#harry the hunter

[differentsublimephantom]

Here’s a Beetlejuice Beetlejuice fanfic/chatfic and headcannons I wrote because I was bored and the ghost characters need more recognition (minor spoilers for Beetlejuice Beetlejuice)

BEETLEJUICE CHATFIC AND CHARACTER HEADCANNONS

BeetleJuice BeetleJuice character headcannons! (Also don’t mind all the super smash bros headcannons, I was watching Blake jennings “what your main in smash says about you” while I made these):

Wolf Jackson the movie star:

◦ Has MAJOR former theatre kid vibes, like he totally had a Hamilton phase and watched Cats ATLEAST once just to make fun of it, but he ended up secretly kinda liking the songs from it.

◦ Wont admit to even HAVING a favourite superhero, but it’s totally Spider Noir

◦ Says he mains someone like Snake in smash, but he actually mains Isabelle, jigglepuff, or The duck hunt dog and he somehow wins EVERY TIME HE PLAYS SMASH because he’s good at spam pressing buttons.

◦ Good at claw machines for some reason. A strange hidden talent, but he probs brags about it every chance he gets (which isn’t often but still)

◦ Everyone thinks/assumes he’s straight and probs bangin his secretary/the girl who brings him coffee (idk if she’s actually his secretary) but then he’ll casually insert “my boyfriend” or “this guy I’m seeing” into a conversation and the whole room is shocked.

◦ Knuckle cracker.

◦ When he’s sad infront of other people he hides his emotions and says he’s fine, but when he’s sad at home alone, he curls up with a bunch of blankets and binge watches all the movies he stared in when he was alive. Only his secretary(?) knows this.

◦ Drinks coffee (obviously) but also likes iced teas. Can on rare occasions be seen wandering around with an Arizona Tea can in hand.

◦ Ocean from RTC vibes. Like he doesn’t really mean to be rude, but he also has a habit of thinking he’s better than most people around him.

◦ That same way that I walk into any store and when I wanna get something I tell myself “I can make that at home.” He watches ANY action movie (especially ones with cgi or heavy effects) and says/thinks “I could’ve done that MYSELF, WITHOUT special affects.”

Bob:

◦ Chronically tired

◦ Under-appreciated-employee-core. Wherever he works in the neitherworld would not FUNCTION without him, but no one who works with him would recognize this until he put in his two weeks notice.

◦ A pushover. I hate to say it, but this man DIED (double died ig?) for a ghost who didn’t deserve that amount of loyalty and Bob probably knows it. He knew Beetlejuice wasn’t worth sacrificing that much for but he did it anyways because he is a pushover.

◦ My general headcannon for all the “tiny head” people in the Beetlejuice franchise is that they can speak telepathically to people, but most either choose not to, or don’t know that they can do it. Bob chooses not to because whenever he does (on rare occasions) it freaks out everyone who’s ever known him and he finds it hilarious.

◦ Current theatre kid. Has all of Heathers memorized. Could sing most RTC songs and says “this is all your fault Jafar” and “youre FUCKIN useless Paul” in his head or under his breath EVERY DAY.

◦ Once played Smash with Wolf Jackson and absolutely HATED the fact that Wolf won every time without really trying. But also Bob mains wii fit trainer, toon link or Kirby because I said so.

◦ Coffee drinker, but also gives off “DO NOT FILL UP A “SUPER BIG GULP” CUP WITH 5-HOUR ENERGY AND CHUG THE WHOLE THING” vibes. He is WIRED.

Harry the hunter:

◦ Bobs uncle who died at around the same age as Bob so that’s why they look the same age/look like the same person.

◦ BESTIES with Ms Argentina

◦ Likes Delores because he hates Beetlejuice and wishes she successfully killed him, but also dislikes her because she killed Bob

◦ Bob is chronically tired but gets a good nights sleep most nights. Harry is an insomniac night owl who stays up until 1:00 in the morning rewatching Over the garden wall or Wall E for the 1000th time even though he KNOWS has to get up at 5:00am that morning.

◦ Only drinks tea or water.

◦ Mostly uses ASL or writing on notepads to communicate (same with Bob)

◦ Bob is the type of employee to work more than he should and do extra stuff and overtime etc. because he thinks people will like him more or atleast he’ll get some benefit from it right? Harry is the employee who knows you should just do your job and leave because no one will care if you do more than that so don’t waste your time.

◦ Just like Bob, he is a theatre kid. And he totally got Ms Argentina into musicals too.

◦

Ms Argentina:

◦ a HARDCORE SIMP for Delores. Like “she could suck my soul out of my body and in my last moments I’d THANK HER” kinda simp (same tho)

◦ WILL THROW HER HEELS AT YOU IF YOU PISS HER OFF (Bob, Wolf Jackson, Beetlejuice, AND EVEN Delores ALL learned this the hard way.)

◦ Mains Daisy in smash because they both have Loud-Lesbian energy

◦ Her nickname is Tina and her real name is Valentina, but ONLY Harry and Delores can call her Tina or her real full first name.

◦ SOMEHOW managed to get Delores to go on a date with her, and now they’re dating. Beetlejuice still has no idea how Tina pulled that off.

◦ Tina gives me tea or coffee drinker vibes, but part of me thinks she sometimes puts vodka in her tea and/or coffee

◦ Because Harry got her to like musicals, she totally got her girlfriend into musicals too

I’ll probably make a chatfic based on the musical and cartoon, but this one is based on the movies

Astrid has created a groupchat

Astrid has added: Lydia Deetz, Richard Deetz, Charles Deetz, and Delia Deetz

Astrid has named the groupchat “💜the Deetz family💜”

Astrid: hi! For those who are bad with tech *cough cough, grandpa* this is a groupchat, “gc” for short. It’s like texting but with multiple people in one text conversation.

Charles Deetz: Thanks kiddo, I was confused!

Richard Deetz: hey! This seems fun!

Lydia Deetz: OMG RICHARD?!

Richard Deetz: Hello Lyds!

Delia Deetz: omg Richard! Hi!

Charles Deetz: hello!

Richard Deetz: hi everyone!

~in a different groupchat~

“Work only” groupchat

Richard: my daughter just added me to a family groupchat 🥰

Bob: nice.

Argentina: omg fun!! My family is still alive.

Bob: So is his, Argentina?

Argentina: oh. OH. How the hell does that work?

Richard: I’ve learned not to question things like that a looooooooooooooooooooong time ago.

Argentina: that’s fair.

Wolf: my family has been hiding from me 😅

Harry: why?

Wolf: because ~~🏳️‍🌈~~

Harry: ah. SERIOUSLY?

Wolf: yeah. They only found out last thanksgiving tho. I was at my Mothers house (she is dead, to clarify) and I mentioned I was seeing a guy, and they DID NOT LIKE THAT LET ME TELL YA

Harry: OMFG XD RELATABLE

Harry: Bob is the only family member of mine I know who will talk to me

Bob: to be fair, only about half of our family is actually DEAD?

Harry: yeah. But if Astrid can add her dad to a family gc then don’t you think they might just not be *trying*?

Bob: that’s fair.

Richard: ANYWAYS, I was thinking maybe I should make a gc with you guys AND my family in it so you guys can be introduced to each other!

Argentina: sure!

Wolf: okay.

Bob: 👍

Harry: 👍

Richard: yay! Okay brb

Richard Deetz has made a groupchat

Richard Deetz had added: Astrid Deetz, Lydia Deetz, Charles Deetz, Delia Deetz, Ms Argentina, Wolf Jackson, Bob, and Harry

Richard Deetz has named the groupchat “friends and family”

Harry: I love how apparently me and Bob are just “Harry” and “Bob” and everyone else has some form of last name XD

Bob: omg yeah, I didn’t even notice that! Rude.

Richard: well to be fair, you never told me your last name(s?)

Harry: and I still won’t. It’s still funny tho

Richard: 🙄 alr

Astrid: Dad?! Who are these people?

Richard: my coworkers! Thought I’d introduce you guys

Harry: just “coworkers”? Ouch Rich

Richard: oh hush 😑

Harry: 🤭 k

Astrid: cooooool. Hey.

Bob: hey.

Astrid: OMG @Delia @Lydia @Charles, I forgot to mention I auditioned for my school musical lmao

Lydia: WHAT! And you didn’t tell me? Thats awesome!

Delia: Omg wow!!! You’ll be amazing!

Charles: nice kiddo!

Harry: OMG WHAT MUSICAL IS IT?

Astrid: HAHAHAHA I was NOT expecting that reaction from @Harry

Argentina: he looks very intimidating irl but he’s the biggest FREAKIN NERD YOULL EVER MEET I PROMISE-

Harry: RUDE! But Fr- what musical?

Astrid: Heathers.

Harry: AT A HIGHSCHOOL? Damn

Astrid: THATS WHAT I THOUGHT! But I auditioned anyways for fun.

Harry: so did the cast list come out yet?

Astrid: yeah! I’m gonna be Veronica!!!!!!!

Harry: OMG AWESOME!! I would love to play JD, but I died before even the MOVIE was made, so I’ll never get the chance sadly.

Astrid: DAMN, that’s tough.

Argentina: WOMP WOMP

Astrid: HHAHAHAHAHAHHA WOMP WOMP

Harry: >:O

Lydia: You got a part!!! That’s amazing! When’s opening night???

Richard: yeah! You might not see me in the audience, but I’ll be there!!!

Astrid: it’s in October but rehearsal hasn’t even started yet, I’ll let you know when I know!

Delia: let me know too!

Harry: no offence Delia, but have you SEEN Heathers?? I feel like if ghosts can be unconscious, it would send you into a COMA. With Dead Girl Walking ALONE

Astrid: DEAD GIRL WALKING? She’d be out before Big Fun ends XD

Harry: fair point!

Charles: I know that what you two are typing is technically words, but I understand NONE OF THEM

Harry: that’s also fair XD Poor Charles

Wolf Jackson: I know what the words mean! And your right, Delia would be sent into a coma by that show. Movie OR musical

Argentina: one word: Blue.

Wolf: OMFG I FORGOT ABOUT THAT SONG

Harry: “FORGOT”? I PURPOSEFULLY BLOCK THAT SONG OUT OF MY MEMORY MAN

Richard: oh god what have I started with creating this gc

Lydia: clearly this is a Pandora’s box of chaos you’ve created and opened, Rich

Richard: yeah…….whoops…

~hours later~

Astrid: weird question but raise a digital hand if your 🏳️‍🌈 (no pressure to answer I just want info for a project)

Harry: me!!

Bob: does bi count?

Astrid: yes it does

Bob: cool

Wolf: *slowly raises hand*

Astrid: FR? No offence but I would NOT have guessed that

Wolf: no one ever does 🤫

Argentina: OO OO OO ME!!!

Argentina: wait- can I add my girlfriend to the gc?

Astrid: YESS DO IT

Argentina: okay!!!

Argentina added Delores to the groupchat

Wolf: WAIT YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS DELORES??? THE SOULSUCKER?!

Argentina: yeahhhh 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Delores: hello…? What’s this?

Astrid: a groupchat!

Delores: I’m not sure what that is, but alright?

Bob: ………. Argentina why would you do this to me.

Argentina: OMFG I FORGOT BOB IM SO SORRY

Astrid: wait what? What happened? And what’s a “soulsucker”?

Delores: basically a ghost that can kill other ghosts. And that’s what I am

Astrid: but wouldn’t that not work because they’re already DEAD?

Delores: nope.

Bob: Astrid, you learn not to question stuff like this after a while of being dead or knowing someone in the neitherworld. Nothing makes sense here. (Also Delores almost killed me)

Argentina: yet another reason to NOT KILL YOURSELF 😃

Astrid: noted! Wasn’t planning on it, but good motivation! 😃😃

Wolf: god you people are insane.

Delia: agreed.

Lydia: you both say “you people” like you aren’t a part of this family/friend group. Bad news: YOU ARE PART OF THE “YOU PEOPLE”

Delores: I think I’ll like you people a lot.

Lydia: you tried to kill 🪲🧃 so I definitely like you girl.

Delores: 🥰omg you you want his moldy ass double dead too?!

Lydia: he tried to marry me AT 16 YEARS OLD so yeah definitely

Delores: I’m from an era where thats pretty normal, but I’m gonna assume that’s not normal and bad in the future??

Lydia: yeah it’s bad and gross. Also the year is currently 2024 btw

Delores: thank you! Damn I was in those boxes for a long time wasn’t I?

Argentina: yes you were

Wolf: and you were TECHNICALLY supposed to STAY THERE

Delores: my girlfriend has advised me to reply to that with “womp womp”? I’m not sure what that mean but I hope it has its intended affect.

Bob: WOLF JUST KICKED HIS TRASHCAN SO HARD IT MADE A DENT IN THE WALL HOLY SHIT

Bob: update: I have just read the previous texts. Yes Delores it DID have its intended affect! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Delores: oh good!!! 😀

Wolf: NO! NOT GOOD. I don’t like you! Mean lesbian!!!!

Astrid: “MEAN LESBIAN” OMG 😆

Richard: what is HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

Richard: omg I jus read the last few texts, that is pretty funny Wolf

Lydia: 😮 🤭 yeah I’m with Rich on this one, that’s pretty funny honestly

Wolf: I hate you all /ns

[rtfics]

I wonder how they're going to explain all the small heads?

unmute

The original Bob in the 1988 movie was Harry the Hunter, an explorer with his head shrunk by a head hunter. In the 90s that scene was declared offensive because it stereotypically depicted a "primitive" culture. Because nobody had a fucking sense of humor anymore. Like, it's not as if those cultures didn't exist; head hunting in Papua New Guinea was still practiced into the 1990s.

The cartoon was blasted for it, too, for I.M. Small Head.

I am SO glad Burton didn't back away from this. In fact, he intensified it by having a shit-ton of head hunters.

Or maybe their heads were shrunken for other reasons. We'll find out.

ADDENDUM: Was sent this, from Empire magazine.

Welp, that pretty much answers everything. *grin*

[bjfinn]

HARRY'S QUEST

Disclaimer: I don't have a Shuar dictionary or grammar, so I had to make up the language spoken by the tribespeople, but I have tried to make it similar to the small sample that I've seen on YouTube. Also, fair warning: since the story is set in Ecuador, there's quite a bit of Spanish dialogue, untranslated -- Harold doesn't know what's being said, so why should you? Lol

Tw: death, murder by execution

Beej did a double take when he got to the office and saw the new arrival. The guy was a good eight or ten inches taller than the demon, and he was wearing a safari jacket and pants with the cuffs tucked into a pair of black hiking boots -- and he was carrying a hunting rifle.

But it wasn't the guy's height, or clothing, or even the firearm that took Beej by surprise -- it was the guy's head. It was tiny -- about a quarter the size it should've been. The black hair had been pulled up into a severe topknot and tied with a red cord, and the guy's lips had been sewn shut.

"Holy crap! " Beej exclaimed. "What the fuck happened to you, pal?"

The guy looked at Beej with bulging eyes -- they were normal sized and therefore too large for their sockets -- and tried to speak, but all that came out was, "Mmm! M-mmm-mmmmmm-mm-mmmmmmmmm! "

"Sorry, buddy," Beej said, clapping him on the back. "I didn't quite get that. Anyway, whatever happened it looks like a pretty shitty way to die. Tough luck, pal. Well, I can't stick around -- I gotta get up to Florida for my next job. They just executed the guy who tried to assassinate Roosevelt -- name of Zangara. I'll see you around!"

*****

Harold J. Wilson III had been in Guayaquil a week before he managed to find someone who was willing to take him into the jungle.

He'd come to South America in search of a creature that would guarantee his name would live forever -- the mapinguari. Supposedly extinct for thousands of years, but there were rumours -- based on accounts by the local Indians -- that it was still alive in the deepest part of the Amazon. And he was determined to bag one and bring it back to the Smithsonian.

"Sí, señor," the guide, a short, stocky man in his fifties named Pedro Morales, said. "I know the jungle -- but it is not a safe place for un americano, especially a rich americano like yourself."

"I've been in plenty of dangerous places," Harold told him. "Congo, in search of the mokele-mbembe, for instance."

"Did you find it, this ... mokele-mbembe?"

Harold shook his head. "Unfortunately, no," he said. "But I'm sure I'll find the mapinguari. Now, will you guide me or not?"

Pedro looked at the American. He took a deep drag on his cigar, blew out the smoke and nodded. "One hundred American dollars."

Harold pretended to consider the amount for a moment, and then he smiled and held out his hand. "You have a deal."

Pedro grinned. "Muy bien," he said. "We should leave tomorrow, at dawn. Before the heat becomes unbearable, sí?"

*****

"Lawrence!"

Beej, startled, whirled around at the sound of Juno's voice. "Hi, Mom!" he said, panicked. He hurriedly tried to hide the files he was holding behind his back. "You, uh ... you got another pickup for me?"

"What are you doing with those files?" she asked, cigarette smoke billowing from the hole in her neck. She took another drag.

"Huh? Oh, you mean these files? I, uh ... I was just curious about the new guy ... how he died, that's all."

"Oh, but sweetie," Juno said, smiling, her voice gentle, "you don't know how to read very well." Then she looked at him contemptuously. "Hand them over!"

"Sorry, Mom," he replied, chastened, and gave her the files.

"Now get back to work, and no more screwing around! "

"Yes, Mom," Beej said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

"I can't hear you! "

"Yes, Mom," he said again, louder this time.

Juno nodded. "That's better." She stuffed the files back in the drawer and limped away, the thump-slide, thump-slide of her footsteps loud in the sudden silence of the office.

Beej looked around. The others, who had no doubt been watching the exchange, quickly put their heads down to focus on their work.

Beej blinked back the tears and shuffled out of the Processing Department to his next assignment.

*****

The sun was just beginning to stretch its first rays over the rooftops when Harold was awakened by a knock on the door of his hotel room.

"Buenos dias, Señor Harold," Pedro said when the American opened the door. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Let's go," Harold replied with a nod. He grabbed his gear and followed the guide out to the waiting Jeep. He tossed his bags in the back and climbed into the passenger's seat as Pedro turned the ignition, and then they started off, down the dirt road towards the jungle.

"We will have to stop at San Ignacio and continue on foot from there," Pedro said. "No hay caminos en la selva."

Harold nodded -- he knew enough Spanish to understand what the other man had said. No roads in the jungle.

"This village -- San Ignacio -- how far is it?"

"Two hours, más o menos," came the reply. "We will stop for lunch, and then hike in."

"How will we know where to go?"

"A village elder, Tío Chako, says that he has seen the mapinguari when he was a young man," Pedro told him. "We will follow his directions." He looked at his passenger. "But that was many years ago, señor -- who can say if it will still be there?"

"I understand," Harold replied.

*****

In fact, the drive to the Otavalo village of San Ignacio took nearly three and a half hours, and by the time they reached the village the sun was already fiercely hot.

The guide stopped the Jeep in front of a small, single-storey house with whitewashed mud walls and a thatched roof. They got out of the vehicle, and Pedro knocked on the wooden door.

A moment later, it opened, and a wizened old man in a dingy tank top and baggy trousers looked out. "Hola," he said -- Harold saw that he was missing his lower front teeth. "¿Quién están ustedes?"

"Soy yo, Pedro. Y eso es Señor Harold, de los Estados Unidos."

"¿Un americano?" Tío Chako was incredulous. "¿Aquí?"

"Él quiere trover el mapinguari," Pedro explained.

Tío Chako shook his head. "¿El mapinguari? No, es demasiado peligroso -- los Jívaros ..."

"Lo sé, pero es un americano rico ... y tonto."

"Pedro, no es bueno -- irás al infierno por esto."

"¿Y él? Él quiere matar el espíritu de la selva por un trofeo." Pedro smiled. "El Santo Padre me perdonará, creo."

"What's going on?" Harold asked -- his Spanish wasn't good enough to follow the exchange between Pedro and Chako.

"We are just discussing the preliminaries, señor."

"Por favor, entran ustedes," the old man said.

"Gracias, tío," Pedro replied. To Harold he said, "Unfortunately, Tío Chako does not speak English -- I will interpret for you."

Harold looked around the abode. It appeared to have only two rooms -- the kitchen in which they were standing and another that was probably the bedroom. At the table, a woman who was almost as old as Chako sat peelig potatoes.

"Mi esposa, María," Chako said.

"¿Visitantes? ¿Por qué no me dijiste que teníamos compañía?" María asked.

"María, ¿te acuerdas de Pedro?" Chako said. "Y este es el señor Harold, un americano que está buscando al mapinguari."

María's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she caught herself and said, "Bienvenido, Pedro. Y bienvenido, Señor Harold. ¿Se quedarán a almorzar?"

"Gracias, tía," Pedro replied. "Tenemos un largo viaje por delante."

*****

After a lunch of seco -- goat stew served with rice and plantain -- Pedro and Chako looked over a map of the region, discussing the most likely places to find the elusive mapinguari.

"Yo lo ve aquí," Chako said, pointing to a spot where the Rio Negro looped around like a noose. "Pero no sé si eras allá esos días."

"Lo entiendo," Pedro replied. "¿Y los Jívaros? ¿Donde es su territorio?"

"Casi todo el este es el territorio de ellos." He looked at Pedro. "Rezaré a San Cristóbal para que todos regresen sanos y salvos."

*****

"You know," Beej said, "I don't think I've ever seen anyone else who had their head shrunk before -- how'd it happen?"

The guy looked at the demon with his bulging eyes and drew a thumb across his throat.

"Yeah," Beej said with a nod. "That makes sense -- I mean, it'd be kinda difficult to shrink just your head if it was still attached, right?" He elbowed the guy in the ribs. "But how come it's attached now? I've seen others who've lost their heads, and they're always carrying them, you know?"

"M-mmmm-mmmm," came the response.

"Yeah, of course you don't know. Anyway, I'm wondering how they did it -- shrunk your head, I mean. But I guess you don't know that, either -- you were already dead."

The guy nodded.

Just then the door to Juno's office opened. Beej leapt to his feet. "Well, nice talkin' to you, pal -- see you!" And he scurried away before his mother could see him.

*****

It was an thirteen day trek through the jungle to get to the area where Tío Chako said that he had seen the creature. Harold had long since run out of citronella oil, and he was covered in mosquito bites, but that wasn't the worst of it -- every night was spent pulling leeches, ticks and other bloodsuckers off his exposed skin. He would've liked to bathe more often in one of the rivers, but he didn't dare -- the waters were home to flesh-eating piranhas, as well as anacondas and caimans. And other, more fearsome things.

"Candiru," Pedro told him. "It is a tiny, tiny fish that smells the piss and swims up your ..." He motioned to his crotch. "¿Entiende?"

Harold nodded grimly.

*****

At long last, Pedro set down his pack and said, "Es el lugar."

Harold looked around. It seemed exactly the same as the rest of the jungle -- trees and plants growing in riotous profusion in the eternal twilight, the silence occasionally punctured by the squawk of a bird or the screech of a monkey, or the sound of something larger making its way through the undergrowth. It felt like he and Pedro were the only two people in the entire world -- Harold would have been unsettled if he weren't so drenched and weary.

They set up camp as they had every night for the past two weeks, and Pedro built a fire with sticks that he gathered, smearing them with pitch from a rubber tree -- the smell of broiling latex was terrible, but it allowed the damp wood to burn.

Sunset comes quickly in the depths of the jungle. They had just finished their supper -- boiled mote corn and ch'arqui made from llama meat -- when it arrived and they were plunged into darkness. As always, the jungle came alive then with the sounds of nocturnal wildlife.

"You should sleep, señor" Pedro said. "I will take first watch."

Harold nodded and gladly slipped into the tent. He lifted the mosquito netting strung over his hammock and settled in.

He'd just drifted off when Pedro shook him roughly. "Señor," the guide whispered urgently. "Señor, wake up! I think I hear the mapinguari!"

Harold sat up, instantly awake, and rolled out of the hammock. "Where?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"I can smell it -- can you not?"

Harold sniffed the air -- a rancid odour, like that of soured compost, filled his nostrils. "Let's go," he said, grabbing his rifle.

The two men exited the tent and headed in the direction of the odour, training their flashlights on the ground in front of them.

A few minutes later they heard a deep snuffling sound. They raised their flashlight beams ...

The mapinguari was scratching itself against an acacia. Harold gasped as it turned its head to look at them -- the beast had to be eight feet tall, with long, shaggy, reddish-brown fur. The three claws on each of its front paws were massive, easily capable of shredding a tree. The beast had tiny eyes and ears, and a flexible muzzle that reminded Harold of a tapir's. He caught a glimpse of the massive tail trailing on the ground behind it -- thickly muscled, like that of a kangaroo.

"I knew it!" Harold crowed. "It's a giant ground sloth!"

The creature made a low, rumbling noise that sounded for all the world like it was saying huuuhhhh?

"I've got you now!" Harold crowed as he raised his rifle and took aim. He pulled the trigger, and the sound of the weapon instantly caused a pandemonium of noise in the jungle as bird, bats, monkeys panicked and took flight. The mapinguari bellowed in pain as the bullet ripped into its flesh, and it turned toward the two men, its powerful forearms raised threateningly.

It lunged at them, roaring in confused fury. Pedro screamed and fled. Harold readied himself to take another shot, but the huge beast was too close. He dropped the rifle and ran, stumbling over tree roots, desperate to avoid those massive claws.

The beast was gaining on him -- he could practically feel its hot breath on the back of his neck. "Shit shit shit shit shit! " he wheezed.

He took a tumble then, rolling down a short embankment into the river. "SHIT! " he yelled, and scrambled back onto the bank before something in the water got him.

He trained the beam of his flashlight upwards, grateful that he'd managed to hold onto it.

The mapinguari was looming over him, looking down at Harold. Its tiny eyes looked ... almost sad. Harold felt a twinge of regret for having caused it pain.

"I-I'm sorry," he said softly. And bowed his head, ready to accept whatever punishment the beast -- this jungle god -- saw fit to mete out.

But then he heard voices -- human voices shouting in a language he didn't recognise. The mapinguari heard them, too, and it calmly settled back down on all fours, turned and ambled off into the jungle.

"Hey!" Harold called. "Hey! Over here!"

Within seconds he was surrounded by a dozen or so spear-carrying warriors, wearing feather headbands, beaded bandoliers and red face paint.

"Wiñámishi jṵna kimiijusiai!" one of the warriors shouted. "Jikanyi ústa kanimuistaiyi! Uukanta!"

"I'm .. I'm sorry," Harold said. "I don't understand --"

"Uukanta!" the warrior shouted again. "Uukanta!"

Three of their number hauled Harold to his feet, and they bound him, tying his hands together behind his back and fixing a noose around his neck.

"Iijintaiyi nan chanwaarka ujaantaiyi na! "

And they led him through the jungle.

*****

Beej couldn't get the shrunken-head guy out of his mind. Or more accurately, he couldn't get the question of how breathers could shrink somebody's head out of his mind. He could do it easily, of course -- but he was a demon.

He decided to go back in time to see for himself -- after all, the information could prove useful someday.

He looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and then he snapped his fingers.

Instantly he found himself in a village in the middle of the Amazon jungle. Fortunately, since he was invisible, his arrival went unnoticed by the inhabitants. But he didn't think they would've noticed him anyway -- there seemed to be some kind of celebration going on.

A crowd of people were circling a large bonfire, singing and shuffling to the beat of drums as the thin, high notes of a couple of flutes threaded through the air. He could smell roasting meat and vegetables, and his stomach grumbled.

"Looks like fun," he said to himself, and moved closer.

Off to the side he saw someone tied to a post -- he recognised him as his new buddy, the shrunken-head guy. Same clothes.

He continued to watch, glad that he'd arrived at the right place and time.

Beej didn't even think of intervening on the guy's behalf -- what the fuck did he care about saving a breather? Eventually every one of them died anyway.

At last the drumming and dancing ended -- just as the first rays of the sun began to paint the treetops with golden light.

The prisoner was cut down, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

He was lifted up by several warriors and laid out spread eagle on a stone slab, his wrists and ankles tied to wooden posts. Then one of the warriors, strode up, a machete in his right hand. He raised the weapon high, and bellowed, "UKAIYIII!!!"

"AAAIYIIII!!!" the others shouted in response.

The warrior brought the wicked-looking blade down and severed the prisoner's head with one blow, and the women of the tribe began ululating in applause.

The executioner reached down and picked up the head by the hair, holding it aloft for all to see.

Beej was impressed -- it took some skill to sever a head with a single blow, even with a machete. Clearly this wasn't the warrior's first time.

The warrior gently handed the head to another man -- this guy was older, with grey hair. They exchanged a few words -- Beej heard them say muisak several times, and tsantsa. Two words he'd heard before. They meant "soul" and "shrunken head" in the Shuar language.

He nodded to himself.

Beej had heard of the Shuar, or Jívaro. Fearsome headhunters, they were famous for shrinking the heads of their enemies -- he didn't know if there were any other tribes that did that, though. Always wondered how they shrink the heads -- looks like today's the day I get to find out!

He followed the shaman into one of the thatched huts -- a large pot of water simmered over a fire in the middle of the room. The shaman picked up a knife with a blade of chipped flint, sat cross-legged on the floor beside the fire, and set to work, chanting as he did.

Beej squatted down beside him, still invisible, as he sliced into the back of the head, cutting the flesh from neck to crown, and carefully removed the flesh from the skull in a single piece. When he was done, he sewed the eyelids shut and forced three sharpened pegs through both lips.

The old man then took a baseball-sized sphere carved from wood and placed it inside the skin, and dropped it into the boiling water. He continued chanting, shaking a rattle made of shiny black seeds, as the de-boned head cooked.

This was going to take a while, Beej knew, so he headed outside to see what the tribe was going to do with the body. He was disappointed to see that they were burying it, rather than cooking and eating it. What a waste, he sighed. Ah, well -- can't have everything.

*****

A few hours later the shaman removed the head from the pot -- Beej was surprised to see that it had shrunk to about a third of its original size, and the skin was dark and rubbery.

The old man carefully turned the head inside out and began scraping the flesh and fat from the skin. Once it was completely clean he turned it rightside out again and sewed up the slit in the rear.

"Okaaay," Beej muttered.

With wooden tongs, the old man took several small rocks out of the fire and dropped them into the neck opening, followed by a few ladles of hot sand from the smaller pot.

"Why are you doing that?" Beej asked, knowing that the shaman couldn't hear him.

He watched, amazed, as the head shrank further, the skin contracting from the heat.

The shaman emptied the head and refilled it with more sand and rocks, holding more hot rocks against the outside to shape the features. This process was repeated several times, until at last the head was the size of a fist.

"Wow!" Beej exclaimed. "That's so fuckin' cool! "

Now that the head was fully shrunk, the shaman rubbed the skin all over with charcoal ash, and then he hung it over the fire to dry.

Finally, the shaman removed the pegs from the lips and sewed them shut with cotton string, making long, decorative tassels, and presented it to the warrior who'd made the kill.

Beej, grinning, took that as his cue to head back to the Netherworld.

*****

"I gotta tell you," he said to the shrunken-head guy, "it was fuckin' amazing! You shoulda been there! Uh, well ... I guess you kinda were, weren't you? Anyway, I'll tell you all about it sometime -- maybe we can grab lunch. Oh -- uh, right. Never mind."

"Lawrence! " Juno bellowed from her office. "Get in here right NOW! "

"Be right there, Mom!" he called back. "Anyway, I gotta go. See you soon, buddy!"

[3lix13]

Took some time from animation work to scratch out a Beetlejuice pencil sketch and threw some digital slop over top. Definitely a film that stained my brain permanently as a youth... #beetlejuice #timburton #robtharp #michaelkeaton #harrythehunter #neitherworldwaitingroom #rickheinrichs #sketchbook #sketch #handbookfortherecentlydeceased #pencil #study #pencilandpaper #Halloween2023 #scratches #drawing

[thatvintagefanboy]

[c1nnam00n]

seeing a dead fandom get revived after DECADES

[ottosbigtop]

Hunter the parenting fanart but it’s mostly just marckus’ weirdo friends. And by that I mean it’s mostly just Elise because I like her.

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ

KNEELING LAMIA | Witch hunter!Harry x Witch!reader

There's too much tension in this cat-and-mouse. Inevitably, it stretches too taut and snaps.

★18+

This is ᴋɴᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴍɪᴀ for the KINKTOBER projects. Witch x Witch hunter au.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: enemies. p-in-v. degradation. praise. pussy slapping (light). dom/sub undertones. rough sex. bro is simply kind of an asshole, but it's in an attractive way imo.

WC: 3.7K

You hate him. 

You hate him, you hate the grease in his derisory, lopsided smile, the one, two-tick at the corners of his mouth, like an omen on the hollow barrel of a cocked gun. The stupid white straightness of them, slick with spit and glimmering off the glowing oil lantern. 

The soft humanness in his unchiseled eyes. When they’re narrowed into slits, the color is so soft, so delicate, that they don’t feel nearly as sharp as he intends. The preternatural juxtaposition of a human having eyes that are so mesmerizing is absurd— the pink-rimmed oil painting of his irises, mounted in white, under the tarp of his lashes (they’re long, dark, and cast shadows across the green sfumato). You can nearly find sunstones flecking like gold flakes wading the surface of a pool, if you look close enough.

But the bands are eroded now. Lacking. You always thought his eyes were like the moss speckling the grove in your back garden. Now, the vibrancy of it, crawling up the trunks, feels like a distant memory.

Smeared, pupils bleeding wide like spilled ink. 

(You loathe the way his green reminds you of the malachite scattered across your window sill.)

You hate his hands, too. His fingers. The way they notch on reins, and the steel hilt of a gun. The way his pointer stretches across the metal trigger— click— and the way the aim is off. Misses. A bole eats the bullet, and you think, after so many tries, he has to not miss.

He has to not miss.

But he misses, and misses, and misses— the cat and mouse is an old, familiar game, but a fractured part of you thinks he misses on purpose. And you wonder who’s really the cat; when he’ll finally admit you’ve been filling his shoes out in the hunt, long before his time. 

But you hate his hands most because of the way they touch you. The way they feel good. Pinching your bones in place, thumbprints carving into your skin. 

Pressure points— he’s no good with a gun, but he’s good at finding pressure points, scoping them with his fingertips. Squeezing in. 

You hate his teeth, because you hate him, and he hates you, and you want to sweep them off the floor when you fracture every little bone in the composite of his skull with your palms and shatter them out with your fingers. The way they chew into your nipples and stab a crushed squeak out of you. 

(It’s the nature of the game— a double helix. Taijitu. Water and oil. You’re meant to despise each other, because dark has to exist to balance light. There has to be a villain in every story, otherwise the narrative collapses—)

You can’t stand the way his stupidly fat cock splits you on him, around him. The way when he groans, the way it starts as a hum between his ribs, and metastasizes into that yawning pry of his mouth, his soft lips. 

(Conflict. Resolution. Recycle.)

His hand pawing at a handful of your breast, like kneading dough. Testing the heft when it shakes under the pressure of his hips slamming in wet squelches, sack slapping to your sticky cunt. The blunt of his nails scraping down your sides, prying in where your waist tapers, and wrapping the barbs of his fingers around, where the rungs sit at your back, to lug you against him in filthy, wet smacks. Again— again. 

(Fuck, fuck, fuck—)

“—Fuck,” you mewl, scratching out at his temple, fingertips curling into the burnt umber tufts they can reach, pulling, tangling. Scraping. Your thumb grazes his cheekbone. He bites down on your nipple, instead, where he’s been rolling it between his teeth with his tongue, and grunts. It makes you squirm on the table and arch.

When he unlatches and lurches up to loom over you, he looks wild. Like an untamed beast— reminds you of the wolf that lingers by your doorstep— that you’ve lugged along into your kitchen. Let him splay you across the big, oak table that squeals and rattles under the punishing pace he’s set with his hips. 

“Fuck— no,” Harry grunts, and slams your wrist down onto the table, beside your head, your stuttering pulse. Cuffed in his grip. Your fingers twitch. His throat bobs when he swallows.

The tip of his tongue flicks out, drags across his lips, and you think of a scenting serpent. He huffs.

“Ought to declaw you,” he muses, hunching over you, narrowed eyes oscillating from your nails to your face. Voice a husk that oozes condescension. As if you’re an animal— a feral cat that needs its talons extracted. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, and the words— the petulant tone, the way your chest rattles when his cock throbs inside of you— are enough to crook the corners of his pink mouth. Wry. Acid across his lips, in the ridges between his teeth. 

He sticks his thumb in your mouth, but not really; presses in against the flat of your front tooth when you bare your canines, squeezing at your cheeks. Pressure points— under the side of your mandible, beneath your cheekbone.

“Better watch that mouth,” he taunts. When his eyebrows climb, three ruckles seep across his forehead. Maybe evidence of how he means it, how firm his resolve is, but the way he tips his head down at you, it's goading—

Your chest rolls. “Fuck— you.”

And you get it. You do. Coexisting is an absurd, incompatible fantasy. Deluded, when you cup your teeth around the world and still feel hungry. It only stretches so wide before he’s under your teeth, too, and nobody wants to live in a hungry, sharp mouth. It’s a means of resource. Sanctum; I want sanctum, and you my friend, are preventing that like gum jammed into a lock on a gate. 

This slow dance is called perfect, incongruous symbiosis, like a winter coat and the hot sun. You don’t fit together. You’ll never work— not in tandem. 

It’s just that he doesn’t get that it’s the circle of life.

A snake and a mouse. That works. It’s unpleasant, but it doesn’t have to be watched. 

But it’s ugly. You get the angry men with the pitchforks. You get him— vigilante, here to stab the head off the python with a wooden stick and wring his hands out after, like the hero he’ll be if he manages to tame the beast (glorified pest control— snub the snake in the backyard). You accepted a long time ago that all the little people would get mad that you were eating their little people. 

Nasty, vicious thing in the back garden— get rid of it.  

But hey— that’s life. The ugly, vicious wasp nest dangling off a poplar tree deserves to exist, too, because that’s the anomalous, hideous shape mother nature’s hand squeezed it into. And that’s, you think, the disconnect. The electrical cord spitting white-hot, fizzing sparks from where it’s been gnawed down the middle.

You swallow. His eyes are blade-sharp. So unco. Contemplating, calculating.

You get all that. What you can’t wrap your mind around is the untethered snap between you, like a bungee cord lugging you into a collision. It makes you feel feverish. The fracture in the foundation below you, every atom bred from this, predestined narrative. The sizzle beneath your skin— a charred brand in the shape of his kiss under the layers of your dermis— (a lowly mimicry of what lovemaking is, all teeth). It’s brutal. Sharp. A skirt of canines across your collarbone. A notch across the bone. A means to satiate, a compound of loathing, and pining, and the cozening haze of desire. The yearning curdled in the spiral of the communal pool of your animosity.   

Because he smells like the rain rapping across your roof when you stand out with the door propped, sticking to the fireweed in rivulets under your porch steps. Like suede. Musk. The wilting coriander sprig on your altar. Your resolve is wicker snapping under his thumb. A melting glacier under the heavy heat dripping from his eyes. You don’t like it. You can’t get enough.

You tip your chin up and his thumb snags on the blunt edges, smushes into your lower lip. When his heavy cock slips out of you and slaps up against his belly, a whine prickles at the back of your mouth. You encase it with your throat like a dirty secret left to write on paper. You won’t whine for him. But he’s thick. His cock is stupidly fat, and it throbs like he can feel the encroaching emptiness between your legs for himself. 

You won’t whine, but you feel hollow, and it makes your hips cant up involuntarily. Forward. To him— you hate that— but the stamp of his palm to your cunt makes your thought process crumble apart like notes plummeting off their bars on a sheet of music. A smack of skin on skin is the aria of your twisted affection stretching and collapsing. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. There’s a dull pang that blooms there, under his touch, but it feels smothered under the white-hot lightning streak of shock that jolts your shoulders and sculpts your face. The mortified, blistering heat that spumes your cheeks when the whites of your eyes pool a little wider. You flounder up at him wordlessly. 

Harry hums. It’s haughty, and mocking, and it makes something ripple in your underbelly. “Say that again, little girl?”

You swallow. Squirm. The pseudonym has something bristling in your chest. You’re not a little girl. This thicket has belonged to you for hundreds of years. 

But the warm prickle between your thighs is an ugly, ugly paradox. 

And you hate the way his hand is this humongous thing between your thighs, across your sex, swallowing your smarting cunt in the cup of his palm. The way he leaves it where it landed. His thumb stretched out and lingering in the crease between your mons and your tucked up thigh. You hate the way you drool slick against his fingers, the way your clit pulses under the heel of his hand. Your chest rolls. 

His amusement is acidic. Patronization sloshes off his eyes and burns a hole right through the layer of your mettle when he cocks his head down at you, the way your hips hitch. His lips twist. “Oh you liked that, did you?”

Your face pinches. The corners of your lips curl down despite the way your empty pussy flutters under his skin.

“No."

He makes a sound. A hum that granulates into a rich chuckle, and his eyes flicker off your face, to his hand, and back, and back. Something brews in the depths under his lashes, you think— a sinkhole cratering into the ground beneath the canopy of the woods, driving the forest ground out into a void— watching the breadth of his hand envelop between your thighs. Maybe at the molten heat, or the way he can undeniably feel you clenching up. Throbbing. Against him. For him. 

“Is that right? Look at that, mm— drippy, little pussy,” Harry tells you, voice hardly over a whisper. The words are a livewire zigzagging up your spine, riding the arches of the knobs, spilling something noxious and cloudy along your cerebrospinal fluid. 

It goes straight to your head. 

“Needy, little cunt. Bet you could cum just from me slapping it.”

His middle finger grazes your asshole. Your toes curl, you can’t even argue, despite the vitriol puddling on the back of your tongue like stagnant water. He tips his head. Smiles. The flash of teeth carves an ache into you that makes your bones ring.

“Aren’t you… just the sweetest thing when you’re put in your place,” Harry murmurs down at you, eyebrows climbing, and he’s— unctuous. A headache. The kind that clusters around the arch of your skull and squeezes taut like a bundle of rubber bands. Talking down to you like you’re a wily thing for him to put into a corner, once and for all. Like your demesne isn’t stamped in his soggy footprints, layer after layer, year after year.

You bare your teeth and jut your chin defiantly, but then he drags his thumb down along your pebbled clit, and it makes your shoulders wobble. 

You used to cut hunters down like the loggers muscling in on your timber. Hatred was a pearl folded into your heart. A bead tucked into the soft, fleshy tissue between the little pockets of your ventricles, and it stung like a splinter in your gums. 

You wear it in your chest like his name shaved into a rib. The perfect harmony of dysfunction. You don’t know why being under him kindles a flame. Just that it does. He’s live coal, and you crackle over what he gives you.

The moment of reticence between you has that shattering weight of your little truce, and you’re reminded of the plunge from the hillscape of your dignity. 

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t mind. 

His shoulders swell. You like the spit-slick rim of his mouth, the way the color is an insignia of your teeth making landfall. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

When he plants his hand beside your ear and stretches forward a little more, his cockhead slips across your clit. Hot, like a firebrand coated in sateen. You curl your fingers and realize your wrist is still pinned down. His eyes sway to it like he knows what you’re thinking, and his mouth twitches.

“Gonna keep your hands to yourself?” Harry purrs, grunting when you roll your chin away in scorn. 

“Because—“ His finger prods onto your cheek. Then, two. Under your jaw, enough pressure to turn your head. “You know I love that wild shit. But, can’t have you fucking up my pretty face—“

The humor coagulating his tone tastes bitter when you breathe it from the air. Swallowing it down into your lungs where it ghosts with the subatomic heaviness of want. Your eyes flit. You hate him— you hate—

He grins down at you. Not quite. Close-lipped, eyes vats that shelter his dogma. The intensity of his seriousness. “Can’t do that,” he muses, but his tone is softer than his countenance. 

You look away. And you don’t watch it, but he huffs, like he’s losing patience for your still-not-quite-subservience and lack of zeal. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. Hums. 

“Mm. Come on, doll. You know I don’t want you if you don’t want me,” he tells you, but his mouth crooks because he knows— he knows. 

You blink up at him. His eyes burn down at you from the bridge of his nose, and it feels like you’ve been swaddled into a sudden, wet heatwave. The words would nearly be considerate if it wasn’t for the condescending undertow that spills under the vowels like an oil slick. 

His pointer traces the corner of your mouth, brows furrowing as he tails the motion with his gaze. “Just you say the word.”

And despite the way you blister, something itching under your skin, you won’t. Your teeth are clenched, but you couldn’t pry them apart with pliers to turn him down, not with the fever spilling its way across you. You settle for contempt— let it set your face like a cast congealing, but he doesn’t chase the tail of your indignation with anything beyond mockery. 

He stares back at you. Doesn’t let it wither, drowns in the deluge of your inkpools, mouth curling but-not-quite. 

“No,” he sighs, after a beat of your lull— bereft of your protest— drawing his forefinger away and slinking it down the naked space of your sternum, then around your swollen nipple. You gnaw into your cheek. “You know what I think?”

“—I don’t care,” you pick your head up to hiss. 

You expect to face something crumbling at the retort. Discipline. Retribution— to watch something clot inside of him the way it wads in your chest, caking gravity across his features because— need to be taught a lesson in respect. What did I say about watching that mouth? 

But it flickers over him without a hitch. Slides off. 

Instead, he doubles down, hunching back over you. “I think you love this cock too much. Don’t you? Got you wrapped around it, by now.”

The flame from your core licks up to flare at the apples of your cheeks. He breathes when he straightens out. Deep. Like the prelude to a sigh, and you wonder if the same burning kisses along the nooks of his lungs. You don’t say anything, and he pulls his hand back.

“That’s right,” Harry coos, cocking his head down at you, “Just a sweet, cockdrunk, little whore, by now.”

Your eyes narrow into thin slits. Dagger splits. The wobble in your voice is a swordblade. “Shut— up.”

He laughs. Laughs. This muted, soundless thing that manifests more in his shoulders, the jolt across their breadth. The crater beside a smile line. He shakes his head, and cups the root of his cock with his fist. Your eyes follow it. You swallow.

“Mm, no,” he muses, gaze pooling where the mushroomed ridges of his tip slide along your sopping rim, your puffy lips, your clit, “I think you like it. Gushing all over the table.”

Embarrassment ties its tendrils along the base of your throat. Cogon grass germinating and feathering out across your esophagus, until you’re choking on your spit. You grit your teeth. Your hips nudge up. Forward. He underscores the presumption by pulling the head of his cock back, and sundering the string of tacky slick that’d stretched between him and your seam.

“Makin’ a fucking mess with your messy, desperate pussy,” Harry tells you, pressing his index to his thumb and prying them apart for emphasis. Your slick shimmers in the light. “Look at you. There’s a fuckin’ puddle.”

Your face creases. Cheeks buzzing, white-hot. You feel yourself leaking down along the cleft of your ass, and your fingers itch. A thunderbolt streaks across when you recognize that your hand is still flat against the table. Just where he left it. 

He aims his cock back against you, so thick in his palm, and murmurs, “You want it?”

You don’t know how you ended up here.

You do, but the motions between point A and B feel like a nebulous smear. Hands in motion. Fabric tangling across the floor. Teeth, and tongues, and bones, and claws.

(“Always liked an older woman,” you remember he told you, tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. The hubris of a boy sewn into the shoulders of a man. The irony of your preternatural youth folded into his proposition as his eyes roamed across your face.)

(“So let’s put …this,” a motion between with a jutted finger, a murmur drizzled in allure, tucked like a secret into the shape of the night, “aside for a time-out, you and me.”)

You don’t know why you said yes. How. Why your body reacts like he’s a breath you need, whispering along your lungs. Why you let him unspool you over his fingers, his tongue, fucking into you like he was starving. 

But you nod.

You nod, and he presses his weepy tip against your cunt, and it only takes a nudge for him to pry you open around him again. Enveloping him. Sloppy, little pussy pulsing over the tip like a frenetic heartbeat. 

You turn your chin and bite into your own shoulder to stifle the mewl spiraling between your tonsils, and he groans. The sting is better the second-go, but the pressure of having your rim stretched taut anew doesn’t lose its edge. The ache settles in your underbelly. Flourishes in the molten geyser of your arousal. 

“Oh, shit,” Harry hums, pasting his palm flat to your tummy, right over your navel. Like this, you can feel his fingertips under your heartbeat. Across it. Thrumming. His eyes glued to where you swallow up his cock.

He feeds his cock into you slow, but it feels incongruous. The pastiche of what you’re feeling is already enough to cloud your head into delirium— you want teeth. Tongues, bones, claws. 

“Harder,” you grit, catching his eye when he stalls, hand braced across your waist. You resolve paints your words firm, “I can take it.” 

For a moment, Harry stares down at you. The whiplash of pause morphing to taunt, like a seamless rebound, has your rim fluttering over his girth. “My, my. Aren’t we eager.”

“Just—“

Your cosm ripples around you when he drives his hips forward, and lugs you back, hips colliding with your skin in a smack. A horrible, wet sound when he crams his way in, wedging your fuss back into the depth of your stomach. It flings you off your rationale. 

He shivers. “God, you’re slutty. Slutty pussy on a slutty witch.”

The pace he sets is brutal. Merciless. It caters to your complaint, and squashes it out under his thumb. Under the kiss of his tip to your womb. Deliriously, you think he’s going to spill his hot, thick load inside of you, and then what? Then, what?

It feels like he’s wringing you out between his hands, until all that’s left is a pool of want. 

You hate the way he’s chiseled in a place for himself. A tern across your branches, nested in twine and spare filaments of organs that belong to you. A little sinew peeled off of your liver. A sliver off your lung. Maybe that’s why—

You suck in a tight breath and let it rattle the nest he’s built, when he hits something unfathomably deep inside of you. Plugged on his cock, there’s no way for you to smother your moans out. He batters in to the hilt, cupping you by the waist, and rocking you back onto him, over, and over, and over. 

“I want this sweet pussy to cum around my cock,” he pants over you. A curl has flopped across his eye, and your ire is eclipsed by your yearning. The ball inside of you unspooling as if he’s peeling the layers of muscle on your heart back like an onion to temporarily pluck out the undiluted loathing. “Do you hear me?”

It’s a mindless motion— your fingers creeping to land over where you connect, where he’s splitting your gummy walls to what feels like their ceiling. But he bats your hands away, and rams into you until your mons is kissing the wiry bed of hair that’s smattered over his shaft.

“It’s gonna cum around my cock,” he grunts, “or it’s not gonna cum at all.”

kinktober masterlist here. | general masterlist here. | patreon here.

TAGLIST: @aprlmuse @babegoals @cinnamonone @flubblubbb @ivegotthecinema

@littlenatilda @witch-rry @watermelonsugarslut @hs1thea @boystepper

@carolinaskiiwi @kathleengrg @madstyles3204 @fruity-harry

[possessedpasm]

Commission for Coyder Spider! 🦇

[deepinthelight]

Sebastian Stan and his characters

[animeyanderelover]

Anon: Soulmate AU headcanons for Akashi, Murasakibara, Aomine, Satoru Gojo, Illumi, Draco Malfoy and Inumaki Toge. I don’t have anything specific in mind besides probably a couple of details: can I ask it to be 1)meeting his soulmate for the first time for Gojo(maybe there was a prophecy when he was born) and Illumi, and 2)finding out that their s/o is the soulmate for KnB boys after they started courting them? Will they use this fact as an excuse for their actions or they can finally become less anxious and paranoid, because they “own” their darlings by fate?

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive relationship, toxic relationship, obsession, delusional behavior, stalking, clinginess, manipulation, blackmailing, guilt-tripping, isolation, abduction, paranoia, threats, violence

Tags: @jamayah @chxxz @leveyani @cynniical @shenryu-sama @maggiequinn59 @lovley-valentine7

Soulmate AU

Illumi Zoldyck

🤎​A newborn baby crying, the pause of the nurse holding him as she held him before her eyes glazed over, her Nen suddenly spiking up before she spoke with a voice that didn't belong to her, declaring the boy to be incomplete for his other half, his soulmate, is not with him. A prophecy that has been following Illumi's life since he could comprehend words. It is the first story that was ever told to him, his first memory he could ever recall in full detail. The notion of a soulmate has always confused him and since he is one of the few individuals born with it, no one from his family could help him as neither one of them was born with one. He has never understood it. Is he incomplete? Is his current condition the feeling of imperfection? How will he even find his soulmate? How will he know that they are the one? What will it feel like? So many questions yet so little answers, the phenomenon of soulmates bound together by fate a rare instance that no one could give him throughout his youth any useful information.

🤎​Time flies, Illumi becomes an adult and infamous assassin yet he still remains without his destined soulmate. Though his expressionless face may not give it away, this bothers him deep down. Whilst he still doesn't know what it will feel like when he finally meets them, he only knows that there is someone out there who belongs to him and who isn't by his side. His soulmate isn't with him even if destiny has molded him and them to be made for each other. When he has free time he likes to spend it searching for hints to find a person who was also claimed to be born with a soulmate as soon as they left their mother's womb. His real attachment is limited though as it is simply the possessive courtesy of it all that pushes him to go on. Still unaware with the feelings he is about to experience, Illumi considers to take his soulmate simply as if they were an object specifically designed for him. There will be nothing wrong with it either as his soulmate is his and for that he can do what he wants to do with them.

🤎​People screaming, guns being fired, needles embedding themselves into the skull of the shooters, bodies dropping, fighting and killing. All of it is background noise to Illumi on another mission. No survivors are to be left. Black eyes dart around the room, counting all of the people attempting to flee before they are also stopped by his needles. Then his eyes land on you, the long and cold needle already in the palm of his hand. All he has to do is throw it and watch your lifeless body dropping to the ground. He has done it already hundreds of times before. His body doesn't move though. It is like every muscle in his body has turned to ice, the world suddenly narrowing down until only you and him seem to exist, even if only for a few moments. You remain leaning against the wall as he strides closer to you, walking through the bodies littering the ground all whilst black and captivating eyes do not pull away from you. The silence is thick as soon as he stops, his body only inches away from you all whilst his eyes seemingly try to glimpse into your very soul.

🤎​Cold hands suddenly grab your face, guiding your head so that your gaze is focused on him. His hands are cold and rough as if not knowing how to touch someone gently yet even if you feel the cold dread sending shivers down your spine, you find yourself unable to break eye contact with him. The man in front of you is still not saying anything, the silence thick and awkward yet you are too overwhelmed to speak up yourself. Until he finally seems to take pity on you and states bluntly that you must be his soulmate, a discovery he seems to tell himself more than you. Upon hearing those words you feel dull shock zapping through your veins. Really? This is your soulmate? You don't know how to react to the news but you don't need to think for too long either. Illumi simply knocks you out, your world submerging into darkness as he catches you whilst your legs lose their strength. He instantly returns to the Zoldyck mansion and gathers all possible information about you that he can get his hands on. As soon as you wake up, he'll already be waiting for you to explain your new situation to you. You'll stay with him. You belong to him after all and now that he has found you, he won't let you get away.

Aomine Daiki

💙​Aomine gets to know you through Momoi as the pink-haired girl has befriended you outside of school and insists on you getting to know her childhood friend. You've heard of Aomine before as he is rather famous due to his aptitude in basketball. You won't lie, he has always appeared as a rather intimidating individual on TV but Momoi assures you that he has a good heart under that rough shell. She has to drag his lazy ass to the meeting as he is initially quite unmotivated to come and simply tags along because he knows that Momoi wouldn't give him any peace otherwise. That bored attitude of his disappears the moment he catches a glimpse of you though. Almost immediately he seems to be starstruck and he is so thoroughly unprepared for it that he nearly trips when you turn around and look at him. It's only thanks to his reflexes that he saves himself a big embarrassment on that day. Overwhelmed with the way his heart suddenly goes crazy inside of his chest though, the normally intimidating man turns rather flustered on that day but still manages to pay attention to your every word.

💙​The tables turn from that day on as he is suddenly the one bothering Momoi. He wants your number, your address and if he can't reach you Daiki turns to his friend and asks her if she can try so that he can meet you again. The fact that you attend a different high school than he does is messing with his mind daily. He's simmering with frustrated irritation that has caused his temper to worsen dangerously and on some day he skipped school completely only to turn up in your school. You're always slightly scared but you can't deny that a part of you has longed secretly for him as well. You only wish that he would be less aggressive whenever he sees you interacting with other classmates or being more touchy and friendly with your friends. It's not a secret that he wants you for himself, he has bluntly told you that much one time, promising you that he'd make you his. His words left you stunned yet you couldn't help the feeling of your heart pounding against your chest after his vow, a strange excitement rushing through your veins.

💙​You do not rush things though as you make it wordlessly clear to Aomine that you aren't that easy. You still have your own pride after all. As frustrating as that is for him at times, he'd be damned to back away from your silent challenge. Fine by him. He'll show you that he's going to fight for you. It is no surprise for Momoi when Daiki approaches her and asks her for advice on how to court you properly. She has been watching the development of you two for a while now after all and she is all too eager to help him. For a while things work out just fine as Aomine courts you like you wanted him to court you and in return you stay away from any other romantic involvement. It's during a date that things take a more dramatic turn. You felt particularly bold on that day and initiated the first kiss. The moment your lips touch his though, your mind is suddenly spammed with memories and emotions that do not belong to you. It's too much at once and frightens you. You pull away and stumble back in shock, your vision blurred as you try to comprehend what just happened.

💙​You don't get far away though as Aomine suddenly grabs you by your arms and yanks you back to him, instantly pulling you back into a rough and hungry kiss. This time there are no memories at least but your mind is still trying to recover from what you just saw all whilst your oxygen is cut off by Daiki who seemingly tries to devour you through the kiss. Only when you hit his biceps urgently does he finally pull away, giving you some time to gasp for air before he presses you against his body and keeps you there, wrapped in his arms whilst murmuring in a rumbling voice that you really are his. You are his soulmate. After that realisation settles in, Daiki sees no reason to not make your relationship official. Both of you were born for each other after all. His irritation if someone should every try to make a move on you will only increase as you belong to him in ways their shitty minds could never comprehend and he's more prone to use violence which is why you always have to stop him before he breaks someone's jaw.

Murasakibara Atsushi

🍭​Born a normal and healthy baby, things took a unique turn when Atsushi was only a few months old. A peculiar birthmark appeared right above his pelvis in the shape of a bonbon. Its shape has always been unique and nowadays Murasakibara wonders if perhaps it is this strange mark that has made him crave sweets so much the older he grew. He may have displayed some mild interest in this birthmark of his when he was younger but as he grew older, he kind of starts to forget about its existence. After all it is just there on his body without posing any risk to his health like his parents initially fretted it to be when it just randomly appeared overnight. He doesn't really care when other people notice it either when he changes and address it to him as he treats it nonchalantly. It is strangely enough in college that for the first time he feels something going on with the birthmark. The spot starts getting hot, especially when he passes a convenience store. It isn't painful though, just noticable for him so Atsushi brushes it off. The only reason he visits the convenience store is to buy sweets and ice cream. Well, and to see you since you work part-time in there.

🍭You're pretty cute, he'll admit that much. Normally Atsushi takes longer to warm up to people around him but one flustered grin from you the first time he visited the store was all it took for his heart to beat out of his chest. The both of you seem to instantly connect with each other and the relief he feels when you tell him that you actually attend the same college as him is unspeakable, though you two have different subjects. From that day on you have this giant of a man following you around everywhere on campus but you truly don't mind as you have also struggled a bit to make new connections in the college. You always bring him snacks and sweets you could get for a discount in the store you work in since you know how much he adores such things and he always wants you to feed him the food, pretending to be too lazy to open the packages and eat them himself when in reality he just wants you to give him the attention and affection. His birthmark is noticably warm whenever he is around you, his hand sometimes subconsciously placing itself over the spot.

🍭​It is during a hot summerday that he sees it. A strong breeze sweeps through the hot streets and you stretch out your arms, relishing in the cooling wind as the weat is gathering on your temples. Your shirt is lifted up enough to show off a sliver of your skin and Atsushi's eyes are instantly drawn to it, lazily observing it before his gaze is glued to a spot right above your pelvis. You let out a startled shriek when large hands suddenly grab your waist and hold you still and you start struggling when one of his hands lifts up your shirt before tugging your pants down a bit. As soon as his fingers brush over the bonbon-shaped mark, he feels a zap of heat going straight to his own mark all whilst feeling the own drum of heat gathering on the spot on your skin. You let out a gasp when you feel it before you somehow manage to push yourself away, stumbling back before catching your balance. One of your hands clasps your birthmark before glancing at him with confused fright. As a response Atsushi wordlessly lifts his own shirt, showing off the identical mark that he has on his skin.

🍭​In hindsight it now makes all sense. The birthmark was a soulmate mark all along and appeared on the day you were born. Perhaps it's because the notion of soulmates used to be always somewhat ridiculous to him that Murasakibara never considered the mark on his body to be an indication that he had one himself. Even the instant attraction he felt upon seeing you for the first time now makes sense and through heated cheeks you admit that you felt a similar pull to him when you spotted him for the first time. The only difference seems to be that you ask for more time to come to term with the changed situation whilst Atsushi is instantly willing to skip a few steps and start a relationship. Your hesitation confuses him. You admitted to feeling the same as he does and in all of the fairy tales regarding soulmates both people almost always end up falling in love with each other and getting together instantly. Why do you want to do it differently? Both of you are going to be together anyways so you two might as well start now.

Akashi Seijuro

🏆​Shy glances thrown in his direction, hesitating eyes always glued to his back as soon as he lets you believe that he is not looking your way all whilst being very aware of the way your eyes keep on being drawn to him. From the very first day you found out who he is, Seijuro has taken notice of your frightened curiosity in regards to him. You've never talked to him nor approached him yet he knows that you keep on looking at him only to quickly glance away as soon as his gaze meets yours. You are not the first person who has admired him like this, from a safe distance but it is the first time Akashi has found himself equally as invested. There is just something about you that demands his attention even with the writting of the first sentence his soulmate will say to him tattoed on his abdomen ever since he emerged from the womb of his mother. It's utter nonsense what is written on there, a sentence which makes absolutely no sense as if the person chose random nouns and verbs and tried to construct a sentence out of it. He has often wondered in what state of mind his soulmate must be in when conjuring up these words to him.

🏆​Recognising that you seem to be satisfied watching him idly from the distance, Akashi decides to make the first move and approach you. He waits though until he knows that you are alone before he suddenly emerges, introducing himself once more to you now that all of your attention is on him. The moment those words leave his lips and he stands in front of you, you freeze like a deer caught in the headlight. Your eyes widen and you stare at him in shock and surprise. His eyebrows furrow a tad bit when he sees your peculiar reaction but just as he is about to ask you what is wrong you bow wordlessly before fleeing the scene, leaving him standing there stunned. Soon Akashi learns that this seems to be a common thing you love to do as soon as you spot him. The moment you spot him you turn the opposite direction as if both of you are like poles of a magnet who repel each other. Another thing he notices is that you never talk to him directly. You either shake or nod your head or talk to one of your friends whilst answering his question without speaking to him. It's an insult and low-key disrespectful, only adding to his growing frustration.

🏆​He feels his darker self slowly emerging as you keep on avoiding him, scheming and wondering if he should perhaps resort to other methods which would get him to his goal even if it means blackmailing you. One last chance. He decides to give you one last chance by using the school principal and convince him to tell you to visit the office later. The moment you are inside and are slightly confused when finding no one inside, he also steps into the room and locks the door up. His gaze is sharp, a contrast to his deceivingly soothing words as he assures you that he just wants to talk with you. Your eyes dart nervously around as you look in that moment more like a cornered animal than anything. You grit your teeth as he demands in a soft tone that you talk to him as Seijuro can almost see the way the gears turn in your head before you ball your hands into fist and open your mouth, spitting out whatever random words your mind produces in that moment. Deadly silence befalls the room and when you dare to hesitantly open your eyes and glance at his face, you nearly scramble away as you see his pupils quivering whilst he stares at you with gleaming eyes.

🏆​He doesn't say anything, instead his fingers unbutton his uniform. You ask him frightened what he is doing before he reveals his abdomen to you, your eyes landing on the writing etched onto his skin. You are in utter disbelief that the jumble of words you just spat out is actually engraved on his skin. His voice slices through the room as he demands you to show him your own writing, leaving no room for objection. You hesitantly tug down your own uniform to show him the tattoo on your collarbone and he clenches his jaw the moment he sees his own name engraved on it, recalling instantly that this was the first thing he ever said to you. You knew. Even before both of you had spoken a word to each other you had already known about him being your soulmate. Why did you never tell him? He doesn't allow you to leave the room until you have told him everything, anger and disappointment tightly woven into each other. You find yourself unable to lie anymore and just admit to him that his status as well as the rumors you heard of him intimidated you. He can only let out a dry chuckle as he grasps your hands and presses a kiss against your knuckles. Now, who filled your head with such nonsense?

Inumaki Toge

🗣️​There has always been a voice inside his head, an internal voice that organised his thoughts and held his inner monologues. He's been told that a lot of people have such an internal voice yet he has always wondered if his internal voice is supposed to be one that doesn't belong to him. He has never heard the voice inside of his head before yet it is still there and always holds his inner monologues and thoughts for him. Toge knows this voice in his head better than he knows what his own voice sounds like as he rarely speaks and if he does, he does so in only short words by using ingredients to not endanger anyone with his abilities. At one point he decides that perhaps the voice really is just a product of his own mind or he did actually meet someone with that voice before but simply forgot whilst his mind somehow still remembers. As he grows older, the voice inside his head also matures and he wonders if that is simply because his mind is trying to tell him that he has also matured.

🗣️​Then one day he hears the voice in his head. Only that this time it isn't confined to only his own mind. No, his ears pick up the soud of a voice that he is more familiar with than with the sound of his own mind. A sudden urge to turn around overcomes him and as if he were possessed he acts on this urge as he suddenly walks through the streets, desperately trying to find the source of the voice. Then he spots the source of the voice and his body instantly stops. Only a few feet away from him are you, on your phone as you busily discuss something with someone without even noticing his presence. A weird warmth washes over him as he hears you talking energetically whilst you walk through the street and without noticing it, Inumaki starts following you. He loses any feeling of time as he slowly walks behind you, his eyes never leaving your back. Apparently you notice him at one point though as you suddenly turn around, your eyes narrowing as you spot him. That's when he suddenly seems to regain his senses and leave his trance as he bows sheepishly before turning around and leaving.

🗣️​The voice is gone from that day on. There is no familiar sound inside of his head anymore and the emptiness almost overhwelms him. He blasts music into his ears all in an attempt to blend out the silence that rings louder than anything else he has ever perceived and he finds himself missing the sound of a voice, a voice that has belonged all of his life to you. Toge knows that he has to see you again, knows that he somehow needs to find a way to discuss with you what is going on. If he has been hearing your voice inside of his head for his entire life, do you perhaps still experience hearing his voice inside of your head? He stopped hearing his internal voice when he heard the real source of it but you haven't heard his voice. Does that mean that you still can hear him inside of your mind? He spends days wandering through Tokyo in desperate attempts to find you yet finding the infamous needle in the haystack would have been an easier task than finding you between millions of people. A lump of anxiety and stress rests in his gut as he feels himself growing quite anxious. Until he finds you one day in the same spot where he found you first. It's almost as if you have been waiting for him...

🗣️​He leads you to a more isolated place where the both of you can enjoy more privacy before he tentatively speaks in the only language he can use to not activate his abilities. Your face morphs into confused shock when you hear him suddenly saying the name of an ingredient but above all it is the sheer familiarity in his voice that completely catches you by surprise. Once again your eyes narrow as you observe him and the hint of apprehension and distrust in your gaze almost breaks his heart. He does not want you to look at him like this. You ask him who he is and Inumaki knows that he has a lot of explaining to do, especially since you are a non-sorcerer. He tries to be gentle and careful as he slowly introduces you to a world you did not know of prior to meeting him as well as the concept of soulmates that is more commonly known amongst people who are able to control and use cursed energy than normal humans like you. He finds himself longing for the sound of your voice since he's been listening to it since his youngest days and tries to communicate more with you as well since you probably feel the same.

Gojo Satoru

🩵​Gojo Satoru has always been the special one. From the moment he was first born into the world, he was gifted with power that would be feared by everybody. Perhaps it is because fate already knew of the lonely future he would be burdened with as the strongest sorcerer of his time that he was given a soulmate. A prophecy that befell the eldest of the Gojo clan who proclaimed that his soulmate would be the only one who Gojo would be able to truly see and that his soulmate would likewise be the only one who would be able to truly perceive him. The prophecy was strictly kept as a secret though, even from Satoru as no one knew what would happen if information would leak outside. From his youngest days on countless people tried to murder him, to restore the balance of the sorcerer world that had been thrown out of bounds the moment he had been born. Only when Satoru was deemed to be old enough did the clan decide to tell him the truth of the prophecy that had appeared when he was born and he was warned to strictly keep it a secret as he was reminded that other people were just waiting for a weakness they could use against him.

🩵​Satoru, who had already been disillusioned from any innocence from a very young age on, complied surprisingly enough with the wishes of his clan. He knew best after all how many people wanted him dead and to what lengths they were willing to go to murder him. They wouldn't bat their eyelashes to spare an innocent person or even non-sorcerers. He sometimes wonders what it would be like to meet his soulmate and what the prophecy meant by proclaiming that his soulmate would be the only person he would be able to truly see. Another part of him hoped that he would never find you as he grew older and experienced the true loneliness that came with being Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer and tool of his world. Perhaps he'd never meet you in the first place and as much loneliness that thought brought him sometimes, even more than he already felt deep down, he tried to come to terms with that thought. It would be best for his life as well as your life if the both of you would never meet.

🩵​A gasp of air is heard behind him as someone collides with his body, bags carrying groceries drop to the ground as he feels smaller arms wrapping themselves around his waist so that that the person doesn't lose their balance. Such a simple touch yet his whole body reacts. A warmth he has never felt before prickles his skin as he can perceive his own heartbeat speeding up as waves of feelings pulse through his body. He turns around, removing the sunglasses he is wearing as his eyes land on you who is still clinging to his torso before your gaze also moves up and you instantly let go. You apologise, embarrassed and sheepish as you bow over and over again all whilst Satoru looks at you in disbelief. He sees you. Not his Six Eyes. His actual human eyes see you. And you touched him. You broke through his Infinity as if it was nothing and touched him, stumbled against him and now panic whilst apologising over and over again, unaware of who he is. It's like he experiences a tunnel vision as he blurs everything out, only perceiving you with basic human senses as he experiences something that is incredibly hard to explain with words.

🩵​It's only when he feels your hand grasping his shoulder and shaking him carefully that he is suddenly brought back to the real world. You look worried at him and when you ask him why he is crying, Satoru suddenly realises the wetness dripping down his cheeks. He's crying. Whatever it was he just experienced, it was enough to bring him to tears. You offer him a tissue to wipe his tears away before you gather your bags that fell on the ground again, not minding your surroundings. But Satoru does. Suddenly the noises and the liveliness of the city is anxiety-inducing. Blue eyes dart back and forth, trying to perceive anyone or anything that could pose a threat to you whilst you innocently collect your bags, oblivious to the inner turmoil he experiences. It is only when you stand up again and awkwardly bid him your goodbye that his hand reaches out and wraps carefully around your wrist, forcing you to stop and turn around to look at him again. You want to say something but one glance into those bright blue orbs punches all air out of your lungs, too many emotions staring back at you all at once.

Draco Malfoy

You've always despised Malfoy from the very first year of Hogwarts. Slytherin students have already a reputation for being arrogant and evil but he has always been an especially big pain in the arse. His family is pure-blooded and rich and he embodies everything you loathe about the ideologies of some wizards and witches in this world. You're in a different house than him and you are immensely proud of that yet share a lot of classes with Draco and are constantly submitted to his condescending remarks and his pathetic tries to get your attention. No matter what you do, he always seems to just wait for the next chance to embarrass and provoke you, especially once you befriend Harry and his circle of friends. He scoffs at you, jokes within earshot of you how fitting it is for you as a loser to join the group of weaklings. Ron and Hermione had to stop Harry and you more than once from throwing spells with him and his friends, Hermione always reminding you that this is exactly what Malyfoy wants.

You think he just hates you but that could not be further away from the truth. In fact Malfoy actually is utterly infatuated with you but is clueless and overwhelmed with those feelings. He wants you to love him yet you can't stand him and instead have chosen Potter and the mudbloods over him. Why? What do these people have that he doesn't? Insulted and hurt with his feelings he started to spite you to release some of the bitterness he feels due to your decision but mainly because deep down he is just desperate for your attention. Worst of all is that throughout the years you learn to control yourself better. Instead of hating on him you now just glance at him as if he was a slimy worm under the heel of your shoes and it drives him mad when you observe him with such a cold gaze. How dare you... How dare you to look at him as if he were no better than an insect?! Do you even know what his family is capable of?! The more indifferent you treat him, the more extreme his attempts to get your attention get. Look at him! Just look at him for once with all of your undivided attention!!

Then he goes too far when he targets your friends. The very same day he receives a note from you where you challenge him to a duel, furious and fed up with his attitude. Your anger is only fueled when he brings Crabbe and Goyle with him. You lash out, call him a wimp and a coward before he hisses at you to shut up. Please...he just wants to talk with you. He knows that this is a rare chance, to have you all alone like this so he uses it to do the unlikely. He confesses to you. He admits to you how he has been feeling for all those years, insults you by openly telling you how he feels about the friends you chose over him. You're dumbfounded by the end of his rant, your mind utterly stunned for a moment before your face twists into a disgusted sneer that Draco feels to the marrow of his bones. You opt to just leave instead without even saying anything, only angering the desperate boy even more as he grabs you, his skin touching yours. A sharp and burning pain suddenly cuts through your wrist and Malfoy feels the same as he stumbles back and lets out a string of curses, clutching his wrist before his eyes widen as he looks at your name being etched onto it whilst you stare at his name being etched onto yours.

You threaten him on that night with your wand pressed against his temple to not tell a single soul about this. The very next day as you walk into the hall for breakfast you are instantly flooded by other students from all houses, one of them tugging the sleeves away from your wrist to reveal his name written on it. Some are shocked, others jealous and you receive a punishment later that day for chasing after Draco and firing spells at him. You're enraged beyond words. Of course he'd run his pathetic mouth to state to everyone that you are his simply to feel like he has any sort of control over you. You avoid him like the pest from that day on and as a result he only gets more unbearable. Some of your friends approach him and tell him that just because you two are soulmates you do not belong to him and he flips out and hisses at them that they don't know anything. You are his. If at all, they should stop acting like you belong to them. Eventually you find yourself with a letter in your hand, the name Lucius Malfoy telling you all you need to know even before opening it and reading the content where you are 'friendly' invited to visit them during the holidays.

[rtfics]

"The Beginner's Guide to Seeing Ghosts."

Promo pamphlet from 1988, from before the movie opened. Notice how they still call it a "hit," even though it wasn't in theaters yet. From my collection.

[lightfin]

Prompt 3: wizards

I had the idea of all the Arcadia kids going on vacation. Since Blinky mentions theme parks and Florida, Dreamwork’s being owned by Universal, what about are three favourite scorcerers having fun at universal studios Harry Potter. Enjoy there shenanigans.

Zoe is so done.

[lucyvelvett001]

Would you let me suck you on the first date?

[strideofpride]

[simply-ivanka]

These pieces of shit, above, are emboldened by the Biden/Harris Administration penchant for hiring perverts and others who groom children, either directly or indirectly. Now with the Village Idiot out of the campaign and his woke, imbecile surrogate at the helm of the Democrats all hell will break loose!

Now, more than ever, do Americans need to get off their collective asses and get involved. Support Trump and let's restore American traditions and principles.

You're a Democrat? Who gives a shit. If you love this country, love your job and your family, put a pit bull in The White House for 4 years and let him clean house!