#massive darkness miniatures

[heretakesomecandy]

lord tusk, nightmare if every dentist and soon of our heroes too.

[snailcodedminis]

The Hugbear from Massive Darkness 2! Love how this one turned out 😁

Xpress paints and dry brushing made the fur super quick and easy. The NMM on the chain not so much 🫠

[maniakminis]

Yeah I'm committed to making a regiment of Garden Gnomes for Turnip28. I got these dwarves from the Massive Darkness boardgame kickstarter. I spent a few hours adding various mushrooms growing from them. When I paint them I'll add a bunch of mud and grass textures and I think they should look pretty good.

[nightscalestudio]

Anthurium, character fighter for D&D games. Species - Argasean, subspecies Kaena.

[cyborgzloth]

[draconic-desire]

A Dance With the Dragon II — Mates

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

[Part I] [Part II — You are here] [Part III] [Part IV]

Neuvillette brings you to your new “home”, which also comes with new challenges.

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, forced imprisonment, Neuvillette accidentally goes a little feral here, brief non-con at the end

One of the first things Neuvillette did was move you from the apartment at the Palais Mermonia (your prison for the past four centuries) to his personal residence. Securing his palms to your waist, he teleported you directly into the foyer of the massive home.

The interior was splashed with blues and whites that matched the Chief Justice’s own color palette. The upper walls were decorated with friezes depicting various marine creatures, from floating otters (how ironic) to bobbing seahorses. A grand spiral staircase led to the upper floor, while a set of double French doors connected the foyer to a massive living room adorned with plush love seats and armchairs, tasteful artwork of Fontainian landscapes, and enormous windows that overlooked the sea. It appeared the house was set into a cliffside, with the waves battering the rocks far beneath you.

You paced into the living room, running your hand along the blue silk couch cushions. To your left, a door led out to what appeared to be an inclosed courtyard with a miniature fountain. To the right was a closed door, a familiar dragon carved into its exterior. Your arm burned in resonance.

Though you were loathe to admit it, the place was beautiful.

“Do you like it?”

Shifting your gaze to him, it was clear that Neuvillette was desperate for your approval. Ever since he let you outside to discover the true length of your imprisonment, you had rarely spoken a word to him. Clearly, your silence had done a number on him, as the normally composed man was fidgeting nervously.

When you kept quiet, Neuvillette cleared his throat. “I admit, part of why things took so long was due to my insistence that everything be perfect for your arrival. I rearranged our bedroom perhaps a dozen times, and I couldn’t for the life of me decide what your personal room should entail.” When you glanced out towards the fountain, he coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, that was a…sentimental addition. It makes me think of how we met.”

You’d never forget that Archons-damned fountain. If only you hadn’t been so naive. Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, go away.

Neuvillette extended his palm towards you in what appeared to be both a peace offering and an order. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Suddenly your feet appeared very interesting. What were you supposed to say? This technically was your home now, like it or not. You’d become painstakingly familiar with it with time. Although you weren’t imprisoned within the Palais as before, your new life still promised shackles nonetheless.

“Could you just show me my personal room?” You sighed. “I’d prefer to just rest after that.”

Neuvillette smiled softly, relishing the sound of your voice. “Of course.”

Twisting his fingers through your own, he led you towards the dragon door. Once again, your hidden tattoo pulsed with energy. It felt like a pull forward, a welcoming embrace. You realized then that there must be some sort of warding spell on this room, likely meaning only you and your captor could enter.

Marvelous.

Pushing the door open, Neuvillette swept his arm gracefully through the entrance. “After you, my love.”

You stepped in and immediately went still.

For in every direction around you was rows upon shelves upon stories of books.

Neuvillette had build you your own personal library.

And not just that. You noticed that entire sections pertained to your personal interests—marine biology, photography, even your personal favorite genres of novels. A separate door labeled Dark Room promised an avenue for you to pick up photography again. Similar couches and chairs as the living room were arranged around a huge coffee table, and a cracking hearth added to the cozy atmosphere.

Your throat bobbed. You had always dreamed of owning a room like this, a place where all your passions converged. But to have it under these circumstances…you didn’t know how to react, torn between frustration and a grateful little voice in the back of your head that you buried at once. No, I didn’t earn this. I don’t want this. It was forced on me.

All you could choke out was, “This is…mine?”

“Down to the last book.” You could hear the pride in his voice. “I spent the most time on this room. Over a century to get it right.”

You startled. A century? Your heart stumbled, but your hands fisted by your sides. So much given, yet what had it cost you?

Shaking your head, you simply said, “I’d like to be alone.” Connecting your eyes with his, you could see his hurt, the expectation of a grand reaction on your part that you refused to indulge.

However, the look was quickly wiped from his face, for he must have seen something broken in your facade. A muscle in his jaw feathered as he approached you, a gloved hand stroking your cheek. “I understand you must be overwhelmed. I’ll leave you to explore,” Neuvillette said, placing a kiss on your forehead before heading for the exit.

“Neuvillette?”

Said man turned back towards you, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Why me?” You grabbed your arm where the shadow of your draconic tattoo hid. “Why…all this?”

His gaze immediately softened. “My dear, we have centuries for me to show you.”

~*~

It was times when Neuvillette was vulnerable that it was hardest to hate him.

He had returned home after a long day at court to find you sitting in the courtyard on the edge of the fountain, peering up at the night sky as if the stars held some answers. Moonlight bathed you in an ethereal glow, and if he didn’t already think you a goddess, he would have pledged himself to you then and there.

You hadn’t noticed him yet, too involved in your own thoughts. True to his word, Neuvillette had given you time and space to enjoy your new (cage) home. You had to admit, it was a major upgrade from the Palais, and you knew the Iudex would continue to let you explore Fontaine, if you tolerated his presence beside you. However, you knew this dance wouldn’t last—it was only a matter of time before Neuvillette expected something in return. It was abundantly clear that he desired your affections, but how far would he go in order to sway you? To fully make you his?

A sea breeze whipped around you, eliciting an involuntary shiver to rip up your spine.

A sudden warmth enveloping your form brought you back to reality. Blinking in surprise, you peered up to see the Chief Justice smiling softly at you, his purple irises sparking with longing and care. His elaborate attire was gone, leaving only his pale undershirt.

He’d given you this coat.

“I…thank you,” you mumbled, averting your eyes from the man.

“Do my ears deceive me? Did my dear (Y/n) actually acknowledge me?”

Your grip on his robes tightened. “Don’t mistake my words for kindness. I haven’t forgotten what you are.”

A sigh. “Despite what you may believe, I’m not a monster.”

You deadpanned. “You’re quite literally the Hydro dragon.”

“Archons above,” Neuvillette whispered, glancing up at the sky as if it held the key to winning your heart. “I was referring to a monster in the definition you humans use.”

“What? You mean like a man who would kidnap and imprison an innocent person—”

“Considering you are not in the Fortress of Meropide, I’d hardly consider this imprisonment.”

“What, have I offended you?” A scoff left escaped you. “If you want to play house, at least own up to your actions. Don’t pretend you’re some sort of gentleman.”

Neuvillette was silent for a beat, his mouth a thin line. Unexpectedly, his muscles relaxed as he released his tension. He lowered his large frame, taking a seat next to you. “You’re right.”

You sketched a brow in surprise.

Neuvillette trained his eyes on his palms, facing upwards in his lap. “I understand neither what it means to be human, nor what it means to be a god. I was given this duty to protect and uphold the laws of Fontaine, and yet I cannot save those who need it most.” His fingers formed fists, and his lids closed solemnly. “Carole, Vautrin…all of the others I have failed…”

You worried your lower lip. Although he had already informed you of his friends’ fate in your absence, it was still a raw wound for the both of you. Yet the anguish in Neuvillette’s eyes twisted your heart. How could a man be so duplicitous, so capable of both justice and blind obsession?

As if sensing your conflict, Neuvillette gently took your face in his hands, tilting your chin so that your eyes locked once again. His eyes danced with silver sparks of emotion, like cracks of lighting across a dark sea. A thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“So if I can protect but one thing, one person, I will do it.”

~.~

You often noticed that Neuvillette’s horns got stuck in his robes.

Honestly, it was kind of humorous. In the beginning, watching him struggle gave you a sick sense of satisfaction. You’d take any circumstance that inconvenienced him, however petty that might be.

But today, seeing the Chief Justice pouring over a case regarding the protection of Fontaine’s sea life at an ungodly hour, head propped on a fist to keep him awake, you couldn’t help but feel sympathetic when he emitted a low hiss as his horns tangled into the ornamentation of his attire once again. “Damned human attire,” he cursed.

Neuvillette wasn’t an inherently bad man. In fact, your own case aside, he had invoked significant and positive change in Fontaine’s legal system. He judged cases fairly and prudently, working himself ragged each day to ensure the nation’s safety. It would have been admirable to you in any other circumstance.

You didn’t know what possessed you when you stepped behind him and carefully untangled his twin blue horns.

At your touch, Neuvillette immediately froze. His heart rate skyrocketed and his mind went blank because you were touching him.

And not just anywhere, but his horns. Unbeknownst to you, a dragon’s horns were the most sensitive part of its body, only to be handled by itself or its mate. One brush was akin to a lovers embrace, the whisper of a kiss, the hot breath shared between partners in the thralls of passion. Not only was the touch intensely intimate, it was also an acknowledgement—an acceptance of the male’s advances onto his partner.

Oh, if only you knew how many times he had fantasized about this, your acknowledgement of him and his love for you. Although his rational, human side knew your touch as unintentional, the dragon within Neuvillette reared and roared against his skin, demanding to be set free upon its mate.

“Your horns were caught,” was all you said as you settled back into the sofa, flipping to the marked page of your novel.

If you had looked up, you would have witnessed the Iudex gently touching his horns in awe. He swore he could still feel the brush of your palm against him, shivering delightfully at the mere memory of your touch.

Little did you know that your simple act of kindness would unleash the storm.

~*~

The one unfortunate deviation of your current accommodations from the Palais Mermonia was Neuvillette’s unyielding insistence on sharing a bed.

You had foolishly thought escaping him, even if just within the confines of your shared home, would be simple. You believed the library, what he even referred to as your room, would be your bedroom as well. Despite the lack of an actual bed, the plush couches and ever-lit fire provided more than enough comfort to lull you to sleep.

But when you had opened your eyes, you were mere inches away from Neuvillette’s shirtless, sleeping form.

You had assumed it was due to the draconic symbol guarding the room; perhaps it linked you to him more than you had thought. So, the next night, you decided to sleep in the parlor instead.

Only for your hopes to be shattered the next morning when you awoke not only in bed with your captor, but with your limbs entwined.

Anger, shame, and a touch of something you couldn’t quite place—something not entirely unpleasant—flooded you as you tore yourself out of his embrace. How was he doing this? Was it magic, or would he physically carry you to bed each night?

This pattern repeated itself. You would pick various places around the huge house to retire for the night. However, you would wake up in bed next to Neuvillette each morning without fail.

You had even reverted to your previous stubbornness and slept on the ground a few nights, but to no avail. It seemed you were bound to his bed.

Tonight, you decided to face the issue head-on. You stormed up the stairway and into the spacious bedroom, ignoring the pain in your lower back due to all the errant surfaces you had tried to sleep on. The downy pillows and lush, cream comforter practically begged you to surrender to the king-sized bed and its occupant.

Instead, you halted at the foot of the bed and crossed your arms. “You have to stop this.”

Neuvillette immediately looked up from the tome in his lap, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. He hadn’t yet changed out of his white dress shirt, and the buttons revealed a hint of his toned chest as he set the book down. “And what exactly are you demanding I stop?”

You huffed a laugh. “I wish I could say all of this,” you waved your hands around, as if that would convey the entirety of the situation, “but I mean putting me in your bed each morning.”

“Our bed,” he corrected, as if that were the issue.

“No, your bed. Are you really telling me that with all this space, you can’t just let me sleep alone?”

He removed his glasses with a sigh, setting them on the nightstand. “I could, but I don’t want to.”

You seethed. “Well, I do.”

Neuvillette’s violet gaze pinned you with something like hurt. “Have I truly done something to upset you? It seemed as if you were settling into our new home quite nicely. Our conversation and touches were…” His throat bobbed. “Pleasant.”

You narrowed your eyes and bit out, “Don’t take any of that as complacency. You’re still a monster.”

Neuvillette flinched in response and, for just a moment, you felt a piece your heart falter. That is, until he whispered, “Mates don’t sleep apart.”

The room went utterly still.

Your voice came out as a breath of air, but the words were clear: “I am not your mate.”

It was then that you noticed the claws emerging from his fingertips, piercing into the sheets under his form. His eyes flashed silver, dangerous as knives. You could have sworn you saw a pair of elongated canines as he grit his teeth. “You have no idea how difficult it has been,” he breathed, voice tight, desperate.

On instinct, you took a pace back. You suddenly felt like a cornered animal, unable to avert your gaze from those claws that looked ready to tear into you. Clearly you had misjudged the situation—the Hydro Dragon was a starved, deadly predator, and you were practically served on a silver platter as its next meal.

Icy panic raced through your veins. You’ve never seen him like this, so out of control and inhuman. Trying to mediate the situation, you put your hands up in surrender. “Neuvillette, listen to me. Just calm down.”

You had hoped that saying his name would do just that, but it seemed to only rile him up further. The Chief Justice of Fontaine actually growled in response. You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a plea. “You deny your mate, and now you’re telling me to simply calm down?”

Another step back. Just put out the fire and deal with the consequences later. “I apologize for being confrontational. I think it’s best if I just go—”

Before you could react, Neuvillette pounced forward and grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you onto the bed. You released a cry and tried to scramble away, but he spun you around and pinned your back against the mattress with his muscular frame. He loomed above you on all fours, his hands gripping your arms and applying just enough pressure to hold you still without hurting you. The glint in his eyes, however, promised pain that was yet to come. You were the prey about to get its throat torn out.

“Wh-what are you doing?” You struggled, heart skyrocketing at the feel of his arousal pressing against your core.

"Something I’ve needed to do for four hundred years," he growled huskily, his breath fanning your lips moments before they slammed against yours.

The kiss was hungry, predatory. Obsessive. You could feel the release of each year, each century, as his mouth devoured yours. You arched your back in an attempt to get away, but Neuvillette was quicker. He lifted your form easily and slammed your back against the bed once again. At your gasp of shock, he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

You fumbled around for something, anything that you could take purchase of. Your arms were pinned, but you were just barely able to grab onto the first thing and tug: his horns.

Neuvillette moaned, a deep, throaty sound that sent heat flooding through you.

It was in that moment you realized your mistake. You recalled how some marine animals with horns had millions of nerves within them, making these appendages a source of sensory stimulation. When you had started adjusting his horns after they were getting stuck, it must have been like touching his—

Oh, fuck.

Neuvillette released you arms, grinding against your thigh. “Do that again,” he begged, though it came out as more of a growled order.

“Neuvillette, stop—” An involuntary whine escaped your lips.

Your lewd noises only instigated him. His movements became more erratic as he slid a clawed hand up your leg and to your core, which was protected by only a nightgown. You jerked as his finger pinched your clit, eliciting another whine.

Neuvillette’s eyes sparked with heat, dual purple flames that devoured your form. “That’s it, my dear. Let me take care of you.” He bit down on your neck, causing you to cry out. He was marking you before he took you fully.

“Tonight, you become more than my wife. You become my mate.”

~*~

You laid there limply in Neuvillette’s arms. He peppered you with kisses and whispered words of protecting you and lofty dreams of your future together, but it fell on deaf ears. None of it made you forget about the bites along your neck or your throbbing core.

You couldn’t believe you had let his kindness fool you for even a second.

You had to escape this prison.

[ckret2]

Chapter 39 of human Bill Cipher is SURE he's about to escape being the Mystery Shack's prisoner:

Ford's confronted with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he's a little bit too obsessed with Bill.

And meanwhile, Bill has found a way to reach his loyal cultists... if he can find somebody willing to help him make contact.

He thinks Ford is the perfect target.

Maybe, just maybe, the obsession goes both ways.

(warning for an incident of self-harm via burning, and depersonalization and/or dysphoria (depending on how you interpret it) re: Bill feeling even worse about his body than usual.)

####

Soos, Stan, and Ford had stayed up half the night trying to generate enough NowUSeeitNowUDontium to prevent it from vanishing the moment one of them lost (or gained) focus. They'd eventually given up and stayed the night in Northwest Manor. Soos had texted Melody around midnight, and she'd immediately replied (which alarmed Ford, but Soos assured him she was used to those hours) and agreed, with some trepidation, to spend the night by herself in the shack so that the kids wouldn't be alone all night with Bill. She'd texted a half hour later to report that the bathroom was a disaster, but the kids had reassured her it was just some werewolf thing, so, not a big deal.

Ford had thought getting to spend a night without Bill under the same roof would be a relief. Instead, he found his sleep was even worse. He kept worrying about what Bill might get up to so far away and out of sight, where Ford couldn't do anything to stop him. Surely, by nighttime, Bill had to have noticed that the only humans he'd seen all day were the kids? Would he consider Melody any kind of threat, no veteran to combating Gravity Falls' weirdness?

It figured that the dream demon would find a way to disrupt Ford's sleep when he wasn't even there.

####

Ford had given up on sleep around two in the morning and gone wandering until he stumbled across a den with walls covered in bookcases, massive windows overlooking the forest below, and a pair of richly upholstered armchairs turned to gaze out the windows. He drifted between the chairs to one of the windows. It was the kind of personal library he'd dreamed of accepting esteemed guests in, back when he'd fantasized about one day being rich and famous. He suspected the Northwests had never read a book in this room.

Ford had been staring out at the still night and the dark pines for several minutes when he heard the creak of a door and soft footsteps behind him. He whirled around, raising a weapon. "Back, you spectral fiend!"

"Whoa! Easy, Sixer!" Stan held up a hand defensively. "It's just me!" He lowered his hand. "Why are you holding up a dinner plate?"

"Er—sorry." Ford sheepishly tucked the silver dish under his arm again. "I'm sure I saw a ghost earlier. I thought it prudent to arm myself."

Stan muttered, "This place sure is creepy enough for it."

"Mm. It's built on more than its fair share of bones." Ford returned to gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm sorry today was a failure. When I'm staring right at an experiment on which the fate of the entire universe depends, it's hard not to think about it."

"Eh, I wasn't doing too hot either," Stan admitted, joining Ford at the window. "There's only so many times you can hear Soos whisper 'Think about the miniature particle accelerator' in your ears on a loop before you zone out and start thinking about fishing season."

Ford huffed. "Maybe we should have switched places."

"Yeah, probably. I retired from thinking about science after I got your dumb portal running, and once you get your head stuck on something you can't stop thinking about it."

Ford laughed wryly. "Unfortunately accurate."

There was a moment of silence; and then Stan said cautiously, "Speaking of you getting your head stuck on something..."

Ford didn't like that tone. "Hm?"

"I was, uh... doing some light reading..." He held up Ford's journal.

A jolt of anger and fear shot through Ford. "Give me—" He snatched the journal back.

It wasn't until it was in his hands that he registered the absurdity of his own action; for the past year, he'd given Stan free access to Journal 5. He'd used it to document their travels and discoveries as a reference for them both; he'd even asked Stan to contribute a couple of entries. Based on a prior precedent of seven months, Stan had every right to look at Journal 5. Revoking that access now was... Well, it didn't look good.

Stan didn't immediately say anything. Ford supposed his own actions said enough. He tucked the journal under his arm with the silver dish.

Stan cleared his throat. "I think we're a little past the 'superhero nemesis' thing."

"It's not a problem," Ford said tersely.

"Not a prob—? Ford, you're letting him consume your life."

"He's consumed all our lives. The kids haven't been able to invite anyone over, Melody all but runs to her car after work, you ended up in a showdown with fae nobility—"

"It was just the tooth fairy!"

"Do you know how important a fairy has to be to claim dominion over all teeth?"

"Forget about the fairy!" Stan waved off the whole fairy topic with one hand. "Look, I'm not the one who's dedicated half a journal to talking about him!"

"You don't keep a journal, Stanley—"

"That's not the point!"

"—I'm just saying, if you did keep a journal, I think he'd have come up on more than a few pages—"

"But like this?" Stan gestured toward Ford's journal. "This is turning into an obsession. And not one of your normal obsessions."

The back of Ford's neck heated up. He wanted to argue that he had to obsess over Bill if he hoped to find a way to kill him—but Stan already knew that Ford had passed off that project to Fiddleford weeks ago. "How can I be 'obsessed' with somebody I barely even see? I'm avoiding Bill like my life depends on it! I talk to him less than Mrs. Ramirez does!"

"And you're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private!" Stan gestured again, angrily, at Ford's journal. (Ford defensively tucked it further under his arm.) "You're acting like a stalker, Sixer. Not that I care about him, but, I'm starting to worry about your head."

"A st—?! I'm a scientist, he's a scientific curiosity! I'm documenting him! I document plenty of things!"

"Not like this, you don't."

"There's a lot to document!"

"Including spending a whole page trying to figure out—how to draw his—?!" Stan gestured furiously toward his boxers.

Ford pointed at him severely. "You were just as curious as I was to find out how a giant eyeball and a sentient triangle make that work, don't pretend you weren't."

Stan grimaced. "Okay, fine, I'll give you that one. But writing a full entry about his posture?"

"He's not only an alien being in a human body but a two-dimensional creature in a three-dimensional body, how he moves and gestures could tell us about how an utterly unfamiliar species perceived space! Nearly all his gestures adhere to an invisible coronal plane, that betrays worlds of information about his original anatomy. Do you know that elbow thing he does when he walks—"

"Ford. You're using your great-niece to get drawings of his childhood bedroom."

Ford raised a finger. "That's—" Ford lowered his finger. Ford sat in a nearby armchair, put his chin in his hands, and stared into space. "What am I doing."

Stan patted his shoulder.

Ford slid his journal and the dish out from under his arm and settled them in his lap. He stared at the cover, then thumbed through the pages. It was obvious when they'd returned to Gravity Falls; the drawings of Atlanteans, were-rats, shorelines, and boats immediately gave way to page after page of staring slit-pupiled eyes.

"It's just... Bill is an ancient being, many times older than our universe, and the last surviving specimen of his own bizarre species. As both an anomaly and a source of esoteric knowledge, he's an invaluable subject of study. He's going to die soon, and he should die, but... between now and then, I don't want to pass up the last ever opportunity to study him."

Stan sank down into the chair opposite Ford. "You're listening to yourself, right?" He didn't sound angry anymore, just worried. "This is a guy who tried to kill us. He isn't a 'specimen' you can add to your collection of weird stuff, you know that, right?"

"I know, I know." That was exactly why it was so important—why it seemed so important—to capture Bill in words and pictures before it was too late. (It was funny, Ford thought, how Stan's very first conversation with Bill had been a murder, and yet he was the one who talked about Bill like he was just some guy; while Ford had spent so many years obsessively trying to find out who Bill was that he'd almost forgotten he was a person instead of a terrible idea.)

"When execution day comes and you think you haven't dug up enough of his history, what'll you do? Give him a stay of execution until he's dictated his memoirs to you?"

"No," Ford said immediately. "No, of course not. I'm just taking advantage of the opportunity to learn what I can, while I can. It's no different from your 'shopping trip' at the mall—"

"Hey!" Stan pointed a finger at Ford. "Watch it! That was strictly business! It's not like I'm attached to the guy—"

"I didn't mean anything by it! I just meant—as long as we're stuck with Bill, make him useful, and—and to heck with him after that. Right?" Like Stan had said about the scratch cards: why throw away free money just because of the source? "He'd do the same to us."

Stan hesitated. "And you're sure that when the time comes, you'll be ready to pull the trigger?"

"I know I will. It won't be the first time. I'm just glad that this time I'll be able to aim at his own head."

"Hm." Stan didn't look convinced.

Ford sighed. "But, if I think I'll waver—I'll hand you the gun."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I promise."

But he knew he didn't need to.

####

Soos drove the tired gang home just past dawn, early enough for him to open the Mystery Shack on schedule.

"Soon as we get home, I'm going back to sleep," Stan muttered crankily. Ford—eyes shut, leaning against the window—nodded in agreement. Stan yawned, "And there'd better not be any nasty surprises at the shack."

####

Bill sat sleeping in his attic window seat, knees to his chest, leaning against the window, ear pressed to the glass.

Outside, Stan wailed, "My car!"

Bill's eyes snapped open. He smiled.

He ran to the kids' room, knocked on the door—"Hey, the bigger Pines are back!"—and bolted for the stairs.

####

Soos got the door open at the exact same time Bill stumbled off the stairs and collided with the living room doorframe. Bill grabbed the doorframe just long enough to steady himself, and then bounded over to the door, shoved Soos and Ford aside, and leaned out onto the porch. "HIYA, STAN!"

Stan whipped around to face Bill. "YOU!" He gestured furiously at the wizard graffiti on his car. "WHAT did you DO to my CAR!"

"Do you like it?"

Stan let out an inarticulate scream of rage.

"Oh, you love it!"

"You massacred it! I've had this car forty-five years! I've done things in this car I can't say! And it's never, never been so—so—violated!"

Grinning ear to ear, Bill said, "What do you think of the girl wizard?"

"The what?!" Stan circled the car. He screamed again.

"Uh-huh?"

"Why does she have a beard!"

"Go on," Bill said gleefully, "tell me what you think! I want the full review!"

"This," Stan said, "is the most ugly, hideous, terrible—"

Bill glanced back at a sound on the stairs. "Oh, hey Mabel! Get over here!" He gestured proudly as Mabel joined him in the doorway. "And here's the artistic mastermind herself!"

Stan choked on his words. "—b... beautiful, stunning, museum-worthy work of art I've ever seen."

Mabel beamed. "It's not finished yet, we ran out of some colors! I was going to add a dragon on the hood!"

Stan's face went white. "No no, it's... perfect the way it is. Don't—don't change a thing."

"Really? You're sure? I don't mind!"

"Really." Looking slightly nauseous, Stan said, "I love it just like this, pumpkin."

Mabel squealed and ran outside to give him a big hug.

Bill was fighting back silent laughter so hard he almost fell down.

####

"...And I still haven't found any sign of the Nightwigglers," Dipper said, sighing dejectedly and dropping his journal on the counter next to the cash register. "So, I dunno, maybe I should give up on this one and move on."

Wendy was sitting back with her feet kicked up on the counter, but she straightened a bit to look at Dipper's journal. She skimmed the news article he'd paperclipped to one page. "Oh, I heard about this," she said. "The cops talked to me about the first burglary. I was in the thrift shop that day."

"Oh, yeah?" Dipper pointed at the picture next to the article. "Did you see anything like this?"

Wendy's eyes widened. "No—but I think one of my brothers did."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah, he was talking about it a couple nights ago. He said it was like an armless white thing wearing pants that went up to its face. We all thought he got spooked by a deer butt or something and made up the whole story. Then dad said we should drop it and told us we should stay in at night."

"That's when they come out! At night!" Dipper laughed excitedly. "Do you think your dad knows something?"

"Pfff, not if he can help it." Wendy pulled her feet off the counter and checked the clock. "I could show you the start of the trail my brother was on. It's like ten minutes by bike and the next big tour bus isn't getting here for half an hour, wanna sneak out?"

"Are you serious?! Of course!"

"Just promise you won't tell Gus if we find something. We've been making fun of him for days and I don't want to  admit he was right." Wendy laughed. "Let me grab somebody to cover."

"I'll get my bike!" Dipper was already headed out the door. "I've been looking for a lead for days! I dug through half the dumpsters in town searching for their nests..." The door swung shut behind him.

Wendy ducked into the living room. "Hey Goldie."

"Yello?" He was sitting cross legged on the couch watching TV.

"I've gotta do something with Dipper, do you mind covering for a little bit? Just twenty, thirty minutes."

His gaze flickered to the TV, then back to Wendy's face. "Sure! Anything for you, cool girl."

Wendy had a brief, eerie sense of déjà vu. She shook it off. "I'm not interrupting anything good, am I?" She nodded at the TV.

"Naaah, it's one of those terrible specials about pyramid conspiracies." He shook a cider can, "I'm taking a sip every time they mention Fishmasons or 'ancient dinosaur-worshiping civilization.'"

"Dude. You'll be wasted before the first commercial break."

"Really, you're saving me from myself." He set the can on the TV and followed Wendy into the gift shop. (As he did, Bill checked to see if he had anything on under his hoodie. No? The Pines didn't want him to be seen in public in his hoodie; they thought it would make him "too obvious." He rolled up the sleeves to hide some of the brick pattern and surreptitiously tucked the hood and the bow tie drawstrings into the collar.)

As she headed out the door, Wendy repeated, "Just twenty minutes! Thirty tops. I'll get back before the next tour bus, promise."

"No problem!" He waved her off.

"I owe you one!"

Bill made a note of that.

He looked around the gift shop—any readily-obvious mischief he could get up to? He grabbed an 8-ball cane and took it to the counter. And then he took the stool behind the register, propped his chin in his hand, gazed toward the living room, and resumed watching TV through the wall and backwards. He didn't miss hearing the conspiracy talk—he was sure it was actively making him stupider—but credit where credit was due; they made those CGI pyramid models really hot.

A cutaway of one pyramid showed its internal tunnels and chambers. Bill bit his lower lip. Oh yeah. That's what he came here for.

Several minutes went by. The door opened and a lone tourist crept in, a middle-aged woman with a sun-damaged tan. Bill straightened up and switched his eye patch over to hide his bleeding eye. "Heya! Next tour's in..." He checked the clock, how long until the next bus? "About fifteen minutes."

The woman nodded and quietly started circling the gift shop.

Bill glanced toward the living room, decided he'd better not start damaging his other eye too, mentally cursed the tourist, and pulled out one of Wendy's magazines to read. "Let me know if you need anything."

The tourist spent several minutes making a slow circuit of the room, and then crept up to the cash register. Bill looked up with a smile, didn't see any souvenirs in her hands, and asked, "Can I help you?"

Hesitantly, the woman said, "The sun sets a deep blood red."

Bill's eye flew wide open, his heart leaped into his throat, and his breath hitched. His gaze roved over her exposed skin until he spied a tattoo on her right arm: four triangles stacked atop each other, starting with an equilateral and each getting shorter and more obtuse as they descended, until they'd reduced completely and a single horizontal line underlined all four triangles. This wasn't quite the happiest he'd ever been to see the symbol of a devastatingly self-destructive high-control cult, but it was close. "Oh! Oh, this is—" He rubbed his temples, squeezing his eye shut. "I know this. I rhymed 'red' with 'pyramid.' Why do I give everyone a different code. 'But rises gold over the pyramid'—something like that, right?" Bill gave the woman a pleading look. "I'm close enough that you can tell I know what you're talking about!"

A look of relief washed over her face. "You know him." Voice low, she asked, "Is it safe to talk?"

Knew him? He was him. But he couldn't claim that without proving it—what would convince her?—telling her something that only he knew?—great, but what? Her face was vaguely familiar—he thought he might've given her a visionary dream once—but he had so many little worshipers and they were so unimportant, most of them blurred together.

So all he could do was say, "It's not safe. Everyone here is an enemy."

She nodded sharply. "Where can we meet?"

Bill paused. "We can't. I'm... trapped."

Her brows creased with worry. "They're keeping you prisoner?"

"Afraid so."

"I could get the police—"

"Everyone," Bill repeated, "is an enemy."

She paused, processing that. Bill's gaze flickered to the clock. Wendy said twenty minutes, thirty tops. She'd been gone twenty-two minutes. "Someone's coming any minute."

"Right." The cultist grabbed Wendy's magazine, tore a corner off a page, and grabbed a pen.

"How did you find me?" Bill asked. Of all the tourist traps in all the tiny towns in all the world, how had she come in hereand walked right up to him? 

"We were told a devotee was here," she said. "Someone sent the address and phone number to the Bahamian art studio."

Bill's mind spun. How? Who the heck would know to do that? The only person who knew he was here who'd come anywhere close to any of Bill's other worshipers was...

Ford? No. Did he?

The cultist shoved the paper in his hand and turned to leave.

Bill grabbed her arm. "Stay out of Gravity Falls," he commanded. "But stay close. Don't go back to Death Valley." Between the sun damage and the tattoo, she had to be one of his Death Valley girls. She looked like their usual prey: disaffected middle class white woman, probably had a dead end job and a mediocre husband and a useless degree from a liberal arts college. Maybe being able to guess where she came from would impress her.

It did. She stopped and turned back and looked at him in amazement—and then looked at him, staring hard at his eye. "You're... hosting him, aren't you?" Her voice fell to a whisper. "No. Are you...?"

"You got me." He smiled wryly—behold him, electric god bound in flesh, how low he's fallen, but at least he still has his good humor, doesn't he? "I always said you had great intuition." (It was a safe bet. He usually told the ladies that they had great intuition. Most of them ate that up, and the ones that didn't were often a little too savvy to sucker.)

It worked. She inhaled sharply. "You are," she breathed. "I knew you'd be a woman. Oh, Mary's a fool." She said this like she'd just won some years-old argument Bill had missed.

Mary, as in Mary-whom-Bill-had-put-in-charge-of-the-Death-Valley-compound Mary? Ha. She was getting on in years; maybe Bill could start a schism, that sounded fun. He opened his mouth to say something about Mary having great leadership but waning clarity of vision—

—when the cultist leaned across the counter, grabbed his collar, and pulled him into a kiss.

Okay. All right. She was one of those cultists. Got it. Got it got it got it. Wow. Definitely a "mediocre husband" convert, those were easy to seduce away with a little warmth and affection—nothing obvious, but get them infatuated with the idea of an unattainable incorporeal ideal lover and they'd chase him to the ends of the earth. Maybe a lesbian in denial that Bill had decided to push further into denial, if her assumption about Bill's gender was anything to go by. He tried to remember what he'd told this one.

He leaned into the kiss.

He'd done this before—in dreams, in puppets—he didn't prefer humans, but he could handle them well enough and earthlings had such pretty eyes. And this body he was stuck in made such insistent demands; a surge of human hormones washed over his brain so powerfully it made him dizzy. She broke the kiss to murmur, "Cipher, my lord—" and he took the opportunity to kiss her eyelid and lie, "I knew if anyone could find me, it would be you." He wished he remembered her name. She tugged his face back down to her lips. She was so eager. Cipher, my lord. Oh, it felt good to be revered again—

The door opened. "Um?"

If Bill had had one ounce of his power, he would have killed Wendy on the spot.

Instead, he seized his cultist's hands, ripped them off his hoodie, and shoved her away. "Whoa, lady! What do you think this is, a kissing booth?!" He laughed angrily. "We don't offer that kind of service here! Either get out, or—or buy a souvenir already!" He pointed at Wendy. "From her. Not from me."

Shocked, the cultist turned toward where Bill was pointing; and then turned back, understanding in her eyes.

Wendy raised her hands defensively, grimacing. "Yeah, no, I'm not serving you either. Just... get outta here."

The cultist met Bill's gaze for just a moment, then walked quickly out the door without a word.

Bill shouted after her, "And do not come back!" and quietly mourned as, for the second time in as many weeks, he had to watch helplessly as he sent away his only hope of getting any action/rescue.

"I am so, so sorry," Wendy said. "I leave for like ten minutes and you get one of the nightmare customers."

How Bill loved nightmares. "Twenty-five minutes, but who's counting."

"Psh, shut up." Wendy reclaimed her post behind the counter. "I think she's been here before, she looks kinda familiar. You okay?"

Bill hoped nobody else in town would recognize her. "I think I'll live after some mouthwash. Terrible breath." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Hey, remember when you said you owe me one? You really owe me."

####

All his cultist had written for him was a phone number. Bill slid his stolen journal from its window hiding spot and copied the number down in two-tone dots and dashes. Plaintext transcriptions were usually tricky, given the vast difference between the language Bill wrote in and the languages humans used—but numbers, at least, were easy. Everyone had numbers.

And then he stared at the scrap of paper, reading the numbers over and over, until he was sure he'd memorized them, just in case he ever lost the journal.

And then he ate the paper.

And then he stacked the two cushions of his makeshift bed on top of each other, planted his face in them, and screamed.

Cipher, my lord. It had felt so, so, so good to be revered again.

His organs twisted with touch-hunger and loneliness.

####

Out in the Bahamas, along the southwest edge of the Bermuda Triangle, were two nut job hermits from Miami. Bill had convinced them that the only way they could purge their sins and purify their souls was by sculpting and selling golden avatars of God into which they could pour their guilt, and they had to keep doing it until they no longer felt guilty (and they would never not feel guilty; they needed so much therapy that Bill had ensured they'd never get). And then he'd convinced them that God's true face was an Eye of Providence in a top hat and bow tie.

Over the years he'd lost a little control over those two—in their desperation to be free of sin, they'd also started sculpting avatars to as many gods as they could find and selling them en masse to afford more art supplies—but hey, as long as his face was still mixed in with the rest, fine. Honestly, he was surprised those nuts weren't dead yet.

Somebody in this house had sent his location to them. And in a moment of what Bill imagined was stunning mental clarity, they had passed on that information to the single least dysfunctional pocket of Bill's top cult in the continental United States. Maybe when Bill was back at full power, he'd drop by the hermits' dreams to tell them they'd finally achieved absolution and could rest. Their decades of out-of-control scrupulosity would probably prevent them from believing him, but hey, he could say he'd tried. He washed his hands of all responsibility over them and their mental illnesses that he'd knowingly deliberately exacerbated for his own benefit. Not his problem.

But the question he came back to, over and over, was who had talked to them.

Bill needed to reach his Death Valley cultist. He needed a phone. Every phone in this house was well-guarded. No one would let him touch one... except, perhaps, whoever had sent the SOS on his behalf.

The only person who made sense was Stanford. Bill didn't think he'd ever told Ford about the nutty sculptors; but in the eighties he had given him the mailing addresses of some niche art dealers who would sell tapestries and statues of an obscure one-eyed god to collectors who could appreciate what they were looking at. Maybe Ford had gotten back in contact with them? Maybe he'd told them where Bill was, and they'd passed the information to the Bahamas?

Maybe Ford's feelings weren't quite so cold toward Bill as he'd been pretending.

Bill liked that idea a lot.

Maybe Bill's birthday gift had swung Ford back around to the side of reason—reminded him just how good he'd had it under a muse and mentor willing to teach him anything his nerdy little heart desired. Or maybe he'd always wanted to come back, and had just needed Bill to say it first.

He probably only pretended he hated Bill because they were surrounded by enemies—everyone in the house thought Ford was looking for a way to destroy Bill, what would happen if they knew the truth?

But the truth was there. Bill could almost seize it in his hands. All those moments where they almost talked like they were friends again, before Ford had to stop himself and leave. That one beautiful little word: jealous. And of course, there was the whole thing with the glass pyramid and the "Mysteries" that Ford had passed on—

—to Mabel.

There was another possibility.

As much as Bill would love if it was Ford, Mabel was the only person in the house who acted like she actually wanted Bill alive. Whatever "Mysteries" Ford was teaching her had something to do with Bill, the pyramid made that obvious. Maybe his lessons included the contact information of everyone else Ford knew who knew Bill? Maybe she'd taken it upon herself to call for help?

It was thin. And it was still dependent upon Ford harboring a secret loyalty to Bill that he was passing on to his great-niece. But that was where things stood: Ford was the only person in the house who definitely knew how to reach Bill's followers, but Mabel was the only person in the house who definitely might want to.

And he had to make completely sure of which one of them it was before he asked for a favor.

####

Ford had missed dinner again.

Fiddleford had sent Ford home with a pile of math. All the calculations he'd done to get the miniature particle accelerator to produce Dontium. By his reckoning, that there jar should've filled with Dontium faster than greased lightning; he just plumb can't understand why it trickled in like cold molasses. (His words.) He'd asked Ford to check his work, see if he'd missed something.

Ford was more than happy to help. It was a much-needed intellectual challenge that didn't involve Bill's underhanded birthday gift. Something that would let him feel like he was making progress. And it was comfortingly familiar. He and Fiddleford had spent weeks checking and re-checking each other's math in the lead up to the portal test, before they knew what a horror they were building.

As soon as Ford had gotten home, he'd put Fiddleford's papers in his underground study before going back to bed. Bill had already admitted he could glimpse the future, although Ford wasn't sure how far; and Ford was growing convinced that Bill's ability to perceive "higher dimensions" let him see through walls like they weren't there. He'd begun keeping Journal 5 and other sensitive materials down in his study at all times, hoping that the distance and layers of dirt and rock would keep Bill from peering in.

And when he'd dragged himself out of bed around noon—an embarrassingly late hour to get up, but he had been awake most of the night—he'd grabbed a quick breakfast/lunch, brewed a pot of coffee to take with him, and gone below to get to work.

He'd only worked seven or eight hours with a couple of reluctant breaks in the middle before his head began pounding too hard for him to ignore. He'd been neglecting his exercise regimen the past few weeks, and his back and neck were letting him know. In his thirties, he'd been able to work fourteen hours days and still want to keep going—and that was even before he'd handed his body over to Bill so he could keep working around the clock. He wasn't as young as he used to be.

He dragged himself upstairs after sunset, when the last ambient light from the sky still faintly glowed through the windows. He could make something quick and simple for dinner, go to bed early, and get up early to continue working. He pushed through the door to the dark living room—

"Hello!"

"Gah!" Ford jumped. "You. What are you doing here?"

Bill was leaning next to the door, a dim silhouette with his elbow on the wall and cheek in his hand. Even in the dark, Ford was sure he could see Bill's wicked grin at his reaction. "I happen to live here."

Ford let out an irritated huff. "Whatever you're up to, I don't have time to deal with it. Find someone else to bother." He pushed past Bill and headed toward the kitchen.

It would have been too much to expect Bill not to follow him, wouldn't it? "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that! Would it kill you to act like you're happy to see me?"

"Probably."

Bill's laugh made Ford's shoulders raise up around his ears. Maybe that was the source of his neck pain.

Bill shadowed him into the kitchen and leaned on the table, watching while Ford rummaged through the fridge. "But seriously, Sixer—who are you trying to impress by giving me the cold shoulder? I'm the only one here. You could afford to treat me like a person for two minutes." When Ford slammed the fridge door, Bill smacked it with the tip of an 8-ball cane. "Hey, have my food privileges been revoked? Give me a turn."

How long had Bill had a weapon? Ford snatched the cane from him, but opened the fridge and left it. "I don't consider you a person. I consider you an incalculably destructive force of pure, brutal chaos." He cracked three eggs in a skillet and opened a cabinet for one of the stove knobs they kept stored where Bill couldn't reach them.

"Flattering!" Bill started pulling out his usual nauseating array of condiments: today was sauerkraut, maraschino cherries, mustard, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce. (Why did he eat like that? Did his species usually subsist on a mostly liquid diet? Was it the flavors—?) "Hey, make me mac 'n' cheese, wouldja?"

"No."

"Fine. Leave the burner on when you're done, I'll make it myself."

"You're not allowed to use the stove."

"Then how about I sit here drinking mustard while you enjoy a hot meal." Bill waved three eggs at Ford. "At least make me eggs too. Zero extra effort on your part. I'll even crack them for you if you want."

Ford gave Bill a dark look; but he supposed, as one of the people who had agreed that Bill wasn't allowed to cook, he was in no position to complain about Bill begging him to cook on his behalf. He snatched the eggs out of Bill's hand. "How do you want them."

"I haven't eaten enough chicken eggs to have a preference. Whatever you'll complain least about doing."

Poorly scrambled eggs it was. Ford shut the fridge and returned to the stove.

Bill sat on the table and crossed his legs in lotus position while he waited. "But really, what do you get out of pretending you can't stand me! We both know it's an act."

Ford gave him a tired, sour look. "Even for you, you sound delusional."

"I know you don't really hate me."

"I could write an entire dissertation and earn another Ph.D. on the topic of how much I hate you."

Ford hated how excited Bill looked by that. "Would you?"

"No! Why would I waste that much time thinking about you?"

"It seems to me like you're already doing that."

The hair on the back of Ford's neck prickled. Surely Bill just meant Ford's research into how to kill him; but his mind flashed to the miniature grimoire he'd spent all his time poring over—the blueprints of Bill's childhood home—the face he'd absent-mindedly drawn in his journal in the middle of the night and quickly scribbled out. Could Bill still see through that face? Had Ford remembered to blind Bill's eye on the blueprints? What about the eyes drawn in his human faces? Did Bill know about Ford's other studies? What did it matter—nothing Ford was doing was wrong. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bill's smile slowly widened. "Sure you don't. You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. You might as well lean into it."

You're using avoiding him as an excuse to obsess over him even more in private. "I am not..." Wasn't he? You're acting like a stalker, Sixer.

"Oh, Fordsy, come on." Bill uncrossed his legs, slid off the table, and was across the room faster than Ford had expected. Ford instinctively took a step back and bumped into the oven; Bill reached past him to lean a hand against the edge of the stove, inches from touching him. "You're not hiding it half as well as you think you are. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" He smirked up at Ford, exposed eye wide and eager, utterly fascinated with him. "And bringing Mabel in on it? I'll have to admit, that surprised me. Can't say I disapprove, though."

Ford couldn't tell if the heat on the back of his neck was from Bill's accusations or the stove. "I beg your pardon?" What was he talking about—their conversation in Portland? The blueprints of Bill's home? (Using his great-niece to spy on Bill, lord, what was Ford doing?)

"Quit messing around! The Mysteries, Stanford. You think I don't know I'm the star of that show?" He poked the center of Ford's chest, "There's no way you joined a cult, you're not enough of a team player! What'd you do? Invent your own cult of one? Mixed a little of what I taught you, a little of whatever you learned out in the multiverse? I know you were asking around about me." Bill chuckled. "You want to keep your little rituals private, fine—I think it's cute, really—just tell me one thing I've been dying to know: how much have you told the kid?"

Ford stared at Bill.

Then he laughed in his face. "You really bought that?"

Bill's smile immediately vanished. "What?"

Ford shoved Bill's hands away. "There are no 'Mysteries.' It was a joke."

Bill stepped back, staring at Ford, brows furrowed. "A...? No," he said. "She's got that glass pyramid—"

"She wanted it because it was pretty," Ford said. "I gave her one since I was throwing them all out."

"That's the stupidest story I've ever heard. Then why would she have brought up the Mysteries!"

"Because," Ford said, "I told her, if you asked about the pyramid, she should make up something to confuse you."

Bill's mouth was open, but no words came out. His face had rapidly turned red. Several emotions flashed across his face in quick succession, from shock to confusion to humiliation to a rage so deep it almost looked like disgust. For a moment, from how Bill's fingers were curling like claws, Ford was sure Bill was about to attack him.

But then he clenched his jaw, backed off, leaned on the table, jammed his fists down against the tabletop, and glared at the floor.

Ford turned back to the stove, grinning to himself. Some of the eggs had burned slightly. Those were Bill's now. "What's the matter? Did you forget that humans can lie?"

Bill didn't reply.

"I'm surprised you didn't expect it. I seem to remember we got you with an impressive whopper last year—"

"Shut up."

"Now you don't want to talk?"

"Now you do?"

Good point; he didn't. If he'd finally rendered Bill speechless, he should enjoy it while he could.

He'd have to thank Mabel later for inventing the Mysteries. Sometimes that girl could be genius.

Ford turned off the burner, put the stove knob away, and dumped the eggs onto two plates. He didn't even bother to keep track of which plate had the burned eggs.

He shot a quick, exasperated look at Bill—he'd sat on top of the table again—and dropped a plate next to him. "Here." He grabbed a bag of bread and looked around for the toaster.

Behind him, voice trembling but low and dangerous, Bill said, "Don't look at me like that."

Ford glanced back warily. "Like what?"

Bill violently shoved off the table. There was an awful squeal of sliding furniture. Before Ford could react, Bill was in his face, grabbing him by his turtleneck, dragging him in, forcing him to look up at Bill.

Ford's peripheral vision was filled with gold. They were so close their noses nearly touched.

"Like you don't remember who I am!" Bill stared down with wide-eyed seething rage. "Your muse!" His voice cracked, "Your god!"

Ford stared up at Bill, speechless.

Then he looked down.

Bill was standing on a chair to make himself taller than Ford.

Ford ripped Bill's hands off his sweater. "You were never, ever my god."

Bill stumbled off the chair, catching himself hard on the edge of the table to keep from falling completely. "That's not true!" He heaved himself back onto his feet with a wince. "You worshiped me—"

"I admired you!" Ford jabbed a finger at Bill's chest. "I respected you! I—I even idolized you, but I never worshiped you!"

Bill jabbed a finger back, "You're splitting hairs! You practically turned your study into a temple to me—tapestries, rugs, statues—"

"Because you said it would help me reach you!"

"And it did! That's what shrines are for, genius!"

"It wasn't a shrine! Not to me."

"You're kidding me! All the money you dropped on that gold-plated statue and you expect me to believe that wasn't an act of worship—"

"Do not. Remind me. How much. That stupid statue cost."

"If you didn't build a shrine for worship then what in the world did you build it for!"

"Friendship!" Ford took a shaky breath in. "I thought... I honestly thought you—you—were my best friend." The air in the room trembled with heat. They were standing too close to each other. Ford refused to be the one to back up.

"I was," Bill said. "I still could be if you'd stop being a moron."

Ford laughed in disbelief. "Which is it, were you my god or my friend?!"

"They're not mutually exclusive—!"

"You can't keep your story straight for THIRTY SECONDS!"

"Don't you call me a LIAR, after EVERYTHING I taught you—!"

"In all the years I've known you I don't think you've told me the truth ONCE—!"

Stan flipped on the lights.

They froze and stared at him. They had their hands around each other's throats. Bill had a foot planted on Ford's stomach like he was trying to get a foothold to climb him. They were both covered in egg.

Stan said, "Could you do this in the morning?"

Ford said, "Sure."

Bill said, "He started it."

"I st—?! You started all of this thirty years ago—"

"Guys," Stan said tiredly.

With some effort, Ford unpeeled his hands from Bill's neck.

To his surprise, Bill voluntarily let go as well. Ford snatched up what was left of his plate of eggs, took the loaf of bread—he had lighters, he could toast it downstairs—and left the kitchen, turning the light off as he went.

Stan was waiting out in the entryway. "Heading to bed?"

"No." Ford shoveled a forkful of eggs in his mouth. "Going to be up late." He was too angry to sleep. He could eat, take a painkiller for his headache, and keep working.

"More research?"

"No. Calculations."

Stan's shoulders slumped; but all he said was, "Suit yourself. Don't stay up too late."

Ford glanced back once into the kitchen. Bill wasn't moving. He sat slumped in a chair, elbows on his knees. He'd pulled on his hood. Its eye stared at Ford.

Ford wasn't about to pity Bill over a performative display of angst. He'd fallen for that already.

He returned to his study and mathematics.

####

Bill stared at his plate of eggs. He mechanically pushed them around on the plate until they formed a perfect equilateral triangle. He scooped out an empty white eye in the middle.

He stood, snatched up the plate, and smashed it on the floor.

They thought he was stupid. They thought he couldn't use a stove if it didn't have knobs, as if he was a child! The humans made it easy for themselves to think of him as a child when they treated him like one, "baby-proof the doors" and "no sharp objects" and "don't talk to strangers." He could show them.

He grabbed the stem where one of the knobs had been removed, and twisted. He heard the hiss of gas under the burner. Everyone was asleep. He could fill the house with gas. It would only take a little push to make a spark and set the entire shack ablaze. In the dark room, he could see the first glimpse of future flames flickering yellow-orange in the periphery of his foresight. No one would survive. Who's your god now, smart guy? He'd rise like a phoenix from his own corpse and he'd tear this town apart.

Where was Mabel?

Was she home tonight?

Bill turned off the gas.

He pushed up his sleeve and pressed the fleshy part of his forearm onto the still-hot burner. The pain burned away his jumbled anger so he could think clearly.

Who cared how the nutty sculptors had gotten Bill's address? He was making good progress on lucid dreaming; maybe he'd astral projected across the country to call for help and forgotten it when he woke up. He'd probably saved himself without even remembering it. It didn't matter. The important thing was that they'd received the message; and now, Bill had friends on the outside. Friends who were on his side.

If he could ever contact them again.

Bill would find a way. He didn't need Ford's help. "Never worshiped you." Ha.

He needed fresh air. Even if it wasn't safe to escape yet, he needed to breathe. He carried himself backward through doorway into the gift shop, pulled aside the curtain hiding the ladder to the roof—

The trap door was shut. He stared up in despair.

He shot a glare toward the vending machine, and angrily crossed back into the living room.

The air was so stuffy inside the shack. "Never worshiped you." Liar. If it wasn't worship then what was it?

Bill took himself upstairs. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He lay on his makeshift bed curled up around himself, arms wrapped tight across his stomach, his burn pressed hard against a layer of knit yarn, thighs pulled up against his arms. It was a wholly alien position. It felt unnatural and bizarre. This body had curled like this of its own volition. It seemed like the only thing that briefly smothered the ache of emptiness and the hormonal inferno screaming loneliness through every vein. The loneliness wasn't his. He wasn't lonely. This body was. 

Cipher, my lord.

He hated this body.

He ached to be revered again.

####

It was two in the morning. Ford sat at his desk, pages and pages of math scattered before him, glasses off, hand rubbing his eyes.

He didn't want to be checking a mountain of math like a human calculator. He wanted to be studying strange magic and researching new anomalies. He wanted to be digging through Bill's grimoire.

He wanted to be awed again.

####

(I've been waiting to write/draw Bill screaming his grief over not being worshiped since literally April. I hope y'all enjoyed! This is one of my favorite chapters so far, I'd love to hear what y'all think!!)

[barefoothighlander]

never going back again - 04

summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup

simon ‘ghost’ riley x innocent fem!reader

warnings: mdni (18+), unprotected pinv, oral fem rec, creampie, mention of scars, sad (i’m sorry)

prev part masterlist

a/n: it’s finally here besties sorry it took so long, anyway this is it, you get an alt ending post but then the fic is done :( that being said if anyone wants any one shots that revolve around this fic send reqs

“It’s done” The words come through heavy breaths as he stands in the doorframe, his dark shirt clinging to his body as his eyes shamelessly roam over your form, curled up in the couch with a book pressed between your fingers.

“It’s done?” Excitement laces your voice as you whip your head toward him, two days of none stop clanging and noise had finally ceased, no more miniature heart attacks at the sound of tiles smashing on the floor, no more clouds of dust wafting from the small room into the house.

“Come see” He smiles under his mask, the only tell tale sign being the way his eyes crinkle at their edges. He sidesteps and throws an arm out, beckoning you to the room.

Tossing your book aside you stand, striding toward him, he smells like dust, sweat, cedar and tobacco. He braces himself for your reaction, stiffening as your gaze sets on the room, it’s silent for a moment and it has his heart racing.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s very.. similar”

“It is not”

You huff a breath, standing back so you can turn your face to him, his head tilted down to look at you.

“The showers different, every else is nearly the same”

“I though you liked the way it was?”

“I did, I do, I just expected more with all the noise you’d made”

“You hate it”

“I did not say that”

He slumps against the wall, letting his head rest on it as he stares at the ceiling. You watch him for a moment, this giant man bested by a bathroom and you can’t help but giggle, stepping closer you slide your palms against his chest, wrapping them around his body as best as you can.

His body relaxes under your touch, welcoming the pressure of the embrace as his own arms wrap around you, your cheek pressed to his chest.

“Thank you Simon”

“I made the shower bigger”

You feel his chest expand with a deep breath as you pull back, glancing through the door frame with a small huh.

Stepping into the room you can finally get a good look at everything, “This is bigger, you could fit like 5 people in it if you tried”

“Or maybe just two”

The words heat your skin, turning around and he’s braced himself against the doorframe, his hands above his head as he leans in slightly, he practically sucks the air from the room.

Your eyes focus on the way his arm muscles shift, his massive frame taking up the space, ignoring the way your cheeks flush as his arms flex, holding his weight.

“Something I can help you with?” You swear he’s smirking under the mask, purposefully sending your nerves into a frenzy.

“I’m gonna make some tea” A quick subject change to combat the way the air began to feel hot, he steps sideways allowing you passage as you walk to the kitchen, trying to shake your thoughts.

He bites back a small smile as you rush past him, laughing to himself at how easily you fluster, he’ll miss that, making you squirm with just a glance.

He joins you in the kitchen a minute later, pulling a chair from the table, the same chair he sat at every morning and night, unspoken assigned seating in the kitchen.

He leans back, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he watches you move around, opening cabinets, without asking you grab him a mug and the gesture warms his heart, it’d become a second nature to always make him a cup, learning how he liked his tea, no one had ever done things like that for him before, let alone memorize the exact amount of sugar he liked.

He thanks you as you place the mug down, sitting across from him as your own cup warms your hands, the steam from the drink swirling in the air.

“So what book were you reading?”

You furrow your brows for a moment at the sudden conversation, unused to Simon asking questions but a second later you’re choking on your tea, memories of lines filled with smut, pages even.

“Just a romance”

He hums, you hope your answer was enough to keep him from prying into your literary habits, considering how flustered you get when he flirts it might just kill you to admit what you’d been reading just 10 feet away from him.

“Like one of those smut books?” He tilts his head to the side, dark eyes pinning you as yours widen, your heart dropping through your chest as you take a sip of your drink, trying to think of an answer.

No use in lying now, “Yes”

“Any good?”

“In what sense?”

“I dunno, do you like it?”

“I am… enjoying it”

“Yeah? How much?” His tone playful

“I’d enjoy it more if you didn’t sleep a room away from me every night”

“You want me to sleep closer?”

“That’s not-“ You stumble over your words as he smiles, the lines beside his eyes creasing under his mask.

“Do you read a lot of books like that?”

Yes “No”

He hums again, seemingly satisfied with your answer, your eyes following him as he stands, turning around and leaving the room, leaning your head toward the entry to watch him your jaw drops.

He reaches to the couch, picking up your book and splitting the pages to a random chapter.

“Wait, Simon” You stand

“His hand grips my roots, tugging my head so it rests against his broad chest, his cock driving into me as his arm holds my waist to him”

“Stop, stop!” You rush toward him, arms ahead of you as you reach for the book but he turns on his heel, dodging your attempt before his arm snakes around your back, tugging you against him.

“This is very naughty”

“Please put it back” The way he holds you makes it impossible to hide your face, cheeks stained pink as heat rises to them.

“I never would’ve thought you were into this kinda stuff love”

“Well, there’s a lot about me you don’t know” You wrench the book from his hands, tossing is behind you before trying to step back, his arm holds firm.

“Care to enlighten me?”

If his arm wasn’t holding you up you might’ve fallen to the ground, knees buckling at his dark tone, the intense stare of him as he looks down to you.

“Maybe another time” He smirks, grip lightening as you waver backwards, stumbling slightly.

Your pulse aches through your body, the heat of the room becoming too much too quickly.

“I’m gonna go for a walk”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No- I mean, I’ll be quick, just need some fresh air”

“Alright”

Nodding you turn to the door, the breeze hitting you as soon as you open it, letting the scent of the damp earth flood your senses before closing the door behind you.

It made no sense to him, how large the tiny cottage could feel when you weren’t there, the idea that your presence alone filled the home with such comfort, it scared him how much he needed you, to be near you, he’d never needed anyone like that before, let alone someone he’d known for such a short amount of time.

To be honest it scared him, and very rarely did Simon feel genuine fear, not the fear for his life that he faced every day in combat or the fear of coming home to an house full of his family murdered, but the fear that you made him feel whole, that his existence relied on you, your voice and soft touches.

His anxiety started as a small coil in his stomach, one day, one more day he had before he’d be going home and you had no idea, content to let him live you with for the foreseeable future, it’d been days since you even brought up the idea of him leaving, that kernel of hope that you wanted him there as much as he wanted to stay, the tethering to reality. But that wasn’t reality, he had a home, a job, a life outside the one he’d adapted to with you, obligations to see through, but damnit if he didn’t want to just be declared MIA and stay.

It wasn’t like he could just leave without telling you, somehow the idea of running away from you hurt more than simply having to go, but telling the truth was no easy task, especially when it involved feelings.

He was nearly dozing off on the couch, riley tucked under him arm when you got back, your hair wind swept as you stepped into the house, and once again it felt like a home, your presence filling the room and Simon couldn’t fight the smile that creeped onto his face as he turned to you.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.” His eyes locked with yours as his body remained still, one harmless word, a simple response to your question even, but the burn in his gaze set your skin on fire, hot enough that even another walk in the cool air wouldn’t suffice.

Swallowing the lump in your throat you nod, “Okay”

The room fills with the aroma of your cooking, a mix on spices thrown together in a dish before you present to food to him, the two of you sitting in your unofficial assigned seats at the small table before digging in.

“I have to leave tomorrow”

The statement almost makes you choke on your bite, forcing the air back to your lungs you stare at him wide eyed.

“That’s, I mean.. I don’t know what that is, good?”

“Is it?”

“Good that you’re no longer missing I guess”

He hums in response and it feels like a piece of your chest has cracked open, the thought that he’d actually have to leave eventually had slipped your mind somewhere in the last few days, the looming fear of him not being there when you woke up now settling in.

“I just want to say thank you”

“Don’t”

“What?”

“Don’t say thank you, atleast not yet, not until you actually go”

“Okay.. This food isn’t that bad”

“Don’t patronize me”

“I mean it, it is almost fully edible”

You contort your face with anger but can’t fight the smile that creeps up it, shaking your head at him as he smirks.

The two of you finish eating, settling into the couch while Simon cleans up before he joins you, nestling against your side and looping an arm behind your body as Riley rests as your feet.

“Read to me”

“Absolutely not”

“It doesn’t have to be one of your sexy books”

You turn your neck to look at him, eyes squinting as you think it over, “Fine”

You grab one of the books on the table next to you, cracking it open before reciting the words out loud, he shifts his body so that you rest against his chest, his steady heartbeat thumping behind you as his warmth seeps into your skin.

You read a few chapters before catching yourself yawning, closing the book to turn to him, laughing lightly as you find his eyes already shut, you had no idea how long he’d been asleep.

He looked so peaceful, so at rest, so not scary, you place a hand against his chest, nudging him to wake him and he opens one eye, peering down at you.

“Come to bed”

He nods as you lift yourself from him, his body slowly pushing from the couch before following you into the bedroom.

Your words play over his mind as he undresses, come to bed, not your bed, not stay with me, come to bed, as if it now belonged to him as well, as if the two of you shared the intimacy of having a thousands nights together. He tosses his mask to the side, content that the darkness of the room would mask enough that he could sleep comfortably.

You feel the mattress dip under his weight, his body shifting against yours as his arm snaked under your head, your arm draped over his chest as you tangle your legs into his, letting his heat envelop you.

It takes Simon longer to fall back asleep, practically counting the minutes he has left with you, watching your eyes flutter as you dream, small noises escaping your lips that have him holding in a laugh as to not wake you. He’s content to stay like this forever, holding you, just existing with you in your own world.

It’s the pull of his arm that wakes you, ripping his warmth from your body as he jostles in the bed, the sheets thrown from his body, the light from the window illuminating every curve of muscle on his chest, the scars that littered the skin nearly growling in the moonlight.

His name escapes your lips as a whisper, heavy eyes weighed down by sleep turn to him as you sit up, his body is tense, covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“Simon?”

You reach a gentle hand for him, slowly as if he were some wild animal before setting your grip on his bicep, the muscle taught under your touch.

You squeeze his flesh, willing him awake as his head tosses against the pillow. He’s mumbling something, too quick to understand as his lids flutter.

“Simon, you’re having a nightmare”

You shake him lightly and his eyes strike open, panic flashing through them before his chest begins to rise and fall rapidly, his gaze darting around the room.

His breathing is ragged and fast,

“Simon? What’s wrong?” Your own fear seeps into your nerves as you watch his body descent into panic, his hands shaking.

“Okay, it’s okay” You search his form for some sort of sign, something to do, your eyes meet his and they’re wild, so many emotions behind his dark gaze.

You move one leg over his waist, lowering yourself against him before shaking your arms around him and squeezing, using your body as pressure against his chest.

“It’s okay, you had a nightmare, it’s just your anxiety, you’re going to be okay”

The words are soft against the skin of his neck, your chin tucked against him as you press your weight against his chest, your body straddling his.

“Breathe Simon, just breathe”

You drag your hands against his skin, attempting to smooth the clammy flesh as his breaths become longer, more fluid, you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, loud and heavy as you whisper against his skin.

“You’re okay, you’re here”

Slowly his arms wrap around your back, tugging you tighter to him, flattening your chest to his as he holds you. His eyes close as he dips his chin against your shoulder, breathing in your scent, letting it ground him.

Your thumb runs circles against his neck, feeling his pulse point as his heartbeat slows, his body calming.

You stay there for a few minutes, letting him adjust while he holds you, a comfortable silence between you two.

“M’sorry”

“Don’t be.. are you alright?”

“For now”

Content with his answer you turn your neck to face him, your lips inches from his as he turns to you.

“Didn’t mean to wake you”

“I’m a light sleeper anyway”

You feel him huff a small laugh and it soothes the anxiety in your own stomach, panic over the realization of your position settles in and you sit up.

Your back stiffens as your body connects with his hard length, a blush running over your cheeks.

“Fuck, m’sorry, that’s not- shit”

“It’s okay, it’s natural, I know it’s nothing to do with me”

“What?”

“It happens, we don’t need to be awkward about it”

“What do you mean nothing to do with you?”

“I just mean it’s normal for that to happen to any man when a woman’s on top of them”

You shift off him, legs meeting eachother as you move but his hand grabs your hip, holding you still, the motion sending shock waves through your body.

“It has everything to do with you”

Your breath catches in your throat as his older hand grips your waist, he rugs you back into him as he sits up, your hips cradling his as he presses his chest to yours.

He lifts an arm, fingers threading through your hair before tossing it behind your shoulder.

“You are so beautiful love”

His words soften your gaze, eyes rounding as you stare at him, his hand cradles the back of your neck as his stare darts between your lips and eyes.

“Simon”

“Let me kiss you, please”

Your lips part without thought, moving to close the gap between you as you crash into him, his hands holding you close as yours wrap around his neck, the kiss searing as his tongue begs entrance, you open, allowing him to explore further as he deepens the kiss.

You’re lost for air when he pulls back, his lips swollen and wet, you reach closer for more, subconsciously grinding your hips against him in your attempt and he groans, the sound shooting straight to your core, arousal pooling.

“Say you want this, tell me you need me as much as I need you” His thumb brushes over your cheek.

You let out a heavy breath, “I need you Simon, I need all of you”

You press your weight down, against his length as he smiles, white teeth beaming back at you as his arms circle your waist, he flips your body till you’re on your back, head pressing against the pillows as he lowers himself, catching your lips once more.

The air feels hot as your hands roam his back, your knees bent at his sides as he moves lower against your body, his lips trailing kisses down your skin.

His hands reach for the hem of your top, pushing it up your chest to reveal your stomach as he plants more kisses on the flesh, each one kindling to the ache that’s formed between your legs.

He stares up through his lashes, the sight of him, practically kneeling for you has your heart fluttering, he places a small kiss above the hem of your bottoms, silently asking permission and you nod.

For every inch of skin revealed he grants you a kiss, tossing your bottoms to the side so he can nip at your inner thighs, your core growing increasingly needy.

There’s no time to be embarrassed about your now apparent arousal, your slick coating your skin, gleaming in the soft light, not as he flattens his tongue, licking a strip through your core to your clit, collecting your juices on his tongue.

“Taste so damn sweet love”

His tongue flicks over your bud, teasing it before his lips catch it, sucking at the nerves, your body responds by arching into his touch, seeking more.

He traces two digits against your entrance, teasing them as you whimper before he pushes them in, curving his fingers against you, grinding them against that soft spot within your walls.

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging at the roots as he licks at you, fingers pumping inside your core, bringing you closer to the edge.

He grazes his teeth against your clit and your body erupts, hips grinding against his face as you ride out your high, his fingers working you through it.

He plants more kisses against your skin once you come down, his chin wet with your slick as he climbs back over your body, leaning down to kiss you.

“Please Si, need to feel you”

Your words strike through him and his eyes darken, a need burning through his body as he lowers himself, nipping at your neck.

You reach a hand between your bodies, palming him through his underwear and he grinds against your touch, his groans muffled against your skin.

He helps you remove his boxers, your palm now wrapping around his hard length, he’s massive, big enough that your hand can’t fit around him fully, a new sensation of anxiety flooding your nerves.

He sits back on his legs, his body in full view and he looks like some sort of god, as toned muscle, slashes and scars adorning the skin. You can see his cock fully now and you were right, the man is anything but average.

His gaze locks on yours as your eyes travel his form, his chest rising with every breath, his hair ragged and falling across his forehead.

You reach a hand for him and he grabs your wrist, pulling it to his face as he kisses your palm, parting his lips to lick the flesh before moving it to his cock. His hand guides yours over his length, stroking himself as his saliva coats his cock, he see him close his eyes as his hips twitch into your touch.

Your core pulses with need as you watch him, “Need to feel you”

His eyes snap open and he releases your hand, letting it drop as he grabs your thighs, tugging you closer.

He runs his tip through your slick, gathering ur on the head of his cock before he pushes in, a choked breath escapes his lips as you gasp, he’s massive, the feeling of him nothing compared to the way he looks, and he looks big.

He holds the head of his cock inside you, allowing you a moment to adjust before you circle your hips, urging him to give you more.

He happily obliges, slowly thrusting his clock into you inch by inch, stretching you out to fit around him as your slick coats his length.

You can feel his muscles tending under your touch, he’s holding back.

“I’m not going to break Simon”

“Fuck-“ He cursed as he bottoms out, “Don’t wanna hurt you love”

“I said I wanted all of you, I meant it”

You feel his cock twitch inside you before he lowers himself, kissing you softly before his hands wrap around your thighs, pulling one to his chest so your leg rests against his should while the other circles his waist, his lips release yours and he thrusts into you, using the toned muscles of his body to fuck you harder into the mattress.

His cock drives deep into your core, forcing out moans from your lips as your hands reach above you, planting against the headboard in search of something to grip.

His own noises fall freely, grunting as he fucks you with every inch of his cock, your body moulding to his as the force of him shifts your body up the bed.

“Christ you’re so perfect love, takin every inch of me so well”

He presses his body harder against yours, forcing his cock deeper as he leans in to kiss you, his hand snaking down your body to circle your clip as you gasp into his mouth.

Your body arches into him, need growing in your core as the coil inside you stretches,

“Fuck, tell me you need me here”

“I need you here Simon, more than you know”

“Fuck, that’s it, christ you’re so good, too good for me”

You pant against his skin, head pressing into the pillow as your release builds,

“I’ll never leave, not really, I’ll never be rid of you”

His words cut through you as his hips stutter, his thumb works over your clit as he bottoms out, triggering your release and you clench down on him, his own climax meeting yours as he spills into you, his cock twitching as you milk him.

He cages your body with his own, tucking his chin against your shoulder while his cock softens inside you, your body’s slick with sweat as your breath evens.

“I mean it, I will find my way back to you, there won’t be a day that goes by that i’m not thinking about you”

Your arms wrap around him, holding him to you as you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the tears that prick at them.

Time passes slower in the morning, waking up next to him, your bodies wrapped around eachother, the morning light illuminating his face, there isn’t a camera on earth that could capture how beautiful he looks, his skin pale from a lack of sun, but healthy, dotted with freckles.

His arm tugs around your body, pulling you closer as you hum against him,

“Mornin’ love”

His voice laced with sleep, deep and groggy, sending shivers down your spine as your fingers trace patterns on his bare chest.

“How long do you have?”

He peeks an eye at the clock, shifting back against you as nestling his lips against the crown of your head.

“Two hours”

“And then you’re gone”

“Not forever”

“It’ll feel like it”

He releases a breath against you, the sadness now pooling in your chest as he holds you.

You stay in bed for the better part of an hour, just touching eachother, memorizing the map of his body, committing every angle to memory before you get up, throwing on some clothes and making your way to the kitchen.

You wait for the kettle to boil while he dresses, the sounds of him tossing his things into a bag a pang in your heart as you pour the water into a tea pot.

Your feet pat against the floor as you hand him a mug, nestling against his side as you watch the trees through the window, his arm wrapping around you.

You sit together, talking about nothing and everything, the idea of a future together just teetering at the edge of possible as the clock strikes the hour.

You wait with shallow breaths as you stare at his comms on the table, your heart falling through your stomachs as you see the machine light up green.

Simon reached in front of you, grabbing the small device and tucking the wire against his ear, he flicks the switch and keeps his gaze foreword.

You hear voices from the small ear piece, not loud enough to make out what they’re saying but the distant sound of a helicopter tells you enough, it was time.

Slowly he ticks his comms against his body, grabbing some equipment from his bag and strapping it to himself before he stands.

Tears prick your eyes as he makes it way to the door, each footstep heavier than the last as he stands at the threshold.

You meet him at the door, hands fussing with the strings on his hoodie before they settle against his chest, you fight he sadness that threatens to consume you as you wrap your arms around him, your cheek pressed to him.

He snakes one arm around your waist while the other holds against your neck, dipping his head to rest stop yours.

“Promise you’ll be back, swear it”

He pulls back, his hands cupping your jaw as he tilts your head to his gaze, nothing but sorrow and honesty in his eyes.

“I swear on everything I am, everything we will be, I will return to you love”

His thumb catches your tear, clearing it from your skin before it can fall as he leans down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss, breathing against you.

He pulls back, mouth parting as if to say something before he closes it, smiling down at you.

“My beautiful girl, I’ll never leave you”

You squeeze your eyes shut as he kisses your forehead and tugs his mask over his face, only the sight of his eyes remaining, the eyes that captured every part of your being.

The scent of the earth outside fills the room as he opens the door, letting the light of the sun in, drenching your bodies in the early glow.

His hands linger on your body for a moment before slowly pulling back, the loss of contact like a knife to chest.

“Thank you”

He steps through the door, your body frozen to its spot,

“Come home Simon”

He smiles under his mask, his gaze soft before he turns, you watch his form grow further as he makes his way toward the clearing, the whir of the helicopter blades now louder.

Every step he takes is a crack to your shield, chilling away at your heart until he comes back to mend it, you watch him all the way, seeing him step into the helicopter and disappear behind the door, watching it fly through the sky, further and further until it disappears from your vision, and the shield falls, tears streaming down your face, staining your cheeks as your body falls to the floor, Riley quietly nudging at your arm as he tries to comfort you.

“Come home” The words are a choked whisper from your dry throat, spoken to the soft breeze that blows outside the door, willing the words to reach him.

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[pedge-page]

Joel dealing with Preggo Wife drabble (?): Sundae Surprise

Notes: I've still got more adventures for these two, I'm just writing little scenes that may or may not be Canon and jumping around the timeline at this point idk just ENJOY THE IDEA OF IT:

- - - -

You're playing on the old Gameboy Joel dug up out of storage, legs propped up on the couch on this hot-ass-fuck Sunday afternoon. You had been given strict orders to take it easy and lounge these last few days before the baby arrives.

Easy.

Your thumbs are furiously clicking, eyebrowns furrowed as you try for the 23rd time to pass the level youre stuck on.

"Joel. Can you get me chocolate syrup and a can of cool whip."

"No. You've had too much sugar today. Need to keep your heart rate down, due any minute."

"Daddy..." you pout with a head tilt and innocent begging voice to entice him.

"Mmm," he mocks with a far cry minic of your high pitched tone, still not looking at you as he twiddles with his tools on the creaky bolts of the dining table. "Still no."

You roll your eyes, dropping the game box on the coffee table. You drumb your fingertips on your ever so quiet belly all scrunched up under your massive breasts.

You know for a fact this baby isnt coming any time soon since she's so silent today. Joel's been too overly anxious with the due date approaching literally this week. Keeps fixing shit around the house like it's going to make him ease his worry. He's already replaced the lightbulb in the bathroom that was perfectly fine, adjusted the creaky hinge of the front door, re-caulked the kitchen sink back splash, but damn the dining room table--which you have no idea had something wrong with it but Joel's been giving it hella attention while you sit around bored out of your mind.

Momma's instinct will tell you when this baby is ready to pop. But right now you NEED to guzzle chocolate syrup and whip cream down your throat like a frat party bukake or SOMEBODY (not to name any names--but its Joel) is sleeping on the couch tonight.

You think a little bit before it clicks.

You gasp excitedly--a little too over the top, "She's kicking!"

But Joel is so on edge he doesn't even question it, running straight for you and kneeling by the couch, his whiskers scratching the smooth expanse of your skin as he rests his ear flat on your belly.

"Hear that?" You encourage.

But it's quiet.

"No....no," but he wants to so badly, wants to believe his baby is gonna tell him something, and he thinks maybe ...? "wait, wait, yeah, she says 'daddy's here'--"

"No, she says bring me some fucking chocolate syrup and whip cream."

He pulls away and narrows his eyes at you before disappointingly getting on his feet and going to the fridge.

You eagerly tilt your head back, sticking your tongue out, hands clasped merrily as he presses the nozzle of the can and shhhhhh it into you mouth, getting revenge by intentionally over filling too much for you to be able to close your lips around it. Then he drizzles the chocolate syrup on top, making your mouth a vertical Sundae.

You try to swallow around the concoction, lips pursing to encase the top of the pile, but it's all too much and you choke a little bit, sending a miniaturized cannon of white cream and dark sauce splattering back on to Joel's nose.

With a gasping mouth full of ice cream toppings, you chortle over laughing and kicking your feet comically while clapping your hands, desperate to swallow the mess and breathe a lung full of air at the same time through your teary eyes.

Joel just puts his hands on his hips, letting you have your laugh at him.

Then you gasp out loud--the panicked, serious, bone chilling one where you stop laughing and kicking altogether, lips trembling and terrified as your hand drifts south to cup your lower belly, feeling a sudden rush of liquid staining your bum, and that dreaded big something has abruptly DROPPED inside you.

You slowly bring your wide eyes back at Joel, who's tight lipped gaze matches yours of tense panic despite the glob of Cool Whip hanging off his snout.

You gargle with the sugary fluffy dessert still in your mouth, "Mah wawa bwoke."

-

Series Masterlist

Permanent taglist

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[heretakesomecandy]

it is done. after 2 years, the cliffbreaker cyclops was the last of my massive darkness 1 minis to be painted. will take a break from miniature painting for a while and figure out which game it will be for the next 2-3 years.

[wethotcrazy]

SYMPATHY IS A KNIFE (vii)

pairing: Yuki Tsunoda x Fem! Driver! Reader

word count: 3715

part 7. WHAT THE FUCK IS A KILOMETER RAAAAAAAAHHHH🗣️🦅‼️🇺🇸 we are now in austin baby (and the rest of the americas triple header), anyways more painfully slow progression for these two

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi

The weight of expectations felt different now. YN noticed it in the way young girls' eyes followed her through the paddock, in the trembling voices asking for autographs, in the handmade signs declaring "Future F1 Driver" held by tiny hands. The Singapore podium hadn't just been her victory – it had opened a door of possibility for countless others who saw themselves in her.

During the VCARB fan zone event, a mother approached with her two daughters, both wearing miniature versions of YN's race suit. "They haven't missed a single practice session since you joined F1," the mother explained, her voice thick with emotion. "My youngest even asked to change schools so she could go karting more often."

The responsibility of it all hit YN harder than any g-force she'd experienced on track. These weren't just fans anymore – they were dreams in human form, hope wearing replica helmets and carrying notebooks filled with racing lines sketched in crayon.

Yuki found her later, sitting alone in the engineering room, staring at telemetry data without really seeing it. He didn't say anything at first, just placed a familiar convenience store energy drink on the desk – the same brand they'd shared during their junior racing days.

"Remember what you told me in F3?" he asked, pulling up a chair beside her. "After that massive shunt at Silverstone?"

"That failure only sticks if you let it define you," YN recited, the memory bringing a slight smile to her face.

"Exactly." His shoulder brushed against hers as he reached for the laptop, pulling up their comparative sector times. "So stop letting them define you by one podium. You're here because you're fast, not because you're making history."

The VCARB social media team captured them the next day, filming a segment where they had to teach each other their pre-race rituals. YN tried not to laugh as Yuki attempted to replicate her precise steering wheel adjustment sequence, his fingers fumbling over the buttons.

"How do you remember all of these?" he groaned, accidentally activating the radio instead of the brake bias adjustment.

"The same way you remember your weird lucky sock routine," she teased, earning a playful glare.

"They're not weird, they're traditional!"

The camera caught their natural banter, the way they moved in sync without thinking, years of friendship evident in every interaction. Comments flooded in almost immediately: "The chemistry between these two! 🔥" "Name a better duo, I'll wait 😍" "From F3 to F1, what a journey!"

But it was the other comments that kept YN up at night, scrolling through her phone in her hotel room: "My daughter started karting because of you" "Thank you for showing girls they belong in motorsport" "You're changing the sport forever."

The pressure crystallized during the pre-race press conference. A journalist asked about her influence on young female fans, and YN felt every camera focus on her face.

"I race because I love it," she began carefully, feeling Yuki's supportive presence beside her. "If that inspires others to chase their dreams, then that's wonderful. But I'm not here to be a symbol – I'm here to be fast."

Later, as they walked back to the garage, Yuki caught her arm. "You know what makes you a good role model?" he asked, his dark eyes serious. "You never forgot why you started racing in the first place."

The Texas sun beat down on the Circuit of the Americas as YN adjusted her helmet, preparing for final practice. Through the visor, she could see a cluster of young girls pressed against the fence, wearing her team colors. One held a sign that read: "Future World Champion."

The sight would have paralyzed her with pressure a week ago. But now, as she caught Yuki's encouraging nod from across the garage, she felt something else. Those girls weren't just looking up to her – they were looking forward, to their own futures in the sport. She wasn't just carrying their dreams; she was showing them how to chase their own.

As she pulled out of the garage, the roar of the engine drowning out everything else, YN smiled. The weight of being a role model would always be there, but so would the pure joy of racing, the thrill of pushing limits, and the quiet understanding in Yuki's eyes when she needed reminding of who she was beyond the headlines.

In the end, that's what would inspire those young dreamers more than any podium – the truth that she was, first and always, a racer who happened to be making history, not the other way around. And if her heart still fluttered when Yuki grinned at her through the garage window, well, that was just another kind of racing altogether.

The Austin qualifying session played out like a well-choreographed dance, both VCARB cars sliding through to Q3 with methodical precision. YN could feel the electricity in the air as she pulled her car into parc fermé, the satisfaction of another strong qualifying evident in the smiles beneath both their helmets.

"Not bad for someone who needed five takes to lasso a hay bale," she teased Yuki as they walked to the media pen, their race suits damp with Texas sweat.

"Says the one who claimed to have Texas racing in her blood," he shot back, but his eyes crinkled with that smile she'd grown so familiar with over the years. The one that made her forget about the cameras following their every move.

Race day dawned clear and crisp, the kind of autumn morning that made COTA's sweeping turns look even more inviting. During the drivers' parade, YN noticed how Yuki kept glancing her way, checking her pre-race mood as he'd done since their Formula 3 days. Some habits never changed, even under the bright lights of Formula 1.

The race itself was a masterclass in teamwork. Twenty laps in, running P5 and P6, their engineers' voices crackled over the radio with synchronized strategy calls. YN couldn't help but smile inside her helmet as she and Yuki executed their pit stops within a lap of each other, their years of shared experience showing in every synchronized movement.

"Box, box, box this lap," her engineer called.

"Copy," she responded, already knowing Yuki would be in the following lap. They'd discussed this scenario in the strategy meeting, finishing each other's sentences until their race engineer had joked about getting them a joint radio channel.

The final stint saw them running P4 and P5, Yuki just ahead, defending against a charging Ferrari while YN managed the gap to the McLaren behind. Their pace was metronomic, matching each other sector by sector.

"Yuki and YN, maintain position, great job both of you," their team principal's voice came over the radio on the cool-down lap. "Strong points for the team today."

In parc fermé, they found each other immediately, as if drawn by some invisible force. Yuki pulled her into a quick hug, the kind they'd shared countless times in their junior careers but felt different now under the Formula 1 spotlight.

"Just like the old days," he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear. "Except now we're doing it in F1."

The media obligations blurred together after that – questions about team dynamics, about their history together, about her continued progress in the sport. But one moment stood out, when a reporter asked about their obvious synchronicity on track.

"You and Yuki seem to have an almost telepathic understanding during races. How much does your shared history in junior formulas play into that?"

YN caught Yuki's eye across the media pen, saw that familiar half-smile playing at his lips. "When you've spent as many years as we have pushing each other to be better, you develop a sort of shorthand," she answered. "It's like having a racing dictionary that only we know how to read."

Later, as they sat in the team's hospitality unit reviewing race data, shoulders brushing as they leaned over the same screen, YN felt that familiar warmth in her chest. P4 and P5 might not have the glamour of Singapore's podium, but there was something special about achieving it together, about proving they could be just as strong as teammates as they had been as rivals.

"Your exit speed through turn 19 was insane," Yuki commented, pointing at a particular segment of data. "Always been better than me there."

"Yeah, well, your sector one was textbook perfect," she replied, nudging his shoulder. "Some things never change."

As the Texas sun set over the circuit, casting long shadows across the paddock, YN realized that success in Formula 1 wasn't just measured in podiums and points. Sometimes it was in the synchronized pit stops, the matched sector times, the understood glances across briefing rooms. Sometimes it was in the way Yuki still remembered how she liked her post-race coffee, or how he could read her mood from the way she adjusted her gloves before a session.

The hunger for success was still there, burning as bright as ever, but now it felt shared – a flame they tended together, pushing each other toward greater heights. And if that flame sometimes felt like it could burn down the careful walls between teammates and something more, well, that was just another kind of race they were learning to navigate.

In the team photo later, standing in front of their cars with their race boots still dusty from the COTA track walk, YN felt Yuki's hand brush against hers, a ghost of a touch that sent sparks through her racing gloves. Some victories, she was learning, didn't need podiums to feel just as sweet.

The evening after the race, YN found herself in her hotel room, the adrenaline of the day finally wearing off. Her phone buzzed with a message from Yuki: "Roof? Like old times?"

It was their tradition, started in Formula 3 – finding the highest point they could after a race, away from the cameras and expectations. Back then, it had been trailer roofs and empty grandstands. Now, standing on the hotel's rooftop terrace, Austin's skyline glittered before them like a circuit made of stars.

"Thought I'd find you overthinking everything," Yuki said, appearing beside her with two cups of green tea – another tradition from their junior days. His race suit was replaced with team joggers and a hoodie, but his hair still bore the marks of his helmet, sticking up at odd angles.

"Not overthinking," YN protested, accepting the tea. "Just... processing."

"Liar." His shoulder bumped against hers as he leaned on the railing. "I know that look. Same one you had after your first F3 win. Like you're waiting for someone to say it was all a mistake."

The city lights blurred as she stared into her tea. "It's different now. Every move we make, every point we score... it's not just about us anymore. Did you see how many girls were in the grandstands today? Wearing our team colors, holding signs..."

"I saw." His voice was soft. "I also saw how you fought through sector two like a demon. How you didn't lift once through turn 15. That's what they were cheering for – not what you represent, but what you do."

YN turned to look at him, finding his dark eyes already on her. In the dim light, she could almost pretend they were back in their early racing days, when everything felt simpler. When the weight of inspiration didn't rest quite so heavy on her shoulders.

"Sometimes I miss when it was just us," she admitted quietly. "Just two kids with dreams too big for our budget racing suits."

"It's still us," Yuki said, his hand finding hers on the railing. "The cameras just have better angles now."

That startled a laugh out of her, breaking the tension. "Remember when we used to practice interviews?"

"And you always made me play the journalist asking about tire management," he grinned. "Look how far we've come."

The night air wrapped around them like a comfortable silence, filled with years of shared memories and unspoken understanding. YN felt the familiar flutter in her chest when Yuki's thumb absently traced patterns on her hand, probably not even aware he was doing it.

"Hey," he said suddenly, turning to face her fully. "About what you said in the press conference today – about having a racing dictionary only we know how to read?"

She nodded, remembering the moment.

"Some things don't need translation." His voice was barely above a whisper, but his eyes said everything his words couldn't.

The space between them seemed to shrink, the city lights and pressure and expectations fading until all that remained was the warmth of his hand in hers and the understanding that had grown between them over countless races and shared dreams.

Racing was about timing – knowing exactly when to brake, when to accelerate, when to take the risk that could change everything. As YN looked at Yuki, at the boy who'd become her best friend and the man who'd become so much more, she wondered if some moments were worth the risk of missing the apex altogether.

The Texas night held its breath, waiting for someone to make the first move in this new kind of race – one where the finish line looked suspiciously like the beginning of something else entirely.

The Mexico City paddock hummed with anticipation as teams prepared for the next race weekend. YN found herself spending more time in the VCARB garage even when she wasn't required to be there, drawn by the comfortable rhythm she and Yuki had developed. Their shared success in Austin had only strengthened their partnership, both on and off track.

During technical briefings, they sat closer than necessary, shoulders brushing as they reviewed sector times. Their race engineers had started presenting their data side by side, noting how their driving styles had begun to complement each other. Where YN was bold through the high-speed corners, Yuki was precise in the technical sections. Together, they were pushing VCARB higher in the constructors' championship with each race.

"Your throttle application through turn 4 is getting aggressive," Yuki noted one evening, pointing at her telemetry data. The garage had emptied hours ago, but they remained, bathed in the blue glow of monitors.

"Says the one who's been taking my lines through the chicane," YN replied, unable to hide her smile. The way he studied her data with such intensity made her heart race faster than any qualifying lap.

The pressure of being Formula 1's breakthrough female driver still weighed heavily, but Yuki had a way of making it feel lighter. He'd started joining her for media obligations, his presence a silent support system. When journalists asked about gender barriers, he'd seamlessly redirect the conversation to her racing prowess, her technical feedback, her contribution to the team.

One rainy evening in Mexico City, they found themselves trapped in the engineering office as a tropical storm passed over the circuit. Thunder rattled the windows as they worked through race simulation data.

"Remember Suzuka in F3?" Yuki asked suddenly, looking up from his laptop. "That rain-soaked qualifying?"

"When you insisted on running slicks because the forecast said it would clear?" YN laughed. "And then it poured harder?"

"Hey, you followed me out on slicks too!"

"Because I trusted you," she said softly, the words carrying more weight than intended.

The silence that followed was filled with years of shared risks, mutual trust, and something deeper that had been growing between them since Austin. Yuki's hand found hers across the desk, their fingers intertwining naturally, like two racing lines converging at the perfect apex.

In their world of precise measurements and calculated risks, this thing between them was wonderfully unpredictable. It showed in the lingering hugs after good results, in the way Yuki's eyes sought her out across crowded drivers' briefings, in how their casual touches had become as natural as breathing.

The pressure of being a role model, of carrying the hopes of countless young girls, still kept YN awake some nights. But now, when the weight felt too heavy, she had someone who understood both the burden and the beauty of it. Someone who saw her not as a symbol or a milestone, but as a racer, a friend, and maybe something more.

The thunder rolled on, but in their quiet corner of the paddock, they had found their own kind of peace – one built on shared dreams, mutual understanding, and the exhilarating promise of what lay ahead, both on and off the track.

The Mexico City podium celebration was still echoing through the paddock as YN made her way back to the garage. P3 felt sweeter than Singapore somehow - maybe because this time, Yuki was right there in P4, both of them having fought their way through the field together. As she rounded the corner, Lando Norris fell into step beside her, a knowing grin on his face.

"So," he drawled, "that was quite the defense you two pulled off against the Ferraris. Almost like you could read each other's minds."

"Good team strategy," YN replied diplomatically, but she could feel her cheeks warming.

"Right, 'team strategy,'" Lando air-quoted. "Is that what we're calling those long 'engineering briefings' you two keep having on the hotel roof?"

Before YN could respond, Charles Leclerc joined them, still in his race suit. "Leave them alone, Lando," he said, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I have to say, YN, your racing line through turn 4 is starting to look suspiciously like Yuki's..."

The teasing followed them to Brazil, where the intensity of Interlagos only seemed to strengthen their connection. During the drivers' parade, Alex Albon nudged Yuki. "Remember when you used to complain about sharing data with teammates? Now we can't get you out of the engineering room."

Yuki's face flushed, but he couldn't hide his smile. "The team's progress is important," he muttered.

"The team, or a specific teammate?" Pierre Gasly chimed in from behind them, earning a chorus of laughs.

In the garage, their race engineers had started making jokes about their synchronized feedback. "Let me guess," YN's engineer would say when she reported understeer, "Yuki's about to radio in with the same thing?" He was usually right.

The social media buzz was growing too. Fan accounts dedicated to capturing their moments together multiplied overnight. Every shared laugh, every trackside conversation, every celebratory hug was analyzed and gif'd within minutes. #TeamTsunoda began trending alongside #YNSupremacy.

But it was in the quiet moments between sessions that their bond deepened most. After a particularly challenging practice session in São Paulo, YN found Yuki waiting in their usual spot - a secluded corner of the garage with a perfect view of the timing screens.

"The media's getting worse," she sighed, slumping beside him. The questions had shifted from her racing to her personal life, from her achievements to her relationship status. The weight of being not just a female driver but now half of F1's most speculated-about pair was beginning to wear.

Yuki's hand found hers instinctively. "Then we give them something real to talk about - our racing," he said firmly. "Show them why we're here."

They did exactly that in qualifying, setting the track alight with a synchronized performance that put them P3 and P4. In the cooldown room, Max Verstappen shook his head with amusement. "You two are scary when you're in sync like that."

"They're always in sync," George Russell called out. "Haven't you seen their matching coffee orders?"

The race itself was a masterclass in teamwork. Lap after lap, they defended and attacked as one unit, their cars dancing through Interlagos's sweeping turns like partners in a carefully choreographed ballet. When Yuki's radio crackled with a strategy call, YN was already adjusting her lines to complement his movement.

"Your girlfriend's got your back again, Tsunoda," came Lewis Hamilton's teasing voice over the radio after YN perfectly blocked an overtaking attempt that would have compromised Yuki's position.

In parc fermé, with another double points finish secured, they found each other through the crowd of mechanics and media. The cameras caught their embrace, longer than usual, neither caring about the headlines it would generate.

"Did you see Twitter?" Daniel Ricciardo grinned as they walked to the podium ceremony. "They're calling you two the 'Race Track Romance.'"

"Better than what they used to call me," YN said softly, remembering the early days when every mistake was attributed to her gender.

"They call you a brilliant driver now," Yuki said firmly, his hand brushing against hers. "Everything else is just noise."

Later, in their now-traditional post-race debrief on the hotel roof, the São Paulo sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, YN felt the familiar flutter in her chest as Yuki traced the racing line of turn 1 on her palm.

"The media's right about one thing," he said quietly. "We are better together."

"Because we push each other to be better," YN replied, but they both knew it was more than that.

"Remember in Austin," Yuki began, turning to face her fully, "when you said some things don't need translation?"

YN nodded, her heart racing faster than any qualifying lap.

"Well," he continued, his dark eyes intense, "I think I'm tired of leaving things unspoken."

The Brazilian night air held its breath as the space between them disappeared, years of friendship, rivalry, and unspoken feelings finally converging at the perfect moment. As their lips met, soft and sure, YN realized that while making history as a female F1 driver had opened doors for others, this - finding someone who saw her as both a fierce competitor and a woman who made his heart race - was a different kind of breakthrough altogether.

The paddock's teasing, the media speculation, the fan theories - none of it mattered. What mattered was the way Yuki's hands cupped her face like she was both strong and precious, the way their heartbeats synchronized like perfectly matched sector times, the way everything finally felt right in their high-speed world.

They had always been good at reading each other's moves on track. Now, as they pulled apart just enough to share breathless smiles, they realized they'd been reading each other's hearts all along. Some victories, after all, were worth more than any podium.

here are some of the tags: @floweringanna, @hiraethberry, @holendernik, @oooom4arie, @burnhampeaches, @dying-inside-but-its-classy

let me know if you want to be added to the list :))

[deftmeat]

‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ 彡 ‎ ‎venom!harry knows you’re in denial

‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎

NSFW ( love my men feral and insane )

w a r n i n g : really HEAVY explicit content. non con, bondage by symbiote powers?, spit play. yeah this one got away from me.

inky black tendrils snaked up your arms, roughly pinning them above your head- snuggly gripped around your wrists, so tight it began to make your hands numb with a dull ache.

“harry.. please..” you had begged for a while now, but it was rather pointless. the black tar had concealed your best friend entirely, leaving drastically white and sharp slits in the center of what was its face paired with just below them, massive teeth that could be compared to miniature sharp daggers.

“we are not harry.”

the alien holding harry captive insisted, it’s low raspy voice sending shivers down your body and settling in a heavy lump right in your stomach.

the looming creature leaned in toward you, only for you to turn away from its menacing glare, refusing to look it in it’s cloudy white eyes.

but it wasn’t too pleased with your defiance, large black tentacle like limbs slithered up your back and twisted around your throat, tightening and yanking your face back parallel to his. not only was it effective in forcing your attention back but you felt the air in your lungs constrict. and when you gasped, that’s when the alien lunged it’s head forward and unhinged his massive jaw- a long and slimy, throbbing tongue dragged out.

you flinched when you felt warm slick saliva hit your collarbones as it fell off the wet muscle, said tongue moving to ghost your bottom lip, threatening to dip inside your mouth.

you snapped it shut and the creature growled, the white slits in its face narrowing.

“bad..girl..”

the degradation made your heart drop. you weren’t sure if it was out of how unsettled you felt or the fact you were overwhelmed. between feeling it’s uncontrollable touch all over your trapped body or how it regarded you with such intense attention.

“harry…” you whispered, squirming but with no intention of escaping. it made the creature grimace, knowing you wouldn’t relent until you saw him.

so with a jerk of its head, it pulled back, the dark ropes slinking away, tucking themselves behind the back of a very pale and sickly looking harry.

you took him in while you had the opportunity- his under eyes were smeared with a dark red and bruising purple, black veins framing his face along his jaw. your eyes traced them down, seeing them webbed and tangling until they disappeared into the collar of his wrinkled grey t-shirt.

“you’re very stubborn.” was all he said, leaning back to examine how his counterpart had you all spread out and imprisoned before him. he could really see the resemblance of a mouse in a rat trap.

“don’t listen to it.” you ignored his statement, following through with the initial reason you even came to find him. “it doesn’t want to help you, it only wants to feed off you.”

but your prodding irritated harry, unconsciously making venom squeeze itself harder over you. it earned himself a high pitched cry from you and he watched while your face scrunched up in pain.

“you don’t know anything. you don’t know us.”

you didn’t like how bonded he was with that thing, using third person to regard it and himself.

“no but i know you-“ you countered, yanking on the tendrils clamped over your wrists. so hard you felt like you could dislocate your shoulder.

there was a brief flicker of something in your best friend’s eyes, his face momentarily softening at your words. there was some of the harry that you knew still in there. but he must’ve been told to think otherwise because the look was gone and he replaced it with a deep frown, once again inching his face down to yours.

“is that why you didn’t reach out to me? used peter as your little messenger the entire time i was gone?”

the accusation hurt but you deserved it, “i was scared- okay? i had feelings for you that i couldn’t-“ you were cut off by your own whimper, the tar limbs around your neck only gripping tighter.

“and when i came back, you avoided me. pretended like you didn’t recognize me.” harry’s voice turned rough, eyes wild and locked onto yours, which began to water and obscure your vision.

“ha..rry-“ the feeling in your head was getting light and full of tingles but harry wasn’t going to let you pass out just yet. he made venom retract from your neck only to be replaced by harry’s own large and black veiny hands. his grip was notably more weak but still firm.

“do you know how long i waited to see you again? how badly i wanted to..” but he didn’t finish his sentence, instead letting his head drop with a quiet sigh.

you took the moment of silence to grab a deep breath of air, panting from your previous lack of oxygen. before you could try and plea with harry again, he lifted his head, his face this time was troubled. but still held with the erratic power that coursed through him.

he didn’t say anything but you could feel the conversation he was having with himself. maybe you were closer to convincing him than you thought?

of course, that presumption was quickly proven wrong when the ropes holding you captive shoved you down with brutal force. you felt your spine crack and your back blossom with a burning heat- now being pinned to the cold cemented floor.

harry only took two steps to hover over you, the dark shadows casting down on his features making him look menacing.

“now you’ll feel as i felt. hopeless. vulnerable.”

you didn’t have time to ponder what he meant by that before you felt large pulsating tentacles glide over your hips and sides. it was briefly ticklish but you were too distracted to care when you looked down.

venom was starting to twist itself around your midriff, tendrils slowly lifting your shirt up your stomach and exposing your bellybutton. it left the fabric bunched up just below your tits, your entire lower half revealed to the darkness and harry’s eyes.

“what..” you opened your mouth just to have it stuffed full with venom. your words of refusal were muffled, watching the same limbs in your mouth now hooking through your waistband and tugging them down, almost impatiently. they swirled around the material before ripping holes into it and using the breaches to tear the pants into two with a loud sccrrrp.

with eyes widened and shouts concealed, you were helpless to prevent the destruction of your clothes. harry had been a bystander while it happened, his eyes tracking every action as if he were mentally communicating with the alien to do what he wanted to you.

he felt satisfied with how he left you now, underwear on display for his hungry eyes, one shoe off your foot and shirt stuck to your sweat sticky skin.

“doesn’t feel too good, does it?” he tsked down at your trembling body, still held down by his partner. your retort was obviously incoherent but harry didn’t bother to ask venom to retract from you to hear it properly. no, instead he got him to flip you around.

the cry you released vibrated in your chest just as the tendrils looped down to roll you over- wrapping around your thighs to lift your hips up and tuck your knees under yourself. the pressure you felt on your back caused your back to arch down and your cheek to squish right up against the cold floor.

harry had you face down and ass up- hands still bound by venom but above your head. the new position made your shoulders and back ache while your neck cramped with the strain.

at least the stifling gag you had was now removed, spit from your mouth connected to the slithering dark snake. it retreated and left your line of sight, but you felt it rather than saw it as it crawled up your forearm and bicep to keep you stuck as you were.

“please.. dont.” your voice was hoarse after all your attempts to voice your protests despite being suppressed. the only answer you got was a strong force pulling your legs apart. it frustrated you that you couldn’t see what harry was doing- and he knew it. he wanted you riled up and pissed off.

“oh, come on now. don’t tell me you aren’t into this, even just a little bit.” his voice mocked from behind you, the sound of him closer than it was before. he was walking closer, eyes zeroed in on your underwear clinging to your ass, the way he had you on the floor making the fabric hug your body in a way he could see the exact lines of where your asscheeks began and ended. not to mention inbetween them.

“this.. isn’t you!” struggling only made your ass bounce and now.. harry needed to touch you for himself. he crouched down and you could feel the movement, anticipation and anxiety flooding your stomach like a waterfall.

once he was level with your ass, he automatically reached out on instinct, smacking it to watch gravity take effect and ripple under the impact. your reactions encouraged him, big veiny hands moulding against the soft flesh hidden under the cloth, long fingers pressing down to grab a large handful of you.

you felt nauseous at the idea of your best friend touching you like this, having his way with you while he had an alien- not from this planet- hold you down and make you endure it. if peter told you this is how you’d end up an hour ago you wouldn’t have believed him. this scenario was so crazily obscure that he probably couldn’t have predicted this. you definitely weren’t into it.

harry would prove you wrong, oh so wrong. you were just in denial. denial about how you felt about us. he wanted to prove you wrong. he was going to, no matter what it took.

he lifted his hand off you, the spot he had placed it was left with a sizzling warmth that pulled at you in the worst way. like you knew that wasn’t the worst of what he wanted to do to you.

“you shouldn’t have come looking for me.” the force on your back lightened only to be replaced with a sturdy weight, body heat coaxing you to remain placid and still.

“you should’ve listened to pete.” harry’s voice was low and thick, right next to your ear. you tried to shift yourself to get more comfortable under the new pressing body on top of yours but he went limp causing your face to get more mushed up against cement.

“such a bad girl. but it’s okay. i’ll forgive you,” you felt like he had more to say but he left it to linger in the darkness between you two- or three.

the crushing weight left and once again venom slunk his tendrils over and around you to take over. but harry didn’t leave you, no, he only got off you so he could slip his greedy rough hands under the elastic of your last remaining piece of dignity on your lower body.

a soft, amused laugh poured from from his mouth at the sound of your surprised gasp, soon morphing into a strangled groan when he selfishly teased your clit. he had his fun, the pads of his index and middle fingers each pressing down on either side of your slit and pushing outwards, spreading you open underneath your panties.

“ahah- h-har,” it was difficult to talk due to you currently eating cement, your hips shrinking away from the way he held your pussy lips apart. warmth flooded your abdomen and between your parted legs, a fresh gush to coat his prying digits.

“shit.” harry grunted, his own stomach clenching with a rush of awakened lust. you sounded so submissive and malleable by just a simple stimulation. he found it kind of cute. venom must’ve too, the voice inside his head hushed but clear, ‘must.. be corrupted.’

you did. you deserved to be shown how good having this much power feels. to be broken down into nothing and then built back up, all because of us.

without so much of a warning or indication of what was about to happen, harry flicked his wrist and delved two fingers inside your puffy cunt. it wasn’t as wet as he had wanted it to be, a bit disappointed in venom for being so impatient but shoved them deeper nonetheless.

it milked a mewl out of you, your hips jerking back and legs twitching from underneath your stomach. your knees where already aching from holding such an uncomfortable position for so long but the sudden fullness pressing against your unexpecting, raw walls caused you to thrash around in your black confines and everything hurt much worse than before.

“fuhhkk!” your voice cracked and drawled out the curse, eyes fluttering closed at being stretched without care. “take it. know you can.” with the battle of venom’s influence in his head, harry’s demand came out gravely and harsh. to convince you more, he swirled his fingers inside and turned them over so that the back of his hand was facing upwards while his inner wrist was directed to the floor.

the feeling of him moving inside of you made your stomach constrict and your pussy to stutter around his long inky veined digits. harry took this as a good sign and continued, a small smile playing on his lips.

“that’s it. feel you sucking them in.” he muttered, doing something you didn’t expect. he curled his fingers down, purposefully hitting that spongy spot in the upper part of your cunt. he used the advantage of your current form and it helped his fingers sink deeper, his other fingers tucked into his palm like they would be in a fist.

no matter how much you had tried to prepare to stifle a potential moan- you couldn’t stop the one that burst past your lips, eyes rolling back contrary to your determined will. it only got louder the faster harry fingered your pussy, obscene wet squelches coming from inside your drenched underwear. the fabric moved every time harry pulled out and dived back in.

“g-g-uhhh..” you sounded so ruined, it made harry eager to keep going. he knew his cock was leaking just by how much it kicked inside his jeans without even looking down. he was so desperate to replace his fingers with his dick but that was venom pressuring him to destroy your last droplets of composure and pride.

he needed to be patient, he countered the parasite in his system. he wouldn’t relent until you were full and leaking his cum, he was determined on that. but first he needed you to be begging for it. hungry to belong to him.

“p..leeese.. hareey..st-ooop.” he felt spurred on by your slurs and hiccups, his other hand dipping into your waistband elastic on your lower back to slide it off over your ass. but it was too slow for venom, his own dark slug-like limb reaching out to rip the garment off you in pieces.

the lack of reaction on your slumped over end proved just how drunk you were alone on the sensation between your messy thighs, not even the cold air attacking your sensitive clit was not enough to garner anything out of you besides mumbled whines and lazy whimpers from harry’s consistent assault.

he scooted closer behind you, moving to kneel down since his cock was straining too much against his pants for him to crouch any longer. now that he was able to actually see what his fingers looked like fucking in and out of you like this, he needed to get his stupid jeans off right goddamn now.

using his other unoccupied hand, he sloppily undid his belt, the clinking of the metal was drowned out over the sounds you made when he added a third finger, your slick drizzling down his knuckles and palm, reaching past his wrist to his forearm. harry made no attempt to sooth you while he pried open your swollen and abused pussy, too focused on relieving his own angry cock.

you couldn’t really feel your hands anymore, pins and needles running through each nerve every time you tried to bend each finger or make a fist. venom had you in a deadly lock, deep red and purple mixing together to stain your skin for more than just one day. you’d be surprised if he didn’t break them either, the tendrils clamping down harder the more harry got closer to rutting his dick in you. he wanted you to know you couldn’t prevent it. couldn’t escape it or hold it off for much longer. you were fucked. about to be- literally.

the pressure on your head lifted momentarily and you were able to look back over your shoulder- just in time to get a good eyeful of harry before he yanked his fingers out of you. you groaned instinctively at the loss of being filled, some of your sticky slick being taken along with his hand. harry lifted his arm up and stared at it, mesmerized at the way your juices looked on his skin, contrasting the inky webs that littered his entire body.

his eyes lowered to meet yours once he noticed you watching him and he smirked smugly, his tongue slithering out to trail up his pale wrist and palm. your eyes flitted to catch it, seeing the way he swirled around his index finger and put it in his mouth, sucking you clean off of it. and damnit, did your cunt sputter around nothing, eager and begging to feel his mouth on your folds.

but harry was done with foreplay. he could fucking smell how badly you needed him inside and pounding your dripping pussy. unbeknownst to you, he was kind enough to let you lift your head up, knowing you’d look back. knowing you’d give into your primal desire to be fucked like the pretty little slut you had always wanted to be for him. you just weren’t aware of it. yet.

“i don’t think y-you want me to stop.” he retorted but his voice cracked from how clouded his head was, the blood no longer in his head but prominently flowing through his cock- the fleshy pink tip was leaking large glistening drops of precum, pale white and travelling down his veiny dick to pool at his balls that throbbed with a growing urge to empty in you more than once.

“is this what you wanted? when you came looking for me?” harry tried to steady his voice, unable to help but buck his hips with longing for friction, the hand he used to split you open curled down to grab his cock, teasing his balls on the way down.

“n..no-o..” you sniffled, body simultaneously aching and yet buzzing with how aroused you had become far beyond how you originally felt when you first decided to confront your best friend.

“no? you sure about that baby?” that same mocking tone hit your ears before harry took his cock and prodded the spot between your cunt and asshole before dragging it down, running his wet tip along your swollen and red pussy lips. you clenched your teeth before your moan slipped through the gaps passed your lips, his precum mixing with your slick and effectively getting you wet enough so he could fill you to the brim- to which he did until he could feel the ridged and bumpy surface of where your cervix began. but it wasn’t enough for him, harry groaning with possessiveness and venom’s inability to let things go, pushed deeper still, painfully pressing against the wall even though there wasn’t much space for him to go.

you yelled out, eyes shutting as tears fell from your waterline and made long streaks stain your face. the pain mingled with the rest of the soreness that collected along the entirety of your body, heightening your awareness of how harry and venom were everywhere around you, your pussy disobeying your consciousness and squeezing the intruding cock inside.

which you dreaded because harry loved it, his palms smacking heavily down on your hips, finger tips digging down into your skin and tugging you into him, taking you again and just as aggressively. no matter how much you begged him to slow down, he sped up, lowering his weight back onto you, only this time, dipping his head to yours so he could suck big, prominent hickeys and marks into the back and sides of your neck.

he fucked you fast, pistoning his own hips in a dominating pace just to be sure you could feel every single inch of him inside you. you definitely could, there was no doubt. it didn’t help when you felt him grab a fistful of your hair and force your head back, tilting your chin to angle it perfectly for him to lean in and spit inside your mouth.

“swallow.” he commanded you- you listened, opening your mouth after to prove you did just as he said. so he did it again but told you not to eat it, instead shifting his weight evenly so he could bring his hand up and make you take his fingers in your mouth just as he had earlier to his own.

you let him twirl his fingers around your tongue, scooping up his own saliva and playing with it inside your mouth before he pulled them out and moved them out of sight.

you thought nothing of it though, way too invested and absorbed with his cock dragging along your drippy pussy, his body trapping you against the floor, relentlessly thrusting himself in you brutally. not until you felt pressure along your asshole and something push inside.

“gonna feel all of me. mine now. ours.” the voice in your ear sounded a million miles away, your jaw going slack when harry forced his finger passed the tight ring above the same sloppy cunt he was fucking. it felt like you couldn’t breathe due to the tension building up inside your pelvis and spine, unable to speak out and protest against whatever the hell he was doing.

you certainly didn’t miss the revisted use of third person and felt the progress you assumed you had slip away. harry wouldn’t listen to you- wouldn’t listen to peter or mary jane. he wasn’t past saving- yet was just as much of a hypocrite. he was the one in denial.

and you could tell, as he used your devastated holes, using you as his last connection to himself. to who he was before.

proving you right, harry took his finger away from your tight hole and quickly sank his teeth into a particularly sensitive spot below your jaw next to your ear, your hips stuttering into his. you didn’t get to have any sort of release because harry dug his nails into the flesh of your sides, leaving behind crescent shapes as he dragged them down. he clawed at you, growling out in unsettling animalistic and creature like way before you felt his cock throb and jump inside you.

you barked out in a demand for him to pull out but venom was quicker, muzzling you like a dog and holding your face flat against the hard floor.

you felt hot blood ooze out of your nose, down your upper lip and straight onto the cement- while harry jerked and slammed his pelvis into your asscheeks, giving a rather weak thrust before letting out a deep moan, one of his hands removing itself from your side to smack on your lower back and hold you down.

yet during his sloppy orgasm- you felt heavy and burning ropes of semen pour out and splatter your insides. it wouldn’t fucking stop either, it just kept coming, pumping itself more and more until it formed a white ring around the base of his cock and stuck to your pussy lips, falling and collecting all over your thighs and pittering quietly onto the floor below you both.

now with your face laying in a tiny puddle of red, harry lifted your head up by the hair at the nape of your neck. it didn’t sting, everything felt numb and tingly.

he brought his hand up to wipe your mouth and cheek, black inkiness crawling up his neck and face before consuming him yet again. you really needed peter to find you.

[cyborgzloth]

The four elementals

[pralinesims]

// character associations

Tagged by @sertrallne @living-undead @salemsimss, thanks so much! <3

Gonna do this for... Emilio!

⊱ EMOTIONS/FEELINGS (Over)confidence, paranoia, fear, desperation, depression, guilt, mourning, head-over-heels in love, ambition, appreciation, enthusiasm, gratitude, courage

⊱ COLOURS Green (all shades), beige, bright red, dark fuchsia, muted blues

⊱ SCENTS Cedar, expensive aftershave, MFK Grand Soir perfume, disinfection, mint toothpaste, freshly mown grass, crisp summer morning air, after workout sweat, air freshener, eucalyptus

⊱ OBJECTS Sports cars, newspapers, hand cream tubes, massive chronographs, credit cards, signature cooking apron, family heirlooms, leather case journals, steak knives, heavy decanters, miniature pirate ships, large mirrors, toothpicks

⊱ BODY LANGUAGE Arms on hips, threatening stares, straight and proper posture, wide grin, tense shoulders, alcohol induced laughter, winking, very firm handshakes, intense eye contact, hands behind head

⊱ AESTHETICS Anything luxurious, casual athletic elegance, old money, sad beige core™, marble surfaces on things where it doesn't even make sense, candle-lit dinner parties, constant tidiness (never cluttered)

Tagging: everyone who is in mood to also do this~ feel free to do so and say that I've tagged you!

[maniakminis]

If you have to go in those woods stay well away from those damn mushrooms! They're no good for eating and neither are the creatures that tend them. Malnourished loons, they don't even eat any trespassers they find! They just leave the dead bodies for the spores to grow! Listen well, if you hear the sounds of croaking or see any of those mushrooms start moving, you either shoot at it or start running!

It's gnome time! I finished painting up my gnome themed regiment for Turnip28, the 140 Warty Madcaps!

The Toff is made from a fancy resin base from Scibor Miniatures and a dwarf from Massive Darkness that I sculpted a huge growing mushroom. The Toadies (heh) are frog/toad miniatures from Reaper Minis that I glued some bits on to give them gnome hats.

This Lump (I love that the new Big Dude unit is called a lump) is made from a troll from the game Bloodrage. I added a gnome hat, some growing mushrooms, and a ton of grass tufts and mud texture.

Brutes and Fodder were made from Massive Darkness Dwarves with some mushrooms sculpted on. I have another 12 of the smaller ones I'm going to give mushroom muskets!

Ballistic Weapon Fodder were made from Goblin Archers from Massive Darkness. No fancy conversion work here, just glued on some tufts to fit the aesthetic.

Bastards and Welps were converted from more Massive Darkness models and Flail Snail models to create these Snailtaurs!

I'm very happy with how this project turned out! Despite getting into Turnip28 for over a year this is my first fully usable army! All of my other armies are missing one or two units before they can go on the tabletop. I'm hoping to change that soon however! Hope you guys like them, happy hobbying!

[theprinceofliones]

Headcanons for Tristan and TriLance?

Since Tristan is a Nephilim, both his Demon and Goddess instincts kind of fuck over each other and he'll go through periods where he'll want to bathe in the sun with his Goddess wings stretched out so he can take in the suns rays, or he'll want to snuggle up and sleep in the darkness of his rooms whilst his Demon wings curl around him.

He loves to match his mother so he'll style his hair just like hers, braid it just like hers, and put in pretty accessories to match her as well. He's a little momma's boy and he isn't ashamed of it lmfao (Meliodas is screaming inside because good lord his wife really gave him the greatest gift of all---a second her.)

Moves in his sleep and ends up looking more starfish than human.

He and Gawain are besties and they slay. literally.

Tristan has had the biggest, most enormous, most massive, mammoth-sized crush on Lancelot since they were old enough to walk, since he was too young to really know what a crush was lol but he's absolutely one hundred percent oblivious to it in every shape and form. The only reason Lancelot knows is because he can read hearts

Literally everyone knows about his crush besides Isolde mainly bc she doesn't WANT to see it, Percival bc he's too busy being oblivious about the heart eyes he makes at Naisens, and Tristan bc he grew up watching Meliodas and his uncle Ban act like a married couple even tho they both had wives so he just grew up assuming that everyone was close with their best mate like that (this is a completely wrong interpretation bc Ban and Meliodas are most definitely sexually and physically attracted to one another, have hooked up several times over the years, probably still do, and are just a little too queer for men who are married and have kids LMFAOOOOOO) (Their wives do not mind this and join them someti- *gunshots*)

He has two white lions named Elaena and Allura, about six miniature fluffy cows, and a dozen bunnies inside of magic farm inside of the castle created by Gowther lol

He gets his love of animals from Meliodas

He loves to have his wings pet and will purr if they are. He's a little miniature kitten hehe

Lancelot once discovered how sensitive his wings were during their travels with the rest of the 4KOTA and Tristan is unable to sleep for like the next three days and avoids Lancelot like he's the plague for a week bc he was terrified that he had just discovered his sexual awakening 😭

Red is his favorite color *cues to Lancelot*

I love these asks!!! Keep them coming!!!