#because so much of his past was taken from him and not willingly given up so his motivation for being a spy is so strong….

[otaku553]

Some more spy x family one piece crossover doodles :)

A fic may or may not be in progress…….

Edit: the fic is posted :)

[loganficsonly]

the cure

worst!logan x fem!reader, 1.3k SUMMARY: logan thinks about his relationship with you, and with a past like his, he doesn't take things for granted. WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT—minors do not interact!!!, pre-established relationship and consent, reader is younger (maybe mid-late 20s) but who isn't younger than logan?, somnophilia, slight angst, dirty talk, body worship?, emotions, mainly written in logan's pov AUTHOR'S NOTE: i appreciate every reblog, follow, reply, what have you—thank you so much for letting me know you enjoyed my fic! <3

The dull noise of construction wakes him up in the morning. That’s New York City for you.

At first he thinks that he’s late for work. The sounds of a pile driver hammering into the ground, the to-and-fro of cranes and thuds of materials remind him of the place he’s supposed to go to for money—because of course it doesn’t matter that you’re torn and spat out into this universe from another and saved the timeline from the threat of non-existence.

You still gotta pay rent.

But the warmth next to him makes him remember. His eyes, opened with alertness, soften at the sight of you. Under the sheets, asleep, though you’ve moved slightly to get closer to him. As if he were some kind of magnetic rock and you’re the one with a metal skeleton. 

That’s right, he’s taken the day off today. And so did you. A small lift in his lips at the memory of how you excitedly told him you got a day off to match his. 

“Can we spend it together?” you asked gingerly, as if you needed to.

As if you hadn’t shared his bed in the last six months.

His lashes flutter as he blinks, drinking in the sight of you lying next to him. The blanket rustles as he moves to his side, an arm moving over you, fingers gently brushing hair out of your face.

When Wade introduced you to him not long into his life on a new Earth, he could feel the old grinding of gears kicking into motion. Endlessly slow and grating after being on a standstill for god knows how long, but he felt it nonetheless. You spurred a dangerous something in him that sat motionless in the bottom of his blackened heart. 

You became an object of held-back affection.

It remained that way for a long time: pining, yearning, longing from afar. He was a wounded animal nursing old scars—you would always approach with caution, and he would mostly allow you, but never too close. The relationship felt like a dance. A little shy, careful not to push too far. You on your tip-toes, him with tense hands.

Somewhere along the way, neither of you could take that anymore. 

A cord snaps, and when he finally let you in, it was with the intensity of the sun. You surrendered willingly, welcoming the way he traps you—his hands down the curve of your spine and bottom, words whispered into your ear (“This is what you do to me, darling”), the marks he leaves all over your skin. 

He made you his in one night. Hasn’t stopped doing so, and it’s been six months. 

Where he first claimed you with passion and pleasure, you claim him with a rising tide. Yes, he knows he's been ensnared since day one, but your presence floods him little by little. The meals you cook for him every now and then. The smell of your favorite detergent. How he’d catch you humming absentmindedly in the shower.

He’s drowning in you and he still wants more.

And he hasn’t always freely admitted it. His past wouldn’t let him, clinging onto his limbs like chains of heated tar. A slave to shame.

He isn’t supposed to be here. How could someone like him be allowed this? Be given a pretty young thing to share his bed with, who coos comforting words and runs her fingers through his hair when he wakes from a bad dream, who is kind and patient, who’s seen the shattered pieces and still wants to be with him?

Voices in his head derided: animal, coward, murderer. You don’t deserve her—

You are always the one who chases those thoughts away. Even these days, when they resurface in smaller, less harmful ways, you dutifully stamp each little doubt dead.

The hand drifts to your cheek, thumb slowly stroking your skin, careful to not wake you up as hazel eyes continue to watch you. Your breathing is slow and even, fast asleep.

How did he get so fucking lucky? An angel in his bed, wearing his old T-shirt.

A familiar need rises in him at the sight of your slightly parted lips. His thumb moves to brush against the plush of it, admiring them, the touch warming the blood in his veins.

You were so good for him last night.

Hot memories flash in his mind’s eye, the replayed scenes making his body react. How you moaned against his shoulder as he was on top of you, wanting and failing to keep quiet. How he made you forget about keeping quiet. The slight shade of pink your ass took after a spanking while he took you from behind. God, that view of your naked back, an empty canvas for his mouth to paint with dark marks.

And then there was the thing you said right before you fell asleep—the agreement you had with him, the words that gave him permission to take you again come morning, whether you’re awake or otherwise.

He huffs, feeling the discomfort of his own arousal.

You murmur, perhaps from the slight jostle of the bed as he shifts to tower atop you. Maybe it’s the morning, the warmth of sleep still enveloping your bodies, the fact that you let him do this that loosens his lips as they kiss your jaw, then neck, then collarbone. 

“What’d I do to deserve you, sweetheart?” 

His voice low as hands snake up your shirt, exposing your stomach, then your breasts. He swallows at the sight of the hickeys littering your chest and ribs—he enjoyed leaving them, but seeing them the next day is something else.

Delight as he smells arousal pooling between your legs, finger teasing your naked core—smart girl, letting him take what he needs easily. His hot mouth is on a hardened nipple, sucking needily, on his elbow holding him up, his other hand busying itself between your legs. A small noise escapes you that makes him shiver.

“Sweet thing,” he rasps, “let me take care of you.”

And he does. 

Slipping out of slumber, you find yourself moaning, voice husky from sleep, eyelids fluttering to find him between your legs as he busies himself in worship. Your chest heaves, breath getting heavier as dream and reality begins to merge. Your hand moves to his hair and he groans—not realizing he’s been craving for you to touch him.

“Logan…”

There it is, the sound of his salvation. His name is a plea on your lips, mounting higher and turning into a drawn out whine when he makes you come on his tongue, thighs tensing at the sides of his head. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you, large calloused hands caressing shaky legs and the fat of your hips. 

“Taste so good f’me, honey,” he growls, mouth still affixed to your core. “Gonna make you feel so good, ‘kay?”

You come a second time with a high-pitched mewl not too long after, this time with two fingers curled inside you. 

When he finally sinks his inches in, cock stretching your walls, he watches your face. He always does. This time, your eyes meet his, slightly groggy, but pupils dilated—an unmistakable desire for him. One that he mirrors in hazel eyes gone dark.

Bottoming out in you, he groans, hand gripping your hip. 

“So fucking tight. Made for me, huh?”

You pant, clenching around him at the sound of his voice.

This. This is what heals his hurt.

Each drag and slam of his length inside you, a balm to the scars. 

“Ngh—ah—”

Your sweet sounds of pleasure chases the voices in his head away, as if they never existed in the first place, as if there was ever only you.

“You have any idea how goddamn beautiful you are like this?” Lips against your ear, body crowding yours, feeling his breath as he pounds into you harder. 

“Ah, Logan, please…”

Your voice calling his name in a breathless exhale is a drug that makes him feel alive again. Makes him want to live again.

Truth be told, you never needed to beg. He’d give you anything you ask for. 

divider by cafekitsune. thank you!

[sp0o0kylights]

Eddie was all about desecrating corpses. 

Particularly, the huge ones--and nothing was larger than the burnt out husk of Starcourt. 

Yellow caution tape, muddied and ripped from its time in the weather still decorated parts of the doors. 

The place used to be crawling with security, but that had eased off now, the job returning to a local outfit rather than the smooth and swift guards who previously haunted the joint in pairs. 

It was easy as two days spent camped out in his van, watching the main entrance and a few side doors. In no time at all, Eddie had schedules memorized, points of entry selected and even three possible escape routes should things get dicey.

He didn't expect them to. 

Not when he’d already rolled his checks and came up with a number that, were this an actual D&D game, would make him a happy man. 

It was always a point of contention between him and his Pa. This perception. The natural ability he had that good ‘ol dad just didn’t seem to possess. 

The one that made him patient long enough to get a feel for a gig. 

To know instinctively how hard a job might be, and how to go about doing it safely. 

(Eddie personally doesn't believe much of it is talent. Thinks it is in fact, forcibly learned, due to the nature of his upbringing. 

Grandma and Grandpa Munson, bless their dead, departed souls, had at least given something of a shit. Tried to keep family things family and work things work, even when said work was illegal as it gets. 

They understood things like appearance and public reputation. 

How that kept the pigs off your back and food on your table.)

His Pa had never cared for any of that. 

Eddie didn’t grow up with family meals, or even food in the house let alone on the table. He grew up watchful, forced to learn or take a hit meant for an adult in the process. To weigh the risks against the benefits, and how to charm the pants off an unsuspecting target while doing so. 

It was how he’d escaped his own prison sentence when his Pa finally got eyes too big for his abilities.

Eddi had gotten lucky in that situation. 

Or rather--he’d gotten Wayne. 

Wayne, who gave up his own room, his own bed, for his nephew. Had bought him his sweetheart on his sixteenth birthday and a van on his eighteenth. Both things were used, and a little battered around the edges, and Eddie had almost thrown up the day he accidentally found out Wayne had used his life savings for the damn car, but they were above and beyond anything he had any right too. 

Eddie would be damned without him. 

But he knows his uncle needs help. 

Can't pay for himself and Eddie. Never really could, and so has been giving his nephew literally everything he has in an effort to make up for it until Eddie could help pay his way. 

Not that a singular soul would trust a teenage Munson with such a precious thing as a part time job, and so Eddie had turned to the familiar. 

The mall fire, and the resulting flood of federal agents had really put a damper on his income the past few months. Drugs were risky, and getting riskier with them sniffing about, and things were getting tight again in a way they hadn’t in a long, long time. 

(All it had taken was finding the hidden stack of bills. 

Big ol�� words stamped in red topped every one. Bold letters screaming ‘Overdue’ and ‘Payment Missed’ and ‘Late Fees.’ 

One single letter had panicked Eddie more than any other, the one that clearly said Wayne had been talking to the payday loan place down the street, and he’d be damned if his shortcomings made his Uncle willingly walk into a debt pit so few climbed out of.) 

Growing up like he had, Eddie was trusted in certain circles. Had access to places many didn't as his sole inheritance, because he was known.

 Someone who didn't rat, who could be trusted with given tasks. Who kept to the criminal code, and was good about not backstabbing you if caught.

He’d hit up a few old connections, dropped some hints. Put out “feelers” as one might say. 

Got a nibble and soon enough, Eddie was back in business, getting called up and offered a few small tasks for decent dough. 

Sometimes it was fetching information. 

Sometimes it was ferrying an item.

Today, it was a retrieval.

There was something someone wanted in the ruins of Starcourt--and they were offering an insane amount of money to get it.  

The plans hadn't made sense, not at first. The instructions Eddie had been given sounded outlandish, if not outright total bunk. 

Like the existence of a multi level basement under Starcourt? How the hell had no one caught that being built? 

Or that the security systems down there could possibly still be turned on? After four months? 

Who was even paying for it? 

Eddie had heard stupider things though, and the pay for this little jaunt was good. Too good to pass up. 

"They want a local in case something happens and the rescue squad comes running in. That way, it's just a little trespassing fun. The town deviant getting his kicks in the big scary mall, and not what they think it is." His connection had told him, meeting with Eddie in a Mcdonalds the town over. 

The place had a play palace, big enough to host a number of screaming rugrats. It made for a great cover as they pretended to be just two men in overalls, getting burgers on their lunch. 

Not a soul could hear a sound over the kids screaming, and if a blueprint sat between them then, well, if it looks like a maintenance worker, and it talks like a maintenance worker…

People never did look twice.

"And what else exactly would they think this is?" Eddie asked, munching on the food he got for free as part of even entertaining the offer. 

"A retrieval, Double D." 

Eddie hated that nickname.

"Some rich kid bit it in the fire, and his parents are paying out top dollar to get a few of his things, seein’ as the feds wouldn’t let anybody back in after they condemned the place." The guy, whose name was Mickey said. 

He idly traced a finger along the lines of the blueprint, the path he was wanting Eddie to take. 

(The path Eddie would later ignore, on grounds that it was going to get him caught.) 

 “Specifically a signet ring and car keys.”

“Car keys?” Eddie had asked, mostly in a bid for more information. Mickey was the kind of guy you could breadcrumb into giving more information than he intended to, if one played their cards right.

And Eddie was a damn good poker player. 

“Yup. Goes to a BMW--which they want you to drive to a safe place. Parents think he lost it somewhere around,” Mickey’s finger stopped, before tapping the blueprint twice. “Here.”

Something had niggled in the back of Eddie’s head. The first whispers of recognition, of a fact that he knew something about this--something he couldn’t yet recall. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to ignore it. 

“Who's the kid?” He’d asked. 

Mostly because he was curious, partially because it was a way to ease in the real questions he wanted to ask.

Like what a rich kid was doing four levels down in Starcourt the night of the fire. 

“Does it matter?” Mickey said, but dug into his pockets anyway. Retrieved a little 2 by 3 wallet photo, done in the traditional High School Picture Day style. 

He’d tossed it on the table, and Eddie didn’t react. 

Kept his face perfectly blank, even as his stomach contracted and his breath caught in his chest. 

Carefully pulled the picture to him, to make a show of examining it. 

“Don’t know him.” He lied after a moment, fighting to get his breathing back under control before Mickey figured out what was up. 

“Told you it didn’t matter. What matters is that you get the shit. And hey, while you’re down there…” 

Mickey talked a bit more, and idly, Eddie listened. He knew this little B&E was going to have more components than just retrieving a few things. Had long figured out that this entire front of retrieving “some rich kids keys” was just that--a front. 

Word on the street was that Starcourt was hiding something--something a lot of very powerful people were getting increasingly interested in. He’d rolled his eyes when he caught wind of the first little rumblings, the rumors and whispers that the thing was shrouded in Government secrets and conspiracies, but hadn’t been able to ignore the shit that had come after. 

Likely, the people who had hired him and Mickey understood they had to act now, before someone else did, to see if anything worthwhile was actually down there. 

The real question is why the hell they were using Steve Harrington’s death to do it--when Eddie knew for a fact that Steve Harrington was alive. 

Or alive as anyone could be, at two am at a Shell gas station. 

“Alright.” Eddie said finally, pulling the blueprint towards himself before rolling it up, making sure to casually roll up Harrington’s picture with it. “You got me interested. Half up front and I’m in.”

Mickey grinned at him. “Knew you would be, kid.” 

One hand shake and a hefty envelope later, and Eddie found himself on the way to Starcourt on his very first stakeout. 

It was that first initial look that confirmed it--Harrington’s prized BMW was in fact, still sitting in the parking lot.

Abandoned by rich assholes who absolutely could have paid to have it towed.

Which led to a domino effect of stakeouts, late nights and confrontations, up to and including his present position, counting down the minutes before he could break into Starcourt.

“Ready?” He murmured, and one could be forgiven for thinking he was talking to himself given how quietly he said it.

They would be wrong. 

“Yeah.” The not-so-dead rich kid drawled from the passenger seat.

Eddie tossed a grin at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Come on, Stevie.” He purred. “Let’s go find out who impersonated your parents, and why they want that ring you supposedly own so badly.” 

“Honestly dude I just want my car back.” 

“That too.” 

Part Two

[cheenapri]

Transactional [Yandere Illumi Zoldyck x Reader]

Day ???

Summary: Illumi wants to get reacquainted with you after you escaped from him

Word Count: 3.9k

AN: Can we pretend it didn't take me half a year to finish this pls. This is also the last installment for Transactional, anything I write for Illumi in the future will be unrelated

Notes: yandere, kidnapping, gender neutral reader, unhealthy relationships, unbalanced power dynamics, mentions of past abuse, Illumi is not very nice, reader gets strangled

Day One Day Two + Three Day Four + Five

The cool night air felt nice against your skin. You take a deep breath, looking down at your feet as you continue walking. The song of the crickets was barely audible against the sound of honking cars and other city noises. You pull your jacket tighter against yourself to ease the faint anxiety that always ate away at you. 

You were returning to the motel you currently stayed at after finishing your last shift at your part-time job. Your job was nondescript, just like your disguise; an under-the-table job at a diner. It was perfect for a runaway such as you as it didn’t require IDs and paid in cash. You were offered the job by a sweet older woman you’d become friends with, her kindness extended as she had also given you a phone free of charge. It was an old model, but you were ecstatic nonetheless.

You felt stable as a pattern in your daily life began to form without unbearable dread scaring you into hopping onto the next bus and fleeing to another city. You hadn’t thought about his name quite as much but it never truly left your mind. The anxiety coupled with expectations of his long, sharp claws snatching you away at any moment slowly dissipated each time it failed to happen. 

You have learned to live again.

You were no longer going hungry for days at a time, stealing food and water just to evade starvation. You were no longer forced to sleep outside if you even could sleep, worried you were too exposed and he’d come to scoop you up in any minute. You no longer had to wear the same clothes for days on end, the rainwater being the only thing rinsing them and making them somewhat clean again.

Finding a serious buyer for the wedding ring he had given you was awfully difficult, from scammers who lied and told you it was a fake ring to almost getting robbed a few times. It was a good thing he told you how much it was worth that one time, casually spilling that he had spent one-hundred fifty-five million yen on it. As much as you wanted all of that cash, you had to settle with one million as you were becoming desperate and needed the funds to take care of yourself. 

After you were able to secure the money, you immediately got yourself a cheap motel room, some food, and some new clothes, using the rest of it to fund your travels. You never stayed at motels for long, making sure to stay on the road and get as far away from that evil man as you could. You honestly thought your escape would be fruitless, that he’d find and kill you almost immediately, but as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, you wondered if he was even looking for you. Sure, you had drastically changed your appearance, but you were certain he wouldn’t need to look so hard to know it was you. 

To this day, you still wonder if you actually escaped or if he had willingly let you go. 

After weeks of begging and feigning passionate favors, you found yourself on yet another date with him — your last date with him. He had taken it upon himself to take you out whenever he felt you’d earned it, the requirements for earning it always seeming to change based on his mood. 

You felt like some kind of stress reliever, maybe that’s why he kept you around.

At least he hadn’t hurt you in a long while, or rather “disciplined” as he liked to call it. It was probably because you weren’t challenging his delusions anymore, allowing him to convince himself and others that you two were a normal, happy couple. He even began to trust you a bit, initially allowing you time out in the garden under Shiori’s supervision before allowing you to explore freely.

His family had warmed up to you as he’d said. Not in the sense that you all hung out and drank tea together, but rather in the sense that they either ignored you or treated you like you were a pet. They rarely ever refer to you by name if at all. Kikyo especially as she took it upon herself to “teach” you how to better serve her son. Her teachings were always mentally draining.

Kalluto was the most bearable Zoldyck. He wasn’t intimidating, overwhelmingly at least, he never said a word, and he never made any effort to hurt you. He only seemed curious at your existence, like you were some brand new undiscovered species. As long as he kept his distance when watching you, you had no issues with him.

Silva seemed to view you as a spectacle but never looked at you for more than a few seconds, Zeno even less. That was a guess, however, as you were too afraid to look either of them in the eye. They were aware of that and seemed to respect you since they avoided you as much as you avoided them, even if it was more so to preserve their eminence.

You hadn’t seen Milluki since the dinner, only hearing news of him from eavesdropping, and you thankfully hadn’t been forced to go back to the Zoldyck mansion for another agonizing family meal either. Shiori wasn’t as active in her role as your assigned butler, but your captor had been in his role as your “husband”. You got that skylight you wanted though it was at the price of your dignity. 

You shake your head before rubbing your temples, not wanting to let your mind wander to something that was long in the past. Picking your head back up, your speed quickens, carrying you inside the near-empty motel lobby and into the elevator. 

Your phone buzzes.

You fumble around in your pocket for it, pulling it out and tapping the message notification from your boss. It read: 

“I appreciate your hard work today. Your paycheck should come in tomorrow.”

The elevator shudders as it ascends, but your eyes remain fixed on your phone’s screen, the three little dots implying she had something more to say. 

“I know we haven’t known each other long, but I want you to know that I’m here if you ever need anything or need to talk to someone.”

You had never told anyone you’d stumbled across the truth about your situation, afraid they’d be endangered if that man found out about it. You didn’t need to, however, as your anxieties were written on your face clear as day despite your best efforts. 

You clutch the phone in your hands. This was all so unfair. You hold the very object that would allow you to communicate with your family, to call for help, but you’re unable to do so, his past threats towards your family a constant reminder every time you thought about calling them. 

You refuse to put anyone else in danger. 

The elevator dings as its doors open, revealing a dimly lit corridor before you. You slowly begin walking, your phone still open on your boss’ text message as you’re unsure of what to say. You desperately want someone to confide in, someone to tell your traumatizing story to, but you won’t do it at the cost of their life. Your thumb squeezes the power button, shutting the phone off and leaving you alone with your thoughts. 

As you reach the corner you must turn down to get to your room, you stop. It’s eerily silent. Your head hurts. You feel sick. 

Your phone buzzes again, echoing within the empty halls. 

“Maybe we can sit down and chat before you leave tomorrow if you’re comfortable?”

You continue and turn the corner, looking down at the text before turning the phone off once again and slipping it into your pocket, chalking up your sudden nausea to your recent thoughts about him.

You stop. Your room is at the end of the hall, you stand mere feet away from completing your recent daily routine and yet you’re unable to get yourself to move like you had many times before. 

It was simple: wake up, go to work, go “home”, go to sleep, rinse, repeat. However, your daily pattern never featured a strange man standing still as a statue right by your motel room door.

Your expression is almost as blank as his, you’re unable to react. You stare at him as he does at you, neither of you saying a word. His jaw ever so slightly clenched, his pointer finger twitching, his eyes unblinking. 

This headache will kill you before he does.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice an unfortunate familiarity. His tone is calm as always. Slowly, he inspects you from his spot, not commenting on your failure to greet him as he had “taught” you while he takes in your disguise. He hums to himself, quiet yet audible enough for you to hear. “I’m not a fan of the new look.”

His words were blunt, his eyes meeting your gaze once more. “You disappeared for a while.” He pauses momentarily and allows the tension to build as his stare remains fixated on you. “I thought someone else had gotten to you first.”

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Your mouth feels dry yet you swallow hard, the reality of the situation fully sinking in as you’re face-to-face with the one person you never wanted to see again: Illumi Zoldyck.

He’s angry, he has to be.

He was interfering with your plans. You were supposed to pack up and leave the motel tomorrow in search of another hiding spot to avoid this very event. How did he even find you after all this time? Your mind races as you think of all the possibilities. You know you didn’t leave any traces because you couldn’t leave any, all products were purchased in cash or discretely stolen, your face covered and head low at all times, and you never stayed in one spot for too long until recently. Maybe you’d gotten too comfortable? Unable to think logically, you slowly put your hands up in a defensive position, your body shifting as you take a step back.

“Don’t move.” He reaches out toward you — the space suddenly feels colder. Your body freezes as instructed despite the possibility of your freedom or even your life coming to an end. “You’ve run enough. Come here.”

You stay still, afraid to move let alone bridge the gap between the two of you. Illumi is static, still standing in his position with his arm outstretched to you. You’re like a deer in headlights, your face expressing nothing but pure terror to the man before you. Maybe you’ll turn invisible if you remain still enough…

“I won’t be so forgiving if I have to come to you,” Illumi threatens, a slight frown on his face.

What’s the difference if he’s going to torture and kill you either way? Wouldn’t it be better for him to be rough so you could die faster?

“Come here,” Illumi repeats once more, a much more commanding tone in his voice. You were in no position to test his patience. 

Tears begin stinging your eyes as reality sinks in even further, your heart burying itself into your stomach. With shaky legs, you take a slow step toward him. Your eyes dart from door to door hoping that if you stalled long enough, someone would come out and discover the two of you. Normally you wouldn’t wish anyone the misfortune of stumbling across Illumi, but your morals seem to dissipate now that you are being confronted. 

Illumi remains silent as you cautiously approach him, your eyes wide and your steps hesitant. Your fear grows stronger the closer you get to him. You flinch when he lowers his arm, your mind convinced that every movement he made was malicious. 

“You’ve been very busy, haven’t you?” Illumi asks sarcastically, the sarcasm in his voice is barely noticeable and the question almost seems legit. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, though that was your plan from the beginning.” 

He holds his hand out to you, the unspoken command for you to take it obvious. You hesitate, however, as past incidents of him crushing your hand as punishment resurface in your mind.  He’ll start by breaking your hands before breaking your legs and then finally breaking your neck, leaving you crumpled and gasping for air in the motel’s hallway. 

For a long moment, you didn’t move. “Give me your hand.” Illumi verbalized his command as his patience was running out. 

You’re visibly shaking, the tears in your eyes now overflowing. Slowly, you bring your trembling hand forth, cringing a few times as you envision yourself putting it in the mouth of a metal shredder. With your fate unavoidable, you place your hand in his, eyes shut tightly and head lowered as you mentally prepare for what’s to come. 

Silently, he takes hold of it with his other hand, pulling you closer to him. Illumi took note of your every reaction. The recoiling at his sudden movements, the shivering when his hand rubbed against yours, and, of course, your blatant anticipation of what he’ll do next.

His eyes move from your face to your fingers — narrowing slightly as the object he was looking for seems to be missing. He underestimated just how reckless you were, though the thought of you doing what he secretly dreaded was always possible.

He’s quiet, attention focused on your ring finger as if trying to manifest the symbol of your bond with him out of thin air. His anger was palpable. 

“Hm… you sold it,” he states, tone flat and expression unreadable. “How much?”

Your hand trembles, his itching to squeeze with intent to crush. You grumble your answer, voice timid as your eyes look off to the side. Before you could even react, his hand springs forth and grabs your jaw in a vice-like grip — his hold is dangerously close to your neck. Illumi forces your head up, his gaze meeting yours. 

He doesn’t say anything, only holding you in this unfortunate position. You let out a deep breath through your nose, your eyes shutting as you repeat yourself in a louder tone, “O-One million yen.”

Illumi abruptly releases his hold as if disgusted with you, his actions a stark contrast to your prediction of him immediately ripping your head off. He mentally repeats the number, his internal resentment battling over which to be more furious over: you being stupid enough to sell your binding to him, especially for such a low amount, and then using the cash to run away from him, or you being stupid enough to even think about selling your binding to him at all?

Ultimately, he chose both. 

Quietly, Illumi reaches into his pocket, eyes still trained on you as he retrieves the motel’s master key. He then turns to swiftly unlock your room’s door, stepping back and gesturing for you to head inside.

You don’t move, and the itch to run becomes more tempting. Seeing your hesitation, Illumi takes it upon himself to guide you inside, placing a hand on your lower back and practically shoving you into the room. Once the both of you are inside, he shuts and locks the door behind him with clear finality, watching as you back away and clumsily stumble onto the bed.

He doesn’t turn the lights on, the only light being from the moon’s glow through the window. He steadily moves toward you before stopping just shy of the window, the moonlight partially illuminating his features. He seemed less controlled, almost giving you a death stare in his own way. 

“Go on,” he says, a noticeable edge to his voice. His request was open-ended, its implication meaning anything. He wanted to see just how stupid you were. 

You scratch your head and think of thousands of ways to die at that very moment. If you’d gotten a gun from a shady seller, you could’ve made your unplanned interaction with Illumi short and messy — if you were even able to grab it. Maybe if you piss him off enough he’d deem you unworthy and side with his inner instincts, wasting no more time and snuffing the life out of you efficiently.

“You’re…” you start, ”You’re suffocating me. I just want to live.” Your arms wrap around you as you seek comfort in this unfortunate predicament. 

Illumi takes his time processing your weak excuse, the weight of his scrutiny becoming more and more unbearable with each passing second. He tilts his head, “You think you can live without me?”

“I can and I did for several months!” Your voice no longer felt weak. You shut your eyes as your deep-seated disdain for him builds even further within you — your mind no longer concerned about the possible repercussions. What more did you have to lose anyway?

“You weren’t living, you were surviving.” Illumi straightens his head. He allows time for his words to sink in as he takes in the sight of you again, his eyes flicking over your cheap hoodie, worn-out shoes, and tired, yet angry eyes. “The streets hadn’t been very good to you, I see.” His eyes move to make contact with yours. “You look a mess.”

“You’ve made me look worse!” You grit your teeth. Without thinking, all your pent-up anger was released at that very moment — the worst moment. “You’ve taken everything from me and you treat me like shit! You don’t know what love is! You’re horrible and I hate you!”

At that, he moved. The air around you shifted — a menacing, yet familiar energy you realized you hadn’t felt until now. You’ve provoked him, that much evident from the visible frown on his face and a slight furrowing of his brow.

“You talk too much.” He closes the distance between you and shoves you down onto the bed. Your breath hitches, your hands up defensively as you prepare to fight a battle you know you won’t win. 

His movements are deliberately slow as if the anticipation was intended to be its own form of punishment. You go to move backward, to relieve yourself — even momentarily — of his overwhelming presence, but he pushes you down again. The bed dips under his weight, his hands moving ever so slowly towards your neck. Knowing this wasn’t a bluff, you grab his wrists and try in vain to push them away.

You’re too weak. 

“You’re in no position to speak to me in such a manner. Here, I’ll show you.” His hands grip your neck with immense pressure, causing you to gasp and claw at his wrists. 

Illumi remains reasonably calm, externally at least, as he watches you struggle beneath him. “(Name),” he says. His grip loosened completely which allowed you to breathe. You continued coughing as you took in deep breaths but your sense of relief was quickly snatched away as his hands squeezed again. “(Name),” he calls again.

An overwhelming sense of dread embodies you as you realize that he is actually going to kill you. You’re unable to deny your survival instincts forcing you to fight back despite a smaller part of you reasoning that this was the happy ending you so desperately wanted. 

Illumi’s grip loosens once more, his gaze softens watching you spring back to life and greedily suck in oxygen. He relished in the control he lacked over you for so long. He wants something from you and you know that.

“I’m… sorry!” you manage to force out between breaths. You’re crying hysterically now, apologizing again and again as you don’t wish for your final moments to be as humiliating as this. 

“For what? What did you do this time, (Name)?” Illumi asks calmly, his fingers digging into your neck the more you try to pry them off. 

You hesitate despite the situation. You’re not sorry. You’re not sorry for a damn thing. Your lungs are burning though so you have no choice. “I’m… sorry for… run-running away…”

Illumi hums, his black eyes boring into you. “Running away wasn’t your only offense. What else have you done?”

Your head is spinning though you’re still able to breathe somewhat. You tap his wrist, a pathetic admittance of defeat. He doesn’t let go though.

“Please… get off me,” you beg. He ignores your pleas and keeps you pinned beneath him, his thumbs ready to press down on your windpipe at any given moment.

“You haven’t admitted all your wrongdoings. You haven’t fully apologized,” he states flatly. 

“I don’t-“ 

You’re cut off as he crushes your throat, his eyes narrowing. “You do.”

You’re beginning to panic again. You’re unable to rack your brain for whatever thing you’d done to warrant such an assault. 

Illumi could feel your pulse quickening. The temptation to squeeze just a bit more until it slows to a halt is overwhelming. He’s had you at his mercy before, but he had never thought of actually going through with it. His eyes are glued to you, taking in the drooping of your eyelids, the paleness of your skin, and how your body is relaxing. Even now as you’re being rightfully punished for daring to betray him, you still manage to humanize him – forcing him to feel something he was taught to suppress. 

He hated it. 

But he hated the way he hesitated even more.

Illumi releases your throat, and you spring back to life. You have no tears left to cry, only coughs and hoarse sobs as you replenish your oxygen. It was clear to Illumi that you were simply too stupid and stubborn to be sorry, and that it would be a waste of time to continue forcing disingenuous apologies out of you. 

That’s okay. You’ll come around. 

He slides off of you and fixes his clothes as if nothing had even happened. His calm, blank expression slipped back into place as he took in your small motel room. “This is what you’ve run to.” His voice carries a hint of mockery.

There was a lack of concern for your struggling figure on the bed, only disapproval as if you were acting. Your throat ached, and your head spun. Why were you still here?

“You’ve proven you are incapable of handling any ounce of freedom given to you. You cannot be trusted to make decisions on your own. You don’t know what’s good for you… that’s why you need me.”

He returns to the bed, standing over you once more. “Get up,” he says, “it’s time to go.”

Though you knew it was coming since death failed to, your heart sank at the thought of stepping foot in that wretched place once again. You let out a strangled sob, your limbs quaking as you force yourself up. 

“We have a lot of catching up to do, (Name).” Illumi places a not-so-comforting hand on your shoulder. “We have to ensure this incident won’t happen again.”

His subtle threat confirmed the plans he had in store for you. Your body refused to move as the realization that you were back at square one sunk in, but you forced yourself onto your wobbly legs as you were only delaying what was clearly inevitable. 

He wouldn’t forgive you – you knew that – and the treatment you’d receive would be much, much worse. 

[carpenoctxrn]

Promise (Yandere!Ominis x fem!reader) Part 3

Requested by Anon!

Disclaimer: Mature adulting stuff.

AN: Ominis is not possessive in this as much because everything is going "as planned", like little lark Ominis was crazzzzy possesive. So really he is sweet more than anything because he is getting everything he wants. Like he has no need to be possesive when she so willingly is letting him take her.

Also I want to get married at a vineyard now and own one too.

Masterlist

It had been three weeks since she had given herself to Ominis.

Three weeks after they had lost their virginity together, their bodies entwined in the moon illuminated room, in secret, where no one else could touch them, see them, ruin them.

And for the past three weeks, she had been filled full of him every single night.

Her body still ached from the last time, his grip on her hips, the way he pushed deeper, deeper, deeper, whispering how she was his, how he would never let her go.

She had loved every second of it.

But now, as she struggled to zip up her skirt, her stomach twisting with a growing sense of dread, she felt something else entirely.

Am I swelling with a child?

The thought made her breath hitch.

No. No, I can’t be.

Her parents had been strict, enforcing ridiculous rules about courtship “No dating until after Hogwarts.”

And yet, here she was. Possibly pregnant. With only a month left until graduation.

Her fingers trembled as she adjusted her uniform, hiding the half-zipped skirt beneath her vest before rushing out of the dorm, her mind spiraling.

She needed to get to the Great Hall. She needed to think.

But she never made it there.

A hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, yanking her into the shadows of a secluded hallway.

Her breath hitched; until she felt him.

Ominis.

“Good morning, love.” His voice was velvet, smooth and possessive, before his lips descended upon hers in a searing, all-consuming kiss.

Her thoughts blurred.

She melted into him instantly, just like she always did.

And Ominis smirked.

She was pliable in his hands— putty, soft and eager, bending to his touch without a second thought.

But so was he.

Just the clack of her shoes across the stone floors was enough to set him on edge, to make his body crave her all over again.

She was his.

His to love. His to keep.

His to ruin.

“Good morning, Omi.” She greeted, voice hazy from his kiss.

He pulled her in again, deeper, his fingers curling around her waist, claiming, holding, keeping.

And that was when he felt it.

The way she tensed beneath his touch.

She pulled back, and Ominis' smirk faded.

Something was wrong.

His grip on her waist tightened. “What’s wrong?”

She swallowed, eyes darting away. She looked nervous. Afraid. Like she was hiding something from him.

And Ominis hated that.

“Omi… I think—I think I’m pregnant.”

She whispered it, as if saying it too loudly would make it real.

His heart stilled.

Then—a slow, creeping smile spread across his lips.

It worked.

His plan had worked.

She was now with his child. His seed had taken root, claiming her from the inside out, binding her to him forever.

Soon, she would be plump with his heir, her body growing round and soft, all for him, all because of him.

Ominis exhaled a shuddering breath, pure ecstasy rushing through his veins as he crushed her against him, capturing her lips in a kiss filled with triumph, devotion, hunger.

“Don’t worry, love.” He whispered against her mouth, his tone soothing, reassuring, final. “I’ll take care of you both. I promise.”

But she didn’t kiss him back.

She stiffened in his arms.

And then her voice broke.

“But I don’t want a baby.”

Ominis felt his heart shatter.

His breath caught. His grip tightened.

“Why not?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but there was something dangerous in it.

A pause. A long, painful silence.

Then the words that nearly destroyed him.

“I love you, Ominis.” Her voice was soft, filled with emotion, and for a moment— just a moment— his heart swelled.

But then she kept speaking.

“And I want to experience the world with you before we settle down.” She sniffled, her hands gripping his robes. “You don’t want to be associated with your family, and I don’t either. If we have a child now, we’ll be forced to depend on others, to be tied down before we’ve even had a chance to live.”

Ominis stared at her, something dark and possessive slithering through his chest.

She didn’t understand.

She didn’t see what he saw.

She spoke as if freedom was something they needed.

But they already had freedom.

They had each other.

Still, he forced himself to think. She’s not saying she doesn’t love me. She just… doesn’t want it yet.

He took a slow, measured breath, choosing his words carefully.

“You don’t have to worry about money, love.” His voice was smooth, reassuring. “I made investments years ago. I have more than enough to provide for you— for us— without ever needing to rely on anyone.”

Her lips parted in surprise, and he let his fingers brush against her cheek, soft and gentle.

“That being said,” he continued, tilting her chin up, “this is your body. I will never force something upon you that doesn’t make you happy.”

His words were sweet, but his tone was possessive, laced with something darker, more dangerous; as if he was branding her with them, ensuring that she understood how deep his love ran.

She made her decision that day.

They went to Nurse Blaney; a kind woman who had helped many girls in this predicament before. She had been gentle, understanding, offering them a small vial of potion and explaining the aftercare in a voice soft with warmth.

“You don’t have to take it.” She reassured them. “Even now, with it in your hands, you are allowed to change your mind.”

And she almost didn’t.

Back in the Room of Requirement, she stared at the vial, her hands shaking.

She was about to drink it.

And then the tears welled in her eyes.

Her fingers trembled.

Her throat tightened.

Ominis' heart stopped.

“Love?” His voice was careful, scared. He pulled her into his arms, his hands firm on her waist, anchoring her to him. “Talk to me.”

She choked on a sob, gripping his robes. “I—I want them.”

A pause. A single, shuddering breath.

“I love them.”

She hiccupped, clutching him tighter. “And the thought of losing them; it scares me. Its unbearable”

Ominis exhaled, his lips pressing into her hair, his hold unbreakable.

And for the first time that day he smiled.

—---

The two of them had agreed to keep the pregnancy a secret— at least from their families.

Their friends, however, knew immediately.

The girls had been beyond ecstatic, squealing over the news, while the boys had clapped Ominis on the back, teasing him about becoming a “family man.”

But beyond the teasing, there was something undeniably different about him now.

Ominis had always carried himself with quiet intensity, but now? Now, there was an undeniable sense of purpose in the way he held her, the way he moved, the way he whispered against her skin every night, "You're mine. Always."

By the time graduation arrived, her stomach had begun to round ever so slightly, though not enough for anyone outside their close circle to notice. She wasn’t yet feeling the full symptoms of pregnancy— her breasts were a little fuller, a little more sensitive, but nothing drastic.

Her family, strict as they were, had grown fond of Ominis.

They knew his status, knew he was a gentleman, and had no reason to doubt him. If only they knew the depraved things he had done to their daughter, they wouldn’t be patting his back so proudly.

And then, of course, there were the Gaunts.

They arrived at the ceremony, cold and composed, but when introduced to the infamous Hero of Hogwarts, their greedy expressions flickered with something close to approval.

Power. Beauty. Status.

That’s all they saw when they looked at her.

Not the girl who had saved their son from becoming like them, not the girl who had made Ominis smile for the first time in his life, not the girl he had worshipped body and soul every night.

Just power.

And yet, Ominis didn’t care.

Because they didn’t matter. Only she did.

After the ceremony, once the Gaunts had left without fanfare, Ominis approached her father, his expression steady, his grip on her hand firm.

“Sir, I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Her father had known this was coming.

She had written letters about Ominis for years, talked endlessly about him during the holidays, and would smugly refer to herself as ‘the future Mrs. Ominis Gaunt’ just to tease her father, who loathed the idea of his little girl growing up.

Even her mother had joined in on the joke, always responding, "No dating until after Hogwarts."

But now, here they were.

And her father, after a long moment of deliberation, let out a deep sigh before nodding. "She loves you. That much is obvious. And you're a good man. You have my blessing."

Ominis let out a breath, relief flooding him.

Not that he had needed permission.

Because even if the answer had been no, nothing would have stopped him from keeping her forever.

Later that evening, as the sun cast golden hues across the castle, Ominis led them to a secluded overlook, a breathtaking spot where they could see the castle, the lake, and the rolling mountains in the distance.

Her family stood behind them, admiring the view, but Ominis wasn’t looking at the horizon.

He was looking at her.

And then he reached into his pocket.

Her breath hitched as he knelt before her, pulling out a ring that he had chosen months ago.

His fingers trembled slightly as he held it up, but his voice, his devotion, his love, was unwavering.

“You are the love of my life.”

The words were soft, gentle, but they carried the weight of everything he was.

“Not because of your beauty, not because of your power but because you know me better than I know myself. Because every day with you, I learn something new about who I am, about who I want to be. You are my reason for everything, my guiding light.

And I want to spend the rest of my life learning more about you, about us, about the family I know we will build together.”

His breath shook slightly, but his grip on her hand was firm, reverent, unyielding.

“Marry me.”

Her vision blurred with tears, her throat tightening as overwhelming love, devotion, and sheer emotion swallowed her whole.

She barely managed to choke out a soft, tearful “yes” before dropping to her knees and throwing herself into his arms.

Her family cheered, her mother wiping away happy tears while her siblings laughed and teased her for crying so much.

But it wasn’t just the proposal.

It was everything.

Her hormones, yes but more than that, it was Ominis.

The man she loved.

The man she had given herself to.

The man who would burn the world to the ground if it meant keeping her safe.

And now, he was hers. Forever.

Fireworks erupted in the night sky, a little favor he asked Sebastian who happily obliged and delivered.

—--

The wedding happened within a month.

Her family had hesitated, worried that she was rushing into it. But every time they questioned her, she would simply say,

“I courted him for two years. I refuse to be his fiancée when I could just be his wife.”

And that was that.

They knew their daughter, tenacious, brilliant, headstrong. And they knew Ominis, devoted, loyal, utterly besotted with her.

So, despite their reservations, they gave their blessing.

The Gaunts, however, were not invited.

Ominis had finally confessed everything— his unstable home life, the cruelty he had endured, the cold, loveless existence he had been raised in.

And her parents, with their warm hearts and unwavering protectiveness, had taken him in as their own.

For the first time in his life, Ominis felt something he had never known before.

A place to belong. A family that cared. A love that didn’t come with conditions.

And with that, the final tether binding him to the Gaunts snapped.

He was hers now. Entirely. Forever.

—

Then came finding their home.

A quaint little mansion, nestled just minutes away from Godric’s Hollow, with land sprawling around them in lush, green abundance. Vineyards stretched in one direction, fertile soil in another, ready for her to plant anything her heart desired.

Their home was perfect.

High-arched windows that bathed the rooms in golden sunlight. A kitchen lined with white marble, polished and pristine. A library for Ominis, lined with towering bookshelves, seamlessly doubling as a study for her. And most importantly; space.

Space for their growing family.

—-

The ceremony was set in their own backyard, just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Tables and chairs were arranged neatly, all in white, the air thick with the scent of roses and honeysuckle. Flowers in blush pink and deep green adorned every surface, soft candlelight flickering around them.

And then— Ominis.

He stood at the altar, his tuxedo expertly tailored.

Charcoal grey. Silver embroidery. A crisp white shirt beneath, his vest black with intricate silver threads woven through the fabric.

He was breathtaking.

His groomsmen, Sebastian, Garreth, and Amit stood beside him, all dressed in black tuxedos, but Ominis stood apart. He was stunning, regal, ethereal.

And yet, even in all his refinement, he had eyes only for her.

His bride. His wife.

And when she appeared, walking down the aisle, arm-in-arm with her parents, Ominis nearly forgot how to breathe.

—-

She was a vision.

Her wedding dress clung beautifully to her form, the white fabric glowing in the soft twilight.

Intricate pearls were sewn into the bodice, shimmering with each graceful step she took. The corset-like design held her firm, and though she had worried about it being too tight around her three-month baby bump, Natty had reassured her, "It won’t harm the baby, I promise."

So she had worn it.

And now, as she walked towards Ominis, the delicate lace-trimmed veil trailing behind her, the soft parting of her breasts exposed by the gentle dip of her gown, her bare shoulders kissed by the glow of candlelight—

Ominis was undone.

His chest tightened.

His fingers trembled at his sides.

His bride, his wife, his love, was carrying his child as she walked toward him.

She was his.

And soon, she would be his in every way imaginable.

—

The vows were spoken.

Her voice was steady, full of promise, devotion, and love.

Ominis’ voice, however, was thick with emotion.

How could it not be?

He was marrying the woman who had saved him. The woman who had tamed his demons, softened his heart, and ruined him for anyone else.

She was his breath, his mind, his soul, his body.

And when the minister said, "You may now kiss the bride," Ominis did not hesitate.

His hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him as he captured her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.

It was a kiss meant for show— loving, tender, drawn out just enough to make the crowd swoon.

But beneath it?

Beneath it was something else entirely.

Beneath it was hunger, longing, the kind of desperate devotion only he could feel for her.

Because tonight— finally— she would be his again.

—

As they walked down the aisle, hand in hand, a shower of petals rained down upon them, their guests cheering, the sun fully setting just as expected.

Candles floated around the courtyard, their soft glow illuminating the evening, courtesy of Professor Weasley’s magic.

And through it all, Ominis held onto her.

He held onto her like a man possessed.

Because in every way that mattered, he was.

—

Their first dance as husband and wife was nothing short of enchanting. Beneath the full moon’s soft glow, they moved in perfect harmony, their steps slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second. The makeshift pillars, once simple wooden boxes, had been transfigured into elegant structures adorned with ivy, framing their dance beneath the night sky. The air smelled of blooming flowers and ripened grapes from the vineyard, a reminder of the life they were building together.

Ominis had never known such pure joy. He could feel her love radiating through every touch, every whispered breath between them. But what truly made his heart ache with emotion was the gentle bump pressing between them; the life they had created together. His grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly, a silent vow that he would protect them both with everything he had.

Their foreheads touched as she blinked back tears of happiness, her lips curling into a smile. "I'm officially Mrs. Gaunt," she sniffled softly.

"And I'm officially your husband," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

She let out a soft laugh, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck. "But I was yours, and you were mine, from the moment I bumped into you leaving the Undercroft."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "And I knew you were mine the day I realized I couldn't stand the way other boys said your name."

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "You glared at every single one of them, Omi."

"I wasn’t glaring," he protested, though even he knew it was a lie.

She only laughed again, shaking her head. He could listen to that sound forever.

His hand settled protectively over her stomach as he whispered, "I love you both more than anything in this world."

"And we love you too," she murmured, resting her hand over his.

Under the moonlit sky, with music swirling around them and their love wrapped in the warm embrace of the night, Ominis knew— this was his forever. And he would never let it go.

—

The embers of the bonfire crackled softly, casting golden light over the circle of friends gathered around it. The air carried the scent of burning wood, mingling with the distant sweetness of the vineyard. Laughter and conversation flowed as easily as the dark liquor Amit kept sneaking sips of, their voices hushed yet lively in the late-night calm.

Ominis sat comfortably on a transfigured loveseat, his wife nestled against him, her soft, loose dress doing little to hide the way her body molded perfectly into his. The warmth of her pressed against his side made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. He breathed in deeply, trying to steady himself, but every time she threw her head back in laughter — especially when Imelda mimicked Headmaster Black’s pompous drawl — he felt himself slipping. Her delicate fingers gripped his thigh as she lost herself in amusement, her hair falling into her face, nose crinkling in that way that always undid him.

Ominis tightened his hold around her. Before her, he never had a reason to wake up in the morning beyond obligation. Now, he had purpose. He had her.

“So, do you want to know the baby’s gender?” Natty asked curiously, snuggling closer to Amit.

His wife’s parents had left an hour ago, having spent the past month at their estate, meaning the topic could be spoken about freely; something she loved.

“I think I do,” she murmured, cradling the small bump as she gazed down at it.

“I want to crochet as many little clothes as I can before they pop out,” she added with a giddy smile, excitement lighting up her face.

“And what about you, Ominis?” Amit asked, taking a slow swig of the dark liquor Ominis had introduced him to.

“I prefer whatever my wife prefers,” Ominis replied smoothly, as if the answer had always been written in the stars.

A chorus of teasing sounds erupted from their friends.

“You’ve gone soft, Gaunt,” Gareth chuckled, shoving another handful of chicken dippers into his mouth.

“More like being married has turned him into a doting husband,” Anne quipped, her words laced with knowing amusement towards Gareth as if for him to catch a hint.

“You’re not marrying my sister until you become something, Weasley,” Sebastian warned, his voice holding an edge of seriousness.

Laughter erupted, but Anne turned red in protest. “I am not marrying him!” she shrieked.

“Well, you’re not marrying anyone else besides Gareth either,” Sebastian shot back with an air of finality.

Everyone knew the truth that Anne and Gareth were inevitable. The moment Gareth had pummeled a sixth-year back in their fourth year for making an offhanded comment about Anne needing to “grow into her looks,” Sebastian had known. And so had the rest of their friends. The only ones oblivious were the two idiots themselves.

“So, who’s next to marry in our group?” Ominis’ wife asked coyly, stirring the pot with a mischievous smile.

“Maybe it’ll be Sebastian,” Ominis said with a smirk, finding humor in how the most hopeless romantic among them was the only one still single.

“And who, exactly, would I marry?” Sebastian asked, brow furrowed.

“Mrs. Hecate, of course,” Imelda deadpanned, laughing as Poppy nudged her with an elbow.

Their friends erupted into laughter, the old memory resurfacing. Sebastian groaned, rubbing his face as if to erase the embarrassment. He had once found a photo of a breathtaking young woman in the Restricted Section, believing it to be a former student. For months, he had been determined to find her—only to discover, to his absolute horror, that the photo was of Professor Hecate in her prime. When the picture had fallen out of his bag in the middle of class, she had simply stared at him, expression unreadable, before asking why he had it.

That day, the entire group had been sent to detention—for their uncontrollable laughter. It was the only time Sebastian had ever dreaded serving it.

“Hey, leave my good friend Sebastian alone,” Amit slurred, waving his drink dramatically. “I know what it’s like to have your heart broken.”

“Why would you say that, Amit?” Natty asked, suddenly curious.

“Well—I—it was—uh—” Amit stammered, his ears turning red as Imelda let out exaggerated “oohs,” sensing trouble.

But Ominis barely heard them now. His attention was fixed on the woman beside him. Her head had begun to droop slightly, exhaustion finally catching up with her after the long day. Her eyes fluttered shut for brief moments before she blinked herself awake again.

“Would you like to turn in for the night, love?” he asked, his voice softer now, pulling her just a little closer.

“Mhm…” She hummed, her body melting into his touch. “It’s as if I forgot I had a long day, and now my lack of sleep has crept up on me.” She yawned delicately, rubbing her eyes.

“Let’s go, Mrs. Gaunt,” Ominis said smoothly, smirking as she giggled at the sound of it.

“Goodnight! Make sure you all sleep inside the house and not out here,” she called out drowsily. “Birky will clean up outside in the morning.”

A chorus of whispers and giggles erupted behind them as they made their way toward the house — no doubt their friends making jokes about their need to consummate their marriage.

But just as they reached the threshold, Ominis suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” she asked, turning to face him, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the night had fallen into silence.

Instead of answering, he pulled her close, capturing her lips in a lingering kiss. It was one of the hundreds he had stolen from her that day, but this one was different. This one was filled with quiet hunger, with promise. His hands roamed over her figure in a slow, reverent touch before he pulled back just enough to maneuver her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly in a bridal carry.

A soft giggle escaped her lips, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“I intend to make good on my promise, love,” he murmured against her ear.

Her breath hitched, all traces of sleep vanishing in an instant. He knew exactly what he was doing—how easily he could undo her.

And with that, Ominis carried his wife inside, the rest of the world fading away as their night truly began.

-----

Anyways this is part 3 to yandere Ominis. fourth part would be them consumating their marriage cause duh. Probably more breeding Ominis because lets be honest here, the man is feral.

Masterlist

Talk to me for funsies you guys, I love yapping!

pssst.... first divider by @anitalenia and second divider by @pommecita. the plain banner is by me....

[inkieflame]

Oooh could we maybe see more on Grian or Lizzie? I'm intrigued by Grian's storyline, the angst is just *chefs kiss*, but I'm also interested to learn more about Lizzie!

It's finally time for me to cover the Grian lore! Yay!

This is about future Grian lore, so if you're excited for backstory stuff, you'll have to wait longer, sorry ;)

Grian is broken. That much is obvious.

None of the other subjects have been able to get information out of him or the Watchers about his past. They don't know how he ended up like this. The few subjects who were around for the Evo lab (Martyn, Jimmy, Bigb and Pearl) just know that one day he was taken away from them. And then he was returned much much later when the next lab, 3L SMP, launched.

When Grian left he was alive. Laughing, friendly, mischievous, kind. But when he returned he was still. Monotone. Unfocused eyes. Worse than dead.

All the Watchers will say is that he was a "failed assimilation" and that they "went too fast" and won't "make that mistake again"

Grian stays like that for years.

He started moving more during DL SMP, but it's suspected that was because he was soulbound to Scar, and it was difficult for Scar to roll his wheelchair anywhere when Grian wasn't willingly following. For the first time in a long time, people saw Grian eat outside of his room. He seemed to listen passively to any conversation Scar had.

And when LimL SMP began he stayed just as social. There was a small whisper of hope among the older subjects that maybe, just maybe, Grian might be getting better. Maybe he would return to them. Pearl and Bigb started to track his behavior in hopes of seeing improvement. Martyn laughed at them. Rolled his eyes and called them "nosey neighbors." But quietly, he was also hoping Grian would get better.

The first time changes were obvious was during Grian's announcement of Secret Life. The subjects were use to it by now. When a new lab started Grian would stand and monotonously declare:

"Welcome to Third Life. Enjoy your stay."

"Welcome to Last Life. Enjoy your stay."

"Welcome to Double Life. Enjoy your stay."

"Welcome to Limited Life. Enjoy your stay."

But when he said "Welcome to Secret Life. Enjoy your stay." He was smiling. He was smiling.

They hadn't seen Grian smile in so long.

And then he spoke too. It wasn't much. A "yes" or "no" sometimes. Maybe a short comment here or there. It wasn't much but it was something.

But their excitement was undercut by the new system the Watchers introduced, seemingly at Grian's request. This lab was titled Secret Life after all, and this "game" lined up with that.

Subjects would be given tasks at random, and if they succeeded in the given amount of time, they would be rewarded (often this reward was being removed from availability, so they couldn't be rented for a short period of time). The tasks ranged from simple things, maybe cleaning up the practice room or helping the Watchers with another subject's experiment, to more disruptive things like "stop a subject from sleeping for 48 hours" or a literal violent game of tag that involves hitting other subjects in the face. Ya know. For the angst.

Yes the zombie apocalypse is canon to this AU. I'll talk about that later.

(I also want to write a fic about the Roomies slowly coaxing Grian back to reality. cuz I love the Roomies. Best alliance in the season, but that's neither here nor there)

Wild Life SMP is when the big change happens.

The subjects are familiar with Watcher's Assistants, like Xisuma and Fwhip. They have a different uniform, they're close with the Watchers, there is some terrifying power they wield over the other subjects.

And when the Lifers wake up in the new lab, they see Grian is wearing that black uniform. His movements are natural, no longer stiff and forced. And when he gestures grandly around him, smiles, and declares "Welcome to Wild Life. Enjoy your stay" it sounds like the old him.

He's not quite the same. His mischief is devious. He laughs at some things that should be serious. There is a deep craving hunger in his expression when he sees subjects return to the lab.

But mosty, mostly Grian is normal again.

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 | Acceptance

Sometimes, accepting that your past is yours is the hardest thing to do.

Tags/Warnings: Alien!Jungkook, Human!Reader, dystopian AU, space/Sci-fi/cyberpunk-esque, Enemies to lovers, Angst, Violence, Drama, romance, adult, angst, potentially triggering content, mentions of prostitution, this one's a little heavy, Hurt and comfort

Length: uuuuh 3k-ish.

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

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Considering he knew that you'd figure it out sooner rather than later, he's honestly a little surprised how much this is bothering him. Even years after everything happened, after all the work he's put into becoming more than just his past, it's still haunting him everywhere he goes.

Jungkook wanted to stay alone by pure choice. He doesn't want to give into some primal urges and get lost in it, to the point of morals and worth being thrown out the window. He knows that his kind- or at least, the kind his father cursed upon him with his partial genes- doesn't value emotional connections as much as other beings of the galaxy do. But still.

What that man did was unforgivable.

Jungkook doesn't remember his mother. He's sure he never met her- or maybe only as an infant, making him forget what she looked like. What he does know is that feeling of coldness he always received from his father- someone who should've raised him, or at least let the rest of the crew raise him. But that man would not let anyone care for him- Jungkook had to basically fight for his place, a place that wasn't even existing in the first place.

Nothing he could do would ever prove his worth to that man, because that man saw him as nothing but an accident. Something that should not have happened.

She was a great mother. Still is, even if Jungkook doesn't visit her much. She respects him, and his personal decisions- and that's more than he could ever ask for.

So, at the age of barely fourteen, he left the ship- with a bag of clothes and a bit of money from a crewmember, left alone on a planet near Cryon, where he met Seokjin and his mother. The young hybrid had instantly taken a liking to him, and after his mother learned of Jungkook's situation, she took him in- and willingly took on the role of a parental figure, no matter how much people looked at her oddly for her now two children that looked nothing like her.

But she cared for him.

For a long time, Jungkook had found comfort in his lifestyle. He wouldn't hurt anyone ever like he'd been hurt before, because he never attached himself to anyone or anything past friendliness. Jimin was an exception- but even he doesn't really get past his shell, never able to catch a glimpse of his heart.

And then came you.

You're nothing special. Just like his mother, you're a simple human being, cast aside with nowhere to go. And maybe that's why he wanted to shoot you so badly when he first saw you- because he took so much pity on you, that he felt like he'd be a worse person to let you live instead of giving you an end to your suffering. Humans are seen as nothing but greedy little parasites- they take and take and take and fight for nothing but their own self-worth.

And then you opened up. Every day you spent with him seemed to fuel your soul once more, charging up your will to live as you stopped trying to make him discard you at any given chance. And suddenly, he no longer saw the same victim as his mother once was in you- he saw someone. You're no longer just a being worth pity- you're you.

And he started to actually enjoy your company.

Especially after doing something like you did back with the vendor- you've proven yourself as someone that can and will decide what she wants to do. You didn't have to do this for him, and you know it, he knows that you know it. And he also knows that you didn't do it for him anyways, even if you think you did. Because you're basically defending your place in his life- on his ship.

And that's what scares him. That's what made him react like he did, yesterday.

You're not so easy to push around any longer. You're no longer someone who will just do as he says, and he wants that for you- you deserve your autonomy, you deserve to be able to make these decisions. But those things always come with a price.

And yes- maybe he's scared of you.

Because the longer you stay, the closer you get, the more it'll bug him or even hurt when you decide to move on from him. For years, Jungkook has feared hurting others- when in reality, he just got tired of being the one getting hurt. And now, with you in his life, it's already happening- because just sneaking a small glimpse at the security camera of your room shows you just quietly sitting on your bed, hugging your knees, waiting, thinking. And it hurts. He doesn't want you to be locked up like that. He wants you here, where he can see you, where you can talk, and where he can watch you knit your stupid little ball-shaped animals that you've hung everywhere at this point.

He likes them. Because they prove that you're actually here, that you're alive with him, and that you're not just wishful thinking.

His thumb runs over the little crooked horn of the goat you've knitted, that he's taken for himself now as it's attached to his keychain. He's been unkind and most of all unreasonable- but he doesn't know what to do now. You clearly want to stay, and it's also pretty obvious that you've found somewhat of an interest in him- and that terrifies him.

Because what if he does end up like him? What if he does fall into the same habits and behaviors as he did?

And how can he not, when you're already infesting his mind, without even doing anything at all?

He's forever branded as the 'accidental' son of a slave trader, a mistake that shouldn't have happened to begin with, and cost someone their life. He's no one you should associate with, let alone get involved with. You don't know who he is, what he is, and what kind of stigma he carries around. You've got no idea who you're currently traveling with, and maybe he needs to force you to face it.

Maybe if he shows you who he really is, you'll finally let him go.

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You're not too sure why you're so unable to just wait things out. He's clearly gotten upset yesterday, after you mentioned that you knew that he was partially human- but why?

There's no way he despises the entire human race- because he has been quite kind to you, even though he didn't have to be. Even his proposal of letting you stay with Seokjin instead of having to 'wait out' his whole… situation, was one of kindness. He could've just told you to stay in your room, but instead, he thought of a more comfortable alternative for you, despite the trouble of traveling and time cost.

So why did that rub him so wrongly when you mentioned it?

There's not much time to think about that however, as the door hisses open- causing you to hide under the blanket you previously had over your shoulders in a panic, the reaction almost instinctual. You can only feel the bed dip a little under his weight as he sits down on the edge of it, and when you peek out, you can see that he's not even looking at you. Instead, his hands are holding his keychain with your knitted little goat attached- fingers playing around with it in a nervous manner.

"My mother was a prostitute." He starts, voice low and without much emotion to it. "My father… enjoyed her services so much, that he bought her." He explains, and you slowly sit up, blanket falling from your head to rest on your shoulders instead. "Chances of.. pregnancy were low- considering she was human, and my father was not." Jungkook says, while you just watch him, not moving much.

"But it happened anyways."

You're watching him, staying right where you are- his back still turned towards you, while he continues to occupy himself with the little yarn toy you made. "I don't remember her. I only know that she died, at some point." He shrugs to himself. "Not like it matters. Neither of them thought of me as something other than an accident." He scoffs, and you feel the need to comfort him-

but you don't know how.

"So.. that's why you hate your human side?" You wonder, but he shakes his head.

"I don't hate it." He denies. "I just.. hate being reminded of what I am, I guess." Jungkook tries to explain. "I'm known as the son of a guy who knocked up a human prostitute. I'm a bastard who never lived up to his father's expectations." He growls mostly. "I'm nothing but a joke to most people who know my father. And you'll be nothing but a joke either, if you continue to travel with me." He turns towards you, looking over his shoulder at your knees- unable to quite face you fully.

"You're Jungkook." You say, and he freezes- before he slowly let's his eyes travel upwards to your face, eyes swirling colors, emotions unsure.

"..what?" He breathes out, genuinely unsure. He knows who he is. What the hell do you mean by that?

"You're Jungkook." You repeat, shrugging. "You're a shipcaptain. A vendor. Traveler." You start to count, and his irises start to change- slowly seemingly settling into a soft, warm hazel- timid, but appreciative almost.

Looking up the meanings of colors in your free time is really starting to pay off.

"You're not your father. Or your mother." You shake your head. "Neither will you be like your children, if you ever have some. I'm not like my parents either, and neither is anyone else." You explain. "We're all just in control of ourselves. The only life I have any control over is my own, and the only life you have control over is yours." You tell him, slowly moving a bit closer as he leans his head down to look at the floor again. "You can't change your past. You can't erase it either."

"So I'm just cursed with it." He scoffs at no one.

"Just as long as you don't accept it." You shrug next to him, your legs now dangling off the edge of the bed, bare feet swinging back and forth next to his boots which are firmly planted on the floor. "The moment you accept that that's a part of you, you can move on. Because you maybe can't change your past-" You say, bumping your shoulder into his side to lift the mood a little. "-but you can control your future."

"What's the point if no one cares about anything but that?" He argues, eyes a grim grey color. "It doesn't matter. I don't want you to be stuck with.. a label like that too." He shakes his head.

"I'm not like you though." You huff, crossing your arms, making him look at you. "I don't care."

"You don't care that people will think I'm just doing the same thing he did?" He challenges, looking at you with a fiery gaze. This is not going according to his plan. "You're telling me you don't give a shit about the fact that everyone who knows him, will see you and immediately think of you as nothing but a sex slave?" he argues, standing up to instead stand in front of you, hands pushing into the mattress right next to your thighs, face only inches from yours. "You don't get to lie to me and say that you don't care about that." He growls. "I don't accept you sitting here, trying to convince me that you won't mind being known as the human plaything of the bastard who couldn't even earn his spot in the crew of a slave trader." He growls.

"I don't mind." You answer, summoning all of your confidence not to flinch, even with his angry red gaze on you, noses almost touching.

"Why." He quietly sneers, clearly agitated. "How can you not care?!" He barks at you, and you do lean back a tiny bit at that- heart beating a bit faster from the sheer force of his emotions.

"If a tree falls down in the woods and no one's around to hear it, does it make a sound?" you ask, and it's almost comical how his eyes flash a surprised white, entire body flinching back in confusion. "It's a saying on earth." You explain. "If you don't take a picture of a sunset, was it really as pretty as you remember?" You ask, and he seems entirely caught off guard.

"I don't.. understand." He admits. You giggle.

"Me calling you a bird doesn't make you one." You explain with a smile. And that, seems to click with him, as he looks at you with what you can only describe as genuine surprise. As if he's never really.. thought about it like that.

And then, you lean forward- arms pulling him closer, as you rest your head against his shoulder, holding him for a good moment.

Something he simply lets happen, because you're right.

He is in control of his life.

"I'm scared of you." He confesses, and you're a bit surprised, letting go of him as he stands upright again, arms crossed, eyes a pinkish hue.

"huh?" You ask, unsure what he's talking about.

"I.. enjoy your company." He admits. "I want you to stay. But at the same time, I want you to stay away from me." He tells you.

"..why?" You wonder, his words not making any sense.

"Because you can hurt me." He explains. "Maybe not physically- but emotionally."

"…oh." You realize what he's talking about, and now it's you who's looking away. "I mean.. uh.. I mean you're really handsome, don't get me wrong! But-" You stammer, a little bashful now. And the worst thing is that now, he seems oddly confident again- as if that was all he needed to connect the dots that you're not the only one developing deeper interest in the other.

"Handsome, huh?" He comments, arms crossed, gaze playfully pink.

"I uh- yeah? But uhm.. I mean, you know.. we're kind of just starting to really talk, so.." You mumble, looking away now. What the hell? Since when are you this shy? And how have you not noticed him not even wearing his usual uniform jacket? Those tattoos fill up his entire arm-

"That we do." He nods, feeling oddly light now that he's.. talked about this, to anyone. "And I'd.. like to continue to talk to you." He offers, making you look up at him again.

And somehow, you can read the message he's actually trying to tell you, between the lines of those words.

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You're putting a bag on the free spot near his control station, causing him to look at you with a questioning gaze.

You've both agreed on a few rules now that you're staying during his.. well, mating season issue. One of them is to keep physical contact to a minimum, and other general rules are to leave him alone if he asks you to, or to take some time to wake up before walking into the command central- though you're not sure what that one's about. It's all stuff you can follow easily though- especially if it makes him more comfortable being around you. "what's this?" He wonders, opening the bag, finding multiple, small yarn animals inside.

"I'm being productive!" You exclaim proudly. "Maybe we could sell them at our next stop? I'm sure someone has like.. maybe a currency or two left over to pay for one of them." You propose, but much to your surprise, he seems rather conflicted over it, pulling one out to inspect. It's a mouse, black bead eyes staring at him. "You don't think so?" You wonder, and he shrugs.

"No, it's not that.." He mumbles. "But.. you don't have to earn money." He tells you.

"I know. But I want to." You explain yourself. "And, the ship is already full of them. We can sell those too-" You say, reaching for a short snake hanging from a screw slightly poking out the metal casing of the control screen, when he reaches out first, snatching it almost protectively away from you first.

"No-!" He barks, looking around with a sharp, cautiously yellow gaze. "…those can stay." He clears his throat, hanging the little knitted animal back where it was, adjusting it's position so it faces him. "We're not going to land anywhere within the next few weeks anyways. We'll fuel at outposts instead." He tries to justify.

"Jungkook.. we can't hoard all of them here." You giggle, and he looks to the side at that, clearly feeling called out.

"..I'm not hoarding them. I'm just saying you don't have to.. work, or anything like that." He argues back, trying to occupy himself with the control panel.

"I know. But, with the money I get from maybe selling them, I could buy more yarn or something." You shrug, sitting on one of the nearby server boxes.

"..what's wrong with me buying it for you?" He growls a bit offended, jaw clenched. You know this is probably just his hormones making him act like that, but it's still a little funny to tease him.

"Nothing!" You laugh. "I just wanna be independent. Earn my spot." You explain.

"You don't have to earn shit." He denies, tapping away on the touch panel in front of him. "...but I guess if you want to. Don't need my permission anyways." He huffs annoyed, making you laugh as you look at him almost pout to himself, trying to appear all busy when in reality, you know that the course he's flying is a safe route the autopilot has flown numerous times before.

"Hey Jungkook?" You ask, and he looks up at that, showing you his attention has been caught. "I like you." You say, and the look on his face is quite literally the most hilarious and wholesome thing you've ever seen -

Eyes wide open, round and filled with a shy blue, before it melts into pink, seconds until he closes them, and holds a hand in front of them to shield himself.

"Timeout, you demon!" He barks out, opening the main door for you. "Get out!" He yells, though it's clear that he doesn't mean it in an evil or genuinely upset manner.

Because even though you do as he says, laughing on your way to your room, he does later check in to make sure he's not actually mad at you- though it's rather sent as a text message on the control screen in your room, instead of spoken words.

Small steps, you think to yourself. Small steps.

[oddberryshortcake]

Hello again! Same anon who was asking you about your writing rules! Thanks for letting me know, didn’t wanna just throw something at you without knowing if you were interested yet 😅

Anyways, you seem to be a fan of Silver based off of what i’ve read from you so far (I love him he’s my favorite ❤️), so I was wondering if you could write a scenario on what you think it would have looked like when Silver told Lilia and Malleus that he found out about his origins from Lilia’s dream?

I hate how they left that completely unaddressed because of how important it is to Silver’s character and his relationship with the Diafam. 😭

THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST! I had a lot of fun writing this. I feel the same as you. I have hope that book 8 might continue some of Silver's plot, but in case it doesn't, at least you can make me write these fics because this kind of stuff is my favorite lol

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Despite their promise, Silver was given very few opportunities to speak with his father. 

He didn’t remember much of what happened after the aftermath. He cried his heart out, smothered in the embrace of his family on the floor of Diasomnia’s entrance. Then, all of a sudden, he woke up in a hospital. 

Thankfully, Sebek was in the bed beside him and explained what happened. Malleus and Lilia went to STYX, they were taken to a general hospital in the foothill town of Sage’s Island. He had also been asleep for two days. 

Figures that old habit of his would rear its ugly head after he enjoyed the perks of being fully alert in the realm of dreams. By the time he was fully awake again, his hair had lost its golden color once more and his father’s silver blessing returned to him. 

His blessing…When he got the opportunity to do a video call with his father, he was quick to point out the change in a humorous way. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to your natural hair color? You could dye it like I do!” Lilia suggested and skirted around why his hair had changed color in the first place. 

Silver had been led to believe he looked like that his whole life, and Lilia never delved deeper into the true story willingly. It was a complete accident that Silver knew. 

So he thought, maybe his father wasn’t ready to talk about such things after all. He doesn’t know the full scope of what Silver experienced in the darkness, and perhaps the shame of Silver seeing him in his General days was enough for him to talk about trivial things during their call instead of what Silver actually wanted. 

Knowing now that Lilia and even Malleus knew of his origins the entire time, and the lengths they went to not discuss such things around him, made Silver feel compelled to keep his own secrets as well. 

His reaction in the pits of despair might’ve been what they had feared would happen. It’d just upset them if they knew, and he was fine…No need to bring up stuff from the past, he should be happy that everyone is alive. 

Except, as much as he was accepting of this now, there was still a piece of him that was still deeply affected by his past. Everything was so much simpler when he believed he was the physical age he was now, that his past never reached past the little cottage in the woods he grew up in. 

When he reunited with the rest of his family again at Wildrose Castle, after the ecstasy and joy he felt at his formal adoption, after he got to speak to the ghosts of his biological parents, after the spell that had made the palace feel alive again had dissipated into the dawn…He was left standing where his cradle still stood, trapped in a moment of time and surrounded by briar…Just as he was.

He spent 400 years in this cradle as the world moved on without him. Had Lilia not found him, this would’ve been where he remained for all eternity, never to join the waking world or be loved by anyone else. 

For as long as he lives past this point, he will never spend as much time in this life as he did in this cradle, and that filled him with a strange wistful feeling. 

“Silver,” Lilia calls out to him. 

Silver looks away from the cradle, which he spent far too long entranced by, and realizes that a majority of the guests had left, leaving him and his family in the remains of his old home. 

“You seemed particularly lost in thought, are you tired?” Malleus inquires. 

He is, but he was always like that. Maybe there was more to his habit than he previously thought…But that wasn’t what was on his mind. He wanted to speak. 

“I was just remembering what happened here.” He said, gesturing to the cradle, “I spent so much time here, It’s a strange feeling to see it again.” 

Malleus and Lilia look at each other like they both want to say something, but neither speaks up.  Sebek is the one who fills in the space. 

“I could hardly believe it myself when I realized you and Dawn Knight were related and not distant ancestors.” Sebek said, “Now that I think about it…Maybe he was that light that was guiding me through Lilia’s memories to find you, I assume you experienced the same?”

“Yes, I saw it all.” Silver replies, then speaks to Lilia directly, “I remember when you found me here, Father.” 

Lilia’s expression turns soft, reminding him of the rare times his father expressed concern around him. The way he knitted his eyebrows together was reminiscent of his worst illnesses, when Father didn’t know he was awake and couldn’t prepare to hide his worry with a smile. 

“Dawn Knight had hurt you and Malleus in such horrible ways. There was no reason for you two to care for me the way you did. Father had the chance to kill me then…But he didn’t.” Silver says, “Malleus could’ve ended me when he learned of my origins, but he didn’t. You both kept me alive, taught me so many things, and loved me despite it all. Because of you, I’ve become an adult. I can never thank you enough for that.”

“Silver,” Malleus calls out to him, voice soft but firm, “Neither of us wanted to bring up what happened because we wanted you to have a happy birthday. But now I’m going to use this chance to say this…I am so sorry.” 

Malleus is the one crying now, not sobbing but Silver can see some tears gather on the edges of his eyes. Still, he’s the one holding Silver’s hand in his own, the way he and Lilia used to when he was little.

“You never should have found out the way that you did. Lilia and I wanted to discuss your origins with you when you were older, but we didn’t know how.” Malleus adds. 

“Silver, you have to know. That dark thought I had, it was so brief. I swear to you I have never felt anything like that since.” Lilia joins in, almost sounding frantic, “While we never wanted to hide these truths from you, my shameful part of me was something I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want to scare you away like I did before.” 

Here these two are, holding his hands like he’s still a little child. He almost laughs, because of course they still see him this way. His life will be brief, and he’s growing up before they have the chance to really process it. 

In their mind, by the time he truly passes away, he’ll have been ‘far too young’ by fae standards. 

Though it hurts, perhaps the greatest part of being the only human in a fae family is that he has gained a better understanding of his loved ones faster than it would ever be possible for a fae. 

“I’m not a child anymore. You can’t scare me away.” Silver says, “I was upset at first, confused, and afraid. It was hard to fathom how anyone who has been hurt like you could have ever love someone like me. But Sebek reminded me that you didn’t raise me out of hate, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Lilia shakes his head and chuckles, now he’s getting nearly as emotional as Malleus. Silver had never actually seen his father cry besides the memories he regained and looked into in the dream world. 

“Look at you, you’ve seen the worst of us and you still persevered to save us all. That goodness you have is authentically who you are. I’ve done nothing to influence that.” Lilia insists, and he reaches up to ruffle up his hair, “How could I not love you? You made it so easy to.”

Maybe he was blind to all everyone saw in him, because he simply did what he thought was right, what he could pay forward for being saved and taken care of all those years ago. Everything that everyone, from the past into the present, did to bring him here, was he truly the gift that came out of all that sacrifice? 

“I’m so lucky that in all my long life, I get the chance to share some of it with you.” Lilia added, “And I get to watch you grow up more, you’re the real blessing.” 

“I could not have said it better myself,” Malleus says, regaining his composure, “Silver, please bless us with many more years with you. I know I cannot extend your life to that of a fae’s, and it saddens me now to picture a life where you aren’t in it. But that just makes the time we spend now all the more meaningful.”

With his heart full, he smiles widely in a way that was very uncommon for him. At this moment, he didn’t even feel tired. 

Their moment was broken up by the loud choking sobs of Sebek struggling to hold his tears in. He had been oddly silent the entire time, and yet somehow ended up the most emotional out of all of them. 

“I-I’m s-so lucky too!” He struggles to word out. 

Silver grabbed Sebek’s arm and dragged him into their now group hug. 

Maybe they were all lucky that amidst the war, pain, and loss of the past, they found this sweet little spot in time where they could all be together. He woke up for that reason. 

He didn’t even mind that he slept on the way back to NRC, because there would be far more opportunities to speak with his family in the future. 

[ghcstao3]

If I were to portray someone unbelievably pathetic and without any hope, would you give me another part of your #anyway mildly supernatural au?

I'll get down on my knees and pray to any god you want.

Just please give me more please.

do not even Fret i would have written more for absolutely nothing in return anyway because i just love writing AUs so much (if you could not already tell)

fun fact this is version 2.0 of what i wanted to write because tumblr didn’t save a draft and i lost everything 🫶 not edited

-

So much and so little time feel like they’ve passed simultaneously as John waits out the rain with Simon—and oddly enough, not once has he seen the bottom of his styrofoam cup of coffee in spite of the plentiful sips he’s certain he’s taken.

In any case.

He and Simon chat aimlessly to fill the minutes, hours, whatever it’s been—something just beyond small talk, though not by much. Not until Simon decides to face John with a rather puzzling question.

“So, then, what brings you here?”

John furrows his brow. “My car broke down,” he says slowly. He can’t help the confusion and tinge of curiosity that melt into his voice, nor can he help wondering why Simon would ask for an answer he already knows.

Yet Simon shakes his head. “No—what brings you here?”

A frown tugs at John’s lips, his eyebrows drawing ever closer. “Dinnae ken.” He shrugs helplessly, tries a different reply, “A road trip?”

Simon hums only as acknowledgment. It’s clear in the way he narrows his eyes and scrutinizes John’s face that it’s still not the answer he’s looking for.

“You’re lost,” Simon concludes.

John scoffs. “Am no’!” He exclaims, frustration laced in his tone as he folds his arms almost defensively across his chest. “I was followin’ a GPS!”

“You are,” Simon insists. “Just not in the way you think.”

With a huff, John drops his arms, instead reaching to curl his fingers back around the still-warm cup of coffee. His frown deepens. “How do you mean?”

Simon tilts his head, gaze ever-analytic. “You’re lucky,” he replies cryptically. “Or unlucky, depending on how you choose to look at it. Not many humans manage to get here.”

Now John is beyond confused. Of course, Simon had been all sorts of vague and avoidant throughout their interactions, but this? John is beginning to think this man might not be all… there.

“Human…?” John swallows. He shifts his weight between weary feet. “Why would I be anything but?”

Simon takes a step away from the counter, rounds past John only to stop at the large window looking out into a small, crumbling lot and the forest beyond the road, all blurred by heavy rain. John realizes with a start that he hadn’t really seen Simon move before that—hadn’t seen deliberate steps, the way he almost glides across the space; graceful, soundless.

It’s almost—dare John say—supernatural.

“Well, you see, Johnny,” Simon says with a mild air of amusement, and John has barely any time to process that Simon knows his name despite it never having been given as he continues, “there’s often a lot more than meets the eye in this world we live in. It just appears you’ve looked in the right place for once.”

“I don’t understand.”

Simon turns back to him, then, the glint in his eyes that same hint of unnatural as his movements. They flash, a glare almost like that of a cat’s in the dark of night.

“I don’t expect you to.”

Simon looks away from John again, a broad figure against the pale grey light that filters inside. John’s heart stutters even as he willingly brings himself closer to Simon.

“The rain will stop soon,” Simon states disinterestedly. It hardly appears like the storm would let up any time soon—the sky is still stained with dark and angry clouds—but Simon says it with such unimpressed, unwavering confidence that John thinks he may as well believe him.

“Will it?” John challenges anyway.

Simon shrugs. “Not unless you don’t want it to.”

John huffs out a quiet laugh. As strange as Simon and everything he’s said is, and as much as John has questioned everything else, he decides he’ll humour the man.

“Maybe just a bit longer, then.”

After all, John hasn’t hated lingering in the store. No harm in indulging in such silly thoughts as controlling the weather.

Simon nods. The corners of his eyes pull upward as if he’s smiling beneath the mask he’s still refused to remove. Briefly, John wonders what other things Simon may be hiding beneath it.

Simon concurs, “Then so it is.”

[a-confused-spoon]

TDP s6: Soren, Viren and missing the point (1/2)

I’ve seen some discussion surrounding the topic of whether or not book 6 of The Dragon Prince did justice to the complicated relationship between the male components of the mage fam, and as someone who fell in love with the writing of the show (in the first three seasons), as well as someone who relates to Soren’s struggle with Viren, I wanted to share my two cents. Of course, those are filtered through my very own lens, so none of what I’m going to say is ill intended or means to be disrespectful to the writers, cast, crew or fans that enjoyed what we got in book 6. I just really want to share my own thoughts because the direction this show has been taking these past few years is eating me up alive😊

*clears throat*

SPOILERS FOR THE DRAGON PRINCE SEASON 6!

What I find really frustrating and unsatisfying is that the scenes of confrontation between father and son that we got in s6 are done in a way that seemingly wants to punish Viren more than it wants to empower Soren- even though the scenes taken singularly are extremely well done, from the voice acting to the animation to the mood of it all... the problem arises only when looking at things according to the very principles the series tries to convey.

Just so that we’re all on the same boat here: the core theme of the series is the difference between power and true strength, and more specifically how the latter comes in the shape of only apparent weaknesses, such as love, vulnerability and forgiveness- all things that ultimately aim at connection.

Here’s the thing:

While yes, acting or not acting this way is a personal choice, Soren doesn’t really seem to choose to not to forgive Viren; rather he’s portrayed as uncapable of doing the opposite, meaning that he isn't really given the chance to be ‘strong’ according to the series’ values. It's one thing to say that Soren doesn't forgive his dad despite the change Viren went through because Soren doesn't owe him that, but it's a whole other thing to say that Soren doesn't forgive his dad because he refuses to believe said change happened in the first place (which by the time they meet again in s6 it’s just plainly untrue, but I’ll talk about Viren in part 2).

Now, since Soren is pretty much fine whenever Viren isn’t around, and since forgiveness is a part of the core theme of the series, what one could assume that Soren already forgave him and went on with his life for 2 years with no problem because he was at peace with what happened (which is the point of the act of forgiving, not only here but in real life too). Then Viren shows up again, and there’s a state of shock…the first time. Soren meets Viren in the Drakewood and we got no interaction between them, and whatever, that’s fine. Maybe he was processing it all.

The scenario in which they meet here however it’s very different: Soren is told ahead of time and he willingly goes to see his father despite no one forcing him to, as if he couldn't help it (at least up to a certain point).

This, unlike the state of shock that may or may have not been the reason they didn’t face one another sooner, isn’t a situation that should take away Soren’s capacity to stand up to his abuser with pride that he displayed all the way back in s3: does anybody remember that? How in the finale Soren was super ready for a confrontation right then and there, not as a hurt kid but as a confident and secure young man?

Yet this time, Soren isn’t depicted as capable of proudly facing the source of his pain to begin with, for whatever reason. Here he’s either numb, mad or sad, framed as a broken boy who can only live happily if he full on ignores what hurt him, which is far from the idea of moving on. Even in the optic where this is a form of stepping up for himself, considering that (as I mentioned) he was already capable of it and we already know how deeply hurt he was by Viren, the interactions we get in s6 give us nothing that we didn’t already know.

Since this is (probably) the last chance the two will have at conversation, there should've been more to it this time around. Some kind of proper conclusion before parting ways: that would be closure.

If Soren couldn’t forgive Viren when the latter was believed dead and didn’t have to face him at all once, it was probably due to the lack of closure (or by principle, I’ll get to that in a second), which could be the reason why he kept going back to the dungeon, though unaware of it; at this point it’s easy to see that, in order for the relationship to center the point the overall story is trying to make (or to barely allow a character that has suffered as much as Soren to finally heal), having closure here was a must, especially if they intended for him to go through the same thing twice.

As someone who has lived a similar situation as Soren has with Viren I say this with all the bitterness possible: for better or worse, forgiveness it’s something you do for your own sake of moving forward. I think that a lot of people, in general, mistake forgiveness for reconciliation.

The issue isn't that these two characters don’t reconcile, if anything, that's something that I liked and actually hoped for; the issue is that if closure and forgiveness are about inner peace (and they are), and not about reconciliation (and they're not), both things being denied now is unfair at best, and cruel at worst.

For anyone who claims that the entire thing was "realistic", please keep in mind that this is a fictional story where the characters are either rewarded or punished at the mercy of the writers, not to mention that said fictional story also wants to deliver a very clear moral message, meaning that most of the big character moments should bare minimum lean towards said message.

Even assuming this wasn’t the case, that forgiveness not being granted here is for the best and it doesn’t ruin the overall message of the story, Soren still deserved closure; he could have then decided to not forgive his father.

But okay- let's say that all of what I’ve been typing so far here isn't true and that Soren not believing his father was perfect: it could have, admittedly, somewhat worked if they had Soren, an emotionally smart and open-minded guy, actually hear his father out before… I don’t know, calling him out on his hypocrisy perhaps, for apologizing for mistreatment when there’s so much more he did, or for claiming to be a changed man when he puts the responsibility of fixing what he caused onto others by asking to serve someone else and that’s because he doesn't know how to be good man on his own, or how he chose to not pick up the pieces of what he left behind and brings up Viren's decision to leave behind his sister, who will likely fall into Aaravos's arms out of desperation… something.

What I'm getting at is that anything would have been satisfying if at least they allowed the characters to truly communicate with one another, regardless of the outcome, instead the possibility of real confrontation being denied to them so a spectacle can be made of Viren's guilt and unaccepted apologies.

‘Cause no, if one of the characters actively chooses not to listen to what the other one is saying, it’s not an actual confrontation, it’s barely a conversation. It’s just dialogue.

Aside from the logistics of it all, I've rewatched book 1, 2 and 3 about a hundred times during the hiatus, and I confidently believe (though this is 100% my own reading of the character) that among other things, everything that happens between Soren and Viren here fails to consider the kind of person Soren is at heart: he would never say something like "I want to see you suffer"; he would never angrily punch a wall (or, in this case, the dungeon’s bars). Those obviously aren’t unreasonable reactions, they are just out of character. To make a real-life example, if you were to go outside and a random man started screaming at you, it’d be understandable for you to scream back, just like it would be for you to freeze or run away; it all depends on who you are as a person.

Soren isn’t the type who’d get physically violent as a result of emotional outbursts* against a person he loves (if he isn't completely apathetic it's because he still cares, despite everything), nor the one who’d deliberately be mean to said someone, even when hurt, angry and would have all the right to be mean. What the hell happened to “he's cruel, but you don’t have to be” or whatever he said in s5?

He just isn’t that kind of person at all. If anything, Soren would very likely find it in him to be happy for his father while still not wanting him in his life anymore.

[*edit: this one specifically isn't just a matter of character, but also a matter of discipline: Soren is literally a trained soldier. I get why Callum would punch someone in the face during an adrenaline rush due to feeling intense anger and stress, but Soren was able to keep his cool not only when the pain of seeing Viren's "true colors" was fresh, but when at the very same time the man was being a threat to Ezran's life (so even according to Crownguard code he would have had a pass to immediately react)... maybe that's why it strikes me as odd]

Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed this season far more than what it might seem, but since Soren is the only reason I stuck around after the massive disappointment that was s4, I really really wanted this moment to be the absolute best, and at least personally I feel like this was just not it… but I’m crossing my fingers, hoping that maybe, in one way or another, they will give Soren his moment of acceptance and allow him to truly move on.

Something that I can’t hope anymore for Viren…

[vickymalric]

Last Communication—

Booting up . . .

HYDRA database breached by Asset Ember-9.

Alarms deactivated.

Good Afternoon, Doctor Malric.

//Disclaimer: this may include potentially triggering subjects. Read at your own risk.

//Tags so this doesn’t die: @eponastory @lunamarvels @the1-and-only-peggycarter @thund3randrain @insomniac-lifestyle @under0-0s @th3blackcatt

Victoria Malric stepped off of the ship. Well, it was more of a struggled hobble— since she was currently on crutches. Her body was mangled, bearing electrical burns, cuts, and bruises. Bandages were wrapped around her throat. Blood stained them- the bandages- and they were somewhat dirty. The woman stepped onto the docks. Two years ago, if you'd told her she'd be back here for an escape, she would have called you crazy. Not just crazy, no, downright insane. HYDRA was her home, so why would she ever want to escape them? Why would she ever think about leaving them? Self-discovery. She hated to admit it, but she needed the help of James Buchanan Barnes and his wife. It wasn't just that she hated to admit it, she wouldn't. She still believed HYDRA could fix her right now. She was in that in between where she needed help and she knew it, but she wouldn't dare go to get it because she believed there was something that could be done about her defection. That's why she'd requested to be sent to the New York base. But something had shifted over the past two years. It started with the loss of Asset Striker- Callum James. The way his family spent every ounce of energy trying to get him back. Even after she lied about being his mother. She thought, at that time, it would make them love him less, but they didn't even falter. Not once. Not a single bit. No, instead they offered up another baby- they offered up another life- to get him back. There was a time when her family would have done that. It was a blurry, distant memory. But her mother and father would have done that for her once. Her brother would have risked it all once. All of her siblings would have. But she fell back into her normal habits after that incident. Once she returned- she'd been somewhat normal. Then it happened again. And again. She started to lash out at her coworkers, started to get angry at what they were doing. They shut her up quick- throwing her into what they labeled "therapy." It worked for a while. Until it didn't. Around the six-month mark of her having returned from New York after the CJ incident, she broke again. She started a small operation with her four youngest assets aged 14, 16, 16, and 17. She began treating them with kindness behind closed doors and, instead of programming them, she deprogrammed them. Or she did her best to. She was the one who had done it in the first place, so she knew how to undo it. Four assets, before anyone had even noticed, were gone. She had helped them escape. She'd taken them to an airport and paid for their flights to the Americas. She had given them information on how to find the Underground- she told them they'd be safe there- and sent them off with money, clothes, and everything they would have needed to survive whilst they were searching for the underground. There were repercussions for that. She was beaten half to death. And when she started showing signs of defecting again? She was tortured until she couldn't move. That was last month. It was now that she was finally able to function enough to move once more. She was here for assets in the New York facility. That wasn't all, though. Now she was here to retrieve those she had willingly let go- no, that she had helped- and she had to return them to HYDRA. She was barely functioning on her own. She couldn't do much more that hobble around and eventually collapse. She couldn't move her hands enough to eat much on her own, much less conduct any experiments they expected of her. She was yearning for an escape- for someone to rescue her- but she also knew that she had a job. A mission, really. Those needed to be done at all costs. Why? Because Victoria Malric did not fail.

However, she had gone MIA three hours ago. They didn't know where she was, but she was hiding in a burrow in the Underground… hoping that she would find herself again. She hoped she would find herself and return to her normal, scientific, HYDRA self. Or not. She was fighting herself internally, really. Help HYDRA or escape and become who she wants to be. She knew things they didn't know she knew… and that's where it became a problem.

But for now, she was content just lying in the abandoned little place she'd found and, well… rotting to say the least. It wasn't like she could do much more anyways- dirt under her nails, years of it, and blood soaking through her bandages. She needed help, but she wasn't quite willing to get it.

She hoped she would find herself- whoever that was. The scientist? The soldier? The traitor? She didn't know. But she hoped she would find her- and fast. Because things were starting to go south, and she didn't know how much longer she'd be alive.

[ariundercovers]

Withholding (Din Djarin x Reader)

Summary: Din has been holding something back from you. He finally willingly gives it.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader (one female gender descriptor used @ the end)

Word count: ~2k

Warnings: fluff, marshmallows, and feely good feelings. A flagon of angst at the very beginning if you squint with some reading glasses on.

A/n: This is very dialogue heavy - not my usual style of writing! It's super plotty for being a fluffy fic so, idk. we'll just try it out. As always - let me know what you think!

It was just about a week since the three of you settled in the small cabin on Nevarro. You and Din were happily seated outside under the small awning, Grogu off playing with the other school-aged students for the time being. There was a comfortable silence between you for some time when Din finally broke it unceremoniously.

“I commed Bo Katan yesterday.”

You turn to look at him, surprised. “Oh? And?”

“She asked me if I had taken you as my riduur yet, and then she told me I was a kriffing moron. Her words.” You’re surprised at the response, assuming it would have been something regarding Mandalore, but then you chuckle. 

“Sounds about right.”

He nods his head almost imperceptively. “She made me realize many things. I owe you a lot.”

You turn fully to him, eyebrows scrunched together in concern. “What? No, you don’t owe me anything.”

He sits up a little straighter and it feels like his visor is burrowing into your very soul with the intensity he is giving off. “I do though. I owe you much. I know you were disappointed when I took Grogu as my own in the mines, in front of all the other Mandalorians, but I did not offer the same to you. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, no… It’s okay. I understand. I know I’m not Mandalorian, and, well, honestly I’m just happy with whatever you can give me. I don’t need more.” 

He sighs, always overwhelmed by the selflessness you exhibit to a fault, especially when it comes to him and the kid. 

“But it’s not okay. I have been withholding things from you, and that’s not right. You have given me everything, you have shared all of yourself with me, but I have not offered you the same. I can give you more than this.”

He pauses briefly before continuing. “It never felt like the right time. I’ve had nothing to offer you - no home, no stability. Just running into the abyss and a wizard of a tiny green child.”

You laugh at his description of your lives over the past few years. “I love running into the abyss with you. And I love your tiny green child.”

He leans into you abruptly. “Ours, cyare. Our tiny green child.” 

You hum in response. You know he’s right, even if it’s hard to admit to yourself. “I don’t need anything from you, Din. Just you. I don’t need a home, or a ship. I don’t need stability. I just need you and Grogu. I’ll run into the abyss for the rest of my life if it means I get to have the two of you.”

He leans back in the chair a little bit, looking out over the fields that sprawl in front of your little home. “I know that now. But I wanted so badly to be able to provide for you in some way. I was starting to think the Crest was enough of a home for us, but just as I was coming to terms with that, Gideon showed up and we lost the kid. I needed to have something for you. You deserve something. You are an amazing mother, and an even better partner. You are… everything to me. You are the planets, the suns, and all the stars in my galaxy.”

“Din…” You can feel yourself blushing as he overwhelms you with compliments. It’s too much to wrap your brain around.

“I mean it. We finally have a moment here - a small slice of normal. Something… real, maybe even permanent. But it’s still not complete because I have one thing more I need to offer you, to let you choose.”

You turn your head toward him, brows scrunching in confusion. You’re curious, unsure exactly where he’s going with it.

“Cyar’ika, I want nothing more than to have you as my riduur, my kin. You are already part of my clan but I want you to be mine and I yours, completely. I… would you make a riduurok with me? Be my riduur?”

You knew what a riduur was - at least a little bit. The first time you had met her, Bo-Katan mistakenly assumed you already made a riduurok. She explained it to you a bit then. The first time you met Paz, he huffed about letting an aruetii in - that Din needed to be a real Mandalorian and choose his riduur already.

“I’ve been wondering if you would ever ask. I was starting to think you couldn’t ask me… Or wouldn’t, maybe.” Your eyes dart down to your lap, where you’re fiddling with your hands.

“I know. I never should have made you wait this long.”

You look up to him, meeting his visor. “Surely you must know I would have said yes, right? If you had asked me before.”

He nods back at you. “I know. This wasn’t about you, it was all me. And I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you many cycles ago.” 

You smile softly and pull on of his hands into your lap, craving the friction of his skin against yours. “How does it work? Is there a ceremony?”

You slowly unlatch the buckle of his glove, loosening each finger. “No. It’s always done in private. You exchange a set of vows in Mando’a.”

You pause, to look at him with a concerned expression. “I’m gonna fuck them up.”

He puffs out a chuckle and turns his hand over so you have easy access to the alm. “Doesn’t matter. It’s about the intention behind them.” 

You nod your head in agreement, pulling his glove the rest of the way off and tucking it off to the side. “Will you let me? Let me take you as my riduur?”

You revel in the feeling of his bare skin upon your own as you contemplate how you’ll answer - of course you know the answer you’ll give him already, but you have to figure out how you’ll actually say it. You lace your fingers in his own. “Yes, Din. Of course, I will.”

He stares, unmoving.

“Just like that, you say yes to marrying a person you’ve never even seen before?”

You sigh, immediately understanding where this line of questioning was going. Din was always a self-deprecating soul - someone who didn’t understand how he could deserve, or earn, happiness in his life. Someone who saw himself as a means to an end more than as anything else. 

“Din… I’ve seen enough of you to know you’re human. That’s good enough for me. I don’t need to see you to know I love you.”

His helmet droops, looking away. “You’ve never wondered?”

You shake your head no. “Not really. I try not to let myself. I respect you and your Creed far too much to allow my thoughts to go down that road.”

“What if I’m ugly? Beneath all the beskar?”

You tilt your head to the side and smile genuinely at him. There’s that self-deprecation creeping in again. “A man as good as you could never be. I see you, Din Djarin, through all the beskar. And Din Djarin the man - not Din Djarin the Mandalorian - is a kind and compassionate soul. He’s an honorable and righteous man, a great father, and a very worthy romantic partner. You could never be ugly to me, because that is how I see you, helmet or not.”

He doesn’t move, only speaks lowly, nearly a whisper.“What if I’m… disfigured? Or horrifying? Or something else?”

You smile again, rubbing the back of his hand as you hope to settle his nerves. You can tell he has built all this up into something major in his mind. “Then I’d learn to love that, too. But it doesn’t matter, because I will never, ever, ask you to break your Creed for me.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, pleasant as you stare into his visor, hoping that any change might alert you to his current mental state. He’s the first one to break the silence.

“I know you wouldn’t ask it. It’s part of the vows.”

You blink a few times, not understanding. “What’s part of the vows?”

He responds quickly. “I have to show you my face.”

You’ll feel badly about it later, but in the moment you’re so taken aback by it that your voice raises and comes out like a blaster shot. “You what?”

You can hear a audible deep sigh through the modulator, his tone exasperated. “We vow to share all with one another. I have to share this, too. There are no secrets between riduurs. It’s why they’re always done in private.”

You squeak out an “oh”, but that’a all you can manage.

“Do you… still want to? If you don’t, I wouldn’t…”

You shift quickly, gathering both of his hands in your own as you pull yourself closer to him. You want him to see that you are serious about this. “Yes. Kriff, yes, of course I do.”

“Even if…” You shake your head and cut him off before he can start.

“No. Din. Even if I could never see your face. Even if you were the most conventionally ugly human in the entire galaxy. I. Want. To. Marry. You.” He nods a little bit in acceptance. “How soon can we do it?”

Shifting in his seat, he squeezes your hands back in his own. “Whenever you want, cyar’ika. It’s just us.”

You look toward the barren lands in front of you and then back to him. “Can we do it now? Here?”

He sighs again, and you can tell how baadly this conversation must have been wearing on his soul. “If that’s what you want, yes.”

“Then tell me the vows.”

He’s visibly taken aback by your sudden response, floored by the way you’ve been responding to him since he first brought this all up. “You… really? Right now?”

You sit up in the chair a little more, smiling, waiting, hopeful “I’ve waited long enough, Din - I’m not wasting another moment without you being mine. What are the vows, Din?”

He stutters out a response. Even though he knows these vows by heart, sharing them with you sends him spiraling into a nervousnss that he’s never felt before.“I, uh… T-There are four of them: Mhi solus tome. We are one when together. Mhi solus dar’tome. We are one when parted. Mhi me’dinui an. We share all. Mhi bajuri verde. We will raise warriors.”

You smile. The vows - like all things Mandalorian - are short and sweet. But that means that every vow - every word - every letter - means that much more. Din tells you each vow again, this time addressing you directly. He goes slowly, and helps you through each vowel that feels foreign on your tongue. You stumble the most over the last one - the heavy-handed language is like a sticky substance stuck to the roof of your mouth, but you make it through to the other side and you look at him, hopeful. 

There’s a lightness to your heart that you don’t recognize when Din tells you, “Then it is written in song, my riduur.”

Your face erupts into a wild grin, never having thought youd see the day that he would can you mine. “Riduur…” You test out the word on your tongue, feeling like you could have been floating on clouds.

His hands squeeze yours, pulling you out of your thoughts and back into the moment.

“Yes. My riduur, Lady Djarin.”  Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much for so long, but you just cant make yourself stop. You can’t help the expression that forms on your face at his words. 

“Lady Djarin. I like it.” He chuckles, smoothing one ungloved hand over your cheek. He grabs your hands in his and places them on either side of his helmet. 

“Help me fulfill the rest of my vows to you?” 

You nod your head, yes, knowing that this moment would be emblazoned in your memory forever. This evening would change everything. In a new house, on a new planet, with a newly christened relationship, and a tiny wizard of a green child, this is where you and Din finally became one. One clan, one partnership, one shared bond - forever.

And it turns out, you couldn’t wait.

riduur - spouse

riduurok - marriage/love bond

aruetii - outsider

cyare/cyar'ika - beloved one; term of endearment

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us In A Week - Chapter 8

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 4.8k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag List: @melancholicmelanin , @yvy1s, @honethatty12 A/N: Are yall mad at me 🙁🙁 Your outfit & Finnick's outfit.

Past (ix) - You

[19 & 20] - THE CAPITOL

You like Johanna, you decide after only a few minutes of talking to her. She’s clever and somehow always simmering with rage. With her stature and how meek she seemed in her interviews, even you were surprised by the 180 she did in the arena. It's easy to see how she won. 

It's admirable. Admittedly, your games were more animalistic than strategic. The careers had turned on each other pretty early on, leaving behind those who were desperate to stay alive. There was even a boy who resorted to cannibalism, eating the heart of any tribute he killed. His name was Titus. He was only thirteen. When they airlifted you out, it felt like you were taken out of the wilderness and brought into captivity.

You also note that despite her permanent scowl, or maybe because of it, she’s pretty. And that thought plants dread in your chest. You know the future for pretty, young victors.

Is this how Finnick felt when he first met you?

There are certainly ways around it. Though the consequences are pretty grim. Enobaria comes to mind. She won her games by ripping another tribute’s throat out with her teeth. An act of desperation turned into her main selling point. She was smart. Went to an extreme and sharpened her teeth to garner more Capitol appeal while simultaneously dissuading Snow from selling her body. She’s pretty, but no one’s jumping to get into bed with teeth like that.

And Haymitch…well, Haymitch wasn’t given much of a choice, considering Snow killed any leverage he might have had over him.

You make your rounds, jumping from group to group, barely being able to pull away from those who want your attention. Obviously, you aren’t mingling because you want to. There isn’t a single client you’d willingly interact with, ever. However, what you want doesn’t really matter at the end of the day. This is a fact made all the more apparent when you get cornered by a particularly tenacious Capitol.

Ursa Lowvale—a notable actress old enough to be your mother, with a surprising amount of political influence—has one hand caressing your cheek and the other holding your waist. Her makeup, in Capitol fashion, is cakey and clashing. The impulse to move away gets squashed down because no matter how long you’ve done this, it never ceases to amaze you how uncomfortable it is to be touched.

“Did you get the care package I sent you, dearest?" She asks, rubbing a thumb over your cheekbone. You take her hand from your face and move it to rest over your heart, just above your breast. Her touch makes you nauseous, but you play it off as if you’re showing your sincerity and not your disgust.

“I did. And I must say, your kindness knows no bounds.” You threw the package away immediately. You didn’t even bother looking inside. “You’re so giving.”

“Oh, I’m giving in all aspects. As I’m sure you know.” She moves her hand down to rest on the crest of your cleavage, and you play none the wiser to what she’s insinuating. That’s the personality you’ve cultivated over the past four years: shy, docile, naive—if not a bit ditzy. It’s that very image that ropes them in. Corrupting the ‘innocence’ of a victor sells well.

“I’ll be sure to set up another meeting sometime soon. It’s been far too long.” She leans down and places a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “I’ll be waiting.” 

You wait until she’s out of sight to drop your smile. You take a sip of champagne out of the flute, and then you take another. You’ll never drink enough at one of these events to lose your wits, but it doesn’t hurt to be a little tipsy. If more encounters like that happen, you’ll need it.

You stick to the outskirts of the party, savoring the limited solitude while it lasts. You watch on as Johanna turns another person down. You don’t know how they even work up the nerve to ask her to dance; she's far from welcoming. She seems to tolerate victors well enough, but anyone else—well, they should know better than to approach her.

You jump when toned arms slide around your waist, champagne sloshing out of your glass.

“Stunning as always, Star. ” He whispers, voice husky in your ear. You relax in his hold.

“Finnick Ewan Odair, I swear if you had made me drop this glass—” 

“I know, I know,” he smirks against your cheek and you can’t tamp down your smile. “Missed you.” He kisses your temple and moves back. It wouldn’t be perceived as strange for Finnick, of all people, to hang off of you, but you keep it to a minimum as a self-imposed rule. No one would blink twice at innocent affection in public, but you both know how easy it would be for the two of you to get carried away. There’s flirting, and then there’s flirting. 

“Mhm, I’m sure you did.” You chuckle into your drink, playing at being aloof, and he sighs dramatically.

“You see, now, normally, when somebody says they miss you, you’re supposed to say…?” He prompts with his hands and trails off. “C’mon, Star. I know you know this one.” You blink up at him, silent. He scoffs in faux offense, turning to walk away, and you drop the act.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” you laugh, pulling him back by one of his billowy sleeves to hook a finger in one of his belt loops, “I’m sorry. I missed you too.” In the past six months since Johanna’s games, you’ve only seen each other seven times. Odd, since you’ve both come to the Capitol at least twenty times combined, and usually, the two of you are brought in to work at the same time.

“Now, was that so hard?” He teases, and you poke him in his stomach, where he’s ticklish. The muscles in his abdomen twitch as he snorts unattractively. Or, it would have been if anyone other than Finnick did it. “You’ll catch a cold in that.” He points out with a quirk of his eyebrow and looks you up and down for longer than what’s strictly necessary. He’s referring to the newest dress your stylist stuffed you into. It seems like she gets more and more daring with each outfit. This time, you’re in a thin-strapped evening gown with an almost see-through corset bodice. There’s a slit up your left thigh reaching your hip. You try not to toddle in red heels that are too high.

One of his hands goes to your waist and moves you to sway with him to the music of the live orchestra. Your free hand trails up his strong shoulder to play with the hairs at his nape.

“I can say the same for you.” You tug on the shark tooth necklace that definitely isn’t his. He’s in a loose, khaki-colored wrap shirt with a deep v-neck. Deeper than deep, honestly. It’s sheer like yours and tucked into the front of his white slacks. The sleeves cinch at his wrists, and the whole thing offers very little coverage to his bare chest and stomach, which is probably the point.

“I guess we’ll have to find a way to keep each other warm then.” He bites his bottom lip with a grin that spells nothing good for your patience.

You pinch his side.

��Ow! I’m kidding.” He raises his hands placatingly, grinning broadly.

“Behave.” You scold through your teeth, and your cheeks hurt with the stretch of your smile. 

“You gonna punish me if I don—”

That earns him a smack to the bare skin of his chest. 

“You are so irritating,” you chide, and he laughs loudly and unrestrained, his head thrown back. A sight that never ceases to leave you breathless. Finnick usually never lets himself be this carefree in public, but maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s your presence. He catches his breath, ruddy cheeks dimpling. He looks awfully pretty under the soft yellow lights, hair shining like gold. A possessive thought sinks its claws into you. You don’t want anyone to see him like this. No one else deserves it. You aren’t even sure if you do.

“You love it.” He’s still letting out breathy little giggles as he beams down at you, big doe eyes twinkling.

You shake your head with an insurmountable fondness. “I love you.”

He wrinkles his nose, and your eyes are drawn to the faint freckles dotting the bridge of it. “See, that’s not fair.”

“Oh?” You cross your arms, balancing your glass precariously while playfully sizing him up as one would before a sparring match. But that train of thought makes you think. Could you take Finnick in a fight? You snort. Can anyone? “Please, Mr. Odair. Please tell me all about how unfair it is that I love you.”

“Mr. Odair? Ouch.” He huffs at your expectant stare. “You use it for evil.” He mirrors your stance by crossing his arms and drawing your attention to his biceps. His loose-fitting sleeves are doing a horrible job of hiding their shape and size as they flex with his movement. Hmm. You bring back that thought of fighting Finnick, but now it’s not that funny. You picture you and Finnick, spent and sweaty, as you wrestle on a mat. He would be red in the face and grinning from exertion as he pinned you down and—

You take a sip of champagne. 

“Well, I guess I’ll just stop saying it all together then if it’s such a hardship.” You shrug.

He raises his hands like he’s fending off an attack. “Woah! Alright, alright. I’m willing to come to a truce.”

The pair of you are still joking and giggling together when you get approached by a couple. Edgar, one of Finnick’s regulars, and Karlo, his husband, whom you’ve had many meetings with yourself. Anyone else in your position would have jumped apart and put as much space and plausible deniability between you as possible—and maybe you would have done that when you were younger, but you both know now that the best way to squash any suspicion is to act like there’s nothing to be suspicious of.

You and Finnick share a glance. Breathe and endure, you mouth to him while your back is still turned to the encroaching couple. You welcome the wry twist of his lips.

“What are you two drinking that’s making you so smiley?” They ask, and you both sober up. Well, not literally. You don’t know about him, but you’re still a little fuzzy. You shiver as the silk of Finnick’s shirt brushes your bare back as he wraps his hand around yours and takes a sip from your glass.

“Champagne.” He supplies, with that charming smile that you don’t even have to turn around to know is there. “It hits quicker than you’d think.” This is partially true, but, really, the only thing you’re drunk on is Finnick.

You lean back into the heat of Finnick’s chest, and his hand goes to your hip to steady you, his thumb rubbing circles into your hip.

“Looks like someone’s drunk more than her fair share.” Karlo laughs as they crowd in on you both, and if you really had been as drunk as you’re pretending to be, you would have thrown up from the smell of their strong perfumes clashing. Both sickeningly sweet and fighting to clog your lungs. “Don’t tell me you’re drunk already.”

“Honestly, I barely drank any. I must be a lightweight.” You laugh, fake to your own ears, and you’re sure to Finnick’s, too.

“Really? That’s quite surprising. You know. With your rough background and all.” Edgar says with genuine confusion. It’s odd to be insulted so sincerely. Finnick scoffs behind you in what could be mistaken for amusement, but the grip on your hip says otherwise.

You stay quiet for the rest of the conversation. You chime in here and there, but Finnick carries the bulk of it. It isn’t normally like this. Many people usually fall over themselves trying to be the first person you talk to. But there are a select few who prefer you to stand there and look pretty. You can essentially dumb your way out of a conversation. Finnick isn’t so lucky.

“You’ll have to show us some of your poetry sometime, Nick,” Edgar says while walking his fingers up Finnick’s arm, and you almost wince for him. He hates that nickname. Writing, specifically poetry, is the hobby Finnick was forced to take up after his games. Something that’s supposed to give a layer of complexity to his playboy image. Though, unlike most victors, it’s actually something he enjoys and is quite good at. 

You, on the other hand, wished you were given any other skill to hone. If your fingers hadn’t already been callused, the violin strings would’ve left them mangled. 

“He always forgets to ask that, but I’m sure it’s because you have him suitably distracted.” Karlo laughs, and Edgar cackles along with him. You don’t know what’s tighter, your grip on the glass or your smile. Which one will shatter first?

“Ah, anyway. We must be off.” Edgar, thankfully, pulls away.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Karlo takes your unattended hand and kisses the back of it, and you instantly regret talking your stylist out of giving you elbow-length gloves.

“Likewise.” 

You hold your breath and release it when they’re out of sight. You feel Finnick’s chest expand with his own sigh of relief.

“Alright,” he plucks the champagne from your hand, handing it to a passing server. You’re tempted to complain. “Let’s go. We’ve shown our faces long enough that Snow shouldn’t care.” You’re hesitant for a moment, but you can’t act like the idea of being alone with Finnick isn’t more than enough to convince you. 

-

Other than the constant security and monitoring, the Training Center isn’t a terrible place to stay. As you and Finnick walk hand in hand down the hall, you can take comfort in the fact that you won’t run into anyone you’ll have to hide this from. The soles of your feet ache with each step. You yelp when you almost trip for the third time, your ankle turning inwards. Maybe you really are a lightweight.

Wordlessly, Finnick squats down and pats his thigh. You're confused before he taps your ankle. And he waits patiently like it’s the most natural thing in the world to take your shoes off for you. Your chest warms from something other than alcohol. You place your foot on his thigh, and he takes off your heel and does the same with the other. He keeps the strap of your shoes looped over his finger as he stands.

“C’mon,” he puts one arm under your knees, another behind your back, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You really do try your best not to gawk at his strength, but from Finnick’s flustered giggles, you’re failing miserably. You wrap your arm around his neck.

“My hero,” you put the back of your hand to your forehead and his chest vibrates with his laughter. 

“My star, light of my life,” you laugh as he spins you. “The least I can do is save you from a broken ankle.” He presses a featherlight kiss to your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, smiling against his lips.

You and Finnick have unintentionally established a pattern. More often than not, you both would be in the Capitol at the same time for the same reason, and one of you would always end up in the other’s room. But the elevator doesn’t stop on either of your floors.

The elevator opens on the rooftop and he’s yet to put you down. You’re amazed at how long he’s been able to carry you without any strain.  

The gardens are sprawling and well-maintained, a surprising amount of care for something unprofitable. There was a kid, a tribute from one of the early games, who jumped off the roof. They claimed he fell by accident and the force field was put in place as a safety measure. But you all know what really happened—the districts know what happened. And you suspect he’s the reason the garden was implemented. A poorly planned distraction on the Capitol’s behalf. 

Finnick sits on one of the garden benches behind a tall hedge of roses with you on his lap. You rest your head on top of his, tracing random letters on the back of his neck.

Finnick clears his throat. “There were kids at the reception. Running around—chasing each other. They asked me to play tag with them.” He laughs. You conjure up an image of Finnick chasing a gaggle of children that don’t even come up to his waist because, of course, he would, and suddenly, you can think of nothing else. “Have you ever thought about having any?”

“I did when I was younger.” You hum. You thought of a lot of things when you were a kid. When you were young enough to be shielded by your parents from the brutality of your district, young enough to dream. That period didn’t last, and you haven’t been a kid for a long time.

“But?”

“But, I didn’t think I’d live long enough to have any.” You didn’t even think you were capable of that kind of love. You didn't think it was in your capacity. It was bred and beaten out of you, especially after your games. But Finnick’s in the business of proving you wrong. “And to bring them into this world, into Eleven, seems cruel.” 

The chirp of crickets fills the silence. Fireflies dot the sky and blend with the stars.

His fingers tap on your thigh. “I always thought I’d have two. They’d be close in age so—”

“—They’d be friends.” You finish, and he gives a slow nod that picks up speed.

“Yeah, a boy and a girl.” You want to picture it. You want to imagine a world where it’s possible to have that life together. But you fear the fate of a child that would look like you and Finnick.

Your eyes drift from constellation to constellation. Perseus, Pegasus, Pisces. The stars are clearer here than at the Marquis, but not by much. It’s times like this that you miss your dad the most.

“If you’re comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear some more of your poetry.” You mutter into his hair. What Edgar said got you thinking. You don’t want Finnick to associate his talent with those people. Everything he writes is a piece of him. It amounts to more than that, more than them. 

“I would think you’d be tired of it by now, considering how much I write in my letters.” 

“Mmm, I’ll never be tired of anything you do. You really do have a gift, Finn, and you shouldn’t waste it on them.” The words were out of your mouth before you even had time to comprehend them. You lift your head when he moves to look at you. “...what? It’s true.” You say, somewhat embarrassed. You aren’t really the emotionally forthcoming one in this relationship, but you don't think you said anything that surprising.

He places a kiss on the shell of your bracelet. You shiver as he trails his lips down to the tip of your fingers, your heart speeding up in anticipation. He presses his cheek to the back of your hand, and he sits there with his eyes closed before speaking.

“My heart, who am I to deprive you of what's yours by right? The air in my lungs, I breathe for you. The blood in my veins pumps for you.” He laces your fingers together, eyes still closed. “A leaf can’t stop itself from falling, and neither could I.” When he opens his eyes back up, you’re swept away by the sheer adoration. That’s something you should get used to, right? You don’t think you’ve seen Finnick look at you any differently. And you don’t think you ever will.

He shakes his head with a smile as bright as the sun. “Everything I do, I do for you.” He whispers, and just when you catch your breath, it’s gone again.

You’re not sure who leans in first, not that it matters. No, all that matters is this moment—just the two of you.

He pulls back, the tip of his nose brushing yours.

“So,” he speaks, lips twitching into a smirk, and you brace yourself for the sheer strength of the eye roll that’s certain to follow whatever he says next, “your room or mine?” Your eyes truly come close to rolling out of your head, but you snort despite yourself, and his smirk becomes a full-blown smile.

Present (VIII) - You

[23 & 24 ] - TRAINING CENTER

You inhale through your nose and release the breath through your teeth. Your arms burn from your fingers to your biceps and you try to adjust your grip on the bar, but the strain in your shoulders convinces you to tap out. You drop to the ground, and the screen next to you reads four minutes and eight seconds, but you know you can make it to five. 

You bounce on your toes and shake out your hands. Just as you’re about to jump back up, you notice a crowd forming around the archery station. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you’re able to slip to the front and see what the commotion is about. Inside, Katniss shoots down the hologram opponents with deadly proficiency, seemingly sensing the enemies before they’re even there. The arm strength involved with shooting a bow and arrow is nothing to scoff at. Especially with the fluidity and speed she’s going.

After she hits the last hologram and the exercise shuts off, everyone else stands impressed—yourself included. You're starting to understand why Haymitch is putting so much stock into her.

-

In terms of basic survival, there’s nothing for you to improve on. Shelter making, fire starting, weapons, hand-to-hand—there isn’t much for you to learn within the day you have left. You think about stopping at the camouflage station, but think better of it. As long as there’s something to climb, you’ll have camouflage. Mags hovers by the fish hooks station, but you worry if you go near her, Finnick won’t be far behind. You don’t know what he wants from you, why he even wants to speak to you. It’s not like he responded to any of your letters, so why now? Why now, when you’ve finally come to terms with the way he wanted things to be?

On the topic of avoiding Finnick, you also steer clear of the knot-tying station. He’s there now, teaching Katniss how to tie what looks like a noose. You’d run out of fingers if you tried to count the number of knots he’s taught you. You never thought you’d ever have to use any of them, but there’s no telling what will happen in the arena.

Edible insects are much easier to distinguish than plants, but you’re more than adept at both. The same can’t be said for Peeta. You must have been watching him for nearly thirty minutes, and he’s gotten close to nothing right.

He still has the paint that the female Morphling—Megan, you’re pretty sure—painted on his arm. Swirls of the orange, yellow, and purple trail from his wrist to his shoulder.

The screen flashes red as he organizes the plants incorrectly.

“You are terrible at this.” You walk forward to lean against the control panel, “Like, extraordinarily.” 

Peeta looks up from the buttons. It’s technically the first time the two of you have talked, not counting that meeting after the chariots where Chaff kissed Katniss.

“I just,” he scratches at the back of his head and frowns, discouraged, “I can’t remember the names. I know nightlock, obviously. But not much else.”

“Well, you’re able to recognize where you fall short. That’s good. You’re trying to match the names to the plant, but you don’t have enough time to remember all of that. It’s pointless anyway.” What good is remembering the name of a berry if he doesn’t know if he can eat it or not?

“Then, what am I supposed to do?”

“Instead of figuring out the names, try to focus on what they look like and whether or not they’re edible. That’s all that matters, honestly.” You restart the exercise, changing the parameters so he’ll have to organize the plants into categories by picture.

“You’re helping me?”

“I can’t, in good conscience, let you die because you decided to tussle with the wrong berry.” Hundreds of kids have died in Eleven from eating something they shouldn’t have. Not because they didn’t know it was poisonous but because they were so hungry that they didn't care. “Trust me, that’s not a fight you wanna pick.”

It’s touch and go for a second, but it’s not long before Peeta starts catching on. He’s a quick learner, and it’s much easier—more beneficial—to memorize what an edible plant looks like rather than what it’s called.

While Peeta is distracted with a timed matching game, your eyes trail to where Finnick goes through different motions with a trident while Katniss watches with laser-like focus. He stops to say something to her and glances your way. You’re quick to look back down to the task at hand.

How are you supposed to work with him in the arena if you can’t even handle being in the same room as him?

“I’m just not good at this.” Peeta laughs with a hint of self-deprecation. The screen shows he was only able to get half of the plants organized before the timer went off. For somebody starting from scratch, he’s selling himself pretty short. He just needs a little more time, and you’re confident he’ll be able to recognize what can and can’t be eaten within an hour.

“I watched your games. You could definitely be better.” Poisonous berries are the leading cause of death in the arena. Followed closely by being killed, either by another tribute or the arena itself. This will help protect him from the former. He doesn't need to master this. He just needs to know enough to get by.

”Yeah, Katniss is definitely better at this kind of stuff.” He looks over his shoulder to where Katniss and Finnick are still training. This time, Katniss holds the trident, and her movements are nowhere near as polished as his were. Despite that, Peeta’s eyes shine.

You look at Peeta—really look at him—and realize something.

"You actually love her, don't you?" You marvel. It hadn't even crossed your mind that their feelings could be genuine. He looks at you surprised before whatever persona he's embodying slides into place. 

"What, do you think it's an act or something?" He laughs.

"I did. But your eyes gave you away. They hold this kind of—softness whenever you look at her, whenever you talk about her," you turn back to the screen but don't restart the exercise, "I'd recognize that anywhere." Of course, you would. It's how Finnick used to look at you.

You're both quiet. He looks from you to his hands on the controls.

"I do." He breathes, and it's hard to hear over the cacophony of sounds in the room. "I really do."

You take a breath and let it out in a sigh.

"I'm sorry then."

"For what?" His brows furrow with confusion.

"You shouldn't have to go into the arena with someone you love. It's cruel." Your heart aches for him. You don't know how much Katniss reciprocates his feelings—you're starting to think she doesn't at all. For that, you can't help but feel sorry for him—can't help but see yourself in him. 

Haymitch was right, after all. Peeta's a good kid. He doesn't deserve this.

"Then, I'm sorry too." You glance at him from the corner of your eye. "You're right. We shouldn't have to." You don't say anything for a second, and he doesn't press you to. You doubt anyone told him about you and Finnick, so maybe he's just that observant. And smarter than anyone notices. An oversight you're sure he takes advantage of.

You don't bother denying it. Instead, you nod. He nods back. A sense of comradery is shared between the two of you, but it doesn't last long. You still have training to do. You press on a random square, and a creepy-looking plant appears. A red stalk with shiny, white berries spins in a slow circle on the screen.

"White baneberry, poisonous or not poisonous?"

He contemplates it.

"Poisonous?" He asks more than tells you.

"Just to eat?" You prompt, and he shakes his head.

"You can't touch it either," he answers far more confidently, and you smile. There might be hope for him yet.

"Good. Next."

-

A/N: SMUT NEXT CHAPTER!!!!! PEW PEW PEW!!!!

[kromaticglass]

I've been sitting on this for a while because I'm not usually one for writing out my thoughts on characters in media that I like but honestly I need to yell about just how much I love Wriothesley as a character and how his story is written.

Don't get me wrong, I love Scaramouche, and I love his story arc, but there's something about this absolutely horrific past that Wriothesley grew up in and despite everything that should have made him a bitter person, he's so selfless. Selfless to the point of completely overturning a system that had been working in it's own horrific manner for hundreds of years as a teenager/young adult in order to make it better and actively work on fixing people, not just let them fall between the cracks of a society that sent them away to be forgotten.

Putting this under a read more because I'm going to yell about this a lot.

When we're first learning about Wriothesley we're introduced to the fact that he was an orphan. This brings up questions to start with; how was he first orphaned? By the sounds of things he wasn't willingly given away to the foster family that he ended up living with, he was on the streets or at the very least was on his own for a time before he ended up there. The first thing that my mind goes to is that this means either his parents abandoned him or they died/were killed, which may also be the reason he seemingly was desensitized to death as a kid - I'll get to that point later, it's important.

Just how long he was on the streets before he was taken in by his foster family isn't mentioned, but I'd expect it was at least a year or so, just from some context clues we got from both his story quest and his character stories that you unlock with friendship. When in his foster home, things were supposedly a picture perfect family, a dollhouse where people looking in would only see the perfect picture but as soon as curtains closed it was something very different.

Households like that are traumatising, it's no wonder that Wriothesley's ability to trust in people is shot. The people who were supposed to care for him after promising a good life were nothing but a front and in his eyes he once more was on his own. For a child to decide to willingly orphan themselves a second time is so taxing on the mind, I could only imagine the stress he would've been under.

But what really gets me is the fact that he eventually came to the conclusion that in order to stop the cycle of picking up kids and selling them off to the highest bidder and killing the ones that didn't sell, Wriothesley didn't think about contacting gardes, didn't go to anyone else about it, he took matters into his own hands.

Not just that, but that he had to kill them.

It takes a lot for someone to work themselves up into killing another person. If you've never taken a life before, most people will hesitate, they'll be sick, or they'll completely shut down and remove themselves mentally from the situation, there's a very visceral reaction that happens in the human brain when you're pushed so far into stress responses that you'll take another life, and this was a teenager. This is why I feel like he would've been desensitized to death or at the very least gruesome scenes like this from a much younger age.

One can only wonder just what was going through his mind during the time he was away, taking the odd jobs to create that first prototype of his gauntlets that he used to shoot nails at his parents. It may not be as personal as taking a knife to someone, but using a nailgun is a bloody affair, the wounds needed to make that fatal are grievous if done by an inexperienced hand. And from what we're told in the character story, it sounds like his parents fought back, hard enough that it very nearly killed Wriothesley as well.

It makes me wonder just what he was thinking, or feeling in that moment, was it fear? Anger? A mix of many things? Or was he simply numb to it until he woke up in the hospital bed later? From what we hear in his tone during the story quest, he sounds apathetic about retelling the story, but that could be a result of trying to compartmentalize the renewed trauma that was rekindled thanks to the gem he touched.

And the trial, lets not forget that. On the day he wakes up from his injuries, he's served papers to face in court, and given a timeline for his recovery. The character story says the trial went with little fanfare and that he accepted the charges with little to no protest, it makes me think about just what could've gone through his head during the time he was recovering.

Wriothesley states that he knew he was guilty in the eyes of the law, and that his methods were extreme and he knows that. Because he survived his injuries when he expected to die from them, it makes me think that he knew he would be going to the Fortress of Meropide once he got to the trial. Given how much of a lawless land the Fortress was back then, I wonder if this was Wriothesley's own way of putting himself back into the hands of fate again, or maybe in some way, taking it back into his own hands.

Character Story 2 and his Vision story tells us more about his time in Meropide before taking it over, and how chaotic it sounded. He arrived in the Fortress and found his Vision in his pockets when being processed, and the first thing he's told is "hide it well". This was the only warning he got from anyone about how life in the Fortress was at that time, and he took that to heart in order to not lose anything precious to him.

Meropide was a place you could pay for someone to die in back then, among other things like drugs and probably far more things that Hoyoverse wouldn't mention for the sake of keeping things PG. It certainly doesn't seem like a place a teenager would be safe in and yet despite all odds, Wriothesley thrived and amassed a massive collection of credit coupons in order to make his name known.

It doesn't say much about what a feat that is, especially the line where it mentions that he amassed more coupons than anyone else in the Fortress combined. He figured out how the place ticked and made it sing to his own tempo instead of simply falling in line, that's such an impressive feat for anyone to do, let alone someone who would've had to fight tooth and nail to even get the respect needed for people to see him with as much power as he seemed to gain by the time he took over.

When he challenged the former administrator to a duel, the story mentions how Wriothesley was saved from having to get another person’s blood on his hands because he fled from the Fortress instead of showing up. And sure we could gloss over this as he was glad about not needing to fight him in the end, but this also implies that if the fight had've gone on instead of what happened, Wriothesley would've either beaten that man within an inch of his life or taken it. He would've taken another life for the sake of other people, once again.

This is something I've noticed is a theme with Wriothesley. He has either little regard for or at the very least places his own safety below others, so long as it's doing what he thinks is right or protects other people. During his story quest when he's being shot at, Wriothesley does little to protect himself aside from some minimal protection with his cryo vision against the bullets shot at him, but the moment that the gun is turned to the Traveler, he spent absolutely no time in very nearly killing Dougier (if the Traveler hadn't been there, I think there would've been a 75%-85% chance that he would've killed Dougier) and putting him in his place.

We see this again with the Archon quest where Wriothesley and Clorinde fight back the Primordial Sea. He spend his own safety and energy icing over the doors in order to save people in the Fortress from the Primordial Sea until Neuvillette could get there, at the risk of his own safety and very nearly getting trapped and dissolved by the waters.

That's not even taking into consideration the work he did on the Wingalet. We saw so little of it in the 4.2 Archon Quest, I was almost disappointed, but the fact that instead of staying idle about the prophecy, he spent so much time and energy making a ship like that and keeping it a secret from most parties until the time came all for the reason of saving as many Fontainians as possible just kills me.

Wriothesley has been through so much, and instead of that horrible backstory and all that trauma turning him into a bitter and hateful person, he instead uses it to give others a better life than he had just crushes me. He took over Meropide and reformed it into a place where not only does it help people now, but is such a nice place to be that inmates want to stay afterwards warms my heart. Like, for sure there's the fact that people staying down there reintegrating into society would be a challenge but I love the fact that there's even the choice to stay down there after the term is over instead of simply turning people lose and risking them returning back down after repeating crimes.

Anyway what I'm trying to get at here is that Wriothesley is such a well written character and I want Hoyoverse to give us more characters like this. I'm rambling way too much and I'm sure like 80% is incoherent bullshit but I needed to get my feelings off my chest about this lol.

If you made it this far thanks for putting up with my rambling LMAO.

[zoroara]

It's a bit hard to introduce this post without a little background here, So, I'm currently writing an alternate universe story, called What could have been. While these designs are a long way off as of writing this post(we are still so far in the past right now) different circumstances lead to them having different designs.

I also had so much fun making these designs and challenging myself to keep within the characters looks and making them unique against the old and each other. Making the future versions a more proper evolution. Anyway! Design notes below! Also spoilers for the fic of course.

All Varia uniforms are darkened in this version from their normal colours, this is as an overall so they feel like they can hide in the darkness better. Small accessory exceptions exist however.

Future arc designs have light whitish silver stripes, and colours changed based on rank. Leader - red, captain - blue, executives - purple, regular grunts have no additional colour

For Xanxus Past

Mostly the same, has no scarring due to not being frozen

Based on headcanons for him he's bulkier than canon Xanxus, especially since he was never frozen, thus within headcanon didn't lose the weight while in there

New addition of actual holsters, or at least moving them from being on his uniform's goddamn ass, amano why there of all places

Future

Similar, to both previous design and canon design to meld it better while giving him a bit more unique flourish

Deep wracking guilt causes him to avoid people and purposely ignore his own needs, lost a lot of weight

Scarring from being frozen exists, but does not go up to his face, gloves added to hide it mostly

addition of a slight beard because of regular headcanon of him growing one out when he's TYL, this one is rougher though than usual

For Squalo Past

Firstly sword is not part of his arm, lessons from Tyr(OC version of the previous Varia leader) taught him the importance of not limiting himself in his combat options(Tyr noting while he's a great swordsman having only one hand leaves a massive blind spot for himself that he has to protect constantly. He does not willingly lose his hand here either.)

Carries his own sword as well as Tyr's now, but rarely uses the latter, it's for special occasions

styled his Varia uniform mostly after Tyr, rolling up his sleeves, adding additional straps at the top, leaving it open, and keeping a black in-lining with it.

additional note, he puts his hair up for battle.

Future

Diverges and settles more into his style but keeps some parts of the previous coat, inside is now a deep blue to match with the rest of his coat and the previous version

the length and opening is actually taken from his first appearance in canon

now uses belted boots like Tyr

For Belphegor Past

most of it is the same, made the armbands(?) into Belts

Turned base belt white as well to match the rest

added two belts to his leg to add to his asymmetrical look

added a spiked collar

added small little black inserts where he keeps his knives that line his sleeves and inner coat

added a gem to his tiara

given fangs as per headcanon

Future

the above is carried over

changed thigh high boots to knee high in order to fit with his belts(made them have a clear zipper too)

turned fluffy collar to look more like the ones royals have

slightly edited spike collar to have a matching gem to the now 3 on his tiara, and make the spikes into studs

added more to the collar going down his coat to give more royal feel

For Lussuria

Past

Turning feather boa into a feather collar

gives two metal knees with no intention for hiding, allowing the skirt to be slightly shorter for decorative purposes

Adds a pair of gloves that go up his biceps, they have metal knuckles and elbow pads attached.

Boots have a mixed material of tougher rubber and metal at the soles of the boots though a decorative decal has been added to the front

Future

Fur collar more fluffed up

Coat has fluff at the bottom, and is asymmetrical shorter on the side with his skirt

Given thigh high boots where metal knees are attached, and similar decals to past version are dded

Gloves now have proper "brass knuckles" as part of them

Tank top replaces shirt and tie

as per headcanons I removed the Mohawk and added tattoos on him

To fit better with the purple i changed the colour of his hair to a more teal to purple gradient, a bit more reminiscent of pastel peacock colours too

Added lipstick

For Levi A Than Past

Turned all Belts to white as they were in the manga

changed cross straps into regular tactical military straps + little storage for him(Made them black because the design was too busy as anything else)

Kept his boots and gloves from early varia arc appearance as main stay

Changed middle belts to little button places

added two more parabolas so he's not defenceless while using Levi Volta(A lesson he learns much earlier due to not being prevented from field work for the 8 years of Xanxus being frozen! Since that doesn't happen here.)

Future

Above is transferred onto the design

Colours inverted on the gloves with the belts, same with the boots

added lightning insignia to cuffs of coat

Split coat tail into 3 sections

kept piercings as per head canons

Now the last two, who share a page due to the fact they each only have one relevant design that I needed to redesign

For Mammon

Changed their cloak into a cape, the chain they always wear now is the clip for the cape

gave them a long sleeve tunic under the cape

changed their gloves to reach their elbows and are tied with bandages

actually gave them a varia belt to help break up their shapes

gave them calf high boots with bandages to match their gloves

gave them longer hair as per headcanon

their smaller form wears this outfit too but smaller

Also gave them varia emblems on their cape

For Fran

made hat smaller with eyes that will react to surroundings, I also gave it purple cheeks

changed the collar of his coat to the more pointed design, but gave him a turtle neck to replace it

gave him white gloves, but also put little black finger pads on them

removed the four big clunky pouches on his design

added a belt to break up shapes better

added a few more stripes on the lower half of the coat

made boots knee high instead of ankle height

If you read all of this, thank you! I had so much fun with them and became very enamoured with them. They're definitely more to my tastes but hey that's how it is.

[howtonerdoutovereverything]

Don't you love it when you can learn so much about two characters just from a short interaction? In my mind, that is part of what makes good character writing.

Take this example from Minecraft: Story Mode between Gabriel and Ivor:

Gabriel: I see time has made you bitter.

Ivor: And it's made you an even bigger fool!

Granted, there's more to their interaction than this, but I wanted to focus on these lines in particular. It's my favorite part of this scene just because I think it's good dialogue, but the more I look at it, the more I love how much of their character and arcs (both past and present) are packed into these two lines.

So let's analyze it, starting with Gabriel's line.

"I see time has made you bitter,"

Let's look at Gabriel as a character. He was a member of the Order of the Stone, along with Ivor and three others. They were a group of mighty heroes whose greatest and most famous accomplishment was slaying the Ender Dragon, a horrifying beast living in the End. Gabriel is known as the warrior whose sword slayed the beast. Thus, at least in the possible timeline where he retains his memories, he is rather confident and charismatic, playing the role of a hero quite well. He seems impossible to hate or find flaws with. However, we later find out that Gabriel, along with the rest of the Order, lied about killing the Ender Dragon. Rather than take the beast down themselves, they used a Command Block to poof it out of existence. Under this light, Gabriel warps into a cowardly, manipulative, arrogant con man who willingly sells the world a lie, even if he does feel some remorse about it.

With this context, this line has a few layers. It is being said in front of a crowd that doesn't know the truth about Gabriel, so Gabriel is framing himself as the good guy who is understanding and does not hold grudges, versus Ivor, the bad guy who is bitter and holds quite a few. He also twists the narrative into being that Ivor spending so much time alone is what turned him bitter, rather than the truth festering inside him. He lies to Ivor's face about Ivor's own motivations, provoking him even more. Or...you could also see it as Gabriel genuinely not understanding, further painting him as someone who was never actually a savvy warrior but rather an idiot who got lucky. Or it could be argued that this is just a further part of him playing it up for the crowd.

Now let's talk about Ivor's line.

"And it's made you an even bigger fool!"

Ivor was a former member of the Order of the Stone who was written out of their legend entirely. This, combined with the Ender Dragon incident, causes him to seek revenge against the Order by creating a Wither Storm, something he knows the Order can't defeat, thus showing their incompetence, cowardice, and capacity for lying. So when Gabriel says "I see time has made you bitter", he hears both a man who is continuing to lie to the world about how awesome he is and a man who he thought to be his friend but is willing to either A. lie to his face about how he feels or B. genuinely not understand. Because of this, his response can be taken in multiple ways. Firstly, this line is said before we, as an audience, know Ivor's motivation, but given the context we learn, this line actually reveals it. Notice the use of "even bigger". Gabriel, in Ivor's eyes, was already a fool, enough of a fool to, perhaps, act like he defeated the Ender Dragon and thus should be treated as a hero? Even when he is sharing a stage with someone holding all of the cards? Someone who could easily spill the beans if he wanted to? But Ivor's response also changes depending on the interpretation of Gabriel's line. He could be calling Gabriel a fool for daring to insinuate that Ivor has no reason to be bitter other than the time spent alone and in the shadows of history. After all, they both know why, and Ivor doesn't see the point in pretending they don't. He could also be calling him a fool if he genuinely doesn't know why Ivor is bitter. This also turns this response into a hurt rather than just an angry one, as a man he thought was a close friend apparently didn't even care about him enough to know why something like his life and work being forgotten would upset him so much. This could be further egging him on into initiating his revenge plan, as in his eyes, he has no reason to be sympathetic or hear him out.

Do you see how just two lines of dialogue can tell us so much about the characters, specifically with hindsight? This is how dialogue should function. It should work on a surface level, but specifically in pivotal scenes or interactions, the storytelling and character arcs should be woven into what is being said. This is especially the case in text-driven works.

I hope, even if you're unfamiliar with Minecraft: Story Mode, you got something out of this. Happy writing!