#he grew up with stories about how dangerous it was to be a half-blood and then one just falls in his lap

[deedeeznoots]

Not the Strongest Anymore 

➺ Characters: Satoru Gojo, GN!Reader 

➺ Word Count: 3.1k

➺ Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst 

➺ Content: Reverse Comfort, Established Relationship, Non Sorcerer!Reader, Injured!Gojo, Mentions of Blood 

➺ A/N: I made this story because Gojo deserves someone to take care of him and give him a million hugs :( 

➺ Synopsis: When the Strongest sorcerer and your lover Satoru Gojo suddenly barges into your shared home bloodied and injured beyond belief, you make it your priority to heal him. However, you get suspicious when you notice him continuously dodging questions related to how he sustained those injuries. 

Water. 

That was the only thing that filled your senses. Whether it was the feeling of the warm water on your hands as you washed the dishes, or the soft plop plop plop as single droplets of rain made their way on the glass pane of your window. Yeah… water, that was what surrounded you on this night.

As you look out the window, you think of nothing but Satoru. Being the strongest sorcerer, your lover often worked early mornings and late nights. This was something he was accustomed to since he was a teenager. By extension, it was something you grew to get used to as well. It wasn’t that you were particularly fond of him being away for an entire day, or sometimes days on end, but it wasn’t like you could say anything. This wasn’t a normal job he could call off for, and you loved him so much that you wanted to stick by him, no matter the possible dangers that entailed. 

Still…you had an odd feeling in your chest. Think of it as intuition from being with Satoru for so long. You had the smallest feeling of something being off, and you felt it in your bones. After finishing up on washing the dishes, you looked out the window for any trace of your partner. “It’s getting pretty late, I wonder what he’s up to”, you thought out loud. Unfortunately, your mind jumps to the worst case scenarios. You thought about monstrous curses and curse users with terrible intentions. Satoru always got the worst of the missions, always being relied on to deal with the most dangerous of work. Your body shivers at all the things he must have seen, what it must be like to be expected to handle the worst sins of society. It was something you wouldn’t have wished upon anyone, let alone the love of your life. 

You shouldn’t be thinking like this. These thoughts would only make things worse, after all. So you shake your head to try and keep the thoughts at bay. “He’s probably fine” you said to yourself, walking away from the window and deciding to head to bed. Sleep… that’s what you should do right now. Then once you’re awake he’ll be by your side, just like normal. He’s perfectly fine.

Almost as if on cue, the man of the hour comes in, loudly barging in through the door. 

“Satoru!” you yelled out, before gasping at the sight. 

Before you was Satoru on the floor, bloodied and wet. He had wounds of differing severity all over his body… and the blood. Oh, the blood. There was so much of it, combining with the water to make a small puddle underneath Satoru’s pained body. You were used to Satoru coming home slightly injured sometimes, but this… this was something else. It was a truly terrible sight, so terrible that you froze for half a second, trying to process what you were seeing. 

Cough. Cough. The sound of Satoru coughing up blood before passing out in front of you snapped you out of your thoughts. You had to take care of him, and you had to do it fast. 

When Satoru opens his eyes, he finds himself lying down in your shared bedroom. He groans in agony and discomfort, feeling pain in seemingly every cell of his body. He has no knowledge on how he got home, other than hazy memories of trying to get to you in the rain, which based on context clues, he assumes he was successful. He turns his head to look for you, which causes his body to give a jolting rush of pain at his attempts to move. 

“Don’t move”, your voice hits his ears, and he finally looks at you, sighing in relief as he sees your face. You’re here… thank God. In excitement, he sits up, ignoring the pain that his body is in. “Satoru…” you say in a warning tone, and he apologizes, though he’s already sat up. You’re covered in blood, his blood, but you don’t seem to have much of a reaction, only focused on his wellbeing. 

He sees the clock and notices that it’s nearly 4:00 AM. He was probably knocked out for at least a few hours. Realizing that you took care of him this late into the night fills his heart with glee. He looked down at his body and noticed the bandages all over himself. You attempt to bandage him up some more, getting to the spots that you couldn’t reach while he was lying down, but Satoru stops you. 

“Don’t do that”, he says with a smile, his voice laced with honey. His hand lightly grabs your arm to stop you, before he lets go. “Watch this,” he says like he’s a frat guy who learned a new party trick. His hand moves to one of the wounds on his body, and he attempts to use Reverse Cursed Technique on the injury. You giggle and patiently watch as he works on his wound. 

“Voila!” he dramatically shouts out as his hand moves away from his wound. What he didn’t expect though, was for the wound to stay the same. “Uhhh…” he awkwardly blinks at the painful injury, believing if he looked at it long enough, he could somehow make the wound to heal out of sheer will. 

“You don’t have enough cursed energy, my love…” you say to him. Even though you weren’t a sorcerer, you certainly knew enough to understand that any chance of Satoru healing himself at the state he was in is something out of wishes and dreams. You lovingly ruffle his white hair and go “Don’t push yourself, okay? It’s not anything like Reverse Cursed Technique, but I think I’m pretty good at healing the regular way” you laugh and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

Satoru accepts the kiss but still grimaces at the fact that he couldn’t heal himself. “I called Shoko but she’s away for a while, so this will have to do until you get your Cursed Energy back” you say while still rubbing his head, tangling his hair in your hands. Satoru nods. He was okay with that, more than okay, actually. He would rather have you heal him rather than Shoko or another doctor anyway.

“What happened out there, anyways?” you ask nonchalantly. Satoru just gives you a goofy smile and says “You know, I have no idea!”. He’s lying, you knew him long enough to know that. Plus, he was a terrible liar. You ignore it though, that could be dealt with another time. For now, your biggest priority was taking care of his wounds. Now understanding that he couldn’t use RCT, he allowed you to clean and patch up his wounds. Despite the agonizing pain he was in, he savored every moment of your touch, feeling warm inside at the prospect of you taking care of him. He usually dreaded being healed by other people, but this felt different. This felt… intimate, like a moment only you two shared together. 

“There you go!” you say with a smile as you finish patching him up, proud of the work you did to help bring him less pain. “Now…” you say, “Are you hungry? I can make you some food”. 

“Nah, I’m okay,” Satoru lied. He doesn’t remember when the last time he ate was, and the injuries weren’t helping. However… he didn’t want you to leave his side, so he opted to just deal with it, it’ll probably be fine, he thought.

His body had other plans though, and you hear the soft grumble of his stomach. You give him a stern look, and he scratches the back of his head, knowing he got caught. You give him one last look before turning away, “I’ll go make some soup”. 

“Noooo…” he whines, grabbing your arm “It’s really okay, I promise, let’s just go to bed”. 

“Satoru…” you give him another warning call, before moving closer to him, cupping his face. You give him a kiss on the lips, still careful to not worsen any of his wounds. As you pull away, you touch your forehead to his, and tell him “It’ll be no more than ten minutes, okay?”. He knows he’s not getting through to you, so he nods with a pout on his lips, and leaves you with one last kiss before seeing you off. So cute! You thought, but you knew better than to tease him while he was already down.

“I’ll leave the door open so call if you need anything” is the last thing you say as you walk away.

You’re back in no time, just as you promised. This time, with some hot soup in your hands. He tries to take matters into his own hands and feed himself, but you lightly smack his hand away, insisting that you feed him. “You’ll spill soup all over yourself” you tell him, as you bring the hot liquid to his mouth. He complies and quickly finishes his meal. As he feels his hunger slowly subsiding, he feels you slowly bring his head down to his pillow and feels you make your way next to him on the other side of the bed. 

Next to him, you slowly caress his face in a way that only communicates one thing: I was so scared. You didn’t want to say it out loud to not bother him even more, and he didn’t need to hear you say it to understand. So… you both simply lied together, slowly drifting off to sleep as the pressures of the terrifying world around you slowly disappeared from the small little bubble you two built together. 

When Satoru wakes up the next day, the first thing he notices is the fact that you’re not by his side. The moment he notices this, he quickly sits up from his sleeping position and his eyes dart from place to look for you. He doesn’t see you, but he can sense the faintest smell of pancakes coming from outside the bedroom. Like a child on Christmas Day, he excitedly gets up from the bed toward the direction of the pancakes. He nearly falls over a few times due to the stinging pain on his ankles, but he is not deterred, and he makes his way to where you are in the kitchen. 

The sight before him was gorgeous. You… in his shirt, flipping some buttermilk pancakes over the stove. It was a dream come true for him. When you notice him out of bed, you begin to freak out a little bit. “Satoru! You shouldn’t have gotten out of bed by yourself!” you chastise, to which Satoru simply shrugs. You don’t completely blame him though, the smell of anything sweet could lure Satoru into a volcano if he deemed it enticing enough. So you simply tell him to sit down and rest at the table and that you are almost done cooking. Satoru excitedly complied, happily listening to your command and waiting patiently for breakfast. 

He had a warm feeling in his stomach while he watched you make him breakfast. He didn’t ask for you to do that, but you did. Thinking about it… he didn’t ask for you to do anything. He wasn’t used to being cared for in this way by anyone, and it made him feel all sorts of funny feelings. What was going on? He thought to himself.

He wasn’t given much time to ponder, however, as you placed a large stack of pancakes in front of him. Hesitantly, you also gave him some syrup on the side in a little container. “I know you love your pancakes sweet but don’t put too much my love, it’ll upset your stomach” you tell him, knowing he probably wouldn’t listen. You aren’t sure why you enable his sweets addiction so much, maybe it’s because of how much his eyes glow with happiness every time you let him slide. Yeah… the little glint of glee in his eyes, that’s what you live for, and that’s why you let him get away with any sweets-related mischief. 

The fact that you care so much about something as little as a stomach ache makes Satoru feel all fuzzy inside once again… but as you expected, he didn’t listen. On the contrary, he nearly douses his pancakes in as much syrup as possible, beaming with glee as he takes large bites out of the fluffy buttermilk goodness. 

As you both enjoy your meal, you decide that it’s a good enough time to once again ask Satoru the question that has continued to bug you since last night. “Satoru…” you place your fork down, which causes the man in front of you to look up “Hm?”. 

“What could you have possibly fought last night for you to end up like… like this?” you eye him up and down, pointing out the obvious. Satoru looked better now, sure, but that was more of a commentary on how messed up he was last night than how well he’s doing. If he was a normal person, Satoru would not even be able to move a finger. This wasn’t normal, even for Satoru, and you needed to know what was going on. 

“I really don’t know” Satoru laughs, he’s lying again, what was with this guy? You consider pushing the subject, but eventually you decide to just let it go for now. You can talk to him once he’s more healed. For now, you’re just glad that he’s alive and seemingly alright. 

After breakfast, Satoru once again attempts to use RCT to heal himself, and once again, it does not work. He curses to himself in frustration, “It’s okay Satoru… you’ll just have to take a break like the rest of us. I’m sure the world will be fine without Satoru Gojo for a day” you laugh. He grumbles at the thought, not being used to sitting still for so long, but he accepts defeat and decides that he’d enjoy spending the day with you anyways.

You spend the majority of the day being spooned by Satoru on the couch and hate-watching all the terrible TV shows cable television has to offer. “Man, I can’t believe they even air this stuff still” Satoru laughs at the screen as you turn away to face him. Looking at him up close, you pay closer attention to some of his scars, and notice something odd. Observing the wounds, you notice that some of them appeared to be recurring, as if they were healed using RCT but then cut through again. You feel Satoru’s chest vibrate as he laughs, causing you to snap out of your thoughts, but you keep thinking anyway. Something was really off. 

You have to basically drag Satoru into the bedroom to get him to rest. “But I’m not tireddddd…” he cries out “I don’t care. You can’t watch the TV for too long or it’ll strain your eyes, you know that better than anyone” you tell him as you get him to lie down on the bed. “Plus…” you add on with a smile, “I want to be the big spoon this time” you say as you bring him closer to your body. This causes him to to softly smile and close his eyes as you asked him to, though he doesn’t sleep. 

You keep holding him close, kissing his head and playing with his hair. You also kiss his ears, but that causes him to shiver and he says “Stop! It tickles, hehe”. You don’t stop, of course, knowing he secretly loves it when you mess with him. 

As you caress him through the night, you notice the small frown that begins to appear on his face, as he looks lost in thought. This saddens you a little. You’ve tried your best to be open with him, from the moment the two of you began dating. It took a while for him to take down his walls, and it still remains something he clearly struggled in, not wanting to appear weak. Despite this, you loved him. You loved that he trusted you enough to be this close to him. You loved that he allowed you to take care of him, no matter how hard it was for him. You loved Satoru, and you wanted to communicate that at every moment. 

“You know, I love yo–” 

“It wasn’t just one mission. It was multiple” Satoru suddenly spoke.  

“…What?” You softly asked him, not fully understanding what he meant. 

Satoru turned around to look you in the eyes. There, he explained the story of what happened last night. How he was slowly worn down from each mission he took. It started getting bad when he lost so much cursed energy that he was not able to fully hold up infinity, opening him up for hits from attackers. Despite this, he kept getting called on missions, and he kept going on them. Choosing to ignore any of the injuries he sustained until he was fully pushed to the edge. 

He’s essentially boiled down to a blubbering mess as he attempts to communicate with you, and you’re hardly able to understand him. You feel his warm tears on your chest as he tells the story, and you’re trying your best to keep up with this new information. However, one particular thing he tells you as he holds you close causes your eyes to widen.

“I…I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to keep worrying about me”. 

The fact that he felt this way broke your heart, and you held him even closer. You tried your best not to hold onto him too tight in order to not cause him too much pain. “Satoru…” you coo, explaining that he shouldn’t ever feel the need to hide anything from you. You kiss his forehead as you wipe his tears, something he fully leans into. 

“Why did you keep going on missions even though you were hurt though?” you ask, trying to be as soft as possible. You didn’t want to make it sound like you were berating him. 

His blue eyes look up at you confused, as if you asked him the stupidest question in the world. He thinks for a moment, trying to find the right words, when he says, “I…I have to. If I stop being the Strongest and going on missions, what will there be left to see?” He looks down at his own palm as he says these words. 

Your heart breaks even more hearing that Satoru feels this way, but he keeps going “You know… sometimes I don’t understand you”. You look at him confused, “You keep looking after me and taking care of me despite me being so weak that I can barely even move. Even when I try to be strong and do things on my own, you stop me. You stop me from being the Strongest… I don’t understand that.” 

When he finishes his sentence, you give him a kiss on the head and hold him even tighter. As you hold him, you tell him, “Well I certainly admire the Strongest, but…” you cup his face, looking directly into his bright blue eyes “…My favorite person will always be Satoru Gojo, because only Satoru can lie on the couch to laugh at bad TV shows with me… only Satoru puts absurd amounts of syrup in his pancakes…” you both laugh, “…and while the Strongest protects the world outside, only Satoru can come home to lie next to me”. You then give him a passionate kiss, hoping to put all your love into the act, something to help him understand the full depths of your love for him.

Pulling away, Satoru leans into your chest once again, and only says “Thank you… I love you too, by the way” he giggles before falling asleep in your arms. 

Satoru still had a long way to go in order to fully bring down his walls in front of you, but this… being able to spend a day with someone he loved so much and for the first time in his life, do absolutely nothing. That was certainly a good start. 

-

A/N: Like Gojo? He’s also mentioned in this fic and this fic! <3 

[gutterfuuck]

“ROI—“

more bff!mark for my baby girls out there, i am watching and lurking when you least expect. the title is based on a song! it is the instrumental for roi. i do not have a specific reason, i just heard it while i was writing and hadn’t a title ready. i saw the phrase “sandbox love never dies” on another work, credit is due there for that!

cw: mdni!, dubcon-ish(? not sure how to describe, haha), smut, mark is pining hard for reader, possibly hint of yandere, this one is kind of long, bff!mark, piv, childhood friends to lovers trope, mark is a little delulu if u squint, virgin!mark (implied), semi-dark content please be aware, reader and mark are in college, reader knows that mark is invincible but that isn’t really important to the story.

mark knew this bedroom all too well. how couldn’t he? you both basically grew up in there together. you were always over at his house, he was always over at yours. inseparable ever since the day he had moved in across from you, sandbox love never dies.

his eyes landed on the fairy lights that were stapled to the wall to keep them in place… he had done that, years ago. he couldn’t bare to see the look of disappointment on your face when you realised that they hadn’t come with a sticky back so you could have them up on your wall. he still remembered the way your eyes lit up when he returned to your home with a stapler in hand, being careful not to staple through the wire. mark’s heart fluttered when he saw your little collection of cereal box figurines; also his doing. he couldn’t believe that you had held onto his gifts for so long, let alone display them proudly as if they were medals. to you, they might as well as be.

“you okay?” you asked, snapping him out of whatever dreamy trance he was in. he snapped his head around back to the tv, the ending credits of the zombie movie rolling on the screen. you had noticed how he had been staring into space for the last half hour of your movie, “me? yeah- i’m good, just thinking about something.” he smiled, quickly rummaging around on the floor to pick up the last of the movie cases, your marathon nearing its end. you were both back in town for the weekend, college kicking you both down and your dorm rooms not homey enough for it to feel right, so you had decided to drop in for a couple of days, killing two birds with one stone and seeing both mark’s parents and yours in one trip. your parents would be coming back later, that’s when the barbecue would come out.

mark switched the disk for the unwatched one, the movie menu popping up shortly after with a blood splatter animation on the title screen, “no don’t play it yet! we gotta refill here.” you spoke, pointing down at the almost empty bowl of chips, save for a few crumbs at the bottom. you had even ran out of cookies, remembering how mark had said that they should stop calling them family size if they were only able to feed two people in the span of an hour or two. you retorted with something about how usually people had self control; you weren’t supposed to scoff down three packs of family value cookies. ever.

“you gonna leave me here, all on my own? out in the open like this? i’m a sitting duck out here.” he joked, a satisfied warmth washing over him as soon as you had laughed. he loved your laugh, always. for as long as he could remember, “like anyone would come attack my house while you’re here, mark.” you rolled your eyes, his heart skipped a beat. he knew how much you relied on him to keep you safe sometimes. already knew that you’d know who to call if you were ever in any danger. he fed on it. you picked up the empty bowls, stacking them inside one another and opening your bedroom door.

“d’you want anything from downstairs?” you asked, holding an empty bottle of pop under your arm, hands preoccupied. mark shook his head, getting up to open your door wider for you, “i think i’ll just stick to eating all of this junk you keep throwing at me.” mark smiled, you smiled. mark’s heart ached.

“don’t you dare press play on that movie, mark grayson!” you yelled from downstairs, just missing the way mark’s cheeks dusted pink at the sound of his name on your tongue. you sounded like an angel. mark’s attention turned to your dresser, the top drawer full of your underwear. how did he know? well, he was the reason for your declining pairs of underwear, the source of the disappearing panties act that you had just brushed off as being forgetful or losing them somehow. he got up, face turning beet red as he stepped towards the drawer, fingers shakily reaching for the handle, slowly, slowly-

“are you going through my stuff?” shit. shit.

you had caught him, after all this time you had caught him. his mind raced for an excuse, his heart threatened to give up on him and he hoped that he would just have a heart attack already, quickly, he had to say something. anything, anything- “i’m kidding! if you’re looking for the remote, you already left it on the bed, silly!”

thank god. thank god.

“right, y-yeah! ha, i must’ve- forgotten..” he laughed nervously, heart still racing in his chest. all he could do was try to steady himself, calm his shaking hands and retreat back to his original seat, on your bed, next to you. he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering, couldn’t stop thinking about how he could’ve had you right there if you had actually caught him, couldn’t stop thinking about holding your hands above your head and covering your mouth with his palm, ‘please let me, you don’t understand- just the tip and i’ll be done i swear.. just let me make you take me.’— he was daydreaming again, it was all your fault. he wanted you so badly, so desperately, why couldn’t you see it? why couldn’t you see him?

mark stared blankly at the tv screen with his jaw clenched, looking right through the screen. if he hadn’t had seen this movie dozens of times before with william, he would’ve been missing it. it was as if he was sleeping while sitting up with his eyes open, idle and dormant…

he heard you scream, his body shifting to shield you on instinct, breaking him out of whatever trance he had put himself in. you had thrown your arms over him, eyes squeezed shut. he was ready to fight, but fizzled down when he realised that you had only jumped into his arms for safety because of a jumpscare. a jumpscare. you were pressed up against him, you had almost jumped into his lap. it was like you were doing it on purpose, torturing him just because you could. you clung to him tighter, eyes glued to the screen in fear and anticipation for the next bloody scene…

fuck. he could feel his cock twitching in his jeans, straining against his boxers. leaking, weeping for you, his best friend. he was frozen, his eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip pulled into his mouth with his teeth so hard that he thought he would make himself bleed- bleed for you-because you were clinging onto him like you needed him. he needed you. he couldn’t help it anymore. it was now or never, here or nowhere.

“m’sorry-“ he said quietly and you turned to him, eyes staring up into his. that sent him over the edge. before you could ask him what he was apologising for, you were on your back, mark leaning over your body, a hungriness in his deep brown orbs. you had forgotten how fast he was, his powers completely slipping your mind. that was just it, you never cared. you always stuck with him, even after he had told you about his father’s secret roots all those years ago after he had just found out. he couldn’t wait to tell you, he always knew that you’d still see him the same, believe his words even if he lied-

“y/n, please- just let me talk, please just hear me out..!” he sounded different, shaky, almost scared to speak to you as if you were the one with superpowers holding him down. you weren’t scared, of course you weren’t. you looked into his eyes, concern washing over you as you watched your best friend open and close his mouth again, trying to find his words, “i.. i don’t- look, i…” more silence followed, tears brimmed in the corners of mark’s eyes and landed on your face, his gaze refusing to meet yours once again. you wanted to wipe his eyes, get to the bottom of why he was so upset… oh. oh. that was it, huh?

“mark-“ you interrupted, propping yourself up on your elbows to get closer to his face, closer so you could wipe his eyes-

mark panicked, he wasn’t ready for your rejection. wasn’t ready to hear you tell him that you had a boyfriend or that you couldn’t, didn’t want to hear you tell him that he was just like a brother to you, you couldn’t like him back because you were only best friends. he leaned forward, hands on your cheeks, lips crashing against your own. “mmf-!” you tried to move, his grip only tightening the more you tried to pull away, your hands on his wrists tightly. so this was how it was going to have to go, right? he’d dreamed of this for so long, it was so perfect. you were perfect.

“mark-!” you finally yelled, pushing him away by his shoulders. he could feel a dark pit starting to form inside of his stomach, regret washing over him, wishing that the pit would open up enough to swallow him too… “let me just breathe for a second..!” you huffed, locking eyes with him. your eyes never left his, mark’s eyes would try to flicker away from yours.

to him, it was a miracle. to you, it was a confession. it was years and years of bottled up feelings drowning you both all at once, it was confirmation.

you didn’t hesitate, hands snaking into his hair and pulling him back into a sweet kiss, your legs wrapping around his waist as he gasped shakily, a sweet nervousness behind his reciprocation. fireworks shot off in his brain, opening his mouth slowly only to be met with the intrusion of your tongue first, licking up against his as you held him tighter, pulling him closer, devouring him whole. god, you were going to kill him. are you going to kill him? give him a heart attack right here, right now? he thought so, hands aimlessly wondering under your shirt with his hips bucking into you with a groan rumbling from his throat, you whining back when his thumbs brushed against your nipples, your hips rocking against his. “w-wan’ you so b-bad-“ he spoke in between kisses, desperately trying to shove his tongue back down your throat straight after. you moved your hands to the hem of your skirt, shuffling out of it and kicking it off the end of your foot and onto the floor. this was hot, hungry. your hands pulled at his sweater, attempting to pull it over his head. he paused, sad to leave your lips once more, to take off his sweater and discard it into a random corner. “y/n, wanna- can i.. please- just the t-tip, only wanna feel it..- please let me, i’ll be quick, p-promise-“ you shut him up with a deep kiss, arms wrapped around his neck, “..i want all of it, mark. i can take you.” and mark almost cums in his jeans right there, nodding lazily and sliding his hand between your bodies to fiddle with the button and fly of his jeans, mentally congratulating himself for not just messily tugging them past his hips. he wasn’t alone with your panties jerking off next to you in your bed while you slept anymore- no- he had time. he could take it slow.

you couldn’t help but moan when you caught sight of his cock, heavy and thick and leaking between his legs, aching for you. who would’ve guessed? your best friend was packing. mark rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him so you were straddling his waist, hands pressed on chest. to him, all you had ever done was look down on him, even if you had never intended so. for once, you really were looking down on him, but he was in control. he wanted to be in control, he should have been in control. and with that, the position shifted once more.

mark’s thumbs separated your gooey folds after pulling your panties to the side, he recognised that pair, he had planned on taking them one night. a pair of red lace panties, simple but permanent in his brain. he knew your cunt all too well, the nights where you would need help to stumble back to your dorm drunk when he would tower over your clothed body, flipping up your dress and lick your cunt until he busted against your bedsheets, he could always dismiss it as a yoghurt stain or something if you had ever asked.

mark grabbed you by the thighs, pulling you closer so your cunt was in perfect line of his fat dick, swiping the head up your slit and shivering when you moaned quietly because of the contact to your clit. this was so surreal, he was living in a dream and he never wanted to wake up. you both hissed when he caught his tip on your hole, eyes meeting once more before he let himself go, hands gripping your hips as he pressed into his your warm, wet pussy. you were going to take all of him. “fuuck..! mnh-“ you almost screamed, trying to adjust to his length. mark didn’t care. neither did you. his cock bullied its way into your tight walls, mark whispered small apologies into your ear as you whined at him, slowly gyrating your hips to try and almost run from the stretch, to give yourself a minute to adjust again, “don’t do that- you don’t have to do anything-“ he started, his warm breath fanning over your neck which caused goosebumps on your skin, “you don’t have to do anything other than lay here.. stay still n’ take my cock.” his words made you tremble, you tried to protest, his mouth blocking your words with a kiss, his dick pressing right up against your cervix with a harsh thrust of his hips, gummy gooey walls clenching down on him, a low “ohhh, ohh f-fu..ck-!” rumbling against your lips.

one thrust and he was immediately pussydrunk, your mouth hanging open and tongue poking out when he drew his hips back, slamming them back into you with uneven, inexperienced movements. he fucked like a rabid dog, his nails digging into your skin as he babbled above you,

“d-do you feel full? can’t push any deeper..” followed by a pressure on your stomach, his hand pressing down so he could feel himself thrusting through your body,

“ghnn..- y/n you feel so much b-better than my fleshlight-!” did he even know what he was saying? your walls tightened around him, the wind being knocked out of your lungs again when he pressed harder, lips working against yours, his vision blanking and ears ringing when you didn’t stop tightening and loosening on him, mushy cunt trying to milk him dry.

you couldn’t do anything but moan breathlessly, pushing the hair falling into his face back, his jaw clenched and forehead sweaty, pressing his head against yours. this was it, this was everything his life had been building up to until now. he thought that maybe he had subconsciously made you fall for him, all of the times he had touched you secretly conditioning your brain. he doubted it, but the idea of him and him only reworking your mind to love him made him keen. “yeah, tha’s right.. take it, c’monnn..” he babbled, his eyelashes wet with tears, not knowing or caring whether they were happy tears or the result of his pleasure. you were right on the edge, your moans getting louder and shorter, scrambling to let mark, your best friend, know that you were going to spray all over his pelvis. you’d squirted before but this felt.. different. warmer, hotter. “c-c-!..” you struggled, eyes crossing and back bowing off of the bed, “fffuck-! ghfuckk yeah..- y-you’re cummin-“ he held your hand, hips stuttering when he felt your tight pussy starting to flutter, the tight coil in your stomach finally snapping;

warmth flooded your insides, legs twitching when you gushed all over yourself and mark. if you weren’t planning on changing your sheets after this, you definitely had to now. white ropes were out of mark’s cockhead riiiight against your cervix, breeding your cunt as if he had no control over himself, which he didn’t. you both panted, trying to balance your breathing. you felt his hips pull back, cock pulling out and opening the floodgates for thick globs of cum to pour out of you, your best friend rolling onto his back and covering his eyes with his forearm, mouth open as he breathed. he was in a daze, completely out of it, both of your liquids stuck to mark’s flaccid dick.

“did you get it out of your system yet?” your voice always bought him back. it was always you, it had always been you. “i… really want to be with you. i wanted- i want you, y/n.” mark spoke sternly, finally being able to complete his sentence from earlier. “i think i could gather that.” you retorted with a laugh. your laugh, his favourite.

you locked eyes, dark murky brown pools staring directly into yours. his pinkie finger hooked around yours, laughter bubbling from both of you. the fairy lights shined in his peripheral vision. the movie’s credits rolled on the screen, the whole movie falling on deaf, horny ears.

it was quiet, the only sounds being of yours and mark’s breathing. this was nice, blissful. peaceful.

“i love you, mark grayson.”

[fireya-x]

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

Your husband, Captain John Price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. But you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.

[4k+ words]

cw: piv sex, spanking, light dom/sub

“Remember what I just told you,” John said, and your grip around the cool material of the gun you held grew tighter. It was a foreign object in your hands, and even though you’d just received detailed instructions on how to hold and handle it, it didn’t feel right. You’d hesitantly taken it from his hands, and felt something unexpected, as if accepting a dangerous secret from him. It felt intimate, like a shared moment of vulnerability. He entrusted you with this part of himself, this dangerous expertise, never doubting for a second that you would accept it.

Then there you were, in the middle of a shooting range, and John was moving through the facility as comfortable as he was moving through your own living room. You’d been to the base a few times, of course, meeting teammates and other partners, but never with the intention to hold a weapon.

You’d told him, more than once, that you wanted no part in this side of his life. That ignorance was your safe haven, your way of pretending that the man you loved could leave the battlefield behind. But deep down, you knew it was a lie. John Price, for all his tenderness, for all the quiet moments of domesticity you’d built a life around, was a soldier to his very core. He breathed and lived it as long as his heart pumped blood through his veins.

It was in the way he moved, precise and controlled, and it was in the way he touched you – possessive, protective, as if you were the most precious weapon in his arsenal.

He insisted it was for your own safety. “You need to be able to protect yourself, love,” he’d said. But you saw right through it. This wasn't about you. It was about him. About the nightmares that lingered in his eyes, the enemies he'd made in a life you couldn't begin to comprehend. This was his way of ensuring that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart duty tore you, he could rest easy knowing you had a fighting chance. It bordered on paranoid, the lengths he’d go to protect you – the home security systems, the calls to his former teammates, the subtle checks whenever you were out alone. But beneath all that, you saw the love, and you wouldn’t deny him this. You’d never shied away from his darkness, the stories he’d told that both terrified and fascinated you.

It was all part of the complex man that was John Price: both a trained, lethal weapon and a caring, loving husband.

Gentle but ruthless. Controlled, but capable of destruction. Dangerous in ways you probably never could even begin to understand, but you felt safer with him than you ever had alone.

He was a walking oxymoron.

“I’ve never even held a gun before, John.” You admitted, your words echoing through the vastness of the range, uncertain how to explain the weird mix of emotions you were feeling.

“I know,” he said, his lips curving into that half-smile. “And I can see you hesitating, and that’s the correct first step, love. Respect is most important.”

He’d guided you to a secluded booth, the table stocked with more ammunition than you’d ever expected to see outside a warzone. He’d shown you how to hold the pistol, how to check the chamber, reload the magazine and how to disable security. He’d shown you the stance, the subtle shift of weight so that the recoil wouldn’t punch you in the gut, and told you that it’s best to use both hands to aim, to steady yourself.

“Finger off the trigger, sweetheart,” he suddenly instructed, his tone serious. You hadn’t even realized you’d moved it, your finger was hovering over the trigger with reckless curiosity, and you couldn't quite explain why. "Only put it on there if you really mean to take a shot.”

He put his hands above yours on the grip of the pistol, then chuckled lightly. “Loosen up a little. Don’t make that a habit.” He then grabbed your elbow and lifted it up a little, so gentle, it was a weird contradiction to how controlled he moved around the shooting range like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

He stepped back, giving you just enough space to breathe, to remember you weren’t his soldier to command. But he could tell you still weren’t sure about your stance.

“Want me to show you?” He gestured to the target at the end of the range – a silhouette that seemed eerily human-shaped in the dim light.

You nodded, surrendering the weapon and retreating to a safe distance as John stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost graceful, belying the lethality he embodied.

He pushed the safety lever off with a sharp click. You could almost feel the energy in the air shift. You saw his hand gripping the weapon as it became more serious and alive, like not just a tool, but an extension of him.

John raised the gun. You were captivated, your gaze tracing the line of his arm, the flex of his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing, watching him handle a weapon clearly meant to kill, and yet, you couldn't tear your eyes away.

His stance was relaxed, almost casual. He didn't even flinch as he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed in the silence, sharp and startling. You flinched involuntarily at the sound. It wasn’t that you weren’t expecting it – but there was something different, something almost intimate, about watching him handle a weapon with such lethal grace, such unflinching control.

There was no time to feel anything but awe as John lowered the weapon, his eyes fixed on you. The air was thick, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Now you,” he said as he clicked the safety back on and stepped aside. He didn’t need to say anything more. You were ready, he had made sure of that, and he was waiting to see if you would rise to the challenge.

“Downrange, safety off,” you muttered to yourself, remembering his words. Your finger found the safety, disengaging it with a soft click that felt overly loud in the quiet space. You tried to replicate the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, a slight bend in your knees that made your thighs ache. Taking a deep breath, you raised the pistol, lined the sights up on the target at the far end of the range, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot caught you completely off guard. The recoil was sharper, more violent than you'd expected. It jolted your entire body, throwing you off balance. You stumbled back, a startled yelp escaping your throat before you could help yourself, the heavy weight of the gun almost slipping from your grasp.

You missed the target entirely.

“Easy, love, easy,” John's voice, calm and steady, was right beside your ear. You hadn’t even registered his approach, your senses still reeling from the gunshot, the adrenaline that spiked through you sharp and bitter on your tongue.

You hadn't realized you'd stopped breathing until his hand settled on your waist, his touch firm yet reassuring through the fabric of your shirt, steadying you. Your body leaned into his warmth, seeking comfort, and found it in the solid presence that had always been your haven in the storm.

“Don't fight it,” he murmured. “It’s not about forcing the shot. You need to work with it. Let it flow.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, but you didn’t try to pull away. His closeness was more reassuring than you wanted to admit, the solid weight of him a stark contrast to the unexpected power of the gun. You’d felt this way before, countless times: small beside his strength, intimidated but inexplicably drawn to the same danger that made you feel so vulnerable.

“Again,” he commanded softly, ignoring your remark, as his hand tightened momentarily on your hip. You couldn’t disobey, even if you’d wanted to. His other hand covered yours on the gun.

You tried to recall the stance he’d demonstrated, to feel more confident, but it felt awkward. Your body was tense, and you cursed the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

“You have to relax, darling,” John murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

He leaned closer, his chest a wall of heat at your back as his hand moved from your hip to settle on the small of your back. “Don't let that little gun take all the control,” he whispered, his fingers splaying against your spine as he adjusted your posture, holding you steady. “It's not about brute strength. Lean into it, find the balance.”

His heat seeped into you, chasing away the chill of the shooting range and replacing it with a heat that centred between your legs, a yearning you hadn't anticipated. His touch was doing things to your senses, sending a jolt of something hot and reckless straight through you.

You could feel his fingers, calloused and rough, brushing against yours as he made you hold the gun right.

“See, like that – now, the grip –” You could hear the amusement in his voice, the way he seemed to savour your discomfort. He wasn’t going to make this easy for you, and something in you – something wild and hungry – revelled in the challenge. His fingers traced a searing path down your arm, his touch lingering for a heartbeat on your wrist as he guided your hand.

“Use your wrist – just like that –” You shivered as his breath ghosted across your ear. “That’s it. That’s how you hold it. It's all about control.” He pressed closer, your bodies moulding together.

His hand covered yours on the gun again, overlapping it as you held the weapon together. This different kind of intimacy touch sent a spark down your spine, scorching away every last thought, as you tried to focus on the instructions. “Now pull the trigger.”

You did. And this time, you hit the target. The bullet tore through the paper silhouette, a testament to his guidance, his control.

It was impossible to ignore how close he was. His fingers grazed your back, sending a shiver through you, and then – oh, God – you felt it, the insistent pressure of his knee between your thighs, adjusting your stance, bracing you.

“Feet apart, love,” he murmured, his voice husky as his knee nudged you wider, his hand a steady pressure on the small of your back. You felt like a toy in his hands.

You fired again. This time, it was a little closer to the target, but still far away from the bullseye.

“That’s better,” he murmured, but there was an edge to his amusement now, something heated. You tried to ignore the pressure of him against you.

“Look at that target, focus on the sights, love.” He shifted, his lips finding the delicate skin beneath your ear, and you sucked in a breath. He was doing this deliberately now, pushing your buttons, testing your limits, and the worst part was that he knew you were powerless to resist. 

You fired again. Same corner.

“That’s not good enough.” His lips hovered over your pulse. “Hit the target and you’ll be rewarded. Hmm? How’s that sound?”

A familiar heat built in your belly. The knee that was still holding your stance steady felt way too prominent. This position did nothing to hide his arousal, either.

You focused on the sights, tried lining it up with the middle of the target. The shockwave was not completely absorbed by John’s strength as he held you, and you were shoved back against his chest. You hit the target's neck.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’re a fast learner.”

Every time he’d utter that phrase, every time he brushed his fingers against your hand as he guided you, it was like a surge of heat coursing through your veins. You were flustered, struggling to keeop your focus.

“Stop it,” you pleaded. “You’re distracting me.”

You aimed again, after he’d adjusted your stance, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned close to make a correction. “Yes, just like that.”

That was your undoing, each word he said was laced with a playful, knowing intent. His hands guided you, but it wasn’t about the gun, or the lessons, it was all about the feel of him close to you.

You fumbled, almost dropping the gun.

“What’s wrong?” He laughed.

Your cheeks burned. “I –I can’t concentrate.”

You were so lost in showing him that you could do this, you didn’t realize what he started to do. Lips on your neck, and his hand suddenly slowly snaked below the waistband of your gym shorts.

You froze. “John! Isn’t this place covered in cameras?”

“Made sure they’re out of order tonight.” He leans in a little closer as if to whisper it in your ear, his breath warmer than the summer air. “It would take so much paperwork to have you here otherwise. Besides, my wife deserves a private lesson from her husband.”

You shuddered at the words, at the implied claim in them. You aimed again, but missed.

A sharp sting on your backside made you gasp, a sound that morphed into a startled moan as you registered what had just happened. He'd spanked you. It shouldn't have been arousing, not here, not now, yet a thrill shot through you as much at the audacity of it as the sensation itself.

“Do I have to punish you for missing shots?” He sounded so deceptively soft, sending a shiver down to the place where his knee still pressed insistent between your thighs. He was fully aroused, you realized, a thrill shooting through you at the knowledge, the feeling of it a branding iron against your overheated skin. 

“Wasting ammo like that?” He punctuated the question with another swat, harder this time, his hand lingering on your ass, his fingers flexing as though torn between wanting to punish you further and pulling you impossibly closer.

It was impossible to think straight, let alone concentrate on lining up the damn shot.

“J-John,” you stammered, hating the way your voice sounded – breathless, needy – even as you pressed back against him, seeking out the heat that radiated off him in waves, making your head spin. You were caught in a delicious, dangerous game, and the only way to win was to surrender completely.

But you weren’t quite there yet. You needed to hit this damn shot. Pride warred with something hotter, wilder, as you struggled to ignore the insistent pressure of his erection against your backside.

Just as you thought you could regain some semblance of focus, his other hand, the one that had rested so innocently below the waistband of your shorts, began to descend further. It was a slow, deliberate movement, and then you felt it – a finger, rough-tipped and insistent, slipping between your folds.

Pleasure shot through you like a bullet, so unexpected and potent that your entire body went rigid. You bit back a moan, the sound dying in your throat as you clenched around his intruding digit, the ache that bloomed low in your belly a thousand times more distracting than any recoil. 

“Again,” he commanded, his voice low and hot against your ear, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if his fingers weren’t actively attacking your most sensitive flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. He held all the cards in this game he'd initiated. And you were a willing participant, your body already betraying you, arching unconsciously against his touch, seeking out the friction he so expertly offered even as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

You lined up the sights again, his scent filling your senses, so distracting and so dangerously addictive that it had you clinging to him, desperate for something you couldn't quite name. The barrel wavered as a tremor ran through you, and you swore you heard his breath hitch as your hips moved against him.

“Close,” John breathed, and you felt as his fingers snaked further along your folds. You gasped as a finger slowly pushed into you. “Good girl.” His other hand had a tight grip on your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh as though he’d hold you there forever, trapped between pleasure and denial. “But not there yet, love. Again.”

The shot, when it came, was pathetic. The recoil almost knocked the gun from your grasp. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere, you weren't even sure where it landed. It hardly mattered. 

Another sharp swat of John’s hand against your ass. It should’ve stung, but all you felt was the heat of him, the pressure of his body against yours. His other hand, the one driving you wild with each deliberate stroke, didn't stop even as you whimpered, your hips rocking back instinctively against his touch, seeking relief, release.

“Concentrate, love,” he growled.

But how could you? How could you possibly focus on anything but the insistent ache that throbbed between your legs? 

“John, please,” you breathed, arching against his touch, shamelessly seeking more. “Just – just let me –” The words dissolved into a whimper as his fingers found that sensitive bud of flesh and squeezed, not cruelly, not yet, but with enough force to make you gasp, your inner thighs clenching involuntarily.

“Then hit the bloody mark, love,” he commanded, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, a tremor running through his words as though he were fighting for control just as hard as you were.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the wave of frustration – no, need – that pulsed low in your belly. The pressure of his erection against your backside was a constant torment, a promise of a release he seemed determined to deny you.

“Again,” John barked, his control finally snapping as his hips twitched against you. His touch, the way he moved against you, fuelled a fire in your veins hotter than anything you'd ever experienced. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly addictive. 

You were a moth drawn to his flame, even knowing you were destined to be burned.

You squeezed your eyes shut as his touch sent another jolt through you. “Please, just –”

“Hit. The. Mark.” He growled, teeth clenched, while moving his hips against you, seeking friction for his own arousal. 

You wanted to scream, to sob, to demand he touch you properly, to take what you were aching for. But some primal instinct – some deep-seated need to please him – had you straightening, lifting the pistol with shaking hands.

You tried to concentrate, blocking out the burning heat of his hands, the feel of his erection hard and demanding against your backside, the way his every ragged breath whispered against your ear, fuelling the fire he'd ignited within you. Your mind was a fog of need, your senses overloaded, but the promise of release, that sweet reward only he held the power to give - it was a drug more potent than anything you'd ever imagined.

Lining up the pistol again, you forced your vision to clear, found the target through the haze of arousal, and squeezed the trigger. 

The sound of the gunshot, the feel of the recoil, your own ragged gasp of surprise - it all blended into one overwhelming sensation as time slowed, distorted. And then strong hands were on you, urging you forward with a force that stole your breath, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when the need to be touched, to feel him everywhere, was an inferno consuming every other thought.

You hadn’t even registered what had happened until you caught a glimpse of the target -

Headshot.

You'd hit the mark.

You barely had time to process your victory before the gun was taken from your hands and safely put away - then you were tumbling forward, the world tilting, the cool surface of the table a shock against your heated skin as John's weight pressed you down, his chest a solid wall at your back.

The clatter of the spare ammo as it scattered across the floor was the only warning you got before he moved. You gasped, the sound muffled against the cold metal, your senses reeling as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the cool air, to his gaze, which you could feel burning into you.

He didn't waste his breath on anything but a low growl as he shifted, the sudden sound of a belt buckle ringing in your ears. His weight was pressing you deeper into the table, his erection, hard and insistent, nudging at your entrance. And then, in one swift, possessive thrust, he filled you, the force of it stealing what was left of your sanity, chasing away everything but the all-consuming need to feel him move, to feel him claim you as his.

The world shrunk to the feel of him: him anchoring you to the table, the possessive grip of his hand on your hip, holding you still as he moved within you. His thrusts were deep, powerful, each one a delicious torment that had you arching into him, crying out his name against the cold metal of the table.

“That's it, love,” he growled, his voice thick and primal, something that went far beyond the controlled man you thought you knew. 

You suddenly felt his entire weight hovering above your back, slowing pressing your full body into the table. The angle changed, and his movements became more intense. You felt his teeth graze your earlobe, and then he murmured against your skin. “You’re mine. All mine. Say it .”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word a broken plea. The hand on your hip felt like a hot brand against your skin, as if it was marking you, claiming you in a way that went far beyond reason. “Please, John –”

“Please what, darling?” He chuckled, a low, rough sound against your ear, but his hips never stuttered, never slowed their relentless rhythm. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“You ,” you sobbed, the need, raw and desperate, clawing its way out of you with every thrust.

As if he sensed you nearing the precipice, the edge of control he’d deliberately pushed you towards, John shifted. The pressure of his chest eased, but before you could mourn the loss of his warmth, his free hand shot out, fingers closing around the back of your neck, not cruelly, but with an unquestionable force that demanded obedience.

He lifted you from the table, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, not with your bodies angled as they were, but it was possessive, desperate. The scrape of his beard against your cheek was a delicious torment, and you couldn't help but press closer, seeking more, needing to be closer still.

“I’m yours, my love,” he rasped, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. “You have me.”

You met his gaze, those ice-blue eyes were smoldering with a need that mirrored your own, and something reckless, almost feral, took hold of you. 

“Then fuck me like you own me,” you breathed.

The effect was instantaneous. He didn't just snap, he shattered. The control that was as much a part of him as his own skin, gone. Vaporized. The growl that ripped from his throat had no semblance of human restraint left in it, the sound raw, feral, echoing dangerously in the silence of the range. You might have been his wife, but at that moment, you were something far more elemental: his to claim, his to conquer, his to brand so deeply with pleasure and pain that you'd never forget who you belonged to.

And he moved like it too: a rough shove pressed you back against the table, his hands grabbed yours, pulling them back, restraining you.

Your whole body trembled as his cock thrust so deep, so utterly possessing, that you cried out.

“John!” – a plea, a prayer, you weren’t sure.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” The words were a gasped groan, torn from him as his hips moved against yours, stroking a spot deep inside you that throbbed with desperate need. You whimpered, and your hands clenched into fists against your back as pleasure shot through you.

You instinctively began to meet his thrusts, your hips rocking back against him, seeking out the friction that sent sparks of need through your overloaded senses. It earned you a growl of approval.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, the words a litany against your ear. He sounded like a man possessed.

“Please, John,” you whimpered, grinding your hips against him, desperate for that friction, that release. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. You needed more, needed his hands, needed him. “Touch me, I –”

You didn’t need to finish the plea. He heard it. He felt it, the tremor in your voice, the way your slick heat tightened around him, urging him closer to the edge.

His fingers were tracing the curve of your waist, reaching around below your belly and slowly started to pry apart your folds. His fingers were on your clit again, and a sound that was both a cry and a sigh left your lips. You were drowning in sensation, and it was glorious.

“Mmm, that’s it, love,” he rasped, the words a broken groan as his fingers stroked, circled, teased. “Come on my cock. For me.”

You felt it then, with the help of his touch – that sweet, white-hot bliss that washed over you, causing your legs to tremble and your cunt to contract around his cock. He groaned, so deep and primal it shook you to your core. Your orgasm shattered every last bit of control in him, the feeling of you losing yourself pushed him over the edge, too. You felt that familiar throb in your pussy, the way he painted your walls with his come, hot and thick. His fingers dug so deep into your skin you were sure they'd leave marks.

And you wouldn’t mind. You were his, after all.

He finally released you, his hands leaving yours. “Nice shot, love. You just needed the right motivation.” He chuckled, and you felt as he pulled up your panties and put your pants back into their place. His hand ghost over your pussy through the fabric. “Keep me in there,” he whispered. “Consider it your reward.”

You slowly straightened your back as you stood, your gaze meeting his, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smirk playing on your lips. “Is that an order from a captain? Or a request from my husband?”

“Both.” He grunted, as he finished buckling his belt.

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer to him. “Well, then. If this is shooting training, we need to do that more often.”

He froze, his eyes shooting to meet yours. “Don't make me have to explain why so much footage from the security feed is missing.” His expression sobered, that playful glint fading as he added, voice low and serious, “But seriously, love, you did good. We'll keep practising, alright?”

You nodded, and then he closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away some smudged lipstick at the corner of your mouth. “I'm proud of you, you know,” he whispered, and before you could reply, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. There was no demanding heat this time, no desperate urgency - just the taste of him, and the lingering warmth where his come pooled between your thighs, a silent, undeniable reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

[jgracie]

LEO AND Y/N’S GARAGE: AUTO REPAIR AND MECHANICAL MONSTERS

masterlist | rules

in which life after camp half-blood is everything you and leo could’ve wished for

pairing husband!leo valdez x wife!athena!reader

warnings none :)

on the radio . . . this is the life (amy macdonald), keep driving (harry styles)

an i read the bit w leo and calypsos repair shop in house of hades and knew what i had to do 👩🏼‍💻

Eventually, the scent of your lineage - half mortal, half Goddess - began to wear off. What once was the bane of your existence, singling you out as ‘different’ and putting you in danger from the moment you popped out of your mother’s brain, was now a faint odour, a mere memory of the life you once led and the people you knew.

Leo didn’t wear off, though. He could never. Your relationship had been unexpected by everyone who knew the two of you. Pristine, perfect Y/N, daughter of Athena, the girl who not only stayed within the lines but drew them herself, and Leo Valdez, a messy, wild son of Hephaestus. From the moment you laid eyes on him, you knew you wouldn’t stand him. He was persistent and annoying, never giving you a moment’s peace and tearing down the walls you so carefully built around yourself. 

In the end, he grew on you, and you realised you had a lot more in common than you thought. For example, your love of machinery. For as long as you could remember, you gravitated towards wires and nuts and bolts, only stopping when you got to camp as your life became filled with training and learning about the side of the family you didn’t even know you had. You used to longingly stare at the Hephaestus kids, itching to pick up a wrench and join them as they made all sorts of weaponry. Now, you own your very own garage: Leo and Y/N’s Garage: Auto-repair and Mechanical Monsters.

It started off as a silly joke between you and Leo. You were newly graduated and after spending so much time taking care of the Godly side of your family, you forgot what life as a mortal was like. Sure, you always wanted to be a mechanic, but what now? You didn’t want to work for someone else. You spent your whole life working for other people and watching as everyone you loved had shrouds burnt for them (if they were lucky), so you thought it was only fair if you did something for yourself. 

“We could always open our own garage,” Leo had said when you voiced your thoughts that day, “‘Leo and Y/N’s Garage: Auto-repair and Mechanical Monsters’ has a nice ring to it, right?” 

You laughed, saying something along the lines of “get real, Valdez,” before deciding to help him as he cooked dinner. Little did you know, Leo was being real. The next morning, he started looking for places he could rent for your garage. A few months after that, he began furnishing it and months after that, he started advertising. Once he was sure that everything was perfect, he decided to show you his little project, a velvet box with a certain piece of very valuable metal weighing down his coat pocket.

Today marks the six year anniversary of the opening of your garage (as well as the six year anniversary of your engagement), and to say business was booming would be an understatement. It started off as a place for mortals only, they’d drop off their cars and the nicer ones would stay for a little to make small talk, marvelling at your stories of how you sailed from the US to Europe together on a ship Leo built himself (you censored a lot of your experiences, of course), but after you expanded the garage, making it almost twice as big as it was before, you thought, ‘Why not let this be a place for demigods, too?’ 

Hidden from the eyes of mortals, the second half of your garage comes to life. There, you sell weaponry, armour and anything a demigod could possibly need, as well as providing a safe haven for those who needed recuperation after a long and tiring quest. You loved meeting them all, giving them advice and comfort as proof that things do get better and not all demigods die at the age of 16. 

“Leo, have you seen Espe?” You yelled, wiping the grime from your hands as you realised your daughter had gone missing. Your son was too young to be at the garage and usually you’d stay with him, but your hands were itching for a hammer and your dear sister and brother-in-law offered to babysit, so why not let them? Your daughter was another case. She seemed to have inherited her parents’ inability to sit still and love for making things, insisting on spending all her time at work with the two of you as soon as she could walk. 

On cue, Leo waltzed into the mortal side of the garage, your first born daughter, named Esperanza after his mother, in one arm and a toolbox in the other. “She decided to amuse herself with daddy’s magic toolbelt,” he said, sitting down on a nearby stool and placing her on his lap, “summoned about 50,000 gummy bears. I’m surprised she managed to override the cooldown on it, I’ve been trying to figure that out for years”

“Gummy bear?” She asked, looking up at Leo then at you, a grin - one she clearly got from her father - gracing her lips as she suddenly seemed interested in your conversation, making the two of you break into fits of laughter, which in turn made her laugh. Did she know what she was laughing about? No, but it didn’t matter anyway.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, you were being watched. Sydney and Aaron, the two demigods you were hosting as the former’s leg healed, were going to tell you that they were good to leave tomorrow when they stopped, noticing you were having a moment.

“It’s hard to remember they’re demigods too,” Aaron began, “they seem so… normal. No chaos, no monsters, nothing,” he stared longingly at you, then down at the girl next to him. Could they have that too?

As if she read his mind, Sydney took his hand in hers and smiled, “we’ll make it, trust me. They went through a lot before this, remember? They were part of the last great prophecy. If they can do it, so can we.”

If you had told your past self that you’d marry the one boy who managed to get under your skin, start a family with him and open not just a garage, but a place where demigods could feel a sliver of normalcy, you would’ve laughed in your own face.

[seasirengirl]

Good morning, a request please from Percy x reader (siblings, not romance) How does Percy react if he discovers that he has a younger twin?His sister was stolen as a baby and grew up in Camp Half-Blood,What will Sally do when she sees her daughter again after so long?

saludos desde la cabaña 3 🐬🐙

FARAWAY REFLECTIONS

pairing: percy jackson x platonic!poseidon!reader

a/n: i absolutely love this request, i hope it’s something you actually enjoy. 🤍

wc: 1.6k

the lord of the sky has made many mistakes in his godly immortal life, especially one of them always stood out. the name of the mistake was

thalia grace.

after the second world war, the oath of not having demigod children has been made and has not been broken for decades, the children were terribly powerful and caused trouble to the universe multiple times, so not having them was the only solution to cause less destruction and war.

zeus was the first to break the oath, for which he received quite the backlash from his elder brothers, hades and poseidon. meaning that his demigod child (which he didn’t have much care for) was constantly in danger by the two major gods.

but turns out that poseidon was next, when he met a woman who changed him for the better, breaking the oath didn’t seem to be much of a problem for him.

but there wasn’t one demigod child.

there was two.

twins, a girl and a boy, which caused much more problems than one could have.

the king of olympus didn’t take this lightly, he decided to get his revenge by doing the worst, separating the twins, but poseidon insisted on keeping the younger twin alive, but the punishment was to sally jackson, the woman poseidon fell in love with.

sally never got to know her daughter, it was told that she didn’t make it, only her son did.

but she was very much alive and safe, in camp half-blood.

when percy turned 12, the monsters started appearing more often, which meant that it was time for him to finally visit the place that sally has tried to keep him from, camp half-blood.

there weren’t many greek demigod children who didn’t have a childhood or some sort of time outside camp half-blood, but you were a special coincidence.

you were basically born and raised in camp half-blood, without a clue on who any of your parents were.

when you got to the age where you could understand such a devastating story, chiron told you that your mother died in childbirth and your father was unknown to everyone.

the guilt you carried was not something an ordinary 12 year old girl should’ve experienced, but like the brave girl you were, you sucked it up, not wanting to show a single sign of weakness to the ares kids who have despised you for quite a while.

percy jackson always wondered what life would be like if his twin sister had survived, if he had someone who was experiencing the same thing as him, life would’ve been so much easier for him.

poseidon, lord of the sea, the earthshaker, the mighty major god has never experienced such guilt in his life. some might say gods are absent of any emotion, but being alive for such a long time has made it much easier to hide their emotions well.

but seeing his little girl silently cry in the hermes cabin every night has broken his heart.

but everything changed the night that sally, percy and grover were driving to long island.

“wait so, my dad is like, one of those guys you told me about? like a greek god?” percy asked curiously, still not believing it.

neither sally or grover answered anymore.

“uh, i don’t think i’m supposed to say this because a certain god might zap me to death, but i have something big to confess.” grover randomly blurted out.

“today can not get crazier, so go ahead.” percy answered, still freaked out about how much has happened that day.

“so percy had a twin sister, right?”

“uh, how do you know that?” percy asked.

“she’s alive, i think.” grover said, trying to form sentences so the bomb he just dropped on the mother and son wouldn’t sound as crazy.

sally stopped the car, grover and percy hit their heads to the backseat.

“excuse me?!” sally yelled out.

“her name is y/n, the only thing chiron actually told me about her is that her last name is jackson and she’s 12 years old, she has been at camp like since birth, i think. ms jackson, keep driving, please.” grover explained, casually.

shock was written on sally jackson’s face, she decided not to say anything, maybe this girl was a coincidence, her baby girl couldn’t be alive, she was gone, but a spark of hope was planted in sally’s heart, her dreams of not losing her daughter were somewhat possible again.

that was before she got turned into dust in the hands of the minotaur.

percy woke up into a random room with a lot of beds in it, the room had the aura of the sun, somehow, everything was decorated in warm tones, except for the comforting light blue sheets on every bed, a girl was standing in the doorway, staring at him.

she had the same black hair as him, her sea green eyes were focused on his, she looked like him.

she slowly walked up to him.

suddenly every memory flashed all at once, greek gods, long island, grover being half-a-donkey, the minotaur, his mother.

oh, and his sister being apparently alive.

“hey, i’m y/n.” you said softly, in a comforting voice, instantly calming him down.

“where am i?” percy asked, confused.

“camp half-blood’s infirmary, wait, did your satyr fill you in on this place?” you asked, slightly worried that you’d scare him away.

“the whole olympian god thing? kind of, yeah.” percy responded, it still felt like a fever dream, and the fact that he was talking to his twin sister for the first time in his entire life didn’t make it easier.

“i’m sorry about your mom, by the way.” you looked at him with genuine support in your eyes.

“our mom.” percy corrected.

“what do you mean?”

“i’m your brother, percy jackson.” percy said, extending his hand for you to shake, he felt bad to drop this all on you, but you had to find out from him, not from anyone else.

“that-, that’s not possible, i don’t have a brother, i don’t have a family, no one.” you were in denial, after 12 years, without a sign of family, this was gonna happen? it wasn’t possible.

“i’m sorry you had to find out this way, but you had to know somehow, grover told me about you being alone for all these years, it isn’t fair to you.” percy flashed a smile to you, but your sweet reunion was interrupted by chiron, camp half-blood’s activities director and your best friend, annabeth chase.

“good morning, percy, i see you’ve met your sister.” chiron said, in a casual voice, as if this whole thing wasn’t the craziest thing you’ve heard in your entire crazy life.

“mr brunner, what? you’re a horse.” right. percy was new here, he had no clue, you remembered that right now.

“a centaur, my boy, you can call me chiron.” he corrected, not feeling offended at all. “now, i think you two should sit down for this.”

a few days have passed, you and percy have gotten claimed at the same time after bullying clarisse and her brothers just like she had tried to bully you two in capture the flag. it was slightly sad that percy had gotten claimed within the first week of being here, but you had to wait your whole life.

it all fell into pieces, poseidon was your father and now you were going on a quest, because apparently you and your brother stole the most powerful weapon in the universe.

maybe zeus should’ve hid it better? besides, you were never known to be sneaky.

after the most exhausting summer of your 12 years of life, you were going home.

you never had a place to call home, aside from camp half-blood, you didn’t have your mother waiting for you to come back from summer camp, but now you do.

your mother, sally jackson, saved herself from the underworld, she was probably just as amazing as percy and your father, (who you finally spoke to, by the way) described her to be.

it was never in your nature to be mad at someone for long, so you quickly understood your father’s reasonings on why you were cast out of your family, even though the beginning of your life wasn’t great, percy promised to make it better in the future, with a welcoming family and no smelly gabe. (he was quite jealous that you never got to experience life with smelly gabe.)

“are you sure she’ll like me? what if she thinks i’m too weird to be her daughter, i mean… dad called her a queen.” you ask for the millionth time, feeling doubtful as you waited by thalia’s tree.

everyone knew thalia grace’s story, the brave hero who sacrificed herself for her friends, who still protected every demigod even if she was dead, even though some didn’t admit it, everyone aspired to be what thalia was, a true hero.

maybe our definition of heroes were a completely different thing, but thalia still was someone to remember.

there she was, your mother, the woman who gave birth to you, standing with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.

you couldn’t help but tear up and by the looks of it, she couldn’t either.

“my baby.” she said softly as she pulled you into a tight hug, like if she let go, you’d get lost again.

“hey mom.” you whispered.

“uh, guys, i’m here too.” you laughed, a genuine, happy laugh escaped your mouth.

you were ready for this. a new life, even with all those dangerous quests coming up, you knew you’d be way more powerful with your family, a loving mother and the most amazing (annoying) brother you could ask for.

[lady-ashfade]

Puppet Master

Percabeth x Vampie!Reader

-♡ this took a long while!! Sorry for the wait. I will not be making a part two to this, or at this moment.

-♡ words: 1k

-♡ warnings: short, vampire reader, blood, things vampires do, proof reading on this is ass, (we are batman)

@asexualaromosafezone requested this.

you barely left the shack in the forest. Most campers stayed away from you whenever you came around. from the aura around you, or that you kept a stone cold face always, everything about you kept them away. uou had no cabin, no godly parent so that was the cause of gossip and many questions between the campers.

annabeth heard a story about you when she first arrived at camp, a girl around her age came a year just before her. and she was the cause of spooky night stories used to scared the little ones like her. she was curious to say the least but had many problems to deal with, and no one was allowed near you. she saw you from time to time, you’d find yourself to the big house, stay around the camp alone and stiffen if anyone tried to talk to you. then, you’d leave as soon as the night came and she couldn’t figure where you went.

tt was like you disappeared.

percy on the other hand. as soon as he heard about you it sent a chilling shiver down his spine. luke told him a story, they had made up, that you take the souls of half bloods in the night. so he never wanted to find you and he was glad you stayed away. So naturally he found himself in front of you when you came down into camp.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized and ripped out the arrow from a tree that nearly hit you, “I can’t get ahold of this thing.” he had been there a year and this was his first time seeing you. he noticed something about you that was different from him. your skin didn’t look right and like it was a few shades lighter then it should be, and he couldn’t see your eyes hidden behind your sunglasses.

his body started to nervously sweat as you stare at him without moving and had no facial expression. then he heard the slightest hum from you before you continue to walk back on the path and unfazed by anything.

it’s been a few years and they grew. many quest, getting together, almost many deaths, tears, blood & sweat. you only came to mind a few times when their mind wonders. or when they saw you once a few months, if they could find you at least. it seemed the shadows favored you.

“Find the old shack in camp,” percy was told by the oracle, “you will face the lifeless inhabitant.” it always had to be something dangerous and never, “go get some ice cream.” or anything good.

he brought annabeth…not because he was scared or anything. but they had no idea what it really met, but they brought everything incase. because in every quest it seemed to go the opposite of what they thought.

three knocks was all it took for Percy’s body to run cold and almost tremble. you lived here, or so they say but the words the oracle spoke made no since to him. “face the lifeless inhabitant.” and last time he checked you were alive. Annabeth didn’t waste much time before banging onto the door to call for you of anyone who would listen.

“Go away half bloods.” that voice sounded smooth and it drawled them in. like a angel’s voice with how warm it sounded. “You’re not welcome here.” no one ever heard you speak before so they didn’t know if was you.

“Umm…I’m afraid we can’t. You see we were told to come here from the oracle, and last I checked this is the only shack in camp.” annabeth gave him a side glance before crossing her arms.

there was a minute of silence and the sound of footsteps disappearing away from the door. they were preparing to knock again or force the door open but it creaked open slowly. they slowly stepped inside with their hands ready to reach for their weapons at any moment.

the shack was well lived in and nothing like they expected. books, and a area for a small kitchen, almost victorian decor, but the only light was one candle lit in the corner. “Hello?” the girl called out for the voice they heard earlier.

a sound above them made them snap their attention upwards and nothing was seen, all the light in the room was kept way from that place. percy grabbed ahold of annabeths arm, he didn’t feel right at all. and few seconds later they had a reason to stop. a pair of glowing eyes appeared from the pitch black, and then next a pair of pointy white teeth along with it.

“You should know, bronze doesn’t hurt me.” you glanced toward Percy’s sword.

“What are you?” the boy asked but annabeth already had it figured out when she tugged at his shirt. her eyes stared at a few blood stains on the counter, a pile of bones next to it.

“No one has ever come in here, I guess you should pat yourselves on the back for that too.” your tone now amused. hooking your legs on the plank of wood and swing yourself down and they could see you better now from the light. it was in fact the girl they had seen before.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. half-bloods taste the worst to be honest. Sad tho, I heard gods taste delicious.” the wicked smirk at your lips that had your sharp teeth poking out mad the feel weird.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” percy lowered his weapon and found himself staring heavily into them.

“And your voice…” annabeth followed along side him. the couple wanted to walk closer but something was stopping them like puppets on a string.

“Oh, right,” you sighed and reached for your sunglasses to put over your eyes and you could see the pair coming back to themselves. “Sorry about that.” the power to control you never really tested out on humans or half humans, except once. ever since then you hated their taste and them to be honest.

“You can listen to my voice and it might have some effect but it wouldn’t do anything without my eyes.” you dropped down and landed perfectly before them.

“The stories are true, vampires are beautiful.” Percy spoke still somehow entranced by you.

“Maybe I should have payed more attention to you, I would have seen it from the books I’ve read.” Annabeth hated that she didn’t see it coming.

Only months will tell if they will be your puppets.

Taglist: @maria699669 @purplerose291 @itzmeme @ravenmedows @repostingmyfavs @obsessedwithshams

[marte-14]

Lorule (aka Hyrule’s Ravio)

PREVIOUS/COMING SOON

Got my tablet to work, so here we go with the next Ravio!

The Hero of Lorule is young capitan of the royal guards.

Very confident of himself and his role, sometime arrogant and he can be a bit harsh with his words,(The new recruits that are trained by him can confirm). Still he has a kind heart who just wants to be someone his people can look up to.

While Hyrule’s world is a dangerous place, where civilisation is limited to a few villages, Lorule’s world is flourishing.

He grew up in Castletown, he isn’t a survivalist like the Traveler (just the training he got in the military)

Lorule is also half fairy (just like Hyrule in this headcanon) but he isn’t good with his magic, he doesn’t know how to use it in battle and he struggles to control it.

He has two Hildas, just like Hyrule has two Zeldas. The first Hilda he met was at 10 years old when he discovered to be the Hero, he met the second Hilda during a Quest, when he saved her.

He grew up with both the Hero of Lorule and Hyrule stories (Hope and Legend), he admires them both a lot, and he is the only other Ravio who knows of the existence of the world of Hyrule.

He is the cook in his group, fortunately his food doesn’t curse people even with his face blood.

He is close with Hope, but he has more of a mentor/student relationship than friendship with him, and Hope is a bit overwhelmed by his enthusiasm to change things.

He and Hyrule have a fine relationship, they are not the closest but they work well together.

The reality is that they admire each other a lot, but struggle to express it:

Hyrule admires Lorule because he sees him more similar to his companions, strong knights that are legendary. But it also make a bit self conscious about his self worth, making him result colder to Lorule.

Lorule admires Hyrule for his strength and abilities, especially the magical ones. Hyrule also reminds him a lot of Hope, both of them shined light in their kingdoms that were is chaos, kind hearted people in an unforgiving world. He thinks that Hyrule doesn’t like him, mostly because how close off Hyrule is at times. Lorule knows that his enthusiasm can be a bit much at times, and he believes that Hyrule finds him a bit annoying.

He will ask advice to Hope, who will teach him how to communicate with the Links, especially when they don’t talk (btw Hope helps more than one Ravio out when it comes to interacting with the Links, same goes for Legend but in reverse)

.

.

.

I want to thank @lace4forest.

You have no idea how much your video analysis helped me to write this character (your video on Wars is going to save me when I do his Lorulian counterpart)

If you don’t know about her channel on YouTube, she has a series where she analyses every Link, they are very useful for any fanfiction/fancomic writer of LU.

She also does streams on Twitch and draws (very good drawings too!)

Go check everything out!

[alpacinoinheat]

Info about my Goncharov characters

The story takes place in Prague, Naples and New York

Some info about Goncho and Andrey:

So Goncharov is the main protagonist of the story. Not much is known about him, his origin is very mysterious but it is later revealed the crime boss Andrey had his whole family murdered for owing him money and Goncharov is of polish-italian origin (I'm not sure what I want his real name to be yet). In the story Andrey is about 10 years older than Goncho in order for this to work, the actors are the same age but the eyepatch ages Andrey up so it works. Murdering Goncho’s family was one of Andrey’s first things he did after his rise to power. And so basically the story is about revenge. Andrey is half czech and half italian and he operates from Naples but his crime ring works all over the world.

If you asked Andrey how he gained all his wealth and power, he would tell you it was through hard work and that he came from virtually nothing. That's a lie as his family was very well off. The extend of his wealth can be also attributed to all the blackmails, murders, abductions, frauds, thefts and other crimes he and his crime ring commited. Maybe these are the things that constitute as "hard work" to Andrey. Andrey is also a classist and something of an ethnonationalist as he often refers to himself as full blooded italian and rarely admits his half slavic origin.

Here’s some info about Katya and Goncho’s relationship from other ask (some info about Sofia too):

In my own lore, Katya is very much in love with Goncharov but is also tempted by Sofia. To Katya, Goncharov and Sofia also represent two very different ways of living. Goncho is a smuggler but an honest one and Sofia works for her boss Andrey’s crime ring. Being with Goncharov means living a dangerous life on the run but somewhere down the line there is a possibility of settling down and living life through honest means. Being with Sofia means choosing a simpler, cushier life, a life of luxury but it also means being forever part of the crime world. Who will she choose? I don’t know and neither does Katya :)

Also, I’m toying with the idea of Katya being married to Goncho (simply becasue I tagged her as Katya Goncharova a couple of times lol) but I don’t know yet :))

Info about Mario and Ice Pick Joe:

Mario and Ice Pick Joe grew up together in Sicily and were both very poor. They are not related but share somewhat of a brotherly bond. Joe’s darker side started to show from a very early age. He loved to kill and dissect small animals which sometimes freaked up Mario (although he never judged him for his impulses). Joe also talked about joining mafia from an early age, it seemed like a natural thing to do. He never imagined himself as anything else than a criminal. Mario is academically very smart. Joe often said to him that someone this smart could go study and make something of himself through honest job. But Mario was a very cynical person from an early age and thought that the only way people like them can escape poverty is through dishonest means. Also, Joe is just a joy to be around (if you’re not the animal or a person he’s dissecting), he’s funny, great cook, loves music, unassuming but charismatic. And it’s not just a front, he really is like that, he has two sides, one of them is very dark. Mario, as smart as he is, lacks the charisma and is aware of that. He is brooding and sulking and cynical. Lacks the social capital ... and friends (except for Joe of course). He also likes to go to casinos and gamble, not because he needs the money, but he likes winning and he likes the fact that other people’s social status can’t help them there. He’d never admit this to you but he secretly wants friends and wants to be liked but he is just so goddamn unlikable to the majority of people that no amount of wealth can help him with that. Mario was also always ashamed of his humble origin. When the two of them joined the crime world, they joined Andrey’s crime ring. Joe is very loyal to Andrey because he sees him as someone who gave him a chance and saved him from poverty. Joe became Andrey’s best hitman and is free to act on his darkest impulses. Mario became Andrey’s accountant, handling money. But unlike Joe, Mario resents Andrey because Andrey is a big classist and often and not so subtly lets Mario know that he would be nothing without him. In the story, Mario befriends Goncharov (the met in a casino) and will have to decide whether he betrays his boss or not. And will he be able to convince his best friend Joe to work against a man he is very loyal to?

The Naples side of my story is probably my most developed part as of now. I still don’t have everything figured out.

How Ice Pick Joe got his nickname:

Ice Pick Joe's favorite weapon of choice actually isn't an ice pick, despite many people assuming that's the case. He doesn't have a favorite weapon or a torture method. He likes them all. His nickname refers to one specific event that took place shortly after after he joined Andrey's crime ring. One of Andrey's highest ranking lieutenants was suspected of stealing money and giving up information to a rival crime lord. He was subjected to many hours of interogation and torture but still he would not confess. Then Joe asked to try. The only thing he took to the room with him was in ice pick. Nobody really knows what happened in there but it took less than 15 minutes for the lieutenant to confess how much he stole and what information he gave up. Andrey then used this information and destroyed the rival crime lord. This event prompted Joe Morelli to gain an immense amount of respect within the crime ring and ever since that day everyone called him Ice Pick Joe.

Info about Katya and her brother Valery:

Katya and her older brother Valery were born in Moscow but moved to Moldova after Katya's birth. Their moldavian mother died during Katya's birth and their russian father was very abusive but mostly absent. Valery is 20 years older than Katya and he basically raised her on his own.  Valery became a high ranking officer in the militsiya (soviet police) at quite an early age, mostly due to his efficiency. He soon became disillusioned by the brutal soviet regime and defected to the USA, searching for a better life for him and Katya. He became a weapon smuggler and that's how he and Katya met Goncharov. Valery and Goncharov fell out during an event where Valery thought Goncharov had betayed him after a heist gone wrong (he didn't betray him, it was misunderstanding). He also hates Goncharov because Katya fell in love with him and choose to leave with him.

Info about Mario and Goncharov:

As for their relationship, Goncharov meets Mario in a casino in Italy and befriends him only to infiltrate Andrey’s crime ring (to revenge his murdered family). But as time goes on, Mario notices all the inconsistencies in Goncharov’s cover story and figures out he’s not who he says he is. Meanwhile, Goncharov really starts to consider Mario his friend and almost feels sorry for lying to him. At some point, Goncharov tells Mario the truth about who he is, even tells him his real name (the only other person who knows his name is Katya). It will be up to Mario to decide whether he betrays his boss and helps his new friend to revenge his family.

[inkyycapp]

how i think characters would react

if you got (very) hurt: adventure time edition.

tw/cw : angst, fluff, blood, violence, gore?, terrible story building, implied romance, fionna and cake spoilers, a lot of cringe, self-indulgence, character hcs, etc...

[a/n: this is very sloppy and rush as i made this between classes so it's half edited half not and not at all proof read. forgive me. thank you for the love on my last posts!! i wasn't expecting my adventure time hcs to get the attention it did, thank you so much!! i have finished fionna and cake(twice) so, my hcs might slightly shift a bit. at the moment. thinking of cross posting on ao3. reader is usually always gender neutral in all my posts unless stated otherwise. that's all! i'm open to requests and my dms/pms are open. thank you! new additions as well!! this is all i have, i'm sorry. a few more are in the drafts. please tell me if i missed anything tag and cw/tw wise! thank you.]

[holy shit, fionna and cake's finn. honka honka. i don't deserve a platform.]

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|| it all happened so fast. you could barely recall what happened. one moment you're up-right, after the next you're trying to pick yourself off the ground. your breathing grew more labored at every attempt, and the smell of iron hung heavy in the air. the warm liquid on your hands was a stark contrast to cold that began to wrack your body. it wasn't long 'til your vision faded to black, leaving only questions behind into your last fleeting thoughts. ||

finn.

(the favorite. my favorite.)

-the both of you were exploring an old cave. deep, dark, and damp. it was said to hold treasure far back into the cave, and out of curiosity you both went to explore. what you didn't know was that many people sought out that treasure. many dangerous people.

-going deeper into the cave, you and finn found the treasure, though nothing cool to take back except for a few cool rings. turning on your way out, with your back to the entrance, a sharp pain was felt through your body. looking down you saw the bloodied blade of a sword. you had no time to react as you were shoved off the blade and onto the ground. from there, it was a blur.

-finn would (violently) remove anyone involved. while brutal, he makes sure to end it quick--he doesn't have time for them when you're bleeding out on the ground.

-finn never stopped talking to you, even if you're asleep. it's always optimistic-- he talks about; new things he's found, friends he talked to recently, any new news, old and new stories, the next date he'll take you on, etc... he rambled hours on end in a one-sided conversation. it's how he copes.

-finn's trying to be uplifting. but, by himself he's a mess. he rarely stays at the treehouse because he's too restless. he feels weak, and unable to do anything. when finn's not at your side he's fighting through his feelings. finn had learned it wasn't healthy to use violence as his only outlet, but it makes him feel something that isn't the heavy stone in his chest when he sees you.

-he's a patient man, he knows you'll wake up soon. he just had to be patient. but after around a few days he doesn't want to be "patient" anymore. he wants you to wake up now. finn knows he can't make that happen, but it was a selfish want to keep himself going.

-when you did wake up, he was all over you. there wasn't a time when he wasn't with you, or at least in the same vicinity as you.

-good luck trying to pry yourself away from his arms. this man has fought monsters thrice his size for fun. even your prettiest please wasn't going to work, not this time. you almost died. you could've died and he couldn't do anything about it. those memories never left his brain basket, even when your recovery was going smoothly.

-very anxious about letting you tag along, but knows you'll probably go off on your own if he refuses to take you along. he feels it's safer to allow you to come along, rather than go off on your own. with him, he knows that at least this time he could do better. he won't ever have a repeat of last time.

-finn keeps you close during each adventure, even losing sleep watching the surroundings to be sure no one sneaks up on you. he will refuse to sleep, so you'd have to force him. please give this man all the reassurance, he really needs it. it won't stop his anxiety, or his fear of it happening again, but it puts him at ease. even if it's just a little bit, it helps, nonetheless.

-

fern.

-the green knight has plenty of enemies. of course, fern could protect himself, and you could do the same. however, even if you could protect yourself, there wasn't any chance to protect yourself getting jumped, and a dirty stab to the back. the most dishonorable way to lose to a foe. the amount of ever growing disrespect.

-he loses his shit. sure, he gets mad quickly, but if you were awake to see him like this: holy shit. he grows plentiful thorns, and poison flowers all over himself subconsciously. (he's actually very pretty like this.)

-he's livid, and you're not conscious to do anything about it. and that's just it, you're unconscious, bleeding out on the ground. fern couldn't quite process it just yet. normally you'd stop him from going too far, but you can't right now. that's supposed to never happen. he's confused and angry, and you're not waking up. you're not moving. so, he cuts down anyone involved in a quick motion. he doesn't care how brutal, as long as it's quick. fern wastes no time in picking you up (after managing the thorns and flowers) and taking you to doctor princess.

-fern can't stand seeing you like this. laying weakly on that hospital bed.

-if you think finn's not good at coping, fern is much worse. he doesn't even cope. he's just...there.

-he's so confused, and just shuts down a bit. like he's still there, he's still the green knight-- fern. but, he's just distant. not quite himself-- off.

-fern is unable to wrap his head around what happened to you, but he goes about his 'normal' life. he tries to just go about his casual life without you there, and he's just confused. it doesn't take long before he grows upset, allowing the rage to boil.

-'they used to do that.' 'this was their favorite color.' 'they were supposed to fix that.' 'they like bird houses.' everything reminds him of you. it's impossible to go a single day without a reminder that you're still unconscious.

-i think it gets more apparent when he's out and about as the green knight. he's more violent. but, he doesn't mean to be. it just...happens.

-he's likely not there when you first wake, but when he gets there fern's complaining about everything under his breath. but when he sees you up, that bed isn't just for you anymore.

-he's holding you close, with a firm hold and refusing to let go. he's scolding you for not waking up sooner, and complaining about how life without you was too different. he tried to be casual, but he missed you a bit too much.

-there is also no prying fern off of you-- a common thing between all of them. once you're up, there is no separating you both for a few hours at the least.

-fern is also hesitant about letting you rejoin him on the adventures, but as long as you stay close, and keep weapon on you at all times, he'll agree. but, all of your wounds-- every. single. one.-- had to be medically evaluated as ok, and no threat to your health before anything.

-

farmworld!finn.

(post crown -- pre fionna and cake.)

-he's in shock, not moving for a few moments. he knew why he'd be hated, or hunted down, killed even, but why you? why did they have to drag you into this?

-someone in the many gangs around the parts found you somewhere in the clearing waiting for finn. you both had previously planned a picnic out in a nice clearing in the woods. he was running late. but, once he found you bleeding out and onto grass, he's thrown way off guard.

-finn is quickly trying to pick you off the grass, trying to get you out of there, and dragging you back to his cabin. finn manages to tend to each of your wounds. though, the moment he's done, and you're in a stable condition-- he's leaving the cabin for a few hours.

-he finds whoever did this to you, and doing what he couldn't earlier. finn is driving in the same injuries they gave to you over and over again. he doesn't let up until he's in tears. finn knows that this changes nothing. he knows this won't make him feel better, but he needed to do something. anything. even if it's for his own sadistic pleasure to see the regret on their faces-- to see them like this. pathetically clawing at the dirt in an attempt to ground themselves through the pain-- trying to crawl away from his bloodied hands.

-(robot hand included.)

-finn leaves them with their lives(barely), and a warning before disappearing into the woods.

-he is struggling to cope. finn hold your hand in his abnormally cold one running his thumb over your knuckles. he's constantly checking in on you, and rarely leaving your side. sleeping, and eating could wait. after all that's happened with the crown, you're all he has left. he can't lose you too.

-he stays by your side as much as he can. finn knows he should probably take his mind off of...your condition and stay productive but it's difficult. the only reason the cabin is warm is because if it got too cold you'd start to shake. he makes food only because if you wake up you might be hungry.

-he doesn't know what to do for the most part, just waiting and hoping that you'll be better in no time. a fear lingers deep inside him that you'll worsen the moment he closes his eyes. so, finn stays up. there are times when he has passed out around the house, and when he wakes up he's absolutely terrified; running to check on you, checking to make sure your wounds haven't reopened, making sure you're alive.

-a deep seeded fear the you'll wilt away in his arms. it keeps him up at night-- it eats at him day by day.

-you're finally awake, but even then the fear doesn't fade. he's at you're every call so much that it begins to worry you.

-you'll have to force him, and i mean force him to sleep. you're ok, he's ok-- everything is ok. he can finally rest.

-he's just happy you're still there with him.

-

prismo.

-you? hurt? nope. not on his time watch. prismo has you out of the situation in seconds, without a scratch. he refuses to ever see you in any pain.

-though, hypothetically, if there's ever a time where you do get hurt, and your wounds cannot be fixed with his wish master magic, and he's "too late", he's not so well.

-you're on a comfy little bed in the wishing room, laying on top of him. your wounds are bandaged up, and cleaned, with your breathing finally stable.

-he never leaves you side once. (sensing a pattern in everyone.) it's either him, or a copy of him. when he's granting wishes to whoever manages to make it to his wishing room, he keeps you in the cube with a copy of himself to watch over you.

-tries to make small talk with your unconscious self...it doesn't go well. the owl visits more often only to lay it's eyes upon the slum prismo is in.

-the cosmic owl tries to ease the depression, though fails miserably. if jake is still alive; his visits, brings gifts, barber sessions, the whole mile for his other best bud. it does kinda help, even if it was just a bit-- but, he's greatful nonetheless.

-while he could be doing better, prismo is doing the best out of everyone to be honest(if jake is around). jake's visits have been more than helpful to this guy, and honestly without jake, he'd be worse than just a mess.

-when you wake up he doesn't believe it at first but he's ecstatic. there is never a time where he's not with you, talking your ear off on how horrible it was without you. and while prismo wants to contuine talking you to your grave, he can't deny hearing your voice after so long does wonders to him.

-bonus if jake's around and prismo's like "and i like...really miss her. y'know? like she's right there but she's not..." "no, dude, i get it..." "i'd kill just to hear her voice just once..." "...prismo..." "ah, shit now i'm hallucinating!!" "no prismo, behind you." "jake, don't play into my delusions!" "god dammit prismo." "YOU'RE AWAKE!? FINALLY."

scarab.

-this man is already insane. he already needs therapy. the anger issues on this psychotic man are insane.

-he loses all sense of morality(that he had left) but surprisingly holds off and tends to you first. by sending you back to headquarters for someone to tend to your injuries while scarab spends the next few hours tearing their molecules apart.

-honestly the worst out everyone. like, if he has a chance to off someone, they're going to die but in the most unconventional, painful, most gruesome way possible. he's....coping?

-at this point it's hard to tell with him, one moment he's rambling under his breath about annoyances, the next....he's offically lost it!!

-sadly he can't be at you're side at all times even if he really wants to, but with his job and all that. when given any chance he's right there next to you. he excuses this behavior as protecting you against anyone who might try anything, but in reality: it's just hard to stay away when you're like this. he wants to stay close even if he can't sometimes.

-scarab has difficulties with intimacy, so he finds it difficult to express his concern the "right" way. others see him as uneffected, and taking it too easy, but he is genuinely scared. he's scared that he loses the one person who can see him for what he is. an emotionally fucked up person who can't stand rule breakers.(joking).

-he finds holding your hand a way to ease the tension.

-when you wake up, he just sitting there, holding your hand.

-he's never letting you go anywhere without a weapon three times your size. of course he teaches you how to use it, but just because he wants you to protect yourself when he cannot. scarab views your injuries as him failing as a partner in more ways than one. he should've made sure you could protect yourself even when he couldn't.

-later on after your wounds have healed you're allowed with him on his missions. he denies being scared. reassure him anyways, he really needs it.

e/n: sorry prismo's and scarab's are short! first time writing them :')

[vigilskeep]

hi! ive seen you talk about your surana a bunch but i dont know if ive seen her full story. what were some of the pivotal decisions she made? i love hearing you talk about your ocs, theyre always so in depth and thought out!

oh thank you!! :) my surana is my Eldest Daughter from my very first full playthrough of a dragon age game, so i think a lot of people newer to the blog (like... from less than a year and a half ago probably lmao) have less of the context in complete form. so i will attempt to summarise!! it may be... long...

minerva surana is a manipulative, driven elven circle mage, heart-breakingly willing to sacrifice whatever she believes is necessary for her Grand Goals, who is often so busy playing 5d chess she forgets she’s a twenty-one year old with no experience of the world outside the tower

okay it did turn out fucking long the rest is under the cut its like 9 bulky paragraphs enjoy

her family were tevinter liberati, elven slaves who had devoted themselves to buying their way out and very recently succeeded. her parents were desperate to see her and her elder sibling grow up knowing only freedom, and sent their children south with another part of the family while they remained to pay off the last of their debts. the journey was long and difficult, and they had little left when they ended up in the denerim alienage. in a twist of bitter irony, magic that might have made minerva someone of value in the imperium saw her freedom once more revoked in the south. minerva remembers nothing of tevinter, and only a few fragments of what came next: of light through the vhenadahl’s branches glinting on a templar’s blade, of her sibling fighting them and being knocked to the ground, terribly still, with blood in their hair, and of her grandmother saying what she might have said many times on that long journey south: we can survive anything, as long as we never look back. ironically, minerva often took that to heart by denying all memory prior to the circle.

young apprentice minerva was a sullen child, with few friends; karl thekla took an elder brother’s interest, and jowan clung to her talent. she only really flourished when, after her terror of her natural gift for spirit magic saw her self-hatred turn dangerous in her early teens, first enchanter irving took an interest. he was a father figure to her, and he showed her how to channel her power into control, and her distress into ambition. newfound devotion to elemental magic saw her hailed as a prodigy, and surely a future first enchanter with irving’s tutelage. (only irving considered her too headstrong for the role. he never told her, fostering the drive he had cultivated, both fearful for the state she might return to if he didn’t, and curious as to what else she might become.) she grew up arrogant and beautiful and deeply loyal to the circle, learning that it was only the weak and the defiant who would fail to thrive there, and convinced she was neither. many of her peers wanted to be her, and few of them wanted to spend much time in her company. except jowan, still the little brother hiding in her shadow, and halliserre amell, a rebellious rival with a winning smile, who made up for their lack of her discipline and raw power with sheer brilliance, and whose heated arguments eventually developed into... ah, something else heated.

not long before the start of the game, amell told her they were going to accept tranquillity. it didn’t matter how clever they were; with their weak magic, they would die in the harrowing. they’d only been so defiant of the circle before because, having accepted their fate, the risks were nothing to them. furious and unable to admit it was because she was in love, the last thing minerva ever said to them when they were whole was that they were a coward not to try. when jowan told her he feared he too would be made tranquil, minerva was still recovering from the loss, not to mention flushed with even more arrogance than normal from her own successful harrowing. she had been the perfect circle mage all her life, twice as good as everyone else to make up for every rumour about where she was from. surely she had earned one defiance. surely she could save this one thing, her oldest friend. and she is a loyal person, in her way, emotion powering her fierce drive, incapable of abandoning what she has set her heart on. irving, from whom she had learned everything, was ahead of her every step of the way. he arranged for her to be taken in by the grey wardens. she had proved herself as headstrong and unsuitable as he had feared—and she was shocked and bitterly betrayed to finally see that—but he also believed this might bring her to where she would truly belong.

as a grey warden, minerva’s highest concern is perception. when the stakes of the game are revealed, she has enough hubris to see it as a chance to not just save but change the world. defeating the archdemon isn’t enough. she needs to be seen defeating the archdemon, at the forefront, as an elven mage; she has enough idealism to believe it will really matter for her and people like her, and enough shrewd cynicism to consider what she may have to sacrifice to achieve it. mostly she approaches problems with the skill for diplomacy and management that irving taught her, with that good good Master Coercion skill. she gets many of the “better” and certainly more peaceful quest outcomes, not always motivated by altruism, but determined to be remembered well when she leaves each faction behind. her one great sacrifice of this goal to be seen as the perfect mage is when she takes up blood magic, determined after she sees its power that she alone can handle it, to get the job done and keep what’s hers alive fight after fight. but that only makes her more dedicated to her actions elsewhere

the real test and most pivotal moment of her arc is at the landsmeet. she has arranged anora’s marriage to an alistair hardened for the role (once more following irving’s example, learning to teach ambition as he had taught hers. is there love in that, or just selfishness? she doesn’t know). all that matters is that the joint rule neatly fulfils her desire for compromise to please all parties. but then she struggles between two aspects of her goal: she wants to be seen, personally, as the victor; she does not want every noble in ferelden to see her kill the hero of river dane with magic. she knows how that scene will be remembered, in the end. when riordan suggests recruiting him instead, it seems the perfect solution to everything, the salvation of the day. and then she realises she’s broken alistair’s heart, just when he’s breaking hers. she is incapable of backing down in front of them all (it’s only to alistair, her alistair, but she can’t do it—not to a human, and not to someone part of her will always see as a templar—not when everything she wants was so close.) he abandons her for the throne she taught him to want. she goes on with loghain in the party, and eventually—unable to let loghain snatch the final sacrifice from her grasp, and realising she does want to win and live, after it all—convinces him to do the dark ritual.

in terms of her most important relationships with companions: minerva traditionally romances zevran, who is in many ways uniquely her match having learned the same bitter lessons with the crows that she learned from the circle, and who is so dear to her and capable of lightening her heart when no-one else can. i’ve also experimented with the idea of her romancing alistair, to really dramatise the Landsmeet Divorce and capitalise on future political shenanigans where she could one day be his mistress, but more traditionally they are simply an extremely closely trauma-bonded pair of people who are incapable, at least that year, of really understanding each other deep down. it falls into a pattern where she loves someone with all that fierce drive, enough to die for them, but she will always prioritise what she thinks they need over what they are saying and what they want, often with misjudgements and terrible consequences for them both. it was true with amell, it’s true for many others

she has something very intense and homoerotic going on with morrigan, she has a strained relationship with leliana and wynne, and she has respect and comradeship and a fair bit of fundamental disagreement with sten and loghain. the awakening squad are the people she will consider family for life, most notably nathaniel who she started out not liking at all and is now her work wife, her right hand, can finish her sentences, etc.; anders, who remembers her as karl’s annoying teacher’s pet telltale little sister and is still sometimes baffled by who she’s become; velanna, who makes minerva her most genuine self by having regular screaming matches with her as a sign of affection; and oghren who tried to quit drinking at the same time she tried to quit blood magic, leading to many conversations that deeply baffled everyone around them.

the “current” minerva surana is a sharp-tongued leader who was born for the role of warden-commander, who loves her work and that it matters, who has a truer confidence that is less blindly arrogant and more willing to admit to mistakes, who has worked her breathless way up to h*lding h*ands in public with someone she loves, who has finally learned the hard lesson that the world needs more than an heroic example who followed all the rules to truly be bettered... and who, as rebellion brews, has never been one to sit back and watch while others changed the world

[letshavedeernnertogether]

You've got me voodoo'd

prologue, chapter one, next chapters

You've always believed in magic, soul and true love, but the fate you've chosen is not what you need. Could you change the mistake? The moment his eyes found you, you knew who was your destiny. Black magic, murder, lie — nothing could stop you from being with the one who you've chosen as your new fate. The secrets darker than yours hidden behind his charming smile only lured you more.

warnings: a pretty dark story with explicit violent and sexual content

author's note: in this chapter there is a short scene that i marked with the sign || on both sides so you can miss it because it includes worms and maybe you just like me feel rather uncomfortable with these creatures and prefer miss every mention of them (nevertheless i've written this, yeah)

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

As soon as your husband went to work by car and you cleaned the dishes, you put on your coat and left the house. The house you lived in stood near a route through the forest in a little pine grove, surrounded by high trees and ferns. The house stood in the shadows, so it was always cold and damp around and inside. Just several hours a day the sun sent its goldish light in the windows of your living room, and the pines casted their long black shadows on the wooden floor of your dwelling. But after all, this place was perfect for your activity and your character, and you could like it more only if you didn't feel like a prisoner in a god-forsaken place, for it was an out-of-the-way place without any neighbours or entertainment. Without any witnesses.

You went down the route, reflecting: The way to the city would take about an hour by foot, then you had to find the radio station where Alastor worked, it could take about an hour too, for you weren't at the city centre very often and didn't know it well. Then you wanted to watch where he would go next, wanted to follow him to know something more about him, maybe to see where he lived or his favourite restaurant. And in the evening you had to come back home and have time to prepare dinner before your husband returned. This was your plan for today and you really hoped to not to mess it up.

The building you found was quite modern and pretty high, above the main entrance there was a white sign board with red flashing letters, saying that there was the radio studio. You sat at the edge of a high flower-bed on the opposite side of the road, slightly aside from the main entrance, so you wouldn't be noticed when he came out, and you took out a book from your bag. You could spend your time usefully, reading about poisonous plants in your area, while you were waiting until Alastor left his office.

There were pretty much poisonous plants, herbs and berries in Louisiana. Even a magnificent pink shrub with already half dead petals, under which you were sitting now, was a poisonous oleander, as dangerous as beautiful. Luckily other flowers beside you were harmless.

And what you considered even more fortune was the fact that a lot of poisonous plants inhabited the areas very similar to where you lived. Those deadly flowers avoided the sunlight and grew in wetness and darkness, they preferred swamps, bogs and roadsides to sunny fields. They kept their distance, obtaining their basilisk strength in the partly-shaded areas. Turning the pages and making notes with a pencil, you couldn’t help but think how your own self put down the roots to the moist and shady place where you lived. New Orleans wasn't your hometown, you removed here after your marriage, and honestly you liked this place, despite all the painful memories and bruises you were given here. After all, it wasn't the fault of the city that your husband was a total asshole. You liked the atmosphere hovering in the air: jazz sounding from every corner, old trees overgrown with Spanish moss, old creepy legends and ghost stories that made even your blood run cold, even those thunderstorms befalling time after time occupied a special place in your heart, as you were astonished with their blinding lightning and majestic thunder, making you believe in the primary and unbridled strength of Nature.

No venom ran through your veins, saturating your skin with toxins and turning every touch to you in a painful sting, but you'd rid this place of just a single soul to make this earth paradise better.

You made a list of the most dangerous flowers, the plants, one touch of which could cause an itchy burn, and one berry of which could cause nausea and/or hallucinations (the idea of causing a frightening hallucination to your husband made an evil smile spread your face, you wouldn’t be the only one afraid). Because of the lack of your chemistry knowledge you couldn't cook a deadly potion, but you could use fresh berries and leaves. So, you wrote down some attractive names: poison sumac, deadly nightshade, milkweed, poison ivy.

You didn't notice how time went by, and the white sun shone through thin rain clouds. Alastor walked out of the building, and with large and confident steps of his long legs he went to the right. You jumped off from the flower-bed, crossed the road, successfully avoiding the mad drivers, and took your place behind his back, staying in the necessary distance. You quickly moved your feet in your soft-heeled shoes, making every step silent. Alastor had a fast pace, but you didn't worry to lose his sight as his tall figure towered above everyone, whilst you easily hid behind the bodies of strangers. It was midday and people began to crowd the street. You looked at your wristwatches and made a mental note at what time Alastor got off work at least this day of the week.

You got used to your new pace, you adroitly swinged between men and women without taking your eyes from Alastor's back. Not once you stumbled or bumped into anyone on the crowded sidewalk, Alastor not once looked back. Everything was going perfect. It appeared easier than you thought.

Suddenly he turned to the right, and your legs moved to the opposite side of the pavement to keep you unnoticed to his eyes. You stopped around the corner of the building which he turned and leaned against the wall, watching as he got into the car and drove away through the alleyway. You were sure you saw a few free parking places right in front of his studio, why then he let his car here? And he didn't go out onto the main road, but went through smaller streets, less busy and noisy. For now you couldn't answer these questions. All you could do now was heading back to the house and draw up a new, better plan of knowing Alastor more.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

With the botanic book and your notebook in one hand and a little basket in the other one, you went through the woods in search of plants you’d chosen as a perfect last meal for your husband. But though you started your searches this morning, you weren't going to poison him tonight. You wished you murdered him today, right now. You had to wait. You had to prepare everything to become independent even after your husband's death. Better kill him tonight. And moreover, you thought about poisoning him gradually, adding a little of deadly leaves in his meal day by day, until he got sick with something strange and died slowly because of a disease. A peaceful, quiet death. Was it what you wanted for him?

No.

But you picked off the flowers, cut mushrooms, collected berries, throwing all these little life reapers in your basket. You protected your hands with your husband's gloves as you didn't have yours, but you weren't going to clean them later, smiling in foretaste of his little pain when he'd put them on and accidentally scratch his nose.

You went deeper and deeper into the woods, trying to find the most shaded and wet places filled with mortal flora. You even passed the small bog, the spot you never crossed before. It was beautiful in this part of the forest, where you'd never been earlier, but you weren't afraid to get lost, as you let small cuts on the trunks of the trees from the south side, the direction where your house stood. || You glanced in the basket and almost squeaked when you saw a worm crawling out from one of the toadstools. The basket immediately fell on the mossy ground, the contents spillet out at your feet. The worm-eaten mushroom poked at the toe of your shoe, with a grimace on your face you kicked it in the bushes.

“Disgusting.” You hissed through your clenched teeth.

With slightly trembling hands you picked your herbs again (leaving all the fungi lying on the ground) and turned around to return to your house. Some could find the idea of feeding your hateful husband with a wormy mushroom quite thrilling, but your disgust for some things was stronger than your hate. Maybe your hatred to insects, worms, caterpillars etc was the reason, maybe not a realising one, why you didn't partake herbalism as your hobby. The sign of blood and raw flesh was much more bearable for you than a terrifying swarming of oblong little bodies with too many or even without any limbs. ||

You went back to the bog when you noticed a pretty shrub not so far with smooth green leaves slightly reddened on the tips as if rusted with October and black glistening berries. Must be some kind of a black nightshade? But why then its branches were white as if covered with snow? You flicked your book through, noticed some similar illustrations of poisonous plants, but nothing exactly lust like the one before your eyes. Wrong shape of leaves and velvet on them, whilst your plant was absolutely smooth with light ribs on the green, the book described plants about five feet tall and yours barely reached your knees, it had a light sweet scent, and the book gave you no information about the fragrance. Perhaps, you should discover it yourself?

As you kneeled down to throw some black fruits and leaves in your basket, you noticed a shape of a building through the fence of slender pines. Brushing the dirt off your knees, you headed forward, eyes locked to the silhoutte.

There was a house on the glade. Looking out from behind the mossed trunks of the trees that surrounded the edge of the clearing, you hesitated to go forward. It was not too big a two-story wooden house with an attic. Several windows were shuttered, but those that remained open reflected the evening sun, blinding you with golden light, and you moved aside, hiding behind a tree, like a wild animal hiding from a man, too afraid to come closer but too curious to pretend like nothing had happened. There was no one around, and the house itself seemed quiet, although clearly inhabited, judging by the smoke coming out of the chimney. How cosy it must have been there... The house adjoined the forest, the porch faced north and through the trees you could see a grey strip of the roadway. It seemed that this house, just like the one you lived in, was built for people who loved solitude and nature, but didn’t want to completely shut themselves off from the world. You went a little further forward, the wet branches cracked dully under your feet; You looked closer and raised your leg to take a step forward, but instead stepped back. Your eyes widened in surprise. Parked at the porch was the same car Alastor had driven away a few hours earlier.

You ran home as fast as you could, jumped over the roots, avoided puddles, took shortcuts by leaving the paths and running across the glades. Your books were placed in the basket, which you pressed to your chest, some fruits were already crushed under their hard covers and some herbs flew out from the basket, but you didn't stop. The sun was steadily approaching the horizon.

Gosh, it was so late! You thought you watched the time carefully, but it appeared that you lost too much time just staring at Alastor's house, and when you realised it, you rushed away from the place, but in a hurry you got almost lost in unfamiliar territory, and you lost more precious minutes to finally find the right way. And, oh god, you remembered you hadn't prepared dinner for Oscar! You could get a real punishment from him, if he came back before you and found out that you'd just been floating around for the whole day.

You ran up the back steps, burst inside and listened. Silence. Deep sunset silence, but not an ominous silence. A sigh of relief escaped your lips, and you quickly ran to the bedroom to change your dirtied dress and leave the stained coat in the bathroom.

The moment you entered the kitchen, you heard the click of the lock in the front door. The door opened and the heavy steps headed to the living room.

You casted your books into a hanging box, where you kept all your vials, instructions for spells and rituals, some bones and now some herbs too. You knew, your husband would never touch anything in the kitchen except a fork and a knife during his meal. The kitchen was a woman's place, and despite how humiliatingly and deprecatingly it was, you couldn't deny it played into your hands, as he had no interest in familiarising himself with something womanish.

You heard the steps turning to the direction of the kitchen, he headed for you, as you put on your apron and took a knife to cut the first thing that went to your hand. A carrot.

“You better hurry up, pet, you know?” Displeasure was heard in the tired voice behind your back. You could actually feel how he frowningly gazed at the vegetable in your palm. Your husband wasn't a big fan of vegetables, and honestly anything but meat, so for your own safety you wanted to assure him that there would be beef tonight, but you were afraid that your voice could fail you, as you still didn't catch your breath after a long race and cold fear squeezing your throat. So you just nodded.

“I can't hear you,” His grumble.

“Yes!” Your exclamation and mistake. That sounded more aggressive and irritated than you intended.

“So yelling at me, huh?” You were harshly grabbed by your hair, burning pain on your scalp, and next second your head met the surface of the hanging box. It was a single hit, but shocking and harsh enough to make tears forming in your eyes.

He left the room, ordering you that the food had to be prepared no later than fifteen minutes. With your weak hand you opened the box and took out a green leaf with sharpened edges, not paying attention you could hurt your fingertips with toxins. You felt a slight pricking at your fingertips. Perhaps tonight you could find out how this mysterious plant worked?

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

In the morning you prepared dinner in advance, this day bided fair to be busier than yesterday, and though you didn't want to waste even a second on your husband, you didn't want to get another hit, you already had a small bruise on your forehead. As soon as Oscar's car left your sight of view, you disappeared in the woods. Today was sunny and Oscar’s hounds didn't bark at you as you passed by, and you took it all as a good sign.

Yesterday's meal didn't affect your husband much, he experienced slight pains in his stomach but nothing more. It didn't upset you much though, maybe you were even happy that it turned that way. Now you ascertained that the herb wasn't edible, and now you could collect more of the glittering leaves, or even try to use its fruits. To your surprise Oscar didn't even think of blaming you or your food for the discomfort, and you found it delightfully helpful. The man trusted you. Ironically.

You got to the bog and turned to the left. You didn't leave cut marks here yesterday, for you were sure Alastor knew his territory as well as you knew yours, so every scratch, every footprint would be immediately noticed, and you didn’t want to rouse any suspicions in Alastor and to draw his attention. So you went from memory.

Soon you reached the little pine grove. The sun was still on the east side of the sky, telling you it was still early morning, but nevertheless you could feel how slightly cool air was getting warmer with every passing minute, making you loosen your scarf. The unexpected and pleasant Indian summer in the middle of October.

The house looked just like yesterday, except there was no smoke coming out of the chimney, and the car wasn't parked by the porch. It wasn't actually there at all. You sighed in relief and with a small smile on your lips you left the shade of the trees. The grass was still wet with dew somewhere and it glistened on your boots already covered with brown leaves. Crossing the glade, you tried to look into the windows, but saw nothing more than the silhouettes of furniture in the darkness.

You came up to the steps of the backdoor and took off your shoes one by one to take them in your hands. You couldn't leave dirty footsteps on his floor. Carefully you broke open the door and stepped inside.

The smell of wood and spices wrapped your nostrils, and you couldn't help but take a deeper breath to keep more of the scent inside your lungs. With your bare feet you trod through the narrow corridor; Some boards squeaked under your steps, making you believe it was an old house though nevertheless obviously good looked after.

The house was still plunged into semi-darkness, for the sunbeams hardly broke through the trees outside the window, but it felt much more peaceful and calm here than in your house. There was no dampness hardening your breath, the stink of alcohol didn't spoil the air, no barking from the outside or curses from the next room. So quietly. But there was something else. Solitude and secrecy, as if the inhabitant of the house kept something from the light of the day and was pround of his secret. The dusk of the room seemed to confirm your thoughts.

Without hurrying you looked around every room that wasn't locked, noting to the details, that made the place look and feel like home: Worn books and old pictures, the strong scent of spices in the kitchen, rumpled cushions on a sofa, scratched after a long use gramophone records, a pair of gloves and a hat jauntily thrown on a commode, an old music book on the piano, a slightly soiled mirror and a barely noticeable aroma of cologne in the bathroom. Every single detail was new to you, but it also felt familiar. The most worn books were your favourite stories, faces of a boy and a woman in the pictures brought warm to your chest, the products in the kitchen seemed to welcome you to cook them. Everything was too dear for an unfamiliar place.

Exploring room by room, you couldn't help but imagine how it would be to live here. To take care of this place, to fill it with warmth and love, with joy and a tad of magic, to let your souls intertwine in these walls just like your bodies, to dance and eat together, to cuddle in front of the fireplace, to share one bed and one blanket. The thoughts brought a weak smile on your face and watered your eyes. It could happen, couldn't it? You'd already found your soul and home, and you could keep your love in your embrace, right?

Taking a breath, you casted depressing thoughts away. Of course you could do it. You came here for it.

The next room turned out to be Alastor’s office and a small library. On the desk there were scenarios of previous and future broadcasts, some papers and notes, even funny drafts. You came up to the bookshelves, and your eyes widened in surprise. In the living room Alastor kept fiction, while here he held specific books about radios and, surprisingly, magic books. There were old authorless and more modern authored books about dark magic, mostly about voodoo. Some of these books you read yourself, some recipes and spells described on these pages were the base of your own rituals.

You stared in wonder at the leather covers, shocked and bewildered. You expected to face anything, but not this.

In the corridor you guessed how much Alastor knew about magic. Was he like you, a sorcerer, or did he just read them but didn't use them? Read it like some people read about wild nature but never even hiked in their life? You didn't find any specific objects in any room, but, perhaps, he could keep them in the attic or basement? They were padlocked after all.

Slowly you opened the next door, a large wooden bed covered with an eiderdown showed to your roaming eyes. For a moment you hesitated to step inside, the bedroom was the most private place in any house, the place where a person let themselves be vulnerable or where they shared their privacy with someone they trusted. The room where you dreamt and daydreamt, where you rested your mind, body and soul, the room where you were wrapped with nightmares or fought with them; It was the place for your soul to control your body.

Your want won your indecision and you entered the room. It seemed to you that the home scent here was stronger, just like the haunting feeling of secrecy.

From the window you could see the glade illuminated with the sun now. Somewhere behind these woods stood your house, and it waited for you to come back. You wished you could lock yourself in this room forever and open the door only when Alastor returned. But it was too early for such actions yet. You had to prepare him for meeting with you. You had no doubt he felt the same as you when you first met, his gaze was so intent and so full of your own experiences, with an exclusion that he fought his fear and now acted as he desired. Within yourself you felt it was something dark, and looking into his eyes you saw how inhumanly wild it could be. For sure, the core of this secrecy impregnating the air here was enclosed in this craving.

Now remembering that night, you were sure he wasn't just a reader of forbidden books. Yes, in his eyes you saw his pride of knowing more than any other mortal does. And understanding that you knew the same.

Your hands touched the wooden window-frame. For your plan to come true you had to be sure that Alastor would leave the window open for the night, and as you didn't know if he had this habit (you didn't know it yet), you should have taken care of it yourself. You put your boots to the floor, so they wouldn't stain the red carpet, and took out a knife from your coat that you left there from yesterday. You placed the blade between two wooden bars and pushed. You wanted to make a small chink, invisible for the one who didn't know it even was there, but large enough to let wind blow through it.

Suddenly the knife slid down, scratching the frame and cutting your finger. The wood turned in a darker brown colour, immediately soaking in your blood. “Damn,” You hastened to the bed and pressed your cut finger to the back side of the round top of the headboard rail. You’d never done the night visiting ritual before, there was no person you wanted to meet in a dream, but the preparation and the main part of the ritual you remembered very well, as you always wished to perform it. And it wasn't difficult after all. You combined two rituals in it: an ancient ritual of soul night travel and a blood spell you made yourself.

The bloody spot was unnoticed from every corner and you smiled proudly. You wrapped your finger in your handkerchief and hid your hand in your pocket. You looked around the room in a search to find something you could take with you. Not only a souvenir but also a necessary component of the ritual. You needed something belonging to the person you wanted to meet in a dream: A garment, a hair, a droplet of blood. Something that had contact with his body — the vessel of his soul.

You opened the wardrobe and viewed the contents. His clothing seemed made by a professional hand of a tailor, none of the suits seemed too worn, and everything looked well-groomed. The colours were mostly brown and black, something red, white or beige shirts, all the shades you knew suited Alastor well. You looked over a higher shelf and took a black herringbone bow tie. You brought it to your nose, inhaling the scent, before putting the ribbon into your pocket.

When you wanted to close the doors, one shirt slid from the hanger and at the same time you heard the roar of an automobile.

You slightly cursed, shutting the doors, picked up your boots and ran out from the room. Less than ten seconds later you left the house through the back door and ran through the grass into the east side of the forest. You stopped only when you could barely see the building through the tracks of the fir trees. Only now you realised that you still pressed your shoes to your chest and your stockings were buried in the dirt. Shaking the conifer from and stuck leaves from your ankles and feet, you put on your shoes. Your breathing returned, as you slowly headed for your house, but blood still ran fast through your veins. You were so lucky today!

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

The moon was full, big and yellow, it looked out from the thin clouds as a coquette casting her glance from her feather fan. You feasted your eyes on its mystery shine for several minutes, Oscar became impatient, saying it took you too long to just open a window, but you didn't know how exactly you could admire something so beautiful for too long. The dim light of the moon was never enough for you. You moved away from the half-opened window and turned off the light. Oscar mumbled some curses and turned back to you just to immediately fall asleep. He was pretty angry today, but also tired and drunk, so he didn't torment you much this day, especially when you prepared a delightful dinner and gave him an ointment for the itching rash on his hands and face that appeared just out of nowhere. Though you hated playing nice and pretending to be a good wife, you couldn't deny lying to your husband and knowing more than him was very pleasant. The knowledge how long he had left was the most delightful, it made an almost triumphal smile decorate your face. The feeling of holding a life in one hand and death in another one, and being able to combine them in a loud clap, was so taking! You felt warmth in your guts when you imagined yourself having more men on a leash. You wished to have more control and power over people.

Oscar slept soundly, filling the room with an irritating grunt that was his snore, but you had to give him that herb tea to make his sleep deeper, to be sure he wouldn't disturb your sleep, that he would sleep longer than you, that he would feel well in the morning and would give up the idea of taking a day-off tomorrow because of continuing stomach ache.

You took out the snaffled bowtie from the pocket of your nightdress and put it under your pillow. When you lay at the very edge of the mattress, as far from Oscar as you could, you bend your elbow under your pillow, taking the soft fabric in your palm and making yourself more comfy.

You had to feel comfortable and erase your mind from any worries, your thoughts had to belong only to the object of your desire to perform the ritual successfully. You lay on your back, one hand under your pillow, fingers wrapped around the fabric Alastor once touched, the other hand was on your chest, as you concentrated on your heartbeat. Sleep crawled closer and closer to you, your eyelids became heavier, you felt a pressure on your chest and then you felt as you hovered above your shelf.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Slap. Another hit. Whine. Slap. He's too small to help, he's too small to protest. Everything is red. Ink black, bright white. He's small and he's harmed too. He can't help. He can't help.

He can.

A knife in his hand. In his small, plumply hand. Too tiny he is.

But not helpless.

Plead. Slap.

He faces the monster.

Strike with the kni-

Kick.

Her cry.

He will always be too small.

Alastor woke up, heavily breathing, his own palpitation drummed in his head. Sweat wet his temples and back, his shirt stuck to his skin so unpleasantly. He brought his shaking hands to his face, closed his eyes and breathed out.

Just a nightmare. Not even a forgotten memory. Just a bad dream that he'd already thrown from his brain away.

A stupid nightmare.

He wasn't small anymore, his hands were strong and bloody, now he was the one in control and not a blurred face from a delusion. He stood up for her, for himself, and even for others if you wish. This dream was a waste of time and nerves.

Alastor got out of bed, he needed fresh air to cool his body and mind. As he opened the window aromatic night air enveloped him, drying his slightly wet and tousled hair. The night air had a unique property — it dispelled all your unnecessary thoughts, and made you think only about the night. Stars, wind, sounds, cold. The midnight was egoistic and you had to concentrate only on it to make you worthy of its soothing cool embrace.

Alastor watched the black treetops swaying in the wind. The stars shone brightly above the branches when the dark grey clouds passed by. The moon illuminated the glade, reflected in Alastor’s dark eyes with yellow glint. He felt better. The pleasant smell of conifer and wet dirt was everything he paid his attention to now. His mind was empty, he let only his body to feel.

Alastor sighed and slightly closed the window, he wanted the bedroom to stay aired, moreover he always slept better with an opened window, listening to the sounds of nature lulling him. He closed his eyes, the sleep caught him fast and tightly right away.

Alastor found himself in a small cabin that wasn't his. Somehow he knew he was closed and didn't have a key. Another trap?. Through two square windows flowed down the pale light, but it didn't illuminate the room, to the contrary it seemed too dark indoors, as if the windows soaked the light in, out from the cabin into the forest. Nonsense.

He looked around, but there was absolutely nothing to explore — the cabin was empty. No furniture, no lamps, no hunter trophies. Just a wooden box. Though it was vacant inside, and the light was sucking out from the place, it still felt filled with something. A quiet rustling sound, very close to the crackling from Alastor's studio, sounded out of nowhere and filled the space with itself, almost making the air palpable, sending shivers across his skin. Another oddity.

Alastor slewed around again and saw pale figures staring at him through the windows. The view made him uncomfortable, shivers ran down his spine, and teeth clenched. Immediately the vision disappeared.

What. A strange. Place.

Suddenly he understood that he must be dreaming. As soon as the realisation came to him, he heard, or felt, someone behind him. He turned his head back and saw a figure of a young woman in front of him. The shadow fell on her face in an unrealistic, only available in dreams, angle. He tilted his head, showing his curiosity, and as if she read his mind, she went closer to him smoothly, as if her feet didn't touch the ground, lowering her head and showing her bare palms to him.

Her fingertips brushed the sides of his hands, and he wrapped his long fingers around her wrists, not giving her a chance to go away. He felt how she quivered under his touch, her uneven sigh echoed too loud in the cabin. Who was she? Her wrists were so thin and fragile as if made of porcelain, and Alstor was afraid that if he squeezed them tighter, they would break. His fingers tenderly slipped down to tangle with hers, and she squeezed his warm digits. His brows knitted in a frown as he felt how cold she was. It was a dream, but he felt the coldness of her body, the scent of her hair, he felt with his bare skin on his forearms the fine texture of her clothes as she clung closer to him.

The woman evoked a strange feeling in him that both painfully squeezed his heart and made it beat in a pleasurable rush. He last felt it years ago, the memory made his grasp on her stronger. It was a desire to protect, and he last felt it to his mother.

Alastor sensed how his palms became slightly sweaty after long contact against her skin, but she didn't remove her hands, she only held tighter on him as if her well-being depended on it, but he knew, she squeezed his wrist so firmly just to not let him grab her chin and make her look up at him as she still kept her head drooped, avoiding his gaze. Her forehead touched his chest, sending vibrating waves down his spine.

He felt his heartbeat went faster, the rustling noise faded away long ago, in the silence only her sighs were heard. He could push her away, but the thought didn’t even visit his mind. Her presence was heartwarming, he felt it literally, it’d be a foolishness to refuse her and what she did to him. Pressing her hands to his chest and feeling her pulse under his fingertips felt so right. As if he found a missing piece of his own soul that he never ever thought he’d lost.

Alastor wrapped his arms around her figure and pulled her closer. She slightly gasped but soon relaxed and put her hands on his waist. He finally could warm her.

Somehow everything had changed, Alastor lay in his bed and held her in his embrace, both covered with a soft blanket, as if they never were in that cabin, never leaving their bed and each other's arms. He inhaled the scent of her hair, it was rain, earth, conifer; She smelled like the night. Her little body was close to him, not even a millimetre separated them, and he felt her heartbeat against his chest — how could you feel somebody's heartbeat in a dream? Alastor smiled, feeling her body got warmer, and pressed her even closer, as if he wanted to lock her in his rib cage. She could always stay warm wrapped in his flesh and blood.

For sure he was not letting go of her.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

You woke up with a gasp, taking a deep breath in with your mouth. You felt dizzy, slightly disoriented, but extremely happy. You saw Alastor in your dream, you shared your dream with Alastor, Alastor embraced you so tightly, so lovingly, you felt Alastor so goddamn real, your self made ritual worked! You reminiscenced all the details from the night before the morning would steal it away from you. The touches, the sights, the warmth — you wanted to lock it all in your heart to relive it again and again.

Never ever had you had such a sweet dream so full of innocence and love. His hands on your lower back, his breath on your crown, his peering curious eyes on your face, his fingers intertwined with yours, his tenderness.

No, you were not ready to leave your bed and face your life again, to survive again. But the man on the other side of the bed moved, his deep sleep ended too, and he was ready to remind you where you were and who you belonged to just as he did every morning.

The phantom brush of Alastor's hand in your hair soothed you. He was real, the husband was mortal, the rest didn't matter.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

[monbons]

WIP Wednesday

Posting actual WIPS on a Wednesday? Imagine that.

As long as we are all baring our hearts on tumblr, I have to admit that I have been struggling to write anything since I wrapped up Eternal Life (back in the first week of April). At first I figured I was simply burnt out since I wrote all 42k words of that fic in just about a month, but given that I've started three separate WIPS since then and made zero progress on any of them, I'm wondering if I am just out of stories. I hate all my words--even though I really love some of these concepts. So, as you may have noticed, I've been distracting myself with sewing projects because good progress is so clearly visible there...

Anywho, to motivate myself, I decided to post a snip of each today and hope that having bits out in the world will motivate me to finish at least ONE of them! All untitled. Set up and snips below the cut.

Very creatively titled "Party Robot," this WIP is a silly/fluffy one-shot inspired by an article I read a while ago about a growing trend in American weddings. This one is the furthest along and will likely see the light of day eventually...

A nervous bounce.  From a robot. I recognize that bounce. “I thought you said Shepard was working tonight.” My voice is tight. “He is.” Bunce replies, similarly strained. “What did you say he does again?” Panic rises in my chest.  “He’s in entertain–”  Whether Bunce trails off or I simply don’t hear the rest is irrelevant because the music has changed from easy dinner instrumentals to much-too-loud techno and the show is clearly starting. As the synths build, driving towards a crescendo, my brain reels with the growing realisation that Simon would never just abandon me at the last minute, would never send me anywhere alone, certainly not my cousin’s gay wedding, which is every kind of milestone given his Old Families lineage and Pitch blood specifically and– “PARTY PEOPLE!” The DJ booms into the mic. “Have the grooms got a treat for you!”

A multi-chapter AU I have lovingly nicknamed "Baz in a Bubble." It is sad and angsty and is proving significantly more difficult to execute (despite having a complete outline) than I once thought it would be. Who could have guessed having one home-bound character would make me too sad to write? Thanks to @thewholelemon and @hushed-chorus who've listened to more than their fair share of my griping about this one. Anyway, here's the first bit of BAZ POV:

There are exactly 297 stars in the sky above me. I count them while lying in my bed every night. They do not twinkle or flicker hello like real stars. Instead, they glow a constant yellowish-green that reminds me of the colour artists always make toxic sludge in the cartoons I grew up watching. It's the colour of superhuman villains and their evil plots. Of poison. Of danger. It's the colour of the plastic star stickers Fiona put up on my ceiling when I was 10 and spent the whole year crying and begging her to go outside. Just once. Just for a minute. Because I was starting to forget what fresh air smelled like or how it felt to have grass prickle against your bare feet or how the stars lit up the night sky in Hampshire. There are no stars in the middle of London. Not outside my window. Not in this room.

And then the WIP I have the least progress on (literally almost nothing) but I so desperately want to write and could really use a thought partner to help me brainstorm/plot/figure out what the hell I'm doing--- a canon divergence where Simon successfully exposes Baz as a vamp and Malcolm steps the fuck up as a father. Here's a bit of Simon POV:

It didn't matter anyway. Pitch Manor was empty. While [the Mage] ranted and raved, I wandered into Baz’s living room. The TV was still on. Peppa the Pig was playing. A half-dressed Barbie was splayed on the couch next to a small bowl of grapes, all cut in half. I picked up the doll and brushed her tangled hair out of her face.  Why didn’t I know Baz had a sister? A family that ate snacks together in front of the TV? Parents who loved him so dearly they fled their whole lives under cover of night? In the days that followed, I sat in meeting after meeting with the Coven, listening to The Mage. He demanded the casting of tracking spells, pushed through more dark creature reforms, and rambled about the miscarriage of justice and the dangers of harbouring monsters.  But Baz wasn’t a monster.  He was just a boy.  A scared boy.  A boy who ran because he wanted to live. 

Anyway...here's to accountability via tumblr. Maybe once I've slept for several weeks and feel more refreshed I won't be so frustrated by every word I know, or more precisely, all the beautiful ones I can’t seem to find…

Thanks for the tag @bookish-bogwitch. Cannot wait to devour the new chapter of BPD!

Hellos and high-fives to all. May your words (and art) be faring better than mine: @raenestee, @cutestkilla, @roomwithanopenfire, @facewithoutheart

@emeryhall, @artsyunderstudy, @aristocratic-otter, @larkral, @rimeswithpurple

@drowninginships, @valeffelees, @shrekgogurt, @blackberrysummerblog, @iamamythologicalcreature

@run-for-chamo-miles, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @arthurkko, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold

@beastmonstertitan, @supercutedinosaurs, @rbkzz, @fiend-for-culture, @theearlgreymage

@brilla-brilla-estrellita, @skeedelvee, @ic3-que3n, @talentpiper11, @ivelovedhimthroughworse

[beelzeebub]

you most definitely have already got this ask lol but I would love to hear more about what you picture the plot of Goncharov (1973) is (and what your opinion on the very popular gonchrey ship as well!) I am so tempted to get a poster you would not believe-

Ok so about the ship Gonchrey or Goncharov/Andrey (who si played BY HARVEY KEITEL). In my own lore, Goncharov is the main protagonist and Andrey is the main villan (it's kinda obvious from the poster lol) so I'd totally get why people ship them bc people tend to ship heros with villains. But with everyone having their own interpretation of who the chracters are, I can't comment on other people's view of them.

And now the lore! I’m sorry if this sounds stupid or doesn’t make sense, I’m writing it in a hurry and I will extend upon this in future. Also, this is not a Martin Scorsese story. It’s a mine, let’s be honest. I’m not saying this to brag but I’m not all that interested in pretending this film is real. For me, they’re just my OC’s from a funny poster I made for my mutuals. I’m saying this because I’m not trying to emulate writing of the great Martin Scrosese who I love very much. I’m just some rando person who likes mafia and gangster things. Hope that makes sense.

Oh and before I begin, no clock, boat or bridge scenes or anything of that sort is in my story. All these things were created by someone else and don’t fit in my story.

The story takes place in Prague, Naples and New York

Some info about Goncho and Andrey:

So Goncharov is the main protagonist of the story. Not much is known about him, his origin is very mysterious but it is later revealed the crime boss Andrey had his whole family murdered for owing him money and Goncharov is of polish-italian origin (I'm not sure what I want his real name to be yet). In the story Andrey is about 10 years older than Goncho in order for this to work, the actors are the same age but the eyepatch ages Andrey up so it works. Murdering Goncho’s family was one of Andrey’s first things he did after his rise to power. And so basically the story is about revenge. Andrey is half czech and half italian and he operates from Naples but his crime ring works all over the world. 

If you asked Andrey how he gained all his wealth and power, he would tell you it was through hard work and that he came from virtually nothing. That's a lie as his family was very well off. The extend of his wealth can be also attributed to all the blackmails, murders, abductions, frauds, thefts and other crimes he and his crime ring commited. Maybe these are the things that constitute as "hard work" to Andrey. Andrey is also a classist and something of an ethnonationalist as he often refers to himself as full blooded italian and rarely admits his half slavic origin.

Here’s some info about Katya and Goncho’s relationship from other ask (some info about Sofia too):

In my own lore, Katya is very much in love with Goncharov but is also tempted by Sofia. To Katya, Goncharov and Sofia also represent two very different ways of living. Goncho is a smuggler but an honest one and Sofia works for her boss Andrey’s crime ring. Being with Goncharov means living a dangerous life on the run but somewhere down the line there is a possibility of settling down and living life through honest means. Being with Sofia means choosing a simpler, cushier life, a life of luxury but it also means being forever part of the crime world. Who will she choose? I don’t know and neither does Katya :)

Also, I’m toying with the idea of Katya being married to Goncho (simply becasue I tagged her as Katya Goncharova a couple of times lol) but I don’t know yet :))

Info about Mario and Ice Pick Joe:

Mario and Ice Pick Joe grew up together in Sicily and were both very poor. They are not related but share somewhat of a brotherly bond. Joe’s darker side started to show from a very early age. He loved to kill and dissect small animals which sometimes freaked up Mario (although he never judged him for his impulses). Joe also talked about joining mafia from an early age, it seemed like a natural thing to do. He never imagined himself as anything else than a criminal. Mario is academically very smart. Joe often said to him that someone this smart could go study and make something of himself through honest job. But Mario was a very cynical person from an early age and thought that the only way people like them can escape poverty is through dishonest means. Also, Joe is just a joy to be around (if you’re not the animal or a person he’s dissecting), he’s funny, great cook, loves music, unassuming but charismatic. And it’s not just a front, he really is like that, he has two sides, one of them is very dark. Mario, as smart as he is, lacks the charisma and is aware of that. He is brooding and sulking and cynical. Lacks the social capital ... and friends (except for Joe of course). He also likes to go to casinos and gamble, not because he needs the money, but he likes winning and he likes the fact that other people’s social status can’t help them there. He’d never admit this to you but he secretly wants friends and wants to be liked but he is just so goddamn unlikable to the majority of people that no amount of wealth can help him with that. Mario was also always ashamed of his humble origin. When the two of them joined the crime world, they joined Andrey’s crime ring. Joe is very loyal to Andrey because he sees him as someone who gave him a chance and saved him from poverty. Joe became Andrey’s best hitman and is free to act on his darkest impulses. Mario became Andrey’s accountant, handling money. But unlike Joe, Mario resents Andrey because Andrey is a big classist and often and not so subtly lets Mario know that he would be nothing without him. In the story, Mario befriends Goncharov (the met in a casino) and will have to decide whether he betrays his boss or not. And will he be able to convince his best friend Joe to work against a man he is very loyal to?

The Naples side of my story is probably my most developed part as of now. I still don’t have everything figured out.

How Ice Pick Joe got his nickname:

Ice Pick Joe's favorite weapon of choice actually isn't an ice pick, despite many people assuming that's the case. He doesn't have a favorite weapon or a torture method. He likes them all. His nickname refers to one specific event that took place shortly after after he joined Andrey's crime ring. One of Andrey's highest ranking lieutenants was suspected of stealing money and giving up information to a rival crime lord. He was subjected to many hours of interogation and torture but still he would not confess. Then Joe asked to try. The only thing he took to the room with him was in ice pick. Nobody really knows what happened in there but it took less than 15 minutes for the lieutenant to confess how much he stole and what information he gave up. Andrey then used this information and destroyed the rival crime lord. This event prompted Joe Morelli to gain an immense amount of respect within the crime ring and ever since that day everyone called him Ice Pick Joe.

Info about Katya and her brother Valery:

Katya and her older brother Valery were born in Moscow but moved to Moldova after Katya's birth. Their moldavian mother died during Katya's birth and their russian father was very abusive but mostly absent. Valery is 20 years older than Katya and he basically raised her on his own. Valery became a high ranking officer in the militsiya (soviet police) at quite an early age, mostly due to his efficiency. He soon became disillusioned by the brutal soviet regime and defected to the USA, searching for a better life for him and Katya. He became a weapon smuggler and that's how he and Katya met Goncharov. Valery and Goncharov fell out during an event where Valery thought Goncharov had betayed him after a heist gone wrong (he didn't betray him, it was misunderstanding). He also hates Goncharov because Katya fell in love with him and choose to leave with him.

[impala-dreamer]

Sweet Creature

A Supernatural Story

~Bad things happen when you take matters into your own hands and try to prove that love conquers all~

Demon!Dean x OFC Stevie Miller 

3138 Words

NSFW, Danger, Angst, Violence, Blood, Death

“Are you willing to bleed for me?” for @jacklesversebingo

JacklesBingo Masterlist ~ Full Masterlist�� ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

It was certainly a risk believing him, but she had no choice. 

Sam was going insane, trapping demons and slicing them open until they talked. Usually, they didn’t, and things got even bloodier. 

Cas was- well, she really wasn’t sure what was going on with Cas, but it probably wasn’t good. 

Nothing had been good since their encounter with Metatron. Nothing had been right since Dean’s bloody body had been laid out on his bed and wiped clean. No one had been at peace since he disappeared. 

Despite the shit storm life had become, it was somehow getting worse. 

Stevie was about to give up completely and hide herself away for a month with a couple cases of Tito’s and enough Takis to burn a hole in her gut, but fate stepped in. And this time, fate came in the form of a text message from the King of the Jackasses himself. 

Crowly reached out to Stevie and sent her Dean’s location, claiming he was done with babysitting the demonic mess. She almost laughed. How many times had she been tasked with watching a tied-up, pathetic Crowley, and there he was begging her to trade places? Seemed fitting. 

It immediately crossed her mind that it might be a trap and not a very well-planned one at that, but what choice did she have? To wallow away in the Bunker while Sam went slowly mad in the next room? To give up and go back home to the sticks and try to build a solid, respectable life? No. There was only one thing she could do, so she packed up her car and hit the road, following the GPS and daydreaming of the fight to come. 

It wouldn’t be easy to bring him back. She knew it would take every ounce of strength she had just to see him there, walking and talking, infested with demonic life. She wondered if she’d be able to stand it. 

Dean had always been the light in her life. He was the beacon in her storm, the icon in the chapel of her heart. For years, she’d tangled herself up in him, giving up a normal life and a hopeful future in service of Dean Winchester. She’d stayed by his side through every rough patch; held his hand each time the earth opened up to swallow him down. She never asked for anything in return, holding on for a sweet smile or a gentle kiss at night. 

Long ago, she realized that she would follow no matter where he went. No matter the price, she would pay it. Heaven, Hell, Limbo- she’d be by his side even if it took everything she had. 

He was everything. 

So the threat of a trap was nothing to her now. She’d deal with whatever was up ahead, as long as it saved him. 

Half a day later she was in the parking lot of Benny’s Bunny Lounge staring at the reflection of soft pink neon lights on the hood of the Impala. Dusk was settling around her and as daylight faded, her courage grew. She tapped the back right pocket of her jeans, making sure the flask of holy water was in place and took a breath.

He was sitting center stage. His muddy boots were propped up on the table; the chair was tilted back on two legs. He wore a familiar flannel shirt open at the collar and he tipped a bottle back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. 

A young woman was dancing for him, rubbing her slim body up and down the pole, and spreading her thighs to give him a peek. Her caramel skin was covered in specks of glitter that sparkled in the flashing lights as each beat of the song made her hips swirl.

Stevie pulled up a chair and sat at the table beside him. 

“Nice tits.” 

Her voice was gentle enough to stay discreet but loud enough to reach him over the DJ’s latest offering. 

His eyes turned slowly and she felt the icy glare prickle her pale skin. 

Dean ran the tip of his tongue against the ridge of his top teeth. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. There was neither worry nor guilt on his face, only calm smugness. 

“On her or me?” 

Stevie gave him a short laugh as she leaned back and looked him over. His hair was longer than she’d last seen and stuck up as if he’d finally discovered hair products. His jaw was tight as always but shadowed by a little more stubble, and his arms looked thicker, his chest broader. 

She reigned in the memory of lustful nights and cleared her throat. 

“You have bulked up a bit,” she answered with a nod, “but I meant the dessert-named nursing student on stage.”

Dean kicked his legs down and righted his chair. “Actually, her name is Sparkles and she's pre-law.”

Stevie hummed. “Right.” 

Sparkles turned her back to the room and squatted against the pole. Her tiny red thong retreated higher up into her ass and Stevie wondered how hard it was to fish out at the end of her shift. 

Dean didn’t seem to have the same thought but was interested in the giggle of the woman’s plump backside. He turned his attention back to Sparkles and his beer, leaving Stevie to sit in silence carefully pondering her next words. 

She kept her tone casual but took a chance at moving things along. 

“We miss you back home, Dean.” She moved her amber eyes from him to the stage. “The Bunker ain't the same without you.” 

He laughed as he lifted the beer to his lips. “What, you don't like Sam's cooking?”

She smiled and leaned her arms on the table. The top was sticky and she tried not to think about why. “No, I don’t. But that's beside the point.” Disgusted, she sat up and wiped her palms down her thighs. Dean was unmoved, drinking his beer and staring at bouncing tits. Stevie sighed. “You gotta be missing home,” she insisted. “How ‘bout, let's get you back and we can fix this.”

“Who says I wanna fix this?” He set the bottle down and turned in his seat to face her. “I got all the sex, drugs, and rock and roll I want.”

She scoffed. “You always had that.”

“No.” 

In an instant, his tone shifted. He cocked his head to the right and blinked. Midnight flooded his eyes and Stevie gasped. She bit her tongue to hold back a wave of fear and stared into the inky darkness.  

“What I had,” he went on, leaning closer, trying to get a rise out of her, “was a whining, abusive, punk-ass little brother and a fucking poodle constantly yapping at my ankles.”

She swallowed hard. Her heart was pounding; lean muscles aching with the desire to bolt. 

Dean blinked again and the deep green she so loved returned to his eyes. 

Stevie sighed and clicked her tongue, drumming up her casual courage once more. “Really, Dean? A poodle? I picture myself as a more… hearty puppy.” A flick of her wrist pulled a wayward strand of dirty blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Fine. A schnauzer.”

“I don’t know why, but that seems worse…”

He laughed and sat back, returning to a more relaxed and unbothered state.

Still tingling with nervous flight energy, Stevie tapped her hand on the table and stood up. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” she announced. “Can I getcha somethin’?”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted as if he were amusedly shocked. “Could go for another,” he replied, shaking his empty bottle. 

She nodded and reached for the beer. He wouldn’t give up his grip and their fingers touched for a quick moment. She sucked in a deep breath and he grinned. 

“Hurry back…” 

She scanned the club as she walked to the bar. It was mostly empty except for a few staff members, a drunk old man asleep by the door, and two dudes in business suits pretending to be in a meeting so they could write off their lap dances. The front door was guarded by a gorilla of a man in a neon orange shirt and the back exit beyond the stage was watched by a slight, creeper of an older gentleman whose mustache likened him to every porn peddler in every movie she’d ever seen. They wouldn’t be much help if Dean decided to attack. A little, but not much. 

She ordered two domestic beers and paid in cash, leaving a hefty tip simply so the bartender would keep his eyes on her. An added layer of safety never hurt, even if the guy looked like he could get his ass kicked by an automatic door. 

She had to use what she had on hand. Dean taught her that, back when he was really Dean.

This Dean, whatever he truly was, ignored her return, though he surely felt the shift in atmosphere as she moved, and heard it when she cleared her throat. 

“One more for the gentleman in the played-out burgundy flannel.”

He cocked his head to look up at her and grinned. “Thought you loved this shirt,” he mused, accepting the fresh beer.

Stevie shrugged and retook her seat. “Eh. It’s not bad,” she replied, “just… old. You really should think about punching up your wardrobe a bit. There have been significant discoveries within the fashion industry since 1974.” 

He laughed and took a drink. “Yeah. What the fuck do you know about fashion?” Green eyes swept down her thin body, noting the wide-leg jeans ripped at the knees and around the hem, the faded concert tee that had seen better days, and a thrift store jacket she hadn’t washed in years. “Look like you fell out of a Nirvana video.” 

Stevie straightened up and smoothed a hand down her front. “At least I don’t look like an Army-Navy reject. You back on active duty, Radar?” 

Dean’s eyes were back on Sparkles, but his focus was on Stevie. He nearly choked on a sip of beer but pushed it back with a laugh. “Radar?” He sat up and set his elbows on the table. “Fuck you. I’m Hawkeye or I’m no one.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Hold on while I go distill you a martini…” 

Dean licked a smile from his lips and returned his attention to the vibrating thighs a few feet away from his nose. 

“You know where they have delicious martinis? Back home.” 

His palm slammed down on the tabletop and the wood splintered under the force. “Enough.” His growl was intense and a shudder ran down her spine. “I’m not coming home. Fuck off and leave me alone.” 

Stevie froze. Her blood ran cold and her heart raced. She stared at the broken table, at the cracks his fist had made, and thanked god it wasn’t her jaw. 

She tried one last time. 

“Dean… I miss you. Sam misses you. We… we can help. You know there’s a cure and we can get you back to yourself if you just-” 

He cut her off, spinning around in his seat to face her head-on. “If I just what? Let you rip away the one thing that’s made me happy in my entire fucking life?”

She shivered. “You don’t mean that. That’s the demon talking.” 

“Damn right, it is! But there ain’t no demon inside me, Sweetheart. It is me. All me. And I’m finally getting what I deserve. Some fucking R&R. I’m on leave, baby, and I ain’t never coming back.” 

A long exhale fell from her lips and with it any hope of saving him. With her silenced, Dean calmed and turned back to the show. Sparkles was finishing her dance and he wasn’t willing to miss another second. 

Years of friendship and love flashed behind her eyes and her heart ached too badly for him to survive much more. 

She gave up. 

Slowly, she stood and closed her eyes, placing a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move to chase her away, didn’t shout or try to scare her off. He sat stone still and let her lips graze his cheek in a chaste goodbye.

“I love you.” 

Unaffected by her whisper, Dean leaned forward and crossed his arms over the table, green eyes focused on Sparkles and nothing else. 

It was done. 

Stevie walked back to her car, dodging shadows against the milky midnight sky. A blanket of gray clouds had been pulled across the world, backlit by a full moon that wouldn’t make an actual appearance that night. 

She could almost feel the cloud cover heavy on her shoulders. She’d come all this way to do one thing and she couldn’t do it. Maybe Sam could get through to him. Maybe Castiel could do some good. Clearly, she wasn’t the one who could break through Dean’s demonic haze. She wasn’t it for him. 

A few yards from her car, Stevie yanked her phone out and swiped across the screen. She scrolled past Dean’s name and landed on Sam’s. As her finger hovered, Dean called to her. 

“Stevie, wait!” 

The ache in his voice was pathetic and she turned to find him running towards her with a crease in his brow and pain in his eyes. 

“Please. I…” 

He stopped and stared. An arm’s length stood between them and Stevie held her breath. Hope surged around her heart. 

“What?” 

He took a breath and looked away, unable to meet her gaze. His shoulders fell and every bit of defense dropped away. She saw the old Dean for a moment. 

“I need help. I can’t do this much longer-” 

If there was more he wanted to say, she didn’t care. Stevie reached for him and he fell into her. Big arms wrapped around her tiny waist and she nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He was warm and solid, strong and alive. She closed her eyes as tears threatened to fall. 

“Dean… It’s OK. We can fix this.”

She felt his shoulders shake; heard his breathy exhale. 

“Please. Help me.” 

Pulling back, she smiled up at him softly. “Of course. Anything you need. Anything.” 

His grin was devilish and unexpected. 

Her eyes grew wide as his fist came into view. 

The phone fell, shattering as it hit the concrete ground. 

Stevie’s vision blurred and pain spread across her face like a hot web. It took too long to register what had happened and Dean struck again, cracking her cheekbone with his knuckles and forcing a gash to open below her eye. 

“Dean!” 

Her scream echoed through the silent night but he ignored it, opting for violence over communication. The Mark burned on his arm and Dean attacked again, ripping Stevie off of her feet by the shoulders and tossing her like a rag doll. 

The trunk of her car did little to cushion her spine and she crumbled to the ground, limp and seething with pain. 

As the gravel dug into the softness of her cheek, Stevie watched as Dean sauntered over to her. His boots moved with lazy precision, knowing she was going nowhere. When he stopped, the boots split apart and he crouched down, leaning in to taunt her. 

“You really would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” 

His voice was low and mocking, his laugh like a scalpel sliding across her heart. 

“Always have. You’re like some goddamned love-sick teenager. Always following me around, always tending to my needs… my… desires.” 

She shivered as he dragged a finger down her broken face, lovingly admiring the purple and black mess bubbling beneath the skin. 

“Such a sweet creature.” 

Stevie fought the churn of bile in her gut and bit back a scream. It would do her little good, she knew. Any clapback would earn her a blow to the head, or worse. 

“Such a pathetic… plain… disappointing fuck.” 

Tears stung her eyes but the heartache was soon displaced by real pain as Dean wrapped his giant hand around her neck. Without warning, he tightened his grip and stood, lifting Stevie to her feet by the delicate threads of her throat. 

Amber eyes bulged. Thin lips spread wide in a gasping breath that never came. She clawed at his hand, digging her fingers between his palm and her windpipe, but it was little help. 

Dean laughed. 

She kicked. 

“Anything I want, huh?” he said again, turning on his heel to slam her back against the alley wall. “You’ll do anything for me, won’t you?” 

Desperate for release, Stevie mouthed a promise. She nodded, agreeing with her last bit of strength. 

Dean smirked and loosened his grip. 

Air rushed back into her lungs and Stevie coughed hard. “Please…” Her whisper was raspy and broken. “Anything you need.”

“Are you willing to bleed for me?” 

Her body froze; her thoughts clouded. 

“W-what?” 

Dean pressed himself up against her, and let his hot breath sweep over her lips. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 

She shuddered. “I’m- I’m here to bring you home.” 

He dropped his hand from her throat and let it slide down her chest. “You’re here because Crowley called you. Told you I was bleeding innocents…” He pushed back a step and fisted her shirt, ripping the worn cotton in a swift motion. “Told you I’m making a mess of things to feed the Mark, to satisfy this hunger inside of me.” 

Stevie held herself still, praying that the wall would soften so she could push inside and get away from his touch. 

“It wants blood, Stevie… It needs blood.” 

The brand burned on his forearm and she felt the heat, felt the evil spark like lightning in the air. 

“I need blood…” Reaching behind him, Dean pulled the First Blade free from beneath his shirt and pressed the ancient bone to her neck. “I need your blood. You have no idea how many people I’ve killed. Demons, humans… It doesn’t matter. The Mark needs blood. So do it, Stevie, bleed for me and save them. ” 

Stevie held his gaze and her breath. “Don’t- don’t do this.” 

Dean growled deeply and laid his hand on her fragile cheek. The Blade pressed in on the left and his fingers on the right. She was trapped and hopeless. Defeated and broken. 

“Don’t…” 

His gaze softened for a split second and she thought she’d broken through. Maybe, somehow her love was enough to bring him back. 

She was wrong. 

Dean blinked and the darkness returned. He kissed her lips and her eyes closed. Quickly, he pulled his right hand down, slicing through her flesh like it was nothing. 

Stevie’s eyes went wide and her lips formed his name. 

The blood flowed and Dean sighed. Sated for another night.  

[marley-warriors]

Loki/Basim's background and motivations analysis

Based on AC Vallhalla, Mirage, Dawn of Ragnarok, The Golden City novel, and Forgotten Myths comic

To start with, the creator of Sages, Darby McDevitt explaines Sages as such.

Basim and Loki are the same being born in different time periods. Basim is Loki, but has amnesia of his past Isu life. It is only after accepting his Loki side (aka Nehal) that he lifted his amnesia and remembers his first life.

Edit: Sarah Beaulieu, narrative director of Mirage, indicates it may be a takeover, contrary to Darby below. Seems the lore is still unclear.

So here is what we know of Loki/Basim's background.

Loki had brothers once, but Basim did not. From the Edda's we learn of two older brothers; Byleist and Helblindi. His Father's name was Farbauti, which translates to 'Dangerous striker'.

In the Golden City we learn that Loki's father was extremely cruel and violent towards him, and apparently never loved him. From a young age, Loki would have felt unworthy of love. He was a child. He needed love to feel safe, but instead was forced to adapt to violence. Also, note how sad he is in the text. He's neglected and traumatised by his childhood memories.

It's saddening how Loki/Basim is filled with a childlike jealousy at Hytham's care for Leo. Because deep inside Loki/Basim craves that parternal love and affection which he never recived. And perhaps Basim's architect father provided a balm for that, but it was not enough, because even this father abandoned him by dying. And again he is forced to grow up fast as an outcast amongst society.

He is not evil, and had ambitions. Basim wanted to aid the less fortunate and had a strong sense of justice. We never met young Loki, but Baldr approached Loki specifically for mentorship in diplomacy.

[I will need a mentor in the art of diplomacy - and none is shrewder than Loki. - Baldr]

From an Isu perspective it would have been sensible to employ Loki as a Diplomat. It might have been his actual job, which explains why he was free to travel between the warring empires. Not just that, but he is half Jotnar and half Aesir. In the games Loki referes to himself as a Jotnar, but in the comic he acknowledges that he is not a pure-blooded Aesir, indicating his mom was Aesir.

The comics indicate that he was born and raised in Jotunheim, being well familiar with the area and serving as Baldr's guide.

[Jotunheim, realm of the frost giants was a harsh land. But Loki knew it well. For six days he guided Baldr through the mountains as they sought their treasure, evading the residents of that terrible place.

Loki: Stay in the shadows and out of the sunlight, no matter how tempting the warmth. Jotun eyes are keen and there are many about.

Baldr: Aren't you cold?

Loki: Don't mistake me for blood-kin Baldr. My father was bathing in blizzards while yours lounged in summer fields.

[Baldr is freezing in place and becoming an icicle while lamenting death.]

Loki: Perhaps I should have come alone.

Baldr: I couldn't let you risk the danger on my behalf. Not when I am invunerable and you-

Loki: - can endure the cold better than any pure-blooded Aesir? ]

Jotunheim under Jupiter/Zeus/Suttungr seems to be North America. Perhaps Loki grew up in Alaska or Canada. Loki is also a frost giant with the ability to manipulate ice (might also be a piece of Eden or bio-engineering).

The comics show that Loki loves spinning tall tales and has a real passion for story crafting. Baldr was aware of that and played that to his advantage.

[Appealing to my ego? Transparent, but... effective. - Loki AC Forgotten Myths after Baldr sweet-talks him.]

Loki has a big ego, and is aware of it too. In general, he seems keenly aware and insightful of his own nature, and engages in philosophical musings with Baldr. A sense of self-preservation drives Loki, and he uses this as a shield against anyone that threatens to do him harm. Loki is quick to fear death (as are most beings of course), but Loki's fear of death seems extreme, possibly steming from deep-rooted trauma.

[My nature is neither better nor worse than the next man's. When I am kind, it is because it suits me. When I am cruel, it is to preserve my existence - and that of my kin. The fear of death is the root of my "callousness." - Loki]

[I cannot be other than I am. All of this was fated. All this will happen again.]

Loki fully believes in fate, and so justifies his actions as already being calculated by the fates. There's no point in trying to be a better person if the fates have already declared you to be the bad guy, which is how every other character makes him feel.

[Have you considered that Havi may not want Loki redeemed? - Freya to Baldr in AC Forgotten Myths]

It doesn't help that the others keep enforcing this idea by calling him a trickster and oath-breaker, because if they don't hold him to a higher standart, why should he himself? Even the blood-brother Loki once looked up to has decided that he should never be seen as redeemable.

[Yet only a fool trusts Loki - Loki to Baldr after Baldr asks for mentorship in AC Forgotten Myths]

In the comics, it seems that Loki has weaponised his stereotype, and he warns Baldr a few times that he should be cautious around none other than himself. Either Loki has been verbally abused often enough to fully believe that he's the bad guy, or he uses it as a persona to hide his vunerability and hurt. Perhaps he was even trying to give Baldr a fighting chance of surving his own wrath?

Also, we must remember that Loki and Havi saw each other as real brothers. Havi called Loki his 'brother' or numerous occasions, but when angry, he'd call him 'Jotnar' or derogatory terms. Even Loki and Baldr called each other nephew and uncle on multiple occasions. Loki grew up in a broken family, found a new family in the Aesir, and forged a family of his own with Sigyn and Aletheia, but all of his families were shattered and taken from him.

[With such gifts would Loki find forgiveness. My brother always knew how to win hearts. To him, it was almost as easy as breaking them. - Havi]

Loki can be very charming if it gains him favour. He loves using bribes and offering gifts to appease the Aesir.

As is the case with some traumatic childhoods, Loki seems to understand love as transactional. Love needs to be earned by good deeds or gifts. And Havi's words seem to further reinforce the the notion of Loki only being valuable if he could offer contributions.

[Now Loki had the three gifts he needed to win redemption in Asgard. - Havi AC Dawn of Ragnarok]

Loki/Basim has a strong sense of justice, hence killing Baldr had been Loki's last resort. He had tried countless other methods first. Fenrir's imprisonment infuriated Loki, so he tried to reason with Havi. (Rightly so, Fenrir was a literal BABY who had done nothing wrong). Loki wanted to appeal to the council and courts for an overturned judgement, but Aletheia stopped him as she feared they'd kill him. Loki and Aletheia then polygraphed Havi before attempting to imprison him. When Juno freed Havi, it further foiled Loki's plans.

Loki informed Jupiter of what was happening, but even Jupiter failed to end the threat. It seems at this point that Loki really snapped and decided to do the job himself. He aimed to kill Havi before ever thinking of killing Baldr.

[Oath-breaker? I did to you what you did to my son. This is only fair. Release him, Havi. Release Fenrir, or I swear I will kill you here and now - Loki AC Valhalla]

Now this is interesting because of the blood-oath. Loki was ready and willing to kill Havi, which would activate the blood-oath and kill him too. The blood-oath promised mutual assured destruction, which is essentially a murder-suicide on Loki's part. But he was willing to die of suicide if it meant Fenrir could be free. Havi spared Loki because Havi had no intention of dying.

So Loki, who has become suicidal, sets off to stalk Baldr, and decides "Curse all! If I can never hold my son again, neither can Havi!"

[I have a tale for you. A tale of Loki, who claimed righteous vengeance upon Havi through his hapless son... - Loki imprisoned in AC Forgotten Myths]

Loki truly believes this is justified. He essentialy stabbed his only ally in the back, killing the last Aesir that had any trust or love towards him. It's interesting that Havi's own self-fulling prophesis brought this about, which Loki himself cautioned Havi against.

Loki is cunning, shifty, self-serving, a liar, but he is also diplomatic, patient, helpful and has a strong sense of justice. Circumstances have pushed him to this point. If Basim is Loki, we know that he is capable of good, and longed to do well (this depends on whether Basim was Loki or serves only as a vessel to him).

Loki only ever wanted to be a good father. He wanted to be the father he never had. When Loki lost Fenrir, he probably hated himself, because in his mind, he was now just as bad as his own father. He was willing to endure his two worst fears - death and lonliness - to free Fenrir. Not to mention Loki's cell being a claustrophobic coffin, completely alone (his biggest fear), only taken out off his coffin prison to be physically tortured. It's no suprise he experiences CPTSD/PTSD from his childhood, his imprisonment and the imprisonment of his son.

PS: Some people say Loki was evil in the Edda's? I read over them, and Loki was never malicious or evil (except when he killed Baldr and bragged about it). He was a troublemaker and caused chaos, but never for malicious or evil reasons. Loki was never jealous or plotting. He was more of a prankster. In fact, the Aesir were unreasonably cruel to him, constantly threatening him with death or bodily harm. Loki only caused the Aesir trouble for two reasons; he was A) Bored or B) Hungry/hangry. (Do not touch his food. He will fight you).

[impossiblefangirl0632]

do you have encanto fic recs? every time I watch encanto I think about how much potential there is for fic but then I never actually read any...I figure that you might be able to give me a place to start if I ever decide to make the plunge! thanks

That insane cackling you heard in the distance was me upon reading this ask. Um. Yes. Yes I do have many encanto fic recs and I’m so glad you asked! I’m limiting myself to 10 of my all time favorites. Should you choose to delve in I’d be happy to rec more. I tried to do a smattering of the types of fics I like.

Note, Bruno is my favorite character and as such most of these are Bruno-centric or he plays a major role.

The Sandman by @cthene Rated G 30K Complete

Bruno explores his Gift. 

Just trust me on this one. It’s fantastic. I’ve literally reread it 5 times. If Bruno as a time wizard plus a really great look at the relationship between him and Mirabel sounds like your cup of tea I cannot recommend this one enough. 

Nos Sigue la Noche (The Night Follows Us) by Thornvale Rated T 36K Complete

Post canon, Mirabel can’t help but feel as though something is going to go wrong; mysterious Tío Bruno is behaving more strangely than usual and something about the magic seems to be changing. Not only that, but an old danger is lurking in the shadows of the mountains surrounding the Encanto. 

As they learn to see by @cannibalthoughts Rated T 67K WIP

Four and a half years after hiding in the walls, Bruno has an accident bad enough for Casita to call for help, and the family’s problems stop being ignorable. 

aka: Bruno slips and knocks over about a dozen family crises on his way down.

I adore everything about this fic. Cannibalthoughts writes Bruno’s internal headspace SO WELL it’s the perfect blend of humor and angst.

a hair on the head of john the baptist by icarusinthesand Rated T 4.5K Complete

Unsettled in the new Casita, Bruno goes to the usual place wayward prophets seeking solace go.

This one leans into the fact that they’re all Catholic and explores how Bruno feels about being a prophet. Also has a fantastic conversation between him and Mirabel. This one has my whole heart and I’ve reread it many times.

A Prophet In His Own Land by @madrigaljail Rated T 33K Complete

Part of the Madrigal In-Laws Verse that flushes out Felix and Agustin’s families. I highly recommend everything in this series but Prophet is my favorite.

Growing up in the close-knit community of the Encanto, Bruno Madrigal is many things to many people: a dutiful and difficult son, a loyal, irritating brother, a shining star, a lurking menace, a dear friend, a familiar mystery, and an object of scorn. Shouldering the burden of all these contradictory roles, he struggles to find his place in both the town and his family.

A Miracle Is Not Earned but Freely Given by @wildlyironicbee Rated T 57K Complete

A bit of an Anastasia/verrrrrrrrry loose beauty and the beast AU

I love this one SO MUCH Please read it it’s got amazing characterization and some really excellent angst and family bonding.

Mirabel grew up listening to the stories her Abuela would tell her about the Encanto and her family's magical house, Casita--and of how it was lost, her Abuelo and Tío sacrificing everything to keep them safe. When she's presented with an opportunity to finally see the ruins of the Encanto for herself, she leaps at the chance. But what--or who--she finds there will alter the lives of her family forever. 

Stars Lost Down The River by @ramblesanddragons Rated T 87K Complete

A ‘what if Mirabel ran away after her ceremony, Bruno went after her, and they both got swept down the river and lost their memories’ AU it features them reuniting with the Madrigals and it is just absolutely excellent. Rambles has a lot of Encanto fics and I love all of them.

Bitter Blood by ashtreelane Rated G 19K Complete

Post-Canon. Bruno is only technically the youngest. Really, it's by fifteen minutes, but he is also the smallest, and prone to sickness. The fainting spells probably don't help the weakness his sisters see. Bruno is hypoglycemic, which is annoying, but not dangerous. It gets much worse when he enters the walls.

Excellent Madrigal kids stuff and excellent angst

Never Shall We Die by archive_rat Rated M 99K WIP

Young triplets pirate AU. Pirate queen Pepa, ship’s doctor Julieta, & navigator Bruno. Listen, come closer, have you ever read something that left you just sitting in awe and wonder, something that every time you reread it you pick up on something new because there is just SO MUCH amazing detail? Because this is that. I cannot sing this fic’s praises enough. Also if AU’s aren’t your thing go read archive-rat’s other Encanto fics set in canon verse (do that even if AUs are your thing) I was very tempted to rec them individually. Landscape with the Fall of Icarus and Axolotl are my favorites. 

Just Your Ordinary, Everyday Miracle by @16magnolias Rated T 283K WIP

Bruno/Original Female Character post-canon fic that starts with the question of ‘where did Bruno get the horse?’ at the end of the movie. 

A candle. A living house. Magical powers. A 15-year-old girl named Mirabel. Miracles can come in all shapes and sizes, and Bruno's latest miracle may just take the shape of a 41-year-old widow named Lucía and her daughter Josefina. And – uh – maybe also a horse. 

This fic has my whole heart. Lucia is such a well written and flushed out character and Mags’ writing is so cozy and I love it so so so so so much. If Bruno/OFC sounds interesting definitely give this one a read.

(Obligatory plug for my own (with @optimistic-violinist) fic Take Back the Kingdom, a modern/fantasy AU where Bruno and the kids have to save their kingdom from an evil wizard with humor, hijinks, and angst galore)