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1800titz · 3 months ago

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ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ

KNEELING LAMIA | Witch hunter!Harry x Witch!reader

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

★18+

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

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

WC: 3.7K

You hate him.

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

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

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

Smeared, pupils bleeding wide like spilled ink.

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

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

He has to not miss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Conflict. Resolution. Recycle.)

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

(Fuck, fuck, fuck—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest rolls. “Fuck— you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No."

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

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

It goes straight to your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t mind.

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

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t know how you ended up here.

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

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

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

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

But you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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reasonsforhope · 6 months ago

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"Scientists have developed a way to dramatically reduce the cost of recycling certain electronic waste by using whey protein.

Their method allows for the easy recovery of gold from circuit boards at a cost of energy and materials amounting to 50 times less than the price of the gold they recover—these are the numbers that big business likes to see.

Indeed, the potential for scalability depends on this sort of cost savings, something traditional e-waste recycling methods just can’t achieve.

Professor Raffaele Mezzenga from ETH Zurich has found that whey protein, a byproduct of dairy manufacturing, can be used to make sponges that attract trace amounts of ionized gold.

Electronic waste contains a variety of valuable metals, including copper, cobalt, and gold. Despite gold’s public persona as being either money or jewelry, thousands of ounces of gold are used in electronics every year for its exceptional conductive properties.

Mezzenga’s colleague Mohammad Peydayesh first “denatured whey proteins under acidic conditions and high temperatures, so that they aggregated into protein nanofibrils in a gel,” writes the ETH Zurich press. “The scientists then dried the gel, creating a sponge out of these protein fibrils.”

The next step was extracting the gold: done by tossing 20 salvaged motherboards into an acid bath until the metals had dissolved into ionized compounds that the sponge began attracting.

Removing the sponge, a heat treatment caused the gold ions to aggregate into 22-carat gold flakes which could be easily removed.

“The fact I love the most is that we’re using a food industry byproduct to obtain gold from electronic waste,” Mezzenga says. In a very real sense, he observes, the method transforms two waste products into gold. “You can’t get much more sustainable than that!” ...

However the real dollar value comes from the bottom line—which was 50 times more than the cost of energy and source materials. Because of this, the scientists have every intention of bringing the technology to the market as quickly as possible while also desiring to see if the protein fibril sponge can be made of other food waste byproducts.

E-waste is a quickly growing burden in global landfills, and recycling it requires extremely energy-intensive machinery that many recycling facilities do not possess.

The environmental value of the minerals contained within most e-waste comes not only from preventing the hundreds of years it takes for them to break down in the soil, but also from the reduction in demand from new mining operations which can, though not always, significantly degrade the environments they are located in.

[Note: Absolutely massive understatement, mining is incredibly destructive to ecosystems. Mining is also incredibly toxic to human health and a major cause of conflict, displacement, and slavery globally.]

Other countries are trying to incentivize the recycling of e-waste, and are using gold to do so. In 2022, GNN reported that the British Royal Mint launched an electronically traded fund (ETF) with each share representing the value of gold recovered from e-waste as a way for investors to diversify into gold in a way that doesn’t support environmentally damaging mining.

The breakthrough is reminiscent of that old fairy tale of Rumpelstiltskin who can spin straw into gold. All that these modern-day, real-life alchemists are doing differently is using dairy and circuit boards rather than straw."

-via Good News Network, July 19, 2024

#ewaste #waste disposal #recycling #environment #e waste #e waste recycling #electronics #gold #mining #gold mining #wheyprotein #whey #chemistry #alchemy #good news #hope

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ikkosu · 3 months ago

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TO LIVE, AND TO SERVE

part two

(tfo.sentinel x gn.miner.reader)

A short chapter

one, two, three

"So, what'd you think?" He placed his servos on his hips and glanced down at you with a grin. You're looking at elsewhere, though. At the interior of the habsuite and the slight widen of your intake and mouth should be embarrassing.

After all, you missed feeling the movements on your face after the venom disappating.

"A nice, lovely space for a miner, isn't it?"

Nice was a bit of an understatement. It wasn't anything lie you'd have at the barracks. Gold amassed the entirety of the room, gleaming as every glare of the light streaming through the wide arched windows rushed in. A a comfortable mini alcove for a library was by the corner and — oh, look your berth. Right by the window, puffed up with pillows and satin covers.

A dream for any mech with terrible backs and callous bodies. Small but strangely pleasant. Befitting of a miner, you suppose.

"I appreciate your kind...gift, sir.''

You could finally enjoy a time of solitude. Away from all the drilling.

"I've got it all prepared in under a cycle." He said. " Had the drones churning up a few midnight energon for the bit. You know, after I saved you from getting killed."

Saved me from getting killed by you. How poetic.

The drones behind pottered into the room arranging the furniture where Sentinel wanted it to be, moving in necessities you never thought you'd needed : waxing equipment, extra plating transfers, extra paint transfers, among more you couldn't count. However, one of the drones had a significant dent across their chassis. Almost like someone had thrown quite the punch and wanted to string out their gut.

You curl out a digit to point. "Is that...normal?"

Sentinel grunted and gave a dismissive wave, optics trained on the several drones organizing the library. He was fixated on the covers being color coded.

"Nothing trivial.This used to be a holding cell for soon to be named convicts so you can expect the structure to be a little bit janky and loose."

You look up to see where the metal pole of the ceiling is bent at an odd angle with clear signs of energon flakes coating the end. Poor mech, almost impaled by the thing. What were they doing up there anyway?

" The blueprint is drawn up before the war. Unfortunately, too much funds were going to the military so we had to improvise— " he nodded towards your berth, "—and built personal cell at the castle instead"

"I'm assuming holding cells are this lavish all around."

He finally looked at you for a moment and let out a loud laugh, a rich crescending wave of timber. "For me? Perhaps. Not for you, though. Not anything you would expect it to be."

A kind of tightness coiled in your chest at the tone of his voice. Not for you. Not like you. Not you. A chant. A mantra. Layers and overlays of voices that won't stop. The prior migraine that plagued your helm plunged back at full force and you gritted your dentas, cringing. As sentinel looked away, he conversed with the drones of what color you preferred your berth covers to be. " Blue," he declared. A distant murmer.. You drown out the noise, lightheaded. Eventually, he came up to you, uttering words that doesn't make sense.

"Thank you, sir." You say aimlessly.

"And, on that topic of sir," He cornered you in.

You step back instinctively

"I remember asking you to serve." A servo curled around your sides. "And I won't repeat this again, you know how much I hate repeating myself its ridiculous."

" What do you—"

"My Liege." He leaned down, whispering in your audials firmly. "Say it."

You stared straight ahead and swallowed. The lump on your throat glided down like an irregular sized rock. He was so close. So close to reach. If you could just reach out, curl your servos around his neck and squeezed — maybe, you could accomplish something that hadn't been done in your lifetime.

"My liege, sir.'' The words rippled out.

"Louder." He squeezed your sides, digits digging into the soft protoform.

You winced. "My liege, sir."

His nose grazed your jaw and he smiled. "Good mech, and don't worry about the floor you're in. I'll only call you up when you're dearly needed."

Which is, every night.

#spoilers!!#look i have no idea that i was going to continue this #transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #tfo sentinel prime x reader #tf one sentinel #tfo sentinel prime #sentinel prime #sentinel #ikkowrites #tf one #transformers one

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unboundprompts · 1 year ago

Note

I don't know if you've done it yet but could you do hazel eyes, preferably hazel green?

No rush though, love your page 💞

Different Ways to Describe Hazel Eyes

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

His eyes made them think of the woods behind his old house: not just the green of the leaves but the rough brown bark that used to scrape his hands as he climbed the trees as well.

Their eyes were the color of spring and the memory of autumn.

She had the most interesting eyes he had ever seen. They held the sweetness of honey and the softness of pastures after a heavy rainfall.

The brown elements in their hazel eyes were more dominant, complimenting the freckles that dotted their nose.

His hazel eyes had never held such hatred until now.

She had soft, hazel eyes. A warm brown with an inner radiating golden sun.

Their hazel eyes were both the sunlit branches and the moss that clothed the old oak tree.

Her eyes reminded them of spring. Irises like the forest floor that stretched over the roots of trees and the plants and flowers that sprouted from between the cracks.

He had eyes like the sea and the wet, sharp rocks that lined the edge of the cliff. The center was all rock, a harsh brown that spread out to waves of greens and blues under an angry sky.

Their green eyes were flaked with gold.

She hated to admit that he had beautiful eyes. They were a soft hazel, with waves of browns and greens and golds that mesmerized her. The warmth of his eyes however, did nothing to change the impression she had of him.

Behind their hazel eyes, he could tell they were hiding something. It reflected in the greens and golds of their irises.

Her eyes were the same colors as the bracelets on her wrists. He watched the golden metal with the blue and green gems clang against one another as she talked with her hands.

They had never imagined that hazel eyes so beautiful could look so sad.

His eyes mirrored the ground of the cemetery and the blue sky that looked down on them.

She had eyes like watercolors, blues and greens and browns swirling together to paint an incredible scene.

They had eyes that painters could only ever dream of capturing in their art.

Words could never describe the incredibility of their hazel eyes, but he was damn well going to try.

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gabrielleyueerrrrr · 4 months ago

Text

Broken (but it's on the mend) - AVA/M

Word count: 6,221

TW/CW:

-Graphic depictions of panic attack

-Mentioning of past child abuse

Characters: Purple, King Orange/Mango Tango, Green, Blue, Yellow, Red, The Second Coming, Navy Blue(mentioned), Orchid/Pink(mentioned), Gold(mentioned)

Relationships: (No romantic pairings) Purple & King Orange/Mango Tango, Purple & Green, Purple & The Colour Gang

Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Post AVM Ep 30 "The King" , Purple having self-worth issues, Good parent Mango, Bad parent Navy, the Colour Gang being good friends

Summary: Purple decided to clean up Mango's house while he was away, but made a terrible mistake in the process.

»»———— ❋ ————-««

"Okay, I'm leaving. Remember not to open the door for strangers, if you want to visit Green and the other kids in Minecraft drop me a message first, if I'm not home yet when you come back, don't forget to close the nether portal, also-"

"Sir-MT, I'm not a kid anymore. I've been living by myself for almost 2 years now, you don't have to worry about me." Purple pouted at Mango as the latter reached for his gold scarf, wrapping it around his neck meticulously.

"I know, I know. I have completely faith in your ability to take care of yourself, it's just..." Mango let out a sigh and placed a hand on the door knob, "...old habits die hard."

Purple bit their lip as they watched Mango open the door. The fierce, icy wind of December blew some snow flakes onto the doormat.

"And don't forget to eat your lunch, there's food in the fridge. Don't heat metal containers in the microwave, remember to scoop whatever's inside into a bowl first-"

"MT!"

"Okay okay I'll stop now." Mango laughed and ruffled Purple's hair. "See you in the afternoon."

"See you!"

The door closed with a thud. Purple let out a breath they didn't know they were holding and turned around.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock...The sound of the wall clock echoed across the living room, the only sound keeping them company.

They were alone, the realisation slowly sank in like a pebble descending down a deep well. Purple hugged themselves absentmindedly, their gaze drifted onto the small framed photograph placed on a low cabinet to their left. In it, a young child sat on their father's shoulders, beaming at them brightly.

Purple responded with a small smile of their own, then withdrew their gaze and straightened their back. No use in standing here like a moron, they scolded themselves, they need to find something to do.

They scanned across the living room and only then did they realise what a mess it still was. The walls were covered with furious scribbles of Mango King Orange's notes and calculations, books and previous iterations of the King's staff were hastily piled up in the corners, the floor was coated by a thick layer of dust.

Purple mentally kicked themselves. It's been two weeks since Mango gave up his title as King Orange and even allowed Purple to live with him in his own house, and they didn't even think of cleaning up said house for him? What kind of child roommate were they?

They'll make the house spotless before Mango came back. Purple's heart leaped as they pictured Mango returning home, pleasantly surprised, and telling them how good it was to have them around. They bounced on their feet a few times in excitement, and immediately set themselves in motion.

An indefinite amount of scrubbing, sweeping, mopping and tidying later, Purple glanced at the wall clock and noticed the minute hand had thrice swept pass the same marking since Mango left. They stretched their sore muscles and admired their work: the once dusty and stained floor now practically gleaming, the walls clean and polished, furnitures and items neatly arranged, a fresh scent of cleaning products filled the air. Several short, joyful notes escaped from Purple’s mouth, they can’t wait for Mango to see this!

Satisfied, they realised how exhausted they were, and decided to take a well deserved break.

A bucket of dirty soap water, coincidentally sitting in Purple's way, was knocked over. Purple stumbled on the slippery floor and lost their balance. They yelped in surprise, flailed their arms and tried to grab hold of something, but failed and fell painfully into the puddle of filthy water with a splash. "Ow..." They mumbled, sitting up and rubbed their aching elbows. "Great, I have to mop the floor all over again..."

Suddenly, they spotted something on the floor. Blood drained from their face.

The photograph of Mango and his child lay submerged in the foul, murky water. A large, ugly crack marred the lovingly polished glass, liquid gradually seeped in through the crack, tainting Gold's wide grin with a greyish stain.

"God, oh no, oh nononononono...." Purple snatched the broken photograph from the ground and desperately wiped away all the disgusting liquid from its surface, but the damage was already done.

"It's okay, it's okay! I-I can fix this!" Purple reassured themselves with trembling voice, knowing perfectly well deep down that there's nothing they could do to reverse the damage. They traced the cracks with cold, numb fingers, the glaring blemish on the photo paper stung their eyes. "Oh god, what have I done..."

Purple recalled the first time they entered Mango's house, everything was carelessly lying around unkempt except for this photograph, which was free from the slightest speckle of dust. When Purple picked up the photograph to have a closer look, Mango snatched the photo away from Purple immediately. Every now and then, Mango would stare at the photo with such tenderness in his eyes that made Purple's heart throb.

A newfound horror dawned upon Purple. What would Mango do when he found out that Purple broke his most cherished possession? The one and only memento of his dearest child?

The mere thought alone made Purple's whole body seize up in fear. Their legs felt like noodles as they sat helplessly in the slowly spreading puddle of dirty water. Purple hugged the broken photograph closely to their chest, their frame trembling with every sharp inhale, wet eyes darting around the room, desperately trying to find a solution.

Then, Purple heard the click of a key inserted into the keyhole, followed by the soft clunk of the bolt retracting.

Their heart stopped.

"I'm home!" Mango's deep, warm voice sounded like death knell to Purple's ears. They suddenly found themselves pinned to the ground, eyes glued to the dark liquid beneath them, unable to move, unable to speak. Their knuckles went white with how tightly they clinched the photograph, heart hammering against their chest.

"Wait no-shoot...wrong house..."

"...Eh? But this is my house?"

"Purple! Kid, did you clean up the whole place while I was gone? Hehe, I didn't even recognise this place!"

"...Purple?"

Footsteps. Mango's voice was right above them. "Purple? Why are you...what's wrong?"

Purple tried to answer, but their vocal cord cannot make a sound.

"Hey, kid-" Purple felt Mango touching their shoulders, they jerked backwards so violently as if being burnt. Purple looked up, and saw Mango towering over them.

A heavy kick from Navy sent Purple slamming into the gravel ground. The friction sent scorching pain across their back. Their father towered over them, looking angry and disappointed. "Get up! Now!" He growled, stomping the ground hard with one foot.

"S-sir! I-" Purple wanted to stand up, but their feet doesn't feel like theirs. Instead they scrambled backwards like a wounded animal.

Mango must have sensed something was wrong. Purple didn't miss how his brows furrowed and how his eyes went sharp and scrutinising. His gaze was like an invisible hand squeezing the air out of Purple's lungs.

"Get up you little-! You think your enemies are just going to let you take your own sweet time?! If you're in a real battle you'd be dead by now!" Navy's mouth was contorted in a snarl, his booming voice rung at Purple's ears. They tried to stand up, but every muscle inside them screamed of pain and exhaustion.

"Purple, I need you to to tell me what's wrong. I promise I won't hurt you." Mango's voice was gentle and steady, but Purple still flinched as if Mango was yelling.

"I...I..." Purple's tongue felt like sandpaper inside their mouth.

Say something! Make something up! Anything! He cannot find out about the photograph!

As if on cue, Mango's piercing gaze locked onto the small rectangular frame in Purple's arms. All was lost.

Time slowed down. Purple watched, frozen in place, as Mango slowly bent down and took away the photograph. Seeing the damage, Mango's body stiffened, lips pressed together tightly. Then, his eyes turned to Purple again.

The floor was spinning. The room was spinning. Purple's chest felt weird. They tasted bile in their throat. Heartbeats were deafening. Needles were pricking their hands and feet. Somewhere in the distance someone was gasping for breath. They were gasping for breath.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?! Stop crying like a wimp! Did you forget everything I taught you? GET. UP!!" This wasn't their father. This couldn't be their father. The being yelling at them was a demon taking form of their father. Purple curled into a fetal position and hid their face, wishing for everything to stop.

No, no, no. They need to calm down, go back normal. Mango's gonna notice and things would get worse. These episodes always make things worse. Stop breathing this fast, NOW!

"Purple, what-" Mango's lips were moving, but Purple cannot register what he was saying. Mango crouched down. Mango lifted their hand towards them.

The first kick landed on Purple's back, knocking the air out of them.

Useless. Thud.

Weak. Thud.

Pathetic. Thud.

Failure. Thud.

Purple's pupils contracted as the hand inched closer to them. No, no, no. This is bad. This's very bad. He's angry. He's going to hurt them. He's going to hurt them like Navy did.

They need to stay away from him, they need to run, they need to get out of here.

Driven by a sudden rush of adrenaline, Purple bolted like a doe startled by a gunshot and dove straight into the trap door leading to the basement. Mango's astonished shout rang behind them, but they didn't dare to look back. They stumbled across the passageway littered with debris, blood pounded in their ears.

Purple activated the nether portal and threw themselves inside.

»»———— ❋ ————-««

Purple stumbled through the jagged terrain between deep ravines filled with flowing lava. The sweltering heat amplified their dizziness, making everything around them swirl and warp. The crimson landscape around them seemed to close in, muffling every sound except their desperate, shallow gasps of breath, and the frantic scream in their mind urging them to run, escape, get away.

They didn't know how long they ran or how far they went, eventually fatigue overtook them, as if molten lead had filled their veins. They staggered to a stop, bending over and gasping for breath. Wetness clung to their face, but they couldn't even tell if it was sweat or tears.

Suddenly, a faint, melodious sound of the flute drifted into Purple's ears, a stark contrast to the incessant grunt and rumble in the Nether. Purple's heart skipped a beat. But it couldn't be who they hoped it was, right? Must have been their ears playing tricks on them.

The sound rang out again, Purple held their breath and lifted their head. Could it be? Could it really be?

"...uuuuurrrrrple......!" Purple gasped. A young, silky voice was calling out their name. The familiarity of that voice nearly made Purple burst into tears in relief. They wanted to shout back, but their throat was too tight to make a sound.

"My dear ol' grape boy!" A blur of vibrant green flashed before their eyes and they were enveloped by a pair of warm, slender arms. They automatically replicated the gesture, suddenly felt so completely drained that they could barely stand. It took all they had not to instantly melt into a sobbing mess.

"-so nice to see you again! How're you and King doing? Are you here by yourself?"

"...Green? How...how'd you..." They croaked weakly. Green seemed to notice something was off.

"Why's your voice so...and oh my Alan-"Green pulled away from the embrace, hands still clutching Purple's shoulders, "-you're shaking like crazy! What happened?!"

"I-uh-" The intensity in those emerald eyes made Purple look away. "I...I'm lost...?"

Green's brow twitched. "Purple, that's the lamest lie I've ever heard, even Red can do better than that." He scanned them from head to toe with concern and barely concealed anger. “Tell me, is it King again? Did he do something to you?!"

"No no h-he didn't, I just-"

"You know you can tell me anything, right? You don't have to worry about anyone, you're safe with me!"

And just like that, the dam collapsed. Purple's knees quietly buckled below them, they hid their face in the crook of Green's neck and started to bawl.

"Cursors!" Green stumbled backward slightly due to Purple's weight but quickly steadied himself. With one arm he cradled Purple firmly, supporting their limp body, with the other he began to rub soothing circles on Purple's back.

"No, no-It-it's not him..." They whispered between sobs,"-It's me...I did something...I did something terrible...I messed up...Oh Green, I messed up so bad!"

"Shh, shh…A-ah, it’s alright Purp, it's alright..." Green replied, with a slight tremble in his voice that Purple did not notice.

“An-and now he must be so mad at me! W-what if he doesn’t want me anymore? What if h-he kick me out?” Purple wailed.

“Don’t say that! King wouldn’t-“

“It-it’s all m-my fault! I’m so u-useless!”

That obviously hit a nerve, because Green’s body immediately went rigid. “Bullshit!” He retorted heatedly. “Look, Purple, forget whatever just happened, right now what you need is plenty of rest. So here’s the plan. You, are going to come to our place and stay here for the night. After that we’ll figure out the situation with the other guys. Deal?”

Purple could only stare at Green blankly, teardrops still on their cheeks.

“Actually, never mind! C'mere!” Without further ado, Green tucked a dumbfounded Purple beneath his arm and started walking towards a Nether Portal.

What happened after that was a blur. Various colours danced around Purple emitting a cacophony of voices, but they barely have the energy to acknowledge each of the Colour Gang's presence. Green kept Purple close to his side and exchanged a few words with the others. Then, Purple was led into a dim and quiet room and lay down on a soft surface. They vaguely registered a small plushie being slid into their arms and felt the comforting pressure of a soft, warm blanket wrapped around them. Purple let out a long sigh of relief and silently thanked the Colour Gang for their consideration. At last, they allowed their weary mind to drift into sweet oblivion.

»»———— ❋ ————-««

Purple was woken up by raised voices outside their room.

"...did you do this time?! Purple ran into the Nether! They weren't even wearing their elytra! You have no idea how bad a state they were in, shaking and crying all that, who knows what would've happened if I haven't found them!" Green was shouting angrily.

Purple's heart raced as they faintly heard Mango's voice outside the door, but his exact words were indecipherable.

"No! What kind of 'accident' are you talking about?! Was mistreating and betraying them in the past also counted as 'accidents'? We won't let you take another step forward unless you tell us exactly what happened!"

"What happened is between Purple and me. Let me talk to them and things would be resolved." Mango's voice increased in volume, his tone was carefully kept neutral, but Purple could detect the seething anger underneath.

"They're terrified of you! Who knows what you'll do to them if we let you through!"

"I won't do anything to them you stupid kid! I already told you it was a misunderstanding!" Great, now Mango was shouting too.

Purple hurriedly untangled themselves from the blankets and stood up. Despite their dread of confronting Mango, they knew they had to intervene before things escalated further. Having two people who mean the most to them fighting over them was the last thing they wanted. They already made enough mistakes.

Purple took a deep breath and opened the door.

Just as they thought, Mango and the Colour Gang were outside. The five teenagers formed a semi-circle around Mango, shielding Purple from the adult stick figure.

"H-hey MT..."

Seeing Purple, Mango's irritated expression was immediately replaced by relief.

"Purple! Thank the internet you’re okay!" He barged his way through the gang, ignoring their indignant yelp, and strode towards Purple, only stopping abruptly at a 2 meters away as if fearing Purple might run away again if he gets too close.

That wasn't right. Shouldn't Mango be furiously yelling at them for damaging his most valuable possession? Or at least gave them "the look" of disappointment like what Navy used to do? But Mango did nothing like that. Instead, he looked at Purple as if they were made out of delicate glass, and when he spoke his voice was soft and cautious.

“Purple, are-are you…is it alright if I talk with you for a moment? In private?”

What was happening?

“S-sure…?” Purple’s answer was more like a question. They never saw Mango like this before. King Orange was always authoritative and commanding, and although he often treated Purple harshly, his demeanour somehow made Purple feel safe. After giving up his title, Mango became calm and gentle. Purple really liked that, even if they were still unsure how to act around him. But right now, Mango looked like he was treading on thin ice, it even reminded Purple of themselves.

“Purple, you sure? You don’t have to if you don’t want to, we’ll deal with him.” Green walked to Purple’s side and whispered. The rest of the gang also looked at Purple with concern.

“Thank you guys, but I want to talk with him. We’ll be okay.” Purple offered the gang a weak but genuine smile.

“…Right. If you say so.” Green reluctantly walked away, throwing Mango a dirty look as he brushed past the tall stick figure. Mango visibly heaved a sigh of relief, and together they entered Purple’s room.

Sitting on their bed, Purple’s heart start pounding again. What if all that was just an act, and Mango was going to unleash all of his anger on them now that they were alone? Purple’s mind drifted back to the broken photograph and trembled. After committing such a horrendous crime, how could they just ran away without a single apology? Indeed, Mango had every right to be furious with them, they deserved every bit of his wrath and disappointment.

But first, they need to apologise to Mango, it was the least they could do.

Purple watched as Mango quietly closed the door and turned to Purple. They cowered and squeezed their eyes shut, took a deep breath, and-

“I-I’m sorry MT!”

“Purple, I’m so sorry.”

Two voices said in unison, both of them froze.

Wait, what? Was Purple's ears playing tricks on them again?

Purple opened their eyes and stared incredulously at Mango. Mango, meanwhile, grabbed a chair and sat down at a comfortable distance away from Purple. Purple saw him shifting in his seat.

"Allow me to start first, alright?" Mango closed his eyes and took a deep breath, suddenly appearing ten years older. Then, he straightened his back, and that fleeting moment of vulnerability was gone.

"I want to apologise to you for overlooking the damage I inflicted upon you as King Orange. I manipulated you, deceived you, oppressed you, forced you to act against your conscience, and I had almost... if not for these kids...I would've..." Mango closed his eyes again, his face twitched as if in pain. "...I should never assume that you were okay. No one would be okay after what you've been through. And due to my ignorance, I caused you much distress today. I scared you, didn't I? You ran away because you were afraid I might hurt you again like before, didn't you?" Mango's eyes were shimmering with tears.

"Oh Purple, I am so, so sorry. For everything." Mango's hand inched forward as if wanting to hold Purple's hand, but quickly gave up when Purple did not replicate the gesture.

This conversation was not at all what Purple anticipated to be. The memories of King Orange were still raw and painful, they didn't want to relate this kind, gentle stick in front of them with the ruthless, intimidating King they remembered. It broke Purple's heart to witness Mango being swallowed by guilt, but at the same time, it felt like an empty, aching part of them was gradually being filled up by something warm and fuzzy. These complicated feelings was not something they experienced before, and it scared them. So instead, they decided to push them away for the time being and ask Mango the question they cared about the most:

"You...you're not mad about me? For ruining the photograph?"

Mango turned his head to the side and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "No, Purple. It was an accident. It was not your fault."

"But I tripped over a bucket and knocked it down! If I were more careful..."

"Everyone makes mistakes, you didn't mean it."

"But that was your only keepsake of Gold! It's so important to you, yet I ruined it! "

"...I am upset about the stain, yes. but what is done is done. Being angry at you doesn't reverse the damage."

"But...!"

"Purple, if there is one thing I learned from my mistakes as King, is not to let my own emotions get the better of me and to inflict unnecessary harm upon others. Especially those that I care about, like you." Mango's voice regained its strength. He looked at Purple with such impeccable sincerity that Purple almost believed him. And Purple wanted to believe him, but a voice inside them just kept screaming wrong wrong wrong.

Mango shouldn't forgive you, he should be mad, he has to be, because you are-

"Although there is something I want to know." Mango's voice interrupted Purple's train of thought, "Why did you cleaned up the house all by yourself? You know you can wait for me to come home so that we can do it together, right?"

"Oh, I'm sorry- you're right," Purple said quickly, "I shouldn't have...if I didn't mess around, I wouldn't have broken the photograph-"

"No, no, I'm not blaming you!" Mango held up his hands in a placating manner, "As a matter of fact, I should thank you. I don't remember the last time the house was so clean and tidy." He chuckled to himself. "I just wanted to know why you decided to do it. It's not an easy task to do after all."

"Be-because, I wanted to be useful for once..." Purple admitted quietly, "It's been two weeks since...well...you let me to stay with you even though you weren't hiring me anymore, and you've been so nice to me all this time, so I thought, cleaning your house is the least I could do to repay you for that..."

Mango inhaled. "Purple, you don't have to repay me for anything. I let you stay because I...because you're a good kid. I'm no longer your superior and you're no longer my lackey, I should never have treated you as one in the first place." Mango moved his chair forward and gently placed a hand on Purple's lap. The warmth in his gaze was reserved for them alone. "I don't expect you to do anything in my favour, because I care about your welfare more than mine. I wish you could do the same for yourself."

Purple took a second to register what Mango said. The elder stick figure's words sent streams of warmth through their torso and into their limbs, as if there was a tiny sun blooming inside Purple's body. Oh stick, Mango really cared about them, maybe even more than they ever dreamed of. Their whole body was warm with joy...

Useless. Weak. Pathetic. Failure.

Navy's voice rang at their ears, and suddenly the warmth was gone, a cold realisation set in. Purple lowered their head and discreetly shifted their legs away from Mango's touch. Mango must have noticed their sudden change in attitude. "...Kid, is something... did I say something wrong?" He inquired gingerly.

"MT...sir," Purple replied softly after a moment of silence, "You don't have to keep this up if you don't want to."

Mango blinked, looking surprised. "Wha-Kid, what are you talking about-"

"Sir, I know you're treating me well like this only because you're guilty of what you did to me in the past. I assure you there is no need for that." Purple looked down at their feet, trying their best to keep their tone levelled.

Mango's response didn't came immediately. When Purple timidly raised their head, it was to their mild surprise too see Mango's lower lip wobbling slightly, his expression was a mixture of shock and hurt. Then, it morphed into indignation. “Nonsense!" Mango raised his voice for the first time since their conversation. "Didn't you hear what I was trying say this whole time? I don't know what has gotten into your head all of a sudden-" Purple gritted their teeth at those words, "-but I certainly did not take you in because of guilt! I truly care about you from the bottom of my-"

"But why should you?! I'm of no use to you anymore!" Purple sprung to their feet, hands shaking.

"This isn't about-"

"I can't even get a single job done without breaking the one thing you value the most!"

"That's not-"

"Why're you still keeping me around? You should know I'm just a waste of space by now!"

"Enough!" Mango finally stood up, his face burning with rage."Why do you keep saying things like this?! What makes you think I would stop caring about you just because of your mistakes?! Can't you see how-"

"Because I'm not good enough!" These words made a daring escape out of Purple's lips before their brain could stop them. Tears obscured their vision, they couldn't see Mango's expression, but they didn't care, they just squeezed their eyes shut and kept on going.

"I-I'm weak, I'm useless, I'm a failure...I can't even g-get up on my feet when my dad ordered me to! "It felt like a cold, unforgiving hand had seized Purple's heart, tightening its grip painfully. But still, words tumbled out of their mouth like water pouring through the floodgates.

"If o-only I was strong enough, if only I was a be-better fighter, dad wouldn't have fed up with me and le-left me and mom behind, and, and if d-dad didn't left, then, then mom might still be alive right now! It's all my fault!" Tears streamed down Purple's cheeks as sobs wrack their body, it was as if they were once again the grief-stricken child standing in front of the freshly dug grave of their mother, helpless, vulnerable, alone.

"If I d-don't try hard en-enough, I'll just le-let everyone d-down, then no-no one would-“

“That’s not true!” A voice interrupted Purple’s lament. Green's arms were strong yet gentle, pulling Purple close with a reassuring steadiness, shielding them from the fierce winds on the top of the snowy mountain. "You don't always do the right thing, and you're not always as strong and capable as you want to be, but that's okay! As long as you are your true self, we would love you just the same."

Purple opened their eyes, the familiar warmth made them realise that Mango was holding them. They were both sitting on the floor, Mango's large, firm hand cradled the back of Purple's head, pressing it gently against his chest. Purple automatically leaned into the embrace, resting their head against Mango's broad and sturdy chest. The deep, steady rhythm of his heart beat thrummed against their ears, spreading through Purple's body like a calming wave. They could hear Mango breathing heavily right above them, with every exhale his breath came out wavering and unsteady.

"M..MT?"

"Please, enough...that's enough." Mango's voice was hardly more than a whisper, quivering with raw emotions.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tell you all these things..." Purple sniffled, wiping their eyes furiously, their cheeks felt tight after crying so hard.

"No, Purple, I should be sorry, sorry for not connecting the dots earlier. I finally understood, everything makes sense now."

"W-What do you mean?"

Mango slowly and gently pulled away from the hug. Holding Purple's hand, he guided them to rise from the floor and settle on the mattress, himself following suit. Honey brown eyes met amethyst, a tender, sincere gaze that wrapped Purple up like a warm, fluffy blanket. "Purple, you need to know that none of what happened to you in the past was your fault. You shouldn't be burdened by those things."

Purple frowned, "How could you say that? My father left because of me, didn't he?"

"Oh Purple..."Mango sighed,"You're such a kind soul to think that way, but no. Definitely not. Your father set unrealistic expectations on you, and blamed you for not living up to them. This is extremely unfair." There was a noticeable edge to Mango's tone, as if he was struggling to contain his boiling anger.

"Unrealistic expectations?" Purple's head whipped towards Mango,"But I thought all parents wanted their children to be good fighters?"

"Well, yes, but not all of us would be such an a- I mean-"Mango took a deep breath, "-apparently, your father's way did more harm than good. At what age did your father start training you, may I ask?"

"Um...he started sparring with me since I was five."

"Five?!" Mango's hand was gripping the bed sheets so hard that it wrinkled. "Me and Gold still play fight with corn dogs when they were your age!"

A snicker broke the solemnity of the conversation, despite the previous emotional breakdown, Purple couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image."S-sorry, but really?" Purple's shoulders trembled with barely conceived laughter, "The King of the Nether, playing with corn dogs?"

Mango raised his eyebrows, clearly not expecting such a reaction from Purple. But Purple's laughter was contagious, soon, Mango's eyes softened, and his lips curled into a grin.

"If you want we can do it as well someday, I know a guy that makes the best corn dogs."

But then his smile wavered, on the verge of fading, as his gaze grew distant and sorrowful, as if he was lost in a bittersweet memory. Purple knew he was thinking of Gold again.

"MT..." Driven by a newfound strength, they gingerly reached for Mango's hand, offering him a reassuring squeeze. Mango blinked, glancing down at his hand in mild surprise before turning back to Purple with a thankful smile, gently holding their hand in return.

"Purple, You...reminded me of Gold in some ways," He said softly. "You're both enthusiastic, curious, and always seeking my attention. But Purple, you are so much more than these similarities. You have a brilliant tactical mind, able to craft creative strategies that outsmart your opponents, " Mango tighten his grip on Purple's hand, "and what you did just now shows just how incredibly observant and compassionate you are. I'm sorry it took me so long to realise what a wonderful kid I've found, but now that I did, how could I not care about you?"

"But I..."

"Before you say anything, yes, I know you are not perfect, you are a real kid, not an emotionless machine. You are allowed to make mistakes, you are allowed to be vulnerable, and you are allowed to feel the way you do. I'm here to accept every part of you——your mistakes, your flaws, your insecurities and your trauma, and I'll keep supporting and caring for you until you are ready to open up to me. So, Purple, will you give me a chance?"

At that very moment, Purple recalled their mother's tender, sad smile as her frail hand gently touched their face before going limp in their grasp. They wondered if Orchid's spirit was still watching over them, and if it was she who blessed them with such a perfect parental figure, because fate could never be so kind. They tried to summon a response, but what words could possibly convey the depth of the emotions surging through their heart? So instead, Purple did what first came to their mind: they threw themselves towards Mango, wrapping their arms tightly around his neck. And Mango did not hesitate for a second to pull Purple into his arms, enveloping them in a firm but gentle hug only a father could offer. "Heh..." He croaked, "I'll take that as a yes."

Yet, one last question lingered in Purple's mind like a blemish on a smooth, clear surface, and they couldn’t be completely at peace until they got an answer.

"But...what if I start doubting myself again? What if something went wrong and-and I-sorry..." Purple bit their lips, trying to break free from Mango's hold." I...I just couldn't see myself as you see me..."

But Mango only hugged Purple tighter. "It's alright, healing isn’t an overnight process, it's a long journey that requires a lot of patience and support. Whenever doubts cloud your mind, I'll keep reminding you just how wonderful you are, and how much you mean to me, as many times as you need, until you believe it just as I do."

Mango paused, turning his ear towards the door, and smiled mysteriously. "And don't forget-" he released Purple, walked up to the door, and yanked the door open."-you have friends that care about you as well."

"Woah-!"

"What the-!"

"Ow-!"

With surprised yelps, five colourful sticks tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs.

"What the-!" Purple leaped up from the bed, blood rushing to their cheeks as they sputtered: "Why are- How did- Are you guys eavesdropping?!"

"Red get your fat ass off my- Sorry Purple! I tried to stop them but they just wouldn't listen!" Green explained hurriedly while trying to free himself from the others.

"Hey that not true!" Red shot back, "You were the one eavesdropping in the first place!

"What?!"

Yellow managed to get to his feet first, panting. "How did you know we're behind the door Ki- I mean Mr Tango?" He asked incredulously.

"Eh, I learned from experience." Mango sat back into his chair, a smug smile on his face.

"What does that mean-"

"-Anyway we're really sorry for eavesdropping you guys," Second gave Purple and Mango an apologetic look while helping Blue up, "but we were just worried..."

"Yeah," Blue added, "we heard shouting and we thought-"

"That's not an excuse for eavesdropping us!" Purple stomped the floor in exasperation, face as red as a plum.

"Don't worry!" Red flashed a toothy smile at Purple, "we didn't hear a thing!"

"Well except the part where you screamed you were a waste of space, and the part where-"

"Yellow you're not helping!" The others shouted in unison.

"I...you..!" At this point, Purple just wanted to disappear into thin air and never to be seen again.

"Alright alright," Mango stood up and placed a comforting hand on Purple's shoulder. "I understand you kids are concerned about Purple, but it's improper to listen in on our private conversation."

The five teenagers at least had the courtesy to look ashamed, their eyes fixed to the ground as they mumbled their apologies. Green, in particular, seemed the most uneasy. "Hey uh...Mr Mango? Sorry for talking to you like that earlier... I shouldn't have assumed that you were hurting Purple..." He stepped forward and bowed his head.

"I accept your apology," Mango said, patting Green on the shoulders and gesturing him to lift his head. "Although a bit rash, your protectiveness towards your friend is commendable."

"Yeah, thank you guys for...well...everything. I guess we do owe you an explanation for what happened between me and MT..." Purple scratched the back of their head, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.

"Nah, it's fine, we're just glad that you guys are okay now!" Green gave a dismissive wave of his hand, the others nodded in agreement, smiling at Purple warmly.

Then, Yellow's expression brightened. "Hold on, is this the first time Mr Tango visited the PC?!" Hearing his words, the rest of the gang visibly perked up.

"Oh my gosh you're right! We should totally show him and Purple something cool!" Red chimed in, flapping his arms in excitement.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking-"

"Yes! Sec, grab Alan's pen!"

"On it!" And with that, as swift and sudden as a summer storm, the gang ran off into the desktop.

Green stopped abruptly at the door and turned around, bouncing at the spot and waving at both of them wildly. "Purple! Mr Tango! You gotta come and join us!"

Purple heard Mango chuckle right behind them."These kids..." He sighed fondly before looking down to meet Purple's gaze. "So? What do you think? Want to see what crazy shenanigans they're up to?"

Purple stared into those soft honey-brown eyes, and remembered his words. "Healing isn’t an overnight process, it's a long journey that requires a lot of patience and support." Right now, with Mango by their side and five amazing friends up ahead, Purple know that they will not travel this journey alone.

They smiled. "Of course!"

»»———— ❋ ————-««

Thank you very much for reading this fic! Although Alan gave Mango and Purple a happy ending at the end of AVM Ep.30, I doubt it would be smooth sailing concerning Purple's backstory. This kid really had a rough childhood, years of tryiing and failing the expectations of an overly strict parent and shouldering the weight of another parent's death must have lasting impacts on their mental health. Purple and Mango's relationship was like a thin piece of ice, and it does not take a boulder to break the ice and discover the surging current underneath. But thankfully, both of them have what it takes to strengthen the relationship and to heal from their past trauma: love, understanding, and the support from others.

P.S: I've never played Minecraft before so I apologise for any inaccuracies about the game.

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

#alan becker #animator vs animation #animation vs minecraft #avm fanfic #avm purple #avm king orange #avm mango #avm green #avm blue #avm red #avm yellow #avm the second coming #avm navy blue #avm orchid #avm gold

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 22 days ago

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Silent Nights, Warm Hearts

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! He’s such a pretty princess

Word Count: 1k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The snow outside drifted lazily from the darkened sky, blanketing the brownstones of Brooklyn in a thick, pristine layer of white. Each flake sparkled like glitter under the soft glow of the streetlights, and the muffled quiet of the city lent the night a kind of magic you could only find during Christmas.

Inside your cozy apartment, a different kind of warmth filled the air. The fireplace crackled in the corner, flames dancing over the wood and casting a golden glow across the room. The faint scent of pine and cinnamon lingered, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of cookies baking in the oven. A half-decorated Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its branches weighed down with glimmering ornaments and garlands of red and gold.

You sat cross-legged on the plush rug, surrounded by a tangle of colorful Christmas lights that refused to cooperate. Each tug only seemed to make the knot worse, and you sighed in frustration, leaning back on your palms. “This has to be some kind of cruel holiday magic,” you grumbled, glaring at the offending lights as though they might untangle themselves out of guilt.

Leaning against the doorway, Bucky Barnes watched you with a crooked smile. He looked so at ease in the soft glow of the room, a stark contrast to the sharp, battle-worn image most people associated with him. His hair, longer now, fell just below his ears in soft waves, and he was dressed in simple clothes: a dark Henley that clung to his broad shoulders and faded jeans that had seen better days. He wasn’t wearing his gloves tonight, and the metal of his vibranium arm caught the firelight, shimmering like liquid silver.

“You need some help, doll?” he asked, his voice low and warm, carrying that subtle rasp that made your heart flutter every time.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, feigning annoyance. “You’ve been standing there for five minutes just watching me struggle. And now you offer help?”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pushed off the doorway and walked toward you, his steps slow and deliberate. “I was enjoying the show. You get this little crease in your brow when you’re mad, and it’s cute.”

“Flattery’s not going to save you,” you retorted, though you couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Bucky crouched down beside you, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me see this mess,” he murmured, gently taking the string of lights from your hands. His fingers—one warm, one cool—moved deftly, untangling the knots with a precision that made it look effortless.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” you said, watching him work.

He glanced up at you with a playful smirk. “One of the few perks of being a super soldier. Untangling Christmas lights with extreme efficiency.”

You laughed, the sound soft and melodic, and it filled the space between you like a balm. Moments like this with Bucky were precious—quiet and ordinary in a way that felt extraordinary, given everything he’d been through.

“Here,” he said, handing the now-perfectly untangled strand back to you. “Knots gone, just like that.”

“Show-off,” you teased, rising to your feet and beginning to drape the lights over the tree.

Bucky stood as well, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as he watched you work. There was something about the way you moved—focused, purposeful, yet graceful—that he found endlessly captivating. The twinkle lights reflected in your eyes, and your smile lit up the room even brighter than the star you’d eventually place on top of the tree.

“You’re staring,” you said without turning around, sensing his gaze.

“Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “You make all this—everything—feel like home.”

You paused, your hand resting lightly on one of the branches, and turned to face him. The look in his eyes was so raw, so open, it took your breath away. “You *are* home, Bucky,” you said quietly. “You don’t need to keep looking for it. It’s right here.”

His lips quirked into a small smile, and he stepped forward, cupping your face gently in his metal hand. The coolness of the vibranium didn’t bother you; it was Bucky, all of him, and you loved every part.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“You just have to let yourself be happy,” you replied, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly.

The timer in the kitchen beeped, jolting you both back to the present. You pulled away with a grin, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the kitchen. “Cookies are ready!”

The two of you spent the next hour decorating sugar cookies with ridiculous amounts of frosting and sprinkles. You laughed until your sides ached as Bucky attempted to pipe a snowflake that ended up looking more like a starfish.

By the time the evening wound down, you were both curled up on the couch, a thick, knitted blanket draped over your laps. Bucky’s arm was around your shoulders, and your head rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The fire crackled softly, and the twinkle lights on the tree bathed the room in a soft, golden glow.

“This is perfect,” you whispered, your voice heavy with contentment.

Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there. “It is. Because of you, doll.”

You smiled, your fingers curling around his. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

His voice was a low murmur, filled with more love than he could ever put into words. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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flakehub6 · 8 months ago

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skyeslittlecorner · 1 year ago

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Tails for all! - Kings edition

Satan

The most classic tail, simple elegance. Ankle-length, black, with a red arrow at the end, just like his horns.

At the base, it is as thick as the wrist and tapers towards the end.

Identical to the horns to the touch, set won in the lottery.

You'll recognize his emotions more easily by his tail than by his face, he wags it like a cat when he wants to make some noise and lifts it at the base when he's happy.

The end has rounded corners, making it resemble an elongated heart instead of an arrow.

Sensitiveness 8/10. Doesn't like it when someone touches him by surprise.

When he's in a good mood, he gives tail slaps instead of kicks. The nobles are delighted.

It's not sharp at the end, so he'll try to stick it inside you. It's smooth and slippery, an arrow produces milk just like horns, and it fits so good.

Mammon

Big tail for a big man. Long, winding along the ground, golden and scaled. Standard tip without decorations, at least as thick as Mammon's thigh at the base.

His tail and greed gave rise to the legend that dragons collect treasures.

The upper scales look like pure gold, the lower scales are black and resemble obsidian. The entire tail resembles flakes of stones and precious metals.

The scales are bumpy like his horns, but it has no spines or blades.

Surprisingly warm. The scales at the base are very large.

Sensitiveness 5/10. He really enjoys being scratched hard as you leave lighter marks on his scales from the pleasure.

He likes to put his tail in his lap and you on top of him and watch you grind against him while he plays with your ass.

Leviathan

Not much longer than Satan, but covered with scales. They are soft compared to Mammon and shimmer like smoky mirrors. At the base, it is as thick as two cupped hands, shimmering purple and black.

Its ending is unique. On land it has a long, soft fur, but when he approaches water he can wrap a thin layer of skin around it, making it membraneous and resembling and looking like a fin.

Similarly, it has tiny long fins on its sides. They are a bit sharp, so sometimes he hurts himself with them. (Kiss these wounds, he will criticize you but he will love it anyway.)

Due to childhood trauma, he learned to hide his tail, wrapping it under his clothes and only showing the tip. That's why many demons think his tail resembles that of a deer.

Very, very sensitive. 12/10. Proceed with care.

He loves playing with his fins, but of course he won't tell you that.

Just seeing his tail in all its glory is incredibly rare, and being choked with it is the greatest honor. Not even Solomon experienced it.

Beelzebub

rainbow unicorn tail narwhal tail insect abdomen A long tail, similar in thickness to Leviathan's, but does not taper towards the end. Black, with dark green lines on the sides and back.

As befits the Lord of the Flies, his tail resembles a pelecinus polyturator. Composed of segments like a scorpion. Shiny, slippery and very hard. Chitin.

Green stripes are not just decoration. He can pull out the blades from them, and whipping will easily cut off your limb. He can pull out a sting at the tip, each blade producing a paralyzing venom.

His whip is almost a mirror image of his tail, but with golden blades instead of green.

While the rest prefer to wrap their tails around their legs, its natural position is twisted upwards, also like a scorpion. When he feels uncomfortable, he can "blow out" his tail into a swarm of flies that follow him. After all, it is a deadly weapon.

Sensitiveness 2/10. He likes it because it gives him an advantage over you. Until you start scratching his skin at the base. He's all yours on his knees.

If he doesn't pull the stinger out, the tip is rounded and a little bulbous, but you won't notice until he's deep inside you.

Lucifer

Long and thick, almost like a Mammon, phenomenally beautiful, angelic white with golden reflections. Resembles a snake. It splits in 1/3 and has two ends.

If you get close enough to it, you'll see that the base is as red as its horn.

You'd expect it to feel like reptile scales, but it's more like smooth feathers. Soft, but only the top layer. When you press it, you feel that the core is iron-hard.

He has the same scar as on his chest above his tail, only smaller.

Sensitivness 6/10. Unlike others, instead of pleasure, he may suddenly be struck by pain. Take care of him.

That doesn't mean he won't use his tail against you.

He wants to see your tears when you have his penis in your mouth and the tips of his tail in both holes.

#whb #what in hell is bad #whb satan #whb mammon #whb beelzebub #whb leviathan #whb lucifer #whb shitpost #I really miss them having tails so I'm going to give them all #Next time it's time for the nobles #Good thing I played OM a hundred years ago and I don't remember their demonic forms #You have no idea how much I resisted NOT to include Asmo here

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devoted-tiefling · 1 year ago

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a/n: a stupid brain rot thing that was inspired by my post here ft. my completely blind tav who is a tiefling druid with a propensity to dream

warning: spoilers for act one of the game

You rolled the ring around in between your fingers like a coin, turning it over on the backs of your fingers, flipping it side over side.

Though it was made with cheap metal, it felt warm in your hand instead of cool. Probably because you held onto it so often.

Normally, you wouldn't have been able to read what was on it but the infernal was carved in well enough that you could feel the grooves of it under your fingertips.

Most of it was just nonsense; runes taken out of a fairytale book perhaps or maybe just symbols that kid took a fancy to.

The infernal, however, on the inside spelled well-wishes; love, luck, protection. it was the wish of every single tiefling ever born since anyone could remember.

Just running your finger over them made you feel warm, made you feel understood and maybe just a little bit less lonely.

"And what are you up to, darling?"

You knew that voice to be Astarion and all his rather sassy glory. Immediately, you smiled, sitting up a bit straighter as you felt him sit down next to you, his thigh pressed tightly against yours.

"Just fiddling, biding time." You answered easily enough, shrugging as you continued to roll your finger around the inside of the ring.

Astarion hummed, sounding like he was trying to seem uninterested when, truly, it was always the opposite "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" You asked only to answer your own question "Oh, play with this ring?"

"Yes. Look at it. The gold is slowly flaking off!" Astarion huffed and you could imagine him rolling his eyes "I hope you didn't give those tiefling brats good money for a phony gold ring."

You let out a little tittering giggle before holding out your free hand. Astarion, so used to you now, automatically put his palm against yours.

"Feel the grooves underneath." You guided one of his fingers into the ring.

You knew approximately where his finger was so you knew what word it was he was feeling for "Hope."

You let him run his fingertip over that for a moment before turning the ring more "Shelter."

Then, the next, just as carved in as the last "Protection."

On and on, you showed him the small miniscule words that carried heavy meaning to them. Love, luck, kindness.

Six words that probably meant a whole lot to those kids.

"The brat told me it was a ring of infinite wishes but, really, it was a ring filled with their wishes." You let Astarion pull away and, like always, you immediately missed the comforting press of his body against yours.

"What a load of horseshit." He chuckled but your perceptive twitching tiefling ears immediately heard it for what it was: a bluff.

You didn't think Astarion realised it but you knew he saw himself in those tiefling kids.

You knew that, if it had been him 100 or so years ago, he would've carved his wishes into metal in a desperate hope that, perhaps, some higher-power would hear him out then.

So, despite how you'd practically kept the ring in your fist ever since you'd gotten it, you felt around for Astarion's hand yet again and placed the ring snuggly into his ring finger.

Astarion let out a soft scoff "I hope you don't think I'll marry you if you're proposing with such a cheap ring."

You laughed again, tittering, soft, before leaning in, your lips brushing against Astarion's jaw "I want you to have it so your wishes come true instead."

"Oh, darling, if my wishes came true, the world would truly become an insanely dark place." He countered your sincerity with his own little quip but you knew he appreciated it because his calling hand wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer.

"I wouldn't mind as long as I'm by your side." You snuggled in while being careful of your horns, happy to indulge in the intimacy Astarion was allowing you "It's not like I'll see first-hand what dastardly deeds you're up to anyway so I'll have plausible deniability."

The way Astarion laced his fingers with yours and laughed made the bad joke worth it. You especially enjoyed the new chill the ring on his fingers took on, comforting and smooth against your skin.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg3 #baldur's gate iii #astarion x reader

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ichorai · 1 year ago

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reset me ; wade wilson.

track twelve of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; wade wilson (deadpool) x mutant!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; charles sends you to recruit deadpool into the x-men. expectedly, the bastard tries to weasel away from you—and when that doesn’t work, he resorts to his most lethal method: flirtation. that, and taping a kick me sign on your back.

words ; 1.3k

themes ; comedy, mild fluff and action, mutant au

warnings / includes ; mild injury/violence, sexual jokes and foul language, a lil bit of banter/terrible flirting, reader has the mutant ability to harness energy into ropes, wade steals blind al's crocs, reader's implied previous romantic relationship with wolverine, mentions of the rest of the x-men :)

Wade’s place smelled like greasy pizza, put-out cigarettes, and old socks. The door wasn’t locked—in fact, it was slightly ajar, and you could clearly hear Wade and Al bickering about missing Crocs.

“I swear I put them right here!” she vehemently exclaimed, gesturing to a potted plant.

Wade rolled his eyes. “Right—because you always hang your Crocs on our leafy greens.”

Al shuffled somewhere into the back of the house, complaining loudly to herself.

You took that as your cue to silently step in, standing just behind Wade, noting with mild amusement that he was wearing a pair of white Crocs. The very ones Al was searching for, you presumed.

In the blink of an eye, Wade whirled about on the heel of his squeaky, rubbery footwear and brandished a knife. Its strangely warm blade slotted against your throat just as you defensively raised your hands.

“Watch it, Wade,” you warned, though you were not at all worried. His knife lowered and flipped back into the depths of his fluffy bathrobe when he realized who you were.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said. The discolored flesh of his face twitched with a grin. “Did Mr. Metal Dick send you? The bullwhip substitute to watch over the class?” He snickered at his own joke, recalling your mutant ability to harness energy into the form of ropes.

“Piotr is off on vacation with Kitty,” you replied, propping your hands up on your hips.

Wade tipped his head back and guffawed. “Do you think he stays that way under the sheets?”

With a grimace, you pinched the space between your brows and sighed loudly. “Jesus, Wade—I don’t fucking know. Why don’t you ask him next time you see him?”

“Good idea.” He shuffled off to shuck open a box of day-old pizza on the table. “You want?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure? It’s pepperoni. You know how expensive it is to get pepperoni nowadays, in this economy? I’m offering you gold flakes on bread, here.”

“Mhm, I’ll pass.” After a considerable silence, only filled with Wade’s loud munching, you tested the waters by saying, “Charles actually sent me.”

Wade gestured at a chair and nudged for you to take a seat. “McAvoy or Stewart?”

“What? Charles Xavier, who’s McAvoy and Stewart?” You sank down onto the creaky wooden chair, frowning at the baby powder rimming the backboard. It was probably Al’s. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was Wade, though.

Ignoring your question, Wade tilted his head and asked, “How’s Yukio? And her emo-face Megasonic Nuclear Bomb-Head girlfriend?”

You smiled slightly, remembering how they were pestering Logan, who’d been working on fixing a motorcycle back at the mansion when you left.

“They’re fine. Wolvie, too.”

“No way!” exclaimed Wade. “Logie’s there, too? Jesus—whole damn gang’s there.”

“Except you,” you pointedly said.

Wade paused mid-chew. “Oh. Oh-ho-ho, I know what you’re doing here. Charles wants me to join his rag-tag team of circus freaks.”

“Wade—”

“The answer is no.”

“Come on—”

“And he wants me to be around all those kids? In a school? Has he met me?”

“Believe me, I don’t know what he’s thinking, either,” you told him, scoffing. “You’re the last person I’d expect to be on the team but… I trust Charles. If he wants you in, there must be a reason why.”

Holding his hands out, Wade shook his head. “Listen, I’m flattered, really, but Deadpool works solo. Except for that one time I formed the X-Force. But that was a team of people I hand-picked! The X-Men just doesn’t sound up my alley, y’know?”

You blew out a breath and fixed him with a serious expression. “Some day you’re gonna have to pull your head out of your ass and realize that there are people out there who are willing to be your friends. Your family. Don’t throw it away, Wade.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he studied you.

“You’re really bad with rejection, aren’t you?” he finally asked, quirking up a brow—or, at least where his eyebrow used to be—and crossed his arms. The Crocs he’d stolen from Al squeaked as he stood up and gestured to the door. “I’m surprised you didn’t go running back to Charles the moment I said no. I’m beginning to think you have a crush on me, or something. Not that I blame you. My face may be fucked but my dick works better than ever. Just ask Al. She’s blind as a bat, but she hears everything in this damn house.”

Immediately, you grimaced. “Ugh. Don’t be crass.”

“What? I thought you were into broken men. Like to pick up their pieces, don’cha? You and Wolvie had that fling once, no? He told me all about it.”

In truth, Logan had told him little to nothing about his brief relationship with you, but Wade had ruthlessly pestered him anyway.

You stiffened at his words, glowering. “You’re exasperating.”

“And you’re looking awfully lovely today. That frown really accentuates your eyes. Makes you look about a decade older.” Wade leaned his weight onto the table, leering over you, patting your back twice. “I find it very attractive.”

With a flick of your hand, a crimson coil of your harnessed energy shot out and thwacked him in his side, and he hissed out a string of curses, backing away from you. You’d burned right through his fluffy white robe, to his simultaneous dismay and astonishment.

“Jesus!” Wade glanced incredulously from you to the slight, shallow gash that formed by his ribs, already starting to heal itself. “That’s actually—that was so fucking cool. Do it again!”

Clearing your throat, you pushed yourself away and stood up. “Final time I’m asking. Yes or no?”

Wade pretended to give it a long, hard think. “Mmh…” He wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes up to the ceiling. “When Piotr comes back from vacation, he’s going to find you and he’s not gonna go as easy on you as I have.”

“Ooh, ouch. Hope he brings some lube with him.” Wade grinned wolfishly.

Completely fed up with him, you ripped out a wad of paper and a pen from your jacket’s pocket, scribbling down your phone number. You folded it in half before shoving it against his chest.

“I’m not giving up on you. I’m a competitive person, Wade. If Piotr was the one to convince you to join, I just wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re literally obsessed with me, I get it,” he remarked, sparing you a lopsided beam. He made a show of pocketing your number on the side of his robe that wasn’t burnt. “You little minx, you.”

With a final flick of your hand, you lashed out another coil around his foot, and made your way to the door just as he fell back onto the couch with a muffled oomf!

Just as you left, you heard Wade cackling to himself through the door you left partially ajar, just as it was when you came in. You chalked it up to him finding it funny that you managed to trip him over with your powers, and strode away from the shoddy house with your lips twitching upwards.

Wade, however, was laughing because he’d successfully pulled off taping a kick me sign onto your back without you noticing. A low and childish blow, but would certainly make for some fun banter whenever he saw you again—which, he suspected, would be pretty soon.

Plus, Wade thought you were pretty cute when you were riled up.

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