eaters, keepers of hungry grass, disir, aglcecas—

You used that word before, the man said.

Which one?

Aglcecas. But you used it to describe the crown-prince.

Gríma tisked, We don’t have crown-princes. We have king-elects and yes, I did use it for Éomer. It means…fiend and monster, to be sure. It can also mean hero or saviour or great warrior. At least, that is how I’ve heard it translated. It alters, depends who you’re speaking on.

The man squinted through wine at Gríma. Sizing him up or trying to see if he’s lying or not doing anything of the sort and just looking at him drunkenly. How would you translate it?

Formidable one. Devils and ghouls and spirits of fire and air are formidable. So are men lauded as heroes, but for different reasons.

Things have changed since June 3019. A great many things. Gríma would still use aglceca to describe Éomer, though.

Second harvest is brought in by everyone. Kings to peasant. Men, women, children. Everyone is in the fields swinging scythes for barley and einkorn and rye and oats. Those that aren’t in the fields are in the threshing barns, separating out the chaff. It floats through air, catches in hair. You spend the evening pulling it out, flicking it into the fire. It’s hot work, thirsty work, especially when summer heat is lingering long and will likely continue well into autumn. Night, then, is a relief.

Gríma scratches at the back of his neck, bits of dust and flecks of chafing. Low cooking fires, kept going by those up date, dot the countryside. Larger bonfires remain burning if you train an eye towards Edoras, the villages and homesteads that pour out from its sturdy walls. Gríma, though, is well beyond foregate and town. It’ll be an hour or so to walk back and he isn’t in the mood.

The fog has thickened, made itself a sturdy fortress. It will remain until morning until the sun gets going enough to burn it off. That means, early hours of gathering water and feeding chickens will need to be careful hours. The dead may still lurk in the mist past daybreak. When they come, they come hungry. They taketaketake and do not look too carefully at what, or who, it is.

A crunch of grass, breaking straw, then Éomer’s voice: ‘There you are. I was wondering where you got to.’

‘Admiring the stars.’

Éomer looks up, nods, yes they’re nice tonight. The moon small enough so they can shine through. ‘Are you kipping out here or going back?’

Gríma finishes his mead with a shrug. ‘Probably stay out here. We’re back in the morning anyway to finish the job.’

‘Is it safe?’ Éomer teased. ‘With spirits and sprites lurking about to make mischief.’

‘Worse than mischief, usually.’

‘I suppose you’ve your patron protector to hand, if you need him.’

Gríma makes no reply. It may be over a year since the war ended, and gods, he may be attempting to hash out his weregild and do amends and all that, but he remains loathe to give up all secrets. He calculates what’s told and untold. He thinks Éomer suspects something for the man brings up the entity more than is reasonable.

‘First night of second harvest is for mischief,’ Éomer points out. ‘Your nights are later.’

‘What do you mean my nights?’

‘Spirits and seidrcræft—that’s the dark nights.’

Gríma hums agreement. He tilts his head, ‘Are you saying these nights are yours?’

A flash of a grin, full impish glee. ‘Never. I’m the future king. I must learn to be serious and maintain decorum. Éothain says that I’ve improved drastically. Erkenbrand seems less inclined to sing my praises.’

‘He likes you well enough, my lord.’

‘He preferred my cousin.’

Gríma shrugs. There’s nothing to say to that. Éomer can shake swords at the ghost of Théodred all he wants. Wrest the crown from the hands of a shade whose memory haunts Éomer’s instep. Or does for the moment. Crowns and thrones have a specific sort of power to overwhelm and Gríma suspects that when Éomer assumes the mantel of kingship it will blind the world and force those memories to lay themselves to rest.

At the moment, though, there is no kingship. A future thought of it, but no present reality. It remains on Théoden’s shoulders. So Éomer is just a marshal of the mark and nephew to the king and making a lewd face at Gríma, full of innuendo, before tugging him along towards a haystack and kissing him.

Gríma hisses, ‘Éomer—we’ll get caught. Don’t be daft.’ To which Éomer replies, ‘I’ve never shagged someone behind a haystack before.’ Gríma, tartly, ‘Overrated in my experience.’ Éomer grins his wicked grin, the one made of quick fire and works to reverse Gríma’s blood, causes his head to cartwheel.

‘I always forget you were a farm-boy. You’re so well versed at appearing urbane and your accent never drops. Not to mention your general aversion to anything approaching physical labour.’

Before Gríma can reply Éomer’s mouth is against his again and Gríma is pressed into the hay which sticks into skin, more dust will slip beneath tunic and shift than what has already gathered from the day. He will itch and chafe away for it. He suspects it’ll be worth it.

‘Truly,’ Gríma whispers, ‘we should go elsewhere.’

‘Don’t want anyone seeing you on your knees?’

Gríma exhales through the thought of someone knowing Éomer is his and his utterly and his to all ends of the earth and gods he would burn the world down if Éomer asked him to—

‘Discretion, my lord,’ he says. ‘Better part of valor.’ Éomer leans in, breath warm against Gríma’s neck. He kisses beneath Gríma’s ear while tugging hard at Gríma’s hair and there is a second kiss, soft, painfully soft, the suggestion of teeth, tongue against skin. Gríma wants to meld into Éomer. Wants to fuse into him wholly, entirely, and never separate. Éomer’s other hand cups the side of his face and they’re against each other—work tunics and hose are light, thinner wools of autumn, and he can feel Éomer hard. Rubs his palm between the younger man’s legs causing Éomer to make a noise, a half-gasp, then they’re back to kissing, mouths hungry and wanting.

A song strikes up, a workman’s lay. Three men, Gríma thinks, by the sound of it. Close to them. Too close. Gríma steps away, adjusting hair and belt and the skirts of his tunic as Éomer does the same. Thankfully the moon is small and so there’s plenty of dark to hide in. They can be like the disir, unseen until they wish to be seen. Éomer grabs his hand and nods out to the fields and between them, a stream where they both know there to be divets and grottos, little sacred places to be secret in.

The man in Gondor Gríma drank with had been surprised by how closely the Éothéod live with their dead. How their barrows and mounds are where couples plight troths and where families picnic on high holidays in summer. Chairs and benches are left open at meals to accommodate the unseen and silent. Berries left on bushes after the second week in September for the fallen brave to feast on. The dead are dead, they are in the halls of their ancestors, but they are also in the home of everyone person in Éomarc.

Éomer leads them down along the embankment and towards a tucked-away space created by an overhang of a tree and the steepness of the bank at this particular spot. There is some grass, and it’s not too muddy, so will do for the time. Gríma finds Éomer’s hands on his face again, kissing him, he’s walked backwards into the wall of the embankment. Rocks and tree roots press against back as Éomer leans fully into him. Gríma tugs at Éomer’s belt, loosening it then it drops to the ground. By the water, and in the deepening hours of night, the world begins to cool so Gríma pushes tunic skirts aside, thankfully short for they’re labouring clothes, and begins unlacing hose. No finesse, here. No taking time. No forbearance. Restraint means little as Éomer moans into Gríma’s mouth when Gríma wraps his hand around Éomer’s cock.

Gods, he gets hard knowing he can make Éomer moan like this. That he can make Éomer restless and reckless. That Éomer wants to fuck him face first into the earth, shove his cock inside Gríma hard enough, deep enough, often enough to make the thought of riding a horse painful. That Gríma could order Éomer to walk on him and he would. There is a delightful thread of power in this. Woven through, at times, with sheer mysticism at why.

Why him? Éomer should throw him in a river, all things considered. Do as Gríma’s brothers did a hundred times throughout childhood. It being little more than is deserved—and there are men and women who would tell Éomer he’d be well justified in it. But Gríma doesn’t wish to look too closely at the why and the wherefore. He doesn’t want to know what might lie beneath it. He doesn’t want clarity because shining light upon the why might make Éomer leave and that would be worse than dying.

Currently, Éomer is whispering that he wants Gríma’s mouth on his prick. He wants Gríma sucking on him. He wants to see him gag for it. He wants to watch Gríma swallow. He wants to know his semen is inside of him. All the while Gríma is gasping, yesyesyesgodsyesohgodsplease and wanting to rub himself up Éomer’s thigh, wants to ride Éomer, climb him like a tree, anything, but Éomer is pulling Gríma’s hand off his cock, he’s stilling Gríma’s hips which had been moving against Éomer.

‘Wait,’ Éomer hisses against Gríma’s ear. ‘You’re a patient man, you can wait.’

He is not a patient man, Gríma wants to say. Why does Éomer think he ran so fast to Saruman when there was the threat of darkness looming (greed and power aside)? No hope and no patience to wait for hope. A desperate need to be doing something, anything, to have some control and moving fastfastfast to make it happen. So fast he dove off a cliff. Granted, this is hindsight. At the time he thought he had deliberated on it, thought it through to exactitude. Anyway.

Éomer pushes Gríma down to his knees, thankfully not making a joke about future crowns and thrones, which he has done in the past and Gríma replied, Nothing is less arousing than your sense of humour.

Fingers are in Gríma’s hair as he wraps a hand around the base of Éomer’s cock before taking it in his mouth. Everything zeros in to this moment, the noises Éomer is making interspersed with whispers of ohgods yes and fuck I like you like this, also the taste of Éomer’s prick, the way it feels in his mouth, against his tongue, the smell of arousal, sweat from the day, also damp earth, autumnal tree litter going to molder beneath itself.

Gríma wants to touch himself. Wants to pull himself off while Éomer spends down his throat. But he keeps his free hand on Éomer’s hip, fingers digging in as Éomer rocks forward slightly. Glancing up, he meets Éomer’s gaze, a hungry, fearsome, aggressive look. All fire. Not dissimilar to how he looks in battle when blood is up and he’s just killed someone. Gríma thinks Éomer could kill him right now and he’d be happy. He closes his eyes again, feels Éomer’s hand tighten in his hair, tugging on it and pushing him down so Gríma’s mouth is against the hand working the base of Éomer’s cock. He works on breathing. On not gagging. Though he thinks Éomer would like it, knows Éomer would like it, but he doesn’t want to give him everything. Éomer is used to having things given to him. Being a nobleman does that. Gríma likes to make him work, from time to time.

When Éomer comes, it’s with a gasp that deepens into a moan, and he tugs at Gríma’s hair for something to do with his hands and Gríma swallows what he can before pulling away, taking deep breaths and working his jaw. Suddenly Éomer is before him, kissing him soundly and pushing him backwards so he’s sitting. Gríma wants Éomer on top of him, pulls him close as Éomer moves clothes out of the way, undoing enough to have his hand around Gríma’s cock. He’s tight, warm, Gríma loves the feel of it. The callouses, the way Éomer strokes him, the way he whispers, all heatedly, tell me what you want, show me how you like it. Gríma buries his face against Éomer’s neck, breath hitching. Éomer says, ‘I like watching you come, I like watching you touch yourself while I touch you’ and wants him lying back, half propped against the wall, but Gríma won’t move, prefers his arms around Éomer’s shoulders, his face hidden. Éomer’s hand tightens, Gríma moans, whispering, ‘Oh gods’ into Éomer’s hair and skin and oh stars help him he wants to meld bodily into Éomer’s hair and skin and bone.

When he spills, it is quiet. Hardly noticeable. Éomer is slow, entirely pleased with himself as they unweave from one another. A damp hand holds Gríma’s face still. Gríma wants to look anywhere else but Éomer is directly before him and close. He looks at Gríma, through Gríma, a cutlass stare then, a sudden smile as Éomer leans in and kisses him.

Around them, fog gathers. Whispers and hums of the dead and the creatures of rivers at night, of barrows and the unknown, gather. Gríma rummages through the bag on his belt and pulls out a candle. He lights it. Sets it between them and the river. Feels Éomer settle near him with a comment that he should return to his lodgings soon. Lest he be missed. But there’s no rush. They can stay here, like this, for a little while and pretend that when the sun rises everything will be different. No crowns. No past riddled with poor decisions. Somehow, during the night, a mist will billow in, blanket the world, consume everyone, and spit them out wholly as they ought to be.

‘Or not,’ Éomer continues. ‘I suppose we are as we ought to be, right now. Because of what we’ve been and done.’

‘That is how it works,’ Gríma replies. ‘The part of our soul that is us is like wax. It imprints with what has happened. We are made of what we have seen and done and who we have met and what we have heard.’

‘Ah,’ Éomer grins. ‘You are coming around to my way of thinking at last. If the part of your soul that is you is wax, then you can reshape it. Or portions of it. Even though you think you were born set in stone.’

Gríma sniffs. The candle flickers. Gutters as a breeze brushes by. Or a spirit. Somewhere in a distant field, a guttural howl but not of any wolf or hound. Éomer sighs, gets up and dusts his clothes down. He holds his hand out for Gríma. Gríma looks at it, hesitates a second, before accepting it. Never having had much himself, he wonders how much kindness a person can accept before it becomes a burden on their souls. Like alcohol, he assumes some can bear more than others.

But look at this night—the stars and the smell of the harvest and there’s Éomer humming some dirty soldier’s song, waiting for Gríma to snuff out the candle and come along with him back to the warmth of a hearth fire and mulled wine. The smell of myrtle and sagebrush and sweetgrass.

Around them, there is mist and fog and the dead who are made of memories. As they walk back, slow and with patience, Gríma supposes he will find out how much his own souls can bear before like a shelf with too much on it, the weight of the goodness of world breaks them.

#writing #ask #reply #writing meme #halloween meme #grima wormtongue #eomer #griomer #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fic #cycles of song #be not afraid of plenty #swimming through fire #wondrous works

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pipitwrites · 6 months

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ohh i want trick or treat to if you can!!

happy halloween!! 🧡 this is. barely an outline. but i'm VERY fond of this idea ;;;;;;

ALEX does a cardcaptor sakura and accidentally opens a magical book that releases a deck of magic cards, and now he must save the world. charles is the keeper of the cards who in his magical form is a little cat and in his true form is a strange beautiful boy who wants to try all the delicious things that alex brings home.

at first, alex makes charles stay inside his apartment all day bc charles does not quite understand modern society norms and would certainly draw unwanted attention... but charles meows pitifully bc he’s curious and wants to see the world!! even if it’s from alex’s pocket. he likes alex’s pocket. alexander is smart and strong and good and obviously pure of heart to be able to open the book of cards, so of course he will find all the cards and restore order to the world!!

alex is the best person he has ever met in all of his four hundred of years, charles tells alex very seriously over soufflé pancakes covered in cream and fresh berries. alex thinks that this says more about the people that charles has met, people who have tried to use the cards (and charles) for ill. still, alex must try his best to succeed because he does not want to disappoint charles… charles is in many ways so easy to please... but sometimes it's the simplest things that are the hardest to find.... someone who will care for him and respect the power of the cards…

when alex and charles are like. in the final boss battle against the Big Bad who is trying to stop alex from securing all the cards. and the evil antagonist tries to distract alex by telling him that charles is just using him, he can't trust charles!!! alex immediately defends charles bc charles is Good and of course alex trust can him... and the antagonist says, "he's been lying to you all this time," and alex is about to tell him to fuck off again but charles is so, so pale and shaking, and alex asks, worried, "charles?" and the antagonist laughs! "see! he hasn't told you that the energy needed to seal all the cards is enough to kill a man." and alex can't believe it, but charles isn't denying it. "that's not true, right, charlie?" alex asks again, slowly becoming scared.

and charles is like very desperately, "i would never let anything hurt you, alex," and that's it. that's what alex was afraid of. because he understands immediately that charles was going to sacrifice himself to pay that price.

#halloween meme #argentinagp #cl16 #aa23 #charles/alex #my fic #works in progress #... barely... 😭😭😭#replies

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