#because the brain is a part of the body and their bodies stopped growing. permanent arrested development!

[wizardpink]

Thinking a lot of thoughts about how for 500 years, Armand has been able to flash his big scary orange puppy dog eyes at anyone and say "I'm sowwy" and everyone just goes "aww that's okay, you've been through so much, who can blame you? Poor thing!" And so he has gotten away with SO MUCH heinous shit, and continues to! From ancient powerful beings who you would think would be less susceptible to his fuckery!

And the ONE person, one MORTAL person who is utterly immune to his charms, his pitiable demeanor, his angelic face and innocent voice, who can't stop Armand from wiping his mind or controlling his body but is impervious to Armand's efforts to mask his Rancid Vibes,

is Daniel.

[chaptersleftunwritten]

Beauty is a beast that roars

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Blurb: You quietly long for Eddie’s attention, and when things with Chrissy start to look serious you resort to desperate attempts for him to look at you the way he looks at her.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, hurt (no comfort), Eddie is kinda a dick, obsession, hurtful notes being passed, mentions of bulimia/eating disorder, mild stalking, low talk about self image, societal pressure to look a certain way, mental health struggles, characters are 20+ and in a college setting!

-

divider by @reveriesources

It started as a slow burn inside of your chest. You blamed it on the stress of finals but the more you saw them together, the more that burn worsened into a blaze; scorching your heart and tarring it black.

You didn’t think it possible to be obsessed with someone that you didn’t love- but you worshipped the very ground that Chrissy Cunningham walked on. At times, you thought she was able to read your mind. The way she effortlessly flicks her natural glowing golden hair over her shoulder as she laughs, looking like she was sculpted by Aphrodite herself- or how she presses her perfect rosy lips in peppery and sweet kisses to Eddie’s cheek. She had him wrapped around her skilful fingers. You couldn’t stand it.

It twisted your insides into a rope like knot- so tight and big and uncomfortable. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think straight when you looked at her. At them. Your brain harbouring thoughts of envy, rotting from the inside out with lightless horrid concepts.

You couldn’t help but follow study Chrissy. Her signature blue eyeshadow that adorns her gorgeous blue eyes, her tiny upturned nose, her well proportioned features- her body. You had never repeated this information to anyone before, not even Eddie, because not only would it expose your research into Chrissy, but because you definitely weren’t ever supposed to find out.

You had walked in on her one day in the bathroom. She was hunched over in a stall, her white sneakers peeking out from beneath the cubicle door. She was vomiting. Harshly.

At first you thought she may just be sick, and she was, but it was a different conversation. You entertained that thought until you walked in a second and third time to her in the exact same position- her fatigued body draped over the toilet bowl. You understood how she maintained her physique. It broke your heart; momentarily.

What broke your heart more was that Eddie evidentially had no idea. You knew, deep down, Chrissy was just like you. A sad, broken girl. But she was better at hiding it. The Duchess of disguise. The Queen of your psyche. Your admiration of her was unhealthy, you knew that much. You just couldn’t stop. You needed Eddie to look at you the way he looks at her.

So you cut your hair into a fringe, and you change your clothes. You find your own signature colour of eyeshadow and you even purchase a few skater skirts. Sports had never really interested you until now; now you were trying out for the cheerleading team. And with being Chrissy’s friend- of course she gave you direct entry.

Because despite her beauty, Chrissy was also kind. Which made the knot in your stomach grow firmer, imbedding itself within you permanently.

-

“Hey, Eddie!” You make sure your voice is dripping with the sweetest form of honey as you bat your mascara thick eyelashes at him. He glances at you from his magazine, quirking a brow at your chirpy energy.

“Hello… What’s up?” He asks, his words clipped as his eyes focus back on the flimsy book he holds sturdily in his hands. God… his hands. The rings that compliment his slender fingers and the bracelets that dress his wrist. You couldn’t get enough of it- of him.

It was impossible for you to hold his attention for more than a few seconds, and you had bound into the library full of hope and partial confidence today. You had pieced together one of your best outfit. A denim jacket draped over your shoulders, a white tank top (with no bra) and a cute skirt in your favourite colour which also matched your eyeshadow. Your hair was in a voluminous pony tail, held up by a great big scrunchie and your eyes were bright with popping colour. Your cheeks were dusted with blush and your nails painted perfectly; with the help of your mother.

You couldn’t think of a reason why Eddie wouldn’t look at you. You looked totally bitchin’!

“Uhm…” you stutter, your small confidence wavering at his lack of interest, “We haven’t really hung out in a while… I thought maybe we could? If you like!” There is a festering in the pit of your stomach, a panic that grows with every anticipating second, “We don’t really hang out anymore... just us, I mean.” You add, hoping further context will make you sound a little less desperate.

You and Eddie used to hang out every day. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the whole group. But lately… things have changed. And you know the reason why.

Eddie acknowledged you with a hum, finally placing his magazine down and narrowing in on your appearance. You thought you wanted him to look at you, but the intense confusion on his face made you long for the earth to gape open beneath you and swallow you whole.

“Looks like ya did a deep dive through Chrissy’s wardrobe.” His chuckle makes your ears heat and your face flush as his fingertips pluck at the sheer scrunchie wrapped in your hair. You can’t tell if he is joking or not— but to you, it’s a compliment nonetheless.

After a moment of pause and total excitement you gather your composure quickly and cough a meek reply, “I’m trying something new.”

You’re trying to be someone new.

“Hmm,” He examines you further, “I dunno,” Eddie scratches at his chin, his once soft and playful features now express something more distasteful, “I personally prefer your old style— this seems… out of character.” There was a lilt to his deep voice, which made him sound interrogative.

“You.. you do?” You curse inwardly at the stutter in your airy voice. To say his words shocked you was an understatement. They had your jaw hanging loose and your eyes opened broadly. Had you gotten it all wrong? Were you really just as pretty before all of this? Or was he teasing you… was he trying to make you feel better? Was this his attempt at telling you that you look like an utter clown in comparison to Chrissy?

You’d never know… because you would never ever ask him such things.

You think back to a note that got passed to you in class not too long ago- you weren’t sure of the culprit (you suspected Jason) — it read along the lines of,

‘Apply all the makeup you want, but at the end of the day it’s just lipstick on a pig.’

Were you a pig? Was this all just a feeble and comical attempt at beauty? To be desired. To be wanted. It’s all you longed for. It’s all you dreamed of.

You wanted Eddie to see you. To want you. And at this rate, you were losing all hope.

“Yeah,” alongside a small laugh he also flashes you a toothy smile, a mocking smile— and you clamp your jaw closed to stop yourself from shaking out a sob, “Listen, you’re free to chill here with me if you want but— hey!”

You couldn’t take it. The embarrassment. The knife twisting in your chest and puncturing your heart. You flee from the table abruptly before Eddie even has a chance to say anything more to you.

What was wrong with you? You wanted his attention, you wanted him alone and when you got it you despised the humorous way he gazed at you. You didn’t want to be entertaining or funny— you wanted to be loved.

Loved by him.

To please him.

To make him proud…

On exiting the library you pass Chrissy who was entering through the heavy fire doors, clearly she is on her way to meet Eddie. It was uncanny, almost like looking into a mirror.

The blonde spares you a small smile but not without a worried and intrigued glance at your attire before she is muttering a quick ‘Hello’ which you don’t even bother to return. You are too focused on your pursuit to the bathroom where you can hide yourself in an empty stall and cry without judgement. The only issue? You didn’t bring any makeup wipes for the mascara that has plagued your face in splotches and streaks of black tears.

Your eyes sting furiously and your bottom lip quivers outwith your control. It’s hard to believe that you have allowed yourself to stoop this low, crying shamelessly on campus in front of your peers. Their sympathetic eyes and taunting grins don’t go unnoticed by you as you finally make it to the bathroom, bursting into the void room like a bat out of Hell. Slamming the cubicle door closed and sitting on the toilet bowl where you start to question reality.

What are you doing?

You despise the fact that you know, no matter what, no matter how stupid you look- how ridiculous your clothes are and your sorry attempts at looking pretty, you would continue to do it. Even if people stared, gawked, whistled, laughed… you would continue on this descent into madness. The chase of perfection. The downward spiral of your mind had only just begun and you had a far distance yet to fall.

-

Whilst classes had finished for a long weekend and everyone was outdoors enjoying what was left of the sun before Fall crept its way in, you were sat in front of your bathroom mirror. 

Pulling, pinching, tweezing, twisting, sucking, shaving, grabbing and crying.

God, you couldn’t stop crying.

You couldn’t remember a time when you didn’t cry.

To you, winter was already here. You were chilled to the bone, hollow in your chest. Insides were sunken. You felt vacant of any joy.

“Honey!!” Your mother yells suddenly from the bottom of the staircase, her voice is cloud like and warm, “Someone is here to see you!” There is a mutter of something inaudible, “Chrissy!” She confirms snippily and your face drops heavily into a worried frown.

“I’m in the shower!!” You shriek back dishonestly and you are reminded that you have a heart as it shudders inside of your chest. You aren’t ready to see her— you don’t have a lick of makeup on, your hair isn’t done and you are still wrapped up in your bath towel. 

Your first thought is how do you get rid of her? How do you lie your way out of this?

You couldn’t.

“Okay, she’ll be waiting down here for you then…” Your mother’s voice dies out and you can hear her offering Chrissy something to drink and eat; which Chrissy declines.

You move around your bedroom agilely, hustling to get as presentable as you possibly could to face the girl waiting downstairs for you. It doesn’t quite register that Chrissy is sitting with your mother, chatting and possibly gossiping. All you care about is getting some makeup slapped on your face and some nice clothes hugging your body.

Your hair can be brushed, but you don’t have time to style it— that’ll have to come later. After multiple a few sprays of your favourite perfume that smells like vanilla and a tinge of cedar wood you feel ready enough to leave your sanctuary.

Nearly tripping over your entire wardrobe that covers your bedroom floor you fly toward the door handle, bracing yourself at the top of the staircase before you descend.

Time to meet your maker.

Your intense gaze flicks hurriedly between your mother and Chrissy as they both stand to meet you as you enter into the lounge room. Chrissy’s hair is twirled and curled to perfection and a short pink summer dress embraces her small frame. On her feet is a pair of red Mary Jane heels and you catch a peek at the silver jewellery strung around her neck and her wrists.

“Hi,” you say, feeling like it is the first breath you take since entering the room.

Chrissy bounds over to you, stringing her arms around your shoulders and pulling you in for a quick but sweet hug, “Hi!” She giggles in a sing song tone before pulling away, “You smell amazing by the way! You’ll have to let me know what that is later!” Her fingers linger on the exposed skin of your bicep and you cringe away from her touch.

“Thanks,” Your mother has long left the room and you walk a few paces away from Chrissy.

“We were heading to the movies, you wanna join? It’s meant to be such a warm night tonight!” To your disadvantage Chrissy follows behind you closely, closing the distance you were trying to create between the both of you, “The whole group will be there! Plus, it’s a thriller which I know you love.” She winks at you and you hate that you can feel your lips curving up into a minuscule smile.

“I dunno, Chris.” Your hand palms at the back of your neck, you feel hot with discomfort and to be quite frank all you want to do is lay in bed and mope.

“Please!” She clasps her hands together, inching closer to you— if that were even possible, “I’ll even buy your ticket!” Her pillowy bottom lip pouts out slightly, “I just wanna hang out with you, it’s been so long.”

And she was right. It had been a long time. You had been so swept up in this horrible pursuit of yours that you forgot you were actually friends with Chrissy. Long before you even knew of Eddie’s existence.

A defeated sigh leaves through your nostrils and you raise your shoulders to your ears, “Fine.” You smile, a smile that feels the most genuine it has in weeks.

Chrissy squeals with excitement, jumping up and down on the spot before taking your hand into hers. Interlocking your fingers so she can make sure you don’t make a run for it, “Let’s go, tiger!”

-

You all find your seats quickly, settling into them with your snacks and beverages. You partially regret not getting a drink but you decide that you’ll be able to soldier through. It’s what you do.

It was no surprise to you that Eddie was there too, but you couldn’t help but panic at the sight of him waiting for you and Chrissy to arrive at the theatre. His tatted arms crossed comfortably over his chest and a love filled smile teasing at his lips as Chrissy trotted over to him, practically jumping into his arms for a hug.

You fell behind them, ensuring you left as much distance as you possibly could. The sight of Eddie alone was enough to send you tumbling into a frenzy of inky feelings.

You could smell Eddie’s cheap cologne mixed with a hint of powerful weed and for a moment it clouds your senses. Taking hold of everything you knew— past, present, future. You couldn’t think about any of it, not with his scent engulfing your nostrils like second hand smoke.

Once the group had settled into the dimly lit theatre you sink into your seat behind Eddie and Chrissy, your shoulders slumping as you wish for the seat to turn into some sort of magical trap door that will transport you to another universe. But of course, you could never be so lucky.

The movie begins with a deafening introduction and you wince at the sound, your finger tips brushing over your ears gently to make sure that they hadn’t been blown off of the side of your head.

Steve occupies the seat next to you, and Robin is next to him with Vickie. You had grown to quite enjoy Vickie’s company. You loved how happy Robin got when she was in touchable reach… you pined for a connection like that.

Normally, you would be in your element as you watched a thriller movie, but something in front of you proved to be far more interesting.

Eddie and Chrissy were whispering sweet nothing into one another’s ear, Chrissy giggling and blushing at whatever it was that Eddie had said— probably something dirty and ridiculous.

And you could handle that. You could endure that.

But what you couldn’t take was watching as their tongues battled it out in a sloppy and erotic kiss. Chrissy had asked you to come and see this film— was it all a rouse just so she could show you who Eddie truly belongs too? So she could dismiss your attempts and break your heart further?

Unbeknownst to you, Steve had clocked the expression on your face. Tears glossing over your eyes, your front teeth gnawing on your bottom lip to try and contain whatever this was that you were feeling— but most importantly, he noticed the newfound stiffness in your body. He could feel you going rigid next to him.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice is low and kind and you should have paid more attention to his attentiveness but you don’t.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Is all you reply before lugging all of your stuff loosely and lazily into your arms and bolting for the theatre isle, but not without earning a few confused looks from Robin.

You bypass the restrooms, your eyes focused on the colossal glass doors which would separate you from Eddie and Chrissy officially.

The humid air hits your skin in an agonising envelop of warmth and you pull your sleeve over the palm of your hand to rub against your soaked cheeks.

Your chest feels heavy with every shaking intake of breath that you manage to pull into your lungs. You are heaving, gasping for air as you sob into the thick material of your sweater.

The sound of passing cars hits your ears and you slightly angle yourself away from the access road connecting the theatre to other public establishments. The images of Chrissy tongue down Eddie’s throat plays over and over in your mind— you don’t even know what the film was about because you were so hyper focused on them.

Your skin feels as though it doesn’t fit right over your skeleton and you grab at the material of your skirt, fisting the fabric as you try to ground your raging emotions.

You catch a whiff of theatre food and it causes bile to raise up the back of your throat, vomit threatening to project from your mouth.

People pass you by, their out of context conversations entering one of your ears and leaving the other. You felt so overstimulated— so riddled with anxiety that your brain hadn’t had space to even register Steve’s hand on your shoulder.

But when you do, you flinch away from him, taken aback by the horror stricken look on his soft features, “Hey… what’s going on?” His voice is low, a whisper as he tries to contain the situation between the two of you. Not wanting whatever this is to spill into the public.

You shake your head, your strong walls flagging up, “Nothing,” you dismiss him, “That movie was just… really scary..” you lie through your teeth and your watery eyes betray your words as tears continue to stream down your flushed skin.

“Bullshit.” He spits, his eyes turning to slits as he inches in closer to you, “Tell me what’s wrong right now.” His thick eyebrows have furrowed deeply on his forehead and you continue to deny him of any information.

“Steve— I’m fine! That movie was scary, I’m scared! That’s all… and.. and I needed some fresh air.” You shrug your shoulders, hoping that the messy headed man would leave it at that but he replies to your dishonesty with a discontent shake of his head.

“You’re fucking lying. Why are you lying to me?” He is so close to you now that you can feel his breath fanning onto your face, “We’re friends, right?” He cocks his head slightly to the right, his eyes becoming a bit more gentle, “Right?”

“Yes!” You respond instantly, “Of course we are friends-“

“Then tell me what’s going on! What is all of this about!” He gestures to your face, but his eyes scan across your body as well. He wants to know the whole truth, and you aren’t going to give it to him.

“I just told you!” You try not to yell, and thankfully your despair is doing a good job at strangling your voice, “I needed air—“ Steve cuts you off.

“Stop it. Stop it now.” He takes a hold of your arm, hurrying you away from the movie theatre entrance, “Just tell me. Whatever it is, I can help! I can help, okay? There’s nothing too big.” You stare into his honey suckle eyes, seeing your owe reflection staring back at you. It causes your stomach to flip with disgust.

“Why can’t you just let this go? I’m fine, Steve! I’m fucking fine! I just wanted air because I felt sick and you’re causing a scene!” You’re yelling now, your once sadness provoked tears turning to anger.

“I’m causing the scene? You’re the one lying to me and busting my balls! I just want to help you!” He takes a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone, I’m fine on my own. I can take care of myself— you don’t get it! You’ll never get it, Harrington!” You jab at his chest, your body shaking with adrenaline.

“Harrington? Wow, okay. Something is definitely bothering you because you only ever call me that when you are really fucking pissed and I know I haven’t angered you this much so just tell me.” He circles you like a shark in murky water and you flee from him, needing some breathing space.

“Tell me!” He demands, charging after you.

You swing around to face him, your entire body feeling as though it’s going to combust.

“You wanna know, Steve? You really wanna fucking know?!” You march toward him, stopping a few paces away from his large frame.

“I’m in love with Eddie!” Your voice is an unattractive squeak, “Is that what you want to know, Steve? Are you fucking happy now?” You’re trembling now— a mix of rage, melancholy and dread.

“I am in love with someone who will never love me back. I… I have tried so hard to win him over.” You pluck at your t-shirt, scoffing at the silliness of it all, “I tried to change everything about me. I tried to be the one he would want but he doesn’t want me. He’ll never fucking want me, Steve.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a form of defensiveness, “I’ll always be second best— no.” A moment of ugly realisation hits you, “I’m not even on his list. I’m not even a back up option to him. I’m a nobody. I can’t compete— I can’t compare.”

You’re a mess now. Smudged eyeliner. Smeared lipstick. You are a museum of failed art.

“I am in love with Eddie Munson and he doesn’t even know who I am.”

You try to lessen the blow of your own words with a tight lipped teary smile and a shrug of your shoulders… but whatever was left of your bruised heart was now torn to shreds. Unfixable. Unlovable.

“No one wants me.”

Through your distorted vision you hadn’t even noticed the tears pricking at Steve’s own eyes as he watched you fall to pieces in front of him.

Gently he brings you to lay flat against his chest, one of his hands rest tenderly against your hair whilst the other it draped over your shoulders.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds you silently and allows you to sob into his broad chest— your makeup destroying his pristine white shirt.

A few moments of the embrace pass and that’s when you hear a muted voice from behind Steve’s large frame. A voice you had hoped to not hear— a voice that belonged to someone you had prayed would never ever hear you confess what you just had. A voice that was laced with what you could only pinpoint as malice and repulsion.

Eddie.

“What.. the fuck?”

And as Steve’s body tensed against yours, you blinked away the last of your tears and accepted your fate.

-

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers

[lordprettyflackotara]

Did it First || Part Two || Jeff the Killer

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: descriptions of gore; yandere!reader, yandere!jeff, rough sex, honestly just yandere as fuck

Jeff the killer had destroyed the sweet innocent you.

If the sex wasn’t enough, seeing you with an axe in your hand did it. You stood over Stella, a blonde Jeff had been fucking for months while also fooling around with you. Jeff was frozen in shock, his eyes widened as he stared at her bloody corpse. You had attacked her from behind, her back mangled and flesh hanging on by thin shreds of her skin. You didn’t stop there Jeff would find out, his eyes trailing up to her face. You had stepped on her, pinning her to the ground as you swung the axe at her throat. Jeff could see the manic swings you had took, her head cut off, sitting beside her corpse.

Jeff had seen and had done a lot in his day. But this? This was a lot for even him to handle. Just yesterday he had been entangled with her in the sheets, her eyes now permanently open in shock. They were lifeless, fear washing over the pale killer as he looked up at you. Splattered blood was staining nearly your entire body, your cheeks painted with the droplets. Blood soaked your shirt and pants, an unhinged grin spread across your lips.

“What’s wrong Jeff? You killed for me so I killed for you. After all, you did it first.”

Jeff was not as infatuated with you as he thought he was. What you nor Jeff realized, was what everyone else around him already knew. He had the attention span of a walnut. Jeff had a pattern of doing this, hyper-fixating on girls and then growing bored. It was nothing personal. Jeff did what he did and he would continue to do what he wanted to do. Every girl he had done this to before had two options. They could either cope and move on. Or, if they were more of a spicy bunch, Jeff would have to kill them off. It was sickeningly satisfying to the killer, making someone fall in love with them so hard that they couldn’t move on with their lives. Jeff knew his entanglements with average girls could get messy. Slenderman made it very clear any potential threat to exposure would need to be terminated.

Besides obligation from him, Jeff enjoyed slaughtering his past lovers. Something about seeing the insides of a person really gave him something to remember them by. Faces and names became blurred, Jeff unable to even remember his last fling before you. But what he could remember crystal clear was the fact that none of them. not one, had returned the favor. Jeff enjoyed killing off people in his flings lives. Relatives, lovers, friends, it all blended together after a while. The mortal attachments that made humans so fragile was adorable to him. He loved nothing more than to cut that cord. His brain always justified it beyond it being a means to control his fling. Most people didn’t realize they’d be better off without those restraints holding them back. Jeff thought that if anything him killing Jim was tame. He was a shitty hookup, not a work of art or someone memorable in the grand scheme of things.

Killing wasn’t anything super meaningful anyways. So after a couple of months, Jeff grew hopelessly bored. He knew everything about you. There was no mystery, no fantasy. You were exactly who you presented yourself to be. It’s not like Jeff could reciprocate, his life a forced secret that he had to keep. And you could bet your sweet ass he wasn’t going to tell you how he became the monster he was. So Jeff did what he always did, he disappeared and moved on. As he stared at Stella’s corpse he supposed deciding to move on within the same town was perhaps not the best idea he’s ever had. Stella was the stereotypical blonde you saw on social media in bikini pics. Jeff didn’t necessarily have a type, but she was the bobble headed moron Jeff needed after a fresh break up. His appearance didn’t freak her out either, an added plus. He ignored that it was because of her wanting to spite her parents. She wanted him to get her pregnant, the idea of having a freaks baby to piss off her parents somehow the best plan in her mind.

Jeff didn’t mind playing into it anyways, burying himself in her cunt every night. It didn’t matter anyways, her parents had been dead in their bedroom for days. He would’ve loved to keep the affair going, but truthfully he was too lazy to bother moving the bodies. He knew the smell would catch her attention and things would get unnecessarily bloody. He didn’t need to kill her anyways, he knew she would be shipped off to the closest mental institution. But didn’t she need it anyway? Wanting a killer to impregnate her just to piss a couple of people off? Yeah, Jeff could definitely justify breaking things off. He decided to check on her one last time, wanting to really savor the feeling of her cunt. She may have been a helpless airhead but Jeff was never one to turn down sex. That’s when he saw you, proudly standing in her bedroom doorway. He must’ve missed the murder by a few minutes, the blood still fresh and oozing out of the corpse.

What Jeff hadn’t anticipated was the opposite what he wanted. All of his time as a killer he either ditched or killed girls, no in between. He picked seemingly average and normal women, careful to avoid ones that seemed unstable. His mistake was choosing you. Your obsessive tendencies and underlying codependency issues slipping under the cracks of his inspection. You were the devil in disguise, unaware that he would provoke it out into exposure.

You didn’t accept Jeff’s choice. If anything you had convinced yourself that he had been tricked in some way or was testing you. Ultimately you decided either way, the blonde bitch had to go. So you began stalking him as he once stalked you. You hid in the shadows, watching him climb into her window time and time again. It seemed so bluntly obvious to you this was a test, the killer not even attempting to conceal himself in his bright white hoodie. So you waited for the perfect moment. Coming right and out and killing her during their affair didn’t seem right. You didn’t want either of them to have a chance of preventing what had to be done. Jeff would confidently stroll into her house around the same time every night. He was so predictable. You felt like even though you lacked the traditional information one usually has about their partner, you knew Jeff. You knew what he liked and disliked. You knew his habits like picking at his nails or running his fingers through his hair. You knew him better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“Wow this um, wow,” Jeff said, trying not to stumble over his words. The pale killer had never been so caught off guard before. You dropped the axe, allowing it to fall to the floor as you approached him. “I understand why you did it, testing me. Finding a real ride or die bitch must be hard when you’re a real man,” You purred. You strolled behind him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You could feel him tense up, freezing as you placed a kiss to his neck. “You need a real woman and guess what baby? I’m that bitch. Blondie here could’ve never done this for you,” You say, glancing over at the bloody corpse. Jeff swallowed, becoming increasingly nervous and aroused. Jeff liked to have control in any and all situations, but something about the lack of control in this one was making him incredibly flustered. It was humbling, having you snatch the reigns from him. “Now it can just be us. Just me and you,” You cooed. Your blood stained hands coated his hoodie, covering it with an all too familiar color. “Thats right,” Jeff confirmed, swallowing. You pressed a few soft kisses to his neck, before standing on your tippy toes to reach his ear.

“Oh and Jeff?”

“Huh?”

“If you ever fuck another bitch again i’ll kill you.”

Jeff should’ve been terrified. He had created a mini me. A monster. Yet he felt all of his blood rush to his cock, your curious gaze not failing to notice. “Oh baby does this turn you on? Seeing what i’d do for you?” You asked mockingly. You smirked as Jeff braced himself, his cock aching against his jeans. Your hand slithered down to his front zipper, pulling it down aggressively. It didn’t take long for your hand to find his cock, pulling at the length as it hardened in your palm. Your other hand slid to his throat, cuffing it and squeezing. “Not so big and powerful now are we?” You hummed. Jeff bit his bottom lip, the urge to snap at you rising but the feeling you were providing him was far more euphoric. “You’re a crazy fucking bitch,” He panted, watching you slowly jerk him off. You smiled as you nibbled at his ear lobe. “I’m sorry what was that? You wanted me to stop?” You teased. Jeff’s patience had thinned, quickly turning around and grabbing you. He tossed you onto the bed, pinning you onto the mattress. “I said you’re a crazy fucking bitch,” He hissed.

You giggled with glee as he began to tear at your pants, shoving them down to your ankles. He roughly palmed your panties, growling. “Wet already whore? Seriously? Murder get you off?” Jeff huffed. You grinned as he tore your panties harshly, ripping the fabric and tossing it to the ground: With two fingers he rubbed up and down your folds, examining your slick. “You’re fuckin soaked, don’t think you need any prep,” Jeff grunted. He grabbed his shaft, rubbing it up and down your folds. “Besides princess you better get used to taking this dick, since you’ll be taking it for the rest of your life,” He spat, shoving himself inside of you harshly. You had taken Jeff dozens of times before. But this. Something about the way he was fucking you now obliterated all of those previous experiences. He showed no mercy as he bottomed out inside of you, taking a brief moment to relish in the feeling of your walls clinging to him. “You’re insane, you know that?” He asked. You giggled at his comment, watching him pin your wrist above your head. “I’m insane? You’re one to talk,” You countered.

This earned you a sharp slap across the face, causing you to whine as Jeff moved his hips. “Dont talk back to me slut,” He barked. He didn’t give you time to process his response, his hips aggressively snapping into yours. All thoughts about the gruesome scene behind the two of you had faded, the only thing you were able to focus on being one another. Jeff’s thrust were harsh and unforgiving. You wanted him forever? Wanted to be his girl? Then you better buckle up and bow down to who you belonged to. You whined as the knot inside of your stomach tightened further, his cock abusing your g spot. “You take me so nice. Shit, maybe you really were made for me,” Jeff grunted. You smeared Stella’s blood on his face with your hands, cupping them against his cheeks. The crimson paint stained his pure white skin, the blood of his ex lover unfazing him as he rammed into you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trapping him as if he came closer to his high. “Go on Jeff, cum in me. I’m all yours,” You pleaded. Your begging made him lick his lips, his permanent grin curling upwards into a real one. “You sick bitch. I’ll give you what you deserve,” He snarled. He watched you slither a hand to your clit, both of you close to your highs. As euphoria washed over you it occurred to you this is all you ever really wanted. Him to be yours. With his cum flooding your cunt and filling you to the brim, you realized you got what you wanted.

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER EIGHT

08 : PASTRIES

CHPT. SUM. : Alpahard comes for a visit and you help the Belbys run their shop while Damocles focuses on the wolfsbane potion. Everything appears to be going as planned.

LENGTH : 9.7k

TAGS : OG Walburga is a scheming bitch ; Orion is an absent and neglectful father ; Alphard is a good uncle who loves his nephews ; Reader just girl bossing it ; Ruth and Damocles are couple goals ; Reggie finally being happy and very baby

CONTENT WARNING : talks of divorce

A/N : I'm posting this now to give it a week before I post the 9th chapter on February 1st -- you'll have to excuse me if I'm a little late on that update though because I'm currently out of commission from the most horrible cold/flu I've ever had (╥﹏╥) -- please send your thoughts and prayers because I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep the last two days and I swear this impromptu post is also a part of the delirium I'm experiencing

← PREV. 07 : INVESTIGATIONS | SERIES M.LIST

14th September 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place

Walburga throws a fit, trapped in the abyss of your mind. She’s furious, seething from your menacing intrusions upon her life and secrets. It was frustrating and annoying beyond belief! The intricate web she had just begun to create was unravelling before her very eyes, and she could do nothing but watch! She had meant to secure a different future with her forming web; impervious to the imminent cycle of life she had witnessed that fateful day months ago. She had made one fatal mistake in all of her meticulous planning and preparation, labouring over an ancient ritual that would guarantee full obedience from her two boys. And, rather than force her mind and ideals over the thoughts and actions of her two sons before their fates began to set permanently, she was being made to fall under the thoughts and actions of another individual, you.

Being forced to watch you take over her shoes has been Walburga’s own personal hell. It’s far more painful knowing that she has no say over what you do. She’s limited to only watching, watching and agonising over her perfect plans being torn to shreds. The love and kindness you were showing her sons was unbecoming, going completely against her values on the way a mother should parent. It’s clear that you know nothing about how to raise two young boys born into the most ancient and noble house.

Walburga’s resentment grows and grows by the day. As a prisoner forced to share her identity and existence with someone who goes against her beliefs, it is unbelievably torturous. She screams ‘NO!’ and ‘STOP!’ at every offending action you take, all of which seem to be the exact opposite of her true self. Openly showing affection? Her sons will only grow clingy and burdensome. Being open to conversations? Growing boys should only speak when spoken to and not dare question the things being told to them for their own good. Cooking without magic? (Cooking at all!) There’s a house elf to fulfil that role. Thinking about your foreign behaviour has anger quickly bubbling up from her stomach. You’re so foolish!

But there was hope…

After every major fainting spell Walburga has induced, your unconscious body has left your thoughts and mind completely silent and open to her reclaim. Dwelling in the dark depths when all is silent, Walburga can feel a ticklish sensation from afar. And it only grows ever palpable after every major blackout. A wicked smirk touches her lips as she reaches forward and feels the wisps of connection between the floating space she was suspended in and the tangibility of the physical world.

One powerful, familiar thought moves her fingers a centimetre. It was small but a big step forward. The solid material she registers at the edges of her nerves -–the feeling of bedsheets atop a solid mattress— was alien in its distance and bizarre for its unfamiliar yet known sensation. It was like returning to something and your brain had yet to recognise the perception as one that was formally commonplace.

However, just as Walburga was wrapping her mind around that singular, grounding feeling, it was suddenly ripped away. Once again, she was surrounded by an empty coldness, suspended in an unfeeling space. Despite the frustration that quickly mounted inside her, it was accompanied by a resolve that plastered itself solidly in her chest, a determination to bide her time and remain patient. She will wreck terror and havoc when times are right and after she’s deteriorated your hold, she’ll regain full control once more.

It will only be a matter of time…

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You wake up to a familiar scene and sigh sadly. The ringing in your head is a powerful one, an annoyance that makes the sun rays falling through the gaps of the curtains feel like a knife to your eyes. Reaching for your wand, a silent swish fills the gaps, shutting away the sun and reducing the sting in your eyes to something you can easily blink away. The curtains act like a filter for the light outside, partially bringing a soft, green radiance into the room.

At the sight of your youngest curled up against you once again, you lean down and affectionately kiss his crown, “I’m sorry, little love,” although you kept your voice to a quiet whisper, it’s enough to raise Regulus from the warm abyss of slumber. Your little prince sits up and rubs his eyes as you admire his adorable image.

“Good morning, my darling,” you comb his hair back from his tired eyes and lean close with a lowered, soft voice; an intimate moment between mother and son, “did I worry you again?” Regulus nods silently and launches himself into your arms as you apologise over and over.

The night before, Kreacher had been open about another blackout you’d experienced. And, although Regulus was grateful, he was anxious all night long. It never fails to make his heart jump to his throat. He remembers your still—far too still—body laying in bed, in a room entirely separate from his father’s. You look at peace but it wasn’t a comfort; you didn’t appear to simply be asleep, rather, you looked more deathly… he dreads to even think back on such thoughts. He’s only comforted by the sound of your steady heartbeat and soft breaths so he wastes no time in reaching for his blanket and sleeping beside you, close enough to hear the rhythm of your heart and the melody of your breathing.

“A-are you feeling sick?” that wasn’t the real question he wanted to ask, you can see the truth in his pleading, sweet eyes. Are you afflicted by some sort of incurable disease that cannot be stopped?

Regulus closes his eyes to savour the kiss you press into his forehead, “I’m perfectly healthy, my little love. Please don’t worry too much,” you pull away to cup his face tenderly in your hands and thumb over the softness of his cheeks.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” you nuzzle his nose with your own and the tense, fretful atmosphere is washed away by your shared giggles.

Kreacher soon appears with a tray of breakfast and another phial of magenta liquid. You eye the offending potion for a hard second but before you can groan, Kreacher is already lecturing you.

“Mistress must drink! Must must must!” he insists with beseeching eyes, urging the phial into your hands.

“Let me, at least, have some breakfast first, Kreacher,” you try to set aside the phial and reach for the breakfast tray instead while Regulus suppresses a laugh at the scene. He couldn’t believe his mother felt the same way about healing potions as wizarding children and newly appointed witches and wizards did. It was amusing to see a reflection of childishness in his mother, who had always been so cold and unfeeling.

“No!” Kreacher pulls the breakfast tray away from you, insistent on having you drink the potion before any food, “Potion first, Mistress!”

“FILTHY ELF! DISOBEYING COMMANDS! I TAUGHT HIM BETTER THAN THIS– LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO MY SERVANT!” Walburga’s shriek makes you wince, and Kreacher takes it as the sign to draw back and apologise for his loudness while Regulus balances comforting you and the spiralling house elf.

“Kreacher is deeply sorry, Mistress…” Kreacher suppresses his guilty thoughts in favour of his mistress’ well-being. Going into another one of his many anxious episodes won’t be helpful to you. “Please drink,” he cups his hands around your own to fold over the phial once more. His large, watery eyes, silently plead for you and lift in relief when you finally agree and down its disgusting contents.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” you smile at the elf who finally sets the breakfast tray on your lap above the covers.

“Mistress is w-w-welcome…” he stretches out the syllables of the unfamiliar word, appearing unsure over its usage but his tense shoulders immediately sag in relief as soon as he sees yours and Regulus’ kind smiles. You had been urging him to use the word for quite some time and are happy to see that he was finally confident enough to begin trying it. Hopefully, after this first try, he’ll be more confident in using it in the future. Sending you a thankful smile, Kreacher handles the empty phial and disappears after wishing you and his young master Regulus a good morning.

“Kreacher looks happy,” Regulus comments absentmindedly before taking a bite of toast. Once again, the two of you are sharing breakfast in bed and you lovingly wipe away stray crumbs from the corners of his smiling lips, “I like him even more when he’s like this!”

Melting from his sweet words and the brightness in his eyes, you nod in agreement, “Me too,”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Finally out of bed and roaming the house, you notice Orion’s missing jacket from the hallway coat rack and call for Kreacher.

“Master Orion asked for his healing potion, Mistress,” Kreacher shuffles his feet and wrings the hem of his shabby clothing between his hands. It appears that he too is uncomfortable with Orion’s reappearance, although, you suppose your husband had suffered long enough. Calculating the time in your head, you resist the urge to sigh sadly. Three days. The poor fool. You hoped he would have lasted longer than that but you suppose it was fun to see him suffer while it lasted. It was karma working its best under the hand of a spiteful wife.

“I see…” you patiently search for the house elf’s eyes before asking the important question, ”Did he say ‘please’?”

After a pause, Kreacher finally nods, “Eventually, yes, Mistress,” Kreacher looks unsure, probably remembering the tense exchange he had with the patriarch, however, it’s soon swept away by your smile and gentle pat against his bald and wrinkled head.

“Well done, Kreacher,” the house elf’s ears wiggle in glee and you see a shy smile creeping up from under his long nose.

18th September 1971 | Muggle London

“You’re excited,” you giggle at the sight of your youngest practically skipping along beside you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Uncle Alphard. Sirius and I always love it when he comes over,” you smile at his response, happy to know that there was an adult figure he and Sirius felt safe around; Walburga and Orion were definitely not a safe place for themdespite being their parents. “I’m happy you two aren’t fighting anymore,” although Regulus beams up at you, you couldn’t muster an equally bright smile in return. What did that mean? You were positive that Alphard only got into a serious fight with Walburga when he supported Sirius running away at 16. Perhaps this was a lead-up to that?

“Me too, dear…” For the moment, you keep your questions to yourself. The books and movies kept the relationship between the Black family rather vague so you’ll pick up the clues along the way. For now, it’s better to focus on your darling son and the precious memories you’ll make despite the modest outing to the French bakery. “What do you think we should have for afternoon tea with your uncle? Hm? I’m thinking of English breakfast,”

“That sounds great, mother!”

“And for snacks? What would you like to have on the menu?”

“Butter scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam,”

“Of course, a classic. Anything else?”

“Chouquettes, Macarons, Eclairs, Madeleines, Mille Feuille, Profiteroles!” all French baked goods.

“Goodness,” you exaggerate your reaction and smile at the light giggles it draws from Regulus, “All of our teeth will be falling out by the end. How about we include some finger sandwiches too? We can buy fresh bread and assemble them at home,”

“No crusts?” Regulus asks without hesitation and your heart warms; you love knowing he feels safe and secure enough with you to speak freely.

“It’s the only time crusts are not allowed,” you wink and silently awe at how his beaming smile seems to get even wider. Many depictions of Regulus made him a stoic and cold character but seeing his bright disposition and childish mannerisms was a delight. You prefer him like this. And you want to keep him this way forever, such a motherly sentiment. All you have to do is make sure he doesn't feel forced to abide by the toxic pureblood family rules and beliefs. Instead, you will gently nurture his interests, gently guide him whenever he feels lost and make sure he always feels supported. And you will do the same for Sirius.

Happy and content, the two of you walk into a lovely French bakery with high spirits. The warm atmosphere and welcoming fragrance of freshly baked goods leave you both enraptured and salivating at the mouth – it was hard to resist not getting a bit of everything. Together, you pick out the best-looking pastries to box up before selecting a loaf to be pre-cut and packaged for your convenience. The bakery staff were very helpful and were more than happy to oblige with every request. They also lovingly cooed over Regulus, who partially hid behind your long skirt, though this only seemed to make them all the more awed by him. His softly spoken gratitude was what had pushed them over the edge, and you could only laugh as they offered an extra macaron for him. Regulus was a very sweet boy and looked very much like a prince, so you didn’t blame them for their swooning.

“They liked me, Mother,” Regulus shyly addresses as you make your way home. He holds the wrapped-up, pre-cut loaf under one arm as his other holds onto your spare. As a gentleman, he insisted on carrying both the boxed pastries and loaf but you argued against it, insisting on wanting to hold his hand; the equally shared burden was your compromise. You think it was the best option, really — the best of both worlds.

“As they should, my baby has all the irresistible charms,” your open praise makes him shy into the folds of your skirt once more and you suppress an adoring coo.

“You really think so, Mother?”

“I know so, little love. I’m confident in this for your brother too,” you fake an exasperated sigh, “I’m going to have my hands full in the future. You two are going to be such heartbreakers, I’ll have girls constantly knocking on my door with tears in their eyes,”

Regulus giggles as he looks up from your waist, eyes sparkling from your playful antics, “I won’t do that to you Mother, I promise,”

“But it’s not about intention, you see,” you eye him with a kind smile, “when someone falls in love, they fall in love, there’s no saying ‘no’ to it. And with two very handsome, exceptional sons, well…” you let his thoughts silently complete the rest of your sentence and resist reacting to the adorable pout that forms on his lips.

“I’m very sorry, in advance, Mother,” his sincerity draws out a laugh but you’re filled with pride, regardless. Honesty is a great trait to have.

“That’s very sweet of you, thank you, darling,”

In anticipation of Alphard’s arrival, you and Regulus help Kreacher make finger sandwiches and brew the tea. The closer the time ticks to two in the afternoon, you ask Regulus to help you prep the tiered dish rack while Kreacher dresses the teapot with a tea cosy. By the time Alphard arrives via floo network, the reception room is already well prepared, clean and proudly displaying a delicious tea spread.

“Uncle Alphard!” Regulus cheers and launches himself at the square-jawed man who steps out of the green blaze, exiting your fireplace. He is smartly dressed in a black three-piece suit and polished oxford shoes. His hair is gelled back in a flattering style of frame for his handsome face — straight nose, shapely lips, piercing eyes and level brows. It makes you wonder if he was dressed in his work attire or not. Tea should be a comfortable occasion, especially when hosted by family, for family. What did he even work as?... You hardly know anything about the man, so you have to keep yourself alert to any potential hiccups you may accidentally let slip. You’re supposed to be his elder sister, after all, you should know more about him than his name.

“Good afternoon, Regulus,” Alphard grins at his nephew after visibly shaking off his shock. Never before had he seen his youngest nephew so high-spirited. Their greetings were also usually much more formal than this, distant and dispassionate. This type of behaviour was strongly discouraged by his sister, so the sudden change was rather suspicious. Alphard, however, wanted to believe in Regulus’ sincerity for the sake of such a sweet boy. He instinctively looks around for Sirius but remembers all too quickly that the eleven-year-old was in Hogwarts for his first year, hence the primary topic of his arrival.

“Welcome, younger brother,” you smile warmly at him, ignoring the look of surprise that he doesn’t attempt to cover up. At least he manages to dip his head in a hesitant nod of acknowledgement, “Let's head to the reception then shall we? Orion won’t be joining us, I’m afraid,” you don’t see it but Alphard releases a muted sigh of relief, easily veiling his real emotions by smiling warmly at Regulus, who walks close beside him.

All furniture that occupies the reception room stylistically matches one another. They’re all made of dark walnut wood, embellished with elegant silver accents and dark green leather. The central table has a dark leather sofa on one side and two grandfather chairs with swirling arms on the other. There’s a decorative fireplace on one side of the room with a drab oil painting hanging above the mantle and the only light source is from the open window, occupying the far right wall upon entering.

“Can I sit next to Uncle, Mother?” Regulus politely asks, not wanting to separate from his uncle but also not wanting to make you feel excluded.

“You can sit wherever you wish, little love,” you smile softly, sitting in an armchair and watching as Regulus eagerly pulls Alphard to sit on the sofa with him. Your youngest is already chatting his uncle’s ear off about the snacks featured on the tiered dish rack. This then led him to talk about your morning visit to the bakery, where he had charmed the staff to offer an extra macaron.

They ‘really liked him’ and now his ‘mother is very worried’, why? Because he’ll ‘become a heartbreaker one day’. Alphard listened intently, still shocked but eager to listen to his nephew who he had never seen so bright and secure. Every few seconds, however, Alphard would look towards you for signs of any rising anger or frustration, compounding into an explosive outburst. He was familiar with that. He was familiar with your disapproval. However, there wasn’t a single trace of any negative emotion on your countenance. Rather, your eyes were full of affection and warmth, directed at Regulus while sipping your tea, silently listening to their exchange. Never before had he seen his eldest sister look so… content.

Pausing for breath, Regulus finally remembers the occasion and flushes adorably. His face is much rounder, healthier looking, Alphard notices and is shocked when you allow him to have a small plate to pile on his share of the delicious selection of goodies on the tiered dish. The majority of which were rather sweet to taste. He didn’t know his sister to be one who encouraged the regular consumption of sugar because you would only allow it for special occasions such as Yule and birthdays. Not wanting to startle his nephew, however, Alphard bites his tongue and distracts his racing thoughts by pouring his tea.

“Milk and sugar?” Alphard asks, bewildered at the options freely offered on the coffee table. You had long forbidden milk and sugar to be part of afternoon tea after finding how his tastes had affected your two sons’ preferences.

“Of course,” you voice as if he had been crazy to question you, “everyone is free to make their tea however they wish,”

Alphard follows Regulus’ lead and freely makes his tea… just the way he likes it. With lots of sugar and lots of milk. If you were going to test him, he was going to test you right back and readily anticipate your outward, shrieking protests. However, there were no shrill screeches or ear-splitting lectures over how muted, milky and sugary he liked to have his tea. Rather, Alphard, heard you giggle. His older sister. Giggling? The world must be coming to a terrifying end! Slack-jawed he looks up and stares wide-eyed at your cheerful smile.

“I see you and Regulus have similar preferences in tea,” Alphard shares a sheepish look with his nephew, “How refreshing. It makes me wonder how good it must taste for the both of you to enjoy tea the way you do,” another giggle.

Regulus happily offers his cup, “You can try some of mine if you want, Mother,” Smiling at his nephew’s kindness, Alphard is even more awed by your drastic change in behaviour.

“That’s very sweet of you, little love, thank you. But, how’s about I finish my cup first and I’ll see about having a sip of yours if you have any left?”

“Alright!”

The happy atmosphere wasn’t something Alphard was used to, especially not from his older sister. However, he was grateful for his nephew’s happy disposition. His sister’s strict education and harsh manner of child-rearing left plenty of room for worry but, no matter what seems to have changed, provided that his nephews stay happy and safe, Alphard would happily keep his many questions to himself. Perhaps this was maternal instincts finally taking over. He dare not interrupt by drawing attention to it.

When there’s a lull in the conversation and everyone takes a sip of their tea or a bite of their selected treat, you begin to investigate the relationship between the original Walburga and Alphard. You weren’t impervious to Alphard’s shocked expressions in your periphery; admittedly, it was admirable of him not to make a scene out of his staggering surprise at your ‘odd’ behaviour. It’s fair for him to believe you’re still his original, bigoted sister. You can only speculate that he wasn’t drawing attention for Regulus’ sake and you admire him for that.

“Alphard,” he hums in acknowledgement, setting down his cup and reaching for a madeleine, “how is your work?” your question makes him visibly freeze up but the moment he realises Regulus is watching, he smoothly eases back into normal, less robotic motions.

“It’s been well,” you can tell he wants to leave it at that, satisfied to leave the topic there. However, you were not and kept silent, quietly pushing him into answering further, “...the office has been operating normally. My client is dealing with a relatively common case of discrimination based on pregnancy at the workplace,” he’s a solicitor then. And practising mostly in employment law, it seems. “And before you say anything about women needing to better plan their pregnancies and how a woman needs to be at home with her husband rather than working, I want to remind you of the company,” his voice is firm and he’s plainly referring to Regulus being present, therefore dubbing the subject matter sensitive. However, his insinuations on the original Walburga’s dogmatist beliefs make you visibly disgusted and it pulls on his interest. Never had he seen his sister look so abhorrent to the views he knew she supported.

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort. I appreciate that you’re doing good work for the people who need it—”

“Even for a half Veela?”

“Everyone deserves to be fairly represented in a court of law, dear brother. And please don’t interrupt me again, Regulus should find quality, male influence in his uncle, please demonstrate the appropriate, good manners for him,” Alphard is surprised by your sharp eyes and firm demand. You had always been demanding but never to this degree, never to such a reasonable degree, and never without raising your voice. Yet, your voice has remained level, only adjusting for firmness.

How odd… Alphard doesn’t know whether to laugh mockingly at your hypocrisy or dare to feel hope for the positive change he’s beginning to see in his sister.

“...I apologise,” Alphard nods to you before turning to Regulus, “I didn’t set a good example Reg, I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay Uncle,” Regulus beams up at him, happy to be referred to by the affectionate nickname his uncle hadn’t been able to call him in many months.

“Why not ‘Reggie’?”

“I’m sorry?” Alphard looks genuinely perplexed by the change in behaviour. You had always strongly reprimanded him for daring to call your sons by any affectionate nicknames as you wanted your boys to stay faithful to their full birth name — it was a source of pride, after all. To be named after the stars and be in the most ancient and noble house, their names were sacred and it was a mockery to shorten despite it being done with affection. But now you were supporting it?

“‘Reggie’ is a cuter nickname,”

“Reg is good— cute enough, it’s short and sweet,”

“But Reggie is cuter than Reg,”

“Both are cute,”

“...Reggie is cuter, though,”

“Let’s agree to disagree. I will keep calling him Reg and you call him Reggie,” the boy in question was a healthy shade of red now. For a lighthearted argument to centre around him like this wasn’t what he anticipated happening but he was happy to see his mother and uncle getting along harmoniously. Not once have they raised their voices or forced the other to leave the room in a huff. This was nice… Sirius would have really liked this. Maybe Regulus should send another letter, even if his brother has yet to reply to his previous one.

“What nickname do you call Sirius?” you ask, voice soft and eager to continue the topic of your sons. This was another new side Alphard was seeing to you, his usually cold and unfeeling sister had never been one to perpetuate gossip surrounding her sons, and yet, now you were so eager to— and on a topic that is so innocuous and unproductive. But it was a good change, one that he’s sure will be a good influence on his beloved nephews.

“Siri,”

“That’s perfect,” you smile into the lip of your teacup and sip, “we can agree on that front,” Alphard actually manages to chuckle and nod along. He had prepared himself for a harsh and loud argument, not this but he dare not complain; this was a very pleasant surprise. He even dares to feel confident in re-addressing a long taboo topic.

“...You feel I do good work as an employment lawyer?” he begins, hesitant, his hands beginning to shake. The suddenly nervous man opts to set his cup down and wipe the sweat from his hands along his trouser-covered thighs.

“Of course,” you wonder where the conversation is going.

“And what of my extracurriculars too?” he avoids your eyes and your mind flashes with a memory of a young Alphard nervously standing before his elder sister, his small hands curled into fists on his knee-length shorts. This man is your younger brother now. However, you can’t help but think that Walburga cared deeply for him despite their strained relationship, judging from the fond memory that had flashed behind your blinking eyelids. In the depths of your mind, you imagine she still likens him to his much younger, toddler self, an endearing but common trait in an older sister.

“Extracurriculars?”

“My voluntary work with the less fortunate, typically with other magical beings,”

You frown when you finally realise what had caused the strain between brother and sister. Walburga had belittled and strongly protested against a man who only did good. A man of justice. This was the man who favoured Sirius in the original timeline because they shared the same sense of justice and the need to rebel against their bigoted family.

“I’m sorry Alphard,” you look into his eyes with such sincerity that Alphard feels as though he could cry. He had grown up admiring his sister but the instant he had begun to think for himself and see the unfairness of her skewed views, he swears he had felt his first ever heartbreak. His sister, who he had loved and admired so much, who he thought of as an amazing person was not who he thought she was and the revelation was earth-shattering. It broke his heart all the more when he saw his younger brother Cygnus follow in her footsteps. “I’m sorry for all the past unsavoury comments I said to you about your profession, and on what you have chosen to do with your life and beliefs. I was wrong, the way I thought of the world was wrong. I’m truly sorry for who I was before. And I want to assure you that I am no longer that person. I think what you’re doing is truly wonderful and this world needs more people like you in it. My boys need a good uncle like you to help raise them with good values and sense for the world,”

Alphard looks at Regulus, eyes wide with shock, his mind reeling and needing something to ground him, to confirm that the shock he was feeling was reasonable, but to hope for the best and to trust in his sister’s words again was feeling too much at that moment. All he needed was Regulus’ reassuring smile, and that was exactly what his young nephew faced him with, as if to say ‘It’s alright uncle, you can rest assured now,’.

“Why….” Alphard slowly turns his attention back to you, “why did you change your mind?”

You smile to yourself, “For my sons, of course. They deserve the world, the least I can do is be a good mother to them,

“You’re the best mother in the world!” Regulus protests as your eyes humbly close.

“Let’s not lie to ourselves and completely forget what has happened. I have hurt many people with the way I used to act, for believing in the things I used to believe. What’s worse is that I have hurt those most dear to me and those who I should have taken better care of… I’m very sorry Alphard, I don’t think I’ll be able to express how truly apologetic I am. It wasn’t right of me to hurt you that way,”

Blinking back tears, Alphard musters a crooked smile, his voice slightly shaky but his heart light and chest warm, “Apology accepted, dear sister,”

“You said you wanted to talk about something important, little brother?” you wanted to move on from the topic, but Alphard no longer knew if he had the right to express his worry. After witnessing your change in demeanour first-hand, the weight on his shoulders was finally lifted, and his chest didn’t feel so heavy.

“...after the sorting ceremony, I was worried about Sirius and Regulus – they are my nephews, after all. I wasn’t confident in their safe treatment at home,” Regulus looks to his uncle with an appreciative smile, earning an affectionate ruffle of his hair.

Smiling softly, you take his implicit criticism with grace. It wasn’t even your doing but you move forward with it anyway, “thank you for worrying about them but, as I said, I am a changed woman,”

Alphard smiles into his teacup and hums in contentment, “I can see that… I’m glad – you’re also no longer against my profession and my extracurriculars. The moment you accepted my request to come over for tea, I was somewhat relieved but getting to see your change myself was even more of a relief,”

“I’m sorry again, for the past. I don’t know what on earth was the matter with me,” your slight jab at the original Walburga has the witch throwing a muted tantrum in the back of your mind. It’s quite hard to resist smiling wickedly at how easy it is to rile her up.

“No matter…the past is in the past,” Regulus nods and readily agrees.

“I’m really happy Sirius got into Gryffindor. In his letters, he says how happy and at home he feels there,” Regulus’ eyes shine with such pride, it was easy to smile with him. Alphard is comforted by the thought of his eldest nephew having a good start away from home and, atop that, being supported by his mother and brother. He holds no hope for Orion however, many of those in the family have heard of his inappropriate behaviour at Hogwarts. It was unbecoming from the patriarch of the most ancient and noble house. That was why many assumed why he had not made any public appearances at the Wizengamot for a few days, using sickness as an excuse in his letters to the office.

“Which Hogwarts house would you like to join, Reg?” Alphard asks, curious. Judging from your displays of changed temperament and child-rearing, he assumes and hopes his youngest nephew no longer admires the idea of going to Slytherin as he’s known his sister and Orion to have ceaselessly enforced onto the two.

Growing shy, Regulus looks to his lap and picks at his fingernails nervously, “I don’t know… as long as I’m happy and feel at home, that’s all that matters, right, Mother?” Regulus looks to you for assurance and smiles when you nod with fondness in your eyes. A slight tension leaves Regulus’ small shoulders immediately and he settles back into the sofa with a silent sigh of repose, Alphard following closely behind his nephew. What a relief.

The interactions and conversations with you have been quite a shock but in the most pleasant sense. Alphard no longer felt his fingers tensing at the thought of writing a letter to his eldest nephew. They had already exchanged some letters and Alphard was concerned that the assurance within Sirius’ written words was nothing but something to cover up the tensions at home from his sorting ceremony. What a relief to know that it was all true. Sirius did feel happy, he did feel supported and he did miss home. If Alphard’s own mother acted the way you did, with soft affection, fond eyes and a warm touch, he would miss home too.

Light conversation and the peaceful atmosphere continued until Regulus had to do his scheduled piano practice. Regulus politely excused himself while Alphard stared in wide-eyed confusion and awe as another miracle played out before him: you showing open affection for your son by kissing his forehead in front of company before he promptly left for his piano. A silence draws out as you wait for the distant sounds of piano playing to continue your conversation. This time, however, you aim to finally put your central plan into action, one that you were finally seeing the answers to when Alphard revealed his profession.

“What do you specialise in as a solicitor again?” you begin.

“Employment law, sometimes corporate and civil law too,” Alphard states nonchalantly, closely examining your face, his heart beating faster at the implications of your lack of a strong reaction. He supported the change in you but you can tell that he has yet to fully believe in the dream world that was playing out before him.

At the sudden look of worry on your features, Alphard leans forward with concern, “What’s wrong?"

Sighing heavily, you set down your teacup and lean back, "Do you know anyone working in Family law?”

“Naturally…” he answers, his silence carrying a question as he stares at you with a raised brow.

“I want a marital separation from Orion… and I want to take the kids – it’s not safe for them here with him around,”

Alphard nods and immediately begins to hatch a plan. It was a natural mode of work he had refined throughout his years as a solicitor, “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave…and I think I may know of someone who you can talk to. They’re a half-blood specialising in family law, who actively pushes for similar laws being passed for muggles to be transitioned into the wizarding world,”

That sounded like the perfect lawyer for you, “I would really appreciate that Al, thank you,” you say the nickname without thinking and are ready to rush out an apology but stop in surprise when you see the warm smile on Alphard’s face.

“You haven’t called me Al in years… you must really want to leave your husband,” he teases, trying to distract from his choked-up voice and tear-filled eyes. You laugh airily and nod as he joins, the happy atmosphere contagious between you. This was the type of relationship Alphard had always wanted with his sister. It was a shame that it only came about now when you’re actively experiencing rough times at home with Orion.

Before leaving, Alphard goes to Regulus, momentarily interrupting his piano practice to say goodbye. His youngest nephew insists on escorting him to the fireplace with you to properly wave him off and he doesn’t protest. That was the first time Regulus had ever seen his mother and uncle wave goodbye happily, sharing a warm smile and promising to see each other again soon.

This would definitely be worth writing another letter to Sirius.

6th October 1971 | Belby’s Potions and Ingredients

“Thank you again for helping out my husband and me,” Ruth smiles softly at you, setting aside her embroidery momentarily, not wanting to draw too much attention to her weak, shaking hands.

“It’s not a problem at all,” you look over to where Regulus’ legs were sticking out from where he sat examining some bottled potions, unable to help your smile as you and Ruth sat behind the counter together, “I’m only sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m afraid I can’t trust Regulus to be home alone even with his tutor Peony as a deterrent,” Ruth’s brows furrow at the implication of your words and reaches for your hand as a silent comfort. It isn’t the right time to pry into your home life, Regulus was such a happy child and she knows it’s all because of you; you’re doing your best to protect him as a mother should and that was good enough to you it seemed. In the meantime, she’s satisfied with offering a quiet consolation.

“You’re doing more than enough,” the two of you share a small, knowing smile and you thank the gods for Ruth’s kind and gentle disposition. It’s been rather lonely despite you having the best sons to look after. You’ve often found yourself aching for a friendship and you’re confident you’ve found one in Ruth.

“Thank you, Ruth,”The shop bell rings as a customer strolls in and greets you at the counter, “Good afternoon, do you happen to have any dried nettles?” you greet the man kindly and readily offer your help.

“You can find them in the second aisle down and can have your pick between whole leaves or the powdered sort,” you helpfully offer your guidance while Ruth returns to her embroidery.

The man thinks to himself for a moment, “Which would be more effective for umm…curing boils?” he looks rather bashful at the confession but you provide no judgment. Thinking for a moment and giving Damocles’ simplified shop notes a look through, you finally give the anxious man his answer.

“Both are equally effective. Only the crushed nettles mean for a quicker brewing time as they will turn the potion green much quicker,” the man nods along to your suggestions, eyes slightly shifty, probably eager to brew his boil curing potion at home, “Or you can purchase the potion itself, and save yourself the trouble,” a relieved laugh escapes the man.

“I’ll go for that then!”

“You’ll find the potion on the back wall, it should be blue,” he nods eagerly and thanks you before rushing to the back wall of the shop.

“Goodness, you’re a natural potions shopkeeper,” Ruth giggles beside you, her eyes tired but full of life.

“Why thank you, madam,” you bow at the waist exaggeratedly and grin, “I’ve actually been reading up on some potion books so that I can be of some help for Damocles,” Ruth tucks her chin in and bashfully avoids your eyes.

“It’s so very kind of you to help someone like me,”

“None of that,” you tut and hold her hand in the same comforting way she had held yours mere moments ago, “You are not allowed to refer to yourself in such a way, you hear?” Ruth is hesitant but nods anyway. You guess it’s her attempt at not causing a fuss but you’ll accept it.

The man returns with the boil curing potion at hand and the purchase is done smoothly. You have to hand it to the glamour you placed on yourself; without it, you’re sure many customers would leave without so much as taking more than two steps in the door — you wouldn’t have been any help to the Belbys at all. Wanting to protect Regulus’ identity as well, you’ve also fixed him with a glamour too and ensured you still look like mother and son.

“I see that you’re looking rather well despite it being only one day after the full moon,” you comment, brightening Ruth’s expression with a smile.

“Damocles is incredible!” her eyes sparkle as she talks proudly of her husband’s achievements, “The recent changes he’s made to the potion have made it so that I don’t feel as anxious during my time under so I don’t feel as mentally exhausted atop being physically drained. I think he said something about a stone. A wishing stone?”

You hum and nod in understanding, “the moonstone then,” she confirms with a soft gasp of remembrance, “That’s wonderful news, Damocles must be really happy,”

“Yes, but he is not yet satisfied…” she huffs and scowls, however, her delicate features don’t make the emotion appear quite as menacing on her face; she makes it look rather sweet actually, “I swear that man adores being sleep deprived and overworked. It’s worrying…”

“Maybe that’s his real aim,” you wink at her perplexed appearance, “I’m sure it’s healing to the soul for a man to experience his beautiful wife’s sincere worries for his well being,”

Ruth blushes a deep red and looks away, but you still manage to see the smile playing on her lips, “oh you!” The two of you giggle together as Regulus comes bounding over with a grin on his face, holding up a small sprig of dried lavender that’s tied together at the stems with a rough string.

“Mother, this smells lovely, you should smell it too,” he holds up the lavender and watches eagerly as you lean on the counter to smell it.

“You’re right, it smells very soothing,”

“I want our house to smell like it,”

“Oh? That’s easily done,” you turn to Ruth with a smile, “would it be okay to purchase your entire stock?”

Ruth’s jaw drops, “You want our entire stock? B-But that’s so costly!” if Ruth’s jaw could have dropped any lower, it would have dropped to the floor when you merely shrugged your shoulders. As if buying an entire stock of one ingredient didn’t put a dent on your finances.

“We have a rather big house and Reggie wants our whole house to smell like lavender, so we need everything you have,”

Regulus smiles as you both turn to him, “It really is a very nice smell,” Ruth can’t say no to you both and smiles gratefully. She knows your hidden motive. You were already helping the couple so much but you couldn’t just stop there, you also had to purchase from them too.

“May I, at least, offer a family friend discount?” Ruth barters and watches as you turn to Regulus to ask for his opinion.

“Should we accept, Reggie?” you tilt your head thoughtfully, “Should we accept paying less for this hard-working couple’s labour?” Regulus shakes his head ‘no’.

“That wouldn’t be fair Mother, nor polite,”

“Spoken like a true gentleman,” Regulus beams up at you and Ruth awes at the young boy’s innocence, “How is my son so well mannered?” it was supposed to be a teasing remark but Regulus, accustomed to your teasing now, is quick to reciprocate with his own.

“It's because I have you, Mother!”

“Oh!” you heat up at the cheeks, “I think I’ve taught you some bad habits, Reggie,” Regulus doesn’t deny the statement and laughs with Ruth at your flustered expression.

Once Damocles finally decides to take a break from brewing in the back room and analysing his previous notes, he sits beside Ruth and leans his head against her shoulder. But not before softly kissing her cheek. It was a timely break as no customers came to purchase anything and there was a quiet lull in the shop’s activities. Wanting to give the couple some privacy, you take the time to go on a small mission with Regulus, similar to the bakery run you did for his uncle Alphard. This time, however, those baked goodies will be for Ruth and Damocles. They both deserve some good tea and snacks. You try not to take too long and opt for only a small collection of pastries, some sweet and some savoury as you don’t know their preferences.

“I hear you’re purchasing our entire stock of lavender without our prestigious family-friend discount,” Damocles presses as soon as you and Regulus return, avoiding the temptation of the pastries you had brought back.

“The lavender smells really nice,” Regulus explains, “and I thought it would be good for the house to smell like it,”

“Precisely, Damocles,” you grin when you see the potioneer’s eyes soften at your youngest’s beaming smile. “I only want to fulfil my Reggie’s wishes. And I also agree that the lavender smells lovely,”

“A-at least let us offer the discounted price,“ he’s almost pleading.

“Nonsense,” you huff and cross your arms with slightly narrowed eyes, though not too threatening, “are you saying I can’t afford to pay full price?”

“O-of course not, Lady—”

“Then I’m paying full price and that's final.”

Damocles falls back into the chair you had once occupied as Ruth comfortingly rubs his shoulder, “I told you it was no use arguing, dear,”

“I suppose not…” Damocles looks at you with searching eyes before huffing a laugh and shaking his head. “Alright then, since you’re so insistent,”

“Wonderful! Now, you two need to eat, I’ll brew some tea in the back. Do you like French Earl Grey?” you ask, moving to the backdoor as Damocles lifts Regulus onto the counter.

“We don’t have french earl grey?”

“I bought you some while I was out,” the couple shake their heads in disbelief once more before Regulus pulls away their attention by running through the collection of goodies you’d both purchased. The French early grey you had brewed was a new taste to the couple, but it wasn’t an unpleasant one.

“Is that rose?” Ruth asks with wondrous eyes as Damocles smiles beside her, lovingly admiring her sweet expression.

“Yes, french early grey adds rose petals to the blend. Do you like it?”

“Very much,” Ruth beams and takes another long, savouring sip while Damocles leans over and whispers that it’s one of her favourite essences to have in anything palatable.

“And she loves Turkish delight,”

You can tell that Damocles didn’t want to take a break for too long, his eyes often drifting to his backroom door and his fingers twitching uneasily on his lap. If it weren’t for Ruth, you don’t think he would have allowed himself to finish his tea or his pastry. But thanks to his loving wife, he was willing to reach for a second and third pastry. The entire time, Damocles was drawn all the more to her, often checking her likeness for the pastries she wanted to try in the small spread, even offering her several bites of his own. He also worried often for her health and well being, always being the first to jump in making her feel more comfortable, either by fetching a blanket to keep her fragile frame warm or pillows to keep her posture upright. They’re truly a match made in heaven, you’ve never seen a more compatible pair. And you’re happy Regulus was a witness to it all. Seeing their close bond and equally loving dynamic would help enforce in his mind what healthy relationships look like.

“When you finish your break and before you return to brewing, may I have a word in private with you, Damocles?” you ask, partway through your pleasant tea break.

“Of course,”

As you step aside with Damocles, he’s already launching into an oration of gratitude. There’s clear appreciation in his eyes and stance as well as his words. “I’ve been able to get a hold of ingredients I couldn’t even dream of working with. I can’t even begin to express how life-changing your help is to both me and Ruth, thank you. I actually have some hope that I can manage to pull this off,” he laughs to himself humbly, in disbelief of his own words.

“I have full faith in you, Damocles. I know you can do it, the boundless love you have for your wife will ensure that you succeed,” he blushes slightly at your words but doesn’t deny anything.

“I haven’t been able to send you the updated reports yet, would you like to take the duplicate notes from my lab?”

“I’d appreciate that but I have something I want to talk to you about first,” Damocles nods, reminded of your earlier request and the reasoning behind it, “I just wanted to ask what you plan on doing after you’re successful with the potion,”

His voice goes quiet but his smile is beaming, “You really have that much faith in me?”

“Yes, I do,” your voice is stern as the potioneer’s eyes grow slightly distant, looking over your shoulder where Ruth is happily chatting with Regulus, who remains seated atop the counter still in his glamours, “You’re the only other person who’s believed in me so strongly other than my wife– not even my own family…”

You pat his shoulder comfortingly, “You’re an incredible potioneer and you adore your wife, I know you’ll go through the ends of the earth for her alone, you can make this potion work for her,”

Damocles nods with a grateful smile and finally answers your earlier question, “In all honesty, I haven’t given it much thought… the natural direction I’d go with the potion would be to present my findings to the ministry so that it may be mass-produced and given to werewolves in need of it,”

You’re shaking your head in disagreement before he could even finish his thoughts, “I strongly argue against that,” your words strike confusion in the potioneer. He’s sure his findings would prove helpful to many werewolves and you can see the belief in his eyes but do your best to convince him otherwise. It’s important that he knows where you stand in all this so that you bring him to the same level and see eye to eye on the matter.

“Do you know about the werewolf code of conduct?”

“Yes, of course,”

“It requires registering as a werewolf to the ministry and vowing to never bite any innocents and locking yourself away during every transformation,” you begin to explain, gauging where his knowledge stands.

“I know that,”

“And do you know anyone who happily registered as a werewolf to the ministry?” Damocles can’t answer confidently, rather, he stays silent. “Did Ruth register? Would you like her to?”

“…N-no…” Damocles hated that he couldn’t trust in the ministry but they‘ve proven nothing when it comes to the protection and fair treatment of other magical creatures, especially werewolves.

“I know the plan I want to carry out will only further perpetuate the stigma against werewolves and lycanthropy but the ministry has already proven that they cannot be trusted or relied upon in the matters of lycanthropes. I am, at least, confident in providing some help, do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” his voice doesn’t waver and you smile.

“You’ll be sacrificing a great reward, I’m afraid,”

“How so?”

“Surely discovering a treatment for lycanthropy will grant you an Order of Merlin as a reward…”

“I don’t care, so long as my wife is safe and happy and as long as we can actually help people like her, I’m willing to follow your plan,” as before, his voice doesn’t waver and you’re confident in his words. He’s a good man.

“Then it shall be!” you share a firm handshake. If only Harry had met an adult as capable and reliable as Damocles… you’re sure he wouldn’t require such dependence in the future, however, not in the future you’ll be creating, at least. And you’ll make sure of the same for his parents and all their friends —- all characters you love and wish only the best for. And it’ll all start with your two beautiful sons.

9th October 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place

Tucked away in your home office, you look over the notes you’ve made on your current plans, avoiding the pages you’ve filled with notes on the secret parlour only for the Black family ladies’ use. You know it’s something you’ll need to confront very soon, in the meantime, however, you were perfectly occupied by current projects you were hard at work on.

Damocles sent you the report he duplicated from his most recent findings and Ruth’s improved condition following the full moon. Not only was he a loving and dedicated man with a passion for potion making, but he was also brilliant in his report writing. He kept his notes concise and easy to read by providing clear categories of the specific things he wanted to track. From your side of the research, reading up on potions from the Black family library, you had written him a letter back with suggestions on how to make the potion more potent. One such suggestion was his use of the Mandragora, Mandrakes. Rather than mandrake leaves, you encouraged him to use the body of a mandrake instead. It’s a little pricier than just the leaves, but it was nothing you couldn’t afford. The dragon blood was something you were having trouble with, however. It wasn’t cheap, and, having to look ahead at the wolfsbane potion’s mass production, dragon’s blood would be an annoying ingredient to include financially. So you promised to look for alternatives that might be able to give the same effect. You were even willing to look into ‘muggle’ books for a potential alternative.

After securing Damocles’ opinion following the future success of his wolfsbane potion and having some back and forth with Alphard on the family lawyer, he had been easing into setting up a meeting with you; you’ve started looking at properties all over the UK. You have a good idea of what you want to look for. However, the primary, most important criteria for these properties to have were that they don’t belong to the Black family. And so, you neglect the wizarding properties completely and look into muggle properties instead. The price wouldn’t matter, although you wanted to secure a separate line of income first so that Orion remains unsuspecting of your efforts to escape him; you don’t want any additional tensions happening at home, especially with Regulus still here. As soon as Regulus begins to attend Hogwarts, however, you’ll finally put things into action. Until then, you have a little under a year, which you hope will be good enough.

A squeaky pop shifts the air to your right, and Kreacher appears with a tray of tea and biscuits, “Mistress’ tea is ready,” he presents with a smile, wordlessly making the arrangement float up and make a home for itself atop an unoccupied portion of your desk. Smiling at the house elf, you nod in thanks and express your gratitude. Wanting to appease you further, he gestures to his big ears and informs you of an owl that sounds to be arriving very soon. With a nod and a soft word of gratitude, you walk to your window and open it up in anticipation of the delivery.

Sirius’ owl was the first to arrive and you figure it’s a response to one of Regulus’ many letters. Seeing your eldest son’s familiar handwriting addressing the letter to his little brother makes you smile, and urges you to write him one soon as well. Thanking the sweet barn owl, you offer her a perch and kindly ask Kreacher to fetch it some feed as a reward. The second owl that arrives is much smaller and carries a package as well as a letter. The parcel is only small and its wrappings are a buff brown, held together with some twine. The letter is addressed to you and you have a pretty good idea of what it may be.

You give the letter a quick read-through and smile with a nod before opening the small package to reveal a golden band. Its inner face is engraved with runes, and it easily fits onto your pointer finger. Before returning to your desk, you give the small owl a bowl of feed as a reward, too. Seated back at your desk, you pour yourself some tea and take a generous drink with the ring still on your pointer finger.

“Mmmm~” you hum in satisfaction, “tastes like strawberries,” It’s been a few weeks and those two have already made such amazing progress. You expect nothing less from the same two people who were able to enchant Sirius’ protection pin. Unfortunately, you weren’t able to rope in the goblins to craft this ring. It’s only a simple design because it’s the prototype but you plan on making a more decorative line of these to sell. For now, you have yet to test it against an actual potion but you dread to think about waiting for another blackout to do so. With a thoughtful hum, you return to your office and place the letter at the centre of your desk, planning to write a response later on. For now, you’ll deliver Sirius’ letter to Regulus —you’re sure he and Peony won’t mind the interruption and that he’ll be happy to receive Sirius’ response.

NAVI. | SERIES M.LIST | NEXT. 09 : ... →

A/N : I'm so sorry, my darlings, for taking so long to update this series (ó﹏ò。) I know I promised monthly updates but with Christmas and then New Year straight after, I was pretty occupied (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) Nevertheless, I hope you lovelies enjoyed this chapter!ヾ(。✪ω✪。)ｼ I promise there will be more of Sirius in the next chapter since we hardly had any of our baby in this one 

[obaewankenobis]

born to die (pt 2) ; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair/reader (afab but pronouns not/rarely used, no use of y/n)

part one: found here

word count: 5.3k

summary: you and finnick both struggle with your feelings as the capitol's expectations aims to tear you apart.

warnings: typical hunger games warnings (violence, death, sex trafficking, etc). oral (f receiving), mentions of throwing up, sliiiight alcohol abuse, semi-public sex but not really, angst, but fluffy towards the end. the smut is very minimal in this one sorry guys </3 18+ only, minors dni!

How hard could it be, going back to hating someone? Apparently, it wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch like you’d originally thought. And apparently, it was even harder when you realized you never truly hated the person in the first place.

But that wouldn’t stop you from trying. No, you seemed to take every flutter of your heart and every catch of your breath as a challenge, furious your body was betraying you whenever you thought of him for too long.

It had been a week since you’d even seen a glimpse of Finnick, a week of remembering how gentle his lips felt against your neck, how perfectly they molded with your own. A week of being tortured by dreams of the firm grasp on your hips, of his fingers digging into your thighs and traveling up at a tantalizing pace. You’d dream of his mouth on the shell of your ear, his breath hot and warming your insides as your name escaped his lips in a beautiful melody reserved only for you.

And each morning you woke with a frustrated groan, your fingers splaying across the empty sheets beside you, reaching for him and feeling nothing. And each morning you would ignore the hurt rising in your throat upon the discovery of his absence, and redirect it into burning anger, until now, a week later, you were blazing with the fury of a thousand suns.

It was fine, I didn’t have time to sit in bed and worry about the likes of Finnick Odair. You tried (in vain) to convince yourself of this, having heard from somewhere you couldn’t remember that if you repeated something enough times with enough force, your brain would soon accept it as reality. Like reverse psychology, or whatever…

So far, that strategy wasn’t working, and you were growing desperate for release. You were so eager to get him off your mind you tried to act like it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when your services were requested by the son of some Capitol elite, because then you’d have someone else to channel your loathing into instead of Finnick, who didn’t quite deserve the anger he was currently being bombarded with in your mind.

It was some stupid Capitol party to celebrate 50 years of President Snow’s leadership. God, if you could choose something to celebrate, that would be below the very last thing on your list.

Immediately your skin began to crawl as you realized you were still the talk of the Capitol, having won your games so recently, and that you’d be put in another outfit so revealing, so you could be gawked at like a museum display.

Fuck this. If you had to be paraded around as a sex symbol for the Capitol, there was no way in hell you were doing it sober this time, escort or not.

You allowed your stylists to do what they pleased, yanking your hair and slicking it back so tightly you thought you’d be bald upon taking it out, sipping, or rather chugging, a bottle of expensive champagne you’d ordered just before they’d arrived.

Your face painted a pretty picture, the picture the Capitol wanted, coated with thick brushes of makeup to erase the tear stains permanently etched into your cheeks, lips brushed with a deep red color to cover up the dryness cracking them. Made completely out of pearls with heavier ropes placed strategically around your chest and hips, this dress was just as risque, if not more, than the one you’d worn last time.

While of course you hated how little the dress covered because it was gross and blatantly sexual, you hated even more how certain parts of your body were on display. The parts that made it obvious you had been reaping the benefits of the Capitol: your glossy hair, your radiant skin, the healthy amount of muscle and fat; they were all reminders that you were being pampered up here, enjoying Capitol delicacies, while the majority of Panem was on the brink of starvation.

Despite being from one of the wealthier Districts, you had noticed how the tributes from the other Districts were. How sallow their skin was, how their eyes appeared sunken into their skulls, how their bones were so brittle it took little effort to snap—

You downed another glass of champagne.

You hated it, you felt disgusting, but there was nothing you could say as a member of your prep team dotted tiny pearls in your hair to complete the outfit. It was all a facade, all something to squash your true feelings down and present you as somewhat of a robot, incapable of real human emotion.

That was the point, you realized. They didn’t view you as a person, they viewed you as a toy to be played with. At least the champagne seemed to be doing its job, you thought with a happy sigh as a numbing buzz overtook you, lowering your inhibitions. If only you could feel like this all the time, so relaxed and unguarded.

Your inability to sleep had only gotten worse in Finnick’s absence; he’d been there so soon after it’d all gone downhill that your mind had immediately gotten used to the feeling of having him beside you, comforting you. You’d take back every kiss, every bite, every moan you’d shared to have him back, dancing his fingers along your skin in soothing patterns.

“It’s time to go,” a girl from the prep team said quietly, yanking you out of your thoughts— what was her name? You were too tipsy to try and remember, so all you did was nod and follow her out the door. Some part of you, the emotional part that wouldn’t listen to the rest, wondered briefly if Finnick would be there as well.

The party was so much more fun this time. You were blushing at the flirtations thrown your way, giggling at every poorly made joke, and even trying to impersonate the distinct Capitol accent with your “date”. He was handsome, sure, but in a weird, i’m-from-the-capitol-so-i-have-pompoms-on-my-suit-and-wear-gold-lipstick kind of way, and you were certain had you stopped several glasses ago, you wouldn’t be finding his jokes half as funny. 

But the alternative was remembering at the end of the night, you’d be forced to go home and pretend it was Finnick’s hands roaming your body or pressing his lips against your own. You stumbled your way over to the table serving various kinds of alcohol, from fruity cocktails to straight liquor, and poured a generous amount into your already half-full cup. You were so focused on not spilling anything that you didn’t notice someone coming up behind you until two strong hands wrapped around your wrists, gently but firmly prying the bottle from your hand and setting your glass down on the table.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink tonight? I mean, I could see you stumbling around from across the room.”

Oh, fuck this, you would know that voice anywhere, though it had morphed into the seductive purr he put on whenever he was playing the role of the Capitol Darling. You whirled around and out of the cage of his arms, the backs of your thighs hitting the table behind you and letting out a yelp as your heels disagreed with the swiftness of your movements; You would’ve been on the ground had Finnick not steadied you with a hand curled around your waist. But you wouldn’t thank him for that. You wouldn’t admit how his innocent touch shot sparks through your body, and you certainly wouldn’t admit how gorgeous he looked.

Because fuck him for being dressed so much more modestly than you, and fuck him for looking so good in what his stylists had put him in — loose trousers and a simple white knit top with a deep vee stopping above his navel. The style of the shirt was something you would see around District 4, and his hair looked as if he’d just come from the ocean, with a salt kissed ruffle that messed with his waves and gave him a perfect disheveled look that would make you swoon, if you still cared about what he looked like.

Which you didn’t, because he’d made it perfectly clear the moment he’d left you last week that he didn’t care either.

He looked at you expectantly, raising an eyebrow and you realized you’d been caught staring, which only served to make you more furious. “You don’t need to babysit me,” you shrugged his hand off, “Just… leave me alone, Finnick.”

“I’m just looking out for you,” the amusement in his tone at your anger only made your blood boil.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you began, trying and failing to keep your voice from rising into a shrill whine, “I don’t want to see you! I want you to leave me alone and—”

“Can we talk?” He blurted out, his voice so timid it stopped you in your tracks. “You sound upset, and you’ve avoided me all week, after we...”

“Avoided you?” Your laugh was dry and humorless. “Are you serious? You left me, Finnick! I was doing you a favor!”

“By not talking to me? We finally— I finally think that maybe, maybe I wasn’t so crazy, that maybe you liked m—” His eyes widened and he realized he’d said too much, too loud, because people were starting to get irritated by the two of you blocking the liquor table. “Can you just come with me?” You stared back at him blankly, which only caused him to break out in a genuine grin. “Come on, don’t make me beg. Although if last time was any indication, I’m sure you’d like to see me on my—”

With a flustered shriek to cut him off, you grabbed his hand and tugged him into the most private space you could find, a small alcove in one of the many winding hallways of the mansion.

“Do you regret it?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth once he’s sure the two of you are alone. All playfulness has drained from his features, like the facade he’d been putting up can disappear now that he’s away from the prying eyes of the Capitol. You stared at him in disbelief, like what he’s said is crazy. He doesn’t give you the chance to respond before he continues. “Because I don’t. You needed me, and I…” He swallowed harshly, like what he was about to say next didn’t sit right in his throat, “I don’t want you to think that what we did changes anything.”

Despite knowing he meant well, those were precisely the words you didn’t want to hear. How could he not see how confusing it was? To say he didn’t regret it, but to also say it didn’t change anything, all in one sentence. 

“No, of course I don’t, that’s not…” I’ve dreamed of you far too often since I was fourteen, seemed like an inappropriate response, but you found yourself something entirely different. “Then why did you leave?”

You wanted to cringe at how small and pathetic you sounded asking such a question. Your gaze dropped to the floor, but it was too late, you couldn’t reach in the air and snatch the words back.

“You said you didn’t want it to mean anything. I was trying to make it easier for you.” He said that at the same time strong fingers grasped your chin, tender but with purpose, forcing you to meet his gaze. Just by looking at him straight on, you were frightened by the vulnerability you felt, like you’d been stripped raw of any protection you’d wrapped yourself in; no secrets could be kept now. And it didn’t help that you were so close you could count the individual eyelashes framing his eyes; the proximity made you quite flustered and incapable of forming coherent thoughts.

You were yet again consumed by neverending thoughts of Finnick Odair, thoughts that had been berating you all week in the back of your mind now coming to the forefront in full force.

How could you respond to that? It was you who’d asked for nothing more than a distraction, you who had made it clear sleeping together didn’t have to mean anything. But it wasn’t because you didn’t like him, oh no it was quite the opposite: you probably liked him a little too much to do anything casual with him. If you were to have Finnick more than once, you wanted all of him, not whatever bits and pieces he dangled in front of you. Because you didn’t know much, but you knew a few things.

One: You wanted to kiss him. Badly. 

Two: If you acted on that impulse, there was the chance you’d never get to tell him how you truly felt, and you’d be stuck in a painful purgatory of having parts of him but not all.

Finnick seemed to be warring his own internal battle as his eyes shot from your lips back up, and back down, and back up, until—

“Can we talk later?” You asked so suddenly, much to your own surprise as well as his. “I just… there’s not a lot of time here, and it’s not very private, and there are so many things I’d rather be doing…”

His gaze darkened at that, taking another step forward until your chest was flush against his, your back hitting the stone wall behind you. He dipped his head down to reply in a low voice that sent shivers up and down your spine, “Yeah? Care to tell me what you think is a better use of our time, sweetheart?”

“I’d rather show you.” This is a bad idea, the rational part of you screamed, and it was probably right. It was probably an awful, terrible, horrible, idea, but the moment his lips met yours, nothing else seemed to matter.

The way he kissed you needed to be studied, you thought. The way his nose nudged against yours and he quickly angled his head slightly more to the right until he fit just right against your profile. The way his hands immediately went to your waist, fingers finding their way under the many strings of pearls that dressed you, all so he could touch as much of you as possible. You were suddenly jealous of anyone who’d had the pleasure of being in your position before you, because how on Earth could the way you feel be shared by anyone? 

That thought only spurred on a newfound desire to make you different than everyone else, to make him feel the way you did, that no one else could even come close to the way he felt when he was with you.

His tongue glided along the seam of your lips, searching for permission as the two of you continued to trade kiss after bruising kiss. Each one shoved you further down a rabbit hole until you were certain there was no coming back from this, even if it went no further than kissing.

You broke away for a moment, not having the courage to look up, and moved your lips down to his neck, noticing with fleeting disappointment how the marks you’d made last week had faded from his skin.

His hands, which had remained innocently on your waist, were beginning to creep down to the (very short) hemline of your dress, fingers teasing their way past the heavy ropes of pearls that fell against your upper thigh. Your breath began to quicken at the reminder of what his fingers had done to you last time they were so close, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice the subtle clench of your thighs as his fingers continued their exploration.

Very unceremoniously he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you, and you immediately tried — in vain — to tug him back up to a standing position, your eyes darting wildly from one end of the long corridor to the other.

“Finnick, we can’t, there are people…”

“Do you trust me?” He asked suddenly. His pupils had been completely blown out, staring at you with such hunger you nodded your head immediately; whether you actually did or it was just your lust-addled brain you weren’t sure. “Then we’ll be fine. Just stay quiet for me, okay?”

“Okay—” you broke your promise as soon as his fingers tugged at the thin material of your panties, letting out a gasp when his mouth came in contact with what had been left uncovered.

The sensation of his hot breath on you left as quickly as it came, when Finnick quickly leaned back to fix you with a warning glance. “Shhh,” he reminded you before he returned to your core, throwing a leg over his shoulder and forcing you to brace yourself against the wall behind you to keep you upright. One hand shot to dig itself in the depths of his hair as he continued his ministrations with his tongue, the other clamping around your mouth and muffling the soft moans emitted from your lips.

Finnick seemed to be enjoying your struggle of keeping silent, each sound that passed too quietly from your lips only encouraging him to plunge his tongue further at a faster pace, his nose nudging your clit and only increasing your pleasure. 

It felt good because he knew what he was doing, sure, but it felt even better knowing it was his tongue licking you, his hands wandering around your legs, his body pressing you against the wall.

It made all the horrible fantasies that had haunted you this past week seem like nothing in comparison to the real thing, which was all you truly wanted. You just wanted him. Everywhere, all the time.

And not just in the position you two were in now, as euphoric as his tongue felt, flicking and sucking at your core. You wanted the other things too. You wanted to wake up in his arms, watching the sunlight spill in from the window and illuminate his tan skin and bronzy hair. You wanted to fall asleep curled into his side, knowing that while you were asleep, he would protect you.

Still worried someone would walk in on the two of you at any given moment, you tried not to allow yourself to look down at Finnick too much (or perhaps you were scared if you acknowledged it was Finnick pleasuring you, putting a face to all the emotions he was bringing to you, you would truly be a goner).

“You were driving me fucking crazy in this dress,” Your back automatically arched in search of his mouth as he removed it to speak, tugging at the strands of pearls doing a poor job of covering the curves of your body. “Fucking insane.”

“Finnick,” you breathed, almost crying out when he resumed his indulgence of you and added pressure to your clit with his thumb, the pressure coiled inside you rising to new heights. “You’re so good, so good—”

And just when everything was building, just when you were about to cry out to the sky, not caring if anyone saw, he stopped and quickly stood up.

“Hey—” you quickly realized this wasn’t a teasing pause, evident by the sound of your name echoing against the walls of the hallway.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt, he fixed your underwear and shoved your dress back down all in one swift motion, just as your “date” turned the corner and walked — or rather stumbled — towards you. Oh, fuck.

With a wince, you took several steps away from Finnick, just in time for your lovely Capitol date to finally make his way to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to him.

He was drunk, drunker than you had ever been (you were sure of that by how strongly he reeked of liquor), barely being able to stand even with leaning his full weight on you. “There you are, beautiful,” he slurred, his hand creeping from your shoulder downward. “Let’s get out of here.”

At least he (you didn’t remember his name) was so out of it he didn’t even seem to notice Finnick breathing heavily beside you, or the bulge in his pants that was poorly hidden by the dark color.

How could you go from feeling so euphoric to so repulsed, all in less than a minute? With a regretful glance in Finnick’s direction, you noticed how he stared right through you as if you weren’t even there. His jaw was clenched and his posture was rigid, but those were things only people who knew what he looked like relaxed would pick up on. To anyone passing by he looked unbothered, indifferent, as you were led away from him.

It was in the brief moment when his eye finally caught your own that the two of you hadn’t gotten to talking, and you had no idea where you stood with him. Would it be appropriate to just knock on his door the next day, or schedule a meeting through his Avox? Or was your interruption the universe’s way of telling you to stop pursuing it and leave him alone?

All those thoughts eddied from your mind the moment you stepped in the car that would escort you and your Capitol date home, when he decided then would be the best time to throw up, narrowly avoiding your pretty pearl shoes. With a little yelp of disgust, you jumped back, avoiding being caught as he continued to empty copious amounts of liquor that once resided in his stomach. 

Fuck my life, you thought with a groan as the smell invaded your senses, thankful that most of it had been done outside the car. With a wary glance his way you saw him leaning back against the window, clearly trying to recover from how much he’d drank throughout the night.

It wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be, only because he passed out before the two of you went any further than a sloppy kiss that made your stomach curl.

However wrong it seemed, you tried to imagine it was Finnick instead, but everything just felt off. This man’s hands were cold and rough against your skin, nothing like the steady, soft hands you were trying to imagine; his lips were wet and uncoordinated, unlike the delicate whispers of affection Finnick would bestow upon you in the form of warm, confident press of his lips against yours.

Yet again you felt slimy and used and disgusted, unwilling to even try to process what had just happened. So you did what any normal person would do in this situation: drink. While some part of your brain knew this was an unhealthy coping mechanism, the part of you that wanted to forget the night, forget your circumstances, won over, and soon you were tipsy enough and making your way up to the rooftop.

You let the ice of the wind hit you square in the face, hoping that if you withstood it enough, it would jar you out of the nightmare you were in. Time seemed to stretch and you were certain you’d been there all night, but in reality, judging by the lack of alcohol induced dizziness, it was probably an hour.

“Knew I’d find you here.” You knew who it was immediately, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck at the sound of his voice. “I thought I told you there was a forcefield already.”

The eeriest sense of deja vu overtook you, enough to rip you from your thoughts and turn around, trying to balance yourself by staring at the unmoving figure in front of you. 

“Hello to you too, Finnick,” you greeted in a flat tone, the mere sight of him draining whatever alcohol in your system remained. 

Your chest began to feel tight as you took in his appearance, your face flushing when he looked you up and down. He’d changed from his party attire into pajamas, and there was a tiredness to his eyes that made you blurt out, why are you still awake, at the same time he blurted out, have you been drinking?

“A little,” you admitted, and waited for him to answer yours.

There was a moment when the only sound was the faint blaring of car horns in the distance and the soft rumble of tires against pavement, city sounds that faded into nothing as the wind whistled in your ears. His gaze immediately shot to the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at invisible pebbles by his feet. You suddenly felt embarrassed, because he’d probably had a much worse night than you had, and of course he couldn’t sleep because of that—

“I was waiting for you.” Oh. That was not what you were expecting, and clearly, it showed in your face because he rushed to continue, thinking he’d said something wrong, “I just… we never got to finishing our conversation earlier, and didn’t know if you were safe, and I know how hard it can be to fall asleep after…”

You walked over to him until you were inches apart, tilting your head ever so slightly in an attempt to catch his eye, which had returned to the floor.

“Can you look at me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as your hand reached out, wanting to press against the planes of his chest and feel him, but refraining. Your hands simply hovered in the air, a mark of uncertainty, until Finnick made his decision. In a quick motion he’d reached out, wrapping his hand around yours and tugging it until you made contact with his chest, relishing in the security it brought you. The way you could feel his heartbeat, a steady beat of absolute certainty, that reminded you he was here, and he was real. His hand remained over yours, too, like he too sought comfort in the physicality of your hand.

“Last week…” he begins, and all you want to do is cut him off with a kiss, tell him you don’t care if he left, that he’s here now and that’s all that matters. But you don’t; you let him continue, and pretty quickly you’re grateful for that decision. “I lied. After you said it didn’t mean anything, I said okay,” he paused, like what he was about to say next was lodged in his throat, “But it’s not okay, not really. I… I want it to mean something.”

“Finnick, you know I—” You began softly, so softly, but he pressed on.

“No, please just… let me say this, okay?” He tightened his grip on your hand like he was worried you’d heard enough and would leave him. All you could do was nod silently, urging him to continue. “You mean more to me than I let on— so much more. I can’t pretend like this past week hasn’t killed me. I just… I needed you to know that—”

“Finnick,” you tried, but he couldn’t stop talking, like he wasn’t getting his point across.

“And I know it’s complicated—”

“Finnick,” you said again, a little louder and more earnest, but still, he continued.

“—and I don’t want you to think you’re obligated to feel the same—”

His lips, warm and soft and right, met yours as you cut him off with a kiss. It took less than a fraction of a second before he reciprocated, surging forward and wrapping his arms around your waist to tug you closer. Your hands found their place interlocked behind his neck, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck reminding you that it was him.

You kissed him with such fervor you thought your lips would fall right off, desperately trying to convey every unspoken word in your mind; Every point of tension between the two of you melted completely until you pulled back, breathless. 

“I’ve been a liar, too,” was the first thing that came out of your mouth, so quietly he was sure he’d misheard you. “It meant so much to me, Finnick, I… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it, I guess.”

His lips were swollen and red, and his eyes were glassy as he gazed down at you; every time his chest heaved it brushed yours. “I want you,” he breathed out, and while at first you thought it might be something purely carnal, he quickly corrected himself, “I always… I’ve always… tried to ignore it, but now I can’t…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words, the right way to express himself without fucking up. “I can’t ignore it. I want to fix this, fix us, I want…”

You’d rarely seen him like this; struggling to say the right thing. Normally the words flowed through the air smoothly like a summer breeze, his point sliding across so easily, like honey. So to see him stumbling over his words, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, you tried to urge him to continue.

“I think about you,” he confessed abruptly. “All the time, it drives me crazy. I want to be with you, all the time.”

And you wanted that, too. You wanted to do stupid, mundane tasks with him. You wanted to do things like dry the dishes as he washed them, like argue over whose turn it was to take out the trash, like wake up and brush your teeth side by side, grinning at each other in the mirror.

So you said it as simply as you could. “Me too.”

The grin you broke out into was so wide your cheeks would soon start hurting, but you didn’t care. The elation in your chest was blooming, expanding until the warmth of it reached all the way to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head. Every part of you felt giddy, like a schoolgirl who’d just had her first kiss on the playground.

This time, it was he who kissed you, capturing your lips with his own with such intensity you gasped. Kissing him now felt like something entirely different, like your entire world had been gray, and his lips on yours opened you up to a vibrant array of colors that nearly blinded you.

Your hands found their way back to behind his neck, his hands finding purchase on your hips and drawing you closer, wanting to feel every inch after being deprived of all of you for so long. It wasn’t just your body you were giving him this time, but your heart as well.

Before you knew it, he’d hoisted you up and you immediately wrapped your legs around his torso, craving the surface of his body just as he was with you. The kisses continued, though never going any further as he walked back to his room — thankfully he was on the top floor, making the journey quite quick. Your back hit the mattress as he continued his kisses, moving his way down and giving special attention to the spots he knew you loved on your neck, your shoulder, behind your ear.

“I don’t— I don’t want to do anything tonight,” he finally pulled back. “I just want to be with you.”

You nodded almost instantly, happy to just be with him, the kissing slowing down as the two of you grew more tired. He must’ve thought you were asleep when he called your name softly and received no response. You were in a haze of in between, too tired to respond but aware enough to know what he was doing as his fingers ghosted over your back and began to draw again. 

Finally, before sleep came crashing down on him, his fingers said what his mouth could not: I love you.

And when you blinked your eyes open the next morning you were face to face with a sleeping Finnick — he’d stayed this time.

Your lips brushed his cheek ever so lightly as you whispered it back.

a/n: thank you guys so much for waiting!! i wrote this instead of studying for my finals cause i'm silly like that. anyways i reallyyyy struggled w this one and wasn't sure where i wanted this story to go. i thought it was an okay conclusion but lmk if you guys want more! feel free to send in any requests you might have, i write for mostttt of the hunger games characters (especially finnick <3)!

tag: @justtrying2getby , @tqmqkii , @s-j320 , @imaegonstargaryenswife0 , @s-trawberryv-eins , @ruxjules

[reimeichan]

I'm a persecutor.

I know it's easier to ignore us, to lock us away. We're the ugly parts of you, after all. The parts of you that you wish never existed, that you don't want anyone else to see. The parts that try to hurt people and hurt you for whatever reason. I get it, it's really fucking frustrating to deal with us.

Sorry pal, but we exist. Trying to ignore us just makes our pain stronger. Trying to punish us keeps makes us want want to hurt you back. Trying to lock us away make our emotions grow more and more. You can't get rid of us. We're you, even if you wish we weren't.

And that means you gotta deal with us.

Yeah, I get it. You don't want us causing you trouble in your oh-so-perfect life. Ruining your friendships, your school, your job, your reputation. You think by getting rid of us you're dealing with us. Stop it.

Please, stop it.

It hurts, so fucking much. Don't you see why we exist? We're the parts of you who went through some of the worst traumas of the system. We act this way because it's what fucking got us through life. To survive. You probably don't see it that way, hell you probably don't even remember the things I had to go through. And I may not either! But I still exist. And if you push me away, that means you're rejecting a part of you.

Even if you see me as a separate person or a separate entity, at the end of the day.... we share a brain. A life. Am I not allowed to live my own fucking life with you? Do I not deserve the same kind of help? Hell, if you want selfish reasons, helping me, genuinely, trying to be kind to me, will help you. Maybe I'll actually try to work with you instead of against you. Or maybe I'll even just leave you alone! Or, or, get this. I change for the better, and I start trying to help out instead of doing damage. Yeah? Sounds nice, right?

I'm so sick and tired of people saying how it's okay to lock up their persecutors and punish them. No! Stop that! Punishment doesn't work. Yes, we should have consequences for our actions that are a direct result of our behaviors. I was shitty to a friend? I lose the trust of that friend. I hurt the body? I have to sit with the pain myself. But that's not fucking, locking us away forever.

I mean, sure. I get it. Sometimes we're out of control and you need some way to get that control back under your belt. And yeah, maybe you need to temporarily keep us away from front and away from other alters. But.... it really, really shouldn't be permanent. We also deserve to learn healthier behavior and healthier coping habits and a safe space to express ourselves. Fuck, if you could help us find healthier ways of expression that would be great!

Just please, please. Stop hurting us the same way we were hurt as kids.

[izvmimi]

cw: angsty. breakup mention. based on this song.

Everyone wishes they could go back to the beginning of a love affair, and perhaps if you were ever afforded the opportunity, you’d rewind to many years ago, when Suo first smiled at you and asked for your name. Perhaps you would have smiled just as politely and given him an alias or a nickname that wouldn’t grow as familiar as your name did eventually in his mouth, or come up with some sort of false appointment to help you leave the soiree. 

It's not like you could have known.

Your friend had told you he was a good man, and by all intents and purposes, he is one - kind, considerate, devoted to serving the community he’s a part of, perhaps at a time devoted to you - but now you are trying to erase desperately every memory you’ve shared, as if the endless harsh scrubbing of your body touched by him, as if rough fingers on your scalp and searingly hot water will melt every mark of him on your soul. 

This is a no-fault end to a love affair. He assured you it was him, not you, and plus, you both wanted different things, he’d reminded you, holding your fingertips the entire time over the coffee table so you wouldn’t shake or cry in public. You’d nodded, as if in a trance, his lips forming words that you had no choice but to agree with, even if soon you could barely hear what he was saying from the rushing of blood in your ears.

Suo doesn’t want you anymore. Did he ever want you? Did he ever love you? 

No fault. You did nothing wrong, you just grew apart, and adults do not force square pegs into round holes, they let each other be free to explore and be nurtured by the communities they serve and fall in love again, as many times as it takes to find the connection that fits and lasts.

It doesn’t matter how long you scald yourself under hot water, the love won’t fade away.

…

You hear your now ex has left the country from your friends a couple of weeks later, and you’re none the wiser. You don’t stop to think more about why, because you’ve cried enough times that the part of your brain that processes him and his person is now numb, and all you can do is nod, even if people are surprised to know you weren’t aware.

You have no details to share.

It’s not you, it’s him, after all. 

A year passes, and six months prior to this has you trying to date again by incessant coaxing from your friends, but the curse of being dumped with no explanation and the love of your life disappearing without a trace seems too daunting to move past. You call a crush Suo by accident and don’t even realize until he’s frowning at you as he pays the check, and finally you give up, wondering if something about you has been permanently altered.

It’s been a year and radio silence. No social media updates to even stalk (he always thought private life should stay private) and you had too much pride to ask his friends (if even they knew).

Only time would fix this and in your late 20s, you wonder if eventually you’d run out of time. 

…

Suo resurfaces in the middle of the night, dry despite the rain, save for his cloth shoes. He looks like he’s finally come up for air once he’s seen you, and it’s a miracle you’ve even opened the door, but he’s like an apparition, and you need to reach out and touch him.

You haven’t thought about him all week.

Men like him always appear when you’re trying to move on, don’t they?

“I missed you,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, and you know he’s telling the truth. You don’t reply, and he doesn’t say anything further, as if he’s waiting for you to slam the door on his face.

You don’t. All you do is say, “It’s not me, it’s you.”

His face turns to steel for a moment, and you can see him turn into the ghost you were expecting for a moment.

He whispers your name and you look down at his feet.

“Take off your shoes. You have exactly ten minutes.”

When your eyes meet his again as you look up, they’re filled to the brim with thankful tears, more emotion than you’ve seen in years.

Indoors, tonight, you’ll decide if there is still a fate that connects you, while the breeze and the moonlight outdoors remains constant.

[scentedpepper]

Missions, Malaise and Migas Pt. II | Leon Kennedy

Pt. 1 Pt. 3 Pt. 4 Pt. 5 Pt. 6 Pt. 7 Final Part

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Male Reader

Summary: Leon and Y/N have some underlying issues. Ones they tried to warn DSO about.

Content Warnings: None

Other Pairings: Luis Sera x Reader

Authors Note(s): Sorry if the Spanish is inaccurate 😥 I've been white washed

Feel free to correct me

This one's still quite gender netrual other than one masculine term being used by Luis

I'm typing and copying pasting all this out again as we speak because tumblr closed on me and didn't save ☺️

"Hold still. "

Red was leaking through the wound covering your forearm and staining your sleeves. It was beginning to slow to a stop, the stinging and burning yet to subside. Luis' hands continued to tremble, looking much too weary as he pressed a small towel that, after a while, had grown warm against your skin. Blood had begun to absorb into its once clean white surface until it dripped.

Luis' fingers had turned a crimson color, more red than olive.

It was unnerving, knowing that your injuries had caused him so much distress. So much distress that his hand went to scrub against his forehead and then brought up to squeeze the bridge of his nose while shutting his eyes closed.

His brow hadn't unknit itself from the moment you showed up at his doorstep, clad in dirt and blood asking if he had any medical supplies.

You didn't explain the part where you'd fallen through a shit load of trees nor that you were here with Leon on a mission and he lost your supply bag during the fall.

You tread discreetly through the edges of the town when you found yourself growing increasingly impatient waiting around in the rain for him and Ada after they'd gone off to look for it.

Who other then the man you'd shared messages with from across the world to patch you up?

And, oh, the way he does.

You blink down at your wound as you're settled on the counter in his hotel room with his back half turned to you. He'd done your arm first in his worry but you've had deeper lacerations, so you didn't bat an eye in the same way he did.

He was checking up the left of your body now, with hands so careful against your bare skin you hardly felt his touch as his dainty, latex covered fingers tapped every centimeter of the underside of your arm, earning no flinch nor words of complaint from you despite the heavy bruising that was already occurring.

It was then that his body leaned further into yours and he was dabbing something against one of the larger wounds. It smelled sharply of alcohol and stung briefly, before going mostly numb.

It's very strange, the feeling.

He seemed to be saving your dislocated shoulder for last. The dread etched on his features telling you he wanted to avoid hurting you more than you already looked.

He was quieter than you were used to. Like the sight of you had sent him into a permanent shock. The most reaction he'd had was the hand that had covered his mouth when you showed up and he didn't hesitate to usher you into his room. He didn't need answers. Not right now.

But you, you were beginning to become unsettled by his silence and your constant shifting showed it. You wondered if you were overstepping when you showed up like this. If the friendship over messages hadn't quite translated to real life friendships and helping strangers didn't fit in the spectrum.

Your stomach churned at the thought and your face scrunched uncomfortably, unnoticed by Luis.

Until it was.

"Pain?" He finally asks.

"No. " Is what you answer as your nose wrinkles again and Luis comes out of his bent stance, moving away from examining your ribs and he stares at you for a moment, two.

He doesn't say anything right away.

"...no puedo adivinar tu cerebro."

Luis speaks in Spanish, which isn't abnormal and you'd gotten used to it fairly quickly.

And the that term, well, you've found him using it often with you. 'No puedo adivinat tu cerebro. ' I can't read your brain.

You'd look it up one day on your phone when you got service but when you had it translated it came back with something along the lines of: I can't figure you out.

I can't figure you out.

Your nose scrunches again, the breath in your lungs shuffling.

It feels funny to hear it from him in person now.

You look back up to him, meet his gaze of confusion with your own, eyebrows rising momentarily. The corners of his lips are pulled downwards, lines marring the corners. You feel the temperature around you rise but can't focus on anything else but him. He almost looks hurt, as if one day the you in front of him would just... subside.

"Can I ask..." He licks his lips with a long stripe and then bites the inside of his cheek as he continues to rummage through his bag. "Why you are here?"

He almost seems unsure, of whether he should even ask the question as he busies himself with grabbing another rag from his bag. It's only after he's wiping the blood from your arm and going onto a different bottle does he look up, expectant.

But you're shifting again and you're not looking at him so realizes perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. His brows knit again and he's uncomfortable with the lack of usual lightheartedness between you two. The flirting, the jokes. Nothing like this.

He speaks again. To soften his words? "Is good that you have come here, to the town. "

His voice is level, clear. His hand reaches under your chin and you wince but at least let him tilt your head back and center. So you're looking at him again.

You sigh, not at him, or the situation but yourself.

"I'm on a mission. " You clarify but it doesn't fully answer his question and you wait for him to prod. He does.

"Here?"

"Mhm. " You hum in response. "And well‐ things went a little astray when I fell off the side of a moutain. " Your cheeks puff out slightly.

There's a small pause.

"A moutain?"

He offers you a cautious grin and for a moment he thinks you're joking.

But then your eyes meet and you nod your head and an incredulous look is on his face.

"A moutain?" It's an exclamation of disbelief this time. "Miente. Are you sure?"

Your lip quirks up at him, the smile on his face still has yet to fade, his tone turning a touch playful at your confession.

You let out a small laugh. "I'm sure. –And some trees. " You add and that would explain the bruises scattered across your skin like the dirt you were constantly covered in.

"How many trees?"

"A shit ton. " You say softly, watching as his soft fingertips have begun to slide in circles on your knee.

"We were meant to go up it– me and Leon- but then the rain started and things went bad from there. "

"Sancho?" A tone of recognition comes on his voice and he looks around the room as if Leon might suddenly appear. And then he whips back around to you and the words on his tongue feel forbidden. "Is Leon...?" He looks more scared than he had when you walked in and you shake your hands immediately.

"No, no. He's well. –Better than me. " Luis doesn't miss the roll of your eyes. "Ada. " You announce. "She must've plucked him out of the air when we were falling. " You scratch at your temple and shrug your good shoulder.

Again, his hand is massaging in circles over the bone on the underside of your knee. The touch feels good. Better than the throbbing all over you.

"And you, querido?" Luis prods. "Who came and plucked you from the moutains?"

"Uh‐ well the trees mostly. Then Leon. Eventually. "

"Bueno. " He purses his lips, nods once. His eyes crinkle like that and they seem to get lighter before the wrinkles on his forehead return. "Where is he now?"

"He's off. With Ada. "

His hands move to your vest and he begins undoing the straps. Your shirt underneath is drenched and he's already cut the left sleeve when he stitched you back together. "¿Por que?"

"He dropped our supply bag during the fall, I needed the bandaging so they went searching. "

This makes him stop and take one more worried look at you before he tilts his head. "He know you're here?"

You shake your head and your lips press together as the weight of your impulsiveness sits on you. Not knowing where you were is nerve wrecking for your partner, you know that. It was for you. But being so reckless, pushing for your own desires and storming off on him was something beyond how you normally functioned.

The circumstances of your relationship had really been flipped on its head lately. And you couldn't say if it was ever going to be fixed.

You hear Luis sigh and he finally moves the vest over your head.

"No tienes ningún respeto por tu vida. "

You're not sure what those words mean but the tone of the reprimand has you tilting your head just a bit and catching his eyes when his hands stop at the collar of your wet shirt.

You tilt your head further, eyeing him.

Luis sniffs a laugh.

"Have you no respect for your life?" He translates and you quirk a brow at him.

"Sometimes. " You shrug.

"Enough. " You insist when he gives you a pointed look.

"But not when you walk off in random towns. "

The roll of your eyes is present this time.

"I needed medical attention. "

You hear the snipping of the scissors, the noise gradually descending to the hem of your shirt.

His hand lingers a bit. Stops moving. The criss-cross net of muscles on your stomach comes into view and he swallows down whatever words he wants to say. Just staring.

And then a smirk rises onto his face as the light bulb of wit goes off in his head, registering the next thing to say about your toned body.

His lashes move in a flirtatious manner and a hand drapes on your thigh gently. His smirk deepens.

"And you need me. "

A snort is let loose, the tension in your body breaking around you as you shake your head and rub your brow.

"Relax. " You say with the words stretched out and you use your finger to push his chest.

Luis doesn't complain about it.

"Bueno, bueno. " He insists upon before the tip of his tongue darts to his top lip and he's trying to untangle you further from your clothes, going farther down your back. "Solo te quiero ver bien. "

You turn your head, only recognizing bien.

"Gotta repeat it for me, bicho. "

Luis doesn't respond, just smiles so big it reaches his eyes. He makes eye contact again.

"I said I want to only see you well. "

You wave him off. "I'm well. " You tell him but he looks you over before rolling his eyes.

"Here. " He gestures to your lower half and you undo the belt that holds all your guns and knives alike.

He gives you his hands to steady yourself as he helps you rise from your perch on the counter and eventually you're stepping out of your shoes as you shed the rest of your clothes. You grimace because your body throbs in disagreement and your hand is burning again when Luis grabs on.

Your pants are shuffled down to your ankles when he turns your hand over and sees the dried blood, the peeled back skin. "Mi amor, ay. "

"Rope. " You retort, using your feet to pull your pants off the rest of the way. "Grabbed mine a few times on the way down. "

"Ay. Turn. " He says and you shoot him a confused look while you do so, unaware of half the scrapes and knots and bruises on your body.

He clicks his tongue, noticing another gash on your leg that needs stitching. "Pobrecito. " He mutters to himself and you're not sure you heard him correctly.

"I'm not fragile. " You remind him and its clearly a rebuttal because he simply agrees.

"Me disculpo. " The tips of his fingers are featherlight as he gets on one knee to wipe the blood from the back of your thigh.

"Next time you fall from moutain? No more falling. Estaba muy asustado. " He shoots you a look that tells you that yeah, he's being serious.

You sigh as he stands back up to grab stitching material.

"No more falling. " You agree.

[bonefall]

if humanity was wiped out and clan cats were the first species to begin to evolve to take their place, what part of their bodies would be the first to change? what would be the last?

Hmm... Well, I think when discussing evolution, it's good to keep in mind that it is not a process that has a "goal." Humans are an incredibly unique species; there may not ever be anything quite like us ever again.

There are ecological niches; and convergent evolution happens so often because there is an optimal shape to accomplish that task. A social pursuit predator develops long muzzles, and long legs, so hyenas and dogs look similar even though they're barely related at all.

And Clan cats are clearly some kind of subspecies of cat that's finding value in social learning and tool use. If humans were no longer a threat or consideration, and this subspecies kept selecting for traits that value social ability and tool use;

Non-physical changes

Their brains would change. I'm not going to say their skull would get larger though; that's a correlation with species intelligence, but I wouldn't rule out some other change. Feel the back of your skull; that is actually a broken monkey gene at work. OUR brains got larger, but evolution is random change. It's just as likely their brains just get wrinklier, or some protein mutates and makes their synapses fire faster. But the brain would change somehow. Which leads to,

Their diet would change. Brainpower is INTENSE. They would need a lot of food and a more varied diet. for my Clan Culture series I actually gave them a gene that turns their taste for sweetness back on, like lactose tolerance in humans. They may need to eat more fish, or start eating ONLY cooked food to help absorb more nutrients.

Longer lives, longer childhoods, less babies Big brains are INTENSE. We are a cocial species-- that means we have to LEARN as we grow. We are not like precocial, like baby kittens, who are born knowing how to crawl and hiss. This brain takes massive parental investment, both in the womb and after we're born. Even as adults, we're constantly learning, improving our skills, teaching what we know to others. It's not good if your master craftsman dies early or you have generation turnover in less than 5 years. And what good is being a social species if there's no society to support these long, informative childhoods? If you'd waste all that energy pushing out 5 kittens a year only for half of them to die and "waste" so much investment? Smaller litters, longer childhoods.

Physical Changes

Tool Tooth Evolution works with what the organism has. Caledonian crows haven't evolved thumbs just because they use tools; they use their beak and their feet. Clan cats have two paws and a mouth; Hands and a pair of portable scissors. A top-and-bottom pair of teeth might become adapted to be stronger so they stop breaking their teeth while toolmaking.

More dexterous paws Specifically, the pad would be LOWER on the paw, leaving a "dip" between the beans and pad. It would be like that dip in your palm; that is an adaptation for tool use. You don't see that beautiful square-shape in chimpanzees or our relatives. I'd reckon an animal using its hands as toolmakers would develop a shape very similar RIGHT there.

Wrist mobility Turn your palm towards the ceiling right now. That movement is called supination. Now flip your hand and aim it towards the ground. That's pronation. Cats currently can't move their wrists like that. They would be able to, if the species started adapting towards tool use. (Don't do this if it would hurt your wrist of course!! You get the idea.)

Dewclaw would beef up And I say this because every time I see a cat actually needing to manipulate something, the dewclaw is actively used. I think it's likely that it would slide back down the paw over many generations and become a two-knuckle thumb, but with the claw being permanently extended. Speaking of claws,

Index claw would become long and straighter. And it would stick upright like a velociraptor, so that it doesn't dull over time. A very long index claw would be helpful for fine manipulation. Claws evolved for catching prey but becoming useful for tool use instead is called exaptation, when a structure that evolved for one purpose becomes useful for another.

Tails would become even more expressive. Cats do communicate with sound as well; but they say a LOT more with their tails. I think it would actually follow that they would naturally speak a sort of tail-sign, if they were evolving into an extremely social species, especially since they are hunters (and not apex predators at that) and silence is a virtue. To accommodate the complexity of language, that thing would be like a bendy straw.

Tails would have a light tip. Because it makes it easier to see. A cat with out a tip is harder to understand when they're tail-speaking, let ALONE in dark conditions. If it's not white, any lighter color would start being selected for.

And that's all I can remember off the top of my head. I'd considered this heavily before but, there you have it.

[emeraldspiral]

So in the script for the Trial they make it sound like PAKs are retrieved or are able to autonomously return to Irk after death so their data can be uploaded into the Control Brain database and then are reused, and I have some questions about that.

Like, what is death even for Irkens? We saw in the Virooz arc that Zim's PAK could attach itself to a chair when Virooz stole his body. At least part of him was able to live on in Zib when he attached Zim's PAK to himself, and it's implied in the 10 Minutes to Doom script that without taking some precautions first Zim would've taken over Dib completely and his body would've been destroyed. So, if the PAKs can survive without the body, can attach themselves to foreign objects and other living organisms and retain their memories and personality, and all Irken bodies are cloned anyway, can't they just keep plugging the same PAK into a new body every time one "dies" while the same brain lives forever? Like, you'd think that was the case if they reuse PAKs instead of just making new ones on an assembly line. But they kinda make it sound like that's not the case and they're actually setting them back to factory default before they plug them into a new Irken.

If it actually was the former case though, that brings up some interesting possibilities. Maybe the reason Irkens are so long-lived isn't due to them just naturally aging slower, but simply continuously uploading themselves into new bodies. Jhonen's always been very deliberate about not giving Zim a precise age other than "older than any living human" but fanon often low-balls it with the infamous claim that he is only 160. But what if Zim's actually like, several hundred or even thousands of years old? What if the majority of Irkens really aren't just naturally short and Zim really does have a child's body within the context of his society, even with thousands of years of life experience? The reason the shortest like him are looked down upon is because they keep getting themselves killed and had to be plugged into new bodies that have to grow up all over again while the Tallest are revered for staying alive in the same bodies long enough to hit puberty.

This might also explain Irkens' sense of superiority and cavalier attitude toward death and disregard for the well-being of others. For them, dying isn't permanent unless they get declared "Defective" and deleted. So they think they're better than other species because they've bested death, but also don't have any respect for how precious life is.

What if there was an episode with a reveal like the season 2 opening of the Venture Bros where we find out Zim's died zillions of times and that's why he stays so short. But like Hank and Dean, he's eventually able to keep himself alive long enough to not only start aging physically again, but start to mature as well. And maybe a later episode could deal with his safety net being gone. He's declared a defective, so if his body dies he can't return to Irk to be reincarnated. Then, eventually he does get himself killed again. Dib figures out he can use his father's 3D flesh printer to clone him a new body to bring him back, but he has to stop Zim's PAK from following protocol to return to Irk or he'll be erased and gone for good.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

I’m trying to educate myself on the discussions that your blog has and wanted to ask about something regarding gender identity:

I’ve read about John Money and the experiments he performed on children, and that he came up with the phrase “gender identity.” Is gender identity part of just “nonbinary” people, or is it that and the trans movement? I never got the nonbinary term or the need for it, but I want to get your perspective on if it also applies to trans people, and would anyone transgender (with gender dysphoria, not trenders) be inadvertently supporting gender identity, and by association John Money’s definition, even if the person themselves says that they vehemently despise John Money, or if they don’t like TRAs and the trans movement/community? As an additional question, would you prefer a psychologist tell people diagnosed with dysphoria to wait until they’re at least 18 or older to consider if they’re ready to undergo permanent surgery, rather than just tell them they’re trans right away?

I’m not sending this as a “gotcha” or anything like it, I just want to understand if I’m missing anything. Plus, I find the idea of trans children to be weird, and I don’t like the idea of pushing gender identity onto them before they’re old enough to realistically think it through

So, what "non-binary" actually means is just being gender non conforming. And what that means is not adhering to gender roles. For example, a woman with short hair, or a man who wears a skirt.

What people who say they're non-binary thinks it means, though, is a real, actual third gender. They absolutely buy into "gender identity" as described by John Money; the idea that gender is different from sex and can be changed at any time.

There is no such thing as a third gender. There are men and women, and people with gender dysphoria have a mental illness where their brain is telling them their physical gender is wrong, and that they should have been born in the body of a member of the opposite gender. So, real, actual trans people are not non-binary. It's not a real thing. It's a trend.

As an additional question, would you prefer a psychologist tell people diagnosed with dysphoria to wait until they’re at least 18 or older to consider if they’re ready to undergo permanent surgery, rather than just tell them they’re trans right away?

Yes, 18 at the very least. 18 should be when the process to transition starts. And that means trying every other possible option first, followed by a long process of making sure the person who wants to transition is both mentally competent to make that decision and is well aware of the risks and complications and the impacts of living with the aftermath of that kind of surgery.

The facts are the vast majority of kids and teens who say they have "gender confusion" grow up to be perfectly comfortable with their birth gender; that puberty turns the brain into a soup of hormones; that one oft he most common experiences of puberty is feeling uncomfortable with your body and the way its developing; that there are multiple mental illnesses that we know can't be accurately diagnosed in children and teens because of how their brains and bodies are developing. Any one of these facts alone should be enough to have any reputable doctor putting a stop to transitioning minors. So yes, no one, especially a doctor, should ever be telling a child that they're trans.

Trans children do not exist.

Behind every "trans child" is an adult who is abusing that child. Full stop.

[golvio]

Seriously, though, the Fuse and Ultrahand abilities make a lot of stuff about Calamity Ganon’s behavior and the Malice in general make sense.

The Malice being homebrew/bootleg Ultrahand Goo made from Ganon’s own soul/raw negative emotions makes so much sense. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen this Ganon try to homebrew his own version of tech he found useful. Remember how the creepy cocoon he was incubating in resembled the Shrine of Resurrection?

He uses Malice for a lot of the same stuff Link uses Ultrahand for: sticking things in the environment together (remember the Akkala Tower puzzle where he superglued the iron bridge piece you used to move about the area just out of your reach?) and sealing off doors and rooms.

However, since Malice is a janky bootleg version of whatever the Ultrahand Ghost produces, it’s got some additional properties. For instance, it’s not well behaved and doesn’t stay in one place, instead draining the life force from its surroundings and continuously expanding to assimilate more stuff, a little like how cancerous cells won’t stop multiplying. In fact, it seems to house not only Ganon’s will, but his wish to reincarnate. When not given specific instructions, it starts attempting to build a body, growing into eyeballs or these weird “ribcage” structures or veins. When strategically applied, Ganon’s Malice is super effective as an environmental hazard/door obstruction.

The Malice can also Fuse things. It wants to Fuse with things. When not given instructions, it climbs the walls like kudzu or grabs at living things. Humans it devours, monsters it dissolves into skeletal revenants and assimilates into those floating skull defense drones. Passive fusions aren’t particularly strong or permanent, but the desire is there.

When actively used to Fuse things together by Ganondorf himself, the resulting constructs and creatures are a lot more dangerous. The Blights and the primary Calamity Ganon body were all actively-designed constructs created by Fusing Malice with Guardian parts. (I have some Malice! I have this discarded military-issue teleportation module! Uh! Thunderblight!) Interestingly enough, Malice can also Fuse on its own with monsters in a non-destructive way. Silver and Golden monsters who are “blessed with Ganon’s dark magic” were likely monsters who were able to Fuse successfully with large amounts of raw Malice, boosting their abilities beyond natural levels. Even low-level monsters have a little Malice mixed into them, which explains their supernatural vitality and ability to resurrect. We have not seen what happens when a human or other non-Monster person is Fused with Malice. Or have we? 👁️

Ganondorf in TotK is now actively Fusing monsters with additional materials to give them a little extra help in the martial arts department, which explains why their horns look so weird.

Anything Fused with Malice can be controlled by Ganon’s primary brain. We see it with the monsters mining for ore underground in the trailer, and we’ve seen it with Naydra. Ganon controlling the Divine Beasts? Likely because his little Blight-offshoots each Fused with the giant robot they commandeered.

Harbinger Ganon was a fusion-hungry little monster whose sole imperative was to construct a body as good at destroying everything as possible. Mutated Ganon is what happens when he Fuses with monsters of sufficient power. Main Timeline Terrako couldn’t be broken free of Ganon’s control because he wasn’t just possessed, but fused together with Ganon.

The reason killing Main Timeline Harby Ganon also killed the Calamity of the Alternate Timeline was because by that point they’d Fused into a single being. At one point offscreen, Harby Ganon and Alt Calamity Ganon gave each other a lil’ smooch and Fused together into a single omnicidal entity.

The Fusions Ganon creates are brittle. If you apply sufficient force to even his most powerful constructs or “kill” the Malice binding the Fusion together through hitting its weak point, it immediately falls apart. It remains to be seen whether the Ultrahand Ectoplasm is subject to this limitation or is a lot more stable than the Malice.

This is all I’ve got so far, but I’ll definitely have other thoughts as time goes on and we start learning more about what’s going on in the game proper.

[fenmere]

Just what is burnout?

Something that really irritates us and troubles us about discussions of burnout is that there are different kinds and levels of burnout, and everyone is always talking about their own without specifying what it is. And that gets confusing. There's professional burnout, where you lose your ability to be creative and make decisions at a given job or task. This might happen outside of employment, but it's kinda rare. We could just call it artistic burnout for that, though. But what happens is that you work too hard at this one thing and then your brain just can't do it anymore for a while.

It might effect the rest of your life in other ways, but mostly, you just really need to move onto something else for a while.

This has happened to us regarding art, for instance, and switching to writing allowed us to continue being productive and seeking nice brain chemicals.

Then there's systemic burnout, which is usually called autistic burnout, but it can happen to people with ADHD, and we think it can happen to anybody. It just happens to autistic people and people with ADHD more because we tend to overload faster, and we have more social and sensory demands on us constantly that most other people don't experience. And maybe it's the same mechanism as professional/artistic burnout, but it happens to your whole damn mind and body.

When it hits, you might not even be able to dress yourself in the morning. It can vary.

And both types of burnout happen on a spectrum of length and severity.

Some people talk about burnout that means they have to rest for a couple of hours. Like a daily limit. We don't consider that burnout, honestly. It's more like a brown out, or just a loss of that days spoons. It's a warning sign for longer burnout. If you keep hitting it, it's gonna get way worse.

But, a lot of people call it burnout, and we can't stop them.

Then there's burnout that lasts a few days. That's more like something we'd call burnout, but, we gotta tell you this, it's still really just a warning sign.

Like, your life and career can bounce back from that. You can call in, rest, and then get back to it.

But, if you keep hitting that wall and keep going back to your usual grind, it's gonna get worse.

Then you'll see a few autistics talking about burnout that lasts a couple weeks to a few months. There you're getting into dangerous territory. That can get you fired from a job, maybe even end your career. It can definitely put you in financial dire straights. But you might still be able to take a two week vacation and hobble back to what you were doing.

Then there's what we got: Burnout that lasts years, or is maybe permanent.

We hit systemic burnout in 2012, but we didn't know what was going on and we kept trying to push through it at half pace until 2014, after which we became permanently disabled. And we started having regular meltdowns and picked up involuntary stimming habits we never had before.

And we're still in it.

Unmasking and crying for help, finding a place where we could live with most of the accommodations we needed, all helped us to recover some of our previous function. And we also now know better never to try to act neurotypical again. But even if we tried, we could not possibly perform like we used to.

Part of our permanent disability is that we've also developed a number of chronic illnesses. More than one. They were actually already there, growing since childhood, but they got much, much worse from the stress.

But our burnout itself shows itself in lower thresholds for all tolerances, emotions, senses, everything. And a frequent blank mind most days.

And we're really starting to feel like it's pretty important that people learn to recognize these different types and levels, because a lot of the time they'll write shit like, "Burnout is like [this]. [This] is what happens during burnout." And they'll inevitably be describing something way more mild than what can actually happen, and they'll make it sound definitive.

And that's not doing anybody any good.

[suchafool4youuu]

You agreed. You said you also felt like a tiny part of you pictured yourself hand delivering that letter to me. “…800 times,” you added.

I have many questions, speculations, inquisitive wonderings.

But there’s just one thing that continues across my mind like a movie marquee.

What stopped you? Or, rather, what is still stopping you?

One of my brain’s scenarios goes as such:

I find myself awaiting your surprise arrival to somewhere that I happen to be more than ever. It’s almost as if my body and brain are anticipating it, like they know something I don’t. Like they’ve read this book before and they know you’re coming in a few chapters ahead.

Maybe I’m way off.

You know I’d welcome you with open and loving arms. Our warmth that I think we both crave. The home that is each other that we abandoned, with its doors left wide open and windows only boarded half way up. I’d open the door, or walk up to you leaning on my car, or walk out of wherever I’d be, and I’d hug you so tight and i know we’d cry. I’d pull away, take your tears with both thumbs, your face in my hands, check your eyes for your silent approval, and then gently, but passionately, I’d kiss you. I’d kiss you, but not for long. And not in a way that leads to anything other than another tight, eyes closed, “we’re home” embrace.

I’d hold you until the morning came, no matter where we’d end up, but wouldn’t touch you in any other way. Just enough that I’d know it wasn’t another mirage my brain was feeding to my nighttime.

the sun would come up and I’d use my last personal day and we’d cry and laugh and cry and laugh some more. I’d make you some eggs and toast and give you my full carton of ben and jerrys while I ate the half full one I almost finished the other night. We’d go for a walk, and maybe our hands would touch just a little bit, and we’d both giggle or even just smile to ourselves, but I wouldn’t hold it just yet even though I would want to more than anything. Just to ensure you had space and knew that you could still be whatever you wanted to be. Just to be sure I wouldn’t scare you away.

We’d stop and look at some flowers that for some reason reminded us of each other, maybe since they were growing newly after being torn down and trying to grow again as the spring air finally surrounded them. Then I’d change my mind and might point out that maybe only one of us was a flower and the other the honey bee flying by, both needing each other in the end, but able to generally survive without the other. “But, the flower can’t truly thrive without the bee.” I would say, eyes dancing as they’d look down to meet yours.

And you’d peer up at me, smirk, sway back and forth and say, “Hmmm..” then would pause, always overcareful, before finally saying, “I don’t think the bee really can, either.”

And my heart would fill and chills would rocket up and down my limbs as you’d tug the bottom of my flannel and would say “C’mon.” as you’d direct us back to where we came from, not wanting to fall too deeply into another moment I’d seem to have yet again created.

I’d keep you here as long as I could, but would know deeply that you’d find a way to go back, and the stay wouldn’t be for anywhere near as long as I’d want it to be. And I’d be okay with that somehow, because I’ve had none of you for so long that this is something beyond special. I’d be okay because I know you work slowly and cautiously, and my impulsivity cannot win here. I know i’d be okay because I have been without you, and I know that there’s a possibility I wouldn’t have to be that forever like I thought.

But I don’t really know if I was ever convinced by that thought anyways. I’ll be honest, and I am not sure if I have already said this to you, but none of this has ever felt permanent.

I’m not saying that I necessarily picture something else, I’m just saying there is a lack of the feeling of permanence.

When it has come to you leaving my brain has refused me the right to believe that it is anything other than temporary. And if I think anything else it snaps into a numbness that doesn’t allow me to wrap my mind around the fact that my life could go on for its entirety without you intertwined in its story.

And all this, because you said two words.

Quite miraculous, our brains can be, such tortuous writers. Evil story tellers. Non-cooperating brats. Dramatic when not needed, calm when they should be running, running to where they know they should be.

[blackberrywars]

Two Cloaks, XXXL (Chapter 2)

Rating: E Words: 2,453 Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland Additional Tags: Order Of Witchers, Young OG Husbands, Pre-Divorce, Animal Death, Pelt Tanning, Draw Me Like One of Your Skelligan Girls, Seduction, Oral Sex, Arnaghad Swallows, Anal Sex, Waking Up Together

Summary: Erland isn't quite satisfied with the blanket ruana, so he goes looking for something a bit more… substantial.

Chapter 1

AO3 LINK

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The day passes by quickly enough, when Erland has twelve lanky witcherlings to teach Signs to, and Arnaghad —surely still in his new cloak or gods help him— is far and away. With a stern warning to keep any additional practice to the courtyard, he sends the bairns off with a deep sigh. They’ve worked hard today. Even Rakhen, the tallest of the lot with the least-proportional magical talent, managed to set the row of candles alight without melting them. It gives Erland enough time to go through his own exercises. Or to slip away from the castle entirely. Alzur, Cosimo, and Idarran have little use for him beyond his unique ability to teach Signs in their stead, and he’s avoided them all by virtue of them locking themselves away in their laboratory. More likely than not, they won’t even notice him escaping into the woods. He won’t be long. He knows precisely what he’s looking for.

The beast is a relatively young one, all things considered. Hardly out of adolescence but having done an admirable job packing on his winter weight, he swaggers from tree to tree so he can spray them. It makes him all the easier to track. Under normal circumstances, Erland would avoid killing such a specimen, but Arnaghad’s cloak has to be perfect, and this beast hasn’t seen enough fights to mar his hide. As it is, he perches in a tree and waits, watching the great young bear lumber into view. Grizzled brown fur, thick and evenly spread, spanning what will hopefully amount to Arnaghad’s shoulders. He’s magnificent, but no match for Erland. A Somne puts the beast to sleep, and twin daggers through the eyes make it permanent. It’s only after his nose stops twitching that Erland realizes the beast does have a scar —a healed-over trio of claw marks on his shoulder, no doubt from a fight with another boar. He smiles despite himself. Arnaghad would probably like it even better.

Erland skins it then and there, in no mood to haul the body back up the mountain. It feels rather wasteful to not make use of so much meat, but the forest can enjoy it on his part, and he can always hunt again. More importantly, if Arnaghad finds out what he’s doing ahead of time, he’ll refuse, and that is unacceptable. So unacceptable, that when he does make it back to Morgraig, he hides the fur in the spare stable closet. Not only had Arnaghad given up on horses long ago, the big bastard couldn’t fit into the tiny space if he tried. And no one really uses the closet anyway. Not only that, but with no chimney, it will keep the pelt from spoiling, and if he hangs the thing diagonally, he can stretch each part out. Even though it traps him in with the stench, it’s the best option he has.

But Erland has personally put his bare fist through a water hag while stepping on her court of drowners. More impressively, he only vomited up half the contents of his stomach when it was over. The memory alone makes it more than easy to strip the hide entirely, scraping any spare bits of flesh and sinew until the dusk’s shadows, encroaching from the slats in the door, grow too long to ignore.

He returns the same night, slipping from Arnaghad’s heavy arms to work drowner brain oil into the tough hide. A boar brush —and he can’t help but laugh quietly, because Arnaghad uses a similar one for his own hair— spreads the stuff onto each bristle, from the short undercoat to the soft, dense winter coat. If he’d waited another few weeks, it would have been even thicker, but that would mean another few weeks of Arnaghad insisting upon his elk coat. No matter that it doesn’t cover his thighs. No matter that it slips off his shoulders if he turns around too quickly. How the big bastard hasn’t choked on its closure, Erland will never know, even if he’s had his legs wrapped around that neck enough times to know it’s as tough as an ox’s. He slips back into bed a half hour later after a cursory wash in Igni-heated water. When he wakes, tucked right back into a broad chest, he smiles and hopes Arnaghad can’t smell the chemicals.

The next few weeks pass him by like that, hoping Arnaghad’s patience holds out longer than his reproachful gaze.

He stretches and tans the hide, brushes out the fur until each hair stands on its own. He sews up the eyeholes and painstakingly attaches the claws back onto the bear’s flat paws. He works (better-smelling) oils into it until not even a hurricane could soak it. Pride isn’t a noble thing, but Erland is more than a little impressed with himself when he deems it done. The massive cloak reflects the firelight ever so slightly, covering most of their bed as he stretches it out. Its head faces the door, fierce with dark fabric eyes leading down the scars that remain on the shoulder. Loud footsteps echo faraway in the hall. He can’t care enough to be ashamed of the way his own heartbeat quickens or how his blood rushes south.

Quickly, Erland strips to his tattoos, drapes himself across his gift like a poised whore, and watches the door swing open. He watches Arnaghad’s eyes adjust to the dark, and then dilate into new moons as he lays eyes on him. Timing is everything, in a battle. A strike too soon could leave a man open to attack and breathless. A strike too late could be blocked and misdirected. Erland has remembered and tried to write down everything Gryphon ever taught him, and he wonders what the old knight, let him rest, would think of this particular application of that advice.

Shock is a funny thing, on the face of someone like Arnaghad, and if Erland’s heart wasn’t beating human-fast, he might laugh at the way his massive jaw falls ever-so-slightly open. Another man, less acquainted with interpreting his love’s expressions through his beard, would likely not even notice how Arnaghad flips. He takes in the scene like a hunter. Amber eyes flick over every detail before he’s on top of him, that massive chest pressing him down. His hands cover Erland’s entirely, making fists in the soft fur he’d spent so long working on. Chapped lips cover his own, and he can’t help but to smile into it, grabbing Arnaghad’s wrists to drag those massive hands across the cloak he’d made, soft and warm and big enough to cover them both, probably. He tucks his chin down, breaking the kiss.

“Do ye like it?”

“Yes.”

A broad hand slides down to squeeze his arse, and Erland scoffs even as it makes his dick twitch against Arnaghad’s belly.

“I wouldn’t have asked if that was it. Tha’ fur is for you.”

“And this isn’t?”

A harder squeeze, which gives Erland the opportunity to slip beneath his other arm, rolling off the bed as Arnaghad grabs for his ankle. He dances away, but Arnaghad doesn’t bother following him from the edge of the bed, dark eyes never leaving Erland’s dick. Hmph. Keeping out of range is more difficult than not, but he manages to circle to the other side of the bed and drag the pelt around himself. The back half scrapes across the floor, and the arms drape down to his hips. The bear’s head flops over his eyes, obscuring his vision with the dark inner hide.

“Look, ya bastard. Caught somethin’ a wee bit bigger than an elk for ye to wear —maybe ye’ll actually keep warm in it.”

“The blanket cloak was just fine, birdie,” Arnaghad huffs, “You even hemmed it.”

“It had no hood, and I had no more blanket tae make one! An’ furs are better than wool besides, least fer an outer coat.”

“That so?”

This time, when those two hands wrap around his waist, Erland goes right along with them onto the mattress, letting the bear head flip back over his braid. One of the bear paws falls off to the side, set far two wide for his own shoulders, but Arnaghad’s oversized thumb pins the other to his stomach, sharp claws digging slightly into his navel, and if he arches his back into the sensation, only Arni would know. The fur is lighter than the hair on his own body, but it matches Arnaghad’s perfectly. Not to mention the fact that the paw is just barely bigger after drying out. Erland can’t help but smirk with satisfaction, curling his hands into the hide. He’d chosen well. Under his beard, he can see Arnaghad smile too, even if he grunts right after.

“It’s unnecessary.”

“I’d call it useful.”

“Wasteful.”

“Practical.”

“Uncalled for.”

“A right excellent gift.”

Arnaghad just huffs again, apparently deciding to drop the subject in favor of staring at Erland’s cock again, since the damn thing has decided to wake up and poke him in the belly. Direct as ever, he shoves his way down Erland’s body, never so much as pausing as he bullies his legs apart with the sheer breadth of his shoulders. Erland shifts his hips, sinking into the stretch. It’s a position that ought to be significantly more uncomfortable than it is, if not for long practice and the longer licks Arnaghad makes across his hip bone. Erland closes his eyes for a moment. Sighs out when over-large teeth nibble the fatty roll between his hip and thigh, when a broad nose nuzzles through his coarse hair, pulling it gently.

He downright fucking smiles when Arnaghad wraps that big, soft mouth around his cock.

On a less perfect evening, he might try pulling his bear’s own fur, but that had always been a gamble between gruff irritation and a good hard fuck. Instead, the space behind Arnaghad’s ears molds to his grip, easy handholds where he could grab any other lover around the head. Not to control, tonight. Not when Arnaghad’s mouth is so sweet, intent on pleasing him and more than capable of doing it without Erland yanking on him. He blames the ache in his cheeks on how even when Arnaghad pulls off after a few minutes, he makes certain to kiss the sensitive spot under his tip. Still, a token grumble is the least he can do.

“Are ye not going tae finish the job?”

“Yes,” Arnaghad says evenly, reaching into the side of their bed to retrieve a well-loved tin, “Or would you rather do this like whelps with nothing but spit?”

Erland just rolls his eyes and lays back. From this angle, he can watch Arnaghad’s dark, frankly luxurious eyelashes close as he gets back to the task at hand, sucking hard enough to make him groan. Arnaghad works in a familiar rhythm, with enough pressure that Erland’s hips buck ever-so-slightly into the back of his throat. Doesn’t even pause when his braids fall over his broad face and the beads clink loudly into each other, just presses his fingers gently into the space behind Erland’s balls, and then he really bucks. Like a whelp. He feels rather than sees that thought cross Arnaghad’s mind with the curl of his lips. Cocky bastard. Still, he reaches down to push the braids back behind Arnaghad’s ear, runs his fingers over the delicately-carved lines. It’s easier to buck up on purpose when he crosses his ankles on that blue-cloaked back.

At least until Arnaghad takes the choice out of his hands and just pins his hips to the pelt with one broad hand. Then Erland suffers properly. Suffers Arnaghad’s mouth, big enough to swallow him whole if the big bastard didn’t know he was more sensitive at the tip anyway. Suffers efficient strokes of a thick finger slipping up his arse, a broad thumbprint against his rim, hard enough to make him nearly choke on his own spit. Suffers the disgusting, wet sounds of deceptively full lips pressing on his balls. Arnaghad hadn’t always known how to take him apart, but he was a quick learner with a long memory.

Erland can’t stop it when the lights go off behind his eyes. Arnaghad just holds his hips still, forcing him to come down his throat.

When his ears stop ringing, he glances down at the near-imperceptible smirk buried in that beard. The tin has reappeared in Arnaghad’s left hand, and Erland just rolls his eyes even as he pulls one of his thighs up and back.

“I know it’s half the reason ye got so feckin’ big, but you don’ have ta swallow every time something’s in yer mouth.”

Arnaghad’s hand on his hip turns bruising at the jibe, but he just shrugs, using the other one to coat his dick in the oil.

“Spitting would mean getting up.”

And maybe Erland is just a bit cracked in the head, but his chest swells anyway. Pragmatism had always been Arnaghad’s way, and applied to fucking, it’s practically a sweet nothing whispered in his ear. Sweet enough to make Erland bring his leg back down, kicking Arnaghad hard enough in the shoulder to push him off and pulling up onto his knees so the pelt falls off his shoulder. His bear takes the hint, flopping onto his back atop the fur, big body fitting perfectly within it. A bear atop a bear. Erland straddles him, and can’t help but smile when he slides back, feeling Arnaghad’s cock propped up between his cheeks.

“You gonna finish the job?” Arnaghad says, running his hands up to cup the backs of his knees.

Erland reaches back to adjust the angle and sinks down the barest inch, burying the groan in his chest. He finds his handholds again, fingers brushing the fur through Arnaghad’s hair, smiling wider at how closely the colors match.

“Only if ye wear the cloak the second round.”

He thrusts back down and throws his head back, not bothering to wait for an answer.

— — — — —

The next morning, when it’s Arnaghad’s turn to shovel snow again, he puts on the pelt without complaint, securing the ties and letting each paw hang down his chest, claws sharp and fearsome. His hood stays pushed back, and it nearly blends in with the dark mass of Arnaghad’s waves. Everywhere else, the rich brown fur strikes handsomely against woad blue. And while Erland has always thought Arnaghad beautiful, he dares anyone to disagree today. His big bear looks very warm indeed, and all he feels before drifting back off to sleep is a kiss to his temple and the gentle brush of thick fur against his collarbone.

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I had fun with this chapter, I won't lie, late as it is. I just had to keep adding stuff, and I couldn't leave off until I recreated the lovely scene from @whyzowl's wonderful art piece of Erland riding Arnaghad into the sunset. It is glorious, and everything I dreamed of with my request.

While I could draw from personal experience/culture on the last cloak, this one required a bit more research, so if you want to learn a bit about medieval fur treatment/usage, try here and there. The brain oil is real, even if it's usually deer oil instead of drowner.

Also, as @hungarianbee pointed out in my PMs, why yes this is Erland performing a birdie courting ritual for Arnaghad. And yes the big bear is being so patient and indulgent about it.

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Taglist: @hellinglasses, @hungarianbee, @halehathnofury, @tumbleweedtech, @round--robin, @on-a-lucky-tide, @keirametzbrassknuckles, @girls-and-honey, @the-butch-of-blaviken, @alllthequeenshorses, @t4tlambert, @karolincki, @blankacctoseeposts (if anyone wants to be added/removed, pm me and I'll have it done no problem)

[creepywrites]

Lazari

Warning: self harm

After they ate Loretta and the majority of the other members, she was homeless and on the they own for 2 years before she met Sadiya, who she currently lives with.

She didn't have a quick access to anything supernatural, so she starved a lot while by themselves, because of the lack of proper food while in the basement and while living alone, she became very malnourished and this stunted their growth, making them fairly short for their age.

She nearly died a few times before meeting Sadiya and is very cautious about a lot of things.

She's adapted to not eating as much, and their body stored fat so it takes longer for them to get hungry to the point where she changes to their hungry form.

The more hungry she is, the bigger the mouths get.

Lazari wore a cross because she felt comfort in thinking it helped with their hunger. Loretta gave it to them, but it broke when she transformed.

She was premature of 4 and a half months, she was born with clavicle fracture and a brain bleed.

She caused her to have bad memory, sensitivity to light and communication issues.

She was stalked by Slenderman for 10 months, during that time she became paranoid, she stopped sleeping and was terrified. Slenderman was getting more aggressive with it and she became so scared she forcefully went into her Zalgoid form for the first time, scaring him off.

When Lazari was transforming however, she was in complete agony, and Lazari didn't know how to turn back. After a while she couldn't sustain the form because she was running out of energy, and deformed. Lazari was so confused, she never experienced anything like that before. She grew significantly taller in the form, which is one of the reasons why it hurt to take the form, she felt her bones instantly growing and their horns coming through. This broke parts of her body from growing so fast. This made her permanently taller than what she used to be.

Because of it being such a bad experience, she never wants to use that form again.

She kept Gums with her, it was a big comfort for Lazari when she was all alone, and carries it wherever she goes.

She's fluent in English, Ukrainian and knows some Russian.

She can be very clingy and get attached easily, she absolutely hates being alone at anytime. Being alone will cause a lot of stress and become hyper focused on their surroundings, and could even cause an anxiety attack.

She absolutely loves Sadiya, she sees her as their second mum and saviour, and being around her can make Lazari's day, Sadiya is their favourite person and she is devastated if she can't be around Sadiya.

Sometimes Lazari is scared she'll abandon them, even if Sadiya shows no signs of doing so.

She's gotten better at controlling their hunger, and can go longer without needing to eat someone.

She is colourblind, and can only see shades of red.

Her favourite colour is pink.

Lazari was extremely happy in the cult, they loved getting whatever she wanted and treated like a god and being half Zalgoid.

she thought very highly of themselves and felt like she's entiteled to anything or anyone they wanted.

Now that they're experienced being in the real world and started understanding a bit more about herself, they started hating herself and their Zalgoid side.

She's always trying to suppress eating people, until they start getting violent and hurting.

When she was on the streets they tried ordering people around, because she was so used to doing it in the cult, and was confused and slightly annoyed that they just gave her weird looks.

Lazari absolutely despises Zalgo with every single fiber of their being and throws a temper tantrum if anyone brings Him up. She hates Him more than anything else in the world. She blames Him for everything that's gone wrong in their life and would be happy if He dropped dead.

She wants to be nothing like Him.

She can eat human food, but it doesn't do anything for them nutrition wise, so Sadiya helps them get something that she can actually eat. Human is good too, it's better than regular food but not as good as supernatural people. She ate a few humans while by herself trying to figure out how her body works and what she needs to sustain themselves.

She bites people if she feels threatened or if she just doesn't like the person.

Lazari often has nightmares, usually either about demons taking them away and hurting them. When this happens she rushes to Sadiya room, Gums in hand, to cuddle up with her and feel safe and loved.

Lazari can be very impatient and hot headed.

Because she left at a young age and homeless for a lot of their childhood, she didn't learn much and is still learning about common things to this day.

She loves to learn new things.

Their life span is a lot longer than humans, however not as long as regular demons.

Their mood changes in minutes, she could be having the best day but than something small happens and their world is crashing down on her.

She acts confident and assured but when things start to go wrong she panics fast.

Lazari used to hang out with Lulu, she met her when she was looking for shelter, Lulu took care of them and sheltered them. Lazari considered her a great friend, but because Lulu is a supernatural being, Lazari couldn't help themselves after not eating for a while and took a big chunk out of Lulu. After she wasn't hungry anymore and realised what she did, Lazari fled, deciding it's better off being alone.

Now she's started connecting with Lulu again now that they’re older and gotten better at controlling her powers.

She tends to be overprotective of the people she cares about.

She loved wearing all sorts of different dresses when she was a kid, but after becoming homeless she now prefers pants because it's more practical. She still likes dresses though even if she doesn't wear them often.

She likes to sew, she started learning so she could fix Gums whenever he's torn but she's starting liking it.

It was hard for Lazari to connect with Kaidy at first, they'd get into a lot of arguments because Kaidy would say something and Lazari would blow a lot of things out of proportion.

Lazari used to have bad coping mechanisms for when she was having a bad depressive episode, she would claw at her skin until it bled, she'd also do it if she got to hungry, it was their way of trying to stop it. Sometimes she'll have the urge to repeat it, or even completely relapse, but she's getting better and has good support if she needs it.

Sadiya doesn't let Lazari be friends with a lot of the Creepypastas because they're supernatural, but she's allowed near the humans.

Lazari loves to read, she used to get Stripes and Sadiya to read for her when she was younger.

Lazari and Stripes weren't very close growing up, but now that she's in a safer environment they've been hanging out more.

She can make their teeth sharper, making it easier to pierce flesh.

She also has a smaller mouth inside similar to a leech, that can latch on and drink the victims blood.

She loves going outside, she'd much rather stay outside where she feels safe and comfortable. She isn't even in the house a lot of the time, usually she's out hanging with Lulu in short bursts of time.

Lazari hates the rain or snow, when she was homeless she'd get soaking wet a lot of the time, getting them sick. Whenever it's bad weather it brings them to those times. Once it rains she'll wrap themselves and Gums in a blanket, it makes them feel safe.

She is really good at sneaking, she had to do it a lot when she was alone.

Lazari never went to a proper school and she's not the brightest.

It took them a lot longer to walk because of her feet, even now she can still be a bit clumsy.

She loves lollies and anything sugary.

They are the biggest animal lover there is, when they found out about dogs they were in love.

She used to be in the cults choir, and has a decent singing voice.