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sugurus-fave-monkey · 1 year ago

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Soul Snared

I do not know exactly what possessed me to write this. It was supposed to be a little Drabble but I got carried away. This is my first time writing anything of the sort soooo. Pairing is Mahito x Reader, and I guess this could be monster fucking (I think)

TW/CW: 18+MDNI, Mahito is his own warning, Geto mentioned and appears briefly. jealousy, Non con / dubious consent, spit, tentacles, choking, slapping, restraints, orgasm denial, orgasm, fingering, the tentacles cum, breeding, belly bulge, degradation, predator/prey, oral, vaginal sex, anal sex, deep throating, lots of tongue, shape shifting, dead dove do not eat, fr though this is a lot,not proofread, made on mobile, if there’s more I should mention please let me know.

Word count >2500

NSFW under the cut

Mahito had been the one to find you. He knew not a thing about you, but Geto had said you could be beneficial to them, so he had sought you out. Geto had instructed him to tail you for a while, but Mahito lacked the patience for that, so when he cornered you in an alleyway and you paralyzed his puppets without breaking a sweat, he knew why Geto had targeted you.

Rather than him having to subdue you, you had came along willingly, babbling about how the other sorcerers pissed you off, and you were tired of them having their heads up their asses. Mahito paid attention, always trying to improve his knowledge of humans.

He had observed, how upon entering Dagon’s domain your eyes had widened at the sight of Geto, rushing over to him, practically foaming at the mouth. Geto reassuring you that he was, very much, alive. The overjoyed expression on your face when you found out that your best friend, your mentor, was still alive. And Mahito felt something stir inside him, something new. Was it anger?

For weeks, Mahito watched as the two of you left together to do recon, unsure of how to process what he was feeling. He would lounge on the beach chair, trying to focus on whatever book he was reading. He had thought that if he had captured you, he would be the one to accompany you, after all, he needed to learn more about humans. Why should Geto always be the one with you, when he was human as well? He would try to ignore the rage he felt inside of him, when you and Geto would come back, your hair a mess, Geto’s robes undone, and you giggling, while Geto’s hand rested on your shoulder seemingly guiding you.

Finally Mahito was told the two of you would be working together, with your base of operations being the sewers. That was Mahito’s element, underground, rather than the sun beating down on him heavily. He had left ahead of you, having been told that Geto needed to tell you more specifics.

You had made your way down to the sewers, squinting your eyes to adjust to the gloom, Geto had given you some sort of drink to help block the smell, and you were thankful. Your footsteps echoed off the walls as you made your way closer to where Mahito would be. You finally reached him, he was lying on a concrete slab, his arms folded under his head.

He watched as you pulled out your phone, waiting for whoever you were calling to answer.

“Yup. I found him.” A small smile curled on your lips. “Yeah yeah, I know, Geto.” You giggled, and Mahito felt the rage course through his body again. “Okay got it. See you soon.” You ended the call and went to greet Mahito, but you were unable to speak.

Mahito had launched his hand at you, fingers curling around your neck, easily pushing you against the wall. “Ghaack Mah-“ was all you could muster before his fingers squeezed tighter around your throat. Tears brimmed in your eyes, as you clawed at his hand, feeling yourself get light headed.

Mahito took his time walking toward you, with a grin plastered on his face. He allowed his grip on your neck to slacken ever so slightly, allowing you to suck air into your lungs before tightening it again. His face was mere inches away from yours, you could feel the heat from his breath on your face. His eyes were filled with malice, rage, and something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. He was a curse, he wasn’t supposed to feel emotions, at least that’s what Geto had explained, while he assured you that you would be safe with Mahito. You cursed Geto in your head, and cursed yourself for listening to his honeyed words, and meeting his every order.

Your tears had finally spilled out, wetting your cheeks as you continued to struggle against the curse. However you froze up when Mahito stuck his tongue out, licking your tears away, the appendage hot on your cold skin. You shuddered as your brain practically screamed at you to subdue him, and run. You placed your hands together, ready to use your technique, but Mahito was too fast.

Two more hands sprung from Mahito, grabbing your wrists, and pinning you against the wall.

“Nice try, but you’re too slow.” Mahito taunted you. Now that he had you pinned, he released the hold on your throat, leaving you sputtering, coughing, and gasping for air.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Mahito?” You shouted. “Aren’t we on the same side?”

At that, Mahito cackled, he fucking cackled. “What do you think I’m going to kill you?” He sneered.

“If you hurt me, Geto will crush you!” You cried out.

“Geto this, Geto that!” Mahito spat. “I’m the one who found you! I’m the one that should own you!”

Realization hit you at that moment. Mahito was jealous, but that couldn’t be right. His nature was feral, more animalistic than human. You felt your stomach drop, and suddenly recognized that other emotion, it was lust. Mahito saw you as prey, and from what Geto had told you, he enjoyed toying with his prey.

You spat in his face, it was all you could do from your position, which earned you a backhand from Mahito, who smirked at you. Your ears rang, and your face felt hot where he slapped you.

“Finally caught on huh?” Mahito’s voice was icy, full of malice. “Geto’s not here to save you, so I’d suggest you do as I say. And if not, I’ll just turn you into a puppet to do with as I please. You’ll still be aware of everything, but you won’t be able to fight. Wouldn’t want that, now would you?” He giggled and stuck his tongue out.

You shook your head, too afraid to speak, nobody had ever treated you this way before.

“Ok then! Let’s get started.” Mahito said in a sickly sweet tone, before pressing his lips against yours. You gasped, and when you opened your mouth he took advantage of that, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He took his time, exploring slowly, rubbing against your canines, daring you to bite down, but he knew you wouldn’t. He had you exactly where he wanted you, and he felt the bulge in his pants beginning to grow. He pulled away for a moment giving you a second to breathe, before he was on you again, his tongue pushing its way to your throat. His tongue was long, too long, as it filled your mouth up, poking at your uvula before slowly making its way inch by inch down your throat.

You moaned around his lips, clenching your thighs together, your body betraying you. You knew Mahito had the ability to change his shape at will, but you never expected this. You gagged around his tongue, as it pulled in and out of your throat, your wrists straining against the hands that kept you bound. Mahito pulled away,his tongue slowly pulling out of your throat, only to wedge his knee between your legs. You hissed at the sensation, the friction revealing how wet you were.

“See that’s not so bad huh?” Mahito smiled at you as he let you free from your restraints. You rubbed your wrists, trying to coax some sensation back into your hands. “Why don’t you get undressed and lie down for me?”

It wasn’t a question. You slowly undressed, your shaky hands fumbling as you unclasped your bra, and slid off your panties, and you lied down upon the concrete slab, the coldness making you hyper aware of your body. You shuddered as Mahito sprang out some vine like appendages from his back. They wrapped themselves around your wrists and ankles, spreading your legs, and pulling your arms upwards.

Mahito licked his lips before walking towards you, and taking a seat, you could feel his breath on your cunt. Mahito swiped at your entrance with his index finger, before roughly shoving it inside you, causing you to yelp and buck your hips. Mahito was anything but gentle, pumping his finger in and out of you, exploring inside of you. You moaned, putting aside any anger you had. Mahito added a second finger and began to scissor his fingers inside of you.

“F-fuck feels good.” You moan out. You feel more of those things on your body, two of them circling on your tits, before they latched onto your nipples, one was seemingly biting, the other was sucking, another one made its way to your mouth, sliding in with ease, seemingly growing bigger as it slid down your throat.

Mahito groaned, as the appendage fucked in and out of your throat, he could feel everything that was connected to him, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to impale you on his cock, and fill you up fully. He replaced his fingers with his tongue, exploring your walls, hitting spots that were normally untouched. He sent a vine to your clit, making it suck on it, and rub circles.

It was too much, there were too many sensations, you gagged around the vine in your throat, and it slowly pulled out. “S’too much!” You cried.

Mahito withdrew his tongue from you, and the vines stood still. You could have cried, all of this, and the curse wouldn’t let you cum? You were about to protest, when you saw him unbuttoning his pants, and you widened your eyes. His cock was huge, thick, veiny, and had a row of stitches on it. There was no way that thing was fitting in you. Mahito pumped himself with his hand a couple times, before pressing against your folds, and you were right. The tip couldn’t fit inside. Mahito looked disappointed, and then shrugged, and right before your eyes, the girth of his dick shrank, allowing him to spear you on his length.

You cried out, as it stretched you, adjusting its size, growing inside of you. The vines resumed the roaming of your body, as Mahito thrusted into you slowly, feeling how your muscles clenched around him. He pressed down on your lower stomach, feeling himself. Your muffled moans grew louder, and he increased his speed, fucking into you roughly.

“Such a good girl, taking it all.” Mahito sneered. He felt your body tense up at his words. “Aw are you gonna cum for me? Huh? What a pathetic human, letting a curse fuck her. Go on then. Cum.”

Mahito’s degradation forced you to come undone, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, as your muscles tensed, your hips bucking wildly as you climaxed, squirting on the curse’s abdomen. Mahito pulled the vine out of your throat, allowing you to breathe fully.

“Fuck, you’re so filthy, squirting all over me. ‘M gonna fill you up, stuff you full.” Mahito groaned as his own release came closer. His balls clenched, as his cum sprayed inside you, ropes and ropes being churned from inside of him.

You allowed yourself to relax a moment, thinking it was over, that he had his fun with you, until you felt something wet against your asshole.

“N-no not there!” You squeaked out.

Mahito tsked at you, before flipping you over, onto your hands and knees, his vines locking you into position. His thrust his cock into your cunt again, and used his tentacle to slowly pry open your ass, your muscles clenching, trying to stop the intrusion. Mahito brought his hand down swiftly upon your ass, causing you to jump. “Just relax. It won’t hurt.”

What little resistance, defiance you had once possessed no longer existed. You couldn’t form coherent thoughts any more. You relaxed, and Mahito was right, the vine was warm, and coated in something slick, a moan coming from your lips, as every single part of you was stuffed full. Mahito wrapped vines around your waist, and used them to stabilize you, allowing you to collapse and be held in the air as Mahito bullied his cock and vines into you. When he would thrust in the vine would pull out. And he could expand, contract and lengthen them at will. Tears were spilling from your eyes, and drool was dripping from your mouth, forming a puddle on the slab under you.

“I told you it wouldn’t hurt. You like it huh? Being stuffed full, your body being mine to treat as I please.” Mahito taunted as he watched all your holes swallowing him up, his dick fucking his cum into you, hopefully pushing it into your womb. He quickened the pace of the vine in your mouth, pushing it deeper and deeper into your throat, before it finally released in you. As it pulled out you coughed up some of the cum it expelled into your throat.

The vine attached to your clit was pulled off, being replaced with Mahito’s thumb, roughly circling, applying just the right amount of pressure. “M-Mahito d-don’t stop.” You moaned weakly.

“Again? Alright, you can cum, but only if you tell me who you belong to.” Mahito smirked.

“Y-you! I belong to you Mahito, you own me!” You cried out, as your second release snapped, causing you to shudder, and twitch, your body relaxing completely. And as you came so did the vine fucking into your ass, filling your tight hole with cum, leaving its mark inside of you.

“Th-that’s right. Nngh f-fuck. M’ gonna breed you, give you all my cum., fill you up. You want that?” Mahito’s voice trembled, pleasure coursing through his body.

“Y-yes fuck, fill me up, please. Please breed me Mahito.” You were no longer thinking, words were just coming out of your mouth at this point.

“That’s it fuck, take it all, let me fill your womb up.” Mahito hissed as he planted his seed inside of you for a second time, and you could have sworn you felt a bulge in your belly as he fucked his cum further inside of you. You were exhausted, absolutely spent. Mahito slowly lowered you down, retracting the vines back into his body, before pulling out of you. And you slowly drifted into a deep slumber.

You awoke to the sound of hushed voices and kept your eyes closed. Your body had been covered in a blanket, and you were thankful for that.

“So you’ve found another finger?” You heard Mahito ask.

“Yes. I trust that you can carry out the plan?” That was Geto’s voice. You assumed he came to make sure you were okay.

The small talk continued, growing louder, footsteps approaching, until the two of them were standing above you.

“What’s this?” Geto asks. “Have you already started our little experiment?” Your eyes flutter open.

“Experiment?!” You move to sit up, however, vines bind you to where you’re laying.

Geto simply chuckles before he brushes his fingers over your face. “Of course. Seeing if a sorcerer can have a viable pregnancy with a curse.” He turns to Mahito. “Let me know if anything changes.”

And that’s when you notice for the first time, the stitches in his head, and you realize, whatever that is, is not Suguru Geto.

#jjk smut #jjk mahito #mahito smut #mahito #tentacles #jjk x reader smut #mahito x reader

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lortsyall · 4 months ago

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Echoes of Eywa's Child.

chapter 2.

(Neteyam x Human!Reader series)

Pending...Pending...

Date: August 10th,2174.

Location: Marui,High Camp,Mons Veritatis,Hallelujah Mountains,Pandora.

Time: 1:56 PM.

Life had always demanded more of me. As the eldest son of Toruk Makto the 6th, I was born into expectations as heavy as the mountains, molded by a legacy I had no choice but to carry. For as long as I could remember, my path was laid before me—protector, warrior, leader,big brother. It was a path carved in blood and sacrifice, one I couldn’t veer from even if I wanted to.

The war had changed everything. When the RDA returned when I was only 15,four years ago, they came with the same greed, the same hunger to strip Eywa’s creation of its breath. Their machines burned forests and poisoned rivers, their soldiers brought death with cold precision. But the war wasn’t just an enemy out there—it had carved itself into me.

I’d come closer to death than I care to admit. Fleeing to the Metkayina clan with my family,away from Quaritch and his puppets,was traumatizing,to say the least.

I always fit in the Omatikaya clan. I was already respected by so many clan leaders across the globe,already seen as a strong-willed,responsible and noble young warrior. The perfect next Olo'eyktan in line. But here...at sea...I was too stubborn to learn the ways of the Metkayina,scared I might lose myself. My ancestors. My traditions. The forest...Everything.

Sooner or later though,you always have to wake up back to reality. The RDA’s ships had pursued us relentlessly, their weapons tearing through the sea and air like the rage of a storm. After saving my siblings and our friend,Tsireya,my brother insisted on saving Spider as well.

I'll admit,I followed my mother's steps in distancing myself away from him as the years went by,though the brotherly bond we have carried ever since childhood lingered like a lost memory. Plus,I couldn't deny Lo'ak anything. Not in that moment.

As soon as we turned our backs to jump into the water,though...I felt it.

I’d hit the water hard, the force ripping the breath from my lungs. I fought to surface, but the panic, the crushing weight of the sea—it almost won.

All I could hear were Lo'ak's desperate cries pulling me on an ilu as he dragged me back to shore,along with the others. When I woke up, the first thing I felt was pain—white-hot and searing, burning across my chest where shrapnel had torn through flesh. The Tsahìk saved me, but she couldn’t erase the scar, jagged and cruel, that now ran from my collarbone to just above my heart,nor the memory that came with it. A bitter reminder of how close I’d come to losing everything.

That scar has stayed with me, a mark of survival, but also of failure. I should’ve been stronger, faster, better. I’m alive, but at what cost? The memory of my siblings’ terror, my parents’ fear—it’s a weight I still carry, even in moments of peace.

Sometimes,I still hear my mother's screams late at night. It's terrifying.

And now, the war feels like a constant shadow, lingering even in the quiet. I’ve learned to keep my thoughts guarded, my fears buried. We're back in the forest,thankfully,but we still live in the Hallelujah Mountains. The clan looks to me for strength, for guidance. They see a warrior who has proven himself time and time again. They don’t see the cracks beneath, the moments when I wonder if I’ve given too much of myself to a fight that may never truly end.

I’m of age now. Been for some time. I went through all the rites of passage,starting with becoming the youngest Omatikaya to make a clean kill on the Sturmbeest hunt,going through Iknimaya,and surviving Uniltaron,the Dream Hunt. After transferring into adulthood, an Omatikaya Na'vi has two things left to do: craft a bow from the wood of the fallen Hometree,and find a mate. Yet I've checked only one thing on the list,and I guess it's obvious which one I'm talking about.

I get it. I'm 19 years old now. Old enough that the elders murmur about a mate, about settling down and adding to the clan’s numbers. My parents don’t pressure me—at least not directly—but I see it in my father’s proud nods, my mother’s quiet glances. They’re waiting for me to choose, to find someone who will stand beside me as I carry the mantle of our people. Not to mention,my brother has already been mated to Tsireya,and some people among the clan are...nosy, to say the least.

But how can I think of mates when my mind is a battlefield? When every time I look at the stars, I see the faces of those we’ve lost? Love feels like a luxury I can’t afford, a vulnerability I can’t risk. I can feel my father breathing down my neck,slowly preparing me with Olo'eyktan training. I don't even want to be the next chief. Not anymore. I’ve buried the idea so deep within me that even the thought of connection feels foreign,and I can't remember the first time I really opened up to someone. They already have their image of me.

Fierce young warrior. Next chief in line. Son of Toruk Makto. Great,right?Why should I ruin that for them?

And yet, there’s a part of me that wonders—when will I be more than this? When will I be something more than a protector, more than a warrior? Is there space for Neteyam beneath the weight of it all?

The air was thick with the smell of burning metal and the acrid tang of gunpowder. Around me, the sounds of battle echoed through the forest—the hum of RDA machinery, the snap of Na’vi bows, the shouts of humans and my people alike. My heart pounded in my chest, not from fear, but from the weight of responsibility.

My feet barely made a sound as I landed on the roof of the human truck. Beneath me, I could hear their muffled voices, panicked and sharp. They were scrambling, caught off guard by our ambush. Good.

I moved to the edge, my bow drawn and ready, scanning for my next target. That’s when I saw…her.

She was crouched behind a crate, her wide eyes darting around in terror. Her skin was almost glowing in the dim light, and her hands trembled as they gripped a human weapon. She was small, fragile even, compared to the others.

A soldier, perhaps? No, she didn’t move like one. She was scared, out of place. A tablet was in her small and dainty fingers,and it looked oddly familiar,like the ones Max and Norm usually toy with in the lab. So a scientist,then. Doesn’t matter.

I drew my bowstring tighter, the arrow poised to fly. My target was clear, my purpose steady. Until I saw it.

An atokirina.

The seed of the sacred tree floated gently down, its soft glow cutting through the chaos. My breath caught as it hovered near the girl, circling her like it was studying her. And then it landed, just for a moment, on her shoulder. Didn’t this happen to my parents when they met?

Eywa was watching. Yet the girl didn’t notice.

I hesitated, my fingers loosening on the bowstring. This wasn’t normal. The atokirina didn’t just appear without reason, and they didn’t linger around those unworthy of Eywa’s blessing. Yet here it was, touching her—a human.

Her gaze was fixed on the ground, her breathing shallow. She had no idea the seed was there, no idea what it meant,too focused on her own panicked heavy breathing.

The voices of the other warriors faded into the background. For a moment, it was just her, the glowing seed, and me.

I lowered my bow.

I could hear my father’s voice in my head, a memory from years ago: "Eywa sees more than we do, Neteyam. Sometimes, the why is not ours to understand."

“Drop it,” I said, my voice steady despite the conflict brewing inside me.

She looked up, startled, her eyes locking onto mine. Great Mother,what pretty eyes she has. It’s as if I could see her entire soul through them. For a second, I thought she might try to fight, but instead, she set the weapon down on the truck bed. Slowly, carefully.

I studied her. She was different from the others—softer, quieter. And yet, there was something in her eyes that spoke of a hidden strength. And me?Well,let’s just say there was something almost…ethereal and noble in her fear that made me admire her.

“You do not belong here,” I said.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to respond, but no words came out. The atokirina hovered again, as if to emphasize my point, before drifting off into the trees.

I couldn’t explain why, but I felt a strange pull toward her. Not sympathy—not yet—but curiosity. Eywa had chosen her for something, and it wasn’t my place to question the will of the Great Mother.

The sound of an AMP suit crashing nearby snapped me back to reality.

“Run,” I urged her, my voice low.

“What—”

“Go!” I barked, the command sharper now. She flinched but obeyed, scrambling off the truck and disappearing into the chaos. I cannot let the others see her,or she’ll get an arrow straight to her heart. The Great Mother put this responsibility in my hands,and I simply cannot let her get hurt. It must be a sign.

When the ambush was over, I retreated with the others, my thoughts still tangled around the human girl. The site was a mess,but at least we did what we had in mind. All of their cargo was either destroyed or stolen,and I doubt they won’t send out search parties for our heads.

Back at our camp, I sat by the fire, staring into the flames thoughtfully. Their dance was mesmerizing, a kaleidoscope of amber and gold licking against charred wood, with hints of blue at the edges where the heat was fiercest. The fire cracked and hissed, tiny sparks shooting upward to join the stars above. It felt alive, almost like Eywa herself whispered through its flickering rhythm.

Yet, even as the flames captivated me, my thoughts were elsewhere. On her. The girl in the forest.

Her scent still lingered faintly in my memory, something soft and sweet, like flowers I couldn’t name mixed with earth after rain. Her big eyes had been filled with fear, yet there had been something else too—curiosity, maybe? Defiance? I couldn’t decide which had unsettled me more. Her delicate frame, so unlike the strength we Na’vi pride ourselves on, seemed breakable, yet her spirit shone through her trembling form.

And then there was the atokirina. A single seed of the great tree had floated between us, its gentle glow bathing her face in an ethereal light. It had hovered briefly, as though weighing something unseen, before drifting closer to her. The moment felt... significant, as though Eywa herself had chosen her. Funny how she did not even notice such a blessing.

I had been ready to draw my bow, my duty clear in my mind. Sky People were a threat. A poison. It doesn’t matter that I share both human and Na’vi ancestors. Neither does the fact that my dad was one of them once. In my eyes,he is Na’vi. Just as everyone part of the Resistance. Yet the sight of her—so pure, so deliberate,so…utterly chaotic and scared—lingers in my thoughts. Something in me shifted then, a quiet nudge deep within my soul. I let her go, even when I knew my parents would question my decision.

Now, as the fire crackled before me, I couldn’t help but wonder: who was she? Why did Eywa send a sign? And why did I feel as though letting her go had set something far greater into motion?

The camp was buzzing with movement. The humans part of the Resistance were all in the biolab quarters, tending to their Avatars’ wounds. Lo’ak, my younger brother, plopped down beside me, his usual smirk replaced by a look of concern.

“You’re quiet,” he said, poking at the fire with a stick. “Sa’eyla said some shit went down. Something happen out there?”

I hesitated. “There was a girl.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A girl? Like, a human girl?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice firm. “And Eywa sent an atokirina to her.”

Lo’ak looked at me, confused, the stick in his hand forgotten. “What do you mean?”

I let out a loud sigh. Why is this interaction with her bothering me so much? “Just as I was ready to fire my bow, an atokirina landed on the head of this tawtute eve. As if telling me to lower my bow.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

He let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s... something.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “What are you gonna do about it?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. For now. It’s not like I can do much, anyway.”

“Sounds like someone’s already in over his head,” came Kiri’s teasing voice as she approached from the shadows. She carried a bundle of herbs, her expression curious. “What’s this about an atokirina?”

Lo’ak smirked, scooting over to make room for her by the fire. “Our big brother here almost got bested by Eywa’s will.”

Kiri raised an eyebrow, sitting down. “That sounds interesting. Go on.”

I hesitated, but I knew Kiri’s connection to Eywa might help make sense of this. “There was a human girl. She wasn’t like the others—she didn’t fight. And an atokirina came to her. It lingered above her head. Right as I was about to…to kill her.”

Kiri’s expression turned thoughtful. She set the herbs aside, her hands resting on her knees. “Eywa does not make mistakes, Neteyam.”

“I know,” I said, frustrated. “But why her? She’s... she’s one of them. I have no idea why it’s bothering me so much. It’s like a buzz in my head.”

Lo’ak snorted. “Maybe the Great Mother’s matchmaking now.”

“Lo’ak,” Kiri said sharply, shooting him a look that silenced his grin. Her attention returned to me. “Eywa sees the heart, not the body. Maybe this girl is different. Maybe she’s meant to change something.”

I frowned, staring at the fire as its light danced across the darkened camp. “But how can I trust that? How can I trust her? I don’t even know her name and yet…” I hesitated, running a hand down my face. I really don’t need another teasing remark from Lo’ak. “Gosh, I don’t even want to think about it anymore. Forget it.”

Kiri smiled faintly, her voice soft. “Sometimes, Eywa doesn’t ask for trust. She asks for faith.”

Lo’ak leaned back, looking between us with a sly grin. “Well, sounds like you’ve got a lot to think about, bro. Or maybe, you’re just scared of a tawtute girl.”

I shot him a glare, but Kiri nudged his arm before I could retort. “Leave him alone, Lo’ak,” she said, her tone amused but protective. “This isn’t something to joke about.”

Her gaze returned to me, her expression serious. “Whatever it is, Neteyam, trust that Eywa will reveal it in time. You’ll know what to do when the moment comes.”

And as the fire crackled between us, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of her words. Whether I was ready for it or not, my path—and hers—was no longer just my own.

In the days following the ambush, my thoughts lingered on her. I hadn’t told my parents yet. My father, Jake, carried enough weight on his shoulders. Every decision, every strategy, every skirmish—it was all for the survival of our people. He didn’t need my confusion about a single human clouding his focus. And my mother, Neytiri… she wouldn’t understand. Her hatred for the sky people ran deep, forged in blood and loss, and for good reason.

But I couldn’t ignore it.

One evening, I couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning in my marui,only to be kept awake by my own thoughts. I hated whenever this happened. When no position was comfortable,my skin felt on fire and I would get more annoyed and tired by the second. I got up and slowly made my way through the campgrounds,passing by people alike,lost in their dreams.

What I’d do to be in their place.

Calling for my ikran, I waited as she descended gracefully, her form blending seamlessly with the star-speckled sky. When she landed, I took a moment to rest my forehead against hers, finding comfort in her steady presence. Together, we soared into the night, the cool wind sweeping away some of the weight on my chest.

Our destination was inevitable: the remnants of Utraya Mokri.

Once, long before I was born, this was the site of the great Tree of Voices—a place of profound connection where our ancestors’ memories thrived. But during the war, the humans came and destroyed it, severing that sacred link. In its place, saplings had begun to grow, fragile yet persistent, spreading slowly across the scarred land. They shimmered now, soft bioluminescent light dancing in the dark. It was a bittersweet sight—proof of Eywa’s resilience, but also a reminder of what had been lost.

I landed and dismounted, walking to the center of the grove. The soil was cool beneath me as I sat cross-legged, surrounded by the glow of the saplings. Gently, I wrapped the tendrils of a sacred vine around my queue, seeking solace in even the faintest connection. It wasn’t strong enough to download memories or speak with the ancestors, but it was something—a tether to Eywa. And maybe, just maybe, she would hear me.

The connection came swiftly, a wave of warmth and calm coursing through me, easing the storm within. I closed my eyes, lowering my head.

“Great Mother,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Why her? Why a sky person?”

The forest seemed to exhale, its life humming softly around me. The glow of the saplings pulsed gently, as if in answer. I tried to silence my doubts, to push past the fear and confusion. My father had always told me to trust Eywa, even when her ways seemed inscrutable. But this... this felt different.

A memory surfaced unbidden—my father’s voice from years ago. He had been telling us about how Eywa had chosen him, a human, to unite the clans. “Eywa doesn’t see as we do, Neteyam,” he’d said. “She sees balance. Potential. She sees what we cannot.”

A force for balance,maybe. For something greater than I could comprehend.

The thought brought both comfort and unease. I opened my eyes to the glow of the saplings, their light steady and unyielding.

“Help me understand,” I murmured, my words barely audible. The forest around me thrummed once more, but no answer came—at least, not in words. Yet the stillness wasn’t empty. It carried something intangible, something that settled in my heart.

Perhaps the answer would come in time.For now, it would have to be enough.

The jungle was alive with its usual symphony of sounds—the distant calls of viperwolves, the rustle of leaves as a gust of wind swept through the trees. But my focus was razor-sharp, every movement of my body calculated as I followed the humans' trail.

Our scouts had reported another transport heading deeper into the forest, likely bringing more machines or weapons.My father had been clear: Observe, but do not engage. Watch, learn, and then strike if the time is right.

I crouched on a thick branch, hidden by the foliage, my bow resting lightly in my hand. Below me, the humans moved in a tight formation, their vehicles rumbling loudly and their voices carrying through the air. Among them, I saw her again.

She wasn’t dressed like a soldier. Her clothing was simpler, and she carried a small device in her hands, her gaze flicking between it and the terrain around her. She looked… out of place, as though she belonged somewhere quieter, somewhere far from the chaos of this world.

The same tug I’d felt during the ambush returned, stronger this time. But I forced it down.

She’s one of them.

And yet, I couldn’t look away.

We shadowed them for hours, moving through the trees as they trudged through the undergrowth. They stopped occasionally, setting up equipment and scanning the area. The girl seemed focused on whatever task she had been assigned,a small fierce nature in her body, but there was a tension in her posture, a hesitance in her movements.

As the group reached a clearing, my father’s voice came through the earpiece we used for communication.

“Pathfinder, fall back. Let them move on.Over.”

I hesitated. Something wasn’t right.

“Neteyam,” my father’s voice was firmer now. Shit. “Do you copy?”

“Yes,father.” I replied quietly. But I didn’t move.

The attack happened so fast, even I didn’t see it coming.

Viperwolves, drawn by the noise of the humans’ machines, erupted from the shadows. Their snarls shattered the fragile quiet, and the humans scrambled into action, shouting and firing their weapons. Chaos consumed the clearing, the air thick with smoke, fear, and violence.

And in the middle of it all, I saw her freeze.

Her wide eyes darted around, her body stiff as stone. She didn’t run, didn’t fight. Instead, she crouched low, pressing herself against a fallen log, trying to make herself invisible as the chaos surged around her.

I should’ve left. I should’ve followed my father’s orders, retreated into the safety of the trees. But the sight of her, small and vulnerable, anchored me in place. I couldn’t leave her.

Before I realized it, I was moving.

I landed silently behind her, my bow slung over my shoulder as I unsheathed my knife. The viperwolves hadn’t noticed her yet, but it wouldn’t be long before they caught her scent. I could see their noses twitching at the foreign human scent.

“Move,” I whispered, my voice low but firm.

She whipped around. For a moment, she didn’t react, her mouth opening slightly as if to say something. I could see it in her eyes. She recognized me.

“Holy shit,you–”

“Now!” I hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her up.

She stumbled but followed, her legs moving awkwardly as I led her away from the clearing. The sounds of gunfire and snarls faded as we put distance between ourselves and the fight.

The forest was eerily quiet now, the aftermath of the viperwolf attack leaving a tense stillness in the air. She stood there, staring at me with wide eyes, her breaths coming fast and shallow. I could see the tremor in her hands, the slight quake of her legs—fear, exhaustion, or both.

I didn’t know what I was doing. Eywa’s will tugged at me like a strong current, the memory of the atokirina circling her vivid in my mind.

I raised a hand to my throat comm, pressing it lightly as I spoke in Na’vi. “Eagle Eye, I have a situation,over.”

“Holy shit,dude!Where’d you disappear?Over-” My brother’s voice came through, laced with confusion. I figure he fled back with the others. “What’s going on?”

“I found that girl again. The one I told you about. I’m taking her back to camp. Go on without me.Over.” I said, my words clipped. I’ll never hear the end of it.

“What?” Lo’ak’s shock was evident, his voice rising. “Why would you—”

“I’ll explain later. Tell Father and Kiri to meet me. And be ready. Over and out.”

Before Lo’ak could respond, I cut the connection and turned back to the girl. Her gaze flicked between me and the trees, as if she was debating whether to run.

“You’re coming with me,” I said firmly.

Her brow furrowed. “What? No, I—”

I didn’t give her a chance to finish. Stepping forward, I grabbed her wrist—not hard, but enough to guide her—and began leading her through the trees,calling for my ikran. She struggled against my grip.

“Let go of me!Are you fucking insane?!Why did you–” she hissed.

“We need to move,” I said sharply,cutting her off. “The forest isn’t safe for you.”

“Yeah,no shit.” she bit back,panic present in her tone. Does she think I’m kidnapping her?

When my ikran came to us, the girl froze, her eyes widening at the sight of the massive, winged creature. It let out a low growl, its sharp eyes narrowing at her.

“No way,” she said, shaking her head. “I am not getting on that thing.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I said, swinging up onto the ikran’s back and reaching down for her.

She hesitated, but when the distant laugh of a viperwolf echoed through the trees, she grabbed my hand and let me pull her up. She’s so light.

“Hold on,” I said, guiding her arms around my waist.

She muttered something under her breath, but she obeyed.

With a sharp call, I urged my ikran into the air, the wind rushing past us as we soared above the forest.

The Hallelujah Mountains loomed ahead, their floating peaks glowing faintly in the evening light. I focused on the flight, trying to ignore the growing tension I felt with her pressed against my back.

It wasn’t until we began our descent toward the high base that she spoke.

“You think I don’t understand you?”

Her voice, so sudden, startled me. She was quiet the entire ride and now she speaks?

I twisted slightly to glance back at her, my eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“When you spoke earlier, in Na’vi. I understood you. You’re taking me back to...to torture me or what?!” she said, her tone biting,but I could sense the fear and tremble in her tone. Feisty little thing.

My heart skipped a beat. She understood? How?

“You speak my language?” I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief.

“You didn’t answer my question!” she snapped, her grip tightening on my waist as the ikran dipped slightly. Fuck,I’m getting lightheaded with the way her tiny hands grip my waist like that. “Why does it matter? Why am I here?”

I didn’t answer immediately. We landed on a wide platform near the high base, the soft thud of the ikran’s claws echoing against the rock. She climbed off quickly, putting distance between us as she glared at me. How do I even explain to her?

“Tell me,” she demanded, her voice rising. “Why did you take me? Why didn’t you just leave me there?”

I slid off the ikran, keeping my gaze steady on hers. “You would have died.”

“I could’ve handled it!” she said, her voice trembling with frustration. Yeah,right. Surely you would have handled dying,little tawtute. “I didn’t ask for your help!”

I took a step closer, my expression hard. “And yet,you were frozen. If I hadn’t acted, the viperwolves would have torn you apart.”

Her anger faltered, and she looked away, her fists clenching at her sides. “I didn’t need saving.”

“You don’t understand this world,” I said, my voice softening. “It’s not like Earth. It will kill you if you’re not careful.”

She looked back at me then, her eyes burning with a mix of anger and something else—something I couldn’t quite place.

“Then why not leave me there?Away from the attack.” she asked quietly. “Why take me with you?”

For a moment, I didn’t know how to answer. The truth was tangled up in feelings I didn’t fully understand myself—in the memory of the atokirina, in the way Eywa seemed to whisper through the forest that she was important. In the way I felt when I stared into her eyes.

“Because we need intel from inside the RDA. And you seemed like a good fit,you know. Small,feisty scientist who didn’t show any signs of a threat. ” I lied, the words slipping out before I could stop them,though I kept a certain amount of smugness in my teasing.

Her brows furrowed in confusion,almost as if she was…offended. “What are you talking about?”

I hesitated, debating how much to tell her. I pet my ikran before I started walking into a cave. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gosh,she’s so infuriating. Maybe I should have left her with the viperwolves. I turn around to her,simply cross my arms in defiance,towering over her small stature with a silent smirk. For a moment, she was observing, her gaze searching mine. I'm too stubborn to talk further. Plus,she's...pretty like this. She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” I said, a faint smile tugging at my lips. She’s got jokes,huh. I like that. “Takes one to know one.”

Her laughter faded, and she looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “What happens now?”

I straightened, my resolve hardening. “I…don’t know. We’ll figure it out once we get there.”

She didn’t argue this time. Instead, she simply nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly as if the fight had gone out of her.

“And for the record,I’m not going to torture you. We’re not barbarians.”

I heard a weak chuckle leave her lips as she followed behind me,and…it was a pretty sweet sound.

But I knew this was only the beginning. Whatever Eywa’s plan was, it had already begun.

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tartarusknight · 10 months ago

Text

Steve froze as the mind flayer came flying downwards at their group. He could hear Hopper yell for everyone to get down. Joyce and Jonathan running for Will. Steve who had been by both Robin and El, threw himself in front of them. Covering them the best he could. The mindflayer hit them with its smoke form and it was like nothing Steve had ever felt before. As is a tidal wave and a strong gust of wind mixed together to make you feel like you were drowning on land.

It settles around their feet for a moment before it began to swirl around all of them. Tendrils ran up Steve's leg but he didn't focus on that when there was one on El. The girl was the best shot to killing this thing. If she was taken now, they were fucked. So he battered them away from her as she did her best to get free of it's grips.

Only when Steve feels a tug, not on his leg or arm but like something tugged inside of him. Like someone had gotten a good grip on his intestines and pulled. Steve stumbled back his body going taught as he felt what felt like electricity running through his veins. His hand spasms and he drops the nail bat before his knees give out. Robin shouts his name and the last thing he sees before falling forward onto the ground is her outreached arms.

Steve feels nothing and everything at the same time. It makes it difficult to open his eyes but when he does, it's to an empty landscape. Like the Upside Down but... Just nature. It wasnt the creepy hell version of Hawkins but floating rocks and yellow lightning. The vines looked more like veins than slimy killers. And there was a form, made out of black particles flickering around. Silently he wishes that they could just have normal human problems to worry about. Instead of this.

As Steve stared, frozen to his spot, he could see it solidify into a spider like form before becoming something closer to a swarm of bees. It was the mindflayer. But it wasn't attacking like it had just been, it was just watching him. "King, help," the word isn't said but Steve hears it clear as day.

His brow furrows, "what?"

"King," it responds like he should understand. But he doesn't. "Help us, my king."

That word lost all meaning to him hears ago. From Tommy starting the nickname to the distain Steve could feel when Robin teased him with it. "You are called a king." It says and the pressure from it's words is like a pressure to his skull.

He winces and takes a step back, "that- I'm no king." But it doesn't seem to understand repeating the word once more. He feels at a lost, wishing someone else was here. He barely understood Will and El when they explained it wasn't the mindflayer attacking them, it was just Henry. That technically the mindflayer was just another puppet. Yet no one else is here. Wherever here is.

He feels dread light up his limbs and sighs. "Look, I haven't been called that in a long time. It basically-"

But the mindflayer cuts him off, "you are a king without a kingdom.” It's almost like a question but said like a demand.

"Sure, I guess. But I don't- what the fuck-" he screams, starting back as the smoke spirals down in front of him, looking smaller... But like a more condensed form. It almost looked solid if not for the wisps floating around it

"We need a king." The form flickers and it's like a living shadow.

"I'm not a king," Steve presses but as it takes a step forward, he scrambles further back until he trips on one of the many vines. As it reaches out, its hand catches him from falling. The fingers wrapped around his wrist are solid, almost warm against him.

"We need a ruler, a mind to melt us." The form is growing firmer the longer they stand here and Steve is lost. "you already are changing us." And if it can, it sounds amused.

"But- it was just a nickname. I'm not special." Steve splutters and the blackness of the smoak is changing. "I don't even know how to help you."

The grip on his wrist is completely solid and when Steve glances down, long human fingers are around his wrist. "Oh, my king, you're already helping us. Henry wanted us to strike fear in his enemies, he wanted an ally in his war, he wanted a beast. You just want to be free, for your friends to be safe, for me to be human. You desire a normalcy that you've lost," and the voice isn't pounding into Steve's skull but spoken like someone is speaking to him.

But Steve can look away from the hand around his wrist. "You desire for your friends to have a normal childhood, to have friends and play their games. You desire Robin to have another friend to confide in. You desire love," the voice is smooth and it would be relaxing if it weren't for the fact that it had been the fucking mindflayer a second ago. "My king, we can give it all to you," another hand moves and cups his cheek. Tilting him to look at a man with sparkling eyes and curly brown hair. As a smile formed on the man's face, a dimple formed to wink at Steve. "I think that it could be fun for both of us," the man grinned and Steve wasn't really sure what was happening anymore.

So I was trying around with this king Steve plot thingy after reading In Over My Head by staymagical (a wonderful fic if anyone's interested💞) but I had another actual idea of something like Venom (yes from spiderman) but more of... Well it was like Eddie somehow becomes Steve's shadow as in Eddie wasn't human. But I haven't gotten around to writing it yet. I might write a small clip like this with that premise tho. Anyways I combined the two ideas because I could and you got this. Hopefully it's at least an entertaining thought for ya 💞

#king steve #steve harrington #inhuman eddie munson #“monster” eddie munson #eddie munson #stranger things #eventual steddie #steddie #knightly talks #dont ask honestly

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nexiva · 3 months ago

Text

You made me hate you

Part 4

Bucky x reader

Warnings: ok now they really hate each other, really angsty part and a lot of swearing (again)

Summary: A not so nice morning in the kitchen with Sam and Bucky

A/N: I couldn’t wait any longer haha so enjoy this part :)

Masterlist

Five months. Five months of avoiding each other like the plague. And when we do run into each other? Jesus Christ, even Captain America himself would bolt from the room.

Barnes has gotten a little more… how do I put it? Confident. In the wrong way. About three months ago, he was still trying to talk to me, still trying to convince me—just like everyone else. But I wouldn’t give in. I would never forgive him. Maybe after all this time, it seems childish, but I didn’t care. I stood firmly on my ground.

And once everyone realized I wasn’t going to change my mind, that’s when things started heating up. Barnes was starting to get so cocky. The worse my remarks got, the more he started snapping back at me. I could see I was driving him insane—not that it was my intention. I just didn’t want to see him. But since he was already there, I couldn’t stop myself from throwing sharp comments his way. Until, finally, he had enough and started fighting back.

“Fuck, Sam, I swear I tried everything. But she wouldn’t even let me get a word in. I’m so done with this. Guess some amends just can’t be made.”

I walked into the kitchen with every intention of ignoring Barnes and making myself a great breakfast. “Morning, Wilson.” “Hey, Y/L/N.”

I could tell Sam was uncomfortable, but that didn’t stop him from asking a stupid question. “So, Bucky and I were about to go for a run. Do you wanna join us?”

Oh God. Pathetic.

Barnes practically choked on his coffee, barely stopping himself from suffocating (what a shame that would be).

“If I were you, I wouldn’t let him outside. He might ‘accidentally’ run over someone and then claim he was forced to do it.”

Oh, I knew that one was going to hurt. But it rolled off my tongue so sweetly that I couldn’t stop myself.

Barnes threw his cup against the wall. Sam flinched slightly.

“You are a cunt, you know that?”

Bucky stepped closer like he was about to throw hands. I got up immediately.

“What? You gonna kill me too now? Finally finish collecting the whole family, asshole?”

And he just stared.

Nothingness in his eyes.

I wanted it to hurt. I wanted him to feel exactly the way I did. But strangely, there was no satisfaction in seeing him suffer. It wasn’t as enjoyable as I had imagined. So much time had passed, my rage had only grown, and yet… I couldn’t put a name to that stupid feeling inside me. Oh no, it definitely wasn’t sympathy or guilt—it was just exhausting.

For the first time, I saw something in his eyes. Fear?

I didn’t care to figure it out. Not at that moment.

“Fuck you,” was all he said before leaving the kitchen.

I sat down with a small smirk but also with a hint of uncertainty (hopefully, it didn’t show).

“Um, so that went well?”

Sam, not knowing what else to do, sat down with me.

“Y/N, aren’t you tired of this?”

The bastard could actually read my mind sometimes.

“Despite everything, you two have a lot in common. He was under HYDRA, you had NEXUS. You really should—”

I couldn’t listen to him any longer.

“Despite everything? You mean the fact that he killed my sister? And HYDRA? NEXUS? We have nothing in common. I never killed anyone for someone else. No one ever controlled me like some brainless puppet!”

“Because Fury saved you! You little brat! You think you wouldn’t have done the same as him if Nick hadn’t stepped in?”

Silence.

A long, awkward silence.

I had no idea how to respond. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to admit he was right—even if he was.

“I wonder if you’d say the same thing about him if Fury hadn’t shown up back then. You need to get it together, Y/N, because everyone is tired of your shit.”

Sam stood up, looked at me, and walked out.

I couldn’t admit he was right. I couldn’t get rid of the fog in my head. That horrible memory.

I refused to back down.

The kitchen felt emptier than before.

Sam’s words hung in the air like a goddamn storm cloud, suffocating me, pressing against my chest. "Everyone is tired of your shit."

I clenched my fists. Fuck him. Fuck them all. They didn’t get it. They weren’t the ones who had to wake up every morning and remember that someone ripped their soul apart like it was nothing. They weren’t the ones who had to stand in the same room as the murderer and pretend like he was just another member of the goddamn team.

I grabbed a piece of toast and took a slow bite, staring at the shattered ceramic from Bucky’s cup still lying on the floor. Someone else could clean it up. I wasn’t going to.

The compound was quiet now, except for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside. I let myself breathe. But my hands were still shaking.

Then I heard it—the door slamming shut.

I exhaled through my nose, already knowing who it was.

“What the fuck do you want now, Barnes?”

Silence.

I turned my head slightly, and there he was, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t cooled down one bit since storming out of here a few minutes ago.

“I’m not done talking.”

I let out a dry laugh. “That’s funny, I could’ve sworn you told Sam you were done trying.”

His nostrils flared. Good. I wanted him angry. I wanted him to feel something.

He took a step forward. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Y/N.”

I shot him a look. “Oh, I don’t? Enlighten me. Please.”

His eyes darkened. “You think you’re the only one who lost someone? You think you’re the only one who wakes up every day hating the person in the mirror?”

That caught me off guard. For a second. But I didn’t let it show.

“The difference between us, Winter Soldier?” I stood up, stepping closer until there were just inches between us. “I lost my family. You were the one pulling the goddamn trigger.”

He swallowed hard. I saw his fingers twitch—just slightly. Like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. Or grab something. Maybe grab me.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let out a bitter chuckle and looked down.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was lower now. Tighter. “Every goddamn day, I think about the people I killed. I hear them screaming in my fucking head. And you?” He shook his head, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “You don’t even want revenge anymore. You just want something to be angry at.”

I stiffened.

He saw it. He fucking saw it, and I hated him for it.

“Go to hell, Barnes.”

His lips curled into a humorless smirk. “Already been there, sweetheart.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving me standing there, fists clenched, pulse racing, and for the first time in a long time—completely speechless.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #enemies to lovers #slow burn #marvel #the avengers #white wolf #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #sam wilson #captain america #i hate everything #i hate this #winter soldier #soldat #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x y/n

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wilwheaton · 1 year ago

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I live in Philly and it's been extremely frustrating with Fetterman...He pretended to be like one of us and made these big promises of unity and support. And now it feels like we just got Doctor Oz.

Politicians do this thing where they allow us to fill in some details on our own, and don't correct us if they aren't exactly matching up with what they believe. I do believe that Fetterman is sincerely progressive, and that he sincerely cares about doing right by the people who elected him. So he lets us paint him as super progressive, when he's actually closer to ... whatever passes for the middle today. Less progressive, but still progressive, I guess.

I have always felt that it's okay to be disappointed with people who generally support our goals and work to advance them, even if we have an extremely strong difference of opinion on one or more issues. Remember that voting is a bus that gets you closer to your ultimate goal, and while we may disagree on the route we take, it's so much better that we are going in the same direction, instead of into the fucking nightmare mines of terror and Trumpism.

That said, with this remark, Fetterman just ... it's such a fucking Privileged White Guy move, you know? Totally unnecessary, feeds a narrative that is ultimately hurtful to all of our shared goals, and is just gross. Like I said, deeply disappointing. I hope that someone close to him can get his ear and ask him to think about the larger consequences of degrading his House colleagues with a hot take for some clout. I hope that the guy I supported in the election would listen and take it to heart.

But even if he doesn't, we still agree on so much, including the preservation of democracy -- which is genuinely in danger for the first time in my fifty one years on this planet. We agree on the equal rights amendment. We agree on protecting trans kids and ensuring that everyone has ultimate control over their own bodies, including people who can become pregnant.

This tweet is gross and offensive, for sure. His position on campus protests is morally bankrupt, I believe, and I think he's on the wrong side of history there, to say nothing of the human rights implications.

But Oz would have been unfathomably terrible for Philly, Pennsylvania, America, and the world. Oz is a chaos agent, an incompetent, effete, empty suit. He would be a puppet and a vote for the end of America as we know it, and he would do everything he could to stop all those things I mentioned Fetterman and I care about from ever becoming law.

This is a lot of words to say that I hear you, and I share your disappointment, and I'd rather be disappointed with Fetterman than facing the consequences of Oz.

Fetterman is someone we can work with, and if we can endure the bullshit of people like Manchin and Lieberman, we can absolutely withstand disappointment with Fetterman, who still votes in support of our progressive, Democratic, priorities.

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fuji-sen · 6 months ago

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Hello I was wondering if you could write some scenarios for some hsr men, if you've ever watched Inuyasha and seen Kagome telling him to sit I was imagining that the reader could do that too, I don't really have any specific characters in mind but if you could please include Boothill because ngl that'd be insanely funny, if you're not comfortable with writing this that's completely alright and I wish you a good morning/afternoon or goodnight ☺️

HONKAI STAR RAIL ; "Sit down!" Headcanon.

credit: from pinterest, Sorry this was criminally and unfashionably late!

synopsis; x reader headcanons and scenarios. Based on the request above. characters: Boothill, ft. Herta, Trailblazer, Asta. (longer than the rest since this was the one mainly requested, whipped Boothill.) Argenti, ft. boothill (slight jealousy from reader. third wheeling Boothill.) Jing Yuan, ft. Yanqing (Yanqing being like you and Jing Yuan's son, mentions of Yunli, post Wardance trailblaze continuance quest.)

🦈 It was just your average day in the Herta Space Station, sure there were explosions from tests and experiments, as well as the constant frolicking of the creations left by one of the genius members that resembled numerous real life characters, but those were all the normal.

🦈 well I lied, today wasn't 100% normal. Not with a very much wanted space cowboy swearing up a storm, was it swearing? considering the numerous censorship bugs programmed into him?

🦈 "I swear to fudge, something is definitely mother-fudging wrong with me!" the said top most wanted guy by the IPC expressed.

🦈 Herta, or one of her puppets looked at him with a frown and almost indifferent expression. She scoffed, offended at the suggestion that her check-up missed something. "The only thing wrong with you is your language module. I did not see any other bugs on you that explained your interesting circumstances."

🦈 "Then you're wrong little missy! how else can we explain this!" he waved his arms which did nothing to helped the trailblazer who had returned to Herta's lab having finished their Divergent Universe farming.

🦈 #83 of the genius society ignored the metal cowboy, "Trailblazer, how dare you bring him here?"

🦈 The trailblazer had simply organized a discreet meeting with the wanted Galaxy Ranger and someone who could help with his so called problem.

🦈 "Hey! I was just the messenger here, I don't even know what's happening." The gray haired trailblazer raised their hands up in defense.

🦈 "I guess i should tell you, but I swear if you tell anybody" Boothill ended up making a heart with his hands, (he was planning to do the neck slitting gesture) ". . . don't fudging point it out."

🦈 "fine, call Asta or whoever for another perspective." Herta sighed, waving her hand dismissively at the duo.

🦈 and so Boothill became to recount what had happened that caused him to ask for this meeting with, in his words 'motherfucking sons of a nice lady geniuses'

"Good" and you smiled. And like a well trained dog or a well made clock, he moved as instructed. Body turning quickly and making quick strides as he sat down on the seat in front of you."I swear you muddle-fudger, I'll make you choke on your own shirtballs if you don't walk away right now!" Your partner was practically barring his teeth at the guy who decided to make an unwanted comment towards you. The two of you were in one of the few areas he could stay at without the IPC coming to hound him, at least not as quick. It was a bar really, shady as it was, it was decent compared to the other places you went with the ranger. The poor man was shaking at his knees like a newborn deer. He'd probably pee on the spot by now which made you feel sorry. "Boothill." "Hold on sweetie," the black and white haired male said, stepping closer and closer to the frozen male "let me just deal with this son of a really really nice lady." Any other day you'd have root him considering the man did deserve it, but time was precious with a wanted man like him and you wanted to spend it by eating and chatting rather than watched him terrorized some bigot. "Boothill." "Patience Sweetie." his hand was hovering above his gun, his precious and most trusted ally. Other than you of course. "Let me just. ." "Boothill, sit down." you sighed, fingers tapping on the table.

🦈 "See! I bet one of those fudging IPC shirtballs messed with my synthesia beacon again!"

🦈 the ranger was met with silence, the trailblazer looking at him with disgust (jealousy and disgust at being third wheel with just a story), the pink haired chick feeling embarrassed and Herta looking extremely disappointed, like she was looking at someone stupid.

"er..." The trailblaizer coughed, looking away.

Herta had straight up turned around and left the lab.

Asta then helpfully suggested "I think you're just whipped for [name]."

🦈 Boothill then just kinda accepts that you have a strong hold on him, he had been worried it was honestly because of someone tampering with his synthesia beacon again but now knowing it was all because of you, and his feelings for you, he's accepted it, and even flaunt it sometimes.

🦈 of course at the start he'd be pouty if you do it in front of his enemies. "C'mon sweetie, you gotta stop doing that in front of those fudgers! I have a reputation to uphold"

🦈 but he then kinda remembers, he can just kill anyone who gives him crap about it. Plus he loves flexing that he, a very much dangerous and wanted man, is in a very healthy and committed relationship that his enemies could only dream of.

🦈 like saying,, "the only one who can boss me around like that is [name]! not some fudging shirtball!"

🌹 being with Argenti, is sometimes like babysitting a kid. Argenti is a knight of beauty, a devoted follower of Idrila. Perhaps it was the way of the knight, or simply being himself. But he was and is always an admirer of beauty.

🌹 the rose colored haired knight would often become distracted when something beautiful catches his eyes, be it a plant, or a sign, a particular poster or a person, you'd often find him no longer by your side on days you'd decide to walk around or travel together.

🌹 often times you find it amusing, humoring him as you listened to his rambles. sometimes a part of you couldn't help but be saddened or disappointed at how easily he could pull away from you.

🌹 the two of you found yourself in Penacony. Penacony was crafted and built to be a dreamland for most, due to the hardwork of the creators and the dreamweavers, it was no doubt beautiful. Like a bustling city filled with dreams and creativity.

🌹 your partner seemed to agree as his eyes glanced at every other direction but you.

🌹 "he's like a kid on a fudging sugar rush." Boothill who you had bumped into had joined you, watching how your partner seemed to be currently drawn in by some origami birds who were soaking up his compliments.

🌹 "I know" your short response had a salty tone that was beginning to build up, one that the ranger could easily pick up on. "Woah there lady, I'm sensing some aggression."

🌹 you glared at him, not appreciating his teases as he grinned, showing off his sharp teeth.

🌹 his eyes glanced at Argenti once again, "you want that knight's attention right?" you didn't have to answer because he knew, so he gestured for you to sit down at the nearby cafe "why don't you tell him to sit down."

🌹"he's in one of his admiring beauty moods, I don't wanna bother him." you said, taking a menu from the waiter, Boothill remained standing, "Trust me, that knight's going to sit down as soon as you tell him too."

🌹you looked at him skeptically, "nothing hurts with trying." he shrugged. Sighing, you decided he was right as you turned to Argenti, calling him with a wave of an arm.

🌹"Yes beloved?" he asked turning away from the origami birds that fluttered off, perhaps returning to their nests amongst the others.

🌹You gestured to the seat beside you, "why don't you sit down?" "Of course!" You blinked, he had disappeared from sight, and you only turned, hearing the sound of a chair being pulled up.

🌹Argenti had taken the seat you had gestured to with speed rivalling that of the hunt. "Is there anything you want love?" he asked, eyes finally gazing upon you.

🌹your cheeks begin to flush a rosy pink, as you smiled.

bloopers another chair had been pulled back, as feet were put up the table. "Now how about we start ordering, I'm famished." "Oh you don't say?" your smile twitched as Boothill flashed you a grin. Of course he'd third wheel you and your dear partner.

⚡being one of the generals of the Xianzhou Alliance, there were very few who could probably order Jing Yuan around on the Luofu. Those he was familiar with could, or those who were more serious like Master Diviner Fu Xuan made a few comments or suggestions time to time that the Arbiter-General followed.

⚡ Still, for Yanqing, it was hard to imagine someone being able to make the dozing General do something. Well until now that is,

⚡When even the advisors or the Master Diviner failed or gave up in, there you were, easily making the General do something with a surge of energy never seen before, only with a few words.

⚡ Now, the young boy was trying to find his master, his teacher, who seemed to have escaped his office to do something else. Perhaps doze off or sleep, or even play chess with the other natives.

⚡ next thing he knew, he had come across you and Jing Yuan on the way back. "Please finish your work." you'd said and he'd sit down and finish all of the paperwork for that day, he'd rarely slouch or doze off as his usual sleepy and relaxed looking eyes look sharp as if he was staring at a prey.

⚡ that was a few days ago, now Jing Yuan was now training Yanqing, it was probably reaching dark soon but the both showed no signs of stopping. The younger of the duo felt like his knees were ready to give in, but he persisted as he gripped his sword tighter.

⚡ "Boys come sit down! I prepared some snacks!" and then you arrived, with trays of food and drinks you balanced with ease. "Just a min-" "Alright dear." Jing Yuan smiled softly, lowering his weapon and the lightning lord disappearing.

⚡ "Come on Yanqing," he offered his hand to the younger boy, and he took it. Both of their hands were sweaty and covered in callouses but they didn't mind as the duo walked towards you.

⚡ "it's good that I came. It looks like Yanqing's about to collapse." You'd say, bringing out a handkerchief as you began to wipe the dirt away from the younger boy's face.

⚡ "I could handle it!" he pouted.

⚡ Chuckling you kissed his forehead "sure you can, but at least have some snacks, You two missed dinner." "Thank you my dear," The general came and placed kisses all over your face.

⚡ "Of course, anything for my two boys. Now sit down and eat." you chided and Yanqing watched as his mentor took a seat on the plush cushion you had also prepared.

⚡ You'd soon leave, thinking that the food wasn't enough and promising to bring more, their favorites. Yanqing then asked, "Master, why do you listen to her? you know you don't have to."

⚡ "I know." Jing yuan took a sip of the tea you had prepared, perfect as always. "I want to."

⚡ Yanqing was confused, "why?" he curiously asked. "I understand in the domestic setting, but even in work she tells you what to do, and you do it. But your the general of the luofu. ."

⚡ The General wasn't offended or upset by his questions, if anything he seemed amused and delighted he had asked as he began to answer in a soft tone, softer than his usual tone that he'd use every day.

⚡ "It is because I don't have to, that I do. My feelings for [ name ] are sincere and passionate. Even if I have the higher position than her, or even if I was stronger. I listen to her because she is my equal. She is the person whom holds the most power over me."

⚡ Still Yanqing seemed confused. Unable to quickly process his answer. And then you had came, and he decided to not press on. Thinking it was rude to ask in front of you.

⚡ "Perhaps in the future you'll find that someone, and then you'll understand."

⚡ "someone?" you curiously looked at the two of them, but as Jing Yuan shook his head, you decided it was better not to ask. "Ah by the way, I received word from the advisors, it seems like Yunli is going to participate in upcoming war dance."

⚡ "really?" Yanqing looked up, asking while his mouth was full of food.

⚡ 'perhaps he had already found that someone', Jing Yuan shared a knowing look with you.

divider credits: @enchanthings

It was hard to think of other characters that worked well with this idea. Boothill was kinda funny, but I think theres an underlying trauma or like worry of someone tampering with his syntesia beacon again without permission.

Argenti, he's a gentleman but I kinda think with how he's an admirer of beauty I think he'd really be like a kid with an attention span of one that you'd have to call him over a couple of times to get him to focus.

Meanwhile Jing Yuan kinda strayed far from the idea with Inuyasha and Kagome since Jing Yuan is known as the dozing general, it'd be more rare to find him out of the chair or somewhere since he's usually lounging.

So really, Boothill was the most accurate to the request, then it goes farther away from Argenti and Jing Yuan HAHAHAH Still I hope Anonymous is pleased with this.

#fuji-sen #fuji-sen everything #fuji-sen works #fuji-sen hsr #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr boothill #hsr argenti #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan #boothill #argenti

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servant-of-circe · 3 months ago

Text

"..."

"You may speak"

"..."

"Freely. This is an introduction, you may act as usual"

"OH THANK THE GODS-"

"Hello, my dear, brave, soldiers. My name is Circe"

"Uh- shit, I suck at introductions. My name is Antinous of Ithaca Aeaea"

"I noticed quite a few people I know have been here lately, so I wanted to join for fun. And Antinous has been such a good servant lately, so I'm allowing him to share this blog with me! Won't this be fun, Antinous?"

"Get me the fuck out of here- I mean, YEAH. LOT'S OF FUN, MISS CIRCE."

QnA:

Name?

"Antinous of Aeaea."

Age?

"I'm 33 right now..."

Why are you the Servant of Circe

"Some dumb devine intervention the gods gave me. Better than being killed by Ithaca's old king, I guess."

Has Circe hurt you?

"She cannot physically attack me thanks to our agreement, probably the only good thing the gods have done for me!"

Name?

"Circe, daughter of Helios."

Age?

"Older than you."

How do you feel about Antinous?

"An absolute coward now, but the asshole was so fucking cocky when I met him. He stands for everything I hate and I HATE the gods for not letting me turn the bastard into a pig the moment I laid eyes on him."

Is he afraid of you?

"He better."

________________

AU INFORMATION:

An AU taking place after EPIC. Antinous is saved by a god [I won't say which yet] and wakes up in Aeaea, much to Circe's disgust

The two are extremely annoyed after being informed that Antinous will be the Eternal Servant of Circe for as long as the Gods make him do so.

Antinous is relatively the same, but he's scared. He can't risk angering his Goddess, and he knows something bad could happen if he spoke out of line.

Antinous, for once, is finally being Held Down.

Circe and Antinous are as opposite as opposites could go, the two standing for everything the other despises. They'll obviously grow a bit closer as the blog continues! But they'll start off despising each other

________________

Antinous and Circe will reply with Doodles instead of regular text, like this:

The reason is just because I wanted to be Inspired by old Tumblr blogs from 2015-2018

I may respond with text a lot, but I'll try my best to add Doodles when I can!

________________

Tags:

Come Inside: 🥀 - Answered Asks

The World's Greatest Actor: 💋 - Antinous' facad

Despises their new form: 🫀 - Facad fades

Puppet Boy: 🍾 - Circe manipulates

If you're weird, You're weak: 🗡 - Angst

If the World was Ending: ❤️‍🔥 - Antinous and Circe aren't Assholes

Too Sweet for Me: 🍷 - Romantic interaction

Mother knows best: ⚜️ - Circe and Antinous

I love the way you Kiss me:⚱️- Antinous and Eurymachus

I can't help but wonder: 🪻 - Telegonus

S(he) looks perfect: 🌺 - fluff

____________

Blogs they know:

@r3dvip3r4 - Eurymachus. "Antinous' boyfriend. "HE IS NOT"

@isl4ndl0v3 - Calypso. "She's pretty..." "and you're ugly."

@sunflower-azura - "My sister, I think???"

__________

Characters you can interract with:

Circe

Antinous

Telegonus

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lets-try-some-writing · 7 months ago

Note

Death Korps and Warframes has my interest, honestly. Days of Old is up there too, ngl.

Though, Warframes would be a very interesting thing to read.

Considering I got an ask for Warframes, imma roll with Death Korps and write a little something for it :)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

"What do we know about this Prime?" Megatron sat back in his chair, finally restored to proper functionality. He'd looked into the Prime briefly before, while he was still little more than a processor hooked up to the abominable scientist's machinery. But at the time he hadn't bothered to look much deeper. All the Primes were the same, each of them fanatical soldiers until the end.

At least, that was how it worked when he still ruled over his Decepticons eons ago. Looking at this Prime though, it seemed Ultra Magnus and his Council had gone out of their way to adjust the program to make their puppets.

"Optimus Prime was originally a dock worker, low caste." Strika, his most loyal general, adjusted the screen in front of him to show images of the young Prime when he was but a newbuild. The Optimus shown in the image was doe eyed, bright and smiling. He had the roundness of the newly framed, his protoform still tinted blue to denote his inexperience. Exposure would dull the coloration eventually, thus indicating that he must have been less than a century of age when the initial image was taken.

"His records state that he was taken in by the Academy sometime after his first century." New pictures projected themselves, showing a young and impressionable Optimus standing in line with dozens of other recruits. They all looked terrified, as was only right. Megatron could only guess as to what torment they were put through in order to turn them into the Primes the survivors eventually became.

"He was unusually optimistic when it came to Decepticon ideals and thought processes, earning him his designation of 'Optimus'." More images, each showing Optimus's training. The youngling in the images looked determined, but terrified. A video even played at one point, showing Optimus running for dear life and pausing to help one of his fellows before getting hit for it.

Slagging Autobots. They beat empathy out of their youth before they even had time to learn what caring for others meant. It was no wonder they threw lives around like scrap metal. To them, it must not have mattered.

"He was apparently beaten quite severely for daring to side with our thought processes, my Lord." Strika huffed. Megatron fought the urge to do the same. What sane nation shut down freedom of thought? Optimus could have been quite the speaker, a freedom fighter. His records indicated that he was startlingly intelligent, and based on what combat Megatron had witnessed, his current battle prowess was nothing to scoff at. And yet here he was, a Prime.

"He developed and extraordinary bitterness toward our cause due to the abuse. This sped along his indoctrination." Another series of videos played, each showing Optimus's progression into the Primely patterns Megatron was familiar with. Long sessions of indoctrination with the Primes in training all kneeling as they were preached to. The Primes rushing across landmines and other hazards, learning to disregard pain and each other for that matter. Sparring sessions that were closer to death matches than anything else. Weapons training with every Prime being meticulously assisted in finding their niche...

The images of Optimus were brutal. He went from smiles and laughter to grim brutality. He seemed to still hate every cut he inflicted, but his optics blazed with rage as he learned to use an axe. He seemed haunted, and many of the pictures showed him covered in energon, be it his own or another's. He never looked happy, and as time wore on, his frame became darker, grayer even, almost corpse like save for the blue and red. He stood at perfect attention in one image, his optics a solid blue without the barest hint of cycling or emotion.

Beside him, two comrades stood. Sentinel Prime and Elita-One, a trainee who never made it through the Academy. Both seemed just as vicious. Where Optimus was stoic, Sentinel practically frothed at the mouth. Elita for her part seemed ecstatic, thrilled to fight.

"Optimus was part of an experimental Prime program meant to group Primes up into 'trines' like our seekers. It fell through after the death of the one called Elita and the subsequent fallout between Optimus and his remaining comrade." Strika informed him calmly. Megatron hummed in response.

Primes, according to him memory, were solitary creatures. They were trained to be brutal death machines. When they were deployed, it was to end something, not to claim data or otherwise act subtly. They often fought one another when they interacted outside of formal setting, usually until one of the duo died. Competitive, cruel, and dogged in their loyalty, Primes were practically feral.

This was new. From the looks of it, the Autobots had refined the technique and created more intelligent creatures. That much was obvious just from seeing Optimus's face. The Primes Megatron knew from his reign were so brainwashed they hardly had a personality, much less self control. The one called Elita and Sentinel Prime matched the appearance and disposition of Primes Megatron knew far closer than Optimus. He must have been quite intelligent even after his indoctrination.

The fallout situation was likely caused by Sentinel, based on the images. He seemed more by the books, and likely killed Elita in sheer jealousy. Megatron simply couldn't see such behavior coming from Optimus considering the fact that he had proven himself capable of caring for his team.

"He was exiled after the death of Elita-One. Supposedly, it was punishment for trying to murder Sentinel Prime on top of losing his comrade." How fascinating...

A final image appeared on screen, and this one caught Megatron's interest.

Optimus stood before a jury, still perfectly composed, almost unemotive. And yet burning in his optics was rage. Carefully controlled rage. He was covered in scars, heavily armed, and ready for war. Yet he didn't flail or fight as he was condemned. A video that played following the image showed him expertly directing his team, a group of dropouts and other undesirables. He was tactful, calculating... and most importantly.

"He didn't kill my Decepticons when he had the chance." He mused aloud, earning an agreeing sound from Strika.

He could use this.

Primes were special units, each given access to highly sensitive data since each was essentially a General. Up until his exile, Optimus was very well regarded. He had to have information. And more than that, his disposition was intriguing. It was possible Megatron might be able to speak to him, and in turn learn far more about the Autobots than he'd had the chance to uncover in millennia.

This could be his key to victory.

"They didn't appreciate you, Optimus Prime. But I most certainly will... once I change your mind about who to offer your service to." Megatron grinned, a laugh bubbling in his throat as he imagined the possibilities.

Now all he had to do was convince-

"DIE DECEPTICON SCUM!"

An axe came flying at his helm, one that Megatron narrowly dodged as he used his blade to block a flurry of frantic attacks from the smaller Autobot before him. Optimus had somehow managed to rig himself a makeshift jetpack, and by the Allspark, he would have been a deadly seeker if he were born a warframe.

"Autobot, you have been cast off. Why do you still serve?" He attempted to speak amidst the chaos of combat, but Optimus was simply too fast for him to properly track. The smaller bot flew between his legs, coming up behind him with a harpoon gun ready to strike. Megatron deflected the attack, but not before Optimus swung at him, throwing his jetpack into his face.

He screamed as the makeshift tool exploded, temporarily blinding him. Optimus was quick to press the advantage, flying at Megatron's legs with his axe.

"Enough!" He grabbed the smaller bot before Optimus could do any more harm, holding him tight enough to dent. Optimus, of course, squirmed. But his team who rushed to help quickly came to a halt, not wanting their leader to be damaged.

"You have been abandoned, Optimus Prime. I've read your records and seen your devotion. It is wasted on the Autobots. They do not care for you, nor do they fight for freedom and peace." Optimus continued to squirm, his optics bright with anger. The other Autobots called out in disagreement, but Megatron simply watched as the Prime in his grasp met his gaze with those oh so calculating optics.

He was listening, even if he didn't show it.

"You want to fight for something greater than yourself. A truth worthy of your devotion." He paused, watching as Optimus stilled a degree.

Good. Very good.

"My Decepticons are fighting to free all of Cybertronian kind. We want to create a home where we can all live in peace." He stressed the last word, noting the reaction it got from the Prime in his grasp. Optimus scowled, the first real reaction aside from sheer bloodlust he'd earned throughout their entire interaction.

"You are traitors who abandoned and betrayed Cybertron." Megatron fought the urge to roll his optics as he squeezed just a bit tighter to make his point.

"We betrayed the Council who sought to enslave us." Looking up, the Autobot medic seemed to agree with his words. The ninja appeared to be of similar mind. They all knew the truth, they were simply too afraid to say it out loud.

"We broke free of our chains." He met Optimus's gaze once more, noting the slight widening of them.

"We can help you do so too." Megatron smiled, and for the first time since he'd met the Prime, Optimus's face betrayed something true.

He showed interest.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers animated #tfa optimus prime #tfa megatron #tfa strika #tfa au #alternate universe #short fic #Death Korps au

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ckret2 · 2 years ago

Text

At long last, we get to see: this moment.

Chapter 11 of Human Bill Being The Mystery Shack's Hella Depressed Prisoner, featuring: Mabel giving Bill a ✨beautiful makeover✨—and Stan and Ford almost dying from laughter. And thus begins Bill & Mabel's inevitable befriending. Previous chapters here! 1/16/2025, now edited for TBOB compatibility!

####

Every time Mabel had to use the stairs, she paused to look at Bill sitting in his window.

He never seemed to move.

A few days ago, it was creepy. Now, it was just kind of sad.

Last year, after Mabel and Dipper's parents had heard the whole story about their summer, they'd immediately dragged the twins with them to their family therapist. (They had to switch therapists a few times before they found one who would engage with their barely-averted-apocalypse story at face value rather than search for the root of these "delusions.")

Mabel didn't think she needed all that—the end of the world hadn't been that scary, and honestly she'd missed most of it partying in her prison bubble, it wasn't like she was having puppet nightmares and stuff like Dipper—but whatever, it made their parents feel better.

At their current therapist's office, before each appointment, Dipper and Mabel had to fill out checklists that they gathered were to measure whether they'd come down with a case of depression—Please read the following statements and circle the word that shows how often they happen to you. Never, sometimes, often, always.

She'd filled out these things so many times that she could practically recite the list of statements by memory. Nothing feels very fun anymore. I have problems with my appetite. I have trouble sleeping. I have no energy for things. I feel like I don't want to move.

Far be it from her to try to diagnose an evil demon monster space triangle who'd tried to murder everybody she knew, but. Well. You know. Sitting curled up alone, day after night after day, barely moving, barely talking, barely eating, waiting for nothing at all... Yikes. She could only guess how he'd answer statements like I feel empty and sad or I feel worthless.

In Mabel's mind, there was a piece of paper. On that piece of paper were the faces of everyone currently living in the shack. Herself, Dipper, Waddles, Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford, Soos, Abuelita, Gompers even though he lived outside, and Melody as an honorary part-time resident. Next to each of their faces, there was a sticker, reflecting their current overall mood. Right now, everyone had either a happy face or a flat-mouthed neutral face—not bad, but could be better.

As she looked at Bill, she mentally promoted him at last from "entity haunting the attic" to "temporary resident." She added his face to her imaginary paper. And she slapped a big blue crying sticker next to it.

She wouldn't stand for that. Not even from him. Not under her roof.

####

Today, Bill wasn't in his usual window seat. He'd elected to curl up in a corner of the attic, hiding in the shadows with his stolen blanket. The window was probably too hot. Mabel typically used acrylic yarn, and she knew from experience how quickly Sweater Town could turn into Sweaty Town.

For the first time, Mabel sauntered, quite casually, across the invisible barrier separating the rest of the attic from Bill's nest. She offered her winningest smile and her cheerfullest, "Hey, Bill!"

The Thing Beneath The Blanket gave her a look that, she suspected, could probably be described as deeply suspicious. "Shooting Star."

"Yup! Haha! That's—that's me all right! You got me." Mabel laughed. (This was going great so far. This was very natural.) "So, anyway!" She grabbed one of the couch cushions Bill had been using as a bed, dragged it a little closer to the corner, and plopped down. "This is such a weird coincidence, but one time, I got gum stuck in my hair and had to shave it off! I mean, crazy, right?"

"Uh huh." Bill didn't sound impressed. "Second grade." (And Mabel was uncomfortably reminded of the first time she'd ever seen Bill, the way hundreds of faces and places and memories that didn't belong to him had flashed across his body in seconds: I know lots of things.) "Hey, since you brought it up, can I ask you something about that little incident?"

"Uh..." This was what you signed up for, Mabel. You volunteered for a conversation with Bill. You've gotta converse. "Sure, I guess."

He leaned forward, yarn triangle face looming above her. "Did getting gum in your hair change your species? Did you still look like yourself when you shaved it off?" The face bobbed as he pantomiming looking her up and down. "You still look human to me! So what's your point."

Okay, so he'd immediately recognized she was trying to relate to him, aaand he was landmining their common ground. Great start. "Jeez, don't be so mean! I'm trying to tell you I get it. Not... the species part, but the other part. I wanna help!"

Bill scoffed. "Sure you do."

"Really!"

"Why?"

"Because you're all sad and it's making me sad."

Bill, o wise and ancient being that he was, knew of "empathy" in a conceptual sense. He was aware that it was a thing that happened to some people. He even knew that it was common among humans. But on some level he kinda sorta felt like it only really happened to mindreaders that didn't know how to establish proper psychic boundaries. He laughed in Mabel's face. "No, seriously! What are you getting out of this."

Mabel decided she had no interest in explaining compassion to an alien mass murderer. "Okay, I want Soos's blanket back. I gave it to him, not you."

"Fine. If you want his blanket back, make me one."

"What? No! Those are our Team Zodiac-That-Defeated-You blankets, you don't get one."

"Didn't you make one for everybody else on the wheel? I'm on the wheel, aren't I?" He pointed at his face. "Bam! There I am, right in the middle! Star of the show! If everyone else deserves a blanket, so do I."

"Why do you even want one? It's a symbol to kill you."

"It's got my face on it! It's not that deep." He crossed his legs and leaned his elbows on his knees, getting more comfortable. "So do I get to pick the colors? I'll take yellow if that's all you got, but if you get me metallic gold I think I can swing you a favor."

"I'm not making you a blanket," Mabel said. "I was thinking maybe a wig?"

Bill shuddered. "Pass."

"Aw, come on! I bet I could find you a really cute wig. Maybe something with bangs, have you ever thought about trying bangs? Summerween's coming up, I could go to the costume store—"

"Don't even think about it." Bill leaned away from Mabel, back into his corner. She was losing him. "Do you think I did this by accident?" He pointed vaguely toward his scalp. "Being stuck in a human body, with all this skin? Disgusting. Being a human and secreting fifteen miles of hair out of a hundred thousand of pores? Infinitely worse."

"Wait, wait, fifteen miles?" Mabel had never considered how long a full head of hair laid out end-to-end would be. "How much hair do I have?"

"Huh." Bill tilted his head consideringly. "How dense is your hair?"

"Super dense. I've broken multiple brushes."

"Could be up to fifty miles."

Mabel's eyes widened. "Whoa."

"And you've got fifty thousand miles of blood vessels," Bill added cheerfully. "Anyway, if you want this blanket back? You won't get it with a wig. All I want is to look..." he formed his fingers into a triangle, thumb to thumb and forefinger to forefinger, and held it over the face on the blanket, "... like this. Now, if you're offering to help me get my real body back—"

"Never in a million years."

"Didn't think so!" Bill retreated fully into his corner again, knees pulled back up under the blanket, like an eel hiding in a hole to await its next prey. "But hey, if you've got an offer that's a step up from the blanket, I'm willing to negotiate."

"Huh." Mabel frowned thoughtfully. Something triangly. Something triangly that was better than a blanket, without helping Bill return to full power.

She got to her feet. "Let's put a pin in this conversation and circle back to it later. I'll come back with some proposals for you to review."

Bill laughed. "Okay, business girl! Have your people call my people. You know where to find me."

Mabel leaped down the stairs three at a time, ideas already forming in her head.

####

"Hey, Grunkle Ford!"

Ford was sitting at the former controls of the interdimensional portal, studying some radar readings; but he glanced up with a smile when Mabel ran out of the elevator. "Mabel. What brings you down here?"

She dragged an office chair up beside Ford, plopped down in it, and spun a couple of times. "I need to ask some questions about Bill!"

Ford's smile faltered. "Ah."

"Last summer, when we were burning all your art of him—"

(Ford winced in embarrassment.)

"—you said he could do some kind of magic with pictures of his face? What's all that about?" She stopped spinning. "Do they give him more power? Can he fire lasers out of them, or...?"

"No, nothing like that, thank goodness. Depictions of his face granted him a different kind of power: the power of knowledge. When he was trapped in the Nightmare Realm, he could tap into our world's collective mindscape and see through drawings of himself as if they were cameras. Ironically, plastering images of his face everywhere to symbolically represent an 'all-seeing eye' is what made him so all-seeing in the first place."

Mabel nodded thoughtfully. "Did you know you talk like one of those experts they hire to explain things in history documentaries?" she asked. "You should be on TV. You'd be good at it."

Ford gave her a confused smile. "Er—thank you."

"So, if Bill's already here, making new pictures of his face doesn't do anything?"

He supposed she was wondering about the zodiac blankets she'd spread around town. "Probably not. At a minimum, he'd have to be in the mindscape to be at the right 'angle' to see through the eyes. As he is now, trapped in a human form?" Ford let out a slow, thoughtful sigh. "It's hard to say for sure, without knowing how he got to be this way or what kinds of powers he's still hiding... but based on everything I've seen so far, I doubt they do anything for him."

"And if somebody put a picture of him on his face, it wouldn't do anything at all! Because that's like, his face. He already has eyes there."

Ford chuckled. "I suppose that's true. It would be like he'd grown a third eyeball, that's all." He paused. Put a picture of him on his face? "Why do you ask?"

Too late; she was halfway to the elevator. "Thanks, Grunkle Ford! I'll see you at dinner!" And she was gone.

####

"What's all this?" Bartholomew asked.

Mabel was dumping a bag of costume makeup and cheap convenience store makeup palettes onto her bed. They sparkled in varying hues of tacky gold glitter. "Art project!" She scooped Bartholomew out of his cradle by Dipper's bed, climbed the rickety ladder to the storage loft over their bedroom, and set him down leaning against a box. "You're on guard duty. Stay quiet and if anything goes wrong, get Dipper."

"How do you expect me to get Dipper? I'm a doll. I can't move."

"Come on, Mew-Mew. You think we don't know you teleport when nobody's looking?"

Bartholomew paused. "Touché."

Mabel rummaged through her art supplies; put tape, glue, and a couple of flattened cardboard boxes on the bed; added all the yellow crayons, markers, and paints she could find; and finally, satisfied, she ran out of the room. "Bill!"

"Still here."

"I've got the perfect solution. I'm giving you..." Mabel posed, hands on her hips. "A makeover!"

Bill waited for the follow up. There was no follow up. "Heh."

"Laugh now, but before I'm finished, I'm gonna make you more beautiful than your wildest dreams!"

"With all due respect"—which, by his tone of voice, didn't sound like much—"your idea of 'wild' taps out where my dreams are just getting started."

"Then I'll just have to up my game, won't I?" Mabel held out her hand. "Just give me that blanket, show me that weird bald head of yours, and let me make it into a canvas for high art! Trust me!"

Bill contemplated her extended hand. Did he trust her? In most situations, he considered trust irrelevant. He expected most people to do whatever they thought would benefit themselves the most; sometimes that meant keeping their word, and sometimes it didn't. And he still wasn't sure what Mabel really expected to get out of this.

On the other hand. Was he really curious to find out where she was going with this? Yes. And the worst thing she could possibly do to him was make him very slightly more ugly than he already was. And playing along would fill his empty afternoon.

"Okay, kid." He reluctantly handed the blanket over. "You haven't given me a bad makeover so far." (He hadn't actually seen her marker mask, but it never hurt to flatter the person about to paint all over you.) He stood and stretched. "Show me what you've got. But if I don't like it, you owe me a blanket."

"Yes!" She grabbed his hand—his whole arm immediately went stiff—and dragged him toward the bedroom. "Welcome to my salon!"

####

Sure enough, just like Ford had said—when Stan checked Bill's attic nest, there was no sign of him.

Stan didn't like that one bit. Where the hell had their prisoner gotten off to?

As Stan approached the attic bedroom, he could hear Mabel talking: "More glitter?! That's crazay! Okay, here goes! I bet you could pull off such a glam rock look." (That explained where the kids were. He'd been starting to wonder.) "Hold still, I'm gonna try something I saw on a Russian supermodel—"

"Kids," Stan called, "do you know where the demon went?" He opened the door. "Poindexter says he can't find him anywhere, and—"

Mabel was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the widest variety of makeup brushes and palettes Stan had ever seen. Her fingers and sleeve cuffs were coated in gold glitter and paint.

Kneeling in front of her, with his legs splayed awkwardly and his hands on the floor like he wasn't sure how to lower this body down to Mabel's height, was Bill. His face was liberally coated in acrylic gold paint and amateurishly contoured with a mix of craft glitter and golden eyeshadow. One eye was shut—the eyelashes delicately dusted with more gold eyeshadow to help it blend in—while the other was coated in a layer of mascara so thick it was a miracle his lashes didn't glue shut when he blinked.

And to cap off the gilded absurdity, his face was sticking through a hole in the middle of a cardboard triangle helmet, painted sunflower yellow with bricks shakily traced on in marker. Bill looked like the poor kid assigned the part of "the pyramid" in a fourth grade class play about ancient Egypt.

Mabel and Bill stared at Stan.

Stan stared back.

He covered a snort with a cough. "I'll—I'll tell Ford you've got it handled." He slammed the door.

He let out a bellow of laughter.

Mabel put a hand on Bill's shoulder. "He doesn't understand avant-garde fashion. You look like a million dollars."

"I know," Bill said. "All the same—maybe a hat would class things up a little?"

Mabel reached for a sheet of black construction paper. "You're so right."

####

"Well?" Mabel leaned around Bill, trying to see what he looked like in the full-length mirror. "What do you think?"

Bill stared in the mirror. A horrific abomination of flaking paint, cakey makeup, and taped-up cardboard stared back.

He grinned so wide it cracked his face paint. "I think I'm looking at the hottest human being in history."

"Yes!" Mabel pumped a fist into the air.

####

Ford said, "Stanley, what is it?"

Stan wheezed until his lungs ran out of air.

Concerned, Ford leaned across the kitchen table, lacing his hands together. "Did you find Bill?"

"M—Mhmm."

"He hasn't hurt Mabel, has he?" Ford asked, flashing back to their conversation earlier. "Or—or Dipper? Anyone?"

Stan bit his lip and shook his head. Tears of laughter pricked the corners of his eyes.

"Did he... put some kind of laughing curse on you?"

Stan shook his head more emphatically. "H—" He couldn't get one syllable out before he had to choke back his laughter again. He pounded on the table.

Grasping at straws and defaulting to the first worst case scenario he could think of, Ford said, "He hasn't found a way back to his true form, has he?"

Stan let out a noise like a balloon that had been untied and unleashed to fly around the room. "I MEAN—"

"Gooood afternoon, gentlemen!" Beaming brightly enough to rival the sun, twirling an umbrella like a cane, Bill strutted in.

Ford clapped one hand on Stan's shoulder, clapped the other over his mouth, and turned away, shoulders shaking. Stan smacked Ford's arm in sympathetic hysteria.

"I see we're all in high spirits today!" With the brazen confidence of an illegitimate prince marching into a throne room to demand his crown, Bill strolled through the kitchen, barely sparing the Stan twins a glance. Mabel followed behind him, grinning from ear to ear. "I wouldn't mind some spirits, myself." He paused in front of the fridge. "Could someone—?"

As the closest person to the fridge, Ford pulled it open, then turned to watch so he could make sure Bill didn't do anything he shouldn't with the food. This required him to look in Bill's direction. He curled his lips into his mouth and bit down. His eyes watered.

"Finally." Bill hungrily surveyed the inner contents of the fridge, grabbed an armload of condiments, a jar of pickles, and a tub of leftover chicken nuggets, and dumped them on the nearest counter. He tried to reach for a bottle of spoiled and incredibly fermented corn syrup toward the back of the fridge, banged the sides of his cardboard helmet on the fridge's doorframe, and quickly backed off and felt the corners to make sure they weren't too damaged. He had to turn sideways to reach the bottle without hitting the edges of the fridge. One corner of his mask tipped over a bottle of apple juice. Watching this performance very nearly killed the Stans.

"There." Bill triumphantly set the bottle on the counter, grabbed a can of alphabet spaghetti that had been forgotten on an open shelf, and asked, "Where do you have the bowls hidden?" He rapped on one of the cabinet doors with his umbrella.

The sight of the umbrella knocked Ford out of some of his hysteria. "Where did you—?" He snatched the umbrella out of Bill's hands. "No weapons."

Bill gave Ford a withering one-eyed look (Ford suspected his other eye was glued shut with paint), then elected to ignore him. "Shooting Star?"

"They're down here!" Mabel opened one of the base cabinets. Bill retrieved a bowl and started filled it with his condiment haul.

"Okay," Stan said, voice strained with suppressed laughter. "Okay, what—what are we looking at?"

"A masterpiece of cosmetic art," Bill said. Mabel's grin widened.

Ford elbowed Stan across the table. "Do you remember the 'living statue' performers on the Glass Shard Beach boardwalk?" he asked. "The ones who'd paint all their skin and clothes gold—?"

"Oh yeah!" Stan let out a bark of laughter. "That's exactly what he looks like!"

In his bowl, Bill had layered mayonnaise, Tabasco sauce, mustard, sour cream, and maple syrup, and carefully stuck in as many chicken nuggets as he could without the mix slopping over the edges. He got Mabel's help to stick it in the microwave, then turned toward the Stans with a smug grin. "So you agree that I look like a work of art."

"No," Stan said, "they looked like idiots, and so do you."

Bill scoffed. "You don't know anything! You look at a human body, and all you see is a human with things stuck on it. I can look at a human body and see a canvas. I've stripped this vessel of its association with humanity and transformed it into an idol of myself."

Mabel loudly cleared her throat.

"Okay, she did most of the work. She wouldn't even let me do my own mascara."

Ford seriously considered the artistic merit of Bill's proposed "human body sans humanity as art material" paradigm. After a moment of deliberation, he said, "You have cardboard taped to your face."

Stan slapped the table. "HA!"

Bill opened the alphabet spaghetti can, slopped half into a glass, filled the rest with spoiled corn syrup—whose fumes were powerful enough to completely sterilize the sinuses of everyone in a five foot radius—and then filled the can with corn syrup as well. The mixes bubbled threateningly. The absolute picture of good cheer, Bill announced, "I'm the most beautiful thing any of you have ever seen. It's just too bad your closed little minds can't enjoy the marvel in front of you." He stirred his toxic alphabet spaghetti concoction with a pickle spear.

Stan watched Bill mix his drink in mild alarm. "What in the world are you making?"

Bill held his wrist over the glass and a knife to his wrist. "A Bloody Mary."

Stan's alarm increased. "No you aren't."

"That's your opinion."

"Where did you get—!" Ford leaned over to snatch the knife out of Bill's hand.

"It was in the fridge, it was sticking out of the leftover casserole!" Bill rolled his eye. "Re-lax! I wasn't pointing it at you." He lifted his drink, nearly poured it into his eye, caught himself at Mabel's shout of alarm, took a sip through the correct hole, then inspected the thick gold lip stain left on the rim. "Huh." He looked at Mabel.

She shrugged. "I could have set the makeup with baby powder, but I thought it might dim some of the sparkle."

"You chose form over function. I respect that." He sipped his drink more carefully.

The microwave went off, Mabel opened the door, and Bill scooped up his condiment-and-nugget stew and both alleged Bloody Marys. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go be handsome somewhere else—"

The corner of his cardboard helmet banged into the kitchen doorway. He dropped one of his drinks, stumbled against the wall, and looked in dismay at his syrup-and-spaghetti-sauce-soaked skirt. He turned to Mabel. "How's my head?"

She grimaced. "We... can fix that with tape."

Bill sighed. "Come on, let's do it before my nuggets get cold."

"Now hold on!" Ford stood up. "Are you going to clean this mess up?"

"No!" Bill was out of the room. Ford could already hear him tripping on the stairs. "You don't trust me with a mop!"

Well. It was true, they didn't trust him with a mop. Sighing, Ford trudged across the room. "I'll get it."

Stan said, "You know, I think I'm glad he looks like an idiot. He's been so mopey the last couple of days, I was almost starting to feel bad for him."

"Thank goodness, you too," Ford muttered. "I was afraid I was going soft."

"Nah, he really was pathetic," Stan said. "Like a sad show poodle that doesn't understand why it's been shaved in weird shapes."

Ford barked a laugh.

Once the floor was clean, Ford confessed, "I've—actually really worried about that. Going soft, I mean. I'm... afraid that Bill could find a way back into my head."

"Literally or emotionally?"

"Emotionally." Ford paused. "Both, actually—but right now, I mean emotionally. The night he burned his hair off, I..." He winced at himself; but he needed to tell Stan. There was no one else he trusted to give him a reality check. Maybe Fiddleford, but... Ford hadn't figured out how to approach him about all this yet.

He put back the mop, to have an excuse to pause and gather his words. "I... brought him something to eat," Ford mumbled. "And, told him I knew what it was like to be trapped in an alien universe, and—that he should take better care of himself, for his own sake—and I don't know why I said that! Anything good he does for himself just makes things harder for us! It's not as though I forgot that, but—What? Stanley, why is this funny."

Stan had started laughing; but he cut it off a cough. "Sorry. It's just—do you remember how Mom would go 'Well, I can tell you two are related' any time we did something—you know—twinnish?"

"Don't tell me you've been making sandwiches for Bill."

"Ha! No, but I've given my arch nemesis a pep talk when he was having a mental breakdown. I felt bad for him!"

Ford chuckled. "Really?" He dropped back into his seat. "I didn't know you have an arch nemesis, who's that?"

Stan considered Ford's reaction if he admitted that his nemesis was that ten-year-old with a crush on Mabel, and said, "Ah, he's been out of my hair for ages. So what, is that all you talked about?"

"Somehow it turned into him trying to convince me he'd been planning a welcome party when I fell through the portal."

"Ha! And did you believe him?"

"Absolutely not." Ford paused thoughtfully. "But—part of me wonders whether he believes it himself."

"He seems like the kind of guy to buy his own bull." Stan shrugged. "Nah, I don't think you're about to fall off the wagon. Just don't let him fast-talk you into any decisions and don't buy anything he's selling without telling him you'll think it over for twenty-four hours. And the more he says decide now, the harder you say no. That's how the pros get you, they don't give you room to breathe, let alone think."

Ford was pretty sure Stan was just describing the Mystery Shack's souvenir sales strategy; but he nodded slowly. "I know exactly what you're talking about. When I gave him permission to pilot my body, between the first time he mentioned it was an option and the moment I agreed to it... well, I was asleep at the time, so I can't be sure how long it took—but I'd guess it was less than fifteen minutes. In retrospect, I couldn't believe that I'd agreed so thoughtlessly. But I suppose that's exactly what he wanted. And I'd already trusted him to make so many other minute alterations to my mind..." Which made it all the more suspicious that Bill had only waited until right then to "offer" to pilot Ford's body. No room to breathe was a good way to describe it. Never mind being nose-to-nose with somebody trying to pressure you into a sale—how do you take a step back to get a little space from somebody who's already inside your head?

"Did he make it sound like a limited-time-only deal? You know—'buy now while the price is low, you'll regret missing this offer'? But with more mystical woo-woo phrasing, I mean."

"Not exactly, but..." Ford tried to remember back that far, grasping for the details of the conversation—the real conversation, not the heady, excited version he'd summarized in his journal. "At the time, I'd been worried about falling behind schedule on the portal's construction. He wouldn't have had to introduce an element of tension—it was already there. All he had to do was exploit it." He shook his head. Falling behind schedule. What schedule—the one he, himself had made? He was sure Bill had encouraged him to finish as fast as possible, too.

"There, you see? You got swindled by a professional swindler," Stan said. "What's important is that you know what he is now, and you know his tricks. He won't get you the same way twice. I'm not worried about you."

There were a couple of odd thuds from upstairs, accompanied by a yelp from Bill. That wasn't odd; he'd proven to be remarkably clumsy in a human body. At any given time it was possible to tell where he was by the random bangs, and if he hadn't made a noise in the last five minutes it meant he was curled up safely in his window seat.

What was odd was hearing Mabel's voice: "Careful, careful—! Augh. ... I'll get another sheet of cardboard, we'll replace that!"

Stan and Ford looked warily toward the stairs. Stan muttered, "Mabel, on the other hand..."

Ford nodded. "I'll keep an eye on her."

####

(Thanks for reading, y'all! Edit to this chapter from 1/16/2025: From time to time I get comments about how well I've "edited" this story to line up with TBOB—which is irking, because I've been working on this story since over a year before TBOB came out, and some of the most TBOB-compliant things in it were written months before TBOB was even announced. And it's petty & insignificant, but by golly, I want the people who didn't read the rough drafts to know just how little I had to change to make it fit the book. So I've decided to add author's notes documenting what was and—more importantly—what was not changed to line up with TBOB.

So! Edits made to this chapter as a result of TBOB: basically nothing of importance. Changed "their parents took them to a therapist" to "their parents took them to their therapist" to reference the fact that the kids' parents are going through a rough patch; inserted a single sentence referencing the fact that Bill's rewired Ford's brain a bit; changed one sentence from "I don't think he'll get in your head" to "I don't think you'll fall off the wagon" to allude to how Ford calls himself a "Cipherholic" in TBOB; added a sentence where Mabel suggests he try bangs; and added one sentence confirming Bill could do his own mascara if he wanted/was allowed. And that's it.

The rest (including Bill implying he suspects the zodiac is to honor him rather than defeat him, talking about therapy at all in relation to Bill as something he probably needs, Bill jumping at the opportunity to share weird info about the human body, Bill being very enthusiastic about treating the human body as a canvas to be improved with art of himself...) is all pre-TBOB.

Anyway, if you read this far, I'd love to hear your thoughts!)

#mabel pines #grunkle stan #(for the art)#bill cipher #human bill cipher #(for the fic)#gravity falls #gravity falls fanart #gravity falls fic #my writing #my art #bill goldilocks cipher

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wadewnstonwilson · 3 months ago

Text

do you want to play a game?

summary: Wade Wilson (Deadpool) finds himself strapped to a sadistic torture chair in a room filled with gruesome contraptions, yet he remains gleefully sarcastic, much to the frustration of Jigsaw's ominous puppet.

word count: 1.6k

trigger warnings: violence, gore, torture, body horror

authors note: this was a headcanon idea someone posted a while back and asked to have a fic written about it, if it was you please let me know so I can properly tag you!

The room was dimly lit, a mixture of cold steel and rusted iron making up its gruesome decor. Wade Wilson, the infamous Deadpool, sat in the center of the room strapped to a chair, surrounded by a series of sadistic contraptions clearly meant to inspire terror. For most people, this would be the worst day of their lives. But Wade? Wade was thrilled.

“Well, hello, Mr. Saw!” Wade chirped with all the enthusiasm of a kid meeting their favorite mascot at Disneyland. His voice echoed through the dimly lit, blood-streaked room, cutting through the oppressive silence like a hot knife through butter. Strapped securely to a steel chair, Wade looked more like a man sitting in for a casual dental cleaning than someone caught in the clutches of a notorious serial killer.

The room smelled of rust and mildew, the air thick with the metallic tang of dried blood. Around him were a variety of deadly contraptions: gears, blades, and wires all meticulously arranged in a manner that suggested their designer had spent a bit too much time watching home renovation shows. Wade wasn’t scared. If anything, he was curious.

He squinted at the giant monitor flickering to life before him. The screen revealed the infamous Jigsaw puppet, its soulless eyes staring back at him with what Wade could only interpret as disapproval. “Okay, seriously,” Wade continued, completely ignoring the ominous vibe, “do you get these machines wholesale, or are they custom jobs? Because I gotta tell ya, the craftsmanship here? Chef’s kiss.”

The puppet’s expression remained unchanged, its head tilting slightly as if processing Wade’s commentary.

“I mean,” Wade went on, craning his neck as much as his restraints would allow, “are those hand-welded joints? No, really, this is top-tier work. I’ve seen Avengers tech, and honestly? Kinda mid compared to this. Do you have a Pinterest board for inspiration? Or do you just wing it?”

The puppet’s voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and menacing. “I want to play a game.”

“Oh! Oh!” Wade exclaimed, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. “Twister? Monopoly? No wait, let me guess—Candyland! I love Candyland. Can I be the gumdrop guy? No one ever lets me be the gumdrop guy.”

The puppet’s eye twitched. Or, at least, Wade imagined it did. “Your constant need for validation and unrelenting irreverence have landed you here. If you do not escape this trap in time, your body will be—”

“—ripped apart, blood everywhere, yadda yadda, we get it. You really need a new schtick, Jiggy. I mean, what’s next, making me choose between tacos and chimichangas? Ha! Joke’s on you—I don’t choose. Ever.”

A metallic whir sounded as the trap sprung into action. Sharp blades inched closer to Wade’s arms, clearly designed to slice them off unless he solved the contraption before him.

“Neat,” Wade muttered, leaning as far as the straps allowed to get a closer look. “Do these things come in red?”

------

Logan Howlett prowled through the shadow-choked labyrinth of the abandoned city district, his boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, rotting wood, and despair—an oppressive cocktail that clung to his heightened senses like oil on water. Neon lights flickered weakly from the occasional shattered sign, casting brief, eerie glows across graffitied walls and broken windows. This place had been dead for years, left to fester in its decay.

It was the kind of place Wade Wilson would love.

That thought made Logan’s scowl deepen, his jaw tightening as his claws slid out of his knuckles with a soft snikt. The silver blades glinted faintly in the dim light, their familiar weight offering a grim reassurance. Wade hadn’t answered a single one of Logan’s calls in days. Normally, that would’ve been a welcome reprieve—Logan wasn’t exactly the type to miss Wade’s incessant jokes or ceaseless chatter. But this time, something was off. Wade didn’t just not show up. The guy was like a damn cockroach, always turning up where you least expected him, unkillable and annoying as hell. For him to go silent? That meant trouble.

“Where the hell are ya, Wilson?” Logan growled under his breath, his gravelly voice swallowed by the shadows around him.

He came to a halt, sniffing the air. His hyper-sensitive nose twitched as he sifted through the various odors polluting the area—garbage, oil, rat droppings, the faint tang of rusted metal. And then he caught it, faint but distinct: the unmistakable scent of blood. Not just any blood. Wade’s.

Logan’s teeth clenched as he closed his eyes and inhaled again, isolating the scent. It was there, mixed with sweat and... something else. Fear? No. Wade didn’t do fear. It was exhaustion. Pain. The kind of pain that would kill a lesser man ten times over.

His claws slid back into his hands as he moved, quick and silent, through the maze of alleys. The scent grew stronger, more focused, leading him deeper into the heart of the district. He passed crumbling buildings with boarded-up windows, their skeletal remains groaning in protest against the night wind. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a rat scurrying across his path—but he ignored it. His focus was razor-sharp now, his instincts taking over as he tracked the trail.

The scent led him to a narrow alley that terminated in a massive steel door. It was dented and rusted, the kind of industrial barrier that screamed bad news. A faint smear of blood marked the handle, barely visible in the dim light, but Logan’s eyes caught it immediately. He placed a hand on the door, pausing for a moment to listen. His sharp hearing picked up the hum of machinery inside, accompanied by faint, muffled voices. Or maybe just one voice.

“Wilson,” Logan muttered, his voice a low rumble. His claws unsheathed again, a primal response to the growing anger roiling in his gut. He pushed the door, and it gave slightly under his strength, creaking open just enough to let him slip inside.

The interior was worse than he expected. It was a labyrinth of machinery and steel, a factory of nightmares brought to life. Gears turned noisily, chains rattled, and the faint smell of burnt metal stung his nose. The walls were lined with grotesque contraptions, each one a testament to the sadistic mind that had designed them. But Logan barely registered the horror of the place. His focus was on one thing—the idiot who’d managed to get himself into this mess.

Wade’s scent was stronger now, the blood fresher. Logan followed it through the maze of corridors, his movements a combination of raw instinct and calculated precision. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to strike. He rounded a corner, his sharp hearing picking up something new—laughter. Muffled, but undeniably familiar. It was Wade’s laugh, laced with exhaustion and a little bit of hysteria.

“Son of a—” Logan bit off the curse as he quickened his pace.

The sound of his boots on the grated floor echoed faintly, but he didn’t care about stealth anymore. He could feel the beast inside him clawing at the edges of his control, the primal part of him that wanted to tear through whatever or whoever had put Wade in this situation. The scent was nearly overwhelming now, and as he rounded another corner, the sight before him stopped him cold.

There was Wade, suspended in the middle of the room by a series of chains and straps. His suit was torn to shreds, revealing patches of raw, bloodied skin that glistened under the harsh, flickering lights. A grotesque contraption of blades and gears hovered dangerously close to his body, clearly designed to inflict as much pain as possible without delivering a killing blow. Not that Wade would die, of course. That was the point, wasn’t it? Keep him alive. Make him suffer.

And yet, despite the carnage, Wade’s maskless face split into a wide, bloody grin the moment he saw Logan.

“Logie-bear!” Wade called out, his voice hoarse but still infuriatingly cheerful. He waved weakly, his hand slick with blood. “You found me! Took you long enough, you big, hairy softie.”

Logan’s growl was low and guttural, his claws snapping out with a metallic snikt as his gaze swept over the room. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, the feral side of him threatening to take over. He took one step closer, his amber eyes locked on Wade.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Logan snarled.

“And you’re a goddamn knight in shining adamantium,” Wade shot back, coughing slightly but still managing to sound insufferable. “Now, how about you get me down from here before I lose more blood? Not that I’m complaining—I mean, it’s great for weight loss, but—”

“Shut up, Wilson,” Logan snapped, but his claws were already slicing through the chains holding Wade. He caught the mercenary as he fell, holding him awkwardly but securely.

“Aw, you do care,” Wade muttered, resting his head against Logan’s shoulder.

Logan didn’t respond. He was too busy glaring at the room, silently daring anything—or anyone—to try stopping them. The beast inside him wasn’t done yet, but for now, it could wait. First, he needed to get Wade out of here. Then, he’d deal with the bastard responsible for this.

“Let’s go,” Logan growled, carrying Wade toward the exit.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Wade murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but still managing to be as annoying as ever.

Logan sighed. “I should’ve left you in the chair.”

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ilovemychunkycat · 2 years ago

Note

OH GOD I LIVE FOR AFAB SCARA PLEASE MORE

im so happy you guys are liking my posts 😭🩷

relationship: afab!wanderer x dom!amab reader

tw: fingering, breeding, mommy kink(ish), biting, orgasam denial, overstimulation

You've always pondered about one thing, something that you've been wanting to try ever since you started your relationship with Wanderer.

Could you get him pregnant?

It was a stupid question, sure. He's a puppet, the chances of him being able to reproduce would be nearly impossible.

Nearly impossible. Doesn't hurt to try~

—

Wanderer is spread infront of you, and you thought tonight was the night to ask.

"Wanderer, can I get you pregnant?" He was startled by the question, staring at you wide-eyed.

"Wha-What?! Archons... could've gave me a warning first!" He grumbled, glaring at you.

"Sorry dear, I just couldn't wait for it." You grinned sheepishly, cupping his cheek.

"Whatever, I'm not sure.. but I guess we could try."

"Yay! Thank you love!" You hold him tight, pecking his cheek. Wanderer blushed, squirming in your grip.

"Can we just get to the- OH!" You sunk your teeth into his neck, drawing blood. The metallic taste filling your senses.

"Hey! That's going to leave a mark.." Wanderer grunted, pushing you away. You only grinned, pulling away from his neck.

You pulled down his pants and underwear, "already wet, huh?"

"Well I.. HMM??" You sunk 2 fingers into him, catching him off guard.

"Stop- hhn! Doing things without w-warning!" He huffed, bucking his hips in your grip.

"You seem to like it though~" You cooed, resting your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent.

"Whatever.." He blushed, he hated being called out.

You shoved your fingers especially hard into his prostate, arousing a large moan from him.

"MMGH! [Name]!" He shivered, feeling the coil in his stomach near to snapping, but he didn't have the power to tell you. Releasing a loud whine, he came over your fingers.

"Now, who gave you permission to cum?" You pulled your fingers out, sucking the rest of the juices off.

"M sorry- Can u p-please forgive me..."

"Of course, but only for tonight." You smiled at him, kissing him softly and pulling away.

"Care to help with this?" You gestured at your pants, smirking.

"F–Fine.." He pulled your pants down, your cock slapping his face, having you groan at the sight.

"I would totally ask for a blowjob right now, but I have different plans." You pinned Wanderer down, sinking into him.

"[N-Name!] I can't! To much-" He whined, digging his nails into your back when you hit his cervix.

"Cmon hun, you can take it. Your a good boy, aren't you?" You moved, both of you moaning in unsion.

"Fuck- your tight.." You groaned, speeding up your movements.

"[Name]! Please slow down- I'm gonna-"

"No, not yet. Not til I cum, got it?"

"Y-Yes.." He whimpered, holding you closer.

You slammed into his cunt hard, cumming without warning. The feeling had Wanderer cumming also.

"You gonna be a mommy, holding my child." You whined, moving again.

"[Name]! It hurts...! Please!" His pleas were caught on dead ears as you slammed into him, not planning to stop til you know it will get him pregnant. Orgasam after orgasam came.

"M c–cum—MGGH!! cumming! P-Please!" Wanderer came, clamping down onto you, leading to your orgasam too.

"Haah.. Your gonna be a pretty mommy, all f'me.." You slurred.

You got up to get some rags and water, and when you came back he fell asleep.

You guess you overdid it a little to much?

—

#afab character #afab wanderer #afab scara #afab scaramouche #amab reader #amab oc #genshin impact #smut #wanderer x reader #afab wanderer x reader #sub scaramouche #sub wanderer #dom reader #sub genshin

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spiritednug · 17 days ago

Text

Yknow

I lived in a small town once. Though I guess it was too big to actually be called a town, but it had that small town feeling. And honestly, living in a small town makes you feel like you’re living inside an organism. Like, the town itself is alive, in a sleepy, eldritch way.

There are eyes everywhere. You are constantly being watched. And with bored neighbors come rumors abound, you better keep quiet and stay in whatever line they’ve created unless you want to be the designated social outcast.

I think Welcome Home is a metaphor for that in a way. Amongst many other things I can’t begin to explain as I don’t know. But the fact that Wally watches so intently? The implications of nearly every other character playing a part, following a line drawn by, what, who? Home? As if they’re forced to be puppets—both literally and figuratively— in order to keep some semblance of “reputation” or peace?

I think Frank being the final girl is fitting, because his “line” is being frank. Not sugar coating. While he plays into some lies, it’s clear he isn’t playing wholeheartedly. He’s much more closer to being authentic.

Idk, these are just musings. We still have much to uncover, but I’m betting the man unafraid to call things as they are will eventually butt heads with the worst of it. I just hope he “survives”.

#welcome home #welcome home theory

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galaxiasgreen · 19 days ago

Text

🍭☀️A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet

Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader [T-rated, 12.4k]

You threw yourself in a hug, and he didn't know what to do with himself. You'd grown in places he shouldn't have noticed. You smelt good. You felt good. Everything about you – good. He would bottle your essence and drown in it, if he could.

In which, with the betrothal hanging over him, Ominis pushes you away to keep you safe.

Tags: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, pure-blood culture, canon rewrite, book!canon compliant, comas, mild sexual references, secret betrothals, Gift Giving as a love language, recognising her scent, touching, sad pining, Something Blue.

MASTERLIST | FIRST | PREV | NEXT AO3 | Wattpad

9. It was Always You

When the tears left him, the first emotion that filled the void was rage.

No matter how many times Ominis tried to stop trembling, reality did not change. He was still hiding in the Ellingboe drawing room, still suffocating beneath people he did not call family, still condemned to a future that no longer felt like his own. He was betrothed. To his cousin. And it had been all planned before tonight, agreed upon by his parents over candlelight and whispers, puppeteering him like a piece on a game board, securing the bloodline's future above all else. A shaken hand had sealed his fate.

You ought to not to bite a hand that feeds you. Mrs Ellingboe's warning from Christmas pierced him sharply, and he seethed, dawning on her meaning too late. The Gaunts were poor now, yes, and the Ellingboes modestly wealthy – but his family possessed something hers did not: Slytherin's rare ability of Parseltongue, and Ominis, being closest to Dorothy's age, was the most ideal candidate for a match.

Foolish boy, not to see this coming. Perhaps he was blind in more than his eyes.

Someone knocked at the door. Ominis sat up, quickly wiped his face.

"I'll be out momentarily."

The door opened anyway.

"Look who's facing the consequences of his own actions."

Ominis snatched his wand, furious. "I don't have the patience to deal with you right now—"

"Then you'd better find it, Gaunt," Peregrine laughed softly. "I may not be able to speak Parseltongue, but I can read you like a first year textbook. I know exactly why you don't want to go through with the match."

He stood, trying not to let the boy rattle him nor err too close to the truth. "Your obsession with me is disconcerting. Flattered as I am, I don't think about you nearly as much as you seem to think about me."

"You give yourself too much credit. Proves you're blind when you fancy yourself that stupid, ugly Hufflepuff over anyone else."

He clutched his wand so tightly it could've snapped, but Peregrine came closer.

"You ought to thank me, actually. You were about to make the worst mistake of your life."

"I assure you, I'm very capable of deciding that for myself."

Peregrine sneered. "Did you know I have an aunt, Gaunt?"

I couldn't give a Doxy's nip about your family. "No."

"When she was twenty-two, she ran away to elope – with a filthy Muggle. Guess what happened to her? Face destroyed from the family tree. No inheritance. Barely enough money to scrape by. All of the important families shun her and their pathetic whelp of a daughter Daphne."

He vaguely recalled a Daphne Lovelace in one of the below years. "What does this have to do with me?"

"What do you think, moonmind? I set up the match."

Ominis couldn't hide his shock. "You?"

"Dorothy is my friend. Only took a little convincing to make her believe you would be ideal. And now that you're as poor as the Stone-Brokes, you have no choice but marriage."

"But why? If you believe I'm a blood traitor, why would you bind your precious friend to me?"

"Because it's a waste," Peregrine snarled. "It's one thing to squander the Malfoy name, but Slytherin's bloodline? You'd turn your back on centuries of legacy for a filthy Mudblood?" He clucked when Ominis raised his wand. "Go on, I dare you. You won't do anything with our parents next door."

Ominis knew he'd been had.

"You're going to marry Dorothy, Gaunt," Peregrine turned back to the door, "in return for keeping your dirty secret. And if you think about doing anything funny, if you think about running away with that silly Mudblood bitch," he grinned, "she'll pay for it."

When he left, Ominis sank back into the chair, too emotionally spent to cry anymore. His body rebelled against the idea, as if such a marriage innately opposed his very being. He could say no. Turn away. Free himself of these restraints that had been cuffed to him his whole life. But what sort of punishment did defiance of this level warrant? Peregrine's aunt may have been cast out, shunned, burnt from the family tree, but the Gaunts were far less forgiving. If he were to refuse Dorothy's hand...

Would they kill him?

That he had to ask himself such a question tore through him anew. They were capable of it, and frankly he suspected they would be more than happy to purge the weak link, the blind runt, from their supposedly magnificent house. If he wouldn't marry and continue the Slytherin bloodline, after all, what use would he have in living?

And then, of course, he had to worry if they would stop at him. Peregrine could tattle regardless of whether Ominis kept up the bargain, and his parents would consider all those who opposed their views as their enemies. Would they go after his friends?

Would they go after you?

No. He couldn't let such a thing happen. He palmed the lingering wetness around his eyes. He would marry Dorothy Ellingboe if he could spare the people he truly loved. There were worse fates than a poor marriage, and Ominis was happy to acquiesce as long as his friends, and you, were safe.

It would be painful. It would be the most painful thing he would ever do. But he would do it. For his friends. For you.

His thoughts turned back to that moment with you on the balcony.

He wished he could take it all back.

So he returned to the dining room, smile plastered on his face. He endured the well-wishes and congratulations, and agreed to a quiet engagement, so Dorothy could make a grandiose announcement at the Fawley Christmas soirée later that year. For now the betrothal was a secret, one that burrowed beneath his skin like maggots, feasting on his decaying insides. It didn't seem to matter what he wanted, how much he pleaded, nor to whom, be it the strings of fate or some higher power. Something, somewhere had already ordained that you and he were the sun and the moon, arcing in different directions, never meant to cross. Never meant to meet at all.

And it seemed pointless anymore to try.

He returned for seventh year without a strategy. On the train up he was reluctantly roped into a compartment with Imelda and Nerida, and eventually Missy. They shared the excitement of their summers, their career plans, their apprenticeships, their worries about the final year workload. But he was quiet, unresponsive to questions. With Missy the most trustworthy of his companions, he should've told her about the betrothal – but it seemed whenever he tried, the words were lodged in his throat, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Speaking it aloud made it real. It scribed it into the chapters of his future, as permanent as ink.

At Hogsmeade station, when he gathered his things to go, Missy tapped his shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"I can see something is bothering you."

"Another time." She seemed to want to argue, but he said, as politely as he could muster, "If I want to tell you, I will."

She didn't persist, but no doubt she didn't let the subject drop, either.

By dinner, he found the parchment in his pocket.

Undercroft, 8pm.

His heart raced. If he struggled to tell Missy the truth, how the hell was he going to tell you?

Still, at 8pm sharp, he was in the Undercroft, waiting. Typically you were late, hauling something scratchy that made clinking sounds. A... basket?

Your voice was suffused with joy. "Hello!"

His heart gave in instantly, but the rational part of him, whatever was left of it, forced him to take a step back. "Gibby, wait—"

"Sorry, sorry, too much? I just missed you. A lot."

"I— missed you too." You'd left him breathless, as you always did.

"And I— well, I brought some wine. You still like wine, right? Of course you do." You reached for the tinkling bottles from the basket. "Connor's more a connaisseur than I am, so I had him choose something that I thought you might like. It's from Italy, Muggle-made, sorry to disappoint your noble and most eminent bloodline—"

Bloodline. The betrothal.

"— but you don't have to drink it. If you don't like it, just say. I won't mind, promise. I tried to like it over summer so I can drink with you, but it was too sour for me, so I can have juice instead, no harm. I thought today we could catch up over a glass, or— or do things that would make both our families blow a gasket."

A blush swept over him. "Gibby—"

"Like— holding hands. Or we could... cuddle. I like cuddling." You laughed suddenly. "Golly, I'm rambling. Sorry. I'm just— nervous. Because— because of what you said. To me. Before we left for summer."

"Wait, please—"

"The curse still affects me, obviously, but it's been over a year now, and my mama said that I should just thrust myself into the action and get back into the swing of things that way. And I-I sort of realised I couldn't keep you waiting. I know you said you would wait, but, you know, it's not really fair on you, when you— when you confessed so sweetly—"

"Gibby," he barked, a command. "Stop."

You cut off as if someone had cast Silencio. He couldn't handle this, handle you.

"I'm sorry... I'm afraid things are different now."

"Different? How do you mean?"

He felt like the worst man in the world.

"I— I don't love you anymore."

You went utterly still.

"What?"

He'd promised never to cause you pain, but the betrothal haunted him. Remember why you're doing this.

This was the easiest way, the best way.

"I said those things in— in a thrall."

"You were bewitched?"

Only by you. "I mean I was being fanciful and silly, and I spoke out of turn."

"You are the last person to say things fanciful and silly, Ominis," you said with an edge. "You're also the last person I know to speak out of turn."

"This time I made a foolish error in judgement. I'm sorry, but— this ends here."

He thought you'd start sobbing. The last time he broke your heart, after all, was in this very place.

Instead you rose up. You closed the gap and grasped his arm.

"You're lying."

"No—"

"You are." He heard the lump in your throat. "You don't tell me you love me and then go back on your word, Ominis Gaunt. What's brought this on? Your family again?"

It's always them. It must've shown in his expression, because your grip softened.

"I can hide it. I know I'm a terrible liar, but I can keep this between us—"

"I'm tired of it," he relented. "I'm tired of hiding you."

"So that's it? I'm not worth it?"

He couldn't say no. It would be another lie.

"I will happily endure all the horrible looks and snide remarks and silly insults for you, because you're worth it to me." You drew yourself ever closer, sealing the gap. "You're tired of hiding? I'm tired of being afraid for myself. I told you I'd never leave you again. I meant it."

You were distractingly close. He had to compose himself before his attentions wandered.

"I won't have you hurt."

"Oh please, I've been cursed. What's the worst they can do after four months of torture?"

"They can and will find worse things. Much worse. A torture curse to them would be child's play."

"And I'm a very competent witch who can fight them off."

"This isn't Defence Against the Dark Arts classes," he snapped. "They could kill you. They would not hesitate."

"I don't fear them, Ominis."

Stubborn, loyal...! "What part of this do you not understand?" he said desperately. "It's death, Gibby! Do you know how much you'd be risking?"

"I can handle whatever they throw at me!"

"But I can't!"

At your abrupt silence, his hands trembled.

"Four months I sat at your bedside, wondering if you were ever going to wake up, and I will not put myself nor you through that again. I will not."

Your breath caught. He could almost swear he felt your heartbeat, too, ramping up a notch.

"I've made up my mind." He took a step back, lengthening the gap between you. "You will not change it."

He turned to the grille, but you called out.

"I will change it, Ominis," you said with fierce determination, enough to make him want. "You spent all of last year making me fall in love with you. So I'm going to return the favour!"

As the lift ascended upwards, he pressed his forehead to the criss-crossed bars. Merlin, if what you said was true, he would not be able to escape. You knew, of course, that even though he claimed he didn't love you anymore, it was a bold-faced lie. That he was already helplessly yours, and it didn't seem possible he could fall any harder.

There'd never been a grand moment of clarity when he realised. It was a build-up, little things upon little things, small flickers of his feelings, gentle nudges towards the turning of his thoughts from fondness to affection. To choose a singular point would be impossible, but even now he remembers the first time he noticed, at the end of third year aboard the Hogwarts Express. As the train approached London, you were scrabbling through your bag to hand him something small and squishy, wrapped in paper.

"What's this?"

"A gift," you said cheerfully.

"What is the occasion?"

"Does it have to be an occasion?" You sank back into the seat opposite, sheepish suddenly. "I can't send you owls over the summer, so... I thought you might like this instead. So you don't forget me."

Rather impossible for forget you, but he unwrapped the package, apprehensive. His brow furrowed as he skimmed the fabric – linen, about a ruler square of it. Unevenly cut, and the hemmed edges were already fraying.

"Is this... a handkerchief?"

"Yes," you said. "You should, erm, feel the corner..."

So he drew his thumb across until he grazed the bump of beads. Seven, in a precise format. Three like an arrow pointing right, and four forming a square.

His breath caught, his heart thumped. "Where did you get this?"

"I made it."

"You made this?"

"Well, the linen I didn't make, obviously." And you were blathering again. "I bought that in Hogsmeade. Cut a little square and did the edges myself. It's... not very good, I know. I'm still learning, and my arm still hurts after the fall. Mama says I'll get better with practice. I tried using magic too, a little Wingardium Leviosa to hem, but, erm, let's just say I poked myself more with the needle than the fabric, so I did the rest by hand."

By hand. This must've taken you a few hours, at least. For a gift with no occasion attached. Just because you wanted to, just because you could. You rendered him so touched that for a long moment, he said nothing, simply drew his thumb across the braille of his initials like it might dissolve at any moment.

His silence was a mistake, in hindsight.

"You don't like it."

"What? No—"

"You probably have fifty million silk handkerchiefs at home that feel like Jesus kissed your skin, so you don't have to keep mine, I just thought of the idea the other day, it's stupid really—"

He reached forwards and grabbed your shoulders, staying your tongue.

"None of my other handkerchiefs have anything monogrammed in a language I can read. This is... very thoughtful of you." Another thump of his heart – how strange. "Thank you."

He heard that smile slowly growing on your face.

"I'm glad."

He'd tucked that little handkerchief into his drawer at home, using it sparingly so the fabric didn't wear. It was more than a gift to him – it was a symbol that your friendship was everlasting. No matter what society dictated, a working-class Muggle-born and a high society pure-blood could find companionship with one another, could earnestly enjoy time spent together. Occasionally over that summer, he pulled it out just to feel those beads again. Just to feel the way he'd felt when you first gave it to him.

Of course, after the incident in the cellar, he pushed it to the back of his drawer and didn't dare to think on it again. But it was there, always. Consistent and refusing to budge.

A little like you.

He made a pact on that first day of seventh year. He didn't like to lose, but that rule had always been flexible with you. No more. He would not bow to your charms, your laugh, your sweetness. He would not let himself succumb, and though you would not either, an impasse was better than the alternative.

When he thinks about it now, he knows he should've told you about the betrothal at once, but what he lacked in self-reflection, he made up in vigilance.

He kept his distance, ignored your attempts to get him alone. Dorothy came to bother him more often, the secret weighing swollen between them. He sated her neediness for company outside her friendship group, showing him off to Peregrine like a new teddy bear, chattily expressing her plans for the future – children, mostly, which made Ominis queasy. He spent as little time in the common room as possible if only to avoid her.

Peregrine, likewise, was more than delighted to take advantage of his blackmail, as Ominis discovered one evening in October, reluctantly heading back towards the common room before curfew.

When he overheard him speaking on the Great Staircase.

With you.

"— know your little secret," he was jeering. "You've got Gaunt lapping at your feet like a starving Puffskein. You and your filthy Muggle blood."

That little maggot. He'd all but promised he wouldn't deign to speak to you if Ominis kept his word. The only thing that stopped him from stepping out, hexing Peregrine into next week... was how utterly unbothered you were.

"Do you have anything new to say, Perry?" You sounded tired, bored. "Because we've done this faff a thousand times before. It's old hat."

Old hat? For once he knew what that meant. What did you mean by that?

The boy hissed. "You know full well it's Peregrine, you common blood wretch—"

"So original."

"— and I know you fancy him too. You don't deserve him. You're a disgusting low breed—"

"Third time this week."

"— who would sully the great Slytherin bloodline, defile it like dirt—"

"Redundant, but good effort—"

"Shut up!" And he hoicked and spat. "You're a stupid Mudblood and you're lower class than my saliva on your shoe."

But you were icy cool in your composure.

"If you say that word again," you said, "I'll hex you."

Peregrine laughed. "You won't. Hufflepuffs have no spines, and my father is friends with the headmaster, and he doesn't care about the sad, wimpy woes of Mudbloods like—"

"Oscausi!"

He made a garbled noise before— nothing. His feet stomped, his hands banged against the bannister in fists, but he couldn't say a word.

"Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Oh wait, you can't. You have no mouth."

You left him there, raging, and Ominis caught up to you on the basement stairs. He shouldn't have talked to you – not with Peregrine was so close, not with you meddling with his feelings – but he needed to know the truth.

"People have said that to you before? Old hat, you called it. I remember you saying that it means something is tediously familiar."

"Of course people have said it to me before." At his bewilderment, you scoffed. "Come on, Ominis. Do you really think you were the first person to call me a Mudblood?"

A new wave of rage seared through him. "Who?"

"One of the shopkeepers when my parents pulled out Muggle currency. Some Ravenclaw who saw me accidentally drop my books with my wand. Random students, portraits, ghosts... Violet McDowell said it to me and Mahendra Pehlwaan on the train up to school before first year, for crying out loud."

It was a horrible realisation to know that he'd been so privileged to avoid such disdain, and that he'd been totally ignorant to how others treated you.

"The magical world has been rotten in this way for a long time," you continued. "It's why people keeps worshipping their family bloodlines, why all you funny pure-bloods keep marrying your cousins."

His chest lurched. He should've said it then. Should've confessed that he was one of those funny pure-bloods now. But he didn't.

He couldn't.

Instead the thought retreated, far back into the safety of his mind, and he mumbled a non-committal, "You'll get in trouble for doing that."

"Oh well."

"Gibby..."

"Suppose I kept a little of your Slytherin for myself, too."

His face bloomed, but Merlin, he was not going to give in.

"If he says that to you again—"

"It's just a silly word to me," you reminded him. "He might as well call me a biscuit-eating-balloon-popper for as nonsensical as it is."

Still, the next time he saw Violet McDowell, he made sure to cast a subtle Trip jinx when she was going down the common room stairs, and it brought him endless satisfaction when she was carted to the hospital wing with a bloody nose and twisted ankle. Was it spiteful? Yes. Was it unjust retribution? It didn't feel like it. You had long since proved to him, to everyone around you, that you weren't incompetent, that you had an affinity with magic as much as the next pure-blood.

"How does it work? Your wand?"

In first year, you were waiting for Sebastian and Anne together by the Quidditch fields. The air was parched, as if about to rain, but still you had spread your robes on the grass, he upright and leaning against an astronomy table.

"Like a dolphin, remember?" he said, recalling the conversation you had on the first day outside Charms.

"I know, but do you tell it to do that? Or does it just... do it?"

"It just does it."

"Wow! Can I do it too? Go around the world without sight?"

"I would assume so."

He heard a rattle. You'd removed your spectacles. "I'll try it then, no cheating! Tell me how you do it."

This would certainly prove interesting. "All right then. Reach out. Sense your surroundings. What do you smell?"

"Grass," you murmured. "Trees. Mud."

"What do you hear?"

"The wind. Some people, in the distance. Brooms shooting through the air. You."

"What do you taste?"

"All the chocolate I just ate."

He smiled at that. "What do you feel?"

"My wand. The air. My robes."

"Can you sense it all, through your wand?"

"... Not a winkle."

He leant back. "I suppose you're reliant on your sight. It would make sense that it wouldn't come naturally to you."

"Oh, I have an idea," you said, plucky again. "Can I try with your wand?"

"I doubt it'll work. The wand chooses the wizard."

But he relented, because he always did, handing it over to you with a smirk. You were strangely reverent.

"Nice to meet you, Ominis' wand. Promise I'll give you back to him."

"It's black pine, supposedly one of the better ones for non-verbal magic," he explained, "and dragon heartstring core. From the same Hebridean Black as my entire family's wands."

A fact that royally depressed him, but he needn't say it aloud.

"Wowee! So it's like this was made for you." You held it up. "Okay. I've closed my eyes. Now. Sense the world!"

Silence.

"Did it work?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Well, am I supposed to feel something? I can't see anything different, since my eyes are closed."

"That's the point," he said, exasperated. "Why not walk around?"

"All right then." You stood. "I'm going to walk to the arches and back—"

You made not one step before he heard a thud and a yelping oof, and he was striding over at once, coming to stand over you.

"Ouch."

"You... tripped."

"Yeah. I don't think your wand likes me very much."

He laughed. "I think that was entirely you, Gibberish."

"Meanie."

He offered his hand, and you got to your feet and swept grass off your skirt.

"All right," you said, determined, "for real this time! Show me the way, Ominis' wand!"

So off you went, huffing and puffing with determination, boots squelching through mud that muffled the further away you walked. He stood there, waiting for the inevitable moment where you stumbled over your own feet, or knocked your knees into stone, or trod on a critter, but by some marvel, you managed to reach the stone follies without incident.

"I did it!" you called. "I walked all the way!"

"And you didn't fall? That is quite the miracle."

"I can still hex you from a distance, you know!"

He grinned. "You didn't cheat at all?"

"No!"

"And my wand?"

"It must like me!"

He doubted it was all his wand showing you the way – and more you relying on your memory of the area. Still, you hurried back over with a swagger to your step.

"Now if I lose my glasses, I can just do a you and walk around without looking! I'll be totally unstoppable—" His wand let out spark; you yelped. "Okay, okay! I'm giving you back! Please don't kill me!"

You shoved it into his hands. It was a testament to your charm, though. He'd never known it to be so acquiescing in another person's hand, nor so... playful.

Perhaps it was fond of you, too.

That won't do anymore. There could be no fondness, no weakness in the chain. Even if magic itself decreed you a good match, you were not meant to be.

Though you continued to try your hardest to prove him wrong.

You'd started to sit at the Slytherin table at lunch. The house boundaries weren't so strict during the day, and ostensibly you liked to sit next to him to sit opposite Missy. The first time you did it, a boy further down the table yelled at you.

"Mudbloods aren't welcome here!"

Ominis shot to his feet at the same time Missy did, but you didn't care. You simply continued to eat your chicken pie like he was no more than a paperboy hawking newspapers. Ominis knew what you were doing. He ignored your attempts at conversation, giving stilted one-word answers when Missy prompted him instead.

On your most daring days, you'd drape your hand over his thigh. The first time, he'd almost choked on his drink. You giggled softly as he tried, in vain, to cull the heat that exploded through him. There was something tantalising about keeping such intimate touches a secret, and you took full advantage of it, of his stony façade, trying in vain to keep you out of his thoughts. Missy must've been in on the joke, perhaps even encouraged it.

At one point, he'd sat at the Gryffindor table with Garreth Weasley to avoid you. And you still found an excuse to sit next to him.

Stubborn, meddlesome girl. But it was admirable, your relentlessness.

And maddeningly attractive.

In November, he sought solitude from the rising workload and went down to the Undercroft to think.

Only to find you there, and Missy.

Duelling.

Drunk.

He ducked when a hex blasted the wall to his left.

"Stop dodging!" Missy said through a wheezed giggle. "Flipendo!"

"Protego!" The spell crashed into the ceiling. "Oops-a-daisy, that's left a mark!"

"Ominis is going to kill us."

"We'll repair it! It'll be fine!"

"Will it now?"

Both of you went dead silent at his voice, carrying across the room.

"Oh," said Missy. "Bugger."

To hear her swear without abandon was actually rather funny, but Ominis stifled his amusement.

"Why are you two duelling?"

"Missy's testing me! She – hic – got us some gin." He heard your shoes clack erratically. "It's a girls' night! Want to join?"

"You just said it was girls' night."

"You can be an honorary girl!"

"I don't think that's how that works."

You hiccoughed in response, and it broke his composure.

"Join us, Ominis," Missy said. "I brought wine!"

"Yeah!" You snatched your glass from the ground, slurped noisily and yelled, "Let's have a three way – hic – duel!"

"I think that's enough for you, Gibby."

"I've only had... four glasses!"

"Four glasses too many."

"I'm fine, promi— hic." When he reached to take the glass from your hands, you scampered away. "Try and stop me!"

"I'm not chasing after you," he said, frustrated. "I'll leave you to it."

"Levioso!"

He barely had enough time to throw himself out the way. "Merlin, Gibby!"

"Unless you're chicken? Bawk – hic – bawk? Stupefy!"

He threw off the spell, not even needing to vocalise.

"We're not duelling, Gibby," he said, serious now. "Now put the glass down before you destroy my Undercroft."

"No!"

"You're either going to hurt yourself or be sick."

"I'm a big girl, Ominis. I can handle my alcohic."

"I'm warning you—"

"Are you my mother now?"

Merlin, who knew you could be so brash? Missy was laughing now.

"Last chance," he said, and raised his wand. "Put the glass down, or I'll make you."

And oh could he hear you grin.

"Make me then."

He sent the first spell, which you ricocheted into the wall, but he didn't relent, switching from verbal to non-verbal to confuse you. The blows beat between you, an endless, unyielding rain of magic. In a moment of hesitation, you levitated the glass, freeing your hand to spit hexes as hard as you were giggling in-between.

"Stupefy!"

He dodged. "Impedimenta!"

"Protego!" Zing. "Accio!"

He was yanked forwards – but you held the spell, and he kept coming, crashing right into you, spinning, toppling to the ground. He ended up on top of you, and you wheezed with laughter, vibrating right through to his chest.

"I win!"

He braced himself on his arms and knees, breathless. "Did you?"

"You haven't got my drink!"

He shot a basic cast to his right; the glass exploded, and a self-satisfied grin curled on his lips when you gasped.

"Cheater!"

"What rule says I couldn't do that?"

"I say you couldn't do that."

"You didn't establish anything before we started."

"It was obviously gentlemen's rules!"

"Who said I'm a gentleman?"

But you replied, with no small amount of coyness:

"Suppose you can't be, on top of me like this..."

It took him a second to recognise that this position was highly compromising, and his mirth fell away. He could smell your sweat, which should've been disgusting but was actually exhilarating, could feel your breath on his face, hard and panting. Your scent, like a drug.

Merlin.

He wrenched himself to his feet, cheeks blooming with heat, with need. Stop this. He forced himself to think of Dorothy, of Peregrine, their sneering voices eclipsing yours, to remember why he had to rebuild the walls. What would happen if he failed to.

This is the easiest way, he reminded himself. The best way.

"You," he muttered, "are a troublesome rascal, and I know exactly what you are doing—"

Then Missy screeched.

He'd almost forgotten she was here, watching – oh Merlin, she'd seen that entire ordeal! – but this unholy cry was completely unlike any sound he'd heard before. Her knees hit the ground, nails scratching stone.

"Missy!" you cried, staggering towards her. "Missy, what's going on?"

He followed on unsteady legs too, but for entirely different reasons. He approached Missy, curling up the ground, you shaking her.

"Missy? Talk to us!"

"Get out!" she screamed. "Get out, get out, get out!"

"Of the Undercroft?" you said, panicking. "Ominis, what's happening?"

"I don't know." He felt along her head, but there was no wound, no blood. "Missy, can you hear us—?"

"Get out!" she shrieked again. "Leave me alone!"

"Is it a curse?" you asked.

"No, there wasn't anything to curse her!"

"Then what's wrong? Can we use a spell? A potion?"

"I don't know—"

His blood ran cold. Suddenly he had a feeling he knew exactly what was wrong.

You were undeterred, and you rolled up your sleeves. "Okay, then I'm sorry in advance, Missy! Time for some tough Muggle love!"

Thwack. It took a second for him to realise you'd slapped her, palm to cheek. The most uncouth way to express violence.

... And it worked.

Missy stopped trembling. Her breath evened.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely. "Thank you. That— helped. I just... lost myself, for a moment."

"Lost yourself?" said Ominis, suddenly furious. "You and I both know what that was."

"It's fine."

"It is very clearly not fine."

"What's going on?" you asked, bewildered. "Not some ancient magic balderdash, is it?"

Missy must've told you the truth during your convalescence. "Missy," Ominis said, crossing his arms, "has been seeing visions—"

"Ominis," Missy snarled in warning.

"— of the pain that Isidora Morganach stole."

Her voice went cold. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone."

"That was before you had a screaming fit! If you're not careful, it's going to completely overwhelm—"

"I am fine," she barked, getting to her feet, though she wobbled. "Leave it alone, Ominis."

She staggered to the grille as you stood. "Missy, wait."

She didn't.

You stood there a moment. "I think... I-I think..."

"We should leave her, Gibby." He didn't bother to hide his resentment. "If she wants to let it burn her from the inside, so be it."

His callousness wasn't true. He cared, of course he cared, but he was also so tired of everything breaking down around him, and in spite resolved to let it, to embrace annihilation.

"No, it's not that," you said, shaking, "I... I think I'm going to be sick."

You ran to the nearest crate and retched, and Ominis, holding your hair back, wondered how the hell he got himself into these situations. If he could say I told you so to both you and Missy and get away with it, he would.

As if the roles had been switched, Missy was colder to you both now as you prodded about the ancient magic issue. It had been manageable before, but it seemed it was turning inwards, feeding off her, siphoning from her. To what end, he didn't know. Perhaps she would succumb to madness.

Perhaps she would die.

When asked these rather necessary questions, however, Missy brushed them off like lint. She did continue, however, to let you sit next to him at lunch. He couldn't talk about ancient magic in public, after all – he'd sworn it in his Unbreakable Vow.

But you hadn't.

"The Daily Prophet?" you asked her one lunchtime in early December, as a mist floated down from the icicle-laden ceiling. You were next to him, opposite her, as always. "Why are you reading that drivel? It's all ancient news. Like a repository of gossip."

"I like to read the curse-breaker news," Missy said, nonchalant.

"I guess if it helps you get a vision of your potential career."

"Gibby."

"Is there an article about Isidora Morganach?"

"That's not even subtle."

"I'm trying to help."

"Well, don't," snapped Missy. "And let me read in peace."

You grumbled, he nursed his soup, and when your hand brushed along his inner thigh, higher than usual, his blood rushed to places it should not have rushed.

"Anything interesting?" he rasped, trying to distract himself. "In the column?"

"Not yet," said Missy. She flicked a page. "I suppose anything making headway in breaking curses would be front page—"

She stopped abruptly.

"Something the matter?" you asked. "What's with the face?"

Missy was silent for a beat. Two.

"You're betrothed?"

The words didn't register at first.

"Ominis," Missy repeated, no longer a question, "you're betrothed."

"What?" you snapped – your hand slid away as you grabbed the paper.

Too late did he think to take it from you. Too late did he realise what this meant. This was too sudden. He wasn't prepared— didn't think about what to say—

You shot to stand and flounced from the hall. No, no. He immediately ran after you.

"Gibby, wait!" You were a little spitfire, but he still had height, and caught up to you outside the basement stairs. "Gibby, please—"

"You're betrothed?"

Tears swallowed you up, and yet you whispered as delicately as a flower. His heart broke.

"I— it's not what you think—"

"It says it right here!" you snapped, paper trembling. "You and— and Dorothy Ellingboe, on her seventeenth birthday!"

His shock plunged beneath regret. He could blame a number of people for this. Peregrine. Dorothy. His parents, or hers. In the end, it didn't matter who sent the information to the papers. Only that someone had before he'd plucked up the courage to tell you himself.

"It's arranged," he said quickly. "I didn't plan it— it doesn't mean anything—"

"You're getting married, Ominis," you said. "You knew, and didn't tell me."

"I wanted to—"

"That's why you've been so determined to break it off, isn't it? You knew I would find out. You just wanted to spare yourself telling me the truth." You flung the paper at his feet. "Why am I even bothering? Dorothy is a fancy pure-blood, and I— I'm nothing."

How could you say something so untrue?

You ran passed him, not giving him the opportunity to defend himself. Down the spiral stairs, towards the Hufflepuff common room. He sprinted after you, calling your name, but you didn't listen. By the time he skirted around the corridor of the kitchens, you'd already tapped the code for the entrance, the barrels groaning as they unfurled.

"Leave me alone, Ominis."

"Gibby, wait, I'm sorry."

Before you stepped inside, however, you knocked your hand against a barrel – the wrong one. Vinegar spewed out as you stole inside the safety of the tunnel, and he yelped, too slow to dodge the spray catching most of his arm. It reeked sharply as he ran to the sealed door.

"Gibby," he begged. "Gibby, please."

He tapped the barrel in perfect timing to Helga Hufflepuff, but vinegar soaked him again – likely the common room looking out for you – and this time he let it.

He deserved it, and worse.

He waited, scourging the vinegar from his clothes, until someone else from his year group left the common room – who just so happened to be your other best friend, Adelaide. She let out a sad noise when she stepped out.

"You've really hurt her, Ominis. She's sobbing her eyes out in there."

That sundered him a little more. "Will you ask her to come out, please? So I can explain?"

"What's there to explain? Imagine it was the other way around. How would you feel if you found out she was betrothed through the paper?"

Enraged. Resentful. Heartbroken.

All things he already was.

"Give her time," said Adelaide, but she was devoid of sympathy. "It's the least you could do."

So he'd loped back to his common room, numb. Missy eventually returned, but said nothing, allowing him room to breathe in his mistake. She didn't know either, after all – he'd kept this from her as equally as he'd kept it from you, and he wasn't stupid enough to miss the hurt that radiated from his friend, too.

By not telling anyone, he could pretend it wasn't real. By keeping it a secret, he kept you free of the burden. For you. He was doing this for you.

So he told himself, over and over.

Despite this setback, he was determined not to let this be the end of your relationship together, so as you had done for the whole first three months of term, he chased you. Tagged you after class, asked to speak to you in private. For two weeks you didn't give him the time of day.

"Gibby," he said one evening after dinner, so worn down by your cold shoulder that he would resort to begging if he had to. "Please talk to me."

"Why?" you dug with sharpness. "So you can keep secrets again?"

"If you would let me explain—"

"Are you going to marry her?" When he was silent, stunned, you repeated more forcefully, "Are you going to marry her, Ominis?"

"I-I don't have a choice."

"What was it you said, back in the Scriptorium? Before Sebastian used Crucio on me?"

He remembered. We always have a choice. He'd been so sure back then.

So naïve.

"He threatened you." He blurted it. Foolish boy, yet he couldn't stop. "Malfoy threatened to hurt you if I didn't go through with the marriage. And my family—"

"I can take care of myself," you snarled.

"I know," he mumbled. "But I will marry her, to be certain. I'm sorry."

"So what else is there to be said?" Your pitch squealed in hurt. "I'm not going to be your mistress."

"I don't love her, Gibby," he said, but the rest lodged in his throat. I love you.

You were unmoved. "You've taken me for a fool. Don't talk to me again."

Christmas came. You returned home, and Dorothy stayed, and as she paraded him around with Hector Fawley and Antares Black it was the worst holidays he'd ever had. Missy refused his ideas for help since her episode, even though with everything else going on, he worried deeply for her.

When the new term started, he went to Apparition classes with the rest of the seventh years, though his were conducted in private, with a special instructor by the name Perdita Ruthven. Apparition didn't work for him like it did others, they'd discovered, when he struggled to pop between one end of the room to the other. It was his smell and hearing that was intimately intertwined to places he knew, so it took only the reminder of honeysuckle to drop him right in the middle of Feldcroft, and the ripple of pondwater to take him to the far end of the Great Lake. He reckoned he could appear right in Gaunt Manor, if only he thought of those damp walls and stale air.

You, on the other hand, excelled. Before long you were Apparating and Disapparating with ease, all without splinching yourself once. Not even Missy was that skilled, having left half her pinkie nail behind at one point.

"I saw Gibby today," said Missy after one class, "holding hands with Leander."

He was supposed to be beyond jealousy, but it reared up inside him again, terrible and tumultuous.

"Good for her."

"That's not all. Natty told me they've been snogging in the hallways. Leander's been boasting about it."

He inhaled a long breath to control his rising temper. "I'm happy for them."

"Oh, please. You can't even fool yourself."

"That's rich, coming from you," he barked. "Stop trying to interfere and leave me be."

"To make the stupidest mistake of your life?"

A faint echo of Peregrine's words. "I am betrothed."

"Only because you will it."

"You think I want this?"

"No, Ominis. I think you're afraid of change. I think you're afraid of standing up despite the consequences." She was blunt, frosty. "I tell people I'm hallucinating, I might as well check myself into a lifetime in St Mungo's myself. My excuse is self-preservation. Your excuse... is cowardice."

There were moments of defiance peppered throughout the years, moments when he lashed out against his family – refusing to cast the Cruciatus Curse the biggest, and condoning Sebastian's character at the trial the most recent, but other times too. Biting back at their cruelty, expressing disdain at their actions, speaking English when the native language was Parseltongue. But there was one thing that connected them all: these acts were small, never disturbing the peace, never truly facing a consequence harsh enough that it could not be smoothed back over.

Missy had hit a nerve deep in his chest. Cowardice. He'd never truly known what the consequences were if he never dared to test the status quo. But there was prodding at what was, and there was upending the table – and being with you was the latter.

For you. He repeated it constantly. He was doing this for you. No one and nothing could convince him otherwise.

The year wore on, and the gap between you swelled. You continued to date Leander – numerous times he'd walked passed you whispering in his ear, cuddling him, kissing. Traitorous songs chanted in his mind. How he wished he could take Leander's place. Be the one to hold you, kiss you.

It had come to a point where he'd started thinking about you in ways that were... inappropriate. He couldn't help it. The boys in his dorm spoke of girls like conquests, won after long, hard battles of dominance and attrition. It was sickening but impossible not to listen to, when it seemed it was all Augustus Tukesbury and Evander Sweeney would talk about when Ominis was trying to sleep.

"You and Wakefield?" Evander scoffed. "Thought you fancied McDowell?"

"Nah. Wakefield's got bigger knockers. Knows how to use her tongue, too."

"As if you've tumbled her!"

"The Prefect's bathroom isn't only for washing. The only thing better would be both of them at once."

Merlin. Ominis yanked his duvet over his ears.

"Oi, Gaunt," called Evander, and Ominis pried his eyes open in irritation. "You dallied with Ellingboe? That why you're marrying her so young?"

"No," he grounded out. The very thought was utterly revolting.

Augustus scoffed. "Come on, Evander. Gaunt's more prudish than all the first years put together. Bet he wants to wait for marriage like a good boy. Probably thinks a tumble is when you fall off your broom."

His parents had given him the talk a few years ago, a horribly awkward conversation he wished he could purge from his brain. Sebastian was also completely unabashed when he described the sordid diagrams in some books he'd stolen from the Restricted Section.

"I know what sex is, Tukesbury," he snapped. "Now would you two shut up so I can sleep?"

"Who'd you rather shag, then? Missy or Dorothy?"

You. Your skin on his, your lips on him, your legs intertwined, night young. His face instantly flamed when it brought back your hands on his thigh, the feel of you beneath him in the Undercroft, all your hugs and touches, fantasies he'd desperately tried to eschew.

Stop. He crumpled the thought like parchment. Do not bend. In no universe would he allow himself to think about doing any such thing with you.

Even if the rest of his body craved it.

"I know which I'd rather," said Evander. "Merlin, is Missy gorgeous."

"I'd let her tussle with my goblin, you know?"

"You're disgusting," muttered Ominis.

"Oh, get off your high horse, Gaunt," Augustus replied. "Just because you can't appreciate her looks doesn't mean the rest of us can't."

In what he considered a small peace offering, he shared to Missy, in less grotesque language, what Augustus had said – and the boy ended up in the hospital wing next day, though Missy swore she had nothing to do with it, all with that placid, pleasant tone.

"It looks like both of us have our humps to overcome," she told him quietly. "The question is, how?"

How, indeed.

The situation only muddled his feelings further when, in March, he was on his way from Charms when he heard you in the hallway ahead.

Instinct pressed him flush to the wall, ear tilted towards you. The enchanting notes of your voice were a flute on a dawn-swathed tide, but something was fraying. The beats of frustration, anger. He'd heard that plenty of times too, but this was... different.

"Why?" Your accusation was frontal. "Did I do something wrong? Was I too forward?"

Then Leander's baritone voice came, and it stoked Ominis' jealousy once more.

"Merlin, no. You being forward is really attractive."

"So what, then?"

To his credit, Leander didn't match your clear annoyance. "Look, I'm the last person that will say you're not heaps of fun, and you're cute and sweet. But it's pretty clear you don't feel the same way."

"Of course I do—"

"No, you don't. I was stupid not to see it before. The only reason you're with me is because you can't have him."

Ominis stilled.

"That— that's not true."

But your tone warbled. A lie.

"I know when we're cuddling or holding hands or kissing, you're thinking about him, Gibs. Don't try to deny it. It's why you don't want to commit."

Hurt flecked through you now. "H-He's not part of the picture anymore. He's getting married!"

"Yeah," Leander said quietly, "but emotionally, he's all you're thinking about. You're just using me to get over him."

That rendered you speechless.

"I'm not even mad. Just... disappointed, I guess."

"No, Leander—"

"I'll see you around."

His footsteps came Ominis' way, and it was too late for Ominis to even pretend he was doing anything other than eavesdropping, so he stood his ground in silence. Leander stopped short.

"Figures," he muttered. "Marriage be damned, if you want her, Gaunt, go for it. Stop wasting everyone's time. Especially mine."

He walked off as you rounded the corner, piqued by the voices. You inhaled sharply.

"Happy now?"

"Don't blame me," he snapped. "That was all you."

"Was it?"

You stormed off, leaving him in a state of frustration. It was a cruel way to move on, even for you, but perhaps he'd underestimated how deeply hurt ran through your veins, how you could turn elsewhere in an irrational bout to satisfy your cravings for affection. Hufflepuffs were known for their compassion, and you certainly possessed it in spades, but it wasn't your only trait. He tended to put you on a pedestal sometimes, but this was a bare-faced reminder that you were human, rounded and flawed, yoked on your feelings as much as anyone was.

A flicker of regret went through him. Sebastian wasn't there – loath as Ominis was to admit it, his friend was more in tune with such things than he ever was. Very often Sebastian told Ominis plainly about things he missed. He'd have probably known you'd run to Leander for distraction, and Ominis wondered how he was faring in Azkaban, whether the Dementors had taken that part of his goodness yet.

He could imagine what he'd say about this. Stuff your family, and Dorothy too. Come live with me as an honorary Sallow, denounce your bloodline and marry Gibby. That'll show them.

A silly notion, really, to think reality could be as easy as Sebastian often made it out to be.

In his dorm room alone, he tried everything he could to stop thinking about you. He remembered your arguments. He remembered the names you'd called him. He remembered you vomiting, or your embarrassing moments, or that one time in Beasts that you fell into Dugbog dung and couldn't purge the smell from your robes for two weeks. But though his head steeled, his heart resisted. With all your faults you were still too lovable, cemented in his life too thoroughly to be so easily expelled with tricks and deceit.

A moment in first year only brought his attachment to you into full comprehension.

It was the first time he didn't recognise you.

What is that? Apple blossom? The scent came accompanied with your voice, and it was jarring, when so long had you smelt the same, those strawberry laces, once saccharine, now a gentle welcome. It was almost wrong, like a flame that soothed instead of burned, or water rough on skin. His nose wrinkled when you greeted him and Sebastian that morning on the incline to the Owlery.

"I can't believe you're scared of owls," Sebastian was laughing, ignorant of Ominis' plight. "You can't be a witch if you're scared of owls. That's how we send all our post!"

"I just find them eerie, okay?" you were saying, clearly perturbed. "When they're all flying around during breakfast, how d'you know one won't poo on your kippers?"

"Because they're trained?"

"It only takes one accident! Then, bam, brown porridge! And not the yum yum chocolate kind!"

Ominis was silent as you and Sebastian bickered. Apple blossom, and something tart as well... rhubarb, maybe? What was this strange concoction you were wearing? At the top of the steps you hovered at the door, skittish.

"Seriously, Gibby?"

"Just— give me a chance to prepare myself." When Sebastian groaned, you huffed. "They have massive eyes! It's like they're staring into my soul!"

"Merlin's flabby arms, give me the letter. I'll post it." He took it and marched inside. "But next time you're going to do it yourself, even if I have to drag you."

"Thanks Sebastian!" you called to his back. "Honestly, Ominis, if you could see them you'd definitely agree! Maybe it's a Muggle-born thing? Mahendra doesn't like them either."

"You changed your soap."

Oh. He hadn't meant to say that aloud.

You seemed dumbfounded, then said quietly, "I thought I might try something different. You noticed?"

"It caught me unawares, is all. Your scent has always been strawberry laces."

"Red liquorice, you mean?"

He smiled. "Never mind me. It's nice."

But a few days later, there it was, that familiar sweetness a miasma, like it'd never left. He asked after it.

"Oh, well," you squeaked, "I wanted you to know when I was around."

"If you want to change it, Gibberish, you can."

But you said, "No. It helps you, and I like it. That's good enough for me."

And ever since, you'd been the same, and the scent of that little Muggle sweet had embossed into his heart.

It was the first sweet he associated with you, but it wasn't the last.

To distract himself from the betrothal, Missy's issues, and you, he threw himself into revision – proving a worthy use of his time when he excelled at his N.E.W.T.s, even his worst subject of Potions. After Hogwarts he would be expected to get a job, start his career as a graduating adult, and he wished then, more desperately than he had all year, that Sebastian and Anne were still there to embrace the future together, as they'd always wanted.

The End of School party happened in the Great Hall. All seventh years were present, dressed up, teary-eyed, exchanging contact details, promising meet-ups over the summer, in the future. It was customary to wear a school shirt over your garb and have others sign it, and with a spell he learnt he had the words Transfigured into braille, surprised at the kindness of the messages.

Don't be a stranger, wrote Garreth. I'm going to miss seeing your grumpy face every day.

We weren't ever close friends, but I always admired you, wrote Nerida. Good luck to you in whatever you do!

I am so thankful to have met you, was Missy's message. This isn't goodbye, because I intend to keep in touch whether you like it or not.

They'd argued over the year, but he was thankful to have met her, too.

As the party wound to a close, he felt a tug on his arm. Strawberry laces.

"Can I sign your shirt too?"

He quashed his longing, deep, deep down.

"Of course."

You flattened his arm and scribbled. You dotted too, as if writing in braille, but when you Transfigured the text it was two simple words. Good luck. Nothing else.

He wrote on your blouse in his best penmanship. Good luck. Nothing else.

"Wait."

He stalled before taking off, and you inhaled a long, regal breath.

"In the Muggle world, there's a saying for brides when they marry. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in her shoe. It's for what to wear when they walk down the aisle. Brings luck, and I thought... even though you're the bridegroom, it could be applied to you."

He swallowed, but his throat was still sticky.

"I don't want to say goodbye on a sour note, so... here."

He reached forwards, hands grasping something small, the size of a Sickle, wrapped in paper packaging. He unfolded it, fingers caressing the rough surface... of a sweet.

"You probably have old and new stuff in abundance," you said, "and borrowing usually implies you intend to give it back. A Muggle coin is too risky, so I thought, for irony's sake, you could have this. Something blue."

"A boiled sweet?"

"Strawberry flavour. I made it myself in the kitchens last week with blue food dye, and, well... keep it on you, during the wedding. It will bring you luck on the day, and... in the future."

He brought the sweet to his nose and inhaled. Strawberry, as you said, but sweeter. His heart thrashed.

"Gibby..."

"I hope you find happiness, Ominis," you said quietly. "I truly mean that."

Then you turned to go, and he couldn't bear to know this was the last time you'd see each other ever again. But you walked away, and his jaw clenched, and he gripped that little sweet, his last reminder of you.

He'd have the memories. That should've been enough.

But he was foolish to think it would.

He'd taken his last ride on the Hogwarts Express with Missy, but it was a sombre occasion – the last time they'd see each other before he was married, forever trapped, and despite her heroics in fifth year she wasn't on the invite list for the wedding.

"You're welcome to visit me at any time in York."

"Thank you."

"And you will visit," she said, a soft command. "I don't care if Dorothy disapproves."

"I will try."

The train shuddered to a stop in York Railway Station. Missy gathered her belongings and they exchanged a brief, but meaningful hug.

"Highgate," she said then, a total non-sequitur. "Highgate high street. There's a confectionary there. Visit there too, if you cannot come to me."

The summer brought the wedding preparations into sharp clarity. The house was cleaned, furniture repurchased, clothes fitted, garden groomed for the ceremony. The house-elves worked tirelessly to please the Gaunts and the Ellingboes, no matter how high or impossible their expectations. Everything had to be perfect. A week before, his father, Marvolo, Grimsley and Mr Ellingboe forced Ominis to endure a banquet together in lieu of the stag night. They overindulged in fine food and expensive wine, financial cares forgotten as they rode the high of the incoming union of the families.

"This marriage is only the beginning," his father purred into his glass. "This alliance is securing matches for you all. They laughed at us, scorned our instable family line, and now look! Raven's already had offers from the Yaxleys and the Greengrasses, and the Malfoys have expressed interest in wedding Lenore to Peregrine."

Ominis didn't drink any wine, and barely ate. Every day, every moment of every hour, he wished for this nightmare to end. He wished he could face death like an old friend. He wished he could swap places with Sebastian, as surely a Dementor's Kiss was far more bearable than this.

He would marry Dorothy. To protect you, he would do anything. He said it to himself, over and over, to convince himself of this truth. For you, for you, for you.

Yet the closer the days got to the wedding, the less he believed.

On the night before, his mother escorted him to one of the master suites, what would be his new quarters post-marriage. He scented incense, candles of rose, fresh linen and jasmine soap.

"You must consummate the marriage on the wedding night. There are two potions in the bedside drawer, both to promote fertility. Take one before you begin the marital act, the second if you wish to try again in the morning."

He bit his tongue to control his disgust.

"For many generations, it has been... difficult, for us Gaunts to conceive, and when we did, many did not survive to the birthing stage." For the first time ever, he detected humility, loss, in her voice. "I fear this issue may have passed down to you. I was very lucky to be blessed with you and your siblings, however. So do your duty to this family, Ominis."

Duty. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered. Even for something as sacred as making love.

He numbly made his way back to his own quarters. It was dark now, the heavy pall of night like a bolt of silk on skin. It was a reckless thing to do, to drift over to his drawers, to reach into the back. He felt the scrap of linen and tugged, finding your handkerchief there, and the beading work, unsullied by the events of the last few years.

For you. It was a barely audible bleat at the back of his mind. It flickered a curious memory of the End of School party back to him, and weakened to his whims, he found the shirt he'd tossed aside, fingers skimming the linen until he found your message. Good luck. He nocked his wand – you'd Transfigured your own message, but he remembered now that you'd written something in braille too. He adjusted the Transcription charm and drew his wand across the fabric.

His breath caught when a new message emerged beneath his fingertips.

I love you. I always will.

It felt like his chest was caving in, so sudden did breath rush in. He listened out, checking, double-checking for sounds outside the door, in case someone would enter and interrupt this divine moment. But no one did, and he read the words, again and again, over and over and over.

For you.

With piercing awareness, Sebastian's voice filled his head, as if they'd only been speaking yesterday.

Your family – they don't know the real you, that you're loyal and kind and wise and great. Don't ever let them make you think otherwise.

When had he forgotten this wisdom? When had he let himself be eroded down until he was only pieces of himself, a tangle of threads knotted together to their liking? A pawn of a son, strutted around to further political alliances and strengthen the bloodline?

Sometimes family isn't blood. Sometimes family is heart. And she is as much a part of yours as the rest of us are.

Anne had realised, so long before him, that you'd always be there for him, even if the world determined you shouldn't. Anne had seen how you had taken root within his life, changed it so fundamentally for the better. How good you were together. How you belonged to one another, you, a piece of his heart.

It is a constant battle to fight for what you love, who you love. There is no end to it. Missy's advice, whispered at your bedside so many years ago. But that doesn't mean you lay down your weapon. It means you keep swinging, no matter how hard fatigue tries to hold you down.

Was this it? Would he lay down his weapon and yield for the last time? Give up the last sacred part of himself?

At the start of his seventh year, perhaps he would have. His matrimony was practically written into his destiny from the moment he first emerged into the world, as it had been for all the Gaunts before him, and terrified for you, fearing one way or another you would meet demise by his carelessness, he gave up himself to make sure you were safe.

This was the easiest way, the best way.

But it was also the coward's way.

Instead of fighting for you, he'd chosen to stuff cotton in his ears, to ignore his own feelings, to squash them down into specks. But those specks were seeds, and they had long since grown wild.

Because the stark truth was, it was you. It was always you.

He wanted you more than anything and anyone.

The thought punched him worse than any offensive hex. Dizzy, he reached for the wall. Suddenly that thought was all that ensconced him – that going through with this would lose you forever. That this was a betrayal that ran deeper than bones and blood. He turned sharply, too sharply, almost hitting the vanity, and gripped his bedposts before allowing himself to shut his eyes, to block himself from the world around him.

This couldn't go on anymore. To shackle himself to Dorothy and the Gaunt line was to forever lose grasp on his soul.

When it was already tethered to yours.

You filled his mind, every moment of you. When he first met you, all of your joy and teasing and silliness between. The way you taught him to smile and laugh and find goodness in everything.

The argument that changed you, and the year that changed everything else.

And when the last of his memories unfurl before him, he stands from the bed and wanders to the window, where the slip beneath draws a sharp draught across his face, drying the tears that have leaked.

If he goes through with this wedding, he loses you forever.

But... it's not too late.

He has to escape. He has to find you, his rock, his world. Gibberish. He smiles. The words you speak, the phrases you use. He doesn't understand you sometimes – but you always understood him, when no one in this wretched family ever did.

For his entire life, Ominis has lived to serve his bloodline.

Now it is time he serves himself.

The plan cobbles together hastily. He casts an Extension charm on his bag and stuffs it full with as many clothes as he can muster. He doesn't have many left, most of it sold off, but there's enough. Then he finds another bag, putting his more valuable resources inside. What possessions he wishes to keep, which isn't much, frankly, a few bottles of Wiggenweld, and the little money he has – he will need to make a trip to Gringotts.

He uses the embroidered handkerchief to wrap the sweet you gave him, tucking it into his pocket next to his wand. For luck.

Then, under the cover of a nightfall, as the house rests in preparation for tomorrow, Ominis tosses the bags outside, and leaps from the window.

"Arresto Momentum!"

He lands quietly on the front lawn. The air is balmy, rent with the sounds of nocturnal critters, crickets that buzz, owls that twitter. He casts the Revealing charm to gather his bearings and check he is alone, then he twists right, with barely a thought to the place he once called home.

Before he can Apparate away, he must do one last thing. One last goodbye to his family.

The Gaunt estate is needlessly large. His steps are furtive, hurried against the gravel path, taking him deep into the wood that surrounds the estate, the bag a leaden weight in his arm. His family are too proud, too sentimental, to sell, but where he's going will be the last to get seized in potential takeover. He wends up the lopsided stones, brushing his hand against the damp stone wall, the thicket vast enough that nothing pierces through, and when it rains, it soaks the ground for days, the air sour with the stench of it.

Eventually, when even the noise of the village cannot penetrate the trees, his foot knocks a shallow set of stone steps, and he knows he has arrived.

The shack.

Rarely does he come here, a ramshackle excuse of a building, built shoddily together with planks of wood and brittle thatching. Sometimes his father took him as a child, imparting his idea of a moral lesson. This place is beneath you, boy. Only come here to bestow punishment. Yet it is with reverence that Ominis knocks on the door.

A house-elf responds with a squeak in surprise – immediately he recognises his mother's personal attendant, Thimble.

"M-Master Gaunt! You should not be so far from the house!"

"I'm sorry to intrude," he says by way of greeting. "Please may I come in?"

The door croaks as Thimble opens it wider, allowing him entrance. He ducks beneath the door – the kitchen is not very tall, and it reeks of mildew and rotten wood, but a hearth blazes in the corner, and a pot lid trembles in near-boil.

"I need to speak with everyone. Will you rouse them all?"

"Right away, master." She disappears with the snap of her fingers.

A little envy pierces him. How easy it is to Apparate wherever they desire. One by one, they magically appear in the room, eager to please, and when all fourteen bodies stand nervously before him, he drops the massive bag by his feet.

"Master Gaunt," says Pip, Ominis' personal house-elf. "Can Pip assist with anything? Pip can assure master, the wedding preparations are ahead as scheduled—"

"I'm not getting married."

This stuns Pip and the others into silence.

"Not... getting married, master?"

"No. I'm leaving. Tonight." For some reason he feels like he can trust them with his elusive mission. "I'm done being a puppet for this family."

One of the older house-elves, Ratch, ruffles his head. "Ratch thinks Master Gaunt must think wisely before doing anything rash."

"I have thought about this for years." He crouches, untying the bag. "My parents and siblings have dictated what I should do, where I should go, and who I should socialise with for my entire life. Now I am taking it into my own hands, as I should've done a long time ago."

"By jilting Miss Ellingboe?" asks Gobble, a kitchen house-elf. "But Master Gaunt, without the wedding, the magnificent Gaunt family will not receive the sizable dowry."

"I'm counting on it."

He pulls the last tie of his bag, and it flowers open, revealing his clothes. A palpable hush falls on the house-elves as he plucks from the top a double-breasted frock coat. Part of his wedding apparel.

"Pip," he says, "this is my last command to you. You take this coat and never return. You leave the Gaunt family behind forever."

Pip lets out a shaky gasp. "M-Master Gaunt—"

"I'm releasing you from our service. You have been good to me. Thank you."

He offers the coat.

A shaky hand takes it from him. The coat is much too big to fit, but the fabric squeezes in a hopeful grip.

"Ominis has always been Pip's favourite of the Gaunts."

Ominis smiles. "I don't deserve that."

"Pip believes Ominis will go far," he says, "and that he is right to follow his heart. Pip wishes Ominis luck."

Crack. He disappears.

"M-Master Gaunt," stammers Thimble. "What if— what if we do not wish to leave?"

There is security under a wizard's serfdom, and he knows house-elves subscribe to different rules entirely, but he struggles to understand in this instance; his mother has never been kind to her. Rooms away he could hear the punishments enforced for tasks impossible to complete. Sometimes he heard crying in the depths of the night, too – and knew, this time, it was not the Muggles.

Nonetheless, he reaches into the bag and takes the next item, a grey waistcoat.

"Then to you, Thimble, I order this: take this and head to Hogwarts. Speak to Professor Weasley or Gladwin Moon. They will offer you sanctuary and work, if you desire it."

She blubbers as she takes the waistcoat, and Disapparates at once. To each house-elf, he dispenses the last of his clothing, sometimes a hand-stitched shirt, or a pair of tweed breeches, from as large as an embroidered winter cloak to as small as a school tie. He gives out his entire wedding outfit and then some, until each house-elf disappears, and he is left with one.

Ratch hesitates.

"Is Master Gaunt so certain about this? About abandoning master's family? Everything master knows?"

"They're not everything I know," Ominis says. "My family has quite a narrow view on the world."

"But to risk poverty and isolation? For a Mu— Muggle-born?"

He nearly says it. Mudblood.

"How did you know?"

"Master had Ratch check on you occasionally, since two summers ago." After the trial. "Master had Ratch report on you whenever Ratch saw you were with the girl."

Wretched Father. "How often did you see us together?"

"Not often," says Ratch, and he hesitates. "But master... did not believe it when Ratch told him so."

The implication is clear.

"I know you're loyal to him," says Ominis gently, "but he wouldn't hesitate to toss you aside whenever it suited him. Do not mistake the length of your service as mutual loyalty."

He holds out a belt. It's unfortunate that this is the last article, as he assumes Ratch is too familiar with them. Still, it pulls from Ominis' hands like a snake, writhing to be free.

"They will chase you," Ratch says quietly. "They will find you. They will brand you a blood traitor, and hunt you and the Muggle-born until you are dead."

It is a heavy burden to bear.

"I know."

But he is no longer afraid.

Ratch clears his throat. "Then Ratch wishes you good fortune, Ominis Gaunt. You will need it."

Crack. He disappears.

Ominis stands and heads to the door. He doesn't bother taking the bag – it is empty anyway.

When he steps back into the open air and Disapparates, the last he hears of the Gaunt shack is the pot boiling over.

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