#black lightning: cold dead hands

[rooscandraw]

book/hc designs vs tv show designs :O super hype for it!!

[flowerandblood]

The Evening Star (1/2)

[ Hades • Aemond x Persephone • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, kidnaping, sexual tension, obsession, incest, toxic relation ]

[ description: When the god of the underworld comes out of his caves once a year to admire his beloved constellation, he accidentally meets his niece, whom he has never seen before. Moved by sudden lust and desire, he kidnaps her, despite her despair and his brother's anger. Angst, sexual tension, dark and obsessive Aemond. ] Part 2: The Moonlight Ray

The Evening Star & The Moonlight Ray Persephone Moodboard

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

_____

He never understood his brother, hurling his lightning bolts from the heavens at defenceless people in a rage − he did not understand his volatility, he did not understand his irrepressible desire, his unlimited emotionality.

He did not understand how he could desire and feel so many things at once, having his sister-wife haunt and take other goddesses, nymphs, or even human women, begetting bastards on earth and in the heavens.

He did not understand him, for he was emptiness, abyss, coldness, the opposite of his impulsiveness, his eternal volatility − he was like stone, like white marble, soul as well as body.

The only desire he had ever known in his life was the desire for power, and for this his brother deprived him of one eye before casting him into a dark abyss where not even the light of the stars could reach.

Although he was a god, his brother's blow could not be undone and he was forever disfigured, the dark hole in his face filled with a precious stone, sapphire, shining with a disturbing blue light.

Accustomed to the darkness of Hades, he could no longer bear the intense light of the sun and rarely appeared on Olympus itself; he would wander through his dark caverns in his long, black matted robe and gaze at the river Styx, at its pale light and the contorted terrified faces of the souls who swam in it.

When word reached him that his brother had mated with their other sister, the goddess of the field crops, and that she had bore him a daughter, he was neither surprised nor interested − he did not come to celebrate her birth on Olympus or congratulate his brother.

His brother had often suggested to him that he should take a wife, that he should not be alone in the darkness of the underworld.

He, however, felt no such need.

Even his sister, known as the Goddess of Love and Desire, was unable to seduce him.

She touched his naked body with her soft lips and hands, but he felt nothing but embarrassment.

He left Hades only once a year, when his favourite constellation emerged in the sky − He would then stroll through the old, dense forest looking up at the stars, breathing in the fresh air, listening to the rustle of the leaves.

When this time of year came, when he left his caves and looked up, he felt contentment at the sight of the twinkling dots in the sky, the pleasant night breeze enveloping his cold body.

He strolled slowly and aimlessly, looking upwards, all around him only the quiet rustling of his robes and the sound of dew-wet grass lingering beneath his feet.

He froze as he heard someone's footsteps break a twig not far from him, he knew he was not alone and he was furious.

He thought that whoever this mortal was, he would flow right down his river of the dead.

He tilted his head to the side and saw a pale figure illuminated only by shy starlight, her body pressed against the trunk of a tree as if she wanted to take refuge in it, her face expressing helpless anxiety.

Her eyes were big, warm and as dark as his robe, her hair long, partly loose, partly decorated with rich braids encircling her head, small blue flowers woven into her hair.

Her full, moist, fleshy lips were parted slightly in an accelerated breath, her breasts which he could see perfectly through the thin, transparent material of her robe were rising and falling restlessly, her skin glistening like moonlight.

He stared at her, unable to move or make a sound, unsure if he had ever seen a being so infinitely beautiful in his life, luminous as the stars above his head.

He swallowed loudly when he saw that she had taken a step back to retreat, to escape.

"Is it the beautiful Evening Star herself who has left the sky to enchant me with her company?" He asked lowly, impassively, his voice though assured and direct trembled, betraying his desperation.

She stopped in mid-motion and looked at him again, surprised and embarrassed at the same time by his words − it seemed to him that he saw perfectly well how her cheeks flushed, giving her skin a rose tint.

She pressed her lips together watching him carefully, lifting her chin slightly as if probing him closely from afar, assessing whether he was a threat to her, whether he would hurt her.

He was unable to take his eyes off her.

"I will tell you who I am only if you tell me who you are." She whispered in a trembling, gentle tone.

A smirk appeared on his face at the thought that maybe she was a nymph who had ventured too far from her friends, and that she was at his mercy now.

He hummed under his breath and moved ahead, putting his hands behind his back, looking under his feet, moving unhurriedly towards her.

"They call me many names." He said with mischievous amusement, throwing her a piercing, disturbing look from which she shuddered all over, taking a step back again.

"My river, though water is a life-giving gift, brings death." He whispered once he was a few steps away from her, wanting her to solve the riddle herself, to exert herself.

She swallowed loudly, her eyes widening suddenly, as if she had just realised something.

"− uncle −" She whispered, and he froze, stopping in mid-step; for the first time in the thousands of years he had walked the world he felt his own heart pounding hard.

He looked at her in disbelief, and it was only at close that he saw that she did indeed have something of his brother and sister in her, though it was her she resembled more − he felt himself grow even paler than usual, his hands clenched into fists behind his back.

She, however, seemed not frightened about who he was, her face took on an expression full of contentment and warmth. She moved closer to him and now it was he who took a step back feeling a strange heat in his lower abdomen, his manhood throbbed suddenly as he caught a glimpse of the outline of her soft breasts.

"My mother told me a lot about you. About the sun hurting your eye." She said softly, and he swallowed loudly seeing that she was staring at his scar, at the stone placed where his eye once was.

He thought he was like Hephaestus, hideous, disfigured, and that she would never desire him.

He felt his jaw clench tightly, his body tense, hard as granite when she tentatively placed her soft hand on his shoulder, he felt the warmth of her flesh through the thin material of his robe.

He didn't know what was happening to his body, he felt tickling and tension in his lower abdomen, a strenuous need for some kind of relief that he didn't understand.

"Stay with me to watch the sunrise. Don't sink into darkness yet." She whispered as if in worry − he couldn't tear his eyes from her face, from her warm gaze.

He was unable to comprehend how any living being could be so beautiful.

"No." He said coldly, and then grasped her in his arms, his hands clenching on her soft, hot flesh like steel tongs.

For a moment she couldn't make a sound, terrified and shocked − she didn't scream when he threw her over his shoulder and headed towards his underworld, cold, dark, damp.

It was only when she realised what he was doing that she began to struggle and cry, calling loudly for help from her mother and father, begging him not to do it, to let her go, that she would not tell anyone about it.

He, however, decided to follow his brother's advice and take a wife.

The marriage required the oaths from both of them, but this did not prevent him from acknowledging her as his wife even though she refused to speak the words.

Even though he had given her his most beautiful chamber, on whose ceiling precious minerals shimmered like stars, in which streams of water hummed, in which she could lie on a great, soft bed, she did not want to see him.

He was not his brother.

He had no intention of taking her against her will.

It was enough for him that he could look at her every day.

Only him.

He bestowed new gifts on her every day, but she still cried.

He gave her a beautiful long gown of dark, translucent material embroidered with stones in which the warm light of the sun was encased after she said she longed to see it, but she didn't even look at it.

The blue flowers in her hair withered as did the warmth in her eyes − she was slowly becoming as pale as he was and was constantly shivering from the cold.

She would not let him embrace or touch her; she covered herself with the thick furs he had given her and turned away from him.

Occasionally something would awaken in her − she would then run up to him when he visited her and beg him to let her leave to see her mother.

"I promise you that I will come back and that I will be your wife. Please, let me see the sunshine and the fresh grass one last time." She begged, touching tenderly his cold cheek with her fingers, almost as if she loved him, and he almost gave in to her every time.

"I can't, Persephone." He replied coolly, feeling some kind of pain seeing the despair on her face, hearing her helpless sobbs again, her small hands clenched on his robe, her cheek hugged to his chest.

"My name is Kora." She mumbled with difficulty, as if enraged. He hummed at her words, lifting slowly his large, cold hand, taking unruly strands of her hair from her face, all red from crying.

"Persephone, this name, is my gift to you. For my sweet wife." He whispered, and she trembled, struggling to breathe, shaking all over.

"− please −" She babbled as he embraced her uncertainly and stroked her hair, relishing its soft texture, letting her draw on this substitute of comfort.

He walked with her through the interiors of Hades, wanting to show her that besides death, there was also beauty in the underworld − underground streams and lakes with crystal clear water, his three-headed, beloved Cerberus, who in his presence turned from a monstrous beast into a gentle, docile animal.

Sometimes it seemed to him that a smile adorned her face for a moment, but then the sadness came over her again − she shuddered with cold and fear hearing the wailing of souls floating in the Styx, she glanced nervously in that direction, swallowing loudly.

"Are they suffering a lot? Can they be helped?" She whispered, and he hummed under his breath, walking beside her with his arms folded behind his back.

"They are paying for what they have done in their lifetime. Their merits and transgressions have been weighed by Temida, who has issued a judgment on them. There is nothing I can do." He admitted with a glance at her, and she lowered her gaze, looking down at her hands.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked her at last, and she lifted her large, frightened eyes to him, her lips parted but no sound came from her throat. He pressed his lips together, feeling a sting in his chest.

He asked her if she was afraid of him after he had kidnapped her and held her against her will.

What did he expect?

The wrath of his brother and sister was quickly getting to him − her mother distraught at her disappearance had fallen into a state of utter agony, people were being starved to death by the land's failure to yield crops, there were more souls flowing in the Styx than he had ever seen in his centuries-long life.

He felt a kind of satisfaction when his brother descended into the underworld for the first time since time immemorial; he hated to think about dying and passing, and could not grasp the meaning of such a short life, knowing only the meaning of infinity himself.

He came out to meet him sitting proudly on his black marble throne, thousands of skulls at his feet.

For the first time he looked down on his brother, a gigantic cave all around them, Styx surrounding them on all sides except a small bridge.

"Brother. I warn you for the last time. If you don't give me my daughter..."

"Then what? I should take a wife at last – those are your words, aren't they?" He asked with a sneer, sitting stretched out comfortably in his seat.

"I want to see her." He demanded, and his lips tightened at his words. "Or I'll take her away from you myself and you'll never see her again."

"I poured water from my river into the honey she drank. Like any soul who has already bound herself to the underworld, she will not leave Hades without my permission." He said calmly, and his brother's face flushed red, his angry low voice echoing around him so that the ground shook around them.

"I WANT TO SEE HER!"

He hummed under his breath and nodded to his servant to bring her in.

His wife came out of her chamber a moment later − when she saw her father she immediately beamed, ran to him and threw herself into his arms.

He looked at them coolly, feeling his heart pounding fast, his stomach twisting with rage.

"My sweet daughter. Did he hurt you?" He asked as if the welfare of any woman mattered to him, as if he hadn't raped an endless number of innocent girls, forgetting them quickly because they were dying in what seemed to him to be just the blink of an eye.

He swallowed loudly when his Persephone shook her head, tightening her lips, lowering her head.

"He's good to me." She whispered and he felt a squeeze in his heart, a pain he had never known before.

His brother looked at him accusingly, trying to contain his aggressive, abrupt nature.

"People are suffering hunger because of you. Her mother has gone mad with despair, the flowers are not blooming, the grains are not yielding. Let them be together at least a few months of the year and I will recognise your marriage in the eyes of Olympus." He suggested, and he furrowed his brow.

"No." He hissed coldly, his gaze icy, piercing, furious, his hand clenched into a fist. "She is my wife. A wife's place is with her husband."

His brother moved in fury, wanting to lash out at him, the ground shook around them again, but his daughter's hand stopped him.

"Let us speak alone, father." She said softly; his brother backed away, panting heavily, his jaw clenched tight.

He hummed under his breath when he saw his wife move towards him, climbing the black, cold stone steps to finally stand before him − his brother snorted and turned, walking away, furious.

He looked up at his Persephone massaging his chin, delighted to see the outline of her body shapes beneath her thin white robe.

He shuddered and swallowed loudly, shocked as she sat on his lap, his manhood throbbed suddenly feeling her body so close, her fresh scent like a cool morning breeze.

"− husband −" She whispered with a soft click of her pink tongue, her hips innocently rubbing against his hardness, his body shivered at the sound of that word.

She had never called him that before.

She touched his cheek with her soft fingertips so gently, tenderly, slow strokes of her hips teasing him so innocently, that he parted his lips, breathing with increasing difficulty, his palms tightening on his cold stone armrests.

He could feel his length pulsing and swelling with every motion she made, he didn't understand what was happening to him.

He didn't stop her when she reached up to tie of his matte black robe, he drew in a loud breath and closed his eyelids when her delicate hand tentatively touched what was underneath.

"I am yours. I will give myself to you of my own free will." She whispered in a sweet, warm, trembling voice, her gaze misty, her lips full, swollen, red from emotion.

A quiet, low groan broke from his throat as he felt her hand direct the fat head of his manhood between her thighs with a gentle movement, he could see through the translucent material as she slowly began to sink him into her body.

He tilted his head back with quiet moan, licking his lower lip, feeling her hot, fleshy insides squeeze him wonderfully from all sides − she was surprisingly moist and warm, her core throbbing with arousal.

He felt her put her hands on his shoulders, lowering herself onto him with a loud, sweet gasp, her plump lips parted wide.

His hands involuntarily gripped her hips as she began to move, rising and falling against his length so painfully slowly that he had to close his eyelids shut, panting louder and louder along with her.

"– gods –" He exhaled with difficulty as she accelerated, the loud, sticky slaps of flesh against flesh echoing through the dark cavern, his manhood throbbing and twitching inside her, all hard and swollen with pleasure.

Involuntarily, his cold fingers clenched on the hot skin of her hips − he rooted his manhood into her tight, moist insides with his desperate, pathetic thrusts, her sticky moisture dripping down her thighs.

"– for our marriage to be valid you must fill me with yourself, my husband –" She whispered, pressing her forehead against his, droplets of sweat glistening on her body like little diamonds, her sweet moans of pleasure, her slick walls sucking him inside made him loose his temper.

He gasped weakly at her words, he had never felt a woman's insides before, had never desired anyone before her.

He felt like his manhood was going to explode with desire and lust, his thrusts became faster and more brutal, her soft breasts bouncing in front of his face − he lifted his hand and squeezed it tentatively, a soft mewl of delight erupted from her throat.

"– Persephone –" He breathed out pleadingly, imploringly, and then she kissed him, her hot, swollen, moist lips clinging to his, cold, dead, the tips of their tongues licking each other.

"– please –" She mewled although he didn't know what she was actually asking him, and then he heard her cry loudly, as if surprised, her hot insides clenching against him greedily, her tongue deep in his throat.

He felt with each thrust of his hips that he was getting closer and closer to something he'd never experienced before in his life.

Fulfilment.

The wave of heat and pleasure, his seed that spilled inside her surprised him so much that his voice stuck in his throat, and then again and again a low, helpless groan broke from his mouth − both of them were panting as they looked at each other with their lips open wide, his hands clenched painfully tight on her hips.

"I'm yours." She whispered softly, sweetly − he was looking at her feeling only peace, only love. "I am only yours, so please, let me see her."

He felt the heat in his heart replaced by coldness, his brow furrowed in a sense of anger, of pain, of betrayal.

"No." He hissed, wanting to lift her up, but she shook her head, cupping his face in her warm, soft hands.

"I will never truly be your wife if you won't trust me. If I don't come back to you of my own free will." She said helplessly, pain, fear and suffering in her eyes again, his lips tightened into a thin line at her words.

"Nine months with my mother so I can enjoy the sun, and then three here, just with you, every night, every day, I swear." She whispered tenderly pressing her face against his cheek, her scent overpowering and stupefying him, her warm insides still pleasantly enveloping his already soft manhood.

He swallowed loudly at her words, his palms digging firmly into the soft skin of her thighs.

"You're lying. You will never come back to me." He hissed and groaned low when he felt her hips begin to move up and down again with a loud click of her wetness and his spend, his manhood pulsed involuntarily with pleasure, betraying him.

"I'll come back. I promise I'll come back."

As much as she wanted him to lead her away, he didn't want to watch her disappear beyond the borders of Hades never to return.

He didn't want to watch her run merrily towards the light, thanking the gods for his weakness and naivety, for how every woman in history had been able to exploit a man's desires.

He did not want her to see his expression, his suffering and all the other feelings he did not want to feel.

The day after she left, he went to her chamber and lay in her bedding, sinking his nose into her scent.

He found, with regret and pain, that with each passing month her scent grew fainter and fainter, her silhouette in his mind becoming more and more blurred, as if he had never really met her.

He touched himself thinking about her, experiencing both wonderful and painful fulfilment with the knowledge that he would never feel her again.

He preferred to explain to himself that it was just a dream.

That he had never met her.

He knew she would not return.

She would not return to her captor, to the man who had kept her in a dark underworld for months, deaf to her pleas and sobs, a man who was crippled, who was cold, frightening and empty.

Despite this, despite knowing it, when the day came he could think of nothing else − he watched as the sand shifted in the great hourglass constructed of bone and glass as he lay in his chamber, drinking wine, feeling like a demented madman, listening for her footsteps amidst the groans of the dead.

She did not come.

He stared at the empty hourglass, which turned and the sand began to shift again, counting down the time of the new day; he wondered how he could have been so naïve to wait.

For the first time in ages he felt an embarrassing, burning wetness under his eyelids − proof that he really loved her.

He shuddered when he heard the quiet rustling of robes − he glanced sideways and saw her standing in the doorway of his dark chamber, in her hair beautiful small yellow flowers, her face bright and warm.

She wore the gown he had given her, black, decorated with sun rays stones.

"My mother kept me. She couldn't let me go." She whispered, and he felt his throat tighten, his body freeze, unable to make a sound or make any movement.

He breathed hard, looking at her with wide eyes, his lower lip and hands trembling involuntarily as she approached him slowly, as her hands untied the bindings of his robe with a light, easy motion, revealing what was underneath, how much he wanted her, how much he waited for her.

"I have been counting down the days when I will see your face again." She whispered, running her fingers over his scarred cheek, sitting on top of him, gently taking his hard length in her palm, lowering herself onto the fat head of his cock as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wanted to tell her that he didn't believe her, but instead a surprised, throaty groan of pleasure burst from his mouth − he tilted his head back, panting loudly, his hips involuntarily beginning to root his manhood into her fleshy, moist insides, her hands clenched on his shoulders.

"– fuck –" He gasped out looking at her with his lips parted, synchronising his thrusts with the rhythm of her body − he swallowed loudly as she slid the material of her robe off her shoulders, exposing her soft, plump breasts to him.

"– touch me, husband –" She cooed, and he lifted himself, immediately pressed his lips to her breast, sucking on it greedily, licking and teasing her nipple with his tongue, all hard with desire.

She sank her fingers into his long white hair and pressed his face against her chest, rising and falling on top of him with a loud click of her moisture, moaning so sweetly and loudly that he felt like his manhood was about to explode.

"– were you touching yourself? – did you touch yourself when you weren't with your husband? –" He hissed out in a trembling voice between flicks of his tongue, she kissed his hair in an attempt to soften his question and her answer.

"– forgive me, husband – forgive me, I've missed you so terribly –" She mumbled helplessly as he ran his fingers down her hips, twisting with her so that she fell on her back.

He gripped her thighs in his hands, looking down at her − her face all red with exertion, her hair scattered in disarray around her head, her body all bare before him, hot, beautiful, his.

"– I think I should remind you to who this body belongs to –" He growled, ending his sentence with a deep, brutal thrust, a loud, surprised moan escaping from her throat.

"– you are mine –"

Thrust.

"– mine –"

Thrust.

"– mine –"

Thrust.

"– repeat –"

"– I – I'm yours – I'm yours, forgive me, uncle –" She mumbled out with difficulty and drew in the air loudly as he spread her thighs shamelessly in front of him, looking down at the place where their bodies joined, her entrance clenching against him steadily, leaking with her wetness.

"– I forgive you, sweet wife –" He gasped, recognising this act of grace as an expression of his love and gratitude that she had not betrayed him, that she had returned, that he held her in his arms again.

"– I'll fill you with my seed and it'll be just as it should be –" He exhaled as he watched the perverse sight of their bodies slamming against each other with a loud slaps, his thrusts deep and sure, each time opening her wide on his thick, swollen cock.

He couldn't believe that she had come back to him, that he could smell her wonderful, floral scent again, that she was allowing him to possess her of her own free will.

Her fingers grasped his hand and sank it between her thighs − he felt her direct him to the small bud between her soft folds, she moaned when he touched her there.

"– here, husband – please –" She mewled and moaned loudly, throwing her head back as he began to rub her there, simultaneously caressing her inside and out, her core beginning to pulse greedily against him.

"– gods – stop clenching –" He exhaled with difficulty, rooting into her with quick, brutal thrusts of his hips, stretching her fleshy walls apart with the sticky click of her moisture.

He felt that if he went on like this he would simply come inside her, when he wanted to torment her, to prolong the moment of this immense pleasure and encounter after so many months.

"– I can't – I can't –" She sobbed loudly and he saw her fulfilment in all its glory, her hot, soft flesh went through convulsions, greedily sucking him inside, her lips parted wide in pleasure, her gaze misty and warm.

He cursed loudly, coming inside her so painfully hard that he clenched his eyes shut, panting loudly, rooting into her for a moment longer, the relief and delight that surged through his body was indescribable.

He looked at her beautiful face, her hands on either side of her head, her expression nothing but fulfilment and peace, her breathing uneven and ragged, her breasts rising and falling rapidly.

She looked up at him after a moment and smiled sleepily, raising her hand slowly − her soft fingertips ran over his scarred cheek and he closed his eyes, feeling pleasant, hot squeeze in his heart.

"What is my wife's name?" He asked in a whisper, kissing her warm, small hand, smelling of fresh grass and flowers. He heard her sigh sweetly at his question, her fingers sliding lower, running over his cold lips.

"Persephone."

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Aemond Taglist

@dc-marvel-girl96 @its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @verena-targaryen-writes @talesofoldandnew @happinessinthebeing @travelingmypassion

[jiejies-corner-store]

THE AVENTURINE FIC 😭😭 OH GOSH IM CRYING 😭😭

i’m so sorry, anon! here this should make it up 😭😭 the devil knows you're dead

pairing. aventurine x reader

tags/tw: fem!reader, references to a complicated childbirth, mother!reader, father!aventurine, spoilers to aventurine's real name, spoilers in reference to 2.1 trailblaze questline, aventurine’s nihilism and depression, references to death, hurt/comfort, ooc aventurine probably, i make shit up at the end because i want a happy ending—bite me.

sfw

a/n: ouchie. i finished 2.1 and it hurt. it hurt a lot. the ost for the “all the sad tales” is genuinely so beautiful. the trumpet just feels so melancholy yet hopeful it just goes so perfectly with aventurine’s story. but i need something that feels good now. ABSOLUTELY NOT PROOF-READ pt. 1

“As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.”

It was cold. Cold and warm. Almost feverish feeling. The type of feeling you’d get when you were freezing but your skin was hot to the touch. There was this frustrating beeping noise somewhere off in the distance that you just couldn’t tune out, finally you opened your eyes to see a sea of darkness, and seemingly at an unreachable horizon, a large circle of white light that looked like a gate.

“You’re not dead, if that’s what you’re wondering,” a voice came from beside you. How you didn’t realize there was a whole person standing next to you, you had no clue.

“Well, that’s not originally what I was going for, but now I’m a bit worried I might be,” you laughed, nervous, but curious all the same. This… person you couldn’t quite make out an exact face, or even a body for that matter, but ther was this distinct feeling that it was in fact a person. Like your instinct knew, but your brain couldn’t quite fill in the details.

“This is a place beyond mortal comprehension, if I tried to explain it to you, you would only be more confused. Walk with me,” the entity said, and without even willing your body to do so, you followed. Ripples emanated from each step as you followed and soon the inky void around you melted into an unfamiliar planet.

The sky was a deep purple, streaked with red that looked like lighting that crackled along the sky. Instead of the fluid, black ground, sand now shifted as you moved foward. Inside a small hut made of rock, you saw a woman cradling a swaddled child.

“Such a lucky child, such a blessed child… Just like your name. A gift from THEM to Avgin… my boy…”

You turned to the figure beside you and hesitantly asked, “Where are we?”

“A land of rock, but not water, lightning, but not rain, blood, but not tears,” the entity responded cryptically, which only caused a crease in your brow. You went closer to the mother in the hut and sat next to her. She whispered a blessing onto her child, but none of the words made sense to your ears. Similar to the entity, it’s like your brain scrambled them from your understanding.

The mother cried. You tried to wrap your arms around her to comfort her but only phased through her like a ghost. The baby too began to cry.

Then, the scene changed again, suddenly it was a cell with iron bars. A blond young man sat next to you. The blond’s gaze was downturned, but you could recognize that voice anywhere.

“—Thirty tanba… that’s all my life is worth.”

“That’s not…” you said, but realized it was all in vain. You tried again to take Kakavasha’s hands into your own. You wantd to take the cuffs off his wrists and cradle where the skin was rubbed raw.

“It's all or nothing…”

“Kakav—agh!”

Your future never existed You█ future never existed You█ future ne█er existed You█ fut███ ne█er existed You█ fut███ ne█er ████ted You█ fut███ █e█er ████ted Yo██ ██████ █e█er ████ted

Your mind felt clouded, a searing headache, followed by an inability to even pin down a coherent thought. The scene shifted once more.

“What’s going on!” you shouted at the figure that stood only silently next to you, crippled on the ground, clutching at your head, fingers pressing in to try to find the spot that would alleviate this awful pressure.

When your senses were no longer blinded by pain, you were back to that inky void you started in, but this time you weren’t alone. Not far away, maybe twenty feet or so, was your Kakavasha, and a woman you didn’t recognize.

“Why are we born into this world if it's just to die?”

You stumbled to your feet to try to run to him, but with each step closer he only got further away. He walked towards that gate of light. In your head, you heart was pounding faster and faster. You failed to catch up to him. He only got further and further away until he disappeared like fireflies dispersing into the night, “Kakavasha! No—!”

Utterly devastated, you sunk back onto your knees. You didn’t know why but you had this distinct feeling of loss. Tears rolled from your eyes freely. He… he wasn’t gone surely? The entity’s presence reappeared next to you.

“Why did you show me all of this,” you asked, not sure if you actually wanted an answer.

“Because you need to go back,” the entity answered and your jaw locked, gritting your teeth so hard they hurt.

You screamed into the void, “You’re the one who brought me here!”

“I never call anyone to me… you mortals believe that it is US that determine when your time to go is… but in truth it is your own doing, whether it is your body or your mind that gives up first,” the entity said, “It is only the strength of your will that will allow you to continue down your destined path… but many give up on that path and someone else must be chosen.”

“What does this have to do with me,” you snapped. “Why are you meddling in my life? What does Kakavasha have to do with this?”

“Kakavasha still has a long road ahead of him. I have supplemented his journey all his life. It was only recently he was able to live on his own will,” said the entity ”Your body is giving up. I do not have the power anymore to keep him alive. That lies with you.”

Your surroundings melted again. You were in a hospital room and on the bed was you. Eyes closed and steadily breathing, but your heartbeat was weak. The annoying beeping from before was louder and more prominent.

“You wanted to help him. During his past, you reached out each time. There is nothing you can do about that now, but the future and the present… you still have a choice.”

Laying a hand on your unmoving body, there was a slight resistance, but with just a bit more pressure you felt as if you could phase through it entirely.

“What do I need to do,” you asked the entity.

“Live.”

You furrowed your brow at that. Of course you wanted to live… right? The entity gestured for your hand, you obliged. Against your palm was an oddly soft feeling. Warm. Like a mother’s touch against your’s. Your palms pressed together, the entity spoke,

“May the goddess Gaiathra close HER eyes three times… Keep your blood eternally pulsing… Let your journey be forever peaceful… …and your schemes forever concealed."

You lifted your head and your “body” began to disappear similar to how Kakavasha disappeared. Just before you disappeared into sparks of golden light, you had the sense about you to ask:

“Who are you?” you felt like you were shouting, but your voice was quiet.

“You could call me Fenge Biyos.”

You opened your eyes with a deep gasp for air. Your surroundings were blurry, and you rubbed at your eyes, only to realize Kakavasha was up, standing next to your hospital bed with an anxious expression, hands already grasping the one that was wiping crust from your eyes.

“You’re awake,” he choked out, holding you as if you would break, “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry for everything. I’m sorry I did this to you that I—”

“Kakavasha, slow down, what… why are you—no, don’t be sorry,” you finally found your words, sitting foward on the bed to wrap your arms around him. You racked your brain, trying to figure out what was going on. Your mind was still foggy, but finally that haze disappated and you remembered everything leading up to now.

“Kakavasha~” you hummed in a song-like tone, a small wrapped box with a blue and purple bow tied around it. You skipped over to his desk and wrapped your arms around his shoulders where he sat, and placed the gift in front of him, laying your head on his shoulder as your arms tightly hugged him. “I have a surprise.”

He smiled with a small laugh, “Doesn’t this usually work the other way around?” He pecked a kiss onto your check before pulling the bow off and opening the lid of the box, when he froze.

The smile on your face faltered bit when he didn’t say anything after a bit. The corners of it tightened into a more forced position, “Kakavasha? You’re gonna be a papa…”

The joy in his face from earlier had completely vanished. Only replaced by a stony, cold, poker face. He pushed his chair back and you stumbled into the wall behind. He gave you a tight smile and kissed your forehead before heading for the door and grabbing his hat. “I’ll be back later.”

With that, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving you at a loss as you fell into his chair, feeling suddenly so very empty in this large office alone.

He came back after that, apologetic for leaving you, but nothing felt truly right. He continued to reassure you that he did want to have this child, but it was a strenous time. The entire pregnancy was stressful. The doctors warned you that the level of stress you were under put you at risk for a premature birth, but you brushed them off. It was just the hormones, you were sure. Kakavasha still loved you. The ring on your finger should’ve been proof enough of that.

“How about the name Ilyas?” you suggested, laying your head on Kakavasha’s lap, “I was… looking at some databases about Avgin names and I thought that one was nice. What do you think?”

Aventurine hummed, but his mind seemed elsewhere. You let it go.

The next few months continued on in similar fashion.

But it all came to a head.

The two of you were standing in the kitchen. It had started off small. The hormones and the stress were getting to you. It was an off hand comment about him not fixing dinner, and you were tired and hungry from carrying around his child.

From there it had escalated. It turned into you were tired of feeling like you were walking on eggshells when you talked about the pregnancy. About how he was barely around for the appointments, and when he was he seemd emotionally distant… finally he exploded

“I never asked for this!” he shouted. “When did I ever say I wanted to be a father? Did you even ask me? Did you think about what I felt about this whole thing at all?”

You paused, feeling tears well up in your throat as a white-hot fear flashed through your body. You laughed, a hollow sound, “I’m sorry, Aventurine, I thought it took two people to make a baby? And you certainly made no attempt to use protection.”

He didn’t have anything to say about that. Even though the argument seemed over, you felt a nauseous feeling crawling up in your throat. Your tears felt like acid burning through your skin. Then a pain in your stomach. Your knees gave out and the last thing you remember was the scared expression on Kakavasha’s face before it all went dark.

“I was scared…. I was so scared that bringing another Avgin into this world would only bring misfortune onto you… that Gaiathra Triclops would take you from our child, just like my mother was taken from me,” he openly cried into your shoulder. “I took it out on you. I made something that should’ve been a beautiful experience something that was awful, and I understand… if you never forgive me for that but please…. please don’t leave.”

Now you were crying with him, one hand tangled in his blond locks and the other rubbing his back. Quietly, so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it, he whispered, “I can’t lose you too.”

You thought for a long time. In front of you wasn’t one of the Ten Stonehearts of the IPC. Not a calculating or cunning man, who’s only interest was in things that benefited the IPC’s bank accounts. In front of you was a broken man, who’d had everything stripped away from him when he was only a child. Who was shattered and forced to put his life back together with nothing but fear and anxiety as glue.

Did it excuse what he'd broken?

No.

“I’m here… I won’t leave Kakavasha,”

But maybe with time and effort, you could help re-glue each other with something a little more beautiful.

“Ilyas! Don’t run so far!” you called after a small blond haired child who was already ahead of you by a longshot, you turned exasperatedly to your husband, “Honey, can you go after him please? I don’t want him to get trampled by some idiot who’s not paying attention…”

The man only smiled at you, one hand firmly wrapped around your ever expanding waist, “It’s okay. There’s some of my squad that’s following him incognito. He won’t get out of our sights without them dragging him back. We can let him get his energy out. He’ll be cooped up in a hospital soon.”

You huffed conceded. Already tired from just getting through the theme park’s entrance. You were due in about two weeks, but Kakavasha was insistent that a week before you’d be under hospital supervision until you brought your second child into the world. It had taken about five years before the two of you had healed enough and there were roadbumps along the way… but you were both ready to give Ilyas a little sister.

But for now, the two of you wanted to let Ilyas have one more day as an only child. The reconstructed Penacony was nothing like the Dreamscape of the past. Fear and secrets no longer were trapped in the gilded cage of the former prison planet. With the help of the IPC and the Harmony, New Penacony was entirely real. No more dreams, just reality. They’d kept many of their old franchises and built a true theme park.

“Mama!! Picture! Let’s get a picture here before we go in!” Ilyas screeched, pointing at Clockie statue in front of the Clock Studios main attraction. You set a hand on Kakavasha’s arm, glancing up at him to try to get a read on what he was feeling. He’d let you in on the parts of his past that he’d kept a secret. The scheme behind Penacony, his proposed “death” and his encounter with his Past and Future.

He took a breathe and looked back down at you, giving you a smile that said “I’m okay” and relief flooded your bones. After walking you over in front of the camera, he crouched down and scooped Ilyas into his arms.

“Ready?” the cameraman asked and you nodded. After a brief countdown the camera flashed, and for a moment in that bright light, you saw the hopeful future that lied ahead.

[happyk44]

Like the idea of the big three changing physically when they use the full force of their powers. Thalia and Jason glow as static and electricity ripples off their body. It always starts in their eyes first, the sharp burst of lightning in their sockets. When they speak, it trembles the desire to obey through everyone's minds, drawing enemies to their knees to strike. The wind burns, yanks, and pulls, a myriad of storms all blistered into one.

Nico's veins turn black as shadows leak from his body. Hazel glistens like gold, her hands melting the substance from her palms. Both them seem to go almost translucent as their bones become that much more apparent, but still they're solid and firm. The air around them growing as cold as the dead.

Weirdly Percy never seems to change when he goes all out. No one can tell why. They assume it's because Percy doesn't really use his powers as much. He tends to rely on his sword and that's fine.

But then a giant monster emerges from the ocean on a hot, hot day, when everyone is trying to cool off at the beach and they finally see it. The cracks in his body glittering like scales. His teeth sharpening like a shark. The way he fights, a hurricane, devastating and overwhelming. His skin is near frozen, like the deep deep sea. His eyes glow bright and hypnotizing. His voice is like a siren song as he shouts for people to run.

He was never in his element before, they realize when the fight is over and the changes melt off him like water. The sky, the air, death - it's everywhere. But the ocean is too specific.

And for that they're grateful.

[sitp-recs]

Hello good morning afternoons or evenings, I hope you are having a wonderful day! I'm looking for fic Drarry where they both become a safe place for each other or have a strange connection with each other because only they can understand each other.

Hello anon! Oh I love this concept so much, I’m all for comfort fics like that. Here are some stories that came to mind:

A Little Death Never Hurt Anyone by @tackytigerfic (E, 4k)

Harry's getting good at slipping through the Veil. He's determined to win the war, even if means he has to raise the dead to do it. Draco just wants a stiff drink and a good night's sleep.

Thermodynamic Equilibrium by @dorthyanndrarry (T, 5k)

Harry's far too hot. Draco's always cold. And somehow against all odds, together they create a perfect equilibrium.

A Pain of Our Choosing by @lqtraintracks (E, 6k)

It’s 8th year and everyone’s still a bit messed up. Harry and Draco fall into being messed up together.

Glowing by @cavendishbutterfly (T, 10k)

Harry's lived alone and vampiric in his cottage for ages, until a long-lived Draco Malfoy suddenly shows up to answer an advertisement Harry had practically forgotten he'd put in the Prophet. Cue soft blood drinking, quiet nights of reading and crocheting, and Harry thinking that maybe--just maybe--he might not be so alone anymore.

Tidings of Comfort by @blamebrampton (G, 10k)

When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. Luckily for Draco Malfoy, London has places where the tired can rest and recover.

Nice Things by aideomai (M, 22k)

The first thing that happened was Theodore Nott came back from France.

The Last of What the World Left You by @xanthippe74 (T, 25k)

If the wizarding world won’t give Draco a second chance, he has a plan to survive: live in his Animagus form, a carrion crow, in the Forbidden Forest. Not only does Harry Potter come along and ruin it, he’s radiating a strange aura of power. With nowhere to go and a Life-Debt to his mother that Potter insists on repaying, Draco puts himself into the hands of the reclusive Boy Who Lived. Will the bleak corner of Yorkshire where Potter makes his home be another dead end or an unexpected refuge?

Strange Bedfellows by orphan_account, ravenclawsquill (E, 30k)

When Harry encounters a frail and fidgety Draco Malfoy at the Ministry, he just knows something is wrong and he’s determined to get to the bottom of it.

Holly and Hawthorn, Thistle and Thyme by bryoneybrynn (T, 31k)

After the war, Harry can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong with him and he has a terrible feeling he knows what that “something” might be. He has a terrible feeling Malfoy might know, too.

Open For Repairs by @drarrytrash (M, 35k)

After the war, Draco works at a tv repair shop and Harry breaks things.

Like Lightning at Your Fingertips by potterwatch (T, 43k)

The problem with living with another insomniac is, eventually, they find out you’re one, too. When Harry and Draco return for their eighth year, they think they’ll see very little of each other. Then McGonagall assigns them to room together. And the castle starts breaking. And there’s that thing with Potter’s magic.

A Room Up There (And You In It) by @the-starryknight (T, 59k)

When Preservationist Draco Malfoy was assigned to work on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, he was excited to delve into the gorgeous Black family antiques. His excitement quickly ended when something in the House decided it did not like his presence one bit. Featuring a grumpy antiques lover who most certainly did not sign up for this, encounters with a vengeful apparition, and a healthy application of Christmas spirit.

Running on Air by eleventy7 (T, 75k)

Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.

Little Deaths and How to Avoid Them (or Draco Malfoy's Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead) by nerakrose, dustmouth (T, 96k)

Malfoy is way too interested in coroner reports for somebody who's definitely not looking for ways to die, Harry wants to be friends with him, and Ginny wants to break up with Harry.

Way Down We Go by @xiaq (T, 109k)

In which Harry and Draco both run away from their pasts and conveniently choose to hide in the same tiny American town. It's super.

A Sword Laid Aside by @korlaena (E, 128k)

When Draco’s cover is blown during a deep undercover operation and the Ministry is compromised, Ron takes Draco to the only safe place he can think of—Potter. Hiding out with a taciturn Harry Potter, who has been missing from the Wizarding World for almost two decades after a shocking fall from grace, is nothing like Draco thought it would be.

In The Dark by @bixgirl1 (E, WIP)

In the aftermath of an apocalypse, Harry receives an order to find and bring Draco Malfoy nearly a thousand miles, to the tenuous safety of Hogwarts. But more than distance separates them from their goal. The world has fallen, and death is hungry.

[toxicanonymity]

night walks: soaked

3.6k / creepy!joel miller x f!reader / night walks

Warnings:  I8+ mdni, alcohol, dirty talk, grinding, jacking off, oral F receiving, unsafe P in V sex, creampie, angst. very brief ass play. drug references. impaired editing. Shoutouts: various anons & night walks asks and Qs including @selfproclaimed-moviecritic and @missannwinchester. Picks up from Morning After. Floor plan here. Can read alone I think.

A loud clap of thunder startles you awake.  You sit up in Joel’s bed, untangling yourself from the sheets.  Joel’s not there.  There’s music coming from the other side of the basement, and the clink of weights.  You look around for your clothes and remember they’re out there scattered around the couch.  Great.  You get out of bed, wrap the sheet around you, and sheepishly emerge from his bedroom.  Joel counts down from five as he finishes bench pressing then racks the weight.  He’s shirtless.  He sits up and wipes his brow.  He does a double-take when he sees you walk in, then looks you up and down with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Lookin’ good,” he says. 

You gather your clothes from around the couch and say “Just getting dressed.” Your phone is dead.  “What time is it?” 

“Hell if I know.  Look perfect to me, pumpkin.” He doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Real life goddess.”  Lightning flashes outside. 

You sit down with your clothes in your hands and look away as he watches you get dressed. You’re too tired to care and your head hurts. There’s a loud clap of thunder as you pull your tank top on.  Joel picks up his water bottle and takes a swig, then puts it down and stands up to stretch.  You pull your sweatpants on under the bed sheet.  He walks around the couch and you do your best not to ogle his glistening body, dressed only in shorts.  You start putting on your shoes and the fridge opens behind you.

“Hair of the dog?” Glass bottles slide out and clink against each other.

“Nah, I gotta go.” 

“In this mess?” he asks as thunder rumbles. The blinds are pulled up on one window now and it looks pitch black outside. “Didn’t ya walk here? Gonna get soaked.”

He comes back with two beers and hands you one.  He also brings cold pizza.

“Seriously, what time is it?”

He looks back to the kitchenette.  “Four somethin’.” Shit, no wonder you’re hungry. 

“Thanks.”  You bite into a slice of pizza first, then take a sip of your beer. 

“Attagirl. Let’s watch somethin’ while this clears up, hmm?”  He turns on Netflix.  His recently watched list is mostly action movies and nature documentaries.

You slide your shoes back off and ask, “You like animals?” You’re wondering if it’s his own Netflix history or someone else’s. 

“Hell yeah, who doesn’t?” 

You raise your eyes in surprise and nod. “Got a favorite?” Thunder crashes. 

His face gets serious and he exhales like it’s a really difficult question.  “Well shit, can’t pick just one.  But big cats are cool as hell. D’you know leopards are basically nocturnal?” 

He hands you the remote control.  Not really caring what you watch, you idly click on the #1 trending: You. 

“Oh, not this creep again,” he says and leans back with an exaggerated eye roll. “Addicting, though, ain’t it?”  He looks at you, takes a sip of beer, and rests his hand on his inner thigh.  You put on Narcos.

You watch a few episodes and have a couple of beers as it storms outside.  At some point, you bring your legs up on the couch and he coaxes your feet in his lap.  He massages your feet.  You don’t talk much, and when you do, it’s nothing serious.  But it’s still the most talking you’ve ever done.   You mostly discuss different shows and the neighborhood. 

“Why haven’t I seen ya at the pool before?” he asks. 

“First summer here,” you say.  

“Wanna go sometime?” 

“I dunno,” you say. “Don’t like the sun much.” 

“Oh hell no, not in the day,” he laughs. “They don’t lock the gate at night.”  He winks at you and gives your foot a squeeze, running his other hand up your calf to massage it. He lowers his voice and adds, “We could go any night ya want.” 

-

There’s a long moment of silence. He takes a deep breath as he kneads your calf and watches you watch TV.  His face darkens.  You have to assume you’re both thinking about the same thing - the pool at night.  Joel scoots closer to you on the couch and pulls your calves into his lap.  His cock hardens against your leg through his thin sweatshorts. Then he gently bends your closest knee to make room for himself.  He gets between your legs and slowly lunges toward you, laying the bulge in his shorts against the crotch of your pants. 

“Any night ya want,” he repeats, then brings his mouth to your neck.  He kisses and lightly sucks your delicate skin and gently presses his hard length against you.  Then he kisses you on the mouth.  He tastes like beer. He puts his forearms down either side of you and slowly thrusts against you.  He kisses you on the neck again, then murmurs, “my turn,” behind your ear.  “Show ya what this mouth can do.”  You have flashbacks to the blow job you gave him the night before. 

Joel makes his way down your body and hooks his fingers into your sweatpants.  As he brings the waistband down, he kisses the crease of your thigh and you squirm uncomfortably. “I’ll take your word for it,” you say somewhat cruelly as he plants a wet kiss just above your mound.  The truth is you already know, from the restaurant bathroom.

He pauses.  “What’samatter, pumpkin?” 

“I just feel so dirty,” you admit. 

He smirks and opens his mouth to say something predictable, but you cut him off. 

“Physically dirty. I need a shower.” 

He pauses. 

“So take one,” he offers. He sits back and extends his hand to help you up. You hesitate and he raises his eyebrows at you. “Why not? We got time. Shit, I could use one, too.”  

You swallow hesitantly. Showering with him?  Far too intimate.  First you end up in his bed, then his shower, all in the same 24 hours?

He seems to read your mind and clarifies, “Ladies first.” The storm isn’t letting up. You don't have anything to lose and definitely need a shower.

-

The back of his bathroom has a frosted window and a free-standing shower with no door and a drain on the floor. The ceramic tiles of the wall are dark peach with one row of black just below the window.  The ledge of the window holds the  soap, body wash, and shampoo.  

“Faucet's kinda weird,” he says.  “I’ll get it started.”  Your eyes scan his bare back as he turns on the shower for you, standing out of the way of the water but getting lightly sprayed by tiny droplets.  The water is loud.  He has a couple of small tattoos you don’t remember seeing before.  They look abstract from what you can tell, but they’re faded and the lines are blurred from age. 

“Guessin’ you like it hot,” he says and turns the dial.  He gets a towel and hangs it on a hook for you.  

“Thanks.” You stand there awkwardly waiting for him to leave.

“Mmm hmm.” He hesitates by the door to his bedroom, a few feet away from you with his arms crossed. He checks you out, then uncrosses his arms and abruptly steps forward into your space.  He grabs your ass and pulls you into him, your hips meeting his.  He grinds himself into you again, sending a fresh pang of desire through you.  He kisses your mouth, then your neck, and sucks your earlobe. He grabs the hem of your shirt from behind and takes it off, discarding your tank top.  Then he slides his palms into your pants, leaving his thumbs hooked outside your waistband.  He takes your pants down, dropping them to the floor as he grabs your bare ass cheeks and pulls you harder into him, his clothed hardness pressing into your naked front. 

Steam billows over from the water.  He goes to check the temp, his tented shorts getting sprayed again.  His back muscles are a sight to behold.  They flex gracefully under his skin with every movement.  He must spend half his time working out.   He checks the water and mutters, “Alllriiight.” You step toward the water.  He turns and looks. “God damn, pumpkin,” he says as he shamelessly observes your naked body head on. 

“Shut up,” you whisper to the ground and cross your arms.  Lightning flashes outside. Your parents always told you not to shower in a storm.  It’s exciting, somehow.  "I'll be quick," you say.  

"Take your time," he mutters and slowly walks backwards, palming himself as he takes in your form again.  You watch over your shoulder as he disappears into his bedroom. You imagine he’s about to jack off.  If you’re honest with yourself, you’d rather he wait for you. 

-

You turn down the heat a little and examine his array of products in the frosted window, briefly distracted by the silhouette of your reflection. You soap up your body, starting with your shoulders and back, probably using way too much shower gel.  You close your eyes and inhale deeply as your hands slide over your body and your nostrils fill with Joel’s aroma.

You open your eyes to see two silhouettes in the reflection and your breath hitches as they combine into one. Joel’s strong arms wrap around you from behind. He wordlessly gropes a soapy breast and presses his naked, rock-hard length into your back side, sliding his other hand across and down your stomach for leverage.  He grunts, “Mm” as he presses his cock against you. His voice is low and smooth as he mutters, “Filthy, aren’t we?”

His hands slide down your waist to your thighs.  His stiff cock shifting against you makes you weak in the knees.  He presses it against you again. It swells and you moan softly.  

“Yeahh, that’s my dirty girl." 

You start to warn him, “Joel-” He bends his knees, putting his hands on your hips.   “Don’t let me fall,” you say. you're still covered in lather.

As he slowly stands up straight again, he drags his hands and cock up your slippery body and runs his closed mouth up your neck to the back of your ear.  “Nothin’ wild in here, baby,” he murmurs. "We’ll get clean together. . . ‘fore we get real dirty.”  His voice echoes low and sexy. You breathe a sigh of relief. Knowing the perils of getting soap somewhere you wouldn't want to.

He plants a kiss on your jaw and uses his hand to bring your mouth toward his. You turn around to face him. His lips press into yours as his arms wrap around you again, your tits pressing into his chest.  He looks a lot different with his hair somewhat wet.  Sexy in a new way.  He reaches his long arms down and squeezes both your thighs below your ass, then slides his hand up your crack and grabs a cheek with an, “mm” into your mouth. 

You drape your arms around his neck.  He works his hands up your back, massaging what’s left of the lather into you, and slides his hands through your underarms on the way to your breasts.  Your nipples pucker under his palms as he massages your breasts from the front and watches a small trail of bubbles slide down between them. “Fuck me,” he breathes.  He looks up at your eyes, then turns you around again.  

He brings you you both directly under the water again.  He rinses your back, then gets your breasts again from behind, pressing gently against your ass with his cock as stiff as ever.  “You’re gorgeous, pumpkin.”

“Thanks,” you whisper and begin to rinse your own body.  The sight of your own hands gliding across your skin is something he has to see.  You turn to face him and he’s covered with your lather, from his light chest hair down past his happy trail to his slippery cock. He watches you darkly, and begins to slowly stroke his raging erection.  You reach down and grab it.  His lips part.  

“You’re always ready, aren’t you?” you ask. 

“For you? Hell yeah.” 

You stroke him gently, assuming he would stop you if it was a bad idea. He doesn't.  His grunts and sighs echo off the tile. “All yours, baby,” he murmurs.  He puts his hands around your waist and watches as his hips thrust into your fist. When he’s about to come, he says, “Guess anywhere goes?” taking his cock from you.  He points it at your stomach.

To hell with it. You kneel down. “Tits,” you say.  

“Fuck yeah, baby.”  He breathes audibly and you watch tension spread across his face.  Then he shoots a huge load all over your chest with a long groan that echoes and makes you ache for him.  

He helps you to your feet.  “Still need my head between those legs, baby.”

“Do you mind if I, uh-” you look down at the cum on your chest.

“Sure, pumpkin.”  He quickly washes and rinses himself, and gives you a light slap on the ass as he steps out to let you finish bathing. 

-

You dry off, wipe the mirror with your hand, and use his mouthwash.  Then you step into his bedroom with a towel wrapped around you, tucked under your armpits.  His hair is fluffier again.  He has on pj pants but still no shirt. He sits down on the edge of the bed and looks up at you, captivated.  He murmurs, "c'mere," and spreads his knees.  You stand between his knees and he unfastens your towel, letting it drop around your feet.  “So fuckin’ hot,” he whispers, his eyelids heavy as though hypnotized by your body. “How ya keep your hands off yourself, hmm? Body like this.”

He takes your breast in his mouth and closes his eyes as he sucks at your nipple and palms the other one.  He moans, "Mm," into your mouth.  He releases your breast and gently pulls you by the hamstrings toward his lap.  You straddle him. Your naked cunt dampens his pants as you meet his warm package, already semi-hard again. 

Fuck, it’s all you want. You can’t get enough of it. Watching him jack off only made you want it more. 

He lies back on the bed, taking you with him then rolls over so he’s on top of you.  He slowly kisses his way down your naked body, his lips brushing away the remaining water droplets in your cleavage and belly button.  Between your legs, it's even slicker than before the shower.

He slides off the bed and kneels on the floor at the foot of it.  He pulls you by your thighs so his head is right between your naked legs. “God damn, you got the juiciest pussy,” he whispers right to it.  He plants his nose at your entrance then drags it upward, slickening your clit before digging into your cunt with his tongue and lips.  He moans and grunts as he devours you.  When he thrusts his tongue into you, all you can think about is his cock and how bad you want it.  

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Joel,” you say. 

He looks up at you from between your legs but doesn’t stop.  He knows you’re enjoying it, why should he?

“Stop,” you say.  “Come up here.” 

He knows what you want.  You can see it in his eyes.  He rests his head on your inner thigh and asks with puppy dog eyes, “Why? Don’t like it?” He knows you do. 

“It’s not what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I think you know what I want.”  Your hips lift and your legs try to lift him toward you by his underarms.

“Hell yeah, I do,” he says and palms himself.  “But lemme hear it, baby.  Just this once.” He plants a kiss on your clit and swirls his tongue, looking up at you.  

You sigh.  “I want your cock.”

“Damn right,” he says and takes his pants off.  He takes his time making his way back up your body.  Far too much time when you’re desperate to be filled. 

“Jesus, give it to me,” you beg. 

“Ohh, I’ll give it to ya,” he says.  He reaches down and fingers you, then nudges your asshole, using your slick to push the top section of one digit inside.  

You gasp. 

“Ya like that?” he asks. 

You moan softly.  “God, I just want you inside me,” you beg. 

“Yeah, baby.” He removes his fingers and uses his other hand to drag the head of his cock through your slick. 

“Now,” you whisper and grab his wrist, stopping him with the head of his cock at your entrance. 

“Yeah, baby.”  

He presses forward and nestles his cock for entry.  “Yeah,” you nod.  "Now."

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes. 

When your bodies are aligned, the clean skin of his stomach against yours is a feeling you didn’t realize you needed so badly. 

He shoves his length into you with a grunt.  You moan softly as your body accepts him, then you bite your lip.   

“Don’t hold back on me now, sugar,” he murmurs, staring down at you darkly. “Tell me what ya want.” 

“Fuck me,” you say. 

He smirks and backs up enough to slam into you again, watching your mouth fall open with his girth.  He retreats once again and slowly fills you to the brim. Too slowly.  Then he slams into you again and slowly backs up. You moan unrestrained and wrap your legs around him, using all your leg strength to pull him closer into you.  

“Fuck me, really fuck me,” you beg him, “Faster,” you say. 

“Think about it all the time, don’t ya,” he says as he continues fucking you slowly. 

You nod. 

“Hell yeah,” he says as he moves his hips and buries his cock inside you, accelerating but barely. 

“All the time,” you say, and he speeds up a little more. “Fuck me,” you beg him.

“Yeah, I’ll fuck ya,” he whispers, and finally he does.  

He rails you at a perfect rhythm. He watches your tits bounce, occasionally dipping his head for a taste of your skin. He plants his mouth on your neck and marks you. It barely takes any time at all until your spine is arching and he’s saying “yeah, come for me, baby.” 

As you see stars and flutter around him, he says, “God damn you look hot when you come on this cock."  He fucks you through it and doesn't stop. "So damn hot," he repeats. A minute later he bottoms out with a shudder and pulses into you. It isn’t as much as usual given that he just emptied himself in the shower but his stamina sure is impressive for his age. He rolls over and lies on his back next to you.  

“That’s where it’s at, baby,” he pants.  “All about communication.”  He goes to the bathroom and washes up then pulls on his pajama pants.  He goes back out to the couch while you get dressed again.  You're too physically satisfied to feel bad about asking for it.

-

When you join him on the couch, he’s gotten the weed box out and he’s rolling a joint.  

“Not for me,” you say.  “I should really go.”  

“Still rainin’,” he says.  

“Barely,” you shrug. 

He looks at you and nods.  “Alright, pumpkin.  ‘Least lemme give you a ride.” He squeezes your thigh and stands up. 

-

He stops his car in front of your house and your aunt comes to the window then walks away.  Joel sees her and sighs.  

“What?” you ask him. 

“Nothin’. See ya around, pumpkin.”  You go around to the basement entry.

Your Aunt knocks on the basement door soon after you’re inside. 

“Was that Joel Miller dropping you off?” she asks. 

“Why?” you ask. Her eyes fall on your neck and you cover it casually.

“Oh, honey,” she says.  Then she  just shakes her head.  “That man is trouble. He’s probably shagged half the neighborhood.” 

It’s just gossip, but your heart still drops. “He was giving me a ride.”

She looks at you skeptically.  “A ride from the back of the neighborhood?”

You don’t have an answer. “How do you know that for sure about him?”

She puffs out her cheeks and exhales.  “Guess I don’t.  Ask anyone, though. He’s got them coming and going at all hours.” 

You swallow, waiting for her to say something else, then say, “We’re just friends.  Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Just be careful, honey.” She starts to go back up the stairs then comes back down. "Actually yeah, there's someone your uncle wants introduce you to. Real nice boy he works with."

"Uh - okay," you stammer.

"Great," she nods, "I'll tell him." Then she finally leaves you alone.

-

You have a lot of questions you don’t want to ask.  You know Joel’s not a good guy.  The last thing you should do is get more entangled with him.  You're not thinking with a clear head and you know it. 

You lay down on your bed, exhausted, and plug in your phone.  When it turns on, it chimes with a text from a new number.  The text on your lock screen says “Hate me ‘cause they ain’t me.”  You roll your eyes and crack a a smile. Sounds like Joel knew what your aunt would say to you.  At least he’s aware of his reputation? Is that a good thing?  How does he have your number?

You open the text, trying to think of what to say.  There’s an earlier message from him. It's from overnight - a topless photo of you.  You remember now - he said you should see how hot you looked.  You posed for him and gave him your number to send it.  

-

Thank you so much for reading and engaging!

-

All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor 

NW: @tehweeana@ele-meno-p@swedishscumfuck

[inoreuct]

imagine if somebody kidnapped hobie to get to miles…

he’s been beaten black and blue, one of his eyes swollen shut, face cut up from when someone had hit him with rings on and he still isn’t telling them SHIT. there’s sweet blood running down his chin and his lips are red with it but he’s still talking smack, still laughing in their faces— they put something in his system and he’s woozy with it, but he grins as they yell at him to tell them where miles is because there is no way in hell he’s giving anything up.

he sucks the blood off his teeth and hisses as someone sinks a fist into his stomach; they took his web-shooters and he’s bound to a chair, but he’s not really that scared. he’s had worse.

they’ll get miles over his cold, dead body.

and besides, something is itching at the back of his mind, the hairs of his arms standing up at the imperceptible buzz in the air.

he realises just as the roof cracks open with a blinding bolt of lightning and miles lands neatly on top of one of the guys, knocking him unconscious.

the last thing hobie remembers before passing out is thinking a vehement thank fuck.

*

he wakes briefly, cradled against a warm body, making a soft noise before miles shushes him. a kiss is pressed to his forehead, and he drifts off again.

*

the next time he comes to, it’s slow; he’s on a couch, he realises, the fabric rough against his fingers. his cuts sting, he smells antiseptic, and the bridge of his nose is incredibly tender. he moves his tongue around his mouth, counting his teeth. huh. all there.

he shifts up with a groan and miles is on him instantly, a gentle hand on his shoulder pressing him back into the cushions. “don’t move,” miles whispers, sitting next to hobie’s hip. “they broke your ribs, my mama had to patch you up.”

hobie touches his torso and feels bandages. that explains the ache in his chest, at least.

a choked noise catches his attention, and when he looks over miles’s eyes are wet. “oh, baby, no. no.”

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, lashes clumping as hobie pulls him close, hands trembling as he winds them into hobie’s soft shirt.

it smells clean, good; like detergent and newspaper ink and miles, and it holds hobie together more than the bandages ever could.

“shh,” he murmurs, pressing the word into miles’s temple, ignoring the pain flaring to life all over his body in favour of tugging miles even closer. his boy needs it right now. “s’not your fault, love.”

miles just makes a sound of distress, big eyes glossy with salt. “they were looking for me—”

hobie clicks his tongue. “hush, now. i coulda gotten out, you know that.”

“then why?” miles asks, plaintive. his voice is terribly small and terribly fierce. “why didn’t you?”

“what, did ya think i’d sell ya out?” hobie huffs a laugh. “come out of it.” he holds miles to his chest and tips them back, laying against the armrest.

“i’m sorry,” miles repeats, voice thick as he presses his face into hobie’s shoulder.

“i’m not.” and he isn’t; he’d take a thousand hits, let himself get pushed to the brink of too much if it meant the people he loved would be safe.

for miles?

hobie lets his eyes flit across his face, over rich skin and a kind mouth and thick lashes that he smears dry with his thumb.

for miles, he thinks, he’d be able to take much, much more.

fin.

[incorrectbatfam]

Okay, I really wanna see the batfam's reactions to meeting Blaise

Blaise: *lights a firecracker*

Dick: Got a permit for that?

Blaise: Yeah.

Blaise: *flips him the bird*

Dick: How original.

———————

Blaise: *pours gasoline around a warehouse*

Jason: Funny, I don't remember hiring any new arsonists lately.

Blaise: Stay back or I'll blow you up with the rest of this joint.

Jason: Been dead, done that.

———————

Blaise, throwing kindling in a pile: And done.

Tim: Nice pile you got there. But how are you gonna light it up?

Blaise: With my lighter, of course!

Blaise, patting their pockets: Wait.

Tim, pulling out the lighter: Looking for this?

———————

Blaise: *buying fireworks illegally*

Damian: *also buying fireworks illegally*

Blaise and Damian: *make eye contact*

Damian: I won't tell Batman if you don't.

Blaise: Deal.

———————

Blaise, into their comms: Charges are set. Waiting for the signal.

Duke: You called?

Blaise: Oh come on! You're not even on the night shift!

Duke: I couldn't sleep. By the looks of it, neither could you. What say we grab some Batburgers and talk about it.

Blaise: Fine, but only if you pay.

———————

Blaise: *holding a handful of gunpowder*

Cullen: *walks by and sneezes*

———————

Steph, into her comms, holding a beam over her shoulder: I cleared the civilians and secured the area. I'm just removing this huge beam so Gordon can get in.

Blaise: *sneaks behind her with a lighter*

Steph, turning around and hitting them: She's helping some kids find their parents.

Blaise: *stands back up*

Steph, turning around and hitting them again: I'll stick around to gather witness statements.

———————

Blaise: *grilling hot dogs on their balcony*

Cass: *drops in*

Blaise: Woah, I don't want any trouble. I'm just making dinner.

Cass: *stands there*

Blaise: You want one?

Cass: *nods*

Blaise: *hands her a hot dog*

———————

Blaise: Excuse me, I need help finding a book.

Barbara: Sure, what's it called?

Blaise: Advanced Arson and Fire-Related Crimes.

Barbara: Is it for school?

Blaise: ...Sure.

———————

Blaise: *plants a time bomb*

Harper: *swaps it out*

Harper: *puts the real one in their bag*

Blaise: *puts the bag in their car and drives away*

———————

Blaise: *lights a candle*

Carrie: Happy birthday to me!

Carrie: *blows it out*

———————

Blaise: *kicks a flaming dumpster can at Kate*

Kate: *kicks it back*

*dumpster runs over and flattens them*

———————

Blaise: *fighting Helena*

Helena: *takes his lighter*

Helena: *lights an arrow on fire*

Helena: I'll give you a three-second head start.

Blaise: *sighs and starts running*

———————

Blaise: With this lightning rod extension, I'll ignite Wayne Tower and burn it to the ground!

Luke: That's assuming lightning even hits.

Blaise: This is the tallest thing in the city.

Luke: Yeah, but the forecast only calls for a ten percent chance of thunderstorms tonight.

Blaise: Oh. I'll just be taking this down then...

Luke: You do that.

———————

Blaise: Well, Flamebird, let's see how you do against this!

Blaise: *throws a Molotov cocktail*

Bette: *catches it*

Bette: Dude, you didn't even light it.

———————

Blaise: *steeps his tea for too long*

Alfred, halfway across the city: *wakes up in cold sweat and grabs his rifle*

———————

Blaise: *dips a bedsheet in an oil drum*

Selina: You know, black's really not your color. I see you as more of a dark brown and evergreen kind of person.

Blaise: I'm going to destroy the fashion district and take everything they have.

Selina: Cool, bring me a Versace bag.

———————

Blaise: *blows up the Batmobile*

Bruce: *pulls out adoption papers*

Blaise, who is 26 and has a family: ...

[saintsenara]

You mentioned fanon turning barty crouch jr. into an uninteresting character. I don't know much about what the new fanon characterisation has really done with him, but I'm curious for your thoughts on why he's a canonically interesting character. I agree that he is, but it sounds like you might have some interesting thoughts on it that are already fleshed out.

thank you for the ask, @jamesunderwater, and i'm sorry for taking so long to drag myself around to answering this.

as you may have gathered if you’ve read my views on jegulus or wolfstar, the common fanon interpretation of marauders-era characters and i don’t really get on.

this is not a new development - me and goofy fanon sirius have been beefing for over a decade at this point, i fear - but our enmity has taken on a new form since (roughly) 2020, when the emergence of what we might call the modern marauders subfandom brought with it a whole series of expectations about characters, ships, personalities, and appearances in first war stories which, let me state my position immediately, have absolutely nothing to do with the characters as they are in canon.

i could talk about sirius or regulus or james or snape or lupin until the cows come home - as, i’m sure, could many of us - but i also dislike the expectations the marauders subfandom has around its supporting cast. these characters - who largely fall under the categories of women, slytherins, or both - have names that we might recognise from canon, but they are - to all intents and purposes - original characters.

to do some marauders fan defending, i do understand the rationale behind this. hogwarts is a school, and it needs to be filled with the sort of incidental characters that lightning-era writers can pull from the canon text (shoutout to ernie macmillan, the mvp). if you’re writing about lily, then she needs friends - why not have them be alice, marlene, dorcas, emmeline, pandora etc.?

[well, because dumbledore isn’t running a child army. it makes no sense for the entire order of the phoenix to be in the same school year - and the idea that alice is probably around ten years older than lily, that pandora is around the same age as narcissa malfoy and isn’t a pureblood, and that marlene, dorcas, and emmeline are hard-nosed ministry bitches in their fifties who can have mad-eye moody quaking with just a look is something which can be prised from my cold, dead hands.]

and if you’re writing about the epic highs and lows of high-school football going to school during a sectarian conflict, then you need some antagonists. which is to say, you need some slytherins.

the issue i have is that the three key slytherins who seem to have been elevated to principal cast in the marauders pantheon - regulus black, barty crouch jr., and evan rosier - get what can only be called the smol bean treatment. that is, that three teenagers who all canonically join a terror organisation are turned into soft and tiny babies who thought lord voldemort was just feeling silly when he said, ‘my aim is the eradication of the muggleborn population through violent means.’

and even fics which do acknowledge that the three willingly become terrorists often go out of their way to provide justifications for this which don’t contextualise their decision (something which is important - you can’t write about snape becoming a death eater without acknowledging the way that poverty, loneliness, and a sense of hopelessness make someone an easy target of radicalisation) but which minimise it. sometimes, their violence is turned into romantic vengeance - i’ve seen a fair amount of suggestions that barty goes to torture the longbottoms because frank was the auror who killed evan. sometimes, authors imply - or even outright state - that there’s no need to see these boys as aspiring villains: voldemort is right; the class system is good and should be maintained; and purebloods (usually james, sirius, regulus, barty, evan and maybe a token woman or two) should stick together while the half-breeds and the mudbloods go hang.

this - like all aristocracy wank in this fandom - annoys me enough with regulus and evan. but it’s particularly grating when it comes to barty crouch jr. because - unlike evan, who is literally just a name in the text, and regulus, who isn’t much more - he actually has a canon personality.

and it’s fascinating. indeed, i would even go so far as to say that barty crouch jr. is the greatest villain in the harry potter series.

[my apologies to lord voldemort.]

after all, even though he’s been imprisoned under the imperius curse for over a decade, barty is still so lucid and powerful that he is able to:

produce magic capable of tricking the goblet of fire, which is treated by all the adult characters involved as unprecedented.

pull off a year-long impersonation of a man whom dumbledore evidently knows extremely well without being clocked until his mission has been successful, even though his opportunities to observe the real moody can have been virtually non-existent. he is in character within seconds of his ambush on moody’s home - after the intruder-alert dustbins are set off - and is able to persuade ministry personnel who can be presumed to have met moody personally (including both amos diggory and arthur weasley, who appear to know him not only personally, but well) that he is the real deal. he maintains his performance even under close scrutiny from the teaching colleagues he has to interact with daily at hogwarts, despite the fact that he presumably can’t get a great deal out of the real moody, since he’s having to be kept deliberately weak and docile under the imperius curse.

manipulate multiple people into become accessories to his crimes, without ever being suspected of doing so. with the hindsight of knowing who he is, the first defence against the dark arts lesson in goblet of fire, in which ‘moody’ deliberately distresses neville by using the cruciatus curse directly in front of him, before swooping in to be the person to cheer him up so that he can plant information which will help harry win the triwizard tournament and deliver him to voldemort, is chilling. he just gets unlucky that harry has the biggest martyr complex in human history.

commit murder on hogwarts’ grounds without ever being suspected of wrongdoing.

execute lord voldemort’s plan to kidnap harry and use him in his resurrection ritual flawlessly. the plan itself may be convoluted - but dark lords are allowed to have a flair for the dramatic, as a treat - but, crucially, it works, and barty succeeds in every respect.

but, i concede, we’re talking about the adult barty here. perhaps he was once a sweetheart who went unfortunately off the rails after his father sent him to prison and then - in effect - drugged him for years. that wouldn’t be a ridiculous suggestion.

except for the fact that - canonically - the teen barty was just as clever, sly, manipulative, and - above all - ardent in his support for voldemort as his adult self.

at his trial in the early 1980s, young barty gives the performance of a lifetime. he screams, he shakes, he looks terrified of the dementors, he is pale and weak and harmless-looking, he begs his mother to help him, he pleads with his father for mercy, he maintains his innocence as he is dragged off to his cell. he gives off the impression of simply having been in the wrong place at the wrong time so well that harry potter is almost certain that his conviction is illegitimate. so too, it is implied, is albus dumbledore.

indeed, barty plays the part of the wrongfully imprisoned so well that - as canon tells us - he not only influences public opinion to be broadly in favour of his probable innocence (or, at least, his diminished culpability - sirius suggests that the widespread view was that he was probably there, but that he only ended up involved in what was clearly bellatrix’s idea because of his father’s failure to relate to him properly), but also changes public opinion against the government’s anti-death-eater strategy entirely. following his imprisonment, his father - a man who never met an extrajudicial punishment he didn’t like, and whose ruthless approach to dealing with the death eaters in the first war (such as his use of internment for suspected terrorists, his order to aurors to shoot to kill) was, we are told, enormously popular with the wizarding public - is forced to resign in disgrace from his role as head of the department of magical law enforcement. crouch sr. is quietly shuffled off into a boring bureaucratic position, his ambitions to be minister in tatters, and his only way forward to free his son from the prison cell where he is languishing for the crime he very literally did.

[as an aside, i do think that we are supposed to read that bellatrix is the ringleader of the torture of the longbottoms. but, all too often, that gets reduced to her doing everything while rodolphus, rabastan, and barty just stand there gormlessly. they were clearly performing the curses too!]

now, barty’s unusual cunning can - of course - be explained by narrative reasons. the text needs to conceal that he’s the villain (since, as with philosopher’s stone, it wants to imply that the dark lord’s faithful servant at hogwarts is severus snape) until the very end - and this naturally requires dumbledore to not think too hard about whether his good judy alastor is behaving even more strangely than usual.

the text also needs to suggest that he is innocent in order to properly stick the landing on the narrative role of his father - barty crouch sr. as with dolores umbridge in order of the phoenix, crouch sr. exists to show harry (and the reader) that the rot in the wizarding world was not caused by - and will not stop with the defeat of - voldemort. his ruthlessness and inflexibility, his lack of respect for due process, his astonishingly cruel treatment of winky (brutal beyond even the standard way in which wizards abuse their enslaved elves) all serve to teach harry that the anti-voldemort cause can become just as easily corrupted as the disillusioned young men in voldemort’s orbit. the suggestion that crouch sent his own son to azkaban without good reason, simply because he would not deviate from his beliefs, is an important lesson to harry about what ‘justice’ actually means.

but, despite this, barty is also able to pull off his deception because he’s spectacularly talented. it’s not all just narrative.

and his talents are caused by characteristics which aren’t good or bad in and of themselves. he’s clearly very intelligent (he got twelve owls, the series’ benchmark for genius). he’s hyper-observant, creative, adaptable, good under pressure, and possessed of nerves of steel. he shares these traits with other villains in the series - voldemort above all - but he also shares them with plenty of the heroes. harry, for one.

which is to say that all of his personality traits could be put to non-criminal uses. but - as with harry, who is capable of being quite sinister when he wants to be (for example, when he manipulates slughorn into giving up the horcrux memory) - they would give a non-criminal barty an edge. and this doesn’t seem to be present in his standard fanon persona - as sweet and goofy as all marauders-era men - to any great extent.

finally, there is another aspect of barty’s character which is absent from his fanon version - that he clearly has some sort of childhood trauma, but that this does not excuse any of what he does.

even though crouch sr. is right to send him to azkaban, he was clearly also a cold and distant father, who had absolutely no idea how to relate to his son.

[as another aside, this emotional negligence is bad enough without it needing to be written as having been accompanied by extreme physical and/or sexual abuse. there seems to be a real tendency in fan-fiction - not only in marauders-era stuff, although the exaggeration of orion and walburga black into despotic villains is one example of this - to make childhood misery ‘worse’, in order to justify a character’s later actions.]

voldemort demonstrably uses barty’s terrible relationship with crouch sr. (and his absolutely flagrant daddy kink) to groom him into taking the dark mark (not least because there’s otherwise no explanation for why he cheerfully informs him that he too is named after his dad), which he may very well end up taking when he’s still at school. my reading is that he’s recruited to inform on his father - since voldemort would undoubtedly wish to keep the head of the department of magical law enforcement under constant surveillance - and that this is why the dark lord pays him the attention he is so obviously lacking.

but, as with snape and regulus and draco malfoy and all the other young death eaters, barty also colludes in his own radicalisation. voldemort is a master at ensnaring recruits, sure, but he’s also a busy man. he only bothers to make the effort because the clever, creative, cunning, manipulative young man - who wishes to avenge himself on the father who never paid him attention (sound familiar?) - he finds before him is very much determined to become a spectacular part of his terrorist organisation. and stories which feature him owe it to him to give him that dark complexity of character

show the series’ best villain some respect.

[mareeyeahh]

Maybe it wasn't meant to be, unless?

Diluc x reader, reader implied as a female.

Trigger warning: mentions of alcohol and cheating

P. S. I'm not a writer. But let me know what you found inconsistent, confusing and just straight did not make sense.

Hope you like it ♡

The sickening scent of alcohol would drown the average person but for someone as wasted as you were, it wasn't a problem. Angel's Share on its peak hours was a can of sardines drenched in the forbidden liquid and you'd usually stay away from it but tonight was an exception.

You were one with the wine and sadness. Your friend and tonight's companion, Venti decided to whisk you away for the night to wash away your broken heart with drinks. At first, it seemed to work. A couple drinks in and you were singing with the famous bard that had everyone in the tavern clapping and singing along as well. But after a few more drinks, considering the lightweight that you are, you just started sobbing and cursing the man who broke your poor little heart.

Venti, being the culprit that he is for getting you into that state, tried to comfort you. But you told him you wanted some alone time and settled on to a corner in the tavern where no one would disturb you.

A chuckle filled with irony escaped your lips. You were ecstatic earlier as soon as you heard that there was a letter from your dearly beloved. He is one of the Knights of Favonius who was handpicked by the Grandmaster Varka himself to join him on an expedition to which had no end in sight. After months of not hearing from him, days when you were awaiting for his return and nights when you were sick with worry of not knowing his well being, a letter finally came. You knew that time was going to be the test to your love for the man. But you were willing to wait as he promised to marry you the time he comes back.

But the letter that you received that day did not convey words of love nor bear any gifts, neither did he mention when he would been coming back. You were taken aback by how formal the letter felt, cold and dead.

But the most shocking part of all, is that he says he had fallen in love with a female knight that was a part of the expedition crew and they were expecting a child. He and the woman withdrew from the expedition a few months ago and are settling somewhere in Natlan due to the circumstances. In the letter, he apologized and wished you well.

You didnt know how cruel the man you thought you loved could be. The pain in your heart felt as if you were struck by lightning over and over. He threw away the promise of marriage to you like it was nothing. All the time you spent wondering about his return, worrying about his safety made you feel stupid. All this time he was with someone in Natlan and potentially raising a family together whilst you were here waiting a word from him. The apology at the end of the letter was a band-aid to a stab wound. You never felt so little before.

Neither have you felt so drunk before. It was bad enough that you were miserable but drunk miserable is not a good combination. After all that drinking, singing and sobbing, your throat was as dry as the desert of Sumeru. You lifted your head to ask Charles for a glass of water but he was not in sight.

Instead, a man clad in black that only emphasized his fiery red locks sat where Charles usually was. You were no stranger to who he was. Despite being newly acquainted to wine, you knew the very man whose name is uttered across regions of Teyvat because of the wine industry. The very same business tycoon asking if you were alright and needed anything.

You snapped back to reality when you realized you were gawking.

"Miss?" Diluc's piercing red eyes glowed with concern.

"I-I'm sorry. Very sorry. Very much, yes." You composed your drunk self but your words slurred. "May I trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Coming right up." The gentleman shuffled around to fulfill your request. He came back with a pitcher of water on one hand and a glass on the other. He poured water onto the glass and gently placed it in front of you. You thanked him and drank it.

"Do you feel alright?" He asked.

"Oh yes, yes, yes, thanks to you." You wiped the tear stains from your cheeks. He gave you a small smile before attending to a couple of drunk customers, one whose right eye is covered with an eye patch.

The water seemed to sober you up a little bit and you realized the time. It must have already been past midnight as some of the patrons in the tavern headed home. Unfortunately, you're not sober enough to make it out of the door without stumbling. You got worried how you were going to get home but remembered that Venti might walk you back.

You stood up from your chair, gripping onto the bar counter for support or else you'll fall. You searched your surroundings for the bard, wondering if he ventured onto the upper floor of the tavern. But you saw his familiar turquoise cape laid on top of him like a blanket as he slept peacefully on a long wooden chair at the back of the tavern. You should've known better. Your only way home was asleep.

Unbeknowst to you, the man from earlier watched as you sigh in defeat when you saw the bard drifting off to dreamland, ignoring the responsibility of taking you home. Kaeya, the man beside Diluc nudged his shoulder with a smirk on his face. "It appears we have a damsel in distress on our hands."

"Don't phrase it like that." The woman beside him, Rosaria, chimed in. "You make it sound like she's some sort of prey."

"I implied none of the sort. I only thought that the streets of Mondstadt may be dangerous for an intoxicated woman to wander about." The one-eyed man spoke in a matter-of-fact tone before sipping wine from his glass. "I think it would be best if Master Diluc here walked her home."

Rosaria turned her head towards Kaeya in confusion, expecting an answer but Kaeya only gave her a knowing glance before looking back at Diluc who was already out of earshot. The drunken woman had reached for the door in an attempt to leave the tavern but almost spectacularly stumbled if not for Diluc catching her mid-fall.

Kaeya stifled a laugh seeing how cheesy the scene was. His brother, the embodiment of seriousness trapped in his arms a woman whose middle name must be clumsy, with their gazes locked upon each other to register each other's presence- he swears this must be something out of a novel. Kaeya simply shook his head in amusement as the two stepped outside and shut the door behind them.

You were almost out of the tavern when you reached for the door but failed to support your weight onto the wall and missed it by an inch. You braced for impact of the fall but instead you were embraced by two strong arms that stopped your momentum. You looked up to see who it was and it was Diluc. Your face heated up and must've been the same shade of his red hair from the embarrassment.

"Are you alright?"

"Alright, yes. Very alright. Thank you, M-Master Diluc." You finished, your words slurring from your mouth. He helped you stand up and stabilized your stance by putting your arm around his shoulder.

"Were you heading out? It's dangerous to go alone, especially when you're drunk."

"Oh yes, yes, yes." You repeat your words like a broken record. "Venti was the one who dragged me here. But he's..." You pause, finding the right words, "He's, he's out like a log? Light? Yes, light."

Diluc turned his head towards the familiar sight he'd rather not see and shook his head with an exasperated look on his face.

"Seeing as the bard, whom you came with, is asleep I think it's best that I walk you home."

It seems you were really that wasted for someone as important as Diluc to be escorting you home. You grew conscious of being a nuisance at the bar earlier with all that singing and now, bothering him to escort you. That weighed on your mind, even more so that his face was a few inches from you.

"Oh, oh, no, no, no. Master Diluc, I can't possibly impose on you. The- uhh, the Knights of Favo-"

"Just Diluc is fine," he cut you off. "And it's no trouble. It would bring me peace of mind if I escort you personally."

His grip on your body tightened a bit, conveying that he won't take no for an answer. He opened the door and let you walk slowly as he supported your balance. You mentally sighed in defeat. "If you insist."

The cool night breeze blew against the both of you the minute you were out of the tavern. It was refreshing at first but you didn't realize how cold the air could be at night.

"Here, sit down for a moment." Diluc gently sat you down on a chair not too far from outside the tavern. He stripped himself of his coat and placed it upon your shoulders. At this point you couldnt refuse as he wrapped it snuggly around you. It wasn't prominent but you caught a whiff of the scent his coat. It had a fragrance reminiscent of the grape vineyard at Dawn Winery that you pass by sometimes.

"Smells like grapes," You blurt out, louder than you anticipated.

"Why, thank you." The redhead didn't know if it was a compliment. It didn't sound offensive in anyway so maybe it was.

Diluc sensed the surroundings for anything or anyone suspicious. When he concluded that the vicinity was safe, he helped you up and supported your balance with your arm around his shoulder once more. The both of you started to walk slowly but steadily.

"Do, do you like grapes, Master Diluc?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"So you, you like alcohol as well, Master Diluc?"

"I do not."

"But you like grapes?" Diluc furrowed his eyebrows as he did not where this conversation was going.

"Yes, I do." He decided to humor you a little.

On the way, you argued that it was impossible for him to dislike wine because it was made from grapes. He thought you made a fair point but he also said he'd rather have grape juice than wine. Diluc had learned first hand with Kaeya that one will never win an argument against a drunk person. But surprisingly, you were more reasonable to argue with.

"I now know that you, Master Diluc, know how to handle a drunk person." You say, also tripping yourself up the stairs of your porch. "But you've never been drunk yourself."

"It's part of the job description. But i've dealt with more stubborn people. Your bard friend is certainly one of them."

You suddenly remember how rowdy the both of you were earlier in the tavern. "Ah, I apologize."

"Whatever for?" Diluc let go of your weight and had you hold the railings of your porvh for support.

"For," Your grip tightened as you feel your knees buckle a little, "causing trouble in the tavern."

"A noisy tavern is not unusual for me. I prefer it that way, if i'm being frank. But seeing you sing earlier is definitely a novelty."

"Me?"

"Yes." His eyes that glowed like embers in the dark stared right back at yours. "Like a nightingale amongst a murder of crows."

As if it wasn't already, your face grew hotter and you evaded his piercing gaze, embarrassed from the sudden flattery. "Thank you, Master-"

"You may call me Diluc. I'm sure I've told you that earlier."

"Thank you, Diluc. For the kind words." You shuffled on your feet, trying to find a way out of the silence. "Ah, my door! I'm home now. Thank you for going out of your way to walk me home." You grab hold of your door knob before saying, "I bid you... good night."

Just as you were about to step in and free yourself from the torment of awkwardness, "Before I depart, may I ask you something?"

You turned around, alert all of a sudden. "You may."

"If it's all right with you, do you want to..." He seemed to pause for a dramatic effect, "have lunch together if time allows it?"

You blinked, his words seemed far away that you couldn't understand. Your heart raced and the pit in your stomach is back. It wasn't giddiness. The most eligible bachelor in Mondstadt himself asked you to have lunch with him but all you felt was anxiety. Suddenly, all those memories that you have shared with your former lover and the pain finding out that he was with another woman now suddenly hit you like a sumpter beast. You have never wanted to be more drunk in this moment.

"I-I... Thank you, Master Diluc for inviting me to a meal together but I'm sorry. I can't."

"I see." Diluc seemed to have taken the refusal well. "It's alright. I'm glad you let me know."

"I'm sorry."

He gave you a soft smile. "There's nothing to be sorry for. Well, I'll be heading off. Good night, Y/N."

You watched as he lightly waved his hand and walked off, his red hair reflected the moonlight making visible even from afar.

****

Before you come at me, yes there'll be a part two. It's literally 12AM and i just wanted to finish this i hope my brain lets me sleep. I was tryna proofread but my eyes are like nope huhu

[ro-sham-no]

Sam dies again, shortly after being resurrected by Dean’s crossroad demon deal. It was an accident, just a hazard of the job. Dean couldn’t stop it. 

Dean goes crazy after it happens. He has no more soul left to bargain with. He goes numb.

He couldn’t care less about his inevitable, one-way trip to Hell, the moot deal that it now is. Nothing could be worse than this wretched hopelessness, the gnawing blackness that grows inside him with every passing moment. His thoughts plague him,

Is Sam even in heaven? After all the demons’ taunts about him coming back Wrong- had Dean doomed him, his baby brother, his son, his boy, to Hell?

Sammy's gone, and Dean’s soul is still sold, and it's so unfair-

Dean’s kept Sam’s corpse- Sam, he’s kept Sam, again. Has laid him out on a shitty, stained mattress. Again. He’s also laid out every single fireable weapon in their considerable arsenal next to Sam on the bed, all loaded. Every second that goes by, the itch to grab them gets stronger. 

He’s out of options. Trying another crossroads demon had done nothing. Frantic, useless researching about resurrection, which he’d already done the first time - nothing. Praying to god, for the first time ever, saying please, please, I know I’m fresh out of any sort of Grace, but surely you can see that He’s not. Sammy doesn’t deserve to be in Hell, please-

Nothing.

The guns on the mattress glare at him. All gleaming, metallic resilience, taunting him, sitting so starkly cold next to Dean’s dead baby brother. Dean’s hands haven’t given up their tell-tale tremor since it happened. Since Sam---

The tremor is one that he’s felt on and off throughout the years - only appearing on those not-so-rare occasions where Sam had taken hits just hard enough, gotten cuts just deep enough that Dean would have the Thought strike through him like lightning,

Sam might not come back from this one.

The end of Dean’s sleeve is soaked as it covers his trembling hand, what is probably snot and spit mixing in with more and more tears as he alternates between pitiful comforts. Wedging his shaking hands deep into the sockets of his eyes as he convulses through his sobs and cries, then shifting them to press tensely against his teeth through his lips, trying in vain to calm down and keep quiet, and then moving to his nose to wipe away the aftermath and start all over again.

Sam’s not coming back from this one. 

I failed. 

It’s over.

Dean abruptly stands, shoving and tearing the guns away, violently shoving his sleeve to his face to dry it, having to move up higher on his arm each time as his sleeves caught more of his heart leaking out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. He lets all but Sam’s beloved Taurus recklessly fall to the floor.

His stupid, beloved Taurus that the kid’d saved up enough money to buy for himself - all honest-earned money, after getting a grocery store job he applied for the second he turned 14. Cheap-ass Brazilian gun, Dad had called it with derision, but he’d let Sam buy it all the same.

Dean had thought, at the time, that Sam’s choice of gun was just because it was, in fact, affordable and non-American (Sam was never shy about his lack of patriotism, even when Dad gave him all the more hell for it). But he hadn’t caught Sam slipping away to pawn shops and military resale stores while Dad was away and Dean worked dead-end odd jobs to pay the bills like civilians for a while. But then Sam had found it, them, and then Dean had certainly noticed.

See, when Sam had first gotten the thing, it came with practical black grips. Factory standard, since Sam had wanted it new - forever a priss about owning something that wasn’t secondhand. But then, unbeknownst to Dean, Sam had searched high and low to find what he wanted, what he knew existed because he had seen it in a gun magazine once (he had frantically torn out the page as soon as he saw it, hidden in the back of the gas station and waiting for Dean to stop flirting with the cashier). So, Sam had saved up and played the long game, pawn shop after pawn shop, and it paid off.

He’d replaced the black grips - not speaking a peep to either Dean or Dad about it - with pearl ones. And sure, it wasn’t ivory, necessarily, and the stainless steel of the Taurus wasn’t exactly nickel-plated, but the effect was the same. 

Sam’s very first gun of his own, which he bought with his own, labor-earned cash, oh-so-clearly fashioned after Dean’s.

And now here it is, cradled against Dean’s chest. He’d crawled into bed with Sam at some point during his weepy recollection, resting his head on Sam’s chest in oppositional mimicry of how they would lay together as kids. Sam, curled up under Dean’s chin, forever trying to make himself smaller in Dean’s arms even as he grew bigger. 

But it’s Dean’s turn to be small. Dean’s turn, as he tugs Sam’s (cold, lifeless) arm over his back in a weak embrace, slipping his arm around Sam as best he can, squeezing and holding tight as he shakes apart. Sam’s Taurus is gripped surely in Dean’s hand, pressed under his chin. 

His Colt, after which the Taurus had been so lovingly, painstakingly fashioned, lies discarded on the ground.

[lisannastraussisanangel]

Oooh body horror of dragon slayers love to see what u come up with 😈 ~

You get me! I'm so excited to do this!

Natsu's veins look like actual lava. Most times its very faint and you can't see it but when he gets mad they glow

His blood is so hot that it burns through things. He got a nose bleed once and melted a table

If he uses dragon force too often, his skin starts to blister and peel like super bad burns.

He also has a ton of burn scars. He didn't build up a tolerance to heat overnight and almost all of his body has rough, painful looking scars (little Natsu was always wrapped in bandages)

Gajeel's dead skin is straight iron and can give people tiny cuts. He wears a ton of lotion because any bit of roughness can hurt the people close to him

This is also the case for cuts on his body. The edges of the wounds sharpen and make it almost impossible to get stitches or bandages. He's also injured several doctors

His eyes and skin end up yellowing with age because of the extreme amount of iron in his body

His skin is either insanely cold or hot. If he gets too hot his skin turns bright red and sizzles. Too cold and he can actually freeze over (also yes, he rusts especially around his fingers and toes)

If Wendy uses her Dragon Force too much, she starts sprouting little feather nubs in her normal form. She has to pull them out with tweezers. It's very painful

Overtime her face and hands develop muscle spasms and tremors. She has a hard time controlling her expressions and gets to the point where she can't even hold items because her hands shake so violently

When she uses too much magic, her skin starts to turn blue from lack of oxygen. She has passed out from it before but it's very rare. The blue is almost every time and her lips are now constantly blue

Her finger nails are black/brown from the lack of oxygen in her blood. Overtime her finger tips turn the same color, but the nails start soon after her first dragon force (she hid it by painting her nails but had to tell others once her actual fingers started to turn)

Laxus' veins are also insane. They mostly look crazy like lighting bolts across his entire body. Drawing blood from him is a nightmare. Especially because his veins are incredibly thin too

He also has a shit ton of burn scars. More so on his hands and arms but also the inside of his mouth is incredibly scarred because of use of his magic

His entire back is covered in those lightning bolt scars too. They are not super visible but if you get up close it's insane

Erik's blood is straight acid. Just a papercut is enough to seriously injure someone. It's so strong that he can't even be operated on.

His skin is super thin. Like if you shine a strong flashlight on him, you can see all his veins and stuff

Because Sting's entire body makes light, he has like an insane amount of sun damage. His skin is very rough, cracked, and often has random burn spots scattered around his body

Rogue straight up feels like a dead body. When he was a kid, he looked like one too. Too skinny, bones popping out, super pale, and cold. As he got older he learned how to bulk up, but his magic still takes it's toll on his body

His pupils are always super big. Like you can barely see his eye color because his pupils are massive. Because of this, his eyes look absolutely massive

[wystericwoes]

“𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖞𝖔𝖚’𝖑𝖑 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖜𝖓. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖕𝖆𝖞 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖋, 𝖙𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖘, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖆 𝖕𝖎𝖊𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑.”

-𝕊𝕦𝕜𝕦𝕟𝕒 𝕩 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕟 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕜𝕦𝕟𝕒𝕤 𝕣𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕡𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣-

Art is mine!! :)

Chapter warnings: Brief descriptions of violence, sex, (oral) anxiety, curses being curses so therefore gore + fighting and the works. Lore accurate characters, Fuckboy Gojo Satoru. Mentions of toxic dynamics/relationships, cussing

GN reader but some implications to afab anatomy.

Reader has chronic anxiety + paranoia

In his over 1000 years of living,

Nothing had ever brought Sukuna to his knees.

He was undefeated, relentless, and above all else- a monster.

To any person in the jujutsu world, the name Ryomen Sukuna meant something- it struck fear into even the strongest among them, he was a figure from history who was used as a cautionary tale. The cursed man who killed hundreds if not thousands of jujutsu sorcerers.

It was cold. On a certain day hundreds of years ago, the day he truly became The King of Curses.

Sukuna was a human- at least he was at some point. And over time he had lost those shreds of humanity, one by one dropping dead into nothing.

He felt no more remorse, he felt no more sympathy, he felt nothing except the thrill of his increasing strength.

But he was still human after all.

A dying flame from a candle almost entirely burned out, resided deep inside him.

A concubine, an object of simple pleasure somehow warped into something he couldn't have ever imagined. Something he had never known.

Fucking love.

When he found you that night is when he truly became irredeemable.

He was on his knees, dirt staining his robes.

Doctor- is there a doctor around???

No, the whole village was gone. And even if there was they wouldn’t have helped him.

Okay, you’re bleeding. Stop the bleeding

His hand made its way around your throat as he rushed to find anything he had on him that could help.

He tried reversed cursed energy, but you were too far gone and too badly injured. It was a lost cause. But that's just the power you held over him, making him defy logic- be hopeful even.

Hope. what a terrible thing. It makes us think we can be or do anything, it gives the weak the chance to think they can be strong.

Yet here he was, holding onto it.

The moon shone over you, ethereal beams traced over the shape of your body, you were angelic- he didn’t deserve you.

On his hands and knees, gripping his heart.

In his last effort to save you, he had done something to try and bring you back to life

He was desperate.

His hand moved to his chest and down his left arm, then he channeled all the energy from his body for several moments as a spectra of light grew and morphed from his hand, until he was weak, and with his hand was an orb of something convulsing in a hue of whites and blacks.

The orb had formed from his veins, tendrils of energy separating from his body as he attempted to do everything he could to resurrect you. His veins beneath his skin began to glow an ominous purple color, the way one looks when struck by lightning.

With his free hand, he ripped open your shirt- and shoved the ball of concentrated energy into your heart by pressing his hand against your cold clammy skin.

As he did his nose began to bleed, grunting as your body fought the acceptance of the orb- but he persisted. Using the last of his strength to force it in as it slowly sunk into you. His body nearly fell limp, limbs shaking as all the energy and strength was expelled from his body, but he persisted.

His brows furrowed, face sweating, and heart racing.

Wiping away the blood from his nose and lips with his already dirty sleeve with his free hand smearing blood on his face, he coughed up more blood as the last slither of light was absorbed into you.

His breath heaved as he stayed hunched over your lifeless body. The color drained from his face; he looked like he had almost aged several years in the span of seconds.

Deafening silence overcame the ruins of the once lively village. He sat upright on his knees, never wavering his gaze from your unmoving form. Heavy breaths followed the quiet, his body shaking from his futile action.

When he went to see if his efforts had not been in vain, he was met with nothing. No pulse. No beating heart.

He had tried everything. He’s supposed to be the king. The strongest. Hundreds have fallen to his feet dead, and yet right now with your body at his knees he never felt more powerless.

you were gone.

He rested his forehead on yours.

Every part of him hurt. He thought he was the strongest, but this was a cruel reminder. He couldn’t even help you in your final moments. He didn’t deserve to be known as anything; he didn’t deserve to live when you were dead.

His pain was dreadfully quiet. No shouting or cursing at the world for its cruelty. Just grit teeth and heavy breaths.

The sky darkened around the forest clearing that you were in. A storm was on its way, and it would not have mercy.

And that was the day that he had become the monster he had always been.

Any hope for him died with you,

He buried two people that day.

You currently work at your job living a mundane life, you’ve had your hardships, and you’ve had your fair share of conflicts and events. To you, the life you’ve lived up to now was the norm. You didn’t think it could’ve gotten any different than now, eventually you’d grown into a pattern of familiarity and had seen most things the world had to offer.

Until you saw a giant monster eating a woman alive at your local convenience store.

You stood there shell-shocked, frozen for a moment taking in the sight you had just unfortunately stumbled upon, it was grotesque.

An eyeball was popped out of her socket, there was clear signs of struggle along her body with bruises and a dislocated shoulder, that lovely moment was now seeded into your brain as everything happened so fast.

The monster looked over at you, hearing the sounds of your heavy breathing and fast heart. Like a little rabbit who ran straight into the wolf's den.

You were about to book it full speed- when the monster ran away from you. And he looked terrified.

You weren’t one to question a chance out of danger and with that window of opportunity you hauled ass out the door down the street.

You couldn’t scream for help- you would sound absolutely batshit insane.

What we’re you supposed to say? “Garbodor from your worst nightmares just ate a woman alive in front of me and then left” You couldn’t go to the cops.

You let yourself worry about those things later as your feet carried you far away from the scene. Your lungs burned, your nose stung from the dry air and frantic breathing.

You finally got a crowded spot and hit yourself against a wall panting frantically.

What. The. Fuck.

You always knew that you had some crazies in your family but never like this? A hallucination? A nightmare, brain tumors?!

You finally took several deep breaths and let the adrenaline mellow out through your body and shaky hands. You did a double- no, triple take around you to see. Everyone around you was calm, life went on normally, aside from a few concerned passing looks.

Your brain tried to rationalize what you just saw in any way possible. Frantically searching through the database of your brain for anything even remotely close to a logical explanation. You were torn between mental illness and a terrible prank.

Uncertainty was you. In this very moment, the only thing that you could feel or be.

What do you do now?

After the police were notified, Jujutsu tech picked up the case and was assigned to go investigate a very gruesome murder around the area- something simple for them if you can believe it.

When they passed the police tape, there was blood scattered across the inside of the shop. Glass was broken, shelves were downed, bloody handprints and scratches caked the walls.

What hurt was when someone fought in their final moments.. when they almost had a chance. When the death wasn’t quick

This person died in fear.

The curse was no where to be found, it had fled the scene. That’s unusual for curses, seeing as they usually aren’t scared of low level sorcerers or civilians.

“What happened here…?” One woman in a black suit said with slight disgust.

"Grade 3 curse attack, we'll have to start damage control immediately."

“We need to check is there were any witnesses.”

The other mumbled under his breath.

“Do you see any signs of a witness?” She quipped

“Actually..”

The faintest mark of blood the bottom of a shoe at the door.

“We need to figure out what happened. Sooner rather than later."

"We might need to get a professional in here to check for traces of cursed energy. Get a better feel of what played out."

"This seems like a pretty open and-shut case- the civilian will probably just think they hallucinated the whole ordeal."

"Look closer." Pointing at the bloody shoe print, revealing the faintest trail of footprints composed of cursed energy leading down the sidewalk.

They looked at each other, one sighing.

"Alright, let's go."

Sitting in a dark room surrounded by people in dark clothing was not how you thought you’d be spending your Tuesday.

You had just been interrogated about what you saw. And while that affirmed that you weren't crazy, the fact that it was real arose an entirely new set of problems.

Your first impression was that this was some undercover- government CIA men in black scenario and you had seen something you shouldn’t have.

Eventually, you cracked when they kept reassuring you everything was okay, and you weren't developing late-stage schizophrenia.

They started explaining all these terms to you like “sorcerer” and “curses” " but your head was spinning so fast you could barely keep up with any information that they threw.

They were pretty sympathetic towards you, and explained that you weren’t crazy, and that you yourself was one of these sorcerers.

You didn’t like this main-character-chosen-one-secretly has powers thing going on. You were late to work, and although the coffee they gave you was good and your feelings were validated, you just wanted to forget about it.

No one seemed to protest when you decided to get up and leave, that was until you opened the door to meet a 6ft tall supermodel who almost made your jaw slack.

He chuckled as you admired his features. Sharp bones and the most unique hair you’d ever seen. Was that natural? I mean If monsters and warlocks were, this wasn’t the craziest piece of information you had received all day.

What really got your attention was that he was blindfolded.

“I think there’s something they forgot to mention.”

He pointed to his colleagues, one hand in his pocket

“You see, you can’t leave. You’re a jujutsu sorcerer, and that curse you saw isn’t going to be the last.”

Another person in the room turned their head at him.

"Well, it's most likely that they can only see curses and can't actually-"

He cut them off with a pointed finger. Not even entertaining the idea of letting the person finish their sentence.

The other people in the room stood silent not daring to threaten his authority and judgment. Even if it made no logical sense at the moment. Something always universally accepted was that Gojo Satoru knew more than you did about something in any given situation.

“You’re gonna need to learn how to control that energy, and protect yourself.”

Although the answer sounded real, He was lying. A half-truth, the first of many to come. You didn’t know about what or why, but you could sense it. He escorted you out of the dark room which allowed you to get a better look at where you were.

Many old traditional-style buildings secluded in trees followed along in a fashion similar to a school. And although you couldn't explain it, everything felt as if it were shifting around you- like if you averted your gaze then at any second something in your peripheral would suddenly change.

You and Gojo were walking side by side as he began speaking.

"You probably have a lot of questions."

No shit.

"Yeah, understatement of the year."

"I can help. Ask away!"

"Okay, if the floors open I guess I'll start with why I'm here?"

"For your own safety."

Vague and cryptic. But you were too tired to pry in the moment.

"Okay, where are we going?"

"To the dorms"

"Dorms?"

"You see, Dorms are large apartment like buildings which are usually used to house students for certain periods of time.-"

"I didn't mean- I meant why are we going?"

"To let you situate yourself in a safe place."

"Okay... and when can i leave?"

"When you're situated!"

You made a frustrated noise under your breath.

"Okay okay, earlier someone said how did you know to take me in? And how did you find me?"

"You left a residual trail of cursed energy that you produced from the scene, we just followed those. And from measuring the amount of it we found that you're no ordinary person! You're a jujutsu sorcerer."

"A what??"

He promptly sat the both of you down on a nearby bench.

He took in a deep breath like one does before they monologue for a while and explained everything to you. Cursed energy, techniques, the school, sorcerers and its society, curses and their ranks.

Your head was hurting, you placed a hand up to it and leaned in.

When you weren't paying attention during your deep contemplation of this rapidly and increasingly concerning situation- he had changed into sunglasses.

Although you weren’t gonna admit it he was fucking gorgeous.

He looks over at you through his sunglasses slightly crouched to meet your gaze better

“Something on your mind?”

“Yeah- a lot actually! I just got told by a bunch of people that I’m a magician after stumbling upon a murder. And now I have to live with a bunch of high schoolers in some magic temple. for my supposed safety.”

“It’s jujutsu sor-“

“Sorcerers yes I know.”

He quirked a brow and grinned. You were cute.

"I'm glad you listened to my lecture then."

"What other choice do I have?"

You two sat in a moment of silence, allowing you to soak everything in.

You kept noticing him stealing glances at you.

“Can I help you?”

He squinted his eyes at you and lowered his glasses

“Where’d you say you were from again?”

“I don’t see why that’s important.”

“Just a conversation starter! Relax.”

He was lying again.

He stood up, holding out a hand to help you also stand, and you continued your walk to the dorms.

You were so shocked and stressed from all that had happened today, that you didn't even care you missed work, or that this stranger was making you stay here. All you could focus on was the promise of sleep and safety, which you soon let engulf you as you reached your room.

That night was also the night of Megumi's task to retrieve the special grade cursed object.

When Megumi brought Yuuji back to the school, you were sleeping in bed when you heard a commotion below, you nosily and annoyingly looked through the window but couldn't hear much so you quietly opened the window and stuck your head out. (It's not like you had anything better to do.)

you watched as the man from earlier carried an unconscious person over his shoulder and was on the phone in a yelling match with someone being followed by a kid with black hair. other people were also looking around, interested. it felt good to know you weren't the only nosy one.

even with the window open you could only hear every other word.

"Aware-- Understand-- i-- just--- about-- more--- if---not dead."

they turned the corner before you could eavesdrop anymore.

With a defeated sigh, you lay in your twin bed, barely getting any sleep after the events of the day. Everything that had happened still not fully settled in.

When Sukuna was defeated, he had a lot of time alone in his own brain. Well, more like his thoughts. He didn't have a brain anymore

First came arrogance, then denial. How did some sardonic sorcerer no better than the dog shit one accidentally steps upon beat him? better yet seal his soul.

he thinks to himself only had he not done with you what he did. and it wasn't even worth it- you still died.

Even with his natural intelligence and eventful life, memories became blurry to him. At first, it was revenge, escape, and his own fulfillment. The image of his enemies being tortured and murdered kept him grounded from descent into insanity. He would nail them up by their hands onto trees after breaking every bone in their body and just barely keep them on the precipice of life as he murdered their family in front of them, and their friends, and their dog because fuck you.

After his rage, he went to reflection. How'd he gotten beat. His weaknesses, his flaws... His misdirections. Was there a better way it could've gone? Maybe there was a god and he finally received karma... no. He refused to belive that. If there was a god what a sick bastard he must've been to allow sukuna to be born in the first place.

Being born, unwanted, his parents. He hardly remembers now, and it doesn't really matter anyway..

Without the outlet of murder, he was left to think about you. He was his own worst enemy, you held the knife to his throat, and no matter what he would never have moved out of your way.

The one chance he ever had at being a human again had been taken from him. he didn't blame himself; he blamed the world. His dad for impregnating the egg that became him.

He never hated himself- no. But he understood why people hated him. If he were anyone else, he would've developed a strong disdain for himself as well.

The only difference was they couldn't do anything about their hate for him, too weak.

His train of thought kept shifting involuntarily to you. Your stupid habits, the things you considered flaws. The way he could just pick you up like nothing made him feel gratified. He missed that. Doing what he wanted when he was the strongest.

But he figured dwelling on those things wouldn't get him anywhere.

You woke up feeling almost hung over from all the adrenaline high you kept coming down from yesterday.

Things were fully settling in, and the residual shock was residing into confusion and frustration.

what do you do now? where do you go? do you just sit here waiting for someone to tell you what to do? you figured you had at least deserved as much as to go outside. They had a cute garden...

You were abruptly stopped by a white paper bag at your feet with a note.

"Sorry for all the confusing things going on, we can talk later.

-The handsome one :)"

you rolled your eyes at that. although the gesture was appreciated.

Who knew fearing for your life so much would make you build such an appetite.? You ate all of it like you hadn't eaten in weeks, you were feeling a little better until you also realized you didn't shower yesterday, and you suddenly became all too aware of your smell.

What were you supoosed to do? Wait for permission? just roam freely? there weren't any rules or regulation you were told to follow... you didn't know very much but you did know this tiny ass room was suffocating. you decided fuck it and went down the hall.

You searched the old wooden building and saw other rooms, a common area, and finally the showers. They were separated by sex so you had to look around to find the one you could go into. then you realized you had no clothes. Okay well, a clean body and dirty clothes are better than all-around dirtiness. You've definitely settled for worse.

You began the process of running the water, upset at the overall situation.

You realized only when you were half naked that you had no toiletries at all. You audibly groaned out loud. As if you couldn't be more defeated in the state of your life right now, you also couldn't even properly shower.

You wrapped a towel around you and began searching the bathroom. Of course, there was nothing that could help you in here because why would life make anything easy for you? You were essentially alone in this building and couldn't really care anymore. then you made your way down the halls seeing if there was anything that the oh so generous universe would grant you. A brush, floss, a bar of soap, an 8 in one???

Sighing in defeat, you exit your room to hear the sounds of footsteps behind you. You turn around to see slender man, well- actually it’s Gojo Satoru.

“Did you get the food I left?”

“Ohhh you left that”

He dramatically put his hand on his forehead and feigned being hurt.

“I signed it!”

“Not really… open to interpretation.”

Although he was the hottest person you may have ever seen and made tears fall from your legs you were never gonna admit that to him. You could tell he oozed arrogance and was used to getting what he wanted,

He eyed you up and down, and then you remembered you were half naked.

You tightened the grip on your towel.

"Why the hell are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

You stuck a hand out and did an "obviously not/what do you think?" motion.

"We're going out!"

Of course, a man who looked as expensive as him had equally expensive spending habits. He told you to indulge yourself as much as you wanted because "he could handle it."

Although you're pretty sure he was just showing off like a male peacock.

You had never liked white-collar elitist rich boys whose daddy was their lawyer, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't like their money being spent on you.

At first, you felt guilty. When you picked one shirt, he insisted on ten more. You eyed a piece of jewelry too long and the next thing you know a small paper bag slipped into your larger ones.

You had to take a step back and assess why he was doing this. Was he buttering you up? Trying to win you over? Maybe he was actually trying to help you and make you feel better after the shitty day(s) you've had.

You two were settled at a nice restaurant eating lunch when your own anxieties consumed you,

"You're not doing all this so I'll sleep with you right?"

He intermittently choked on his bite of food and had to punch his chest to get it back down the right pipe again. Your bluntness wasn't something that he was used to.

"No, and quite frankly I'm offended.”

He turned his nose up at you dramatically which made you roll your eyes.

"So then why?"

His gaze met yours through his dark glasses, and his face went solemn. Genuine sincerity laced in his words.

"I want you to open up to me, is all."

"Why do you want that?"

"Because you are interesting. You've got this... I guess you could say walls around you I can't seem to get past."

"...So, this is a bribe."

"More of a… friendly suggestion!" he went back to his cheery and smile demeanor.

you sighed. As much as you knew not to give into coercion, you felt a little bad.

"I've always had issues trusting people, even as a kid. I've always had this profound feeling of discomfort when I would begin to open myself up. Like they would take advantage of me."

For the first time all day he actually shut up. He rested a fist under his chin and leaned further into the table.

"What's crazy is that most people never hurt me. I'm fully aware that most people have good intentions... and yet my natural instinct is to run away before they get too close."

He looked at you with an unreadable expression.

"Okay now that this is awkward tell me something about yourself."

"Wellll pfffff... pf. pf. pf... I'm the strongest jujutsu sorcerer."

you quirked a brow. you weren't sure if he was telling the truth or fucking with you.

"I come from a long line of sorcerers, I love sweet food, annndddd I'm very popular."

"And cocky."

"I prefer Confident."

You had a small smile from his radiant energy. He really was nice to be around. And that's not the money talking either (but it does help)

"Okay okay... tell me one thing you think about me, and I’ll confirm or deny it.” he said excitedly.

"Are you just fishing for compliments?"

"Are you saying I deserve compliments?"

You huffed lightly.

"I think you probably sleep around."

He gasped.

"What assumptions! I was hoping for a more 'you have a nice smile' but if you want to play it that way..."

he brought his finger to his chin and tapped it a few times. making a 'hmmmm' sound.

"I bet you don't get around enough."

"I'd rather be a prude than a slut."

this was war.

"Agree to disagree.” He shrugged his shoulders.

"No, disagree to disagree! I bet you mix up the names of all the people you sleep with." You stood your ground, and although you came off as aggressive, you enjoyed this banter.

"I bet you have a shrine of your first boyfriend you ever had and all you did was kiss."

"Man whore!" you furrowed your brows and stood up to look down on him, which quickly backfired when he also stood up, meeting your eyes with his own.

"Virgin!"

"Am not!!"

"I bet you couldn't seduce a guy if you were the last person on earth and he had no other options.”

"I bet you only have sex so you can come and then you leave straight after."

He dramatically gasped

"I'll have you know I am an excellent lover!"

"For thirty seconds maybe."

He moved his face a little closer to yours

"It would be the best thirty seconds of your life."

"Oh yeah? prove it."

when you said that to him you really meant it rhetorically. You didn’t think before you spoke but you’re not exactly complaining- the time in between then and now where you currently have the most beautiful man on earth between your legs was a bit blurry. He slammed some cash on the table, you two scampered away and turned around into the nearest bathroom, and that's where you are now.

You usually tried to maintain an "at least third date" rule for hookups, but the stress of what had just happened in your life had fully settled in, and now you required some much-deserved stress relief. You couldn't deny yourself him when he so graciously offered himself on a polished refined silver platter that you could never afford.

"Tell me what you want, your majesty."

He had a shit eating grin that you wanted to just fuck off his face.

You didn’t know if he was being sweet or sarcastic.

"You're the one who blew your paycheck, you tell me."

"You don't have to pay me back you know?"

“I know that…”

“You’re the one who wanted me to ‘prove it.’”

Your face heated up and you refused to look him in the eyes because you knew he had the upper hand. Even with him waiting for you to tell him what to do. You were so damn horny right now you weren’t in the mood to talk.

“Ugh, I don’t know Gojo- just touch me.”

he graciously manhandled you onto the counter and locked the door behind him, you weren't one for public stuff but something about him made you want to risk it all. He ran his hand up your leg and fidgeted with the buttons.

“Here?”

You nodded.

he pulled down your underwear and bottoms gracefully, taking in every moment that the cool air kissed your suddenly exposed warm skin.

He sank to his knees, hands rubbing circles around your thighs.

He opened your legs to allow his head to fit between them better, his breath fanned over that spot you needed him most right in the center. When you involuntarily arched your back and bucked your hips into him, he moved back and started working his way up with hickeys from your lower to higher thighs.

That unfamiliar sensation of suckling in the sensitive area of your thighs pushed you just a little closer to that brink of insanity.

It stung, but above all else felt so fucking sensitive and made your body flinch when he first made contact.

The higher he went the more sensitive you were, thin skin hardly ever touched by the sun being attacked by a white haired beautiful assailant.

You held back a moan trying to avoid him having the satisfaction.

When he was done working his way up, He looked at his watch and then with sudden motion you had no way of preparing for, one hand was gripped around your hip and another on the fat of your thigh while he latched his mouth onto the most sensitive bundle of nerves that was swollen in need.

“F-fuck...!”

You bit down on your wrist as the sensations overwhelmed you. His mouth was pure magic, of fucking course he just had to be good at everything.

A man on a mission, he gave you no room to prepare. After that previous onslaught of teasing, he went straight to it. You both respected and resented that.

It all happened so quick and overwhelmingly, like he knew your body better than you did. Within moments you felt a coil up in your stomach that had you shocked

You didn’t believe that he had actually managed or push you into the beginning of an orgasm that quick.

You wanted to fight it, but your own body betrayed you.

The muscles in your legs and pelvis clenched and tensed furthering the process as it forced you to chase it faster.

Although the orgasm was so sudden and quick that it wasn’t the most intense you had ever had, it was still an orgasm none the less.

You almost broke skin biting down on your own hand, whimpers still stifled behind it.

Your legs wrapped around his head, squeezing him so hard as if you were scared, he might go.

At the end of it, you were taking shallow and rapid breaths. Trying to get your bearings in what just happened-

“H-how… how did you…”

You said between pants.

He looked down at his watch again and you heard a little click.

He proudly faced the watch to you like a kid who won an award.

28.7 seconds

“Motherfucke-!”

The walk home was quieter.

You two walked along side each other, standing a little closer than before.

Satoru was talking about something about his favorite students. As annoying as it was to listen to him ramble for so long, you thought it was sweet how much he seemed to care about them.

“-you see what makes Megumi really interesting is his tactility and ability to make executive decisions in the last second. You don’t usually see that in someone so young y’know? He’s got great potential…-“

You had been lost in your own train of thought and were hardly paying attention.

You know what he had said but you still felt guilty. He was carrying bags over his shoulder of all the things he had bought for you, you got to finish when he didn’t, and although you didn’t admit it you wanted to do something for him. You were truly grateful, and he had no way of knowing.

You also felt safer with him.

“How are you feeling?”

His sudden direct statement to you got you to snap out of it.

“Oh, I’m fine.” You weren’t necessarily lying. But you wondered why he asked.

“Y’know you’re special.”

He was looking straight ahead, and so we’re you. Barely seeing him in your peripheral vision

“Please. Spare me that”

You thought he was just trying to do the classic move of “I promise you’re different” and he probably did this with everyone.

“I’m being serious.”

When he said that, he sounded like he meant it. There was no undertone of sarcasm, or hint of arrogance. Nothing laced in his words other than sincerity.

“So are you. But you probably already know that.”

He was different in every way possible, looks, flamboyancy, intelligence, as much as you hated to admit it his sex skills-

Ever since he was born, he’s likely been told he was exceptional. And standing next to someone like him it was easy to feel small. To feel just ‘ceptional.

“Do you still feel bad?”

You unintentionally furrowed your brows at that.

He chuckled and bared a satisfied grin.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Of course, you knew that- you never owe someone something when they give you nice things. But you still felt bad.

“I know, I’m just not used to… that kind of treatment. And now that you’ve done it, I guess I’m scared.”

You were trying to open yourself up, but this part of you was difficult to communicate in words.

He could sense your discomfort.

“Are you sure you’re not just upset that I was right?”

You scoffed at that.

“There wasn’t anything to be right about.”

“You asked me to ‘prove it’ and so I did! Therefore, I win.”

You took a deep exhale and rolled your eyes. As annoying as he was his attempt to lighten the mood worked. A small but appreciated gesture that earned you a light smile.

“I’ve always felt like there’s been something waiting for me.”

He remained quiet to let you talk. Intently listening

“I’ve always had this... anxiety that follows me everywhere. Sometimes in my dreams I see these eyes following me. They’re hidden in plain sight- they know I can see them but they don’t care. They know I can’t do anything about it.”

You took a deep breath in, heart beating slightly faster..

“I’ve always felt like I’m in danger. Like There’s something waiting for me when the smoke clears…”

You formulated your next thought right as it came to you.

“What are common signs of a curse? Now that I know this is something I can see…”

“Hmm… well, a curse is a manifestation of negative energy, so usually people experience things like nightmares, paranoia, stress, and the works.”

You sat in silence for a moment reflecting on the words he just said.

He could feel the tension grow and could tell that what he just told you was beginning to carry a weight down on you.

He held his head high and took a deep breath in, carrying his usual happy and eccentric personality back with him.

“Now Yuuji, just when you think you’ve seen everything- the kid amazes me! And he’s endlessly interesting. He’s also hilarious, in the sense that he always surprises me. He’s filled with so much passion and remains positive even with everything he’s been through- “

His sudden shift in demeanor made you snap out of your daze, and you happily listened to his rambling for the rest of the way back.

When you two finally reached the academy, the sky was painted with hues of vivid colors. The sun had begun to barely set, and that always brings out the best of the sky. White whisps of clouds strung across the stretch above you.

You two walked up into the dorm building, walking into your room, he delicately placed down the bags on the floor alongside the wall.

“Thanks for everything today. And I know what you told me but still.”

He had a small smile on his face.

“You have to let me make it up to you sometime.”

He raised an eyebrow at you.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I need.”

You were expecting him to make a dirty joke, and with his strangely normal response you felt almost stumped and decided to leave it there.

With the silence, Gojo took it as his cue to leave, and just before he did, you hugged him. Which he embraced.

It was short but sweet. And with the disappearance of his footsteps down the wooden hall, the day had reached its end.

The thing about Sukuna, was that he was past the point of redeemable.

He wasn’t someone who could be cured, there was no chance of a stray ember combusting into a flame.

That’s what made him strong. The ability he had to completely feel no remorse on his mission to power.

Human emotions are what prevent man from reaching their true potential.

So, he got rid of them.

He had carnal pleasures, he had interests- but he never had anything past surface level desire.

When one becomes past the point of no return, what happens when the thing that broke him comes back?

He was in his domain, in that moment unaware of his current hosts surroundings.

Then like a tidal wave he was ripped from shore and into the deep ocean. Involuntarily being magnetized to something outside.

A feeling deep inside him that he couldn’t pinpoint… he tried punching himself in his own gut because what he felt could only be described as butterflies.

Except those butterflies were flying at 100 miles an hour and gnawing at his insides as if they were itching to escape

An extra pair of eyes manifests itself into Yuji's face, he centers his vision trying to find the source of this mysterious and annoying pull.

His pupils dilate upon seeing you. And a feeling that could only be described as true profound fear engulfed him.

This wasn’t the first time he had seen a look alike of you, but this time was different. Your smile, your mannerisms, and even your name.

You weren’t supposed to be alive. You were dead. He had already lost you, grieved you, avenged you, and moved on.

But then there you were, along the side of Gojo fucking Satoru learning how to manifest basic cursed energy.

Sukuna helplessly spectated his own demise as Yuji walked closer to you and Gojo in the training field.

He was in a state of complete and utter shock, he was completely defenseless as he watched you introduce yourself to Yuji.

“Hey Gojo…?”

You asked in a hushed tone.

You tugged on the sleeve of Gojo and whispered into his ear very concerned that what you were seeing was real and indeed not a paranoid illusion.

“Oh, that would be Sukuna.”

Pt.2

[defectivevillain]

took an axe and amended things

pairing: kratos x reader

reader’s pronouns: he/him 

[reader with they/them pronouns here!]

warnings: canon typical violence, blood and injury 

You’re venturing out in the forest when you come across a rather unusual sight: a young boy standing across from several Draugr. You initially think that your eyes are deceiving you. Even so, you move closer and realize that the kid seems to be in trouble. His only weapon is a bow and arrow; unfortunately, there are too many Draugr for the distance weapon to be of much use. You contemplate walking away for a long moment. Ultimately, you decide that you can’t leave him.

You take a deep breath and pull out your sword, lunging at the creatures closest to you. You manage to cut through a few of them. You’re preoccupied for a few moments, which causes you to lose focus and forget the boy. This mistake nearly costs you, as the kid lets out a chilling shriek. You immediately race over to him, shoving him aside. The Draugr that had been descending upon him lets out a strangled noise and plunges a clawed hand into your abdomen before you can react. A sharp burst of pain shoots through you and you quickly finish off the creature, before turning back to look at the boy. He looks mostly fine, save for a few scratches and scrapes. The kid stares at you with wide eyes, looking around for more Draugr before walking up to you.

“Thanks,” the boy says breathlessly, sending you a warm smile. The happiness quickly fades from his face when he sees the wound tearing through your abdomen. You try to muster up a calm expression, but it doesn’t seem to work very well. “Oh no…” The kid grimaces for a moment.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, stumbling forward as you try to take a step. Quick as lightning, the boy is standing at your side and steadying you. You can’t help but lean on him, despite knowing he’s a child who probably won’t be able to withstand your weight. Against all odds, though, the boy seems strong enough to support you. Before you can apologize and try to walk away, he slings your arm around his shoulder. The hand you’re pressing to your abdomen is slowly turning a dark crimson. The boy begins to walk forward and you have no choice but to clumsily follow.

“Our house is around here,” he remarks, leading you onwards. Your vision is blurring by the second, but you can make out a structure that looks like a house in the distance. Unfortunately, that distance seems rather large in your current condition. “Just hold on.”

The walk is long and painful. The cold air makes your chest burn and the wound on your abdomen isn’t getting better. You’re losing strength and gradually becoming dead weight for the kid to support. You idly wonder—through the painful haze you’re stuck in—what he’s doing out here by himself. Then again, he said our house, didn’t he? The boy evidently lives with someone else. Even so, should he have been all alone in the forest in the first place? You don’t think so.

Your thought process surrounding the boy only lasts a few moments, before it takes a backseat to the immense pain ripping through your body. Shadows creep across the corners of your vision. You stop in your tracks, grinding your heels into the snow to stop the boy from leading you onwards. Vertigo is hitting you out of nowhere, to the point where the ground seems to be spinning under your feet. You weakly grasp at the boy’s shoulder, but you can’t keep yourself standing. Before long, you’re crumpling to the ground. The kid lets out an exclamation and the world fades to a dizzying black.

You seem to waver between unconsciousness and wakefulness. There’s a loud thunk that breaks you out of your slumber, but you keep your eyes closed in the hopes that you’ll find rest again. Amidst the darkness, you can catch traces of conversation between the boy from earlier and another person.

“Boy, what did I tell you about strangers?” The voice you hear is deep and timbered; it sends a shiver down your spine.

“I know, Father, but-”

“A childish mistake. The moment you let your guard down to someone, they will swiftly destroy you.”

You eventually abandon the notion of rest and open your eyes to find yourself in a dimly lit room. Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling; the torches hanging from them are the only source of light. For several seconds, you remain still and stare up at the ceiling. Your balance feels lopsided, despite the fact that you’re reclined on the floor. Before you can even begin to push yourself up, there’s a quick glint of metal as an axe presses up against your throat. You look up to find a huge man towering over you. He wears a stiff shoulder guard, leather forearm wraps, and a belt across his waist. His eyes are steely and there’s a malicious aura radiating off of him.

“Get out of my home,” the man orders, pressing the axe further against your neck. You can’t stop the hiss that crawls from your throat when the metal digs into your skin. “Now.” There’s nothing but hatred in the man’s brown eyes. You swallow hard and try to push yourself up to a sitting position, while avoiding the axe at your throat. The slight movement hurts far more than you expect and you let out a strangled breath.

“No!” The boy from earlier exclaims. You glance to your side, only to find him sitting next to you. He places a hand on your shoulder and you realize that his grip is surprisingly strong. Now that the boy is closer, you’re able to see that he has clear blue eyes. He’s even smaller up close. Just how old is this boy? You’re not sure you want to know.  “He needs rest.” You raise an eyebrow at the unexpected defense.

The man holding the axe glares at the boy, who stares right back. Admittedly, you’re impressed with the kid’s fearlessness—especially in the face of this brute in front of you, who’s holding a rather dangerous-looking axe. “Atreus.”

“Father, he saved me,” the boy—Atreus—interjects. At this, the man stills. His gaze falls to his son for a fraction of a moment, before he returns to glaring at you menacingly. “I was surrounded.” He continues. Your head is swimming and takes an immense amount of effort to focus on what he’s saying. “I tried to fight, but I was outnumbered… A Draugr got close and was about to strike me. This one was a lot faster than Draugr usually are, and I reacted too late… He pushed me out of the way and took the blow.”

The massive man is still staring at you with a scrutinizing gaze, evidently trying to find the fault in his son’s story. You grimace, half in pain and half in intense discomfort. For a few moments, there is nothing but silence. Then, the axe at your throat falls to the man’s side. You push yourself up to a sitting position and take a deep breath. Unfortunately, the conversation doesn’t seem to be over, as the man’s axe is still in hand.

“Why did you save him?” The axe isn’t pressed up directly against your skin any longer, but it still hovers menacingly above your neck.

“He’s just a boy,” you murmur, struggling to make sense of your thoughts. “I don’t know; I didn’t really have time to think about it. It just… happened.” The man’s eye contact is intense, so much so that you have to avert your gaze after a few seconds. Whatever this man is looking for, he seems to find it in your expression.

“He can stay until he heals,” the man says, hardly sparing you a glance before turning to his son, “You will supervise him.” Atreus nods and immediately turns back to you. His father glares at you one more time, before turning his back and walking to one of the other rooms. You stare after him in disbelief.

“Sorry about Father,” Atreus sighs, drawing your attention back to him. He seems to be making some sort of ointment to apply to your wound. “He doesn’t like people very much.” You shake your head, trying to reassure the boy that it isn’t his fault and that you don’t mind. You are a stranger in their home, after all. “This is going to hurt.” Atreus presses the ointment to your abdomen and you inhale sharply. It burns for a few seconds, before cooling pleasantly.

Feeling a sudden heat, you look up to find Atreus’s father lurking a short distance away. He looms next to a wall, hiding him from his son’s view. The man crosses his arms over his chest and stares at you with a strange expression—which morphs into a murderous look once he realizes that you’re staring back.

“What’s wrong?” The boy asks from his place at your side. He’s looking at you expectantly and you tear your gaze away from his father, who slinks off into another area of the house and out of sight. You bite your lip. Despite Atreus’s curiosity, you can’t bring yourself to betray his father’s actions.

“Nothing.” You say with a shake of your head. Atreus finishes preparing the bandages and begins to wrap them around your abdomen. The boy’s bandaging seems to be a bit clumsy, but you can’t bear to feel anything but grateful for his help—especially when he stood up to his father for you. “Thanks for healing me.” You decide to voice your gratitude.

“It’s my fault you got hurt in the first place.” Atreus murmurs, just quietly enough that it takes you a  moment to realize you didn’t imagine the remark. You try to argue, but the boy has finished your bandages and he’s already walking away before you can entirely comprehend the statement. As much as you want to go after him, you’re essentially bound to the floor—your injuries are too grave for you to even try moving.

You fall asleep for a bit, until you’re woken by the eerie feeling of someone watching you. You dazedly blink your eyes open, only to have a mini heart attack when you see Atreus’s father looming over you. Is he here to kill you, now that Atreus isn’t present? You don’t get much time to wonder, before the man is speaking.  

“That boy…” You can hardly let out a protest before his father gets down on one knee and tugs at your bandages. You let out a weak protest, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He instead pulls off the bandages with an almost mechanical precision.

“I don’t even know your name, yet,” you joke weakly, trying to distract yourself from his proximity and the pain flaring up in your abdomen. As expected, the joke doesn’t register with the man. He looks annoyed at the mere suggestion.

“You have no need for it.” You stare at him. Your disbelief and mild irritation must show on your face, because the man looks back down at the bandages and steadily refuses to meet your eyes. For someone so intimidating, this guy seems to be almost… timid. Perhaps he’s just unaccustomed to social interaction. That would make a lot of sense, actually. His house is in the middle of the woods, deep enough that he likely doesn’t encounter many people. “Kratos.”

You raise an eyebrow and tell him your name, although you suspect that he doesn’t care what your name is. Sure enough, the man doesn’t even acknowledge your remark. His rather large hands are fiddling with the roll of bandages, and you’re almost tempted to help him out. You reach out, only for him to meet your eyes once more.

“If it weren’t for the boy…” The man’s eyes darken. He looks down to wrap the bandages around you. He tightens them a bit too fiercely, causing you to suck in a startled breath. Kratos looks up when he’s finished and levels you with a menacing glare. “I’d kill you where you stand.”

You gulp. His hands brush your skin for the briefest of moments, sending a wave of heat down your spine. It’s hard to focus when Kratos is so close to you. Thankfully, once he’s finished with the bandages, he gets to his feet and stares at you.

“For whatever reason, the boy has developed a liking for you,” Kratos states flatly. There’s an unconvinced look on his face, as if he can’t comprehend why his son even mildly tolerates you. You feel a little offended at that—are you really so insufferable to be around? “I expect you out of here the moment you’re fully healed.”

“Alright, thanks,” you answer, having half-expected a remark along those lines. The two of you are then locked in a pseudo-staring contest—as if you’re sizing each other up—for a few seconds before Kratos turns his back and walks away.

As you rest, your conversation with Kratos dominates your thoughts. Unfortunately, you don’t have much else to think about—your healing isn’t going as fast as you’d like. Time seems to drag on, especially when all you do is sleep or eat small meals. You’re amazed you’ve been given any food at all; although, you then realize that Atreus is likely hunting for you.

“I’m not who Father thinks I am,” Atreus remarks one morning, as he’s changing your bandages. He noticed his father’s adjustments and since then, he’s been fairly high strung. You remain silent and let him continue. “I’m strong, I’m smart. I’m capable.”

“You are,” you agree, happy to see the pink flush on the boy’s cheeks at the acknowledgement. Unfortunately, Atreus’s bashfulness doesn’t last long, as his eyebrows furrow and his lips twist into a scowl.

“Then why doesn’t he see that?” Atreus exclaims. You put a finger to your lips to get him to lower his voice, but the boy doesn’t seem to notice the gesture. “I don’t understand! He always leaves, he never talks to me or teaches me. He doesn’t even want me!” The boy’s voice cracks and your heart breaks just a little more.

“Atreus…” You bite your lip, feeling an overwhelming sympathy overtake you. You feel like you’re listening in on something you shouldn’t, despite Atreus’s voluntary disclosure of information. “I don’t know your father, but I know that you’re wrong. He does want you; he loves you.”

“How can you be so sure?” Atreus whispers. He sounds so unsure that you feel your eyes begin to burn. Is his father’s approval really so foreign to him? It doesn’t take you long to choose what to say next.

“Because I’m still here,” you answer. You hadn’t intended to tell Atreus about his father’s threats, but now, you think they’ll serve as evidence to your claims. “He’s keeping me here because you asked him to. If you hadn’t, I’d be dead right now.”

“That’s not true,” Atreus fires back.

“He told me as much,” you admit. Atreus’s lips part and he stares at you in disbelief. You take a moment to collect your thoughts before speaking again. “Anyway. Your father doesn’t seem like the type to use his words, but… his actions couldn’t be more transparent.” Atreus is silent at that. You frown, wishing there were some way to convince him. An idea passes through your mind and you decide to speak your thoughts. “I know I’m not your father, but-” you break off, “I am proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Atreus huffs, his ears turning red. You give in to the urge to ruffle his hair and he scowls dramatically, turning his attention to your bandages. You allow him to escape the conversation and the two of you soon change topics and talk about innocuous things. Eventually, Atreus leaves to hunt and you’re alone again.

You find yourself alone in the house rather frequently. You can’t bring yourself to be irritated with it—after all, you’re pretty much an uninvited house guest. Furthermore, it appears as if your wound is healing rather well… It should take only a few more days of rest before you’re ready to go home. A small part of you wonders if this cabin could be your home, if this father and son could be your family. You quickly disregard the concept.

Somehow, you manage to heal faster than you expect. Within a few days, you’re up and walking again. Almost the moment that you realize you can walk, you head towards the door. Kratos’s threats from earlier are living in your mind. I expect you out of here the moment you’re fully healed. You press your palm flat against the door and push, only for a voice to interrupt your thoughts.

“Where are you going?” You turn around, dread coiling in your chest as you find Kratos standing in the space you had previously occupied. He’s regarding you with wariness and skepticism. You frown at that, unable to dissuade your own confusion.

“Um… home?” If it weren’t for the boy, I’d kill you where you stand. You gulp. You had hoped to avoid an awkward confrontation—or even a fight— by slipping out of the house undetected. That was wishful thinking, apparently. For the next few moments, you’re frozen in the doorway as Kratos stares at you with a scrutinizing gaze. His arms are crossed over his chest and there’s nothing but frustration written in the lines of his tense shoulders.

“The boy likes you,” Kratos eventually says, breaking through the strained silence. Tension settles in the air. You’re admittedly not fully recovered, and your balance is a bit testy. You place a hand on the wall in a casual gesture, pretending that you don’t need the stability. Kratos seems to recognize what you’re doing regardless, as he reaches out. You resist the urge to flinch. His hand rests on your shoulder and there’s a strange look on his face. “Stay.”

You stay—not that your decision has anything to do with the relieved expression on Kratos’s face when you step away from the front door. That doesn’t run through your mind at all. You make your way past Kratos and sit down on the floor once more.

When Atreus returns home that day, he launches himself at you and hugs you before you can object. You smile and wrap your arms around him in return. The boy doesn’t seem keen to let you go any time soon. You look over Atreus’s shoulder, only to accidentally lock eyes with Kratos. His fists are clenched at his sides and he quickly turns away. Your chest burns as you return your attention to Atreus, pretending not to have noticed his father gazing at the boy with a remorseful expression.

When the two of you break apart, Atreus stares at you expectantly. You turn your head to the side in an attempt to avoid his gaze, but the movement draws a pained hiss from your lips. You grimace as pain flares up your back. You don’t think you’re quite subtle enough, because Atreus’s eyebrows furrow.

“Your back hurts,” the boy realizes aloud. Damn it, why is this boy so observant? You bite your lip and remain silent, not wanting to further incriminate yourself. Atreus seems to have his mind made up, however, as he looks at you. “Haven’t you been sleeping on the floor? That’s probably why. You should tell Father.”

“No thanks,” you say with a shake of your head. Your conversations with Kratos are awkward enough on their own. The last thing you want is to bring up your discomfort, especially when he and his son have been so kind as to let you reside here. “Besides, there isn’t another bed for me to sleep in or anything.”

Atreus stares at you with a rather complex gleam in his eyes. His mischievous expression throws you off, and you get the feeling that you should be nervous. “Father likes you, you know,” the boy remarks. You blink once, twice—convinced that you misheard him. Once you process the statement, you look at him in confusion.

“There’s something about you,” Atreus continues, “He doesn’t hate you as much as he hates everyone else.” You want to laugh, but the sentiment seems to strike true—Kratos clearly dislikes people. The portion of Atreus’s statement concerning his lessened hatred for you is definitely untrue, though. Instead of arguing, you keep quiet and let Atreus continue speaking. “Ever since Mother died, he hasn’t been quite the same. But he’s better, now that you’re around.”

“You think so?”

Atreus nods silently. You don’t know what to say; Atreus seems similarly lost for words. “It’s healing nicely,” he says, nodding at your wound. You look down at the warped scar tearing through your skin. That scar is probably going to be permanent, you realize with resignation. Atreus doesn’t elaborate on his previous remark and you spend the rest of the day thinking about it.

The next day, the strange interaction with Atreus falls to the back of your mind, as you begin to busy yourself with attempts at full recovery. You slowly begin to start walking around again, and before long, you’re able to walk around the house with relative ease. One day, you even walk outside to get some fresh air. You don’t realize how much you needed the sunshine, until you feel a smile breaking out on your face. The midmorning rendezvous gives you a bit more energy.

For a few days after your attempt at departure, you don’t see Kratos at all. You almost want to think that he’s avoiding you, but you recognize that notion to be rather self-centered. He’s probably just busy. You decide to remain patient. Your patience does eventually pay off, because Kratos ambles into the room you’re occupying and stops to stand next to you. You send him a small smile, which he doesn’t return. Silence dominates the air for a few more moments, before Kratos speaks.

“The boy says-”

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to call him by his name once in a while,” you interject. Kratos glares at you and you glare right back for a few moments, until you eventually get sick of the charade. The man raises an eyebrow, as if to ask: Are you done? You roll your eyes in response.

“The boy says your back has been hurting.” Kratos finishes, a note of something unreadable in his voice. You don’t dare to analyze the emotion beneath that remark.

“He’s too observant, sometimes,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. You quickly feel the need to defend yourself. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Kratos snaps. He looks askance and it almost feels as if he’s trying to pretend you aren’t in front of him. Despite the rather harsh statement, though, his eyebrows are furrowed and he seems more irritated than usual. “You’ll sleep in my room tonight.” A million thoughts run through your head all at once. What does that statement mean, exactly? Surely, he means you’ll sleep on the floor of his room. Perhaps there’s a plush carpet. Honestly, you’ll take anything over the hardwood flooring of the main cabin area.

“Okay.” You murmur, once you realize that Kratos is waiting for a response. His lips are pulled taut and he stares at you for a moment longer before walking away. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Thankfully, it’s only midmorning. You have the rest of the day to put the thought off.

Unfortunately, the day passes unusually fast. Before long, it’s beginning to get dark. Kratos doesn’t seem to be around, but his words from earlier still echo in your ears. For a moment, you contemplate sleeping on the floor in the main room again. You quickly dismiss the notion when you see Atreus pouting at you. Rolling your eyes, you allow him to tug you by the arm until you’re standing in Kratos’s room.

There’s only one bed. Thankfully, Atreus leaves and doesn’t insist on anything stupid—like sharing the bed with his father. You’re sure that you’d wake up to an axe pointed at your throat, and you’d rather not have a repeat of your first meeting. There is a fluffy carpet in the corner of the room and you shrug, before lowering yourself down to the ground and curling up on your side. It’s far from comfortable, but you’re so tired that you can’t find the energy to care. Before you can muse about your unconventional sleeping arrangements any longer, you’re drifting off into sleep.

Your sleep is rough for a little while. You hear bits and pieces of noise, but you’re never fully torn from slumber. Then, out of nowhere, you’re jostled and you slip into a weird void between slumber and wakefulness. You vaguely register an arm under your knees and another supporting your upper back. Suddenly, there’s plush material beneath you and you can’t stop the miniscule exhale that leaves your lips at the feeling. You swear you hear a huff of amusement, but you’re far too exhausted to ponder it.

You wake hours later feeling remarkably refreshed. It’s the first time since you resided here that you were actually able to rest. You push yourself up slowly, taking a moment to survey your surroundings. It appears that you’re in Kratos’s room. Wait. You’re not on the floor… You’re on his bed. You quickly throw the blanket off of you and try not to panic. He can’t kill you if he doesn’t notice—

“You were on the floor.” Fuck. You look up, only to find Kratos hovering in the doorway. He stares down at you expectantly.

“Well, yeah,” you frown, pushing yourself off the bed to stand across from him. “Where else was I supposed to go?” Kratos has a rather disbelieving expression on his face as he regards you. His lips part and he’s about to say something when there’s a loud rapping sound. The man whips around and stalks out into the main room. You follow at his heels, secretly grateful for the interruption. You weren’t quite looking forward to the awkward conversation surrounding how you ended up sleeping in his bed last night.

“What was that?” Atreus asks, emerging from one of the other rooms. You put a finger over your lips and then turn to Kratos, who is glaring at the front door hard enough to set it aflame with his gaze alone. The three of you are entirely silent as you wait to hear the sound again. About a minute passes and you’re about to relax when there’s another harsh noise; it sounds like someone is knocking on the door. Kratos turns around and stares at you determinedly.

“Watch the boy.” He demands.

“But-” You try to say, beginning to sense what is going on. Evidently, this visitor isn’t coming for a housewarming party.  Whoever it is, they must be an enemy—if the vicious expression on Kratos’s face is anything to go by.

“Go.” Kratos snarls. Your heart is racing but you decide to obey him. Atreus seems like he wants to fight, but you place a hand on his shoulder. He sighs and walks a few steps until he’s standing in front of a pile of cushions and blankets. Atreus pushes them to the side, which reveals a sort of trapdoor mechanism. The boy tugs at it before lowering himself down into it. You take one final glance at Kratos, before following Atreus into the makeshift cellar. The moment you’re with Atreus, Kratos closes the trapdoor and Atreus and you are left in pitch-black darkness.

“Will he be okay?” Atreus voices. Within a few seconds of that question, you both hear a rumbling sound and raised voices. You can’t quite see Atreus, but you can hear his leg bouncing restlessly.

“Of course,” you murmur quietly. You’re sure he’ll be fine and you try to bring that conviction into your voice to combat Atreus’s nerves. The boy stares at you for a moment, before practically throwing himself into your arms. You embrace him hesitantly at first. As the two of you continue to wait with bated breath, you bring your hand up to the back of the boy’s head and cradle him close. He’s far too young to be going through all of this, you think to yourself.

You hear a loud crash and hastily put your hands over Atreus’s ears. He whimpers and you close your eyes, trying not to flinch as you hear inexplicable noises from above. A part of you wants to peek out from the trapdoor and see what’s going on, but you promised Kratos that you’d protect Atreus. Knowing that, you hold him close to your chest and try to wait for the end of the crashing noises.

Ironically, after all of that ruckus, there is… nothing. You have no idea how much time passes after those sounds. Your ears are buzzing and you anxiously await any sort of noise. After an immeasurable amount of time, you hear footsteps from above. Atreus clenches your shirt in a tight grip and you pull him closer. The trapdoor creaks open ominously, and you instinctively turn your back to protect Atreus. A few seconds pass, and nothing happens. You warily turn your head, only to find Kratos looming over the trapdoor. You let out a sigh of relief and relax your hold on Atreus, who peeks out from your shoulder and looks up at him.

“Father!” Atreus exclaims, relief evident in his voice. He steps up on the chest nearby and Kratos hoists him up.

“Atreus,” Kratos responds, staring down at his son. The boy launches himself into Kratos’s arms, murmuring things that you pretend not to hear. You smile at the sight, despite feeling a bit out of place; you vaguely feel as if you’re not supposed to be witnessing this rather intimate and private moment. After a few moments, Atreus releases his hold on his father and you accidentally lock eyes with Kratos over the boy’s head. There’s blood splattered all over the man’s face but he appears to be fine.  Atreus moves away and Kratos extends his arm to you. You don’t hesitate to take his proffered hand, allowing him to loftily pull you up from the cellar. His grip remains, even as Atreus pulls the cushions and blankets over the cellar. In fact, Kratos’s hand rises from your hand to grasp your forearm.

“You alright?” You ask. Kratos answers with a huff that you’ve grown to associate with amusement. There’s something lingering on his shoulder and you move to brush it off. Kratos stiffens and freezes, a guarded expression rising on his face. Despite his evident wariness, he doesn’t push you away. You brush the debris off his shoulder and quickly explain. “Sorry. You had, um, some dirt.”

“You looked after the boy,” Kratos says, apropos of nothing. You blink at him for a second.

“Of course,” you respond. You glance over at Atreus, who appears to be doing something in one of the other rooms. He’s too far away to hear your conversation, but your voice comes out like a whisper anyway. “I care about him. And… you asked me to.”

There’s a vulnerability in Kratos’s expression—a sentiment you’ve never seen from him. His eyes are wide and shining with emotion. You’re almost convinced that you’re seeing things. Despite the uncharacteristically expressive look on his face, he doesn’t speak for a few minutes. “You were prepared to die for him.” Kratos’s eyes fall to the pile of cushions over the trapdoor, evidently referencing how he found the two of you. You had instinctually shielded Atreus.

“I mean, don’t give me too much credit; it’s what anyone would have done.” You ramble, feeling strangely off-kilter with Kratos standing so close to you. His eyes have yet to leave your face and his gaze demands your attention. You stare at him and he stares at you. Kratos reaches out and cradles your jaw. He swipes at your cheek with his thumb and you freeze in surprise.

“When you were about to leave,” Kratos begins, his hand falling from your face and down to the crook of your neck. His lips part as if to continue speaking, but no words come out.

“You don’t have to explain,” you say, noticing that his shoulders are tight and his posture has recovered some tension. Kratos has an utterly tortured expression on his face and you feel immensely guilty for provoking that feeling in him. “Seriously, it’s fine-” You try to say, only for the words to fall flat on your tongue.

“You knew how to handle the boy,” the man continues. “I was envious at first. I… never had that kind of relationship with my father, and it affected my own relationship with the boy. When you appeared, I thought you would take him from me.” It appears as if speaking so much is actively harming Kratos, as he winces and stiffens with every word. He looks profoundly uncomfortable and determined at the same time. You remain silent, despite the conflicting feelings roaring in your heart.

“You understand the boy, in a way I have never been able to. I couldn’t bear to hate you, not when you gave Atreus his joy back. He hadn’t smiled since his mother died.” That, you hadn’t known. Suddenly, your throat burns as you remember the smiles Atreus has given you. “I have failed Atreus again and again, yet I tried to rob him of the one person that truly understood him… because that person was not me. What kind of father am I, for envying what you have with him?”

“A normal one, I think,” you answer honestly. “Kratos,” you break off, reaching out to him. Kratos grabs your wrist before you can reach him, a resigned expression on his face. He’s beginning to bury his emotions again. The light is slowly draining from his eyes. It feels as if he’s slowly slipping away from you.  

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Kratos says quietly. Your eyes catch on the bloodstains on his face and you begin to realize what he’s alluding to. Everything begins to make an absurd amount of sense: the giant axe, the ease with which he handled the unknown intruder, the entirely unaffected expression on his face as he ordered Atreus and you to hide.

“I don’t,” you acquiesce. Kratos’s hand is still on your wrist, but you manage to move your arm and clasp his forearm in return. “But that doesn’t matter—none of that matters. What matters is that you’re trying.” You take a deep breath. “Atreus needs you… and I do, too.”

Your eyes lock again and you realize that Kratos’s eyes are rather glassy. Is he crying? No, you must be seeing things. There’s an apology on the tip of your tongue but before you can speak, Kratos is tugging you towards him. You go along with the sudden momentum and, in the blink of an eye, he’s kissing you.

The gesture feels far too short, as a voice grounds you back to reality. “Finally.” You freeze and regretfully break away from Kratos, only to find Atreus staring at the two of you from his position in the far doorway. You feel extremely mortified and you try to salvage the situation by removing your hands from Kratos’s shoulders, but you fear it’s already too late.

“Boy…” Kratos trails off, evidently lost for words. Despite the fact that you’ve been found out, the man still hasn’t removed his hands from your waist.

“What?” Atreus asks innocently, a rather mischievous smile on his face. You sigh fondly at him, before beckoning him closer. The boy runs over and throws an arm around you, before doing the same with his father. Kratos looks startled for a moment, before he brings Atreus closer with his free hand. You smile to yourself as you’re surrounded by Kratos and Atreus—your newfound family.

[jasonsmirrorball]

honey i'll be dead (it won't always be like this) [756]

thunderstorms, gn!reader, allusions to depression/low mood, angst/comfort

the thunder outside seems a perfect end to the week you've had, booming outside your rickety bedroom window so fiercely you flinch from the blankets you've huddled yourself in. night falls on gotham and you wonder if you will see the familiar haunting glow of the signal cutting through the dense smog tonight. would crime stop for a bit of lightning?

your body locks tight with the next flash of white, tensing in preparation and – there it is, a bellow that makes you twist the sheets under your fingers anxiously. you half wonder if it isn't your own agonies that have manifested into the storm that's washed in over jersey this weekend, grief and fear and rage and seemingly every ugly emotion that had been swimming through your veins all week finally pouring out into the world to torment you once more.

jason comes in just as the power cuts out, lights flickering violently for a brief moment, as though considering whether to commit, before coming to a decision and plunging the apartment into darkness. one quick look outside the window shows it's extended to the entire block. it's silly to feel guilty. you feel it anyway.

the floor beneath his feet creaks – it's deliberate. he doesn't want to scare you, you can tell. there's a murmur of your name and you let out a breath. it's response enough and he crosses the threshold.

"what're you doing alone in here, hm?" it's said casually as he shucks his house slippers – the fuzzy black ones you had bought the first time he'd slept over, laid by the front door in wait of his arrival – and slides into bed beside you.

you shrug. i'm tired. i'm scared. i think i'm going to break. responses that go unsaid hang on the tip of your tongue, but it's weighed down by some invisible mass, and you stare into the space in front of you. the blackness pulses and swirls, shadows shifting as your eyes adjust to the dim light.

there's another roll of heavy thunder outside, so close it sounds as though it's right outside and your face feels taut with stress. your hand reaches for the one next to you, bumping around in the dark until your fingers brush against jason's. his hand curls around yours, one large palm swallowing yours and squeezing.

"'ve got an idea. come here."

you're lifted gently, arms cradling you to him and then the covers are being pulled up over your heads, your body curled up against his. the blanket does little to muffle the sounds outside, the rain beating against the windowpane only sounds marginally softer but he's managed to cut out some of the frigid cold in your apartment, leaking in through the poorly insulated walls. a dry heat settles in the small space and as you slump into him, a pitiful noise escapes your lips.

it's thin, and reedy, and a little wounded, and you can't help the flush in your face that follows, shame washing in like a tide when jason's arms tighten around you. it's dark under the covers, and your face is pressed to his shoulder. he can't see you, and yet he's seen too much in that moment.

"been a long week for you, huh," he mutters, so comfortingly your throat closes up. his hand is heavy on your spine, grounding you as your eyes water.

"so –" you cut yourself off, your voice, barely above a whisper, wobbles tremulously. "so long."

"made it through," he reminds you, but you feel something like a candle burnt too low, smoke plumes curling around a wick struggling to remain aflame. there is nothing in you left to celebrate, only a grief that buzzes in your head and heats your face.

you breathe out loud and it sounds like a sob. jason curls closer to you, and you press your lips together tightly, fingers twisting once more into the fabric within reach – his shirt.

"tell me it won't always be like this," you whisper, and you can feel the tears beginning to leak down the slope of your nose, wetting the pillow beneath your head.

there's a resounding BOOM.

jason's hands come over your ears, stroking the skin behind them. dry lips find your forehead clumsily, and he mutters a vow.

"it won't," he tells you. "it'll pass."

"promise me." it's demanding, and he has no power to wield your fate, but he kisses you as though he does, a reassurance pressed into the seam of your mouth.

"i promise."

me when i listen to it won't always be like this by inhaler whenever things are shit and only listen to that specific line because it feels like elijah hewson is promising me things will be ok. same energy as listening to don't let it break your heart and pretending it's louis tomlinson speaking directly TO ME! anyway i've had the shittiest week and a half and the weather has been so fucking awful and i'm scared of thunderstorms now! a lovely development that is SO useful when the weather decides to come down on us during what is supposed to be SUMMER. this is entirely self indulgent. but also born out of that one very lovely nonnie's thought that jason would come and comfort u during a thunderstorm. and well. if he is also scared, then. we are getting a pair of noise cancelling headphones.

[ossifer-bones]

Kiriona's Teeth, Naberius' Body, and Lyctoral Masking

He undid her scarf, and Nona looked away. Beneath the scarf a huge wound in the throat made the neck yawn wide open. When she peeked back, wishing she had her braids to screen everything, she saw that Palamedes had unbuttoned the shirt partway and there was another big wound in the chest—a big purple bloodless puncture wound, with white teeth peeking out coyly from within.

Kiriona's chest wound appears as a purple and bloodless wound, with teeth. A lot of people think that teeth is just a poetic way of referring to her ribs being visible, but I propose an alternate explanation: the devils, and Hell.

As we see on the Ninth, when they inspect the corpse of one of the possessed:

The eyelids hung slack, and there were rows of dark purple pinpricks above and below them—like something fine and sharp had come through.

The possessed bear purple pinpricks through which the teeth emerge, purple and bloodless wounds.

Naberius' and Gideon's Bodies

Naberius' body in Gideon the Ninth:

Naberius Tern lay awkwardly sprawled on the ground. His expression was that of a man who had suffered the surprise of his life. There was something too white about his eyeballs, but otherwise he looked perfectly real, perfectly alive, perfectly coiffed.

Gideon's body in As Yet Unsent:

The corpse has still failed to rot. The princess says they are leaving it outside in significantly fluctuating temperatures, under observation, and it still fails to rot.

The corpse is still as it ever was. I asked Hect if the scavengers had got at it. She said that animals refused to touch it even when encouraged.

I wonder if they will stop the experiments now. The corpse of the Ninth House cavalier is as pristine as when Camilla Hect convinced them to take it on board.

Both fail to rot. Both bodies appear obviously dead on inspection, yet uncannily pristine. Perfectly coifed, pristine as when first taken on board, remarkably so.

Lyctoral Masking

Ianthe was a black hole to you, a null, an empty, overradiant space, unreadable; but close physical proximity could echolocate that darkness.

Black hole, overradiant, darkness. Dark, light, dark.

“Harrowhark,” he said, “You are a Lyctor. You generate too much light, or too much darkness, for me to look at you and make out any strong detail [...]

Too much light, or too much darkness.

Lyctoral masking means the body is, at once, too light and yet too dark for detail to be made out necromantically, at least from a distance. John says that even he cannot make out strong detail as a result of it. Where else does John say that his power falls short? Hell.

“It is the mouth to Hell [...] Anyone who has entered a stoma has never returned. It is a portal to the place I cannot touch—somewhere I don’t fully comprehend, where my power and my authority are utterly meaningless.”

When else do we see light and darkness associated with necromancy?

Soul Siphoning

The torchlights gave an asthmatic gurk and dimmed as though their batteries were being sucked dry, and when Gideon looked at her hands through bleary eyes they were deepening grey [...] The world grew heavy and black around the edges, and Gideon felt cold all the way to her marrow.

Then Gideon saw the colour begin draining from Colum the Eighth as though he were covered with cheap dye: leaching as shadow leached hue in the nighttime, more horrible and more obvious in the unforgiving light of the electric torches and underfloor lamps. As he faded, the pale Silas incandesced. He glowed with an irradiated shimmer, iridescent white, and the air began to taste of lightning.

“When Master Octakiseron siphons his cavalier, he sends the soul elsewhere and then exploits the space it leaves behind. The power that rushes in to fill that space will keep refilling, for as long as either of them can survive [...]”

“Brother Colum has fought harder and in colder climes,” said Silas calmly. “He has come back to me through stranger ghosts. He has never once let his body become corrupted, and he never shall.”

Soul siphoning, as we can see, relies on sending the soul somewhere else and exploiting the power that rushes to fill in the space it leaves. This place is almost explicitly said to be Hell. As Augustine says to Mercy, founder of the Eighth: “You never did take the stoma seriously, which is why your whole damned House sucks at it like a grotesque teat—”

And, as you can see from the above excerpts, siphoning dims the lights and brings a chill to the room. Where else do we see gloom descend and the temperature drop?

With an awful crack, his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees to look impassively at the room behind him. One of the lightbulbs screamed, exploded, died in a shower of sparks. The air was very cold. Gideon’s breath came as frosty white frills in the sudden darkness, and the remaining lights struggled to pierce the gloom. Colum licked his lips with a grey tongue.

Siphoning taps into the power of Hell. And, as Ianthe says, she suspects the Eighth's contribution to the Lyctoral megatheorem was getting the power flowing.

“And then for the last step you hook up the cables and get the power flowing. You’ll find that one a walk in the park, Eighth, I suspect it was your House’s contribution.”

Conclusions

Soul siphoning relies on displacing the cavalier's soul, to draw power from the resulting space.

The displacement of soul siphoning derives power from Hell, the realm beyond the Stoma, where the devils originate from.

After their deaths, that allow their respective necromancers to ascend to Lyctorhood, Naberius and Gideon's bodies appear to be preserved.

Devils grow teeth from purple, bloodless wounds. The wound on Gideon's body appears purple, bloodless, and has seemingly grown teeth.

Ianthe theorised that the Eighth's contribution to the megatheorem was getting the power flowing, granting them access to the lyctoral well of thanergy.

Lyctoral masking is said by John to be due to the Lyctor generating too much light or darkness, obscuring details from even him. Soul siphoning generates light and darkness. Soul siphoning derives power from the place beyond the Stoma, which John defines as being a place where his power is meaningless.

The Stoma are in the River, where dead souls go after death, and an essential component of imperfect lyctorhood is the death of the cavalier.