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vase-of-lilies · 5 months

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❀ Pairing: Medusa!Wanda Maximoff x Blind!Reader (F)

❀ Warnings: Reader is “sacrificed” and “saved by Wanda”, so much fluff, really quick acceptance, sexual content, Wandas snakes have their own personalities and love to mess with the reader when she is just snuggling with Wanda or when she is just chilling (lol), fingering, oral (r receiving), Wanda just flicking our bean while out on the beach, the snakes calm reader down IDK OK,

❀Disclaimer The pictures only represent aesthetic and themes. There is no certain skin color, body type, ethnicity, or description other than Y/n and “you”. Credit to who made the pictures in the banner as well.

❀ Authors Note: I have started reading the story called “Stone Blind” and it is a re-telling of the story of Medusa and telling the “true” story of how she became the “monster” she turned into. I feel like that even though Medusa was assaulted, she deserves love and I think that having a blind reader would help her feel like she was loved based off of her personality, not of fear. This story is a little lighter than the others, but it still is dark with hints of kidnapping and captivity. I will also be keeping Stheno and Euryale, Medusa’s original sisters, just for the organization of plot purposes! There are quotes in here that are loosely based on “Stone Blind”! All credit to Natalie Haynes for the style of Medusa I use!!

It’s a cooler summer day in Greece, rain feeding the dry crops with much-needed food. The drought that Zeus brought to the mainland was devastating, causing crops, veggies, and fruits to cripple before they were ripe enough to pick. This was a punishment for the greediness the people were showing, thriving a little too much to the god's liking.

It wasn’t uncommon for the god to be selfish like this. He would often flood the fields with too much water, making them die equally fast. Your village was one of the many affected by this cruel situation. You later learn that Zeus had a bad day and wanted to take it out on someone other than his poor wife in the clouds.

These games he played were difficult to navigate, as the world through your eyes was sightless. Just like tinnitus in the ear, your eyes seemed to feel the same way; clouded and blurred figures with every movement of your eyes. You were born this way, and no amount of begging could have changed what you encounter daily.

However, with this blindness, your other senses are heightened. Your hearing was better than most, and you did everything possible to protect it as it was your most powerful sense. Every chirp of a cricket, creek of a door, a voice outside your home. You could hear it all.

It was a blessing and a curse at the same time. “She won’t even know we are gone, she can’t see us. Out of sight, out of mind.” This was the last thing you heard from your parents before they abandoned you. Your heart broke when you heard those words, never feeling such betrayal from someone you loved before. It was that moment that caused you to shut off your emotions to other people.

At the age you are now, it was difficult to find really anyone who would accept your blindness, and love who you were on the inside. What never occurred to you was the fact that you needed someone who felt the same. Someone who felt an insecurity that needed to be validated by someone similar.

This was exactly how Wanda felt. She was the youngest of the Gorgon Sisters, born a mortal human but was punished by a goddess out of jealousy and spite.

The goddess Athena was spoiled by her father, getting everything and anything she wanted with a snap of her fingers. When she was betrayed, she didn’t punish Poseidon, who in fact was the person who caused this problem in the first place. She punished the poor girl who was hurt by Poseidon, all because the situation unfolded in Athena's own temple.

Why did she choose Wanda to punish? Because she was mortal and did not have to suffer through centuries of war and turmoil. The night she went to Wanda's cave, her sisters were out hunting; gathering for their mortal sister so she could eat. Athena took this opportunity of Wanda's solitude to torture her, ripping every piece of hair from her head, forcing red, writhing snakes to take their place.

She was in pain for days, her scalp burning with every movement the snakes made. Her nights were spent screaming and sobbing into the darkness of her cave, her sisters trying everything they could to soothe her. They were only met with silence until the day she finally spoke up about who hurt her. Her sisters were angry with the sea god for even looking at their loved one. They had their own way of punishing Poseidon, but of course, the god couldn't care less. He was powerful and could do whatever he wanted, just like his niece Athena.

Some could say that Athena took pity on Wanda for what her uncle did. And to keep the other gods away from her, the powerful goddess turned the girl's beautiful locks of hair into a head of writhing snakes. This was for protection from her uncle and any of the other greedy and overpowered gods that rule the world.

No matter the tale that one has heard, what is true is that Wanda is now considered a monster just like her sisters. But who determined what a monster was? Was a monster someone merely different from you? Or was it men that made everything monsters? Men seem to be afraid of powerful women, or women with sharp teeth, wings, and tusks.

Monsters are misunderstood.

The two sisters are some of the most gentle creatures to adorn the earth's surface. Sure, they hunt animals and look a little scary, but they keep a flock of sheep, learn how to cook bread, and take care of their mortal baby sister.

The first time they met Wanda, Stheno’s talon gently brushed along her cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen when she arrived on the sand. Now that Wanda is a grown woman, her immortal sisters adapted to her needs. She spent most of her time on the beach, but now spends her time in the depths of her cave, too scared to come out of fear that Poseidon will hurt her again.

Stheno and Euryale vowed to never let anyone hurt their beloved sister ever again. They hoped that one day she would find a lover who would be willing to love her for who she was. Someone she could grow old with, and love with every fiber (and snake) of her being.

The snakes… they each have their own personality. There are thirteen (13) in all. Wanda or anyone for that matter has named them or really knows the difference. However, the two snakes at the very front of her head, close to her temples are easily told apart. On the left, there is Fang. She has a visible attitude and can hardly believe her fate was to be on top of someone's head. On the right, there is Lucky. Just like her name, Wanda could tell that she felt lucky to be a part of her host. Fang was sassy and defiant while Lucky was just happy to be there.

Though the rest of the snakes are just as present as Fang and Lucky, they each have a mind of their own and tend to make Wanda laugh despite her fate. Their hisses of protest when Stheno says that it’s getting dark and to come back into the cave, or when Euryale asks Wanda for her help with something while the snakes are sunbathing. My god, do they love the sun!

You did too. It was for a much different reason than what a seeing person might believe. You loved the sun for its two main purposes; to light up and warm the earth. Now, that may be what everyone thinks of Helios, the god of the sun. But to you, it meant so much more. With no sight and just a blurry field of vision in front of you, the sun kept the colorful blobs of people and obstacles slightly more viewable.

Selene, the moon goddess was not your favorite. Although she lights the night, most occasions it is only a sliver of light. Once a month do you really get to enjoy the darkness with some light guiding you from place to place. On the nights of the new moon, you stayed in the comfort of your home for the night. Although you could not see the phase of which Selene was in, you knew the darker the next night got, the closer it was to a new moon.

On one particular evening, you were unaware that it was a black moon. Meaning it was the second new moon in a months time. It was getting dark, but you had the thought that it would be bright enough to make it home, only to make a wrong turn when a man pushed past you.

Villagers helped you put your fallen fruit back into your basket, and a kind woman gives gently places your bamboo guiding stick back in your hand. You thank them, but you missed the opportunity to ask them the direction of your home. Physically you knew where you were, but again, it was getting dark and you were all turned around.

Hoping for the best in a difficult situation, you chose to turn right. Usually at this cross road, you would be facing North and your home was East, so you would turn right. Unfortunately, this rocky path led you right to Poseidons’ sea itself. And the god was ever so pleased to have a clueless woman enter his domain. Coming up from the oceans depths, he approaches you in your wandering state.

“Can I help you find your way, miss?” The god asks. Your head follows the voice to the right, unaware of who asked the question.

“I may be a bit lost,” You say with honesty. “I was on my way back from the market, but stumbled and lost the direction I was going.” Explaining yourself to the stranger felt like the logical explanation, but Poseidon used your confusion against you.

“No, I think you’re in the right place…” He smirks, gently putting his hand on your shoulder. Your head snaps to the sudden touch, clutching your baskets handle a little tighter. Poseidon isn’t aware of your blindness, all you are to him is a means to an end. He is in debt to his father, Kronos.

Poseidon knew the moment you stepped foot on to his cool sand, he knew you were perfect. As a god, you think he would know everything about you, but you were very wrong.

“Here, let me help you find your way back to the road.” He says, removing one of your hands from the basket handle. You allow him, but you are confused as you continue to feel sand beneath the sole of your sandals. The moon was not there, and you were helpless.

Kronos, the god of time, was betrayed by his son. Poseidon decided to ask his father for time. All the time in the world, when he got ahold of Wanda. He wanted to spend every waking minute with her, fucking her and holding her when she is begging to see her sisters again only to drag her under the oceans surface when he is bored of her. Poseidon gets bored very easily, but Wanda’s pussy was different. Although his father did not question what he was going to use this time for, automatically a debt was owed.

Poseidon decided against using this time with Wanda, as her whining and begging becoming increasingly annoying. So he sent her back to her sisters to live in peace. That is, until Athena came along of course. He was adamant that he shouldn’t have to pay his father back since he did not use the time. Kronos lended him this time willingly without question. He was determined to get it back. And Poseidon had his sacrifice right in front of him.

His hand pulled you in the direction of a large rock by the edge of the water, a place that Poseidon remembers greatly. Andromeda was supposed to be sacrificed there, but Perseus swept in and came to the rescue, stopping a large sea monster with the help of Athenas spear and Artemis’s winged sandals. It was a shame to see such a beautiful sea creature leave the world in such a damaging way.

“Here we are, back on the road again, just a little further,” Poseidon says, his other hand taking the basket from your hands.

“Hey w-wait, I need tha-” You are cut off by a calloused hand clasping over your mouth.

“Just stay still and it will all be over soon.” The god whispered in your ear. Your breaths were staggered as you heard his words, confused by what he meant. Soon his hands were untying the soft rope from around your waist holding your silk toga to your body. The fabric fell to the ground, leaving you only in your under garments. You whimpered, trying to understand what is happening.

“Please, whoever you are, let me go. H-have my fruit, t-take the gold!” You fought hard against the gods rock hard torso, fearing for your life.

“I told you to be still!” He shouted. His arms wrapped your body and he threw you over his shoulder. Damp hair rubbed against your skin as you struggled and a chiseled arm wraps their way around your legs to keep them still. A hard hit to your barely covered ass made you yelp, and you tried scratching at Poseidons back. The immortal couldn’t feel pain, so he took no thought of it.

With little to no trouble at all, he put your squirming body on the sand and held his hand over your neck to keep your back against the rock. The power he had was nothing compared to your mortal strength. So he held you still by straddling your legs, while his hands expertly tie your wrists together with the very rope keeping your toga on.

“Please sir, please I’ll do anything.” You whimper as tears fall from your grey eyes. The god ignores you and takes the chain set under the rock by Zeus himself and begins to connect your now-restrained wrists to it. You were trapped, and you could only pray to the gods, any of them, to show you any mercy.

“There. No need to cry, little one. You are a divine sacrifice for a god that has a lot of power. Don’t struggle, it makes him angry.” Poseidon said, and he tightened his already perfected knot in the rope.

He stepped back from your crying form and looked up to the sky. “I come to give the debt I owe! Isn’t she enough, father??” He shouts his arms opening. The sea is uneasy, his emotions controlling the tide.

Thunder claps and you know Zeus is present. “No, brother. Not now.” Poseidon growls, the intention of this sacrifice going to his father, not his sibling.

The rain soaks into your skin and clothes causing the thin band holding your breasts and underwear to become sheer and see-through. Poseidon took notice of your exposed body and paused his message to his father. Making his way to you, he smirks as he sees you trying to move your wrists from the sturdy, iron padlock connecting them to the chain. “It’s no use, ομορφιά μου (my beauty).”

You don’t look at him, your futile attempts at escaping only end in failure. He growls when you ignore him, not acknowledging his clear compliment at calling you “his beauty.” Approaching you, he knelt down in front of you and roughly pulled you to face him by your chin. The moment his eyes met yours, an epiphany hit.

“You’re blind?” He asks, pulling his hand away from you like you were a leper. He knew his father would never take such a broken sacrifice. “Disgusting.” He spat while he stood up. He begins to walk away, your ears barely picking up on his steps thumping in the sand.

“W-wait! Wait please let me go! I wan-want to go home!” You shout his way, but the god only ignores you walking into the sea and leaving you exposed for anything.

In a sense, you were grateful that you were no longer Poseidon's sacrifice. But you were still stuck in your current situation, so you went to your last resort. You started to call out, shout, scream, to anyone who you thought could save you. An hour had passed and your voice was nothing more than a croak.

You were starting to believe that you were going to die on a God's beach with no one in sight to help you. However, someone was watching from afar. A woman who fears to look at you without the knowledge that you are blind. But she was in the same position as you, and she wanted to help you. Yet, she hasn’t had anyone to keep for herself.

So she considered. Would she be just as evil and selfish as Poseidon for taking you? Could she make you believe that she rescued you and instead not let you leave her cave? Stheno and Euryale would most likely not approve, Wandas sisters love her and only want what is best for her. The snakes on Wanda’s head hissed in question, Lucky gently rubbing her scaly head against her cheek.

“I know, I really shouldn’t. But she was a victim of that retched god too. Maybe I can finally feel in control… when I am in control of her? I- I don’t want to turn her to stone…” Fang hissed in response, her tongue tickling her opposite cheek. “I could blind fold her, and you’re right, she needs someone to take care of her. She looks like she’s about to die right there. That bastard…” Wanda says to Fang, starting her journey from the beach's small cliffs to the rock you were restrained to.

Before she makes it to you, she gathers the fruit that fell when the god took you and sets them back into the basket. Then she reaches for your discarded dress and picks it up as well. Finally, she reaches you. Her heart breaks when she sees you. Your wrists are rubbed raw, blood soaking the brown rope surrounding them, tears are stained on your cheeks and your eyes are closed.

Wanda rips a piece of cloth from your toga and kneels down next to you. Peacefully asleep, you are still as she ties the cloth around your eyes. With the blindfold on, Wanda leans her head down to the rope encasing your injured wrists, one of her snakes near the back of her head — the one with much sharper fangs — begins to chew on the rope. The rope broke free and your arms fell loosely to your lap.

The smallest whimper left your mouth, exhaustion keeping you fast asleep. Wanda admired your stoic look, your exposed chest moving up and down slowly with each breath you took. She sighs softly, knowing how it felt to be left exposed, for anyone to come across. Her empathy grew as she looked at you, your nipples were seen through the sheer fabric of your strophic (greek bra) and the wind nipped at your skin causing goosebumps to pebble.

Shaking her head and mentally cursing the sea god, she wraps the fabric of your dress around your body; Adding a length of seaweed to keep it secured to your waist. Oh so gently, she lifted your unconscious body into her arms smiling as your head rolled against her chest. Lucky and Fang were eager to meet you, both of their heads trying to get as close to you as possible.

“Hey, you’ll get to meet her when we go back home, ok? I promise,” Wanda chuckles, and the snakes pull their bodies back to their place closer to her scalp.

The journey to her cave was not very far, just around the bend of the cliff. North of where you were destined to be sacrificed. She took care with each step taken, making sure that her prized possession was still asleep, and comfortable. Lucky and Fang looked over you as you slept, keeping their distance until Wanda let them say hi. As scary as they may look, they are all puppies at heart.

Chills crept up your spine as Wanda entered the cave with you in her arms, and goosebumps began to pebble on your skin. She takes notice, gently laying you down on her straw bed in the dim fire-lit cave. Your head lulled to the side, causing Wanda to jump slightly, forgetting that you had the blindfold on to protect you.

Stheno and Euryale were surprised to see another woman besides their little sister inhabiting the cave, and they curiously looked over your unconscious body.

“Wanda? Who is this sleeping woman?” Said Stheno, creeping quietly behind her sister.

“I don’t know her name yet, but I saved her from an untimely death. Poseidon had gotten ahold of her, hoping for a sacrifice, but was unsatisfied by her,” Wanda explains, sighing as she drags her knuckle down your lightly textured cheek. “That bastard is nothing but trouble.” She sighs, trying her hardest to not look at her sisters, understanding that even immortals can turn to stone with one gaze at her eyes.

Euryale eyed Stheno, worried that Wanda may be turning into someone she swore to never become.

“Did she come willingly?” Euryale asked, settling her wings against her feathered back.

“She hasn’t woken up yet, but I am sure that she will understand, right?” Wanda was anxious about your awakening, your acceptance of your stay was appreciated and not feared. “Should we wait outside until she wakes up?”

Wanda's older sisters nod their heads. “I don’t want to frighten her when she opens her eyes. I believe we would be some of the last monsters she would want to see.” Of course, they don’t know that you are unable to see…

“I will go tend to the sheep,” Euryale said.

“I will go set up a fire on the beach and start cooking your meal,” Stheno said, both creatures leaving to do their tasks.

“And I will go help, and wait for my sleeping beauty to awaken.” Wanda says with a smile, softly swiping her thumb over your cheek.

~~~~~~~

The same as every other day, your eyes open to a blur of shapes and colors. However, this time is different- you are met with complete darkness, the atmosphere is cold and almost damp, and the scent of salt water fills your nose. There is cloth over your eyes, something you don’t take mind to. Trying to find where you are, you feel around your surroundings to retrieve your guiding stick only to be met with sand, small rocks, and straw. These sensations were familiar but not something you would regularly wake up to.

Standing up, you struggle to navigate through the cave you concluded you were in, reaching for a wall or something to stabilize yourself with. You let out a sigh of relief as your hand reached a rocky wall. Now you were stuck, you didn’t know what way led out of the cave.

“Hello?” You call out, your voice echoing through the cave. Your head turns in the opposite direction as you hear padded footprints against the sand. Your worries heightened, unknowing of the person approaching you.

“Hello dear, I’m so glad to see that you are awake, how do you feel?” The smooth voice of a woman is heard. Gentle, yet assertive. Confusion melts across your face and you take an unintentional step back, causing a slight hissing from the woman in front of you.

“I- I feel fine, wh- where am I?” You ask, distressed and scared. Being unable to see every day was fine with you, as long as you knew where you were. That fear skyrocketed the moment you woke up in a new environment.

“No need to worry about that, sweetheart. Come with me,” The woman said, and with a soft hand, she grabbed yours. The unexpected contact started you, but you followed nonetheless.

“Who are you, a-and why am I here? I want to go back to my home, please.” Cracks in your voice made Wanda turn to face you, only to be met with tears rolling down your cheeks.

She sighs and stops just at the entrance of the cave. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry, you are safe here now. That god won’t get you here.”

“God?” You don’t remember what had happened the night before, your memory fogging up after falling at the crossroads. “What do you mean, “safe now?” I just want to get back home, the fruit was so expensive.”

Pulling away from Wanda, you grab at the cloth around your eyes. The fabric falls from your head and hits the ground faster than Wanda can stop you. Panic fills her system, and she quickly turns her head away from you, her head of red snakes following.

A soft red tendril of energy hits your temple, and you fall unconscious. Before your body hits the ground, Wanda turns and catches you just in time. Guilt takes over her as she looks at your sleeping form, Lucky and Fang are equally as concerned for you as their host.

The scaled head of Fang nudges against Wanda's cheek, a small hiss emitting from her mouth. “Yes, she’s ok. She was nervous and wanted to see where she was, I know that. Im just going to put her by the fire until she wakes up.” She responds to Fang, her little eyes rolling as she gently taps his head from getting any closer to you.

As gently as she can, Wanda lifts you into her arms and brings you out to the fire that Stheno lit. She sits down and lays your head in her lap, softly brushing a few grains of sand from your cheek. A groan emits from your closed lips and you subconsciously roll your body closer to the warm fire. It brings you a sense of safety a blanket could never do justice.

But the feeling of being so close to Wanda felt just as safe, even though you did not know where you were or who you were even with. Her presence gave you a comfort that you hadn’t felt before. Her soft toga rubbed against your cheek, and you nuzzled into it subconsciously. Wanda’s lips turned up into a smile, petting your hair with a gentle hand. The sensation begins to wake you up, pulling you from your forced slumber. Slowly your eyes open, the dull shade of yellow filling your blurred and confined field of vision.

The blindfold was still on, however, you didn’t mind this time. Whoever’s hold you are in made it clear that they do not want to be seen. Although you are unable to see, you keep your eyes glued to the fire in front of you, the light slightly dimmed by the blindfold.

“Are you awake, dear?” Wanda’s voice sounds from above you, and you nod your head that lays in her lap.

“Who are you?” You ask, your voice filled with curiosity but not fear.

“My name is Wanda, and you are here with my sisters Stheno and Euryale. You are safe, sweetheart.” Wanda responds, her knuckle softly dragging down your cheek. She smiles as you begin to sit up, allowing you to fully sit next to her.

Your next question was quick to exit, “Where are we? I was on my way home but was turned around,” You explained your situation, leaving out the part where the god almost sacrificed you to his father but left you for the dead when he decided you were not good enough. “I hear water,” You point out.

“Yes, we are on the beach a ways North from Athens. You needed help, as when I found you, you were chained to a rock,” Wanda said bluntly. “But you’re safe now,” Her snakes hissed at the thought of the woman in front of them being used as a sacrifice, but Wanda was quick to hush them. “And what is your name, sweetheart?”

The feelings of the rope around your wrists caused you to cringe in disgust, your arms wrapping around yourself.

“R-right…” You respond, trying to get the thought of death from your mind. Shaking your head, you sigh softly and lean back on one hand, answering Wanda's question, “My name is Y/n.”

“What a beautiful name, but I think I’ll stick to calling you sweetheart. Is that alright?” Wanda asks, her finger softly brushing over the exposed skin of your arm. A small smile grows on your lips and you nod.

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” You say, a small giggle leaving your mouth. “I- um, I do have to ask. Why am I blindfolded?” The question was burning at the back of your skull for what seemed to be hours. From the first time you woke up to now, you had been aching for an answer.

Wanda hesitates. When she was turned by Athena, she never looked at her sisters. Even though they were immortal, they could still turn to stone if they met her gaze with their own. You hear a soft sigh and her soft voice tainted with sadness answer, “There is a dangerous creature around here that has the ability to turn any entity into stone once you look into her eyes. I cover your eyes for the purpose of protection.”

“But I can’t see,” You protest, reaching for the fabric. Wanda's hand wraps around your wrist as she stops you. “No, you don’t understand, I can’t see, even with the blindfold off. I was born blind," you explain, trying to help the woman in front of you understand that you were not in danger.

“Blind?” Wanda asks, your hands falling into hers as you move to your knees. “Meaning, you are unable to see anything?”

You nod, hoping she can see you. “Yes. There are only blobs of color here and there, but other than that, I can’t see a thing.” It was always difficult to explain what you could see. There was no reason it should be this hard as you could always say: ‘I can’t see anything,’ but you always go to the ‘blob of color’ explanation first.

“I don’t want to risk it, sweetheart. Blind or not, we don’t know who is not affected by her power,” She pauses, “Ive only just begun to get to know you, I don’t want to talk to a statue of such a beautiful woman.”

You feel heat rise from your neck, to your cheeks, all the way up to your ears. Her compliment makes you smile brightly. “O-oh, thank you…” You say, shyly looking away from her. “I understand, but, I really don’t think I will be affected, honestly!” You attempt to grab the blindfold again, this time successfully ripping it from your head. The fabric falls to the ground and you blink to allow your eyes to settle back to normal. “If I can’t see the creature, I don’t think it will be a bother,” You smile.

Wanda sighs and closes her eyes, pulling her gaze away from your beautiful figure. She hums as she feels your hand against her shoulder, your thumb softly rubbing over her skin. “May I feel your face? I would love to have an idea of what you look like to others,” You ask her, not wanting to seem too forward with your request. “Only if you allow it…”

Wanda keeps her head down, her snakes moving down to your hand to move their little tongues over your skin to learn more about you.

“Oh, oh? What are these?” She hears you say. She is taken aback by the giggling she hears next. “They’re tickling me,” You say, your sweet laughter filling the air. “Is this your hair?” Your finger hovers in the air just above her shoulder and the rest of the snakes lick it as well.

Wanda’s silence is enough to answer your question.

“I wish I could see them, they all seem so gent- ow! Except this little one,” Fang, still a little nervous to be around a new face, bites down on your finger. It was not as painful as you thought it would have been. Wanda jumped at your pain and immediately tapped Fang’s head to discipline her.

“No biting! She is a friend, not an enemy!” Wanda whisper-shouts at her, and you giggle quietly to yourself. “I apologize for her behavior, she knows better.” The snake hisses in return and she sighs as she moves her gaze up just a little bit. Her eyes land on your beautiful breasts, your nipples showing through the thin fabric of your toga. Wanda knows she should not be lusting, but she can’t help it.

You tilt your head at her scolding her head of red snakes, and your hand falls. “I don’t want to intrude on your home. Thank you for saving me, Wanda, but I best be on my way,” You say, standing up. Carefully, you try to reach around for a stick of some sort, nothing close to you. All you can do is stand awkwardly, trying to keep calm as you listen to the waves crashing against the sand.

“No, you need to rest, sweetheart. You’ve had a long day, so why don’t you sit down and we can eat? Stheno has made some bread, and the chicken is just about done.” Wanda tries everything in her power to make you stay, not wanting to force you just yet. In her mind, she knows she will make you stay.

Your stomach rumbles, and Wanda chuckles. “It seems like your hunger has spoken for itself, so lets sit you down again.”

Before Wanda is able to help you sit down, or protest about anything for that matter, you reach up to feel her face, your eyes meeting hers. Although you were unable to see her beautiful green and red mixed eyes, she saw your grey ones. Your irises held no color, and a scar-like line of [your original eye color] strikes through your right eye.

You didn’t turn to stone…

“Wanda… Wanda look!” Stheno exclaims. The woman you are looking up at tilts her head, her power not working on you.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” You ask, retracting your hands from her cheeks. Instantly, she pulls them back.

“No, no you didn’t hurt me, sweetheart. I- I am just surprised… my power, it didn’t work,” She says, churning confusion inside of your head.

“Power?” You pause, putting two and two together. “The creature you mentioned… the one that can turn people to stone, you are her… aren’t you?”

Wanda nods, your hands moving with her head. “Yes, and, I was trying to protect you, but-”

Your thumb gently brushes over her lips, the rest of your fingers ghosting over her facial structure, sculpting a picture in your mind. “I’ve only heard legends of a so called “monster” in these parts. But I have yet to meet a monster… Besides that god that tried to sacrifice me of course, but you? You are no monster.”

Your words made Wanda's heart melt. She has me wrapped around her finger already… there was no way I was letting her go. Her inner thoughts were loud, and she smiled softly as your fingers grazed her lips again.

“I’m very. Much aware of my inability to see what most people can with their eyes. But…” You pause, your hand cupping her jaw. “I do see your heart, and I think you’re absolutely beautiful. You took me in when I was vulnerable and scared, and I can’t thank you enough… You are no monster, Wanda.” You whisper, smiling as you feel Wanda’s arms curl around your waist, pulling you against her body.

“We’ve only just met, sweetheart…are you already falling for me?” Wanda teases, making you giggle as you lay your hand on her shoulder and drop your head to her chest.

“I might be… or I might just be hungry,” You prod back, your stomach doing somersaults as her lips press to your forehead in a soft kiss. “I hope its the former…”

~~~~~~~

As the night went on, you, Wanda, and her sisters enjoyed the food. You were happy you got to know Wanda a bit more while you talked amongst yourselves. She told you about her troubles with Poseidon, and how she became the 'monster' everybody claims her to be. She mentioned how she is still mortal and will die a death as any other mortal would.

It saddened you that she considered herself a ‘monster’, but you comforted her every time. She was not a monster in your mind. She was a victim who was punished for someone else’s doing, as were you. Although it was Poseidon who made his father angry, he punished you by trying to sacrifice you. You found common ground with Wanda.

“I think we will head into the cave for the night,” Said Stheno, nudging Euryale. “Just be sure to put the fire out when you both are done.”

Wanda nodded at her older sisters, shooing them away as she turned back to you. “It is such a beautiful night… I wish you could experience it the way I am,” She said to you, her fingernails tickling your arm as you lay in her lap. Her heart flutters at the feeling of your body weight in her lap, it grounded her.

“I can see how beautiful it is by feeling it,” You turn your body so you are looking up at Wanda, her snakes curiously looking back down at you. “I feel a small breeze against my skin, and I can hear the waves crashing against the sand. I can smell the salt coming from the sea, and I can hear your breaths. All of these things are such a beautiful image to me.”

Wanda’s lips pull up into a smile, a real, genuine smile. It had been so long since she felt as happy as this. It had been so long since she felt so carefree. As you spoke about your experience with your other senses, Wanda softly caressed your cheek. She hums quietly as she notices goosebumps form on your arms. “I have taken my sight for granted,” She says suddenly, taking in everything you said about feeling everything surrounding you.

“To a deaf person, I have taken my hearing for granted as well, but I am grateful that I can hear your voice,” You counter her thoughts, wanting to make her not feel so guilty about her advantage of sight.

“Your thoughts are just as beautiful as you are, sweetheart,” Wanda pauses, her fingers moving from your cheek to your neck. Slowly she moves closer to the dip in your dress, your breasts now free from their undergarments, and lying loosely behind the fabric of your toga. “You have the body of a goddess, the mind of a sage, and such a sweet personality.”

Her hand gently cups your breast, nimble fingers rubbing over your hardened nipple, peaking through the white dress. Your hand goes to hers, holding it still. She freezes, “Can I see you, sweetheart? All of you?” She asks, knowing exactly how it felt being forced to submit to someone much more powerful than her.

As you sit upright, you untie the piece of seaweed holding your dress around your body, the sleeves sliding down past your shoulders finally revealing your round, perfectly shaped breasts. Wanda sucks in a soft breath, an aching in her belly starting to form. She needed you, badly.

From her crossed-legged position on the ground, Wanda moves to her knees. You can sense her shifting, and you look around to follow the noises. Wanda's smooth hands softly guide you to your back, laying you gently against the sand below you. She then slowly pulls the rest of your dress off, exposing the rest of your beautiful body. “You are even more than I imagined…” She whispers, leaning down close to your chest.

She presses a kiss to the valley of your bosom, moving her lips up your sternum and to your neck, hovering just over your jugular. You can feel her smile against your neck and you turn your head to expose more skin to her.

The goddess above you couldn’t hold herself back any longer. Looking at your perfect body from her perspective was riveting, and it drove her mad. Her breath fanned against your lips, your body frozen and waiting for her to kiss you. That dull aching in Wanda's core grew, and she leaned down to kiss you deeply. Your arms wrapped around her neck, and you giggled as some of her snakes licked your hands. But Wanda wanted something else.

Her eyes began to glow a bright red, her head of snakes wrapping around your wrists. You gasped but allowed it to happen. As she leaned down lower, her snakes held your arms to the ground, holding you open and exposed to Wanda. As she continued to kiss you, her hand crept down your belly and to the soft hairs of your mound. She rubbed your petals, smirking against your lips as she could feel how wet you already were.

“Mmm, are you all wet just for me, sweet girl?” She whispers against your lips, chuckling softly as you nod desperately. “Such a good girl,” Her fingers finally dip between your wet folds, perfectly rubbing your button of nerves. A moan leaves your mouth, your legs spreading to give her more access.

“Feels s-so good, W-wanda,” You whimper, never feeling such great pleasure before. Your back arched against the cool sand, your arms still pinned to the sides of your head. Squeezing your eyes shut, you saw starts as the tight coil in your core began to form.

“I can feel that you’re close, sweet heart,” Wanda mumbles darkly against your cheek. Your mind clouded with a lustful mist, your legs shaking as your orgasm came crashing down upon you just as the waves did the sand. A loud moan leaves your mouth, Wanda's name being cried out by the woman underneath her.

Your breaths come out in soft pants, gulping in as much air as you can as your orgasm calms down. But Wanda is far from done. Her snakes uncoil from your wrists and she moves her lips down your body, her mouth meeting your dripping folds. You let out a whimper, your clit sensitive from her previous ministrations. “Relax, sweet girl…” She whispers, “I need to taste you,”

Her lips close on your engorged clit, swirling her tongue in just the right way to make you moan her name. She spreads open your pussy with one hand, her fingers prodding at your tight hole with the other, and you jolt in surprise at the sudden intrusion. Wanda's snakes are quick to calm you down, their heads rubbing against your thighs in gentle circles.

“Such a good girl, taking my fingers so well,” Wanda says, two of her long fingers sliding into your soaking hole, a whimper leaving your mouth at the same time. “Keep making those cute little sounds, love,” She eggs you on and you give in to every command.

Your moans are music to her ears, the frequent movement of her fingers pulling each mewl from your throat. A ‘pop’ is sounded as her lips suctioned off of your clit, but returning soon after.

Her fingers move faster, and her tongue moving around your clit pushes you over the edge, causing your second orgasm to flow through you. Your juices squirt out of your quivering hole, soaking Wanda’s face along with some of her snakes.

“Oh… how beautiful, and delicious you taste, sweetheart.” Wanda smiles against your pussy, pressing her lips to the top of your mound softly and kissing up your body. Her lips wrap around one of your nipples, and your hand reaches to find her pussy.

“Wanna feel you…” You say, rubbing your hand over her belly and lower, finally reaching her pussy as you push your hand under her dress.

“By all means. You are mine and I am yours,” Wanda says, resuming the pleasure of your nipple.

You feel her clit, rubbing her in slow circles at first. Slowly, your fingers move to her hole as well, gently easing into her and smiling as you hear a moan from her mouth. The vibrations from her throat send more pleasure through your nipples, pulling more moans from your own mouth.

As you move your fingers in and out of her wet cunt, the palm of your hand rubs against her clit. You can feel her body shake, her breath quiver, and her breasts against your own body. All sensations you never thought you would love so dearly.

Wanda is close, and she leans up from your nipples to capture your lips in a passionate kiss, her hole clenching around your fingers as she cums. You swallow her moans, your free hand coming up to cup her cheek as you return the kiss.

“Wands,” You whisper, not moving away just yet. Gently, you slide your fingers from her pussy, bringing them to your mouth and seductively sucking her juices off of your digits. “Such a ravishing taste, my love,”

Hearing those last two words made Wanda's stomach do backflips. Belonging to someone was all she wanted, and she wanted you to belong only to her. “Your love?” She asks, pulling away just to see your lips move.

“My love, Wanda,” You confirm, smiling as you lean up to kiss her again.

~~~~~~~

It is long past midnight, and Wanda has you in her arms, both of your naked bodies pressed against each other. With your head on her chest, you can hear her heartbeat, the soft thumping calming and lulling you to sleep.

“Thank you for saving me, Wanda. I- I don’t know what how I can express to you how grateful I am,”

That sparks an idea in Wanda’s head. You were a kind and loving soul, most likely willing to do anything to repay someone for their own kindness. So, she makes her plan fall right into place.

“Stay with me? Live here with me and my sisters? We all can tend to you, help you navigate, and we can even go to the village just East of here. But stay, please?” Wanda asks you, her lips gently pressing against your head as you think.

“I have no one back where I am from. They all shunned me because I couldn’t see. I can’t say no to such an amazing and thoughtful proposal as this,” You sit up, maneuvering your body to straddle her lap as she leans against the rock that was settled closer to the water. You nuzzle your face into the crook of her neck, Lucky gently laying her head on yours as well, and you close your eyes. “I would love to stay with you, only you. Forever.”

#Creatures and Foreigners #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda x female reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda marvel #wanda x you #Scarlet Witch x reader #Medusa!Wanda x Blind!reader #Wanda Maximoff Smut #CAF #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x female reader

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orqheuss · 6 months

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Snake Charmer

(Ominis Gaunt x F!Gorgon!Reader) Fluff? World building? Set up? Who knows tbh. It's a story.

Summary:

Ominis could hear her pulse quicken as she stilled. Everything else in the cramped space fell away, leaving just the two slytherin’s, each one with their own morose history that has been broadcasted for all the world to hear. Two peas in a pod— two sides to the same coin— two scales on the same snake. *** Why was everyone so interested in the new girl? Ominis Gaunt was about to find out.

Word count: 3.8k

AN: because I wanted to write a story about Ominis and a Gorgon falling in love

Ominis was sure he was going mad. In fact, he was positive— some point between the end of his fourth year and the beginning of his fifth, he had gone absolutely batty. That was the only logical conclusion to the fact that he was hearing voices at all hours of the day.

It started the day the new fifth year won in a duel against his best friend, Sebastian. The Defense Against the Dark Arts class was moving at the same pace it always did: introduction to the new spell, practice on a small object, practice on a larger, vaguely person shaped object, and then finally a duel between each pair of students to prove their mastery. This day, though, took a different turn than what the young blond was expecting. Ever since starting at Hogwarts, Sebastian Sallow was Ominis’ dueling partner; there was never any question about it. It became such a habit that no one dared approach the pair once Professor Hecat announced the beginnings of the school sanctioned battles— you would never see one Slytherin without the other. So, when Hecat decided to pair the new fifth year with his best friend, well, it could be seen quite plainly that Ominis was not happy about the matter.

As the duelists took their positions across from each other, the blond haired boy leaned against the nearest wall, a distinct look of annoyance turning down the corners of his lips and narrowing his eyebrows into a straight line. Most people would consider the look on his face a pout— not that anyone would ever dare at mentioning this to the boy. Ominis Gaunt did not pout, and he certainly did not scoff under his breath at the sound of his friend joking around with the new girl. What a preposterous idea. He wasn’t jealous, don’t be absurd.

Though, it was nice hearing Sebastian get knocked down a peg by someone who had never held a wand in her life up until that point.

Once the class was over, all Ominis wanted to do was slump himself into the Undercroft and take a well deserved nap. His head was pounding, and the near constant whispers of his classmates about the new girl were driving him up the wall. He couldn’t help but make snarky remarks in his head, quietly laughing to himself at the ridiculous questions his classmates were mumbling.

“Why do you think she wears that head scarf? I wonder what’s under there.”

Hair, probably.

“Did you hear her accent? Where do you think she’s from? Certainly not around here!”

Ten points to Ravenclaw for stating the obvious.

“Did you see how she was looking at Sallow? She just got here and already thinks she can take the most attractive boy in our year. The nerve!”

Sebastian has the emotional range of a teaspoon, but best of luck!

“How could you even tell where she was looking? I couldn’t see a thing through those glasses of hers! Why is she wearing shaders inside?”

Bold style choice, but alright. Not that he could really judge, of course.

“Do you think she’s blind like Gaunt? Great, another person I have to make sure I don’t trip over.”

That statement got his attention. Could she be blind like him? He didn’t hear any echolocation charm on her wand, nor did he sense a seeing eye animal or a cane around her. A very small part of him warmed slightly at the idea that he wasn’t alone in his struggles anymore. He craned his head more to the side, trying to catch more of the gossip as everyone began to file out of the classroom.

“No, she can’t be blind. It looks like she can get around just fine on her own— no charm blinking on her wand or anything. Still quite weird, though.”

Ominis’ shoulders sank minutely at the news, the warmth in his chest freezing over once again. He sighed to himself before pushing away from the wall, deciding to just let his body carry him to the Undercroft on autopilot while he stewed in his thoughts. Sebastian was off talking to the new girl, so he would likely not be joining him until well after his next round of Crossed Wands later that day. Normally he would join the boy, cheering him on from the sidelines with the rest of his fawning fangirl club, and he was about to turn in the direction of the clock tower when the brunette’s voice broke through the haze.

“Suppose I could interest you in some unsanctioned fun?”

Well, if his new best friend was going to be there, then he wouldn’t miss Ominis’ presence all that much.

Just as the blond had resigned himself to an afternoon of solitude, another voice came through the crowded musings of his classmates.

“Gods, I’m starving.”

A completely mundane statement, one that had likely been uttered by half of the class as they left, but something about the voice drew him in. It was low in tone, like they were trying to hide their voice instead of projecting it to their friends, and had a slight hiss to it just under the words like the person was speaking through a mouthful of fangs. Ominis paused in his steps just outside the doorway, his ear turned towards the classroom as he tried to find the voice again. All he found was silence and the tiny ticks of professor Hecat’s dark magic detectors.

Shaking his head, he leaned away from the door and made his way down the stairs, his mind puzzling through what just happened. He must have been imagining it, he thought to himself. The voice hardly sounded human, let alone familiar. Must have just been a trick of his mind, he had slept terribly the night before so it was logical he was just tired. Rounding the corner towards his secret alcove, Ominis stepped through the clockwork door to the Undercroft and began to climb down the winding staircase, hopeful that a bit more sleep would do him good.

Fortunately, he had a lovely nap on the chaise lounge he conjured. Rather unfortunately though, the voice persisted. Morning, noon, and night he heard that incessant hissing tone in his ears, each day getting louder and more bold with what it was saying. First it was small things, things that most people would think to themselves throughout a normal day.

“Where’s the bathroom in this place?” “My head itches.” “What I would give to take a nap right about now.”

Normal things. But then, the statements started to get a bit…odd.

“There’s something under my scale!” “He was rude, I want to bite him.” “I can hear a mouse somewhere. Can I eat it? Please?”

While Ominis was tired of hearing the random, grating voice slither through his ears at a constant rate, he was happy to report that he no longer thought he was going mad. The voice belonged to a snake— that much he was sure of. But, where was the snake? Did it know he could hear it? How was it somehow always in his vicinity?

That was the question that was currently keeping him up at night.

Everything culminated one faithful day when he next had Defense Against the Dark Arts. Today was lecture, and much like the rest of his classmates, he bemoaned having to sit and listen to professor Hecat go on and on about some unknown entity or creature that he could never encounter for the rest of his days. It wasn��t that she wasn’t a good teacher, far from it! But, much like any professor in the castle, she was not immune to the dreaded monotonous lecture voice.

Upon entering the classroom, the first thing Ominis heard was Hecat’s voice speaking in hushed tones to someone. He would never admit it outloud, but the boy was dreadfully nosy. Honing his ears in the direction of the whispering, he caught on to her tone first— caring, soft, gentle, words that normally wouldn’t be found within one hundred feet of the professor— then the tail end of her words.

“—if you are uncomfortable with today’s lesson, please know that you can leave at any time.”

An equally soft voice replied in turn, a hint of uncomfort lacing their words. “Thank you, professor. I appreciate the sentiment, but I will be fine. It is not the first time I have been a part of such a lecture.”

Ominis stilled in his seat, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention when he recognized the voice. It was the new girl again. Merlin, it seemed she had everyone wrapped around her little finger, even the formidable Dinah Hecat!

It wasn’t that he had a problem with the new fifth year, in fact she had been quite nice to him when they met in the common room, it was just that all the rumors surrounding her made her sound a bit big for her britches. First she beat Sebastian in a duel, something no one has done since he started going to Crossed Wands and honing his talent, then she invites him to Hogsmeade with her and suddenly a troll is hellbent on clobbering up the street? Not to mention all the other things Ominis had heard about: taking out Ashwinder camps in her spare time? Flying all over the sodding Scottish Highlands and getting into all kinds of trouble against the Ranrok Loyalists? Sneaking into the restricted section with Sebastian and earning him another bloody detention, because what, she batted her eyelashes at him and he folded like a cheap suit? Who was this girl, and why did trouble follow at her heels like a pack of hellhounds? No, Ominis didn’t have a problem with her, he was suspicious of her, and the fact that the voice started soon after she got here certainly didn’t help.

The blond sat back in his seat, arms crossed across his chest and a befuddled look clouding his expression as the professor took her spot at the front of the room, tapping her wand on the rickety old chalkboard and writing out the subject of the lecture for today.

“Today, class, we will be discussing Gorgons, another creature traditionally deemed mythological but in fact walks among us magic folk unseen. Though, they very rarely make the journey across the sea to our backyard.”

Ominis’ eyebrows narrowed more in confusion as he thought about Hecat’s words to the new girl. Why would she be uncomfortable with this lesson? What secret was she hiding that was related to Gorgons of all things? He tuned back into the lesson, hoping to answer some of his questions.

Professor Hecat paced around the room as she talked, taking strides up and down the lengths of desks and weaving through her collections of artifacts from her time as an Unspeakable.

“Gorgons, or ‘gorgos,’ meaning ‘fierce, terrible and grim’ in Greek, are inherently female creatures with snakes for hair and the ability to turn anyone who meets their gaze into stone. Many of you are likely familiar with the myth of Medusa, the only mortal Gorgon that was callously slayed by the Greecian hero, Perseus. But, there are two other Gorgons known in history: Stheno, the mighty or strong, and Euryale, the Far Springer.”

The room was bathed in silence as Hecat paused in her speech, giving the class time to take notes on the creatures. Ominis sat still, his mind awash with possibilities for why the new girl would need to be excused from this lesson. Her accent was Greek, that was for sure. Could she have a history with Gorgons? That wouldn’t make sense, though. Many students have had run-ins with the creatures discussed in DADA, but they were never offered to skip that lesson. So, why was the new girl so special?

A sharp, insistent sound shook the blond from his thought spiral, causing him to wince at the volume suddenly ricochetting in his ears. A terrible hiss filled the room, slithering throughout the encompassing space and echoing off the tall, vaulted cathedral ceiling. It was haunting, eerie, constant, like the creak of the floor in an abandoned house or a busted pipe in the middle of the night when you’re the only one home. A shiver ran up Ominis’ spine at the sound, trying desperately to block it out while also listening to those around him to see if they heard it too. He heard no whisperings, but with a quick flick of his wand, sparking the wood to life, he could see the silhouette of his classmates looking around like they were trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Ominis relaxed slightly, relieved that he wasn’t the only one hearing the incessant hissing.

His relaxed posture only lasted for a moment as a voice suddenly cut through all the noise, low and dangerous like a rattlesnake's tail in the tall grass. It was similar to the snake he had been hearing, but different somehow— richer, more human sounding. Ominis’ heart stilled in his chest when he recognized the cadence, knowing it intimately from all the times he spoke it while living at home. Parseltongue.

“Be quiet. Everything is fine, no one is going to hurt us.”

At once, the hissing stopped, shrouding the room in a blanket of silence once again. Dread began to curl its way around Ominis’ chest at the understanding of what that meant— what that could mean for the future of Hogwarts in general.

Someone in the room was a parselmouth like him, and he would bet all of his galleons on it being the new girl.

But, what did she mean by “no one is going to hurt us?” Who was “us?”

The professor continued her lecture, drowning the never ending list of questions permeating in his mind that seemed to grow longer by the second.

“Gorgons are the children of Phorcys, a primordial sea god, and Ceto, a sea goddess, who happen to be brother and sister.”

A snicker came from the back of the classroom, followed by the voice of none other than Andrew Larson, the class’ resident moonmind. “Purebloods know all about that!”

Hecat leveled him with a glare, not an ounce of amusement present in her tone as she spoke. “Must you make that joke whenever we talk about Greek history? I dare say it wasn’t funny the first handful of times you’ve said it, Mister Larson.”

Ominis could almost see the embarrassment on Larson’s face when he stuttered his reply. “Um, n-no, professor. I j-just meant—”

“We all know what you meant.” She silenced him quickly, her smirk present in her voice. “Now, back to what I was saying. Phorcys and Ceto had a large family together, including the Graeae, the trio of elderly sisters that share an eye, Echidna, a being of half-human, half-snake, Ladon, a fearsome dragon who was tasked with guarding the golden apples of the Hesperides, and Scylla, a woman with dog-headed loins. Because of Ceto’s reputation for giving birth to terrors, each larger and more colorful than the last, she became known as the “mother of sea-monsters.” Ominis could feel Hecat’s eyes linger on him for a moment, her speech stilling slightly as she took in his deeply puzzled expression. “Of course, among those children were also the Gorgons.”

The aging professor continued, her steps ebbing and flowing around the classroom like a steady stream. “According to myth, Medusa did not begin life as a Gorgon. She was Ceto’s only mortal born child— human as any other babe. Some even say she may have been of magical nature, like all of you in this very room.”

The blond slytherin heard Hecat’s steps falter for a moment, the soft swish of her hand running along a desk off to his right. He craned his ears in the direction, his wand picking up the movement as he tried to discern the student that the former Unspeakable was paying special attention to. The silhouette of a girl filled his mindseye, her form slumping down slightly in her desk as she tugged lightly on the scarf wrapped around her head. Ominis’ frown stretched deeper across his face at the realization that the professor was checking on the new girl, again. What was so special about her? Why was everyone so enraptured by her presence? She didn’t seem all that remarkable when in the school building at least. She was just mysterious. He was mysterious at first, but the fascination with him soon dwindled as his peers realized he was the same as everyone else.

So, the slytherin pondered, why was she still the talk of the halls?

Why was Hecat teaching this lesson?

Why was it important for a group of pubescent teenagers to know about something that existed across the ocean from them?

Ominis had more questions than answers, and each one confounded him more and more by the second.

“Medusa was a devout follower of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, handicraft, and war. One night, while praying to her goddess, she captured the attention of Athena’s brother, Poseidon. He appeared to her, intent on taking what he believed should be ‘his.’” Hecat paused, her stony gaze sweeping across the classroom as if challenging anyone to so much as breathe too loud. “He took her there, in the temple, leaving her on the floor as she sobbed and prayed to her goddess for forgiveness.”

Ominis could cut the tension coating the air of the room like a thick, viscous fog with a knife. No one dared make a sound, enraptured by the words of their wise mentor.

“Some myths say that Athena took pity on the girl and transformed her into something that no man could ever gaze on again. Some say she punished her for leading a man into her sacred temple and letting him defile it. No one knows the true story except those who were there, and the old gods have long since left our realm for their own paradise on Olympus.”

The apprehension screaming in every magical mind surrounding the dearly loved, and feared, elder was palpable in the tiny class space.

“Now, some of you may be wondering why I teach this lesson.” As if reading his mind, Ominis felt Hecat level him with a stare that burned hotter than even the most blistering fire poker. “The answer, of course, is that no one knows what happened to the child of Medusa and Poseidon.”

The young Gaunt felt all the air get sucked from his lungs as if a dementor escaped from Azkaban just to find him specifically. A child of a god and a witch? It was unheard of— it was disastrous. Their magic would be unstoppable; nothing in their world would ever match the power of a child brimming with that much otherworldly energy. Whether they used their powers for good or evil, or even some mix of the two, they would be legendary all the same. At that moment, a thought came to Ominis. Would they also be part Gorgon? If Medusa was transformed while with child, who's to say that the babe would not share the same affliction.

As suddenly as a strike of lightning, or a downpour in April, Ominis Gaunt answered the question that had been on his mind since the start of term.

The new girl was a Gorgon.

How had he not realized before? The snakes that were always around when she was— how her head and eyes were always covered— how no one knew where she hailed from and had no hint other than the fact that her accent was vaguely Greecian? It was right in front of his blind eyes from the beginning; he was just too much of a jealous fool to see it.

Just then the bell chimed across the campus, signaling the impending class change. Professor Hecat’s voice broke through the bustle of his peers standing and gathering their things in preparation for their trek to their next lesson.

“We will continue our discussion on mythos and magic next week. Please remember to study for the upcoming OWLs! They are written and practical, so be sure to practice the physical spells as well as memorize the theory!”

Ominis scrambled to gather his things, determined to catch the new girl before she disappeared into the crowd. Dodging around a loitering Sebastian— the brunette’s hand raised as if gearing to make some idiotic, yet somehow still brilliant, point— he all but sprinted into the congested hallway. His wand waved in front of him as he scanned each person he passed, his ears tuned to any noise that sounded vaguely serpentine in the hopes that her reptilian tresses would sound out as they always did this close to lunch time. Alas, they were as silent as a dead rodent in a viper pit.

Just then, the young boy caught sight of the girl, her silhouette moving ferociously among the masses as if she would rather be anywhere but there. Underneath all his confusion, morbid curiosity, and pulsating anger at how she has been endangering, and possibly enchanting, his best friend, Ominis felt a pang of pity. He didn’t blame her one bit for wanting to leave as quickly as possible— not at all. He knew all too well how it felt to have all eyes burning through his skin at every turn, even if no one else seemed to figure out her secret other than him. He couldn’t let her escape, though; he needed answers, he needed closure. Halting in his tracks, he racked his mind for what he could do to get her attention. She wouldn’t hear him call her name in the ruckus around them, nor could he keep up with her brusk pace. There was really only one option to choose, and as much as he hated to do it, snakes had an incredible sense of hearing, or rather, in their case, an excellent sense for vibrations.

His voice flowed from his lips in a strong hiss, the air seeming to break just for the words to slither their way to their target like a bush adder in a pile of leaves. “I know what you are.”

Her “pets” were startlingly silent as her hung head raised from its slumped position against her chest, her sigh heaving her shoulders into proper posture— a constrictor poised to strangle.

The boy felt her words before he heard them— the air stilling around him like a world born anew.

“I suppose it’s my turn to explain things, then.”

AN:

Shes baaaaaacccckkkkkkk :)

***

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 6 months

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Living with your Yandere Gorgon Sisters (2)

It’s my own personal headcannon that their childhood if you could call it that is a heartless hunt for power

The hierarchy topped by their mother is one of ultimate submission

A constant cap on their power and watered-down respect in the witch’s order

Not to mention their mother, if bothered enough, will happily feast on her offspring

Not only as a quick meal but a way to boost her own magic

Needless to say, it's a constant battle for the three sisters against her

Which makes your birth a crucial moment

Your mother is weakened nursing you but something is different

She can hold your swaddled form and not even have the desire to eat

It makes your sisters all the more eager to target you

Its Arachne who strikes first distracting her long enough to stand over your bassinet

“You…are so precious."

Unfortunately, your mother returns before she can snatch you away

But that will do it for her

Next is Medusa and then Shaula who have similar moments when greeted with your infant form

Ultimately how they treat you when they have you are indicative of their first meetings with you:

Arachne Gorgon

Falling in love with you during her first successful fight marks the beginning of a dangerous jealousy

One being fed by her long stalking of your mother and you in private

Nursing, speaking, and over all caring for you makes her so jealous

Jealous of your mother’s love? Not in the slightest

its of your mother’s privilege to love you

She wants to be her so bad

But she urged her sisters off of you two for a little while

Only until you finished nursing

So now when she demands you cuddle up to her its her…payback of sorts

For all that time her mother got to hog you for herself

now she does the hogging

She loves when she punishes you

Taking you away from your lake or pool to rest in her bosom

“This it the way it should be. You, relying on me.”

Medusa Gorgon

Meets you on a less opportunistic situation

Taking advantage of a fight between Arachne and their mother

She comes with no intentions to spare you

Hand and undeveloped snake magic prepared to strike you

Cursing herself when she can’t bring her hand down

She eventually does bring a hand down only for the snake to wrap around your body as you giggle relentlessly

She holds you a little awkwardly relishing in the soft nuzzling into her undeveloped chest

She eventually puts you back nearly losing her eye at your mother’s vicious attack

If there had been a grave for her she would have held you close while spitting on the grave

But she doesn’t have one she doesn’t even have a body to bury

Medusa prefers the tank, watching you swim around listening to her

She believes she gives you freedom like none of the others

And you should be grateful

Grateful enough to forever stay by her side while she plunges the world into madness

“Good baby. You’re seeing it from my perspective now! A world full of madness! I can’t wait to set you free in it.”

Shaula Gorgon

Was annoyed with the exclusion that Arachne and Medusa had begun to do in regards to fighting their mother over you

So she attempts to fight their mother on her own

failing miserably she’s practically only saved by you

Sitting silently until what would be her final blow you somehow need something

Not to be sated easily your mother retreats sneering at her all the while

Coincidence, that’s what she chalks it up to

But truly was it destiny?

So she tries again

this time bullied into not harming a hair on your head by her sisters

Piggy backing off of them attacking their mother to sneak her way to you

All according to plan

Its Shaula who eventually sneaks away with a sleeping you

Lulled to sleep in her hiding place she finds that she’s never slept more peacefully than with you by her side

She doesn’t even wake when your mother lets out the eardrum shattering death scream

She hated having to leave your side to aid her sisters when you so cutely coo as she leaves

Now when she keeps you, she has to tell you all about what she’s accomplished

She so badly wants to show you how cool she is

“See. See. Its all about control (Y/n) if you have that there can be no one to stop you.”

#yandere soul eater medusa #yandere soul eater #yandere soul eater arachne #yandere soul eater shaula #yandere arachne gorgon #yandere arachne #yandere shaula gorgon #yandere medusa gorgon #yandere medusa #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yanderexrea #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere #yanderes #yandere platonic #yandere gorgon sisters

126 notes · View notes

kekaki-cupcakes · 8 months

Note

Hello! ✨

So… hear me out: Nico with a monster reader.

Like imagine he is sent out to defeat him but turns out he’s good and super like chill and relaxed.

Like imagine he goes in and suddenly he is sat down drinking tea and chatting about the weather.

Lol.

So nico sneak him in the camp covered in mist and when asked goes like *cue it’s a smoothie meme* “just found him… nothing weird here”

And if ppl discover the reader is a monster he like defends him like totally?

Like I imagine he’d love a reader that’s like maybe half snake? Idk. ‘Cause I think he finds snakes cute.

Maybe not a harpy or fury (is it called like that? I’m not sure)

Leo could totally pull the same stuff too. Maybe Percy too.

Jason totally not.

What do you think?

You can just answer to this as thoughts in need of an opinion and not a request if u want to/feel uncomfy writing this kind of reader.

Ps: loved the Dionysus one. Love love love it!

Kisses and enjoy that smoothie!

Love this idea, it was so fun to write and off I went a little overboard it's like 3.1k words so production is delayed but whatevs. It was a bit harder to write a totally general reader because of the monster thing but I think it worked. And if figured out that I tend to write character x readers from the perspective of the character requested too.

Chocolate cream and iced honeycomb---Nico di Angelo x Monster Reader

»»————-　★　———

“RACHGAA!”

“AHGHGHAAAA!” Nico snarled back at the sandy green snake.

It reared back a fraction, unblinking eyes narrowed at him as its thin tongue flickered in and out. Nico just stuck his tongue back out at the Ceraste, a horned viper. It would have been an easy fight, if it wasn’t for the fact that Ceraste grew to be about as big as an alligator.

It bowed to him, but that wasn’t a good thing. Two sets of horns, sharp and spiked, glimmered in the afternoon sunshine as Nico stood his ground, Stygian iron sword ready. “I have other monsters to kill, could we make this quick?”

Mortals around them just whispered behind their hands and kept walking, ignoring the battle to the death in the middle of the street. They probably just saw Nico walking an especially spiky and greek dog. He imagined the Ceraste as a poodle for a moment, and then stepped to the side and swung his sword quickly, blocking the violent jab in his direction.

“You’re supposed to be cute,” Nico hissed at it, stomping down hard on its tail and prodding at the light scales flecked with brown. Blood dripped almost instantly. Its scales were as tough as a normal snakes was, and he took advantage of that. Next time it circled, and shot out with lightning speed, shadows creating an arc through the warm summer air as Nico lashed out.

There was the sound of tearing skin, and a disgustingly drawn out squelch, that ended with a thud.

Nico kept his eyes squeezed shut until he could wipe the blood off his face, and then stared down at the decapitated ancient reptile. Blood and guts squished into the road, which he had to stomp on a few times before they melted into gold and ran down the drains in the rubbish filled gutters.

“Uhh,” Nico muttered, flapping his hand about until the sticky dark blood wasn’t on him anymore. “I need a drink.”

He glanced around the bustling New York street, spotting a hippie cafe that wouldn’t have anything stronger than a matcha tea, and a starbucks. A Mcdonalds not in sight, and at least another hour of tracking the final monster ahead of him, Nico opened the door to the busy starbucks.

As he stood in line behind someone with their hair in a dark bun, and two teenage girls wearing strawberry dresses, he unfolded the piece of paper with instructions for his mission. His target was supposed to be around this district, but Chiron wasn’t sure where exactly. Nico was sent to do the dirty work, because apparently nobody else wanted to see the light drain from something's eyes when they could be finding more demigods or retrieving lost items.

Monsters had been attacking demigods before they were in danger. Last week an eight year old Iris boy had showed up to camp with half a leg left, and the attacks had only grown in numbers.

Apart from being around this place, the only thing in common with the spike of violence, was the scales and thin tongues. A few Hydra's, Echidna the she-dragon had made another appearance, and of course, the multitudes of Ceraste.

Nico had just killed four of them, but there were more to come and more demigods in danger unless he found the source. Chiron had his theories, of course, but far-fetched was the idea that one of the snake footed giants had risen from the earth again. Glycon was an option of course, but Nico doubted it was him.

The queue had disappeared, standing around on the other side of the cafe as they waited for their orders, save one person, who was ordering an ‘iced honeycomb caramel latte’. The boy brushed his hair over his shoulder and turned to look out the window, then back to where he was paying for his latte.

Nico followed his gaze, watching with dread as the previously dead snake was hissing by the window. Hissing right next to him as well.

Nico turned slowly, hand on the hilt of his dark sword, but he was only met with the face of a small green python watching him curiously, big eyes shining underneath the bright lights of the cafe. He smiled back at it, immensely confused.

Then the little snake was pulled away and wrapped up into a writhing green ponytail of scales and little puppy-like reptilian faces, flickering tongues and toothless mouths.

“Is your boyfriend gonna order, or…”

Nico blinked out of his snake induced trance and whipped around to where the girl behind the counter was blinking tiredly at him.

The boy next to Nico stuffed change into his pockets and shook his head. The head the snakes were attached to, that was. The boy's eyes were covered by circular black glasses. He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know the emo.”

“I…” Nico started, eyes wide as he took what, or rather who, he was seeing. A gorgon. A real life teenage medusa [and a cute one at that], was standing in the middle of a starbucks, snakes tied back with yet another of the small pythons. He blinked a few times and cleared his throat, turning back to the cashier. “I’ll have one of the chocolate cream… frappuccinos, please.”

“Coming right up,” the cashier muttered, typing into their ipad and then motioning for him to move to the other side of the counter. Where the monster was.

The monster that Nico was starting to suspect he’d have to kill.

»»————-　★　————-««

“There you go. Have a great day.”

“Thanks,” Nico muttered back just as enthusiastically, and took his drink. He was still holding the hilt of his sword, heart pounding as loud as his footsteps as he stomped away. Was he supposed to find the lair of this teenage boy? Was he immortal? Was there any point killing him if he’d just pop up again? What was Nico going to do?

He didn’t have a drachma on him to call camp and ask Chiron what he should do, and to be honest, he wouldn’t have listened to whatever instruction he was given anyway.

The straw was pulled from his mouth as he was yanked sideways.

Something scratchy brushed his arm, and his middle was grabbed tightly. The breath left his lungs and the world blurred for a moment. Then he gasped, drink flying out of his hand, and landed in a booth on the red leather with a yelp. “What the-”

“Hello, pretty boy.”

Nico stared for a moment, heart racing. The boy [monster. He was a monster, not a person. There was a difference. Maybe] sat on the other side of the booth with a grin, latte in hand. His nails were painted green.

Nico noticed this as he gestured to the side, where the Ceraste he had just killed sat coiled up next to the table like a dog waiting for its owner. The sharp horns on its head looked a lot less threatening now that there was a pink scrunchie around one of them. “This is Keith, say hi, Keith.”

“RACHGAA!”

“What-”

“Ssso like, I'm just getting this straight, if you’re gonna kill me, just say that now.” The boy said, leaning forward with his hands pressed together and an easy smirk. “Because I havent been killed yet and I'm not going to Tartarusss anytime soon.”

He glanced towards Keith with a serious expression. “You sssaw what happened to Jeremy.”

Kieth’s tongue flickered in and out once. He seemed to take it as an agreement. Nico’s hand left his hilt as he spoke, even though he had no control of the situation and there was a tensed up snake by his feet. “What would you do if I was going to kill you?”

“Keep you asss an ornament in my Auntie Em’s garden.” He said, and Nico felt his legs swinging under the table. He put his chin on the palm of his hand. “You’re very pretty.”

Nico wasn’t sure which part of the conversation he should be worried about at this point. He didn’t really want to become a statue, but his stomach was filled with a pit of snakes and he was more worried that this gorgon could see the blush on his face through his black tinted glasses. He ended up blinking, a bit stunned.

“That was a joke, holy Hadesss you’re a wet mop of a person, aren’t you.”

“You’re the one with the mop head.” Nico snapped back with a sharp glare. That might not have been the right thing to say though, judging by the way one of the pythons sitting on the boy's shoulder wilted a little, ducking its soft looking head.

It got a pat on the head. “Don’t listen to him noodle, he didn’t mean it.”

Nico looked at the little green snake. Somehow it looked like it was smiling at him, but that could’ve just been the shape of its mouth. “...Sorry Noodle.”

“Noodle saysss thank you.”

Nico looked down at the floor, where his drink was now a brown puddle surrounded by broken shards of plastic. He glanced back up, squinting at the wriggling pythons that were no longer in a pony [snake?] tail. “Can you actually, you know…”

“Noodle says that Becky said Loch Nessss likes your earringsss, but they think you could do something with your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Nico scoffed, wrinkling his nose. Did his hair look bad? “It looks fine.”

“Don’t asssk me, ask Loch Ness,” he got in reply, then another smirk. Nico’s stomach rolled again, but it didn’t feel necessarily bad. What on Olympus was that supposed to mean? “And I reckon your hair’s pretty as isss.”

A moment passed, and Nico got the feeling he was being assessed. The boy opposite him sniffed once, and Nico wondered if he smelled like snake guts. That couldn’t be a very good look. “You’re a big three, aren’t you… Wait, no, let me guessss… Poseidon.”

Nico raised an eyebrow.

“That was a joke, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I figured.” He muttered, watching in slight disgust as Keith started to lick the chocolate cream frappuccino off the grimy tiles. “And you?”

“Daughter of Aphrodite.”

“That was a-”

“Joke. You’re catching on, pretty boy.” He grinned, and Nico noticed with a gulp that two of his teeth were sharpened and pearly white. Fangs. He shrugged, chin on his hands. “I honestly have no idea though, I dunno how I’m here. Maybe I sprouted out of her head like that flying horse did.”

“Why are you sending monsters to kill-”

“I wasss just tryna divert the attention, okay? That corpse wasssn’t my fault-” He started, waving his hand in the air to prove his point. ONe of the snakes, maybe noodle, twisted around a few times, tongue flickering out. Nico swore another one with a scar down its scaly spine rolled its soft brown eyes.

“What corpse?”

“No corpssse. I dunno what you’re on about, no one died.” He said quickly, taking a long loud sip of his drink, ice clinking. After a moment he sighed and looked down at the chipped nail polish on his hands. “Some demigod dude, ugh there's ssso many of you, gods must be like rabbits or something. Anyways, one of them found me and I diverted the attention, so I’d get another few weeksss.”

“Another few weeks of…?”

“Life. I mean, I can hide easily, but I already spent a month in San Fransisssco being chased by pitchforksss and metal dogs, and I didn't get Ssstarbucks for like, years, otherwise sssomeone would just pop out with a spear and stabby stabby no more Gabby.”

The scarred snake drooped sadly a little, slinking back into the writhing mass. Nico shook his head quickly. “Camp Half-Blood’s not like that. And I can use the mist.”

“What, you just gonna follow me around New York waving your handsss about for the rest of your life?” He chuckled, swirling his plastic cup around a few times and taking another sip.

“No, you can come back with me.”

Nico wasn’t even sure when he’d come up with the plan, but there was something about his smirk and his nail polish and his stupid jokes and the puppy-like python faces swirling around him that made Nico wince when he imagined him sleeping on the streets fighting off Romans.

“Why should I do that?”

“I…” Nico faltered. What reason did he really have? “I dunno.”

He bounced up, snakes swinging. Keith looked up from the puddle on the ground and shook its tail excitedly, like it knew what was happening already. Maybe this teenage gorgon really could mind control the ancient reptiles.

“Sssweet, let’s go!”

»»————-　★　————-««

“Ssso you’re like, completely sure I won’t be decapitated on sight?”

Nico paused, turning away from the gap in the shrubbery at the base of Half-Blood hill. He’d been watching as demigods slowly trickled into the dining pavilion, cabins regrouping for dinner and burning meals. He couldn’t promise this [really cute] boy that he’d be safe here, but Nico could promise that he’d protect him from any especially violent and biased Ares kids.

“If anyone tries to hurt you I won’t let their siblings visit them in the underworld.”

Nico had to look away again, red faced as he did that thing again, leaning forwards with his hand under his chin and his lips quirked up. “How romantic.”

“I- uh…” Nico choked, and then turned back to the now empty strip of green and strawberry plants, finally letting out a tense breath. “If we go now, I can hide you in my cabin until I guilt trip Chiron into letting me keep you.”

“And Keith.”

“And Keith,” he sighed. One more check to see if the coast was clear, and he slunk out of the bushes, pebbles crunching underneath his boots. He grabbed his new Starbucks [he’d been bought a new one as an apology for nearly being killed by Keith] and waved frantically behind him. “Hurry up, we gotta move.”

There was a scuffling, and then the slick sound of scales moving as the Ceraste followed them past the big house and down to the campfire. The flames were a humming orange, burning brightly in the dusk. It was summer, the mood was always high as campers came from school back to their families and friends.

“Okay, so like, where are you friendsss? Do you have friendsss?”

“Do you?” Nico shot back with a glare, keeping an eye on the open door of the Hermes cabin, but there was no movement inside, except for the pegasus that was chewing on someone's pillow.

“Yup! Noodle and Becky and Loch Nessss and Keith and Gabby and Fruit-”

“Yes…” Nico whispered back, rolling his eyes, but when he turned a little, Loch Ness [how could he already tell them apart?] was flicking its little black tongue at him, gummy mouth wide. “I have friends.”

“Great, isss that them?”

“...What.”

Nico whipped around, stepping in front of the boy he was currently smuggling with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Keith rattled its tail and hissed, neck arched. Nico wasn’t sure who was approaching them, the figures covered by the shadow of the Iris cabin. He kept his voice low, “the mist, we have to cover you.”

“Can you use the missst?” He whispered back loudly, over the nervous hissing around him.

“Of course I can use the mist,” Nico said. Then he realized something and gritted his teeth, face red. “But, just on me, unless I’m… you know…”

“Nope. I don’t know.” He said simply, and Nico turned away, grabbing his hand very quickly and closing his eyes for a moment, eyebrows pinched in concentration. Nico tried to focus on the magic he was weaving through the air and not the weirdly smooth skin of the hand he was holding, and if his own was sweaty or not.

When he opened them, the boy beside him was blinking with foggy looking dark green eyes that matched the snakes now covered by a dark hood. The only thing still him was that stupid smirk. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Nico’s voice wavered, and his grip tightened. “Okay, now act normal, they're coming over.”

“I’m not normal?”

“Nico, don’t be rude!” Hazel told him off, a gentle smile on her face anyway. Her hands were in the pockets of a large purple jumper, arm threaded through Franks. He waved nervously at Nico, like he still wasn’t sure he wasn’t about to kill him via skeletons. Hazel turned to the currently covered by mist boy. “Sorry about h-”

She squinted as a door slammed near the big three cabins. Nico’s hand was definitely too tight as his sister stared down the boy next to him. She licked her lips, “why is he covered by the mist, Nico?”

He had almost forgotten she was chosen by Hecate, goddess of the mist. Almost, but not quiet. He ducked his head. “Er, so you don’t… kill him?”

“I prefer to stay out of Tartarusss actually, I heard it smellsss pretty bad down there-”

“You can’t even imagine.”

Nico froze. Oh, could this get any worse? He sighed and turned to Percy, hoping his fingernails weren’t leaving indents in the smooth skin he was clutching. His other hand was cold from the icy drink he was holding.

Percy grinned obliviously, “who got there?”

“...Starbucks.”

“Ha ha,” Hazel muttered, raising an eyebrow. Nico nodded, pretending he was laughing too, and then sped past them, dragging along the hidden gorgon to the Hades cabin, who waved happily as they left the group.

Frank shuffled, “isn’t there a two demigods not allowed alone in a cabin rule?”

Nico groaned internally. Why did he have to word the [snitchy] question in such a way? He knew what he was going to see before he even turned to the shortly disguised boy next to him. He sighed and nodded, letting go of his hand and taking a long sip of his drink as he watched the chaos go down.

“Good thing I’m not a demigod!”

Hazel’s expression didn’t shift, she’d seen right through the magic at the very start. She’d seen the coils of scales and the circular black glasses, the strangely smooth skin somewhere between human and snake. She might’ve even seen the tiny fangs. Frank stepped back behind his girlfriend a little, his eyes wide.

Percy visibly paled, and then gulped. “Oh.”

“No hard feelingsss man. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

Nico watched his gorgon for a moment and then smiled a little. He turned back to the gravel path leading to his cabin. “You ready? There’s a lot of skulls, just warning you.”

“Wait til you ssssee my place."

»»————-　★　————-««

143 notes · View notes

yeyinde · 1 year

Text

"Don't trust me?" "I don't even know you—" His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff. "Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we, love?"

》 WARNINGS: allusions to political corruption, mild horror (maybe??), mentions of death and murder; more banter in a pub; Price has a past

》 WORD COUNT: 8K

》 NOTES: This was originally much longer but the second part delves heavily into the mechanics of the world (we FINALLY see MC—I'm not good at creative nicknames—go into the underground/black market and it is like, a Thing!!!!) and it felt like a bit of an overload with soooo much being revealed at once. So, I split them up. More Reader x Price in a pub. Bantering. Because, ummm, I’m so goddamn creative, lads.

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS : NEXT

Makarov's outburst clots in the fibrils of your still reeling mind, replaying in an incessant loop that keeps you up into the early morning hours, unable to sleep.

Each time you close your eyes, you see the unavoidable truth in blood looming before you. Inner Circle. Inescapable.

All this time, you'd been under some false assumption that Makarov was the sole lender to whatever medical intervention was needed to bring you back from the clutch of death. It would make things easier.

People die every day.

It was the macabre ideal you clung to, digging into the notion until your nails cracked and bled. The only constant in your life that brought some semblance of hope.

After all, the dead can't collect any debts.

But a corporate entity can.

You're pulled out of your reverie when the sound of a news alert fills the silence of your penthouse. The screen flickers to life at the apex of dawn, just when the indigo sky above splits into a varicoloured smear of pastel pink, ochre, and lavender. The looming horizon—sun a hazy flaxen—swallows the tenebrous that gnaws on the skyscape outside of your window.

The vacuum fills the familiar jingle of your normal routine. A man sits behind a podium. The chyron below warns of a biblical rainstorm approaching, enough—

"—to wash the whole city away," the newscaster jokes as he jogs the stack of papers in front of him. A bead of sweat catches in the flushed light of the newsroom. The implants on his cheekbones flash; the chromatophore upgrade in his sleek skin shifting in a kaleidoscope of colour. "It comes at a good time, though, as reports of sickness are spreading through the medical bays. It must be flu season—," he titters before shifting his attention over to a man on the other half of the screen.

He wears a black poncho and a wide grin.

"A flu?" He echoes, the words swallowed by the passersby in the city square. The jumbotrons in the back bath him in a hazy, neon smear. "In this economy?"

They chatter in the background about a sickness spreading through the city, the storm looming closer, Atlas Corporation putting in a series of patents for some big, technological feat of engineering—Four Horseman has some steep competition this year! Atlas is the up-and-coming tech company that has new, innovative ideas and a focus on the environment!

It's the only mention of Four Horsemen Corp.

It doesn't surprise you.

Money is a powerful tool. Those who weren't already in their back pocket were quickly added, and those who couldn't be paid off were—

Enticed.

Whatever Anatoly—his primary enforcer—couldn't do, an encrypted file deep in Makarov's secured vault filled the gap.

The White Horse is a multifaceted venture. On its surface, a luxury club that caters to a specific clientele. Its exclusivity makes it desirable. People fall over themselves just for the chance to enter. The prestige alone from saying, "I've gotten an invitation," is worth more than money in the circle of the upper echelon. It's elusive. Draped in mystique.

Coveted.

They want to get in so bad, just for the sole purpose of throwing their weight around and saying they've been, that they don't stop and think about the potential dangers that lurk.

After all, a club funded by the Inner Circle and owned by Makarov—the White Horse—could hardly be dangerous.

It's not the club they have to worry about but the man who owns it. The one who has people in high positions of power froth at the mouth for a chance to attend.

It is impossible to convince a man with millions to risk his neck for someone else.

But blackmail does the trick.

From the utter silence of the media regarding this, barring a few fringe sites that are too small to bother with, you'd wager that your hard work was utilised now more than ever before.

"—pull out your umbrellas, because—"

You reach out, pressing the power key. It clicks off. The hologram darkens to sleek black.

Your face stares back at you, shaded in tenebrous. Empty. Vacant. Sometimes, you try to piece together what you might have looked like as a child, but all that surfaces is a void. Nothingness.

It isn't a mental block, but an absence of everything. Anything. A gaping hole.

You think of the missing man—Alex Keller—and something rotten gnarls between empty ribs.

Six days.

Three years.

You wonder if anyone is still looking for you now. If your face is plastered on the communication poles on some distant planet. If the uncanny likeness of you is whispered in a neighbourhood in Al Mazrah where your family mourns. Or if there is now an empty spot at a dinner table that will never be filled.

You doubt it.

Nothing ever appears in the searches. No one ever stops you when you wander down the streets, and belts out an unfamiliar name. The closest you'd come to some sense of recognition was that man. The closest you'd come to thinking finally, finally, someone knew you.

But he didn't. Doesn't.

He isn't combing the shady side of down for you, but for Alex. A missing man who's been gone for six days—long enough for the man to tear through the redlight district and force your hand to aid him in finding out where Alex had gone.

(You wonder if someone fought that hard for you.)

Ugly. Stupid.

No one is looking. Makarov assured you of this when you asked him.

You're a nobody, kitten. A stray. I picked you up off the streets and brought you back. You want your family? Well, all you have is me. Ain't that swell, kitten? What more could something like you ever hope for?

Worthless.

You're caged up like an exotic bird. A toy to be kept on the highest shelf until it's needed.

A pet. A plaything.

But Makarov's reach is everpresent. His eyes are everywhere.

You can run, and run, and run—

You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me.

—and he'll always find you.

You have this recurring nightmare that started a year into waking up.

Makarov's idea of avoiding the hassle of you constantly asking questions about the unfamiliar world around you was to just preemptively teach you about it all. In a single session.

Despite the hesitation from the man administering the chip that would flood your mind with knowledge of the world, he pushed for it. And really—who is going to stand up to a man who not only pays their bills, but funds a vast majority of the country?

Against all codes of ethics, you were given the chip.

There is no way of describing the pain of suddenly knowing, but it left a mental scar on your psyche, one that is fundamentally irreparable. A bruise that's always there. A sore spot in your mind as it slowly heals itself from the aftermath of information overload.

But in that knowledge, came the awakening of something else.

Something that the man touched on briefly. Your lack of implants. Cybernetics. The flesh on your body is unblemished by technology, save for a small port where your spine meets your skull. It's always been there. You woke up with it.

It is covered by a layer of tissue meant to keep debris from getting in, and most days you forget about it's existence entirely.

Until, of course, days like these.

When you remember a piece of that overwhelming puzzle that was forced into your head. Artificial intelligence. Androids.

Project Sentience.

It's now considered a cruel, awful experiment conducted by the forefathers who founded the technological epoch that bloomed, by many accounts, out of control and transformed life within a few, short decades.

The project was started with good intentions. They meant to mind the gap between the limits of knowledge and erase the blemish of human error. Where they dreamed up the impossible, the AIs were meant to fill in the missing holes in the theorems and puzzles.

Working, together, for a better future.

But there was an unseen flaw.

The sentience wasn't foolproof. The android working with the engineers thought themselves to be exactly what they were: human.

It was then that project commenced in secrecy. They led the androids to believe they were real, flesh and bone, but when the flawed aspect of the human ego (a byproduct of their tweaked code to mimic the behaviours of humans to seem more passably real) led them to declare themselves the greatest engineers of all time, it was then that human engineers made it known what they were.

It wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if they were just confined to the lab. But they weren't. They were meant to be human, and so—

They led human lives. Love, dislike. Heartbreak. Some had gotten married. Some had lobbied against AI agency.

All had thought they were human.

The ripping of the veil was a nasty one.

Their partners were ostracised. Lives ruined. Their agency was taken away from them in fear of an insurgence from the androids who were now feeling the distinctly human emotion of abject horror.

Everything they knew was culled overnight over something so disgustingly simple as human envy.

It was deemed too cruel to continue. Public outcry made it so that any android made with sentience was told they were artificial, and treated as such.

The lawing of this pulled people in different directions. Subservience. Superiority. Purist.

You think of that experiment, and then of the many markers left behind that give someone an advanced understanding of their anti-humanism. The first, naturally, being a lack of noticeable enhancements. Why would something made to be perfect need an upgrade or an implant when they can just be designed with that specific feature?

The second is a sudden awakening into cognisance.

An emptiness. Nothing. And then—

They're awake.

You think of that as you stare at yourself in the mirror, but it passes just as quickly as it came. Your attention was stolen away by flickering light overhead.

They warned of an oncoming storm, didn't they?

It draws your eye, and you watch the light recede in small bursts as it struggles through the power surge of the grid. It's a common sight. Static in the air. The taste of rain.

You've always been more attuned to the change in the weather, almost as if you could feel the building of kinetic energy buzzing across your flesh.

From the prickling goosebumps ghosting over your skin, you know it'll be a bad one. Biblical, they said.

You turn back, mind blank, sluggish. It's weird. All of this is—

The face in the mirror is not your own.

Well. No. No, it is. It's—

You.

But—

Your flesh drips. Raindrops of flesh slide down your cheeks, dripping into the porcelain basin of the sink where it hits the ceramic with a sickening splat.

(Pat, pat, pat—)

It doesn't hurt. You don't feel anything. Nothing, nothing at all—

And you should, shouldn't you? Agony over the slippage of skin falling off of your face in wet flakes until the smooth curve of metal is shown—

Metal.

Your chin dips. A mass breaks away, the ruination of Pangea, and falls into the basin with the rest until sleek gunmetal remains. Wires crossed, connected. You feel—

Nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Where terror should brim, you're empty. A vacuum.

(Made in his image.)

You force yourself to reel back, to fling away from the thing staring at you—the thing that can't be you, can't be, can't be, can't be—until you trip. Until you fall to the ground with a thud that you can only hear but not feel.

You know you're sitting down on the solid ground because you can feel the physical weight of gravity pushing against you, and meeting a barrier in the middle. Something stops it from sending you down, down, down.

The floor. Your fingers dig into the marble. The whine of metal across flat, recrystallised limestone meet your ears, but the breaking of your nails causes you no pain. No blood, either. Nothing. The uncapped tips of your carbon fingers leave scratches on the polished surface.

He'll kill you, you think, mechanical and distant. You ruined his floor.

It doesn't hit you the way it should. It doesn't do much of anything.

It feels like you're floating. Suspended. You can't feel the ground, or the floor, or the wall against your back. All that filters in is the knowledge that you are on a stable foundation, and not caught in a free fall.

You catch sight of yourself in the brass handle of the door.

A metal face stares back at you.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

A blink back into wakefulness, and you're in your bed. The mattress is soft beneath your feverish body, the sheets saturated in your sweat. They cling to your skin, trapping you. You feel the weight of gravity. The solid frame of the bed keeps you up.

Your hands fly to your face, nails scratching against your skin.

—Skin. Skin.

It takes hours to calm down, and days to shake the terror of looking into a mirror.

You sit, huddled in your room, and wonder if maybe all the signs were there.

Sometimes you wish that if Makarov had really, truly, made you from scratch, he would have given you solid gold plates for skin, and diamonds for bones, so at least every pound of flesh would be worth something.

(Worthless.

You are—)

Your loyalty to Makarov is a tenuous thread, one frayed and knotted from the inherent sense of ownership he lays on you. An obligation of recompense for saving your life—something you'd never asked of him.

And so, it doesn't really feel like much of a surprise when you pull the rim of your hood low over your brow, tug your mask high up the bridge of your nose, and sneak past your guard for the evening to meet him instead.

The place he picked is known as Industrial City—so aptly named for its abundance of postmodern buildings from somewhere in the mid-to-late twenty-first century. The crumbling ruins of an archaic homage to humanity's progress now sit abandoned in a cluster of rotting steel, cracked concrete, and mouldering asbestos.

It's a haven for small-time gangs, and at one point, was thought to be the hideout of a notorious Purist leader who tried to sever the dependence on technology, and plunge the world back into a natural darkness.

(He got as far as snipping a single wire from the Grid before he was detained for terrorism.)

Bathed in an inky black, and void of the artificial neon smear of lights and LEDs, it looks almost haunting in the indigo gloam. A graveyard of the past.

There's a prevalent feeling of unwelcomeness simmering low in the air around the abandoned buildings, one that grows ever-potent as you wander past it, and down the overgrown path leading to an old warehouse on the opposite side.

Tension thickens the air. You feel it clot in your lungs. An uncanny sensation of being watched. Hunted. Your eyes skirt the row of crumbling industrial buildings, peering into the black voids of the smashed windows. Jagged cuts of glass, opaque from a thick layer of dust, grime, and the inevitable decay passage of time brings, gleam in the pale light of the moon suspended in the aether.

It's dark. Uncannily so.

The only light illuminating your path is the jaundiced glow of the moon and the buoyant flicker of the shuttles docking on the station. An infinitesimal dot against Tycho's vast, grey dip. Barely enough to make a difference in a place that leaks a palpable sense of unwelcomeness from the tenebrous surrounding you.

Something shifts in your periphery. Your eyes dart to a third-story window of a vacant building.

The stark, unfathomable blackness gives nothing away but you still feel the unmistakable sense of something, someone, glaring back into your eyes. Eye contact from the void.

Your gaze drops to the underbrush.

The static in the air grazes your skin. You're being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

In the furze, you make out a depression in the dirt. Oval-shaped. Plain.

It's a footprint.

It rained all morning—a small appetiser to the biblical flood they promised: a looming thundercloud inched closer to the city each day—but the print in the wet ground was undisturbed. Fresh.

Above it, you find another. And another. Another. Until it disappears between a bottleneck of the two buildings.

The path leads you back to the broken window—to the vat of black.

The mini-gyrojet you stole from Yuri a long time ago sits heavy in the waistband of your trousers. Barely the size of your hand, and certainly less potent, but the laser is just as deadly as its parent. Comforting, almost.

Your fingers twitch. You stifle the urge to grab it, and force yourself to turn around. Back to the enemy. Stupid. You know better.

But whatever is looming in the shadows isn't a concern of yours.

(And maybe, maybe, if they did shoot you in the back, you'd know once and for all what your insides were made of.)

Stupid.

Nails bite into the soft skin of your palm leaving a crescent indent against your lifeline. The flash of pain, of discomfort, quells the knot in your stomach, the one that curls tight around your organs, and claws its way up your esophagus. Fear. Anxiety. They pollute inside of you with each step through the industrial mausoleum and toward the dilapidated building in the distance.

An old parking lot sits to your right. The cracked concrete is barely visible under the thick overgrowth that congeals around the space left behind. Nature reclaiming Her land. Against the hazy ochre smear in the distant horizon, slowly being consumed by the vat of indigo that follows swiftly behind it, the tangled vines of emerald green look ethereal in the gloam.

It's a vivid glimpse into the past when this place meant something to the people who ventured here. Office buildings. A parking lot where archaic vehicles using gasoline to run once sat, wheels on the concrete. Feet on the ground. They wandered to the buildings—just another cog in the machine.

You wonder sometimes what they would think if they could see the world today. The broken line between fantasy and reality where slipping a chip into their brain stem could create a gap in time, one that lets them wander through any period of history, any memory inside their head.

They called it virtual reality.

Another plane of existence they hadn't the technology to exploit fully. A digital dimension that lingered between the layered worlds.

Some live inside that realm exclusively, refusing to risk themselves in the physical plane where an errant jet could end their lives.

It's a strange juxtaposition from that to this. Where the graffiti that stains the crumbling ashlar is now considered with reverence to this world as a handprint in a cave was to that one.

A noise echoes through the vacant lot. The sound of a cut-off shout. Your eyes dart to the left, taking in the sight of two men standing outside of a Burger Town, jostling each other over the last jetbike parked in the charging dock.

Inside the restaurant, a man leans against the tinted glass, cigarette in his hand, watching the same tousle as you. Under the flickering neon sign, his lips quirk up in amusement when one of the men loses their balance, tumbling to the pavement.

It's another odd juxtaposition. A rotting graveyard of the past, some buildings salvaged and converted into a strange array of low-brow pubs, and—

Neon lips open, a pink tongue glides over the plump line of red before disappearing into a closed-mouth smile. It repeats.

—a pseudo redlight district for those who can't afford the rent on the main boardwalk.

The graffiti on the wall of the building is faded. The paint peeling, and weathered from the passage of elements. But you can still make out the shape of a yellow dick on the wall.

Bars. Fast-food. Sex. Testosterone.

The world might be different, but the people certainly aren't.

You pull your hood down lower over your brow, and quickly keep moving.

The converted warehouse doesn't have any markings on the outside to identify it as a pub, and you almost miss it until your tracker chimes, indicating your arrival.

Upon first glance, it's just a long, rectangular two-storey building made of chipped burgundy brick and scattered windows, all crusted with grime until it's tinted in a thick, opaque grey.

You check the map again—just once to be sure—and send off a delayed alert with a timer set to go off an hour from now to Yuri.

If you don't turn it off before the time runs out, he'll know where to find you.

(Or whatever is left of you.)

Everything about this, in hindsight, is pretty dangerous. Meeting a man who slings accusations at your saviour, and somehow knows about you, about your debt, in a graveyard that reeks of mildew and wet concrete is something people will hear about in passing, and wish you ill in the afterlife for being so stupid.

But you're here.

The choice has been made—whether or not it's a smart one has yet to be determined.

Military. They have power. Influence. However pantomime it might be in the face of overwhelming wealth, it's still something. You thought they were all corrupted by the Inner Circle's clandestine whispers of affluence—sign here, Colonel, and we can give you armour and weapons beyond anything you'd ever seen before (just look the other way while we sell the antis to your enemies—can't let you get too powerful, after all). It seemed like they were. The parade of men and women who congregated at White Horse, or any of the other subsidiaries around the city, the world, was a testament to that.

But he seems different.

(And really, you've always had a thing for gruff men who'll disappoint you in the end.

The heartbreak always tastes sweeter when they're worth something.)

You glance down at the screen, staring at the timer as if it was your last lifeline, and hope, desperately, that you have.

Your finger lifts. The screen fades to black. The white emblem of Four Horsemen Corp., gazes, almost accusatory, back at you.

(If anything, Makarov will kill you before the man has any chance of breaking your heart.)

Turning back now is forfeiture, weakness.

And you'd rather not walk through the graveyard again.

The door is made of rusted metal, and whines loud enough to echo through the barren landscape when you push it against the hinges. Muted gold leaks through the crack, spilling out onto the dirty pavement below your feet. Light catches on the motes dancing in the beam, and cuts through the murk of the falling night.

Inside, you hear the fading tune of an old song playing out its last chorus. The scrape of a mug being pulled across wood. A low murmur. And nothing else.

The normalcy of everything so far—or as normal as a strange retro pub in the middle of a mouldering neighbourhood could be—goes against the theatrics Makarov likes to pull, and you know from that alone that if this was somehow a trap, it wasn't his design.

Anatoly would be jeering at you from the very top of Makarov's tower, fingers pushing against your shoulders until you were forced further back with each question you didn't answer. All the way to the ledge, where Makarov would intervene—always wanting to play the part of a saviour—and spare you.

Just answer me this, kitten, and I'll put an end to it all.

But the moment you opened your big, stupid mouth and gave him what you wanted, he'd begin monologuing by the sidelines, pacing as he speaks, until—

Well. We can't all be heroes. Sometimes, we need to be knocked down a peg. Anatoly would move closer, oblivious to your pleading demands for leniency, and Makarov would smile, sharp and shark-like, and say, as if it pained him: or a few stories.

And you'd fall. Three hundred floors to your death.

By the time you hit the pavement, you'd be a wet puddle of mush. Unidentifiable. They'd ensure it by removing your identity chip, and anything else that would give the mess of your remains a name.

You've seen it play out enough times to know how it goes. The script might bend to fit the needs of the accused, but the plot was always the same.

Theatrical. Dramatic.

Your fingers curl into fists by your side, and find some solace in the fact that a two-floor drop probably won't kill you.

This is survivable as long as you're useful.

A new mantra is craved in the recesses of your mind. Useful. Useful.

You repeat it to yourself as you pull the door open wider, glancing in the room warily. Hesitant.

Whatever you expected, this wasn't it.

It's normal. Archaic in design.

Lanterns are strung across the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the small room in a muted gold. It complements the raw topaz colour of the wooden decor inside—herringbone floors, shiplap-covered walls, dark spruce tables and benches—and something about it all feels almost homey. Comfortable.

The size and cut of it err into intimacy or claustrophobia, and you wonder if that's why he picked it.

On the opposite side of the entrance is a dark hallway. A flickering exit sign glows softly in the gloom. Two darker doorways branch off on either side of the back door. Washrooms. You can vaguely make out the light spilling from the insignia etched into the wood.

It's flush against the rightmost wall where a series of old photographs sit, crookedly, on the panels. The images are too faded, jaundiced from time, for you to make out the shapes, but they all look human. Humanity from a bygone era. You catch sight of an old aeroplane, the vessel barely longer than the height of the man standing in front of the large propellers.

The rest of them are of people standing together near old landmarks that no longer exist.

Metals line the interior of one, kept guarded behind a new protective seal. They shine in the soft glow, and the label beneath reads: chest candy.

These are personal photos. Family heirlooms. Staring at them, struggling to make out the full shapes of the children, the men, and the women, standing around and smiling happily make you feel a touch voyeuristic. Gazing into a tomb not meant for your eyes.

You pull away from the wall, glancing at the one that sections off the washrooms from the main room. It, too, is decorated in photographs, but these ones are less personal. Images of long-gone celebrities. Artistic renditions of landscapes that evolved over the last centuries into something new, something different.

The theme of the wall is aerial. You make out old etchings of aircraft in all sizes. Commemorative pieces. Militaristic in its design.

Three booths sit flush against the wall, all made of dark wood, and each seat empty.

Against the leftmost wall is the bar itself, separated from the seating area by a long, oak countertop with six bar stools pushed up close. A mug sits, half-empty, in front of one. An empty glass in front of the other beside it. An ashtray in the middle of the two seats, filled with cigarette butts. One still burns away, wheedling down to a snubbed point.

The wall is lined with bottles. A tap behind it. At the end is another doorway which must lead to the back area. The sign above says employees only.

Near the only window in the room is where you find a solitary table with three chairs. In the seat facing you, back angled between the cut of the walls, shoulder turned to the bar, is where you find the man. Watching you.

A glass rests in front of him, half-empty. A burning cigar in an ashtray curls wisps of smoke over his face.

The implant in his eye glows sapphire blue, expanding as he reads the information in front of him. The other is darkened under the flushed light, almost black. Gazing right at you.

It's a contrast that makes you shiver.

"Made the right choice then," he says, words low as he lets them fade under the steady cadence of the song playing somewhere in the back of the bar.

It isn't much of a perfunctory greeting, but you take the opening all the same, and make your way toward him.

"That's yet to be determined."

"You're still here."

The wood is warm under your palms when you press them against the grain, shuffling into the bench across from him. Warm, and sticky.

You peel your fingers off, glancing at them warily. "Not much of a choice, though—" your eyes find him, narrowing into slits when he snorts, shaking his head at the disgust in your gaze. "What's so funny?"

He huffs and the blue light flickers out, fading into dark blue. "You," he offers as if it was obvious. The condescension bleeds from his lips when he speaks, and leaks into his clear eyes when you fold your hands into your lap. "Not the kinda place Makarov normally takes you, hmm? Ain't you spoiled."

"Makarov doesn't take me anywhere."

"That so? What? You his dirty little secret?"

Your brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin', love. Nothin' at all."

He's baiting you. The condescending draw of his voice, thick with derision, sets your teeth on edge, and makes the knots in your stomach tighten.

"Look," you start, sticky fists cleaned tight in your lap, irritating the indents in your flesh from earlier. It's enough to ground you. "I didn't come here for games. This is my head on the line, and—"

"Mine, too."

You scoff. "You started this."

"And it's my men who are out there, yeah?"

He leans forward slowly, the wrinkles in his brow deepening under the hazy glow until all you see is darkness cascading over a rucked canyon. Anger pinches at the corner of his eyes, the near snarl of his mouth.

He'd go for the jugular, you think. Sink his teeth into your flesh until a pound is ripped out, reaping his dues.

You wonder if his fury is as animalistic as the teeth he bares in anger, in warning.

"Gettin' injured, killed. Goin' missin'. Fighting a battle your men are waging."

"Makarov isn't waging anything. You don't know much about him, do you? The only thing he cares about is his stocks and his public image. Whatever you think he's doing, or he's behind, I can assure you—he isn't."

"You sound certain. What, hmm? Ain't the kinda pillow talk he likes to indulge in?"

"Pillow talk?" His words make you reel back until you're flushed against the chair, eyes widening. "I think there's a massive misunderstanding here."

He says nothing, merely opting to reach for his forgotten glass of scotch and dwindling cigar.

Pillow talk. "You think me and Makarov are—? No. No! That's—" you fight a shiver of disgust, knuckles digging into your thighs. "No. Makarov wouldn't—it's not like that. He's—"

"He's what?" He implores, resting his elbow on the countertop, cigar dangling dangerously between his lax fingers. The look in his eye is sharp, keen.

"He's my—"

You bite your tongue suddenly, stopping the familiar words from slipping out. It's the response you give when people ask what you are to Makarov—why he keeps you around on such a short leash.

My saviour.

The words have different connotations inside Makarov's sprawling skyline palace. Where his guards simply nod, in understanding, and accept your words as is, because he, too, is theirs as well. A common ground where nothing else needs to be explained as one word covers everything.

You won't find that here. Not with him. And maybe, maybe, some part of you is shying away in shame over the word. Saviour. You sound like the zealots running around proclaiming they heard god whispering to them in the grid, and felt Its holy touch when they plugged something in.

Electric, they say, reverently. Our saviour is stuck inside the machine—!

(You wonder, now, if Makarov chose that particular word on purpose, and know, immediately, that he did.)

"I owe him money. Why wouldn't he keep me around with such a staggering debt?"

Bringing it up gives you the opportunity you need to shift the conversation away from the game of Messiah and Disciples Makarov likes to play, and you knot your trembling fingers together tightly in your lap.

"Speaking of—" you huff, gaze fixed on him. Taking everything in. You might not have the same implant that he does, one that allows him access to the net in an instant, and feeds it right to his cerebrum, but you've always been good at reading people. Catching their tells. "Makarov isn't the one my debt is owed to. It's the Inner Circle. Still think you can erase it?"

He hesitates. Briefly, almost indecipherably, but you catch the dip of his cigar when his body tenses, fingers tightening too quickly on the stem. It twitches only once before he steadies it. His eyes cut to yours, impassive and unreadable, as he takes in the information you just offered.

The Inner Circle banking division was notorious for having contracts upon contracts to avoid buyouts without some hefty fee attached to make up for the lost interest.

It's a roadblock. Almost everyone you've met so far, ones with idealistic dreams of stealing you away from the clutch of Makarov, bulked at the number alone. This, this new piece of information, was bound to make him flee. Cut ties. Run.

Another hero with too much on his shoulders to bear another burden, leaving you behind to rot.

Tough luck, kid, one of them said after a three-week-long courting period that left you feeling moon swept and dizzy. Wide-eyed and jejune. Naïve little kitten, Makarov taunted the morning after you found yourself alone on the dock, bags packed, waiting for a man who'd never show. But Makarov met you there. Yuri, with sorrowful eyes, took the bags gently from your trembling hands, downcast as he murmured in your ear, you'll be okay, kitten.

Anatoly's biting laughter haunted you for months. Christ, he howled. You really thought there was a man on earth more powerful than Makarov? Damn, he swindled you good, dumbass. Was he at least a good fuck? I'd be so goddamn pissed if this happened to me and the idiot was lousy in bed.

But it was Makarov's palm against your cheek that broke you the most. The icy eyes never softened despite the coo of sympathy in his voice.

It hurts, doesn't it, kitten? Who knows if this is your first heartbreak, but I'm sure it feels like it is, doesn't it? Ahhh, You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me.

"Now about this betrayal…"

He had you locked in your flat for months, and everything iota of your time monitored in some capacity. The leash was shortened. The collar tightened.

The punishment for your betrayal came weeks after, when a package arrived at your flat. A golden box weighed down with precious gems and metals.

A holographic card popped up when you opened the package, hands shaking around the heavy box.

Makarov's voice flooded the room. What's more precious than gold and diamonds? The latch on the box clicked. You lifted the lid. At first, it didn't make sense. Your mind blanked, wiped, as you struggled to figure out what it was you were staring at.

A heart, kitten. His heart.

Then—

Horror. Stomach-churn terror.

Your hands snapped back, and the box dropped to the floor as mocking laughter met your ears, static and faded over the recording.

The still-beating heart tumbled out, connected to an array of small wires that kept it alive without a host. Without—

Your hand pressed against your lips as you fought the bile rising from your throat.

Betray me again, he said, and I'll make you cut it out next time.

You stare at the man across from you and know that the wishfulness inside of you will soften his flaws, blur his lies until anything he says just sounds right. A dangerous precipice. The yearning knotting around your mouldering ribcage is hungry. Wanting.

He'll ruin you. And you'll be forced to ruin him. To carve his heart out as Makarov keeps him alive the whole time. The last thing he'll ever see would be you holding his still-beating heart before Makarov makes you crush it between your trembling, bloodied fingers.

The image surfaces—horrific, garish, gut-wrenching—and you wish you were a little more jaded, a little less idealistic, to have that alone snuff the last vestiges of hope from your rotting heart.

"Doesn't change anything," he grouses, and then brings the glass to his lips. He downs the scotch in two swallows, and you can't pull your wide eyes away from the way his throat bobs, and stretches, as he tilts his head back.

When he's finished, he huffs. The glass hits the countertop with a clang that seems to shake something inside of you.

"They're all rotten," he snarls, words a rough rasp that makes you shiver. "All of 'em. Rotten to the fuckin' core."

The corruption never surprised you. Maybe the exposure to it all, feeding Makarov the names of the politicians and diplomats that wanderers through the club's door numbed you to it all, but seeing his visceral disgust over it makes something swell inside of you.

He's not too different from the heroes you've met, the ones you read about, but where they cut their anger into pieces of understanding and compassion, he wields his like a claymore. A battle-ready man brimming with a fury that leaks from his marrow and into the icy blue of his steel gaze.

He doesn't give you kind smiles or false promises. No, he gives you third-degree burns on your flesh from the molten heat of his rage.

"Who are you?" You demand, the words slipping out before you can chomp them down. "And why do you think I can help you?"

It doesn't make sense, not really.

The look he levels at you knocks the air from your lungs.

Fear curls in your gut. Wariness. The urge to flee wells, and you just barely manage to push it down.

"I told you already, didn't I?" He leans closer, drawing the cigar to his lips. "Heard about you, 'bout your debt."

"Yeah, and you thought I was Makarov's—lover—;" the word nearly makes you recoil. "But I'm not. He tells me nothing. Still so certain I can help?"

He takes a drag of the cigar, the tip burning through the dim interior of the empty pub. His eyes never waver from yours, but you know that this piece of information must, in some way, change things. He sought you out specifically because of your assumed relationship with Makarov. The precariousness of your debt has doubled into not just an inconvenience, but a legal issue with extra fees added.

You're more trouble than whatever you might be able to weasel out of Makarov.

More trouble than your worth.

The smoke curls in front of him like a hazy shroud of white. The light catches the indent in his cheekbone, and down the side of his face where his implant sits, humming with kinetic energy even while unlit.

Without the beanie on his head, you can make out more of the circular insignia on his temple, but the crest is unfamiliar to you. Unknown. You've never seen it before, and that unnerves you.

You know all the clubs, the crests, the gangs that roam the streets. From the upper echelon of the Shepherd family to the 54 Immortals seizing the power gap left behind by the fall of Brakov in a neighbouring country. It comes with knowing the underground. With making friends in the shadows.

But this one escapes you.

He shifts, moving the cigar from his lips. A waterfall of smoke rumbles from his mouth when he breathes out.

"Yes," he says, pinched from lingering smoke in his lungs. "I do."

"How?"

"Told you, love. Heard 'bout you—from many sources."

The back of your neck prickles under his reproachful stare. Something in those cerulean depths makes you tense.

"From who?"

His metal knuckles clink against the glass when he nudges it out of the way, resting his forearm down on the wood, bringing himself closer to you. With your spine flush against the back of the chair, there is nowhere to run. It hits you, then, when he draws himself into the scant space separating the two of you, angling himself until he takes up the entirety of your periphery, that this was intentional.

Of course, it was. Of course.

"Oh, from lot's a'people a lil' thing like you shouldn't be hangin' around." Despite the derision in his voice, his brows lift, arching high until his forehead wrinkles, and you catch something that seems almost impressed when he dips his chin, staring at you from down his nose. "You get places most can't. That's useful."

"Useful enough to wipe a debt? How do I know you're good for it, and this isn't some scam?"

"You don't," he answers simply, and something snaps inside you.

"Are you joking—? Do you have any idea what Makarov will do to me, and you can't even give me some—"

"Like I told you, I know people in high places." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like it isn't your life in balance. "They want to remain anonymous, but can settle your debt."

"How?"

"Don't trust me?"

"I don't even know you—"

His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff.

"Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we?"

It isn't fair. It isn't right. A part of you wants to rebel, to grab the cigar and crush it under the heel of your palm. The anger wells inside of you, white-hot and aching, and brings with it the strong urge to scream yourself hoarse.

You believed him—if only for a moment, for a single second, but it was long enough for the vestiges of hope to claw their way up the prison you kept it in, and leak back into your marrow. A pollutant that wrecks you viciously.

But—

Maybe you expected this. It doesn't sting as much as you thought it would. He's never really committed, and said—

"But," he continues, and you wish he would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—

"I promise it'll go away once we're done, yeah?"

Fuck.

Your voice wobbles when you speak, soundly dangerously thick, and wet. You peer up at him and wish with everything inside of you, there wasn't a thin veil of tears gathering across your lash line. Weak. You haven't cried in two years—

(You look so cute when you cry, kitten—)

"You promise, huh?"

He lifts his hand to his temple and taps his index and middle finger against the strange insignia implanted there. The hard metal of the crest meeting the soft polymer cover of his fingertips makes a muted thud not at all dissimilar to your beating heart.

"On my family name, I swear it."

Why—

To go so far for someone he barely knows, and doesn't trust—

And then it clicks. It isn't about you at all, but some personal vendetta, a promise to himself, that he'll accomplish what he sets out to do, and so, making this little oath with an outsider, the pet of the enemy, is nothing to him. It's performative as much as it is sincere, and the warring contrast makes your chest ache, and heat bloom under your skin.

"You—;" you start, but stop yourself.

He's not at all unlike the heroes you've read about in fantastical stories or the ones you'd met. The one whose heart you held in your trembling fingers as it slowly stopped pulsing in the palm of your hand. Whose blood you scoured from your skin until it was raw.

But where they offered a smile at the end of the promise they swore they'd keep, he frowns.

He doesn't strike you as the type of man to go out of his way to make others feel better. He believes in himself, and his prowess, and speaks about that in clipped, gruff declarations that are not meant to sway, but reinforce what he knows.

He will win. This isn't a question or a belief, but a statement. A truism.

Hope surges. The levee cracks.

"Who are you?" You ask, dazed.

The man who cupped your cheek, and whispered to you about escaping the clutches of this festering city, of going so far away, that grasping hands could never reach you, and greedy fingers would never again touch your flesh, didn't fill you with this same sense of awe, of pure belief in the words he said. But this man, this man, makes you feel like anything is possible. Hope blooms, brims bright inside of your chest like an inflating balloon drifting up to the heavens—

His mental hand splays flat over the table. "Names John Price."

The man sitting across from you is someone you know.

It makes sense, then. The insignia on his temple is the Price family emblem—a conglomerate in its own right, mostly composed of military men with staunch, unflinching moral codes. The incorruptible. The untouchables.

They were the ones who led the counterattack on the coup that changed the political landscape from the Feudalistic tyranny of the past, to—

Well. It was meant to be free reign, or maybe democratic, but the technological boom a few years after the liberation from the iron fist made little things slip by as the world was suddenly painted a lovely shade of roseate. Why worry about mega corporations becoming richer than most of the governmental bodies, and countries, when they made this new piece of cybernetics that let you see like a hawk, that introduced a new colour spectrum to the general public, when sickness, injury, and even death itself came something that could be bartered over for the right price.

The things that they let slip stacked up. It piled higher and higher until the free future the Price family, among others—Laswell, Shepherd, Walker, MacTavish—foresaw was smothered out in favour of the blatant mega capitalism that rules.

It might not be with an iron fist, but it is with a monetary chokehold that always seems to get tighter.

Their legacy is one founded on a strong moral core that is unbendable.

It makes sense why you didn't recognise the emblem at first.

The last of their pristine lineage—tarnished.

The man responsible for the power gap left behind by Brakov. The one who threatens his superiors, and uses brute force to get his way. John Price—the one who gave into temptation and was ousted from his family, and from the military, for taking bribes from people in low places. A man who'd side with anyone—for the right price.

Political turmoil and espionage must run in the family, then, as you somehow find yourself sitting across from the man implicated in a failed coup. One that resulted in the collapse of Urzikstan.

John Price.

Disgraced former captain. Rotten to his core. There's a graveyard filled with people who died because of his choices; a massacre that made headlines just a few months before you woke up. A man you know by sordid, rotten reputation alone, who somehow escaped condemnation for the people he indirectly (and, by many accounts, directly) killed.

John Price. Swindler. Scoundrel. Swine.

"John Price?" You echo, numbed. "The John Price?"

He leans back in the chair, posture relaxed, at ease, as if this wasn't a massive reveal. As if he wasn't a war criminal who was exonerated because of those friends in high places he so casually mentioned before.

"So," he rasps, pulling his cigar back to his lips. Despite the ease in his mien, his eyes tighten. A cobra ready to strike. "You've heard of me."

(—it blooms, and then all at once, it bursts.)

Nothing says cyberpunk like a morally ambiguous character.

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